THE CARRIER DOVE

Fly away to my native land, sweet dove, Fly away to my native land, And bear these lines to my ladye-love, That I've traced with a feeble hand. She marvels much at my long delay, A rumor of death she hath heard, Or she thinks, perhaps, that I falsely stray— Then fly to her bower, sweet bird! I shall miss thy visit at dawn, sweet dove, I shall miss thy coming at eve, But bring me a line from my ladye-love, And then I shall cease to grieve. No friend to my lattice a solace brings, Except when your voice is heard, As you beat the bars with your snowy wings, Then fly to her bower, sweet bird! Oh! fly to her bower and say the chain Of the tyrant is over me now, That I never shall mount my steed again, With helmet upon my brow. I can bear in a dungeon to waste away youth, I can fall by the conqueror's sword, But I cannot endure she should doubt my truth, Then fly to her bower, sweet bird! Old Song.