Into the woods my Master went,
Clean forspent, forspent.
Into the woods my Master came,
Forspent with love and shame.
But the olives they were not blind to Him,
The little gray leaves were kind to Him:
The thorn-tree had a mind to Him
...
Sexton! My Master's sleeping here.
Pray lead me to his bed!
I came to build the Bird's nest,
And sow the Early seed —
That when the snow creeps slowly
From off his chamber door —
Daisies point the way there —
And the Troubadour.
TAKE your candles away, let your music be mute,
My dancing, however, you shall not dispute;
Jenny's eyes shall find light, and I'll find a flute.