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She gave him a draught freshly drawn from the springlet,— O Tunbridge, thy waters are bitter, alas!

Here I have killed them when there was ice thicker than a dollar on all the waters round about, and when you might see a thin and smoke-like mist boiling up from each springlet.

On thy wedding-day, send hither thy three largest waggons, and to each a team of four strong horses, for I shall load them heavily—and hear'st, Godson Klaus? they shall drive nice and slowly round about the springlet, and then away again at a good gallop back to thy farm-yard.

I remember the mossy-rimmed springlet, That gushed in the shade of the oaks, And how the white buds of the mistletoe, Fell down at the woodman’s strokes, On the morning when cruel Sir Spencer Came down with his haughty train, To uproot the old kings of the greenwood That shadowed his golden grain.