Alight thee, maid, from thy milk-white steed,
And deliver it unto me;
Six maids have I drown’d, where the billows sound,
And the seventh one thou shalt be.
But first pull off thy kirtle fine,
And deliver it unto me;
Thy kirtle of green is too rich, I ween,
To rot in the salt, salt sea.
Pull off, pull off thy silken shoon,
And deliver them unto me;
Methinks that they are too fine and gay
To rot in the salt, salt sea.
Pull off, pull off thy bonnie green plaid,
That floats in the breeze so free;
It is woven fine with the silver twine,
And comely it is to see.
If I must pull off my bonnie green plaid,
O turn thy back to me;
And gaze on the sun which has just begun
To peer o’er the salt, salt sea.
He turn’d his back on the dameselle
And gaz’d on the bright sunbeam—
She grasp’d him tight with her arms so white,
And plung’d him into the stream.
Lie there, sir knight, thou false-hearted wight,
Lie there instead of me;
Six damsels fair thou hast drown’d there,
But the seventh has drowned thee.
That ocean wave was the false one’s grave,
For he sunk right hastily;
Though with dying voice faint, he pray’d to his saint,
And utter’d an Ave Marie.
No mass was said for that false knight dead,
No convent bell did toll;
But he went to his rest, unshriv’d and unblest—
Heaven’s mercy on his soul!
*****