Will, the Maniac.A Ballad.Hark!what wild sound is on the breeze?'Tis Will, at evening fallWho sings to yonder waving treesThat shade his prison wall.Poor Will was once the gayest swainAt village dance was seen;No freer heart of wicked stainE'er tripp'd the moonlight green.His flock was all his humble pride,A finer ne'er was shorn;And only when a lambkin diedHad Will a cause to mourn.But now poor William's brain is turn'd,He knows no more his flock;For when I ask'd "if them he mourn'd,"He mock'd the village clock.No, William does not mourn his fold,Though tenantless and drear;Some say, a love he never toldDid crush his heart with fear.And she, 'tis said, for whom he pin'dWas heiress of the land,A lovely lady, pure of mindOf open heart and hand.And others tell, ashowhe stroveTo win the noble fair.Who, scornful, jeer'd his simple love.And left him to despair.Will wander'd then amid the rocksThrough all the live long day,And oft would creep where bursting shocksHad rent the earth away.He lov'd to delve the darksome dellWhere never pierc'd a ray,There to the wailing night-bird tell,'How love was turn'd to clay.'And oft upon yon craggy mount,Where threatening cliffs hang high,Have I observ'd him stop to countWith fixless stare the sky.
Hark!what wild sound is on the breeze?'Tis Will, at evening fallWho sings to yonder waving treesThat shade his prison wall.
Poor Will was once the gayest swainAt village dance was seen;No freer heart of wicked stainE'er tripp'd the moonlight green.
His flock was all his humble pride,A finer ne'er was shorn;And only when a lambkin diedHad Will a cause to mourn.
But now poor William's brain is turn'd,He knows no more his flock;For when I ask'd "if them he mourn'd,"He mock'd the village clock.
No, William does not mourn his fold,Though tenantless and drear;Some say, a love he never toldDid crush his heart with fear.
And she, 'tis said, for whom he pin'dWas heiress of the land,A lovely lady, pure of mindOf open heart and hand.
And others tell, ashowhe stroveTo win the noble fair.Who, scornful, jeer'd his simple love.And left him to despair.
Will wander'd then amid the rocksThrough all the live long day,And oft would creep where bursting shocksHad rent the earth away.
He lov'd to delve the darksome dellWhere never pierc'd a ray,There to the wailing night-bird tell,'How love was turn'd to clay.'
And oft upon yon craggy mount,Where threatening cliffs hang high,Have I observ'd him stop to countWith fixless stare the sky.