Lo, the fowler’s little lad,
Through the woodland straying,
Sight of winged Love hath had
In the branches playing.
“Ah,” he cries, “a bonnie prey!”
Sets his bow to wing him.
Cupid blows the dart away
That to earth would bring him.
Now the boy in angry woe
Casts away his quiver
To his master straight doth go
And the tale deliver.
Saith the sage, “Nay, not for thee
Such a bird to harry.
From the haunted forest flee
Where such creatures tarry.
“Though it now escape thy dart
Let not tears be flowing,
It will light upon thy heart
Ere thy beard be growing.”