| I AM weary of lying within the chase | |
| When the knights are meeting in market-place. | |
| |
| Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town | |
| Lest the hooves of the war-horse tread thee down. | |
| |
| But I would not go where the Squires ride, | 5 |
| I would only walk by my Lady’s side. | |
| |
| Alack! and alack! thou art over bold, | |
| A Forester’s son may not eat off gold. | |
| |
| Will she love me the less that my Father is seen, | |
| Each Martinmas day in a doublet green? | 10 |
| |
| Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie, | |
| Spindle and loom are not meet for thee. | |
| |
| Ah, if she is working the arras bright | |
| I might ravel the threads by the fire-light. | |
| |
| Perchance she is hunting of the deer, | 15 |
| How could you follow o’er hill and meer? | |
| |
| Ah, if she is riding with the court, | |
| I might run beside her and wind the morte. | |
| |
| Perchance she is kneeling in S. Denys, | |
| (On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!) | 20 |
| |
| Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle, | |
| I might swing the censer and ring the bell. | |
| |
| Come in my son, for you look sae pale, | |
| The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale. | |
| |
| But who are these knights in bright array? | 25 |
| Is it a pageant the rich folks play? | |
| |
| ’Tis the King of England from over sea, | |
| Who has come unto visit our fair countrie. | |
| |
| But why does the curfew toll sae low | |
| And why do the mourners walk a-row? | 30 |
| |
| O ’tis Hugh of Amiens my sister’s son | |
| Who is lying stark, for his day is done. | |
| |
| Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear, | |
| It is no strong man who lies on the bier. | |
| |
| O ’tis old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall, | 35 |
| I knew she would die at the autumn fall. | |
| |
| Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair, | |
| Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair. | |
| |
| O ’tis none of our kith and none of our kin, | |
| (Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!) | 40 |
| |
| But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting sweet, | |
| “Elle est morte, la Marguerite.” | |
| |
| Come in my son and lie on the bed, | |
| And let the dead folk bury their dead. | |
| |
| O mother, you know I loved her true: | 45 |
| O mother, hath one grave room for two? | |
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