“No crown of faery gold I’ll dree-- My brothers bold weave wreaths for me; No crown of faery gold I’ll dree, Howe’er I love ye, People Wee!

“I love mine own true kinsfolk more, I love our own house, roof to door,

“And oh, my mother’s tears would fall, And aye I’d hear my father call!

“Oh hark, no sounds of raindrops, these, Borne hither on a faery breeze-- Oh hark, no sounds of raindrops, these, But Mother, sobbing ’neath the trees!

“The horn my little brother blows Is ringing now, in sport I chose

“For him: that light there in the gloom Is shining from my father’s room!”