“High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.”
THE Fairy King was old.
He met the Witch of the Wold.
“Ah ha, King!” quoth she,
“Now thou art old like me.”
“Nay, Witch!” quoth he,
“I am not old like thee.”
The King took off his crown,
It almost bent him down;
His age was too great
To carry such a weight.
“Give it here!” she said,
And clapt it on her head.
Crown sank to ground;
The Witch no more was found.
Then sweet spring-songs were sung,
The Fairy King grew young,
His crown was made of flowers,
He lived in woods and bowers.