Ye nymphs of Windsor's bow'ry woods,
Ye pow'rs who haunt yon glist'ning floods,
That with reluctant fond delay
Around yon flow'ry valley stray;
Say, from your minds hath time eras'd
The pleasing images of glory pass'd?
Review ye now those scenes no more?
When nobly stain'd with Saxon gore,
From Badon's long-contended plain
Great Arthur with his martial train
To Windsor's chosen shades repair'd,
And with his knights the festive banquet shar'd.