A lady came to that lonely bower And threw her robes aside, She tore her ling (long) yellow hair, And knelt at Barthram’s side.
She bath’d him in the Lady-Well His wounds so deep and sair, And she plaited a garland for his breast, And a garland for his hair.
They rowed him in a lily-sheet, And bare him to his earth, (And the Grey Friars sung the dead man’s mass, As they passed the Chapel Garth).
They buried him at (the mirk) midnight, (When the dew fell cold and still, When the aspin gray forgot to play, And the mist clung to the hill).
They dug his grave but a bare foot deep, By the edge of the Nine-Stone Burn, And they covered him (o’er with the heather-flower) The moss and the (Lady) fern.
A Grey Friar staid upon the grave, And sang till the morning tide, And a friar shall sing for Barthram’s soul, While Headless Cross shall bide.
R. Surtees.