MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA

Oh, sing unto my roundelay; Oh, 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 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 throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought was he; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; Oh! he lies by the willow-tree. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. 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 garish flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the sorrows 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; Elfin-fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. 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 deadly tide. I die—I come—my true-love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died.