329. Song from AElla

Thomas Chatterton (1752—1770)

  O SING unto my roundelay,

  O drop the briny tear with me;

  Dance no more at holyday,

  Like a running river be:

  My love is dead,

  Gone to his death-bed

  All under the willow-tree.

  Black his cryne as the winter night,

  White his rode as the summer snow,

  Red 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 the 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 nightmares, 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.

  Here upon my true-love’s grave

  Shall the barren flowers be laid;

  Not one holy saint to save

  All the coldness of a maid:

  My love is dead,

  Gone to his death-bed

  All under the willow-tree.

  With my hands I’ll dent the briers

  Round his holy corse to gre:

  Ouph and fairy, light your fires,

  Here my body still shall be:

  My love is dead,

  Gone to his death-bed

  All under the willow-tree.