The Lost Boy

A joyous mountain. Exiled peasants. A spawning spring. To pleasure they seek At its peak. They are meek Yet kind and sheik With rags to wear, Frizzled hair. A castle was once their lair. With staffs and climbing gear They did not fear. Up they stepped, Up they slept. Looking for a lost soul. To be free from peasantry By a cash reward, But foul to award. Suddenly, A singing shrill Was heard on the hill tops, They were filled with joy. To their lungs and mouth tops: "Ahoy!" All the way up the hill They followed the shrill. They found the one who sings At the spawning springs. The lost soul in toil. The count's boy found What a joy to sound. Drunk with joy They drunk their fill Down the hill. A heart-full, A shivering chill, They sung down the hill. No hole for the dead to fill. The peasants made a new friend, What a thrill!