Wouldst thou know of me
Where our dwellings be?
'T is under this hill,
Where the moonbeam chill
Silvers the leaf and brightens the blade, --
'Tis under this mound
Of greenest ground,
That our crystal palaces are made.

Wouldst thou know of me
What our food may be?
'T is the sweetest breath
Which the bright flower hath,
That blossoms in wilderness afar, --
And we sip it up,
In a harebell cup,
By the winking light of the tweering star.

Wouldst thou know of me
What our drink may be?
'T is the freshest dew,
And the clearest, too,
That ever hung on leaf or flower;
And merry we skink
That wholesome drink,
Thorough the quiet of the midnight hour.

Wouldst thou know of me,
What our pastimes be?
'T is the hunt and halloo,
The dim greenwood through;
O, bravely we prance it with hound and horn,
O'er moor and fell,
And hollow dell,
Till the notes of our Woodcraft wake the morn.

Wouldst thou know of me
What our garments be?
'T is the viewless thread,
Which the gossamers spread
As they float in the cool of a summer eve bright,
And the down of the rose,
Form doublet and hose
For our Squires of Dames on each festal night.

Wouldst thou know of me
When our revelries be?
'T is in the still night,
When the moonshine white
Glitters in glory o'er land and sea,
That, with nimble foot,
To tabor and flute,
We whirl with our loves round yon glad old tree.