"O SING UNTO MY ROUNDELAY"
O sing unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more at holyday
Like a running river be!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Black his cryne[117] as the winter night,
White his rode[118] as the summer snow,
Red 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....
See, the white moon shines on high;
Winter 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....
With my hands I'll dent[119] the briars
Round his holy corse to gre;[120]
Ouph[121] and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree....
Thomas Chatterton