Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/602

 THOMAS CHATTERTON

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.

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