Poetry Archives

Out on the mountain over the town,
  All night long, all night long,
The trolls go up and the trolls go down,
  Bearing their packs and crooning a song;
And this is the song the hill-folk croon,
As they trudge in the light of the misty moon,—
This is ever their dolorous tune:
“Gold, gold! ever more gold,—
      Bright red gold for dearie!”

Deep in the hill the yeoman delves
  All night long, all night long;
None but the peering, furtive elves
  See his toil and hear his song;
Merrily ever the cavern rings
As merrily ever his pick he swings,
And merrily ever this song he sings:
“Gold, gold! ever more gold,—
      Bright red gold for dearie!”

Mother is rocking thy lowly bed
  All night long, all night long,
Happy to smooth thy curly head
  And to hold thy hand and to sing her song;
‘T is not of the hill-folk, dwarfed and old,
Nor the song of the yeoman, stanch and bold,
And the burden it beareth is not of gold;
But it’s “Love, love!—nothing but love,—
      Mother’s love for dearie!”