Down in the forest,
Deep in the glen,
Past the cries of the birds
And the calls of the hen,
Through the rings of fresh clover
And the clearings of trees,
Deep, deep, deep in the forest
There’s a pond ‘tween the trees.
A golden harp lies there
With thin strings of lead,
A harp where
Mortal fingers
Have yet to be tread.

It strums itself, by the water
On the eve of each day
And the forest lies silent
And still while it plays.
By noontime it stops
And the next evenin’, begins,
And the fish gather ‘round it
And dance with their fins.

So follow the tuna
The bass and the trout
For they’ll lead you away
To where the harp base does sprout.

They say a young boy was the only to see
That rare harp of gold glimm’ring bright ’neath the trees
So it’s true he thought, as folklore explains
It’s really true - I knew I wasn’t insane!
But since then the harp’s glory’s been long-lost to time, Confined to stories, songs, plays, and ballads and rhymes.

But if there’s guile in your heart
And fresh blood in your veins
You can follow the fish;
Seek out where that harp lays.
Many’ve tried to find it
Many’s courage have failed
But both harp and enigma
Haven’t since been unveiled.