| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917. |
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| 180. A Very Old Song |
| | | By William Laird |
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| “DAUGHTER, thou art come to die: | |
| Sound be thy sleeping, lass.” | |
| “Well: without lament or cry, | |
| Mother, let me pass.” | |
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| “What things on mould were best of all? | 5 |
| (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)” | |
| “The apples reddening till they fall | |
| In the sun beside the convent wall. | |
| Let me pass.” | |
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| “Whom on earth hast thou loved best? | 10 |
| (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)” | |
| “Him that shared with me thy breast; | |
| Thee; and a knight last year our guest. | |
| He hath an heron to his crest. | |
| Let me pass.” | 15 |
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| “What leavest thou of fame or hoard? | |
| (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.) | |
| “My far-blown shame for thy reward; | |
| To my brother, gold to get him a sword. | |
| Let me pass.” | 20 |
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| “But what wilt leave thy lover, Grim? | |
| (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)” | |
| “The hair he kissed to strangle him. | |
| Mother, let me pass.” | |
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