Piped the Blackbird, on the beechwood spray,
“Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,
    What ’s your name?” quoth he,—
“What ’s your name? O, stop and straight unfold,
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold.”—
    “Little Bell,” said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks,
Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks,—
    “Bonny...