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It is by yonder thorn that I saw the fairy host (O low night wind, O wind of the west!) My love rode by, there was gold upon his brow, And since that day I can neither eat nor rest. I dare not pray lest I should forget his face (O black north wind blowing cold beneath the sky!) His face and his eyes shine between me and the sun: If I may not be with him I would rather die. They tell me I am cursed and I will lose my soul, (O red wind shrieking o're the thorn-grown dun!) But he is my love and I go to him to-night, Who rides when the thorn glistens white beneath the moon. He will call my name and lift me to his breast, (Blow soft O wind 'neath the stars of the south!) I care not for heaven and I fear not hell If I have but the kisses of his proud red mouth.