Minstrel’s Song

O Sing unto my roundelay!   O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday;   Like a running river be.       My love is dead,       Gone to his death-bed,       All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night,   White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light;   Cold he lies in the grave below.       My love is dead, etc. Sweet his tongue as the throstle’s note;   Quick in dance as thought can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;   O, lie lies by the willow-tree!       My love is dead, etc. Hark! the raven flaps his wing   In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing   To the nightmares as they go.       My love is dead, etc. See! the white moon shines on high;   Whiter is my-true-love’s shroud, Whiter than the morning sky,   Whiter than the evening cloud.       My love is dead, etc. Here, upon my true-love’s grave   Shall the barren flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save   All the coldness of a maid.       My love is dead, etc. With my hands I ’ll bind the briers   Round his holy corse to gre; Ouphant fairy, light your fires;   Here my body still shall be.       My love is dead, etc. Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,   Drain my heart’s blood away; Life and all its good I scorn,   Dance by night, or feast by day.       My love is dead, etc. Water-witches, crowned with reytes,   Bear me to your lethal tide. I die! I come! my true-love waits….   Thus the damsel spake, and died.