A peasant bard, with song went forth
To woo the maid he loved;
He sung, and won the maid,---but lo!
All other hearts he moved.

His warm appeal did fondly steal
Through bosoms far and near,
And distant hearts confessed the art
Of him, their minstrel dear.

The planets, in their wondrous course,
Shall bear his fame along;
The "lingering star" still drops a tear
To grief's seraphic song.

The "unclouded moon" that shines aboon,
In pure refulgent light,
From pole to pole shall stir the soul
On every Lammas night.

The peasant's brow no more shall low'r
Beneath a lording's scorn---
Their hearts enshrine the noble thoughts
Of him, the cottage-born.