| |
| 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, | 5 |
| Gone to his death-bed | |
| All under the willow-tree. | |
| |
| Black his cryne 1 as the winter night, | |
| White his rode 2 as the summer snow, | |
| Red his face as the morning light, | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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 | 20 |
| 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: | 25 |
| 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: | 30 |
| Whiter than the morning sky, | |
| Whiter than the evening cloud: | |
| My love is dead, | |
| Gone to his death-bed | |
| All under the willow-tree. | 35 |
| |
| 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, | 40 |
| Gone to his death-bed | |
| All under the willow-tree. | |
| |
| With my hands I’ll dent 3 the briers | |
| Round his holy corse to gre: 4 | |
| Ouph 5 and fairy, light your fires, | 45 |
| Here my body still shall be: | |
| My love is dead, | |
| Gone to his death-bed | |
| All under the willow-tree. | |
