“Shoot the dove,” says the word of command:
And the forester bold, with “the skilful hand,”
Levels and fires: oh! marksman good!
The dove lies bathed in its innocent blood!
Here’s to the man that shoots the dove!
Come for the prize to me, my love!”
William was aghast with horror: but he remained quiet within the circle, and pursued his labors. The old woman was one, whom he well knew. A crazy old female beggar had formerly roamed about the neighbourhood in this attire, till at last she was lodged in a madhouse. He was at a loss to discover, whether the object now before him were the reality or an illusion. After some little pause, the old crone scattered her lumber to the right and left with an angry air, and then tottered slowly away into the gloomy depths of the forest, singing those words:
“This to the left, and that to the right:
This and that for the bridal night.
Marksman fine, be sure and steady:
The bride she is dressed—the priest he is ready.
