_MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA_
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 summer snow,
Ruddy his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O, he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the night-mares as they go.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
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,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
_T. Chatterton_