She had hair gold as her father's corn;
She tripped and sung,
Like to a little lamb new-born,
So gay, so young.
She gathered lone in the long day's shade,
So soft, so shy,
Ripe berries red, poor little maid—
And he came by.
He loved youth well, and her years were few,
Was he ever young?
A cold heart hid 'neath his eyes stone blue,
And a honeyed tongue.
He loved gold hair, and her tresses strayed
Like the pale sunrise,
And a gentle gaze, poor little maid—
She had sweet eyes.
He rode all lone with his horse and hound,
Now his hunting done.
With his chin on breast and his eyes on ground
In the setting sun.
She gathered there in the long day's shade
Ripe fruit all red,
And life was good, poor little maid,
She sung and said.

But Fate in an evil mood let slip
A rolling stone
In the steed's swift way, and it ran to trip
The frightened roan.
She leaned from the bush, all sore afraid
At the tumult there,
Her dimpled face, poor little maid,
And shining hair.
He stayed to woo and his love to tell
For an idle day,
Opened the gates of Heaven—of Hell—
Then rode away.
With a smile and a jest for his time delayed,
He came to town—
In the lake's deep heart, poor little maid,
She laid her down.
And I, who heard the tale retold,
Still wond'ring wait.
Will the man some time, a thousandfold,
Repent her fate?
But he laughs to-day with his sin unpaid,
And she sleeping lies—
So white, so still—poor little maid,
She had sweet eyes.