The tear shall never leave my cheek, And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. The tear did never leave her cheek, No other youth became her marrow; She found his body in the stream, And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 13* R. B. Sheridan. [BORN 1751. DIED 1816.] SONG. ADI a heart for falsehood framed, I ne'er could injure you ; For though your tongue no promise claimed, Your charms would make me true: Το you no soul shall bear deceit, No stranger offer wrong, But friends in all the aged you'll meet, And lovers in the young. But when they learn that you have blest They'll bid aspiring passion rest, And act a brother's part; Then, lady, dread not here deceit, Nor fear to suffer wrong, For friends in all the aged you'll meet, And lovers in the young. Thomas Chatterton. [BORN 1752. DIED 1770.] MINSTREL'S SONG. !SING unto my roundelay, O! drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday, Like a running river be; My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his skin as the driven snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, 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, Quick in dance as thought could be, Deft his tabour, cudgel stout; O! he lies by the willow-tree; Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the night-mares 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 on holy saint to save All the celness 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; Elves and fairies, 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 heart its blood away; my Life and all its goods I scorn, Dance by night or feast by day; My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. |