All these a many times shall be Ere the Upland Town again I see."

"O Goldilocks my son, farewell, As thou wendest the world 'twixt home and h.e.l.l!"

"O brother Goldilocks, farewell, Come back with a tale for men to tell!"

So 'tis wellaway for Goldilocks, As he left the land of the wheaten shocks.

He's gotten him far from the Upland Town, And he's gone by Dale and he's gone by Down.

He's come to the wild-wood dark and drear, Where never the bird's song doth he hear.

He has slept in the moonless wood and dim With never a voice to comfort him.

He has risen up under the little light Where the noon is as dark as the summer night.

Six days therein has he walked alone Till his scrip was bare and his meat was done.

On the seventh morn in the mirk, mirk wood, He saw sight that he deemed was good.

It was as one sees a flower a-bloom In the dusky heat of a shuttered room.

He deemed the fair thing far aloof, And would go and put it to the proof.

But the very first step he made from the place He met a maiden face to face.

Face to face, and so close was she That their lips met soft and lovingly.

Sweet-mouthed she was, and fair he wist; And again in the darksome wood they kissed.

Then first in the wood her voice he heard, As sweet as the song of the summer bird.

"O thou fair man with the golden head.

What is the name of thee?" she said.

"My name is Goldilocks," said he; "O sweet-breathed, what is the name of thee?"

"O Goldilocks the Swain," she said, "My name is Goldilocks the Maid."

He spake, "Love me as I love thee, And Goldilocks one flesh shall be."

She said, "Fair man, I wot not how Thou lovest, but I love thee now.

But come a little hence away, That I may see thee in the day.

For hereby is a wood-lawn clear And good for awhile for us it were."

Therewith she took him by the hand And led him into the lighter land.

There on the gra.s.s they sat adown.

Clad she was in a kirtle brown.

In all the world was never maid So fair, so evilly arrayed.

No shoes upon her feet she had, And scantly were her shoulders clad;

Through her brown kirtle's rents full wide Shone out the sleekness of her side.

An old scrip hung about her neck, Nought of her raiment did she reck.

No shame of all her rents had she; She gazed upon him eagerly.

She leaned across the gra.s.sy s.p.a.ce And put her hands about his face.

She said: "O hunger-pale art thou, Yet shalt thou eat though I hunger now."

She took him apples from her scrip, She kissed him, cheek and chin and lip.

She took him cakes of woodland bread: "Whiles am I hunger-pinched," she said.

She had a gourd and a pilgrim sh.e.l.l; She took him water from the well.

She stroked his breast and his scarlet gear; She spake, "How brave thou art and dear!"

Her arms about him did she wind; He felt her body dear and kind.

"O love," she said, "now two are one, And whither hence shall we be gone?"

"Shall we fare further than this wood,"

Quoth he, "I deem it dear and good?"

She shook her head, and laughed, and spake; "Rise up! For thee, not me, I quake.

Had she been minded me to slay Sure she had done it ere to-day.

But thou: this hour the crone shall know That thou art come, her very foe.

No minute more on tidings wait, Lest e'en this minute be too late."

She led him from the sunlit green, Going sweet-stately as a queen.

There in the dusky wood, and dim, As forth they went, she spake to him: