I laved my hands
By the water-side,
With willow leaves
My hands I dried.
The nightingale sang
On the bough of a tree,
Sing, sweet nightingale,
It is well with thee.
Thou hast heart’s delight,
I have sad heart’s sorrow,
For a false false maid
That will wed to-morrow.
It is all for a rose
That I gave her not,
And I would that it grew
In the garden plot,
And I would the rose-tree
Were still to set,
That my love Marie
Might love me yet!
THE BRIGAND’S GRAVE
MODERN GREEK
The moon came up above the hill,
The sun went down the sea,
‘Go, maids, and draw the well-water,
But, lad, come here to me.
Gird on my jack, and my old sword,
For I have never a son,
And you must be the chief of all
When I am dead and gone.
But you must take my old broadsword,
And cut the green boughs of the tree,
And strew the green boughs on the ground,
To make a soft death-bed for me.