And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath,
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And cheer with smiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay
Strew flowers and drop the tender tear,
Nor then regret those scenes so gay,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
It was a friar of orders gray
Walk'd forth to tell his beads;
And he met with a lady fair
Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.
'Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,
I pray thee tell to me,
If ever at yon holy shrine
My true love thou didst see.'
'And how should I know your true-love
From many another one?'
'Oh, by his cockle-hat and staff,
And by his sandal shoon.
'But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were so fair to view;
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,
And eyes of lovely blue.'
'O lady, he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green-grass turf,
And at his heels a stone.
'Within these holy cloisters long
He languish'd, and he died
Lamenting of a lady's love,
And 'plaining of her pride.
'They bore him barefaced on his bier
Six proper youths and tall,
And many a tear bedew'd his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall.'