Underneath a mountain
Deep within a forest,
Lived a poor boy
All alone.
Every day he gathered
Flowers from the hillside,
From which to weave wreath,
So she’d come home.

Her name was Iolanthe,
She was an immortal
Every night he kissed her,
Fairest of the fair.
But daylight came without her
Beauteous Iolanthe
Nowhere could he find Her.......

I’ll tell you of his story
When first his eyes befell her
Riding home one eve
On his snow white mare
He saw her on the hillside,
Playing with the moon beams
Weaving them in the tresses
Of her shining hair.
Ah me, ah my, in her shining hair.

Her dress so soft and fragile,
Like liquid light around her
Caught against her sweet and tender form
Nowhere had he seen
Such loveliness abounding
It pierced him as though an arrow
Had his breast torn

So gathering up some flowers,
He quickly wove a garland
Weaving in white lilies, wild and rare
His beating heart near breaking,
His loving arms awaiting
To hold sweet Iolanthe with the shining hair
Ah me..ah my ..with her shining hair

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