6 Here upon my true love's grave,
Shall the barren flowers be laid,
Not one holy saint to save
All the celness of a maid:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
7 With my hands I'll dent[3] the briars
Round his holy corse to gree;[4]
Ouphant[5] fairy, light your fires--
Here my body still shall be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
8 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my hearte's-blood away;
Life and all its goods I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
9 Water-witches, crowned with reytes,[6]
Bear me to your lethal tide.
'I die! I come! my true love waits!'
Thus the damsel spake, and died.
[1] 'Cryne:' hair.
[2] 'Rode:' complexion.
[3] 'Dent:' fix.
[4] 'Gree:' grow.
[5] 'Ouphant:' elfish.
[6] 'Reytes:' water-flags.
THE STORY OF WILLIAM CANYNGE.
1 Anent a brooklet as I lay reclined,
Listening to hear the water glide along,
Minding how thorough the green meads it twined,
Whilst the caves responsed its muttering song,
At distant rising Avon to he sped,
Amenged[1] with rising hills did show its head;
2 Engarlanded with crowns of osier-weeds
And wraytes[2] of alders of a bercie scent,
And sticking out with cloud-agested reeds,
The hoary Avon showed dire semblament,
Whilst blatant Severn, from Sabrina cleped,
Boars flemie o'er the sandes that she heaped.
Pages:
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202