She stood by the stile in the twilight dim,

With a soft look in her eye;

’Twas a tryst, she waited alone for him,

Her lover, a warrior bold and grim,

’Neath that beauteous evening sky.

“Why tarries my lord?” quoth the maiden fair,

“My love, my love, come to me!”

In her eyes came a look so sweet and rare,

As she gazed to the wood, through the scented air,

Till her eyes could no longer see.

Still she waited there for her warrior bold,

“He will come to-night!” said she.

Then up rode a knight in armor of gold:

“Your warrior died like a knight of old,

On the battlefield,” said he.