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.