The buds broke wide on the bright May morn, The hawthorn sang and the hills were born. Foxgloves flared in the folds of the dale, And the wind wore a crown of blossom and bale. Aye, as the gowans grow gay. She sat in a tower where ivy had clung, Its stones were old, but her soul was young. The windows watched where the wild geese flew, And she stitched in the light with her heart half true. Aye, as the gowans grow gay. He rode from the cold, where the bold winds bite, A blade in his hand, and his heart full of blight. The maid by the moor heard his mournful song, So soft, so sweet — yet something felt wrong. Aye, as the gowans grow gay. He smiled with grace in the haze of the glen, But chill were his eyes — as sharp as the fen. "Come ride with me to the sea-washed hill, Where seven maids sleep, and all lies still." Aye, as the gowans grow gay. The hill stood high where the heather lay red, With bracken like blades and stones rough with age. A thorn tree wept where the sky bent low, And the earth bore a hush no wind would blow. Aye, as the gowans grow gay. She sang as they rode, with a rosewood tone, While winding the wind through branches of bone. Then slyly she spoke with the smoke in her breath: "I fear no love that lies close to death." Aye, as the gowans grow gay. He reached for her hand — but her blade was bright, And red ran the bloom through the robes of night. She spoke no word as he gasped in the shade, But the wind bore her name where the wild geese strayed. Aye, as the gowans grow gay. The hill lay still as the spell was undone, And blood met the roots where the dark had begun. The seven maids stirred in the soil and the rain, While the Elf-Knight died with their names in his brain. Aye, as the gowans grow gay. Now spring sings on where the wild hills lie, And no more girls in the green shall die. But still they say, when the cold winds moan, A maid once rode — and rode back alone. Aye, as the gowans grow gay.
