As I went walking walking
on a windy blustery day
I heard the hounds a’barking
for across the fields they played.
Where there beneath the bower brush
in a shelter for to lee
A maid in coal black inky lace
in all calamity.
“Oh maid” says I “how came you hence
from whence have thou roamed
To sit within a bower brush
and weep so all alone?”
Yet not a word she spoke to me
though slowly raised her head
Her eyes were of a greyish hue
and as a shark’s, soul dead.
“Come now maid,” says I again
“Speak and tell me true
How thou hast come to this bower bed
where I have so found you.”
Yet still her silence held full firm
but her dull grey gaze was broken
As she returned to her weeping there
not a word was spoken.
Thus I again set to the path
across the cedar brae
Though I thought still upon the lass
I let her silence hold the day.
For they who weep may be twice disturbed
or invited for to speak
But thrice disturbed I have not heard
we are obliged to be oblique.
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