  O sing unto my roundelay! O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree. Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Quick in dance as thought can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; O, he lies by the willow tree! My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree. See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree. Here, upon my true-love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree. With my hands I'll bind the briers Round his holy corse to gre; Ouphant fairy, light your fires; Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heart's blood all away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree. Water-witches, crowned with reytes, Bear me to your lethal tide. I die! I come! my true-love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died. Thomas Chatterton. |
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