Allbeneath the white-rose treeWalks a lady fair to see,She is as white as the snows,She is as fair as the day:From her father’s garden closeThree knights have ta’en her away.
He has ta’en her by the hand,The youngest of the three—‘Mount and ride, my bonnie bride,On my white horse with me.’
And ever they rode, and better rode,Till they came to Senlis town,The hostess she looked hard at themAs they were lighting down.
‘And are ye here by force,’ she said,‘Or are ye here for play?From out my father’s garden closeThree knights me stole away.
‘And fain would I win back,’ she said,‘The weary way I come;And fain would see my father dear,And fain go maiden home.’
‘Oh, weep not, lady fair,’ said she,‘You shall win back,’ she said,‘For you shall take this draught from meWill make you lie for dead.’
‘Come in and sup, fair lady,’ they said,‘Come busk ye and be bright;It is with three bold captainsThat ye must be this night.’
When they had eaten well and drunk,She fell down like one slain:‘Now, out and alas! for my bonny mayShall live no more again.’
‘Within her father’s garden steadThere are three white lilies;With her body to the lily bed,With her soul to Paradise.’
They bore her to her father’s house,They bore her all the three,They laid her in her father’s close,Beneath the white-rose tree.
She had not lain a day, a day,A day but barely three,When the may awakes, ‘Oh, open, father,Oh, open the door for me.
‘’Tis I have lain for dead, father,Have lain the long days three,That I might maiden come againTo my mother and to thee.’
‘Thedance is on the Bridge of DeathAnd who will dance with me?’‘There’s never a man of living menWill dare to dance with thee.’
Now Margaret’s gone within her bowerPut ashes in her hair,And sackcloth on her bonny breast,And on her shoulders bare.
There came a knock to her bower door,And blithe she let him in;It was her brother from the wars,The dearest of her kin.
‘Set gold within your hair, Margaret,Set gold within your hair,And gold upon your girdle band,And on your breast so fair.
‘For we are bidden to dance to-night,We may not bide away;This one good night, this one fair night,Before the red new day.’
‘Nay, no gold for my head brother,Nay, no gold for my hair;It is the ashes and dust of earthThat you and I must wear.
‘No gold work for my girdle band,No gold work on my feet;But ashes of the fire, my love,But dust that the serpents eat.’
* * * * * *
They danced across the bridge of Death,Above the black water,And the marriage-bell was tolled in hellFor the souls of him and her.
KING LOUIS’ DAUGHTER.
BALLAD OF THE ISLE OF FRANCE.
King Louison his bridge is he,He holds his daughter on his knee.
She asks a husband at his handThat is not worth a rood of land.
‘Give up your lover speedily,Or you within the tower must lie.’
‘Although I must the prison dree,I will not change my love for thee.
‘I will not change my lover fairNot for the mother that me bare.
‘I will not change my true loverFor friends, or for my father dear.’
‘Now where are all my pages keen,And where are all my serving men?
‘My daughter must lie in the tower alway,Where she shall never see the day.’
* * * * * *
Seven long years are past and goneAnd there has seen her never one.
At ending of the seventh yearHer father goes to visit her.
‘My child, my child, how may you be?’‘O father, it fares ill with me.
‘My feet are wasted in the mould,The worms they gnaw my side so cold.’
‘My child, change your love speedilyOr you must still in prison lie.’
‘’Tis better far the cold to dreeThan give my true love up for thee.’
Itwas a mother and a maidThat walked the woods among,And still the maid went slow and sad,And still the mother sung.
‘What ails you, daughter Margaret?Why go you pale and wan?Is it for a cast of bitter love,Or for a false leman?’
‘It is not for a false loverThat I go sad to see;But it is for a weary lifeBeneath the greenwood tree.
‘For ever in the good daylightA maiden may I go,But always on the ninth midnightI change to a milk white doe.
‘They hunt me through the green forestWith hounds and hunting men;And ever it is my fair brotherThat is so fierce and keen.’
* * * * *
‘Good-morrow, mother.’ ‘Good-morrow, son;Where are your hounds so good?’Oh, they are hunting a white doeWithin the glad greenwood.
‘And three times have they hunted her,And thrice she’s won away;The fourth time that they follow herThat white doe they shall slay.’
* * * * * *
Then out and spoke the forester,As he came from the wood,‘Now never saw I maid’s gold hairAmong the wild deer’s blood.
‘And I have hunted the wild deerIn east lands and in west;And never saw I white doe yetThat had a maiden’s breast.’
Then up and spake her fair brother,Between the wine and bread,‘Behold, I had but one sister,And I have been her dead.’
‘But ye must bury my sweet sisterWith a stone at her foot and her head,And ye must cover her fair bodyWith the white roses and red.’
And I must out to the greenwood,The roof shall never shelter me;And I shall lie for seven long yearsOn the grass below the hawthorn tree.
I be pareld most of prise,I ride after the wild fee.
I be pareld most of prise,I ride after the wild fee.
Willye that I should singOf the love of a goodly thing,Was no vilein’s may?’Tis sung of a knight so free,Under the olive tree,Singing this lay.
Her weed was of samite fine,Her mantle of white ermine,Green silk her hose;Her shoon with silver gay,Her sandals flowers of May,Laced small and close.
Her belt was of fresh spring buds,Set with gold clasps and studs,Fine linen her shift;Her purse it was of love,Her chain was the flower thereof,And Love’s gift.
Upon a mule she rode,The selle was of brent gold,The bits of silver made;Three red rose trees there wereThat overshadowed her,For a sun shade.
She riding on a day,Knights met her by the way,They did her grace;‘Fair lady, whence be ye?’‘France it is my countrie,I come of a high race.
‘My sire is the nightingale,That sings, making his wail,In the wild wood, clear;The mermaid is mother to me,That sings in the salt sea,In the ocean mere.’
‘Ye come of a right good race,And are born of a high place,And of high degree;Would to God that ye wereGiven unto me, being fair,My lady and love to be.’
Ilavedmy hands,By the water side;With the willow leavesMy hands I dried.
The nightingale sungOn the bough of the tree;Sing, sweet nightingale,It is well with thee.
Thou hast heart’s delight,I have sad heart’s sorrowFor a false false maidThat will wed to-morrow.
’Tis all for a rose,That I gave her not,And I would that it grewIn the garden plot.
And I would the rose-treeWere still to set,That my love MarieMight love me yet.
Themoon came up above the hill,The sun went down the sea;Go, maids, and fetch the well-water,But, lad, come here to me.
Gird on my jack and my old sword,For I have never a son;And you must be the chief of allWhen I am dead and gone.
But you must take my old broad sword,And cut the green bough of the tree,And strew the green boughs on the groundTo make a soft death bed for me.
And you must bring the holy priestThat I may sained be;For I have lived a roving lifeFifty years under the greenwood tree.
And you shall make a grave for me,And make it deep and wide;That I may turn about and dreamWith my old gun by my side.
And leave a window to the east,And the swallows will bring the spring;And all the merry month of MayThe nightingales will sing.
Itwas a maid lay sick of love,All for a leman fair;And it was three of her bower-maidensThat came to comfort her.
The first she bore a blossomed branch,The second an apple brown,The third she had a silk kerchief,And still her tears ran down.
The first she mocked, the second she laughed—‘We have loved lemans fair,We made our hearts like the iron stoneHad little teen or care.’
‘If ye have loved ’twas a false false love,And an ill leman was he;But her true love had angel’s eyes,And as fair was his sweet body.
And I will gird my green kirtle,And braid my yellow hair,And I will over the high hillsAnd bring her love to her.’
‘Nay, if you braid your yellow hair,You’ll twine my love from me.’‘Now nay, now nay, my lady good,That ever this should be!’
‘When you have crossed the western hillsMy true love you shall meet,With a green flag blowing over him,And green grass at his feet.’
She has crossed over the high hills,And the low hills between,And she has found the may’s lemanBeneath a flag of green.
’Twas four and twenty ladies fairWere sitting on the grass;But he has turned and looked on her,And will not let her pass.
‘You’ve maidens here, and maidens there,And loves through all the land;But what have you made of the lady fairYou gave the rose-garland?’
She was so harsh and cold of love,To me gave little grace;She wept if I but touched her hand,Or kissed her bonny face.
‘Yea, crows shall build in the eagle’s nest,The hawk the dove shall wed,Before my old true love and IMeet in one wedding bed.’
When she had heard his bitter redeThat was his old true love,She sat and wept within her bower,And moaned even as a dove.
She rose up from her window seat,And she looked out to see;Her love came riding up the streetWith a goodly company.
He was clad on with Venice gold,Wrought upon cramoisie,His yellow hair shone like the sunAbout his fair body.
‘Now shall I call him blossomed branchThat has ill knots therein?Or shall I call him basil plant,That comes of an evil kin?
‘Oh, I shall give him goodly names,My sword of damask fine;My silver flower, my bright-winged bird,Where go you, lover mine?’
‘I go to marry my new bride,That I bring o’er the down;And you shall be her bridal maid,And hold her bridal crown.’
‘When you come to the bride chamberWhere your fair maiden is,You’ll tell her I was fair of face,But never tell her this,
‘That still my lips were lips of love,My kiss love’s spring-water,That my love was a running spring,My breast a garden fair.
‘And you have kissed the lips of loveAnd drained the well-water,And you have spoiled the running spring,And robbed the fruits so fair.’
* * * * * *
‘Now he that will may scatter nuts,And he may wed that will;But she that was my old true loveShall be my true love still.’
Allthe maidens were merry and wedAll to lovers so fair to see;The lover I took to my bridal bedHe is not long for love and me.
I spoke to him and he noting said,I gave him bread of the wheat so fine,He did not eat of the bridal bread,He did not drink of the bridal wine.
I made him a bed was soft and deep,I made him a bed to sleep with me;‘Look on me once before you sleep,And look on the flower of my fair body.
‘Flowers of April, and fresh May-dew,Dew of April and buds of May;Two white blossoms that bud for you,Buds that blossom before the day.’
Allin the mirk midnight when I was beside you,Who has seen, who has heard, what was said, what was done?’Twas the night and the light of the stars that espied you,The fall of the moon, and the dawning begun.
’Tis a swift star has fallen, a star that discoversTo the sea what the green sea has told to the oars,And the oars to the sailors, and they of us loversGo singing this song at their mistress’s doors.
Threecrests against the saffron sky,Beyond the purple plain,The dear remembered melodyOf Tweed once more again.
Wan water from the border hills,Dear voice from the old years,Thy distant music lulls and stills,And moves to quiet tears.
Like a loved ghost thy fabled floodFleets through the dusky land;Where Scott, come home to die, has stood,My feet returning stand.
A mist of memory broods and floats,The border waters flow;The air is full of ballad notes,Borne out of long ago.
Old songs that sung themselves to me,Sweet through a boy’s day dream,While trout below the blossom’d treePlashed in the golden stream.
* * * * * *
Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill,Fair and thrice fair you be;You tell me that the voice is stillThat should have welcomed me.
“Up there shot a lily red,With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,For she was strong in the land of the dead.”
“Up there shot a lily red,With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,For she was strong in the land of the dead.”
Whenautumn suns are soft, and sea winds moan,And golden fruits make sweet the golden air,In gardens where the apple blossoms were,In these old springs before I walked alone;I pass among the pathways overgrown,Of all the former flowers that kissed your feetRemains a poppy, pallid from the heat,A wild poppy that the wild winds have sown.Alas! the rose forgets your hands of rose;The lilies slumber in the lily bed;’Tis only poppies in the dreamy close,The changeless, windless garden of the dead,You tend, with buds soft as your kiss that liesIn over happy dreams, upon mine eyes.
Ishallnot see thee, nay, but I shall knowPerchance, thy grey eyes in another’s eyes,Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flowOn purest brows, yea, and the swift surmiseShall follow, and track, and find thee in disguiseOf all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow,When through the scent of heather, faint and low,The weak wind whispers to the day that dies.
From all sweet art, and out of all ‘old rhyme,’Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me;The shadows of the beauty of all time,Carven and sung, are only shapes of thee;Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet my dearShall life or death bring all thy being near?
Idreamedthat somewhere in the shadowy place,Grief of farewell unspoken was forgotIn welcome, and regret remembered not;And hopeless prayer accomplished turned to praiseOn lips that had been songless many days;Hope had no more to hope for, and desireAnd dread were overpast, in white attireNew born we walked among the new world’s ways.
Then from the press of shades a spirit threwTowards me such apples as these gardens bear;And turning, I was ‘ware of her, and knewAnd followed her fleet voice and flying hair,—Followed, and found her not, and seeking youI found you never, dearest, anywhere.
Theperfect piteous beauty of thy face,Is like a star the dawning drives away;Mine eyes may never see in the bright dayThy pallid halo, thy supernal grace:But in the night from forth the silent placeThou comest, dim in dreams, as doth a strayStar of the starry flock that in the greyIs seen, and lost, and seen a moment’s space.
And as the earth at night turns to a star,Loved long ago, and dearer than the sun,So in the spiritual place afar,At night our souls are mingled and made one,And wait till one night fall, and one dawn rise,That brings no noon too splendid for your eyes.
Thewind and the day had lived together,They died together, and far awaySpoke farewell in the sultry weather,Out of the sunset, over the heather,The dying wind and the dying day.
Far in the south, the summer levinFlushed, a flame in the grey soft air:We seemed to look on the hills of heaven;You saw within, but to me ’twas givenTo see your face, as an angel’s, there.
Never again, ah surely neverShall we wait and watch, where of old we stood,The low good-night of the hill and the river,The faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver,Twain grown one in the solitude.
Bythe example of certain Grecian mariners, who, being safely returned from the war about Troy, leave yet again their old lands and gods, seeking they know not what, and choosing neither to abide in the fair Phæacian island, nor to dwell and die with the Sirens, at length end miserably in a desert country by the sea, is set forth theVanity of Melancholy. And by the land of Phæacia is to be understood the place of Art and of fair Pleasures; and by Circe’s Isle, the places of bodily delights, whereof men, falling aweary, attain to Eld, and to the darkness of that age. Which thing Master Françoys Rabelais feigned, under the similitude of the Isle of the Macræones.
Thereis a land in the remotest day,Where the soft night is born, and sunset dies;The eastern shores see faint tides fade away,That wash the lands where laughter, tears, and sighs,Make life,—the lands beneath the blue of common skies.
But in the west is a mysterious sea,(What sails have seen it, or what shipmen known?)With coasts enchanted where the Sirens be,With islands where a Goddess walks alone,And in the cedar trees the magic winds make moan
Eastward the human cares of house and home,Cities, and ships, and unknown Gods, and loves;Westward, strange maidens fairer than the foam,And lawless lives of men, and haunted groves,Wherein a God may dwell, and where the Dryad roves.
The Gods are careless of the days and deathOf toilsome men, beyond the western seas;The Gods are heedless of their painful breath,And love them not, for they are not as these;But in the golden west they live and lie at ease.
Yet the Phæacians well they love, who liveAt the light’s limit, passing careless hours,Most like the Gods; and they have gifts to give,Even wine, and fountains musical, and flowers,And song, and if they will, swift ships, and magic powers.
It is a quiet midland; in the coolOf twilight comes the God, though no man prayed,To watch the maids and young men beautifulDance, and they see him, and are not afraid,For they are near of kin to Gods, and undismayed.
Ah, would the bright red prows might bring us nighThe dreamy isles that the Immortals keep!But with a mist they hide them wondrously,And far the path and dim to where they sleep,—The loved, the shadowy lands along the shadowy deep.
Thelanguid sunset, mother of roses,Lingers, a light on the magic seas,The wide fire flames, as a flower uncloses,Heavy with odour, and loose to the breeze.
The red rose clouds, without law or leader,Gather and float in the airy plain;The nightingale sings to the dewy cedar,The cedar scatters his scent to the main.
The strange flowers’ perfume turns to singing,Heard afar over moonlit seas;The Siren’s song, grown faint in winging,Falls in scent on the cedar trees.
As waifs blown out of the sunset, flying,Purple, and rosy, and grey, the birdsBrighten the air with their wings; their cryingWakens a moment the weary herds.
Butterflies flit from the fairy garden,Living blossoms of flying flowers;Never the nights with winter harden,Nor moons wax keen in this land of ours.
Great fruits, fragrant, green and golden,Gleam in the green, and droop and fall;Blossom, and bud, and flower unfolden,Swing, and cling to the garden wall.
Deep in the woods as twilight darkens,Glades are red with the scented fire;Far in the dells the white maid hearkens,Song and sigh of the heart’s desire.
Ah, and as moonlight fades in morning,Maiden’s song in the matin grey,Faints as the first bird’s note, a warning,Wakes and wails to the new-born day.
The waking song and the dying measureMeet, and the waxing and waning lightMeet, and faint with the hours of pleasure,The rose of the sea and the sky is white.
THE PHÆACIANS.
Whyfrom the dreamy meadows,More fair than any dream,Why will you seek the shadowsBeyond the ocean stream?
Through straits of storm and peril,Through firths unsailed before,Why make you for the sterile,The dark Kimmerian shore?
There no bright streams are flowing,There day and night are one,No harvest time, no sowing,No sight of any sun;
No sound of song or tabor,No dance shall greet you there;No noise of mortal labour,Breaks on the blind chill air.
Are ours not happy places,Where Gods with mortals trod?Saw not our sires the facesOf many a present God?
THE SEEKERS.
Nay, now no God comes hither,In shape that men may see;They fare we know not whither,We know not what they be.
Yea, though the sunset lingersFar in your fairy glades,Though yours the sweetest singers,Though yours the kindest maids,
Yet here be the true shadows,Here in the doubtful light;Amid the dreamy meadowsNo shadow haunts the night.
We seek a city splendid,With light beyond the sun;Or lands where dreams are ended,And works and days are done.
Fairwhite bird, what song art thou singingIn wintry weather of lands o’er sea?Dear white bird, what way art thou winging,Where no grass grows, and no green tree?
I looked at the far off fields and grey,There grew no tree but the cypress tree,That bears sad fruits with the flowers of May,And whoso looks on it, woe is he.
And whoso eats of the fruit thereofHas no more sorrow, and no more love;And who sets the same in his garden stead,In a little space he is waste and dead.
Theweary sails a moment slept,The oars were silent for a space,As past Hesperian shores we swept,That were as a remembered faceSeen after lapse of hopeless years,In Hades, when the shadows meet,Dim through the mist of many tears,And strange, and though a shadow, sweet.
So seemed the half-remembered shore,That slumbered, mirrored in the blue,With havens where we touched of yore,And ports that over well we knew.Then broke the calm before a breezeThat sought the secret of the west;And listless all we swept the seasTowards the Islands of the Blest.
Beside a golden sanded bayWe saw the Sirens, very fairThe flowery hill whereon they lay,The flowers set upon their hair.Their old sweet song came down the wind,Remembered music waxing strong,Ah now no need of cords to bind,No need had we of Orphic song.
It once had seemed a little thing,To lay our lives down at their feet,That dying we might hear them sing,And dying see their faces sweet;But now, we glanced, and passing by,No care had we to tarry long;Faint hope, and rest, and memoryWere more than any Siren’s song.
Ah, Circe, Circe! in the wood we cried;Ah, Circe, Circe! but no voice replied;No voice from bowers o’ergrown and ruinousAs fallen rocks upon the mountain side.
There was no sound of singing in the air;Failed or fled the maidens that were fair,No more for sorrow or joy were seen of us,No light of laughing eyes, or floating hair.
The perfume, and the music, and the flameHad passed away; the memory of shameAlone abode, and stings of faint desire,And pulses of vague quiet went and came.
Ah, Circe! in thy sad changed fairy place,Our dead Youth came and looked on us a space,With drooping wings, and eyes of faded fire,And wasted hair about a weary face.
Why had we ever sought the magic isleThat seemed so happy in the days erewhile?Why did we ever leave it, where we metA world of happy wonders in one smile?
Back to the westward and the waning lightWe turned, we fled; the solitude of nightWas better than the infinite regret,In fallen places of our dead delight.
Betweenthe circling ocean seaAnd the poplars of PersephoneThere lies a strip of barren sand,Flecked with the sea’s last spray, and strownWith waste leaves of the poplars, blownFrom gardens of the shadow land.
With altars of old sacrificeThe shore is set, in mournful wiseThe mists upon the ocean brood;Between the water and the airThe clouds are born that float and fareBetween the water and the wood.
Upon the grey sea never sailOf mortals passed within our hail,Where the last weak waves faint and flow;We heard within the poplar paleThe murmur of a doubtful wailOf voices loved so long ago.
We scarce had care to die or live,We had no honey cake to give,No wine of sacrifice to shed;There lies no new path over sea,And now we know how faint they be,The feasts and voices of the Dead.
Ah, flowers and dance! ah, sun and snow!Glad life, sad life we did foregoTo dream of quietness and rest;Ah, would the fleet sweet roses herePoured light and perfume through the drearPale year, and wan land of the west.
Sad youth, that let the spring go byBecause the spring is swift to fly,Sad youth, that feared to mourn or love,Behold how sadder far is this,To know that rest is nowise bliss,And darkness is the end thereof.
For a sketch by Mr. G. Leslie, A.R.A.
Franceyour country, as we know;Room enough for guessing yet,What lips now or long ago,Kissed and named you—Colinette.In what fields from sea to sea,By what stream your home was set,Loire or Seine was glad of thee,Marne or Rhone, O Colinette?
Did you stand with ‘maidens ten,Fairer maids were never seen,’When the young king and his menPassed among the orchards green?Nay, old ballads have a noteMournful, we would fain forget;No such sad old air should floatRound your young brows, Colinette.
Say, did Ronsard sing to you,Shepherdess, to lull his pain,When the court went wandering throughRose pleasances of Touraine?Ronsard and his famous RoseLong are dust the breezes fret;You, within the garden close,You are blooming, Colinette.
Have I seen you proud and gay,With a patched and perfumed beau,Dancing through the summer day,Misty summer of Watteau?Nay, so sweet a maid as youNever walked a minuetWith the splendid courtly crew;Nay, forgive me, Colinette.
Not from Greuze’s canvassesDo you cast a glance, a smile;You are not as one of these,Yours is beauty without guile.Round your maiden brows and hairMaidenhood and Childhood metCrown and kiss you, sweet and fair,New art’s blossom, Colinette.
LUI.
Thesilk sail fills, the soft winds wake,Arise and tempt the seas;Our ocean is the Palace lake,Our waves the ripples that we makeAmong the mirrored trees.
ELLE.
Nay, sweet the shore, and sweet the song,And dear the languid dream;The music mingled all day longWith paces of the dancing throng,And murmur of the stream.
An hour ago, an hour ago,We rested in the shade;And now, why should we seek to knowWhat way the wilful waters flow?There is no fairer glade.
LUI.
Nay, pleasure flits, and we must sail,And seek him everywhere;Perchance in sunset’s golden paleHe listens to the nightingale,Amid the perfumed air.
Come, he has fled; you are not you,And I no more am I;Delight is changeful as the hueOf heaven, that is no longer blueIn yonder sunset sky.
ELLE.
Nay, if we seek we shall not find,If we knock none openeth;Nay, see, the sunset fades behindThe mountains, and the cold night windBlows from the house of Death.
‘Wroughtin the troublous times of ItalyBy Sandro Botticelli,’ when for fearOf that last judgment, and last day drawn nearTo end all labour and all revelry,He worked and prayed in silence; this is sheThat by the holy cradle sees the bier,And in spice gifts the hyssop on the spear,And out of Bethlehem, Gethsemane.
Between the gold sky and the green o’er head,The twelve great shining angels, garlanded,Marvel upon this face, wherein combineThe mother’s love that shone on all of us,And maiden rapture that makes luminousThe brows of Margaret and Catherine.
To a young English lady in the Hospital of the Wounded at Carlsruhe. Sept. 1870.
Whatdoes the dim gaze of the dying findTo waken dream or memory, seeing you?In your sweet eyes what other eyes are blue,And in your hair what gold hair on the windFloats of the days gone almost out of mind?In deep green valleys of the FatherlandHe may remember girls with locks like thine;May dream how, where the waiting angels stand,Some lost love’s eyes are dim before they shineWith welcome:—so past homes, or homes to be,He sees a moment, ere, a moment blind,He crosses Death’s inhospitable sea,And with brief passage of those barren landsComes to the home that is not made with hands.
Theflags below the shadowy fernShine like spears between sun and sea,The tide and the summer begin to turn,And ah, for hearts, for hearts that yearn,For fires of autumn that catch and burn,For love gone out between thee and me.
The wind is up, and the weather broken,Blue seas, blue eyes, are grieved and grey,Listen, the word that the wind has spoken,Listen, the sound of the sea,—a tokenThat summer’s over, and troths are broken,—That loves depart as the hours decay.
A love has passed to the loves passed over,A month has fled to the months gone by;And none may follow, and none recoverJuly and June, and never a loverMay stay the wings of the Loves that hover,As fleet as the light in a sunset sky.
‘Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non?Serai-je nonnette? je crois que non.Derrière chez mon pèreIl est un bois taillis,Le rossignol y chanteEt le jour et le nuit.Il chaste pour les fillesQui n’ont pas d’ami;Il ne chante pas pour moi,J’en ai un, Dieu merci.’—Old French.
‘Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non?Serai-je nonnette? je crois que non.Derrière chez mon pèreIl est un bois taillis,Le rossignol y chanteEt le jour et le nuit.Il chaste pour les fillesQui n’ont pas d’ami;Il ne chante pas pour moi,J’en ai un, Dieu merci.’—Old French.