Thomas Chatterton
¶[1752-1770]
Song from Jella.
¶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-bedAll 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,Cold he lies in the grave below:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.
¶Sweet his tongue as the throstle's noteQuick in dance as thought can be,Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;[559]O he lies by the willow-tree!My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.
p. 559¶Hark! the raven flaps his wingIn the brier'd dell below;Hark! the death-owl loud doth singTo the nightmares, as they go:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll 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-bedAll under the willow-tree.
¶Here upon my true-love's graveShall the barren flowers be laid;Not one holy saint to saveAll the coldness of a maid:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.
¶With my hands I'll dent 3 the briersRound his holy corse to gre: 4Ouph 5 and fairy, light your fires,Here my body still shall be:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.