“Surely,” answered Allan readily; for he was no third-rate songster that must be asked again and again, but said “yes” or “no” at the first bidding; so, taking up his harp, he ran his fingers lightly over the sweetly sounding strings, and all was hushed about the cloth.  Then, backing his voice with sweet music on his harp, he sang: 

MAY ELLEN’S WEDDING

(Giving an account of how she was beloved by a fairy prince, who took her to his own home.)

 “May Ellen sat beneath a thorn
     And in a shower around
 The blossoms fell at every breeze
     Like snow upon the ground,
 And in a lime tree near was heard
 The sweet song of a strange, wild bird.

 “O sweet, sweet, sweet, O piercing sweet,
     O lingering sweet the strain! 
 May Ellen’s heart within her breast
     Stood still with blissful pain: 
 And so, with listening, upturned face,
 She sat as dead in that fair place.

 “’Come down from out the blossoms, bird! 
     Come down from out the tree,
 And on my heart I’ll let thee lie,
     And love thee tenderly!’
 Thus cried May Ellen, soft and low,
 From where the hawthorn shed its snow.

 “Down dropped the bird on quivering wing,
     From out the blossoming tree,
 And nestled in her snowy breast. 
     ‘My love! my love!’ cried she;
 Then straightway home, ’mid sun and flower,
 She bare him to her own sweet bower.

 “The day hath passed to mellow night,
     The moon floats o’er the lea,
 And in its solemn, pallid light
     A youth stands silently: 
 A youth of beauty strange and rare,
 Within May Ellen’s bower there.

 “He stood where o’er the pavement cold
     The glimmering moonbeams lay. 
 May Ellen gazed with wide, scared eyes,
     Nor could she turn away,
 For, as in mystic dreams we see
 A spirit, stood he silently.

 “All in a low and breathless voice,
     ‘Whence comest thou?’ said she;
 ’Art thou the creature of a dream,
     Or a vision that I see?’
 Then soft spake he, as night winds shiver
 Through straining reeds beside the river.

“’I came, a bird on feathered wing,
From distant Faeryland
Where murmuring waters softly sing
Upon the golden strand,
Where sweet trees are forever green;
And there my mother is the queen.’

. . . . . . .

“No more May Ellen leaves her bower
To grace the blossoms fair;
But in the hushed and midnight hour
They hear her talking there,
Or, when the moon is shining white,
They hear her singing through the night.

“‘Oh, don thy silks and jewels fine,’
May Ellen’s mother said,
’For hither comes the Lord of Lyne
And thou this lord must wed.’ 
May Ellen said, ’It may not be. 
He ne’er shall find his wife in me.’