  I’m home from off the stormy sea, And down the street The folk come out to welcome me On eager feet. O neighbors, God be with you all, But for my true love I must call; She lingers in her father’s hall So shy, so sweet! Here is a string of milky pearls For her to wear, An amber comb to match the curls Of her bright hair. O neighbors, do not crowd me so! Stand by! stand by! for I must go To put on my love’s hand of snow This gold ring fair. Good dame, why do you block the way And shake your head? Must all the things you have to say Just now be said? O neighbors, let me pass—but why— My God, what makes you women cry? Come tell me that I too may die! Is my love dead? “Nay, Marjorie’s a living thing, And fair and strong. Yet did you wait to give your ring A year too long. To seek her love there came the Moon; Now Marjorie at night and noon Is chained and sits alone to croon The Moon’s love-song.” |
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