POOR Lisa! Oft her folly has been sung,
Of how she saw, and needs must love, a king,
And make him know that wistful, tender thing--
Her little loyal heart--by minstrel tongue;
And how she felt herself more proudly blest
Than many a bride, long wooed and triumphing,
Who on her finger wears the plighted ring,
And lays her safe head on a husband's breast:--

Because her dear king hearkened to the bard,
And royally came once to Lisa's cot
And kissed her brow:--of how she deemed her lot
Rich at that hour beyond all dreamt reward!
There the tale ends: it suits the singer not
To tell of Lisa's weeping afterward.