Song from Aella

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 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-bedAll 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-bedAll under the willow-tree.

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 the briersRound 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-bedAll 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-bedAll under the willow-tree.