Song

Sparrow of Love, so sharp to peck, Arrow of Love--I bare my neck Down to the bosom. See, no fleck

Of blood! I have never a wound; I go Forth to the greenwood. Yet, heigh-ho! What 'neath my girdle flutters so?

'Tis not a bird, and yet hath wings, 'Tis not an arrow, yet it stings; While in the wound it nests and sings-- Heigh-ho!

He. Of Arion, of Arion That wound thou shalt learn; What nothings 'tis made of, And soft pretty soothings In shade of the fern.

She. When maids have a mind to, Man's word they rely on, Old warning are blind to-- I come, then--I come To walk with Arion Where green woods are dumb!