Despairing at my mournful cry,
“We tarry here too long.”
Straight to the wicket did she speed;
“Good watchman spare thy joke!
Warn not my love, till o’er the mead
The morning sun has broke:
Too short, alas! the time, since here
I tarried with my leman dear,
In love and converse sweet.”
“Lady, be warn’d! on roof and mead