O NIGHTINGALE! sweet bird—they say,
That peace abides with thee;
But thou hast brought from day to day
A triple woe to me.
The first, first woe my spirit knew,
My first, first woe was this,
My mother never train’d me to
A lover’s early bliss.
My second woe, my second woe,
Was that my trusty steed,
Whene’er I mounted, seem’d to show
Nor eagerness nor speed.
My third, third woe—of all the worst,
Is that the maid I woo,
The maid I lov’d the best—the first,
Is angry with me too.
Then grave an early grave for me,
Yon whiten’d fields among;
In breadth two lances let it be,
And just four lances long.
And o’er my head let roses grow,
There plant the red-rose tree;
And at my feet a fount shall flow,
O scoop that fount for me!
So when a youthful swain appears,
The roses he shall wreathe;
And when an old man bent with years,
He’ll drink the stream beneath.