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Lady Kathleen in her tower Bowed her head like a wounded flower; Wept she the weary night away; ‘Here I spin for a year and a day, But ’tis for love’s sweet sake,’ she said, ‘My heart must break and I were dead. The nettle I’ve pulled when the moon was bright And brought it home in the dark of night — I’ve trod it soft ’neath my naked feet To make a cloak for thy rescue, Sweet!’ The Lady Kathleen wept full sore: ‘Oh, misery mine for a year and more!’

Day after day, and a promised spring Bloomed into a summer of blossoming. A thrush was carolling, mad with glee. On the topmost bough of the elm-tree; He sang to fair Kathleen in her tower, But the maiden heeded nor bird nor flower.