A raven on a branch is sitting;
By him comes another flitting
Brother, where so quickly flying?
Hast thou scented dead or dying?
Food and plenty sent to cheer us,
Croaks the other, we have near us.
Yonder there, amid the gorse,
Lies the murdered Baron’s corse.
Who slew him? Wherefore? Woe the day!
Did the Baron’s falcon say?
Or the Baron’s steed so wild
Or the Baron’s wife so mild?
Her flight far off the falcon’s winging;
On the steed a slave is springing;
And she?—by the pale moonlight hath fled
With the living from the dead.