SONG FROM ALLA
|   Home |

Home

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, Cole 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.   Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heartès blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.