Sing sweet, my Lute, beside the way,
For thou and I must earn our bread.
Thou wilt be still when I am dead;
So, that thy singing with thee stay,
Sounding from morn to even gray,
Nor leave thee mourning music fled,
Sing sweet, my Lute, beside the way,
For thou and I must earn our bread.
Perchance some pensive slender fay,
Hearing us from his hidden bed,
Shall compass us with power dread,
That singing we shall fade away.
Sing sweet, my Lute, beside the way,
For thou and I must earn our bread.
1915.