G. MacDonald (Phantastes).
Hold thee to her breast, give rest in death.
Ne deeth, allas; ne wol nat han my life; will not take
Thus walke I, lyk a restèlees caityf, restless wretch
And on the ground, which is my modres gate, mother’s
I knokke with my staf, both erly and late,
And seyè, “levè moder, leet me in! say, “Dear mother
Lo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin! waste away”
Allas! whan shul my bonès be at reste?”