The Thorn Lyrics

I.
There is a Thorn - it looks so old
In truth, you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young
It looks so old and grey
Not higher than a two years' child
It stand erect, this ages Thorn
No leaves it has, no prickly points
It is a mass of knotted joints
A wretched thing forlorn
It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens is it overgrown

II.
LIke rock or stone, it is o'ergrown
With lichens to the very top
And hung with heavy tufts of mass
A melancholy crop
Up for the earth these masses creep
And this poor Thorn they clasp it round
So close, you'd say that they are bent
With plain and manifest intent
To drag it to the ground
And all have joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor Thorn for ever

III.
High on a mountain's highest ridge
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
It sweeps from vale to vale
Not five yards from the mountain path
This Thorn you on your left espy
And to the left, three yard beyond
You see a little muddy pond
Of water - never dry
Though but of compass small, and bare
To thirsty suns and parching air

IV.
And, close beside this ages Thorn
There is a fresh and lovely sight
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss
Just half a foot in height
All lovely colours there you see
All colours that were ever seen
And mossy network too is there
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been
And cups, the darlings of the eye
So deep is there vermilion dye

V.
Ah me! What lovely tints are there
Of olive green and scarlet bright
In spikes, in branches, and in stars
Green, red, and pearly white!

This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss
Which close beside the Thorn you see
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes
Is like an infant's grave in size
As like as like can be:
But never, never any where
An infant's grave was half so fair

VI.
Now would you see this aged Thorn
This pond, and beauteous hill of moss
You must take care and choose your time
The mountain when to cross
For oft there sits between the heap
So like an infant's grave in size
And that same pond of which I spoke
A Woman in a scarlet cloak
And to herself she cries
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!'

VII.
At all times of the day and night
This wretched Woman thither goes
And she is known to every star
And every wind that blows
And there, beside the Thorn she sits
When the blue daylight's in the skies
And when the whirlwind's on the hill
Or frosty air is keen and still
And to herself she cries
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!'

VIII.
Now wherefore, thus, by day and night
In rain, in tempest, and in snow
Thus to the dreary mountain-top
Does this poor Woman go?
And why sits she beside the Thorn
When the blur daylight's in the sky
Or when the whirlwind's on the hill
or frosty air is keen and still
And wherefore does she cry?
O wherefore? wherefore? Tell me why
Does she repeat that doleful cry?