In the beginning God made theeA woman well to look upon,Thy tender body as a treeWhereon cool wind hath always blownTill the clean branches be well grown.There was none like thee in the land;The girls that were thy bondwomenDid bind thee with a purple bandUpon thy forehead, that all menShould know thee for God's handmaiden.Strange raiment clad thee like a bride,With silk to wear on hands and feetAnd plates of gold on either side:Wine made thee glad, and thou didst eatHoney, and choice of pleasant meat.And fishers in the middle seaDid get thee sea-fish and sea-weedsIn colour like the robes on thee;And curious work of plaited reeds,And wools wherein live purple bleeds.And round the edges of thy cupMen wrought thee marvels out of gold,Strong snakes with lean throats lifted up,Large eyes whereon the brows had hold,And scaly things their slime kept cold.For thee they blew soft wind in flutesAnd ground sweet roots for cunning scent;Made slow because of many lutes,The wind among thy chambers wentWherein no light was violent.God called thy name Aholibah,His tabernacle being in thee,A witness through waste Asia;Thou wert a tent sewn cunninglyWith gold and colours of the sea.God gave thee gracious ministersAnd all their work who plait and weave:The cunning of embroiderersThat sew the pillow to the sleeve,And likeness of all things that live.Thy garments upon thee were fairWith scarlet and with yellow thread;Also the weaving of thine hairWas as fine gold upon thy head,And thy silk shoes were sewn with red.All sweet things he bade sift, and groundAs a man grindeth wheat in millsWith strong wheels alway going round;He gave thee corn, and grass that fillsThe cattle on a thousand hills.The wine of many seasons fedThy mouth, and made it fair and clean;Sweet oil was poured out on thy headAnd ran down like cool rain betweenThe strait close locks it melted in.The strong men and the captains knewThy chambers wrought and fashionedWith gold and covering of blue,And the blue raiment of thine headWho satest on a stately bed.All these had on their garments wroughtThe shape of beasts and creeping things,The body that availeth not,Flat backs of worms and veinèd wings,And the lewd bulk that sleeps and stings.Also the chosen of the years,The multitude being at ease,With sackbuts and with dulcimersAnd noise of shawms and psalteriesMade mirth within the ears of these.But as a common woman doth,Thou didst think evil and devise;The sweet smell of thy breast and mouthThou madest as the harlot's wise,And there was painting on thine eyes.Yea, in the woven guest-chamberAnd by the painted passagesWhere the strange gracious paintings were,State upon state of companies,There came on thee the lust of these.Because of shapes on either wallSea-coloured from some rare blue shellAt many a Tyrian interval,Horsemen on horses, girdled well,Delicate and desirable,Thou saidest: I am sick of love:Stay me with flagons, comfort meWith apples for my pain thereofTill my hands gather in his treeThat fruit wherein my lips would be.Yea, saidest thou, I will go upWhen there is no more shade than oneMay cover with a hollow cup,And make my bed against the sunTill my blood's violence be done.Thy mouth was leant upon the wallAgainst the painted mouth, thy chinTouched the hair's painted curve and fall;Thy deep throat, fallen lax and thin,Worked as the blood's beat worked therein.Therefore, O thou Aholibah,God is not glad because of thee;And thy fine gold shall pass awayLike those fair coins of ore that beWashed over by the middle sea.Then will one make thy body bareTo strip it of all gracious things,And pluck the cover from thine hair,And break the gift of many kings,Thy wrist-rings and thine ankle-rings.Likewise the man whose body joinsTo thy smooth body, as was said,Who hath a girdle on his loinsAnd dyed attire upon his head—The same who, seeing, worshipped,Because thy face was like the faceOf a clean maiden that smells sweet,Because thy gait was as the paceOf one that opens not her feetAnd is not heard within the street—Even he, O thou Aholibah,Made separate from thy desire,Shall cut thy nose and ears awayAnd bruise thee for thy body's hireAnd burn the residue with fire.Then shall the heathen people say,The multitude being at ease;Lo, this is that AholibahWhose name was blown among strange seas.Grown old with soft adulteries.Also her bed was made of green,Her windows beautiful for glassThat she had made her bed between:Yea, for pure lust her body wasMade like white summer-coloured grass.Her raiment was a strong man's spoil;Upon a table by a bedShe set mine incense and mine oilTo be the beauty of her headIn chambers walled about with red.Also between the walls she hadFair faces of strong men portrayed;All girded round the loins, and cladWith several cloths of woven braidAnd garments marvellously made.Therefore the wrath of God shall beSet as a watch upon her way;And whoso findeth by the seaBlown dust of bones will hardly sayIf this were that Aholibah.
In the beginning God made theeA woman well to look upon,Thy tender body as a treeWhereon cool wind hath always blownTill the clean branches be well grown.
There was none like thee in the land;The girls that were thy bondwomenDid bind thee with a purple bandUpon thy forehead, that all menShould know thee for God's handmaiden.
Strange raiment clad thee like a bride,With silk to wear on hands and feetAnd plates of gold on either side:Wine made thee glad, and thou didst eatHoney, and choice of pleasant meat.
And fishers in the middle seaDid get thee sea-fish and sea-weedsIn colour like the robes on thee;And curious work of plaited reeds,And wools wherein live purple bleeds.
And round the edges of thy cupMen wrought thee marvels out of gold,Strong snakes with lean throats lifted up,Large eyes whereon the brows had hold,And scaly things their slime kept cold.
For thee they blew soft wind in flutesAnd ground sweet roots for cunning scent;Made slow because of many lutes,The wind among thy chambers wentWherein no light was violent.
God called thy name Aholibah,His tabernacle being in thee,A witness through waste Asia;Thou wert a tent sewn cunninglyWith gold and colours of the sea.
God gave thee gracious ministersAnd all their work who plait and weave:The cunning of embroiderersThat sew the pillow to the sleeve,And likeness of all things that live.
Thy garments upon thee were fairWith scarlet and with yellow thread;Also the weaving of thine hairWas as fine gold upon thy head,And thy silk shoes were sewn with red.
All sweet things he bade sift, and groundAs a man grindeth wheat in millsWith strong wheels alway going round;He gave thee corn, and grass that fillsThe cattle on a thousand hills.
The wine of many seasons fedThy mouth, and made it fair and clean;Sweet oil was poured out on thy headAnd ran down like cool rain betweenThe strait close locks it melted in.
The strong men and the captains knewThy chambers wrought and fashionedWith gold and covering of blue,And the blue raiment of thine headWho satest on a stately bed.
All these had on their garments wroughtThe shape of beasts and creeping things,The body that availeth not,Flat backs of worms and veinèd wings,And the lewd bulk that sleeps and stings.
Also the chosen of the years,The multitude being at ease,With sackbuts and with dulcimersAnd noise of shawms and psalteriesMade mirth within the ears of these.
But as a common woman doth,Thou didst think evil and devise;The sweet smell of thy breast and mouthThou madest as the harlot's wise,And there was painting on thine eyes.
Yea, in the woven guest-chamberAnd by the painted passagesWhere the strange gracious paintings were,State upon state of companies,There came on thee the lust of these.
Because of shapes on either wallSea-coloured from some rare blue shellAt many a Tyrian interval,Horsemen on horses, girdled well,Delicate and desirable,
Thou saidest: I am sick of love:Stay me with flagons, comfort meWith apples for my pain thereofTill my hands gather in his treeThat fruit wherein my lips would be.
Yea, saidest thou, I will go upWhen there is no more shade than oneMay cover with a hollow cup,And make my bed against the sunTill my blood's violence be done.
Thy mouth was leant upon the wallAgainst the painted mouth, thy chinTouched the hair's painted curve and fall;Thy deep throat, fallen lax and thin,Worked as the blood's beat worked therein.
Therefore, O thou Aholibah,God is not glad because of thee;And thy fine gold shall pass awayLike those fair coins of ore that beWashed over by the middle sea.
Then will one make thy body bareTo strip it of all gracious things,And pluck the cover from thine hair,And break the gift of many kings,Thy wrist-rings and thine ankle-rings.
Likewise the man whose body joinsTo thy smooth body, as was said,Who hath a girdle on his loinsAnd dyed attire upon his head—The same who, seeing, worshipped,
Because thy face was like the faceOf a clean maiden that smells sweet,Because thy gait was as the paceOf one that opens not her feetAnd is not heard within the street—
Even he, O thou Aholibah,Made separate from thy desire,Shall cut thy nose and ears awayAnd bruise thee for thy body's hireAnd burn the residue with fire.
Then shall the heathen people say,The multitude being at ease;Lo, this is that AholibahWhose name was blown among strange seas.Grown old with soft adulteries.
Also her bed was made of green,Her windows beautiful for glassThat she had made her bed between:Yea, for pure lust her body wasMade like white summer-coloured grass.
Her raiment was a strong man's spoil;Upon a table by a bedShe set mine incense and mine oilTo be the beauty of her headIn chambers walled about with red.
Also between the walls she hadFair faces of strong men portrayed;All girded round the loins, and cladWith several cloths of woven braidAnd garments marvellously made.
Therefore the wrath of God shall beSet as a watch upon her way;And whoso findeth by the seaBlown dust of bones will hardly sayIf this were that Aholibah.
Lying asleep between the strokes of nightI saw my love lean over my sad bed,Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,But perfect-coloured without white or red.And her lips opened amorously, and said—I wist not what, saving one word—Delight.And all her face was honey to my mouth,And all her body pasture to mine eyes;The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighsAnd glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.
Lying asleep between the strokes of nightI saw my love lean over my sad bed,Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,But perfect-coloured without white or red.And her lips opened amorously, and said—I wist not what, saving one word—Delight.And all her face was honey to my mouth,And all her body pasture to mine eyes;The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighsAnd glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.
Under green apple-boughsThat never a storm will rouse,My lady hath her houseBetween two bowers;In either of the twainRed roses full of rain;She hath for bondwomenAll kind of flowers.She hath no handmaid fairTo draw her curled gold hairThrough rings of gold that bearHer whole hair's weight;She hath no maids to standGold-clothed on either hand;In all the great green landNone is so great.She hath no more to wearBut one white hood of vairDrawn over eyes and hair,Wrought with strange gold,Made for some great queen's head,Some fair great queen since dead;And one strait gown of redAgainst the cold.Beneath her eyelids deepLove lying seems asleep,Love, swift to wake, to weep,To laugh, to gaze;Her breasts are like white birds,And all her gracious wordsAs water-grass to herdsIn the June-days.To her all dews that fallAnd rains are musical;Her flowers are fed from all,Her joy from these;In the deep-feathered firsTheir gift of joy is hers,In the least breath that stirsAcross the trees.She grows with greenest leaves,Ripens with reddest sheaves,Forgets, remembers, grieves,And is not sad;The quiet lands and skiesLeave light upon her eyes;None knows her, weak or wise,Or tired or glad.None knows, none understands,What flowers are like her hands;Though you should search all landsWherein time grows,What snows are like her feet,Though his eyes burn with heatThrough gazing on my sweet,Yet no man knows.Only this thing is said;That white and gold and red,God's three chief words, man's breadAnd oil and wine,Were given her for dowers,And kingdom of all hours,And grace of goodly flowersAnd various vine.This is my lady's praise:God after many daysWrought her in unknown ways,In sunset lands;This was my lady's birth;God gave her might and mirthAnd laid his whole sweet earthBetween her hands.Under deep apple-boughsMy lady hath her house;She wears upon her browsThe flower thereof;All saying but what God saithTo her is as vain breath;She is more strong than death,Being strong as love.
Under green apple-boughsThat never a storm will rouse,My lady hath her houseBetween two bowers;In either of the twainRed roses full of rain;She hath for bondwomenAll kind of flowers.
She hath no handmaid fairTo draw her curled gold hairThrough rings of gold that bearHer whole hair's weight;She hath no maids to standGold-clothed on either hand;In all the great green landNone is so great.
She hath no more to wearBut one white hood of vairDrawn over eyes and hair,Wrought with strange gold,Made for some great queen's head,Some fair great queen since dead;And one strait gown of redAgainst the cold.
Beneath her eyelids deepLove lying seems asleep,Love, swift to wake, to weep,To laugh, to gaze;Her breasts are like white birds,And all her gracious wordsAs water-grass to herdsIn the June-days.
To her all dews that fallAnd rains are musical;Her flowers are fed from all,Her joy from these;In the deep-feathered firsTheir gift of joy is hers,In the least breath that stirsAcross the trees.
She grows with greenest leaves,Ripens with reddest sheaves,Forgets, remembers, grieves,And is not sad;The quiet lands and skiesLeave light upon her eyes;None knows her, weak or wise,Or tired or glad.
None knows, none understands,What flowers are like her hands;Though you should search all landsWherein time grows,What snows are like her feet,Though his eyes burn with heatThrough gazing on my sweet,Yet no man knows.
Only this thing is said;That white and gold and red,God's three chief words, man's breadAnd oil and wine,Were given her for dowers,And kingdom of all hours,And grace of goodly flowersAnd various vine.
This is my lady's praise:God after many daysWrought her in unknown ways,In sunset lands;This was my lady's birth;God gave her might and mirthAnd laid his whole sweet earthBetween her hands.
Under deep apple-boughsMy lady hath her house;She wears upon her browsThe flower thereof;All saying but what God saithTo her is as vain breath;She is more strong than death,Being strong as love.
We were ten maidens in the green corn,Small red leaves in the mill-water:Fairer maidens never were born,Apples of gold for the king's daughter.We were ten maidens by a well-head,Small white birds in the mill-water:Sweeter maidens never were wed,Rings of red for the king's daughter.The first to spin, the second to sing,Seeds of wheat in the mill-water;The third may was a goodly thing,White bread and brown for the king's daughter.The fourth to sew and the fifth to play,Fair green weed in the mill-water;The sixth may was a goodly may,White wine and red for the king's daughter.The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed,Fair thin reeds in the mill-water;The ninth had gold work on her head,Honey in the comb for the king's daughter.The ninth had gold work round her hair,Fallen flowers in the mill-water;The tenth may was goodly and fair,Golden gloves for the king's daughter.We were ten maidens in a field green,Fallen fruit in the mill-water;Fairer maidens never have been,Golden sleeves for the king's daughter.By there comes the king's young son,A little wind in the mill-water;"Out of ten maidens ye'll grant me one,"A crown of red for the king's daughter."Out of ten mays ye'll give me the best,"A little rain in the mill-water;A bed of yellow straw for all the rest,A bed of gold for the king's daughter.He's ta'en out the goodliest,Rain that rains in the mill-water;A comb of yellow shell for all the rest,A comb of gold for the king's daughter.He's made her bed to the goodliest,Wind and hail in the mill-water;A grass girdle for all the rest,A girdle of arms for the king's daughter.He's set his heart to the goodliest,Snow that snows in the mill-water;Nine little kisses for all the rest,An hundredfold for the king's daughter.He's ta'en his leave at the goodliest,Broken boats in the mill-water;Golden gifts for all the rest,Sorrow of heart for the king's daughter."Ye'll make a grave for my fair body,"Running rain in the mill-water;"And ye'll streek my brother at the side of me,"The pains of hell for the king's daughter.
We were ten maidens in the green corn,Small red leaves in the mill-water:Fairer maidens never were born,Apples of gold for the king's daughter.
We were ten maidens by a well-head,Small white birds in the mill-water:Sweeter maidens never were wed,Rings of red for the king's daughter.
The first to spin, the second to sing,Seeds of wheat in the mill-water;The third may was a goodly thing,White bread and brown for the king's daughter.
The fourth to sew and the fifth to play,Fair green weed in the mill-water;The sixth may was a goodly may,White wine and red for the king's daughter.
The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed,Fair thin reeds in the mill-water;The ninth had gold work on her head,Honey in the comb for the king's daughter.
The ninth had gold work round her hair,Fallen flowers in the mill-water;The tenth may was goodly and fair,Golden gloves for the king's daughter.
We were ten maidens in a field green,Fallen fruit in the mill-water;Fairer maidens never have been,Golden sleeves for the king's daughter.
By there comes the king's young son,A little wind in the mill-water;"Out of ten maidens ye'll grant me one,"A crown of red for the king's daughter.
"Out of ten mays ye'll give me the best,"A little rain in the mill-water;A bed of yellow straw for all the rest,A bed of gold for the king's daughter.
He's ta'en out the goodliest,Rain that rains in the mill-water;A comb of yellow shell for all the rest,A comb of gold for the king's daughter.
He's made her bed to the goodliest,Wind and hail in the mill-water;A grass girdle for all the rest,A girdle of arms for the king's daughter.
He's set his heart to the goodliest,Snow that snows in the mill-water;Nine little kisses for all the rest,An hundredfold for the king's daughter.
He's ta'en his leave at the goodliest,Broken boats in the mill-water;Golden gifts for all the rest,Sorrow of heart for the king's daughter.
"Ye'll make a grave for my fair body,"Running rain in the mill-water;"And ye'll streek my brother at the side of me,"The pains of hell for the king's daughter.
The four boards of the coffin lidHeard all the dead man did.The first curse was in his mouth,Made of grave's mould and deadly drouth.The next curse was in his head,Made of God's work discomfited.The next curse was in his hands,Made out of two grave-bands.The next curse was in his feet,Made out of a grave-sheet."I had fair coins red and white,And my name was as great light;I had fair clothes green and red,And strong gold bound round my head.But no meat comes in my mouth,Now I fare as the worm doth;And no gold binds in my hair,Now I fare as the blind fare.My live thews were of great strength,Now am I waxen a span's length;My live sides were full of lust,Now are they dried with dust."The first board spake and said:"Is it best eating flesh or bread?"The second answered it:"Is wine or honey the more sweet?"The third board spake and said:"Is red gold worth a girl's gold head?"The fourth made answer thus:"All these things are as one with us."The dead man asked of them:"Is the green land stained brown with flame?Have they hewn my son for beasts to eat,And my wife's body for beasts' meat?Have they boiled my maid in a brass pan,And built a gallows to hang my man?"The boards said to him:"This is a lewd thing that ye deem.Your wife has gotten a golden bed,All the sheets are sewn with red.Your son has gotten a coat of silk,The sleeves are soft as curded milk.Your maid has gotten a kirtle new,All the skirt has braids of blue.Your man has gotten both ring and glove,Wrought well for eyes to love."The dead man answered thus:"What good gift shall God give us?"The boards answered him anon:"Flesh to feed hell's worm upon."
The four boards of the coffin lidHeard all the dead man did.
The first curse was in his mouth,Made of grave's mould and deadly drouth.
The next curse was in his head,Made of God's work discomfited.
The next curse was in his hands,Made out of two grave-bands.
The next curse was in his feet,Made out of a grave-sheet.
"I had fair coins red and white,And my name was as great light;
I had fair clothes green and red,And strong gold bound round my head.
But no meat comes in my mouth,Now I fare as the worm doth;
And no gold binds in my hair,Now I fare as the blind fare.
My live thews were of great strength,Now am I waxen a span's length;
My live sides were full of lust,Now are they dried with dust."
The first board spake and said:"Is it best eating flesh or bread?"
The second answered it:"Is wine or honey the more sweet?"
The third board spake and said:"Is red gold worth a girl's gold head?"
The fourth made answer thus:"All these things are as one with us."
The dead man asked of them:"Is the green land stained brown with flame?
Have they hewn my son for beasts to eat,And my wife's body for beasts' meat?
Have they boiled my maid in a brass pan,And built a gallows to hang my man?"
The boards said to him:"This is a lewd thing that ye deem.
Your wife has gotten a golden bed,All the sheets are sewn with red.
Your son has gotten a coat of silk,The sleeves are soft as curded milk.
Your maid has gotten a kirtle new,All the skirt has braids of blue.
Your man has gotten both ring and glove,Wrought well for eyes to love."
The dead man answered thus:"What good gift shall God give us?"
The boards answered him anon:"Flesh to feed hell's worm upon."
"Stand up, stand up, thou May Janet,And go to the wars with me."He's drawn her by both handsWith her face against the sea."He that strews red shall gather white,He that sows white reap red,Before your face and my daughter'sMeet in a marriage-bed."Gold coin shall grow in the yellow field,Green corn in the green sea-water,And red fruit grow of the rose's red,Ere your fruit grow in her.""But I shall have her by land," he said,"Or I shall have her by sea,Or I shall have her by strong treasonAnd no grace go with me."Her father's drawn her by both hands,He's rent her gown from her,He's ta'en the smock round her body,Cast in the sea-water.The captain's drawn her by both sidesOut of the fair green sea;"Stand up, stand up, thou May Janet,And come to the war with me."The first town they came toThere was a blue bride-chamber;He clothed her on with silkAnd belted her with amber.The second town they came toThe bridesmen feasted knee to knee;He clothed her on with silver,A stately thing to see.The third town they came toThe bridesmaids all had gowns of gold;He clothed her on with purple,A rich thing to behold.The last town they came toHe clothed her white and red,With a green flag either side of herAnd a gold flag overhead.
"Stand up, stand up, thou May Janet,And go to the wars with me."He's drawn her by both handsWith her face against the sea.
"He that strews red shall gather white,He that sows white reap red,Before your face and my daughter'sMeet in a marriage-bed.
"Gold coin shall grow in the yellow field,Green corn in the green sea-water,And red fruit grow of the rose's red,Ere your fruit grow in her."
"But I shall have her by land," he said,"Or I shall have her by sea,Or I shall have her by strong treasonAnd no grace go with me."
Her father's drawn her by both hands,He's rent her gown from her,He's ta'en the smock round her body,Cast in the sea-water.
The captain's drawn her by both sidesOut of the fair green sea;"Stand up, stand up, thou May Janet,And come to the war with me."
The first town they came toThere was a blue bride-chamber;He clothed her on with silkAnd belted her with amber.
The second town they came toThe bridesmen feasted knee to knee;He clothed her on with silver,A stately thing to see.
The third town they came toThe bridesmaids all had gowns of gold;He clothed her on with purple,A rich thing to behold.
The last town they came toHe clothed her white and red,With a green flag either side of herAnd a gold flag overhead.
"O where have ye been the morn sae late,My merry son, come tell me hither?O where have ye been the morn sae late?And I wot I hae not anither.""By the water-gate, by the water-gate,O dear mither.""And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make,My merry son, come tell me hither?And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make?And I wot I hae not anither.""I watered my steeds with water frae the lake,O dear mither.""Why is your coat sae fouled the day,My merry son, come tell me hither?Why is your coat sae fouled the day?And I wot I hae not anither.""The steeds were stamping sair by the weary banks of clay,O dear mither.""And where gat ye thae sleeves of red,My merry son, come tell me hither?And where gat ye thae sleeves of red?And I wot I hae not anither.""I have slain my ae brither by the weary waterhead,O dear mither.""And where will ye gang to mak your mend,My merry son, come tell me hither?And where will ye gang to mak your mend?And I wot I hae not anither.""The warldis way, to the warldis end,O dear mither.""And what will ye leave your father dear,My merry son, come tell me hither?And what will ye leave your father dear?And I wot I hae not anither.""The wood to fell and the logs to bear,For he'll never see my body mair,O dear mither.""And what will ye leave your mither dear,My merry son, come tell me hither?And what will ye leave your mither dear?And I wot I hae not anither.""The wool to card and the wool to wear,For ye'll never see my body mair,O dear mither.""And what will ye leave for your wife to take,My merry son, come tell me hither?And what will ye leave for your wife to take?And I wot I hae not anither.""A goodly gown and a fair new make,For she'll do nae mair for my body's sake,O dear mither.""And what will ye leave your young son fair,My merry son, come tell me hither?And what will ye leave your young son fair?And I wot ye hae not anither.""A twiggen school-rod for his body to bear,Though it garred him greet he'll get nae mair,O dear mither.""And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet,My merry son, come tell me hither?And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet?And I wot ye hae not anither.""Wild mulberries for her mouth to eat,She'll get nae mair though it garred her greet,O dear mither.""And when will ye come back frae roamin',My merry son, come tell me hither?And when will ye come back frae roamin'?And I wot I hae not anither.""When the sunrise out of the north is comen,O dear mither.""When shall the sunrise on the north side be,My merry son, come tell me hither?When shall the sunrise on the north side be?And I wot I hae not anither.""When chuckie-stanes shall swim in the sea,O dear mither.""When shall stanes in the sea swim,My merry son, come tell me hither?When shall stanes in the sea swim?And I wot I hae not anither.""When birdies' feathers are as lead therein,O dear mither.""When shall feathers be as lead,My merry son, come tell me hither?When shall feathers be as lead?And I wot I hae not anither.""When God shall judge between the quick and dead,O dear mither."
"O where have ye been the morn sae late,My merry son, come tell me hither?O where have ye been the morn sae late?And I wot I hae not anither.""By the water-gate, by the water-gate,O dear mither."
"And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make,My merry son, come tell me hither?And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make?And I wot I hae not anither.""I watered my steeds with water frae the lake,O dear mither."
"Why is your coat sae fouled the day,My merry son, come tell me hither?Why is your coat sae fouled the day?And I wot I hae not anither.""The steeds were stamping sair by the weary banks of clay,O dear mither."
"And where gat ye thae sleeves of red,My merry son, come tell me hither?And where gat ye thae sleeves of red?And I wot I hae not anither.""I have slain my ae brither by the weary waterhead,O dear mither."
"And where will ye gang to mak your mend,My merry son, come tell me hither?And where will ye gang to mak your mend?And I wot I hae not anither.""The warldis way, to the warldis end,O dear mither."
"And what will ye leave your father dear,My merry son, come tell me hither?And what will ye leave your father dear?And I wot I hae not anither.""The wood to fell and the logs to bear,For he'll never see my body mair,O dear mither."
"And what will ye leave your mither dear,My merry son, come tell me hither?And what will ye leave your mither dear?And I wot I hae not anither.""The wool to card and the wool to wear,For ye'll never see my body mair,O dear mither."
"And what will ye leave for your wife to take,My merry son, come tell me hither?And what will ye leave for your wife to take?And I wot I hae not anither.""A goodly gown and a fair new make,For she'll do nae mair for my body's sake,O dear mither."
"And what will ye leave your young son fair,My merry son, come tell me hither?And what will ye leave your young son fair?And I wot ye hae not anither.""A twiggen school-rod for his body to bear,Though it garred him greet he'll get nae mair,O dear mither."
"And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet,My merry son, come tell me hither?And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet?And I wot ye hae not anither.""Wild mulberries for her mouth to eat,She'll get nae mair though it garred her greet,O dear mither."
"And when will ye come back frae roamin',My merry son, come tell me hither?And when will ye come back frae roamin'?And I wot I hae not anither.""When the sunrise out of the north is comen,O dear mither."
"When shall the sunrise on the north side be,My merry son, come tell me hither?When shall the sunrise on the north side be?And I wot I hae not anither.""When chuckie-stanes shall swim in the sea,O dear mither."
"When shall stanes in the sea swim,My merry son, come tell me hither?When shall stanes in the sea swim?And I wot I hae not anither.""When birdies' feathers are as lead therein,O dear mither."
"When shall feathers be as lead,My merry son, come tell me hither?When shall feathers be as lead?And I wot I hae not anither.""When God shall judge between the quick and dead,O dear mither."
This fell when Christmas lights were done,(Red rose leaves will never make wine)But before the Easter lights begun;The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.Two lovers sat where the rowan blowsAnd all the grass is heavy and fine,By the gathering-place of the sea-swallowsWhen the wind brings them over Tyne.Blossom of broom will never make bread,Red rose leaves will never make wine;Between her brows she is grown red,That was full white in the fields by Tyne."O what is this thing ye have on,Show me now, sweet daughter of mine?""O father, this is my little sonThat I found hid in the sides of Tyne."O what will ye give my son to eat,Red rose leaves will never make wine?""Fen-water and adder's meat."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."Or what will ye get my son to wear?"(Red rose leaves will never make wine.)"A weed and a web of nettle's hair."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."Or what will ye take to line his bed?"(Red rose leaves will never make wine.)"Two black stones at the kirkwall's head."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."Or what will ye give my son for land?"(Red rose leaves will never make wine.)"Three girl's paces of red sand."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."Or what will ye give me for my son?"(Red rose leaves will never make wine.)"Six times to kiss his young mouth on."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."But what have ye done with the bearing-bread,And what have ye made of the washing-wine?Or where have ye made your bearing-bed,To bear a son in the sides of Tyne?""The bearing-bread is soft and new,There is no soil in the straining wine;The bed was made between green and blue,It stands full soft by the sides of Tyne."The fair grass was my bearing-bread,The well-water my washing-wine;The low leaves were my bearing-bed,And that was best in the sides of Tyne.""O daughter, if ye have done this thing,I wot the greater grief is mine;This was a bitter child-bearing,When ye were got by the sides of Tyne."About the time of sea-swallowsThat fly full thick by six and nine,Ye'll have my body out of the house,To bury me by the sides of Tyne."Set nine stones by the wall for twain,"(Red rose leaves will never make wine)"For the bed I take will measure ten."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."Tread twelve girl's paces out for three,"(Red rose leaves will never make wine)"For the pit I made has taken me."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.
This fell when Christmas lights were done,(Red rose leaves will never make wine)But before the Easter lights begun;The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.
Two lovers sat where the rowan blowsAnd all the grass is heavy and fine,By the gathering-place of the sea-swallowsWhen the wind brings them over Tyne.
Blossom of broom will never make bread,Red rose leaves will never make wine;Between her brows she is grown red,That was full white in the fields by Tyne.
"O what is this thing ye have on,Show me now, sweet daughter of mine?""O father, this is my little sonThat I found hid in the sides of Tyne.
"O what will ye give my son to eat,Red rose leaves will never make wine?""Fen-water and adder's meat."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.
"Or what will ye get my son to wear?"(Red rose leaves will never make wine.)"A weed and a web of nettle's hair."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.
"Or what will ye take to line his bed?"(Red rose leaves will never make wine.)"Two black stones at the kirkwall's head."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.
"Or what will ye give my son for land?"(Red rose leaves will never make wine.)"Three girl's paces of red sand."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.
"Or what will ye give me for my son?"(Red rose leaves will never make wine.)"Six times to kiss his young mouth on."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.
"But what have ye done with the bearing-bread,And what have ye made of the washing-wine?Or where have ye made your bearing-bed,To bear a son in the sides of Tyne?"
"The bearing-bread is soft and new,There is no soil in the straining wine;The bed was made between green and blue,It stands full soft by the sides of Tyne.
"The fair grass was my bearing-bread,The well-water my washing-wine;The low leaves were my bearing-bed,And that was best in the sides of Tyne."
"O daughter, if ye have done this thing,I wot the greater grief is mine;This was a bitter child-bearing,When ye were got by the sides of Tyne.
"About the time of sea-swallowsThat fly full thick by six and nine,Ye'll have my body out of the house,To bury me by the sides of Tyne.
"Set nine stones by the wall for twain,"(Red rose leaves will never make wine)"For the bed I take will measure ten."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.
"Tread twelve girl's paces out for three,"(Red rose leaves will never make wine)"For the pit I made has taken me."The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.
There were four loves that one by one,Following the seasons and the sun,Passed over without tears, and fellAway without farewell.The first was made of gold and tears,The next of aspen-leaves and fears,The third of rose-boughs and rose-roots,The last love of strange fruits.These were the four loves faded. HoldSome minutes fast the time of goldWhen our lips each way clung and cloveTo a face full of love.The tears inside our eyelids met,Wrung forth with kissing, and wept wetThe faces cleaving each to eachWhere the blood served for speech.The second, with low patient browsBound under aspen-coloured boughsAnd eyes made strong and grave with sleepAnd yet too weak to weep—The third, with eager mouth at easeFed from late autumn honey, leesOf scarce gold left in latter cellsWith scattered flower-smells—Hair sprinkled over with spoilt sweetOf ruined roses, wrists and feetSlight-swathed, as grassy-girdled sheavesHold in stray poppy-leaves—The fourth, with lips whereon has bledSome great pale fruit's slow colour, shedFrom the rank bitter husk whence dripsFaint blood between her lips—Made of the heat of whole great JunesBurning the blue dark round their moons(Each like a mown red marigold)So hard the flame keeps hold—These are burnt thoroughly away.Only the first holds out a dayBeyond these latter loves that wereMade of mere heat and air.And now the time is winterlyThe first love fades too: none will see,When April warms the world anew,The place wherein love grew.
There were four loves that one by one,Following the seasons and the sun,Passed over without tears, and fellAway without farewell.
The first was made of gold and tears,The next of aspen-leaves and fears,The third of rose-boughs and rose-roots,The last love of strange fruits.
These were the four loves faded. HoldSome minutes fast the time of goldWhen our lips each way clung and cloveTo a face full of love.
The tears inside our eyelids met,Wrung forth with kissing, and wept wetThe faces cleaving each to eachWhere the blood served for speech.
The second, with low patient browsBound under aspen-coloured boughsAnd eyes made strong and grave with sleepAnd yet too weak to weep—
The third, with eager mouth at easeFed from late autumn honey, leesOf scarce gold left in latter cellsWith scattered flower-smells—
Hair sprinkled over with spoilt sweetOf ruined roses, wrists and feetSlight-swathed, as grassy-girdled sheavesHold in stray poppy-leaves—
The fourth, with lips whereon has bledSome great pale fruit's slow colour, shedFrom the rank bitter husk whence dripsFaint blood between her lips—
Made of the heat of whole great JunesBurning the blue dark round their moons(Each like a mown red marigold)So hard the flame keeps hold—
These are burnt thoroughly away.Only the first holds out a dayBeyond these latter loves that wereMade of mere heat and air.
And now the time is winterlyThe first love fades too: none will see,When April warms the world anew,The place wherein love grew.
The sea gives her shells to the shingle,The earth gives her streams to the sea:They are many, but my gift is single,My verses, the firstfruits of me.Let the wind take the green and the grey leaf,Cast forth without fruit upon air;Take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay-leafBlown loose from the hair.The night shakes them round me in legions,Dawn drives them before her like dreams;Time sheds them like snows on strange regions,Swept shoreward on infinite streams;Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddy,Dead fruits of the fugitive years;Some stained as with wine and made bloody,And some as with tears.Some scattered in seven years' traces,As they fell from the boy that was then;Long left among idle green places,Or gathered but now among men;On seas full of wonder and peril,Blown white round the capes of the north;Or in islands where myrtles are sterileAnd loves bring not forth.O daughters of dreams and of storiesThat life is not wearied of yet,Faustine, Fragoletta, Dolores,Félise and Yolande and Juliette,Shall I find you not still, shall I miss you,When sleep, that is true or that seems,Comes back to me hopeless to kiss you,O daughters of dreams?They are past as a slumber that passes,As the dew of a dawn of old time;More frail than the shadows on glasses,More fleet than a wave or a rhyme.As the waves after ebb drawing seaward,When their hollows are full of the night,So the birds that flew singing to me-wardRecede out of sight.The songs of dead seasons, that wanderOn wings of articulate words;Lost leaves that the shore-wind may squander,Light flocks of untameable birds;Some sang to me dreaming in class-timeAnd truant in hand as in tongue;For the youngest were born of boy's pastime,The eldest are young.Is there shelter while life in them lingers,Is there hearing for songs that recede,Tunes touched from a harp with man's fingersOr blown with boy's mouth in a reed?Is there place in the land of your labour,Is there room in your world of delight,Where change has not sorrow for neighbourAnd day has not night?In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers,Will you spare not a space for them thereMade green with the running of riversAnd gracious with temperate air;In the fields and the turreted cities,That cover from sunshine and rainFair passions and bountiful pitiesAnd loves without stain?In a land of clear colours and stories,In a region of shadowless hours,Where earth has a garment of gloriesAnd a murmur of musical flowers;In woods where the spring half uncoversThe flush of her amorous face,By the waters that listen for lovers,For these is there place?For the song-birds of sorrow, that muffleTheir music as clouds do their fire:For the storm-birds of passion, that ruffleWild wings in a wind of desire;In the stream of the storm as it settlesBlown seaward, borne far from the sun,Shaken loose on the darkness like petalsDropt one after one?Though the world of your hands be more graciousAnd lovelier in lordship of thingsClothed round by sweet art with the spaciousWarm heaven of her imminent wings,Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting,For the love of old loves and lost times;And receive in your palace of paintingThis revel of rhymes.Though the seasons of man full of lossesMake empty the years full of youth,If but one thing be constant in crosses,Change lays not her hand upon truth;Hopes die, and their tombs are for tokenThat the grief as the joy of them endsEre time that breaks all men has brokenThe faith between friends.Though the many lights dwindle to one light,There is help if the heaven has one;Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlightAnd the earth dispossessed of the sun,They have moonlight and sleep for repayment,When, refreshed as a bride and set free,With stars and sea-winds in her raiment,Night sinks on the sea.
The sea gives her shells to the shingle,The earth gives her streams to the sea:They are many, but my gift is single,My verses, the firstfruits of me.Let the wind take the green and the grey leaf,Cast forth without fruit upon air;Take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay-leafBlown loose from the hair.
The night shakes them round me in legions,Dawn drives them before her like dreams;Time sheds them like snows on strange regions,Swept shoreward on infinite streams;Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddy,Dead fruits of the fugitive years;Some stained as with wine and made bloody,And some as with tears.
Some scattered in seven years' traces,As they fell from the boy that was then;Long left among idle green places,Or gathered but now among men;On seas full of wonder and peril,Blown white round the capes of the north;Or in islands where myrtles are sterileAnd loves bring not forth.
O daughters of dreams and of storiesThat life is not wearied of yet,Faustine, Fragoletta, Dolores,Félise and Yolande and Juliette,Shall I find you not still, shall I miss you,When sleep, that is true or that seems,Comes back to me hopeless to kiss you,O daughters of dreams?
They are past as a slumber that passes,As the dew of a dawn of old time;More frail than the shadows on glasses,More fleet than a wave or a rhyme.As the waves after ebb drawing seaward,When their hollows are full of the night,So the birds that flew singing to me-wardRecede out of sight.
The songs of dead seasons, that wanderOn wings of articulate words;Lost leaves that the shore-wind may squander,Light flocks of untameable birds;Some sang to me dreaming in class-timeAnd truant in hand as in tongue;For the youngest were born of boy's pastime,The eldest are young.
Is there shelter while life in them lingers,Is there hearing for songs that recede,Tunes touched from a harp with man's fingersOr blown with boy's mouth in a reed?Is there place in the land of your labour,Is there room in your world of delight,Where change has not sorrow for neighbourAnd day has not night?
In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers,Will you spare not a space for them thereMade green with the running of riversAnd gracious with temperate air;In the fields and the turreted cities,That cover from sunshine and rainFair passions and bountiful pitiesAnd loves without stain?
In a land of clear colours and stories,In a region of shadowless hours,Where earth has a garment of gloriesAnd a murmur of musical flowers;In woods where the spring half uncoversThe flush of her amorous face,By the waters that listen for lovers,For these is there place?
For the song-birds of sorrow, that muffleTheir music as clouds do their fire:For the storm-birds of passion, that ruffleWild wings in a wind of desire;In the stream of the storm as it settlesBlown seaward, borne far from the sun,Shaken loose on the darkness like petalsDropt one after one?
Though the world of your hands be more graciousAnd lovelier in lordship of thingsClothed round by sweet art with the spaciousWarm heaven of her imminent wings,Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting,For the love of old loves and lost times;And receive in your palace of paintingThis revel of rhymes.
Though the seasons of man full of lossesMake empty the years full of youth,If but one thing be constant in crosses,Change lays not her hand upon truth;Hopes die, and their tombs are for tokenThat the grief as the joy of them endsEre time that breaks all men has brokenThe faith between friends.
Though the many lights dwindle to one light,There is help if the heaven has one;Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlightAnd the earth dispossessed of the sun,They have moonlight and sleep for repayment,When, refreshed as a bride and set free,With stars and sea-winds in her raiment,Night sinks on the sea.
FOOTNOTES[1]Æsch. Fr. Niobe:—μόνος θεῶν γὰρ Θάνατος οὐ δώρων ἐρᾷ, κ.τ.λ.[2]ψυχάριον εἶ βαστάζον νεκρόν.Epictetus.[3]En ce temps-là estoyt dans ce pays grand nombre de ladres et de meseaulx, ce dont le roy eut grand desplaisir, veu que Dieu dust en estre moult griefvement courroucé. Ores il advint qu'une noble damoyselle appelée Yolande de Sallières estant atteincte et touste guastée de ce vilain mal, tous ses amys et ses parens ayant devant leurs yeux la paour de Dieu la firent issir fors de leurs maisons et oncques ne voulurent recepvoir ni reconforter chose mauldicte de Dieu et à tous les hommes puante et abhominable. Ceste dame avoyt esté moult belle et gracieuse de formes, et de son corps elle estoyt large et de vie lascive. Pourtant nul des amans qui l'avoyent souventesfois accollée et baisée moult tendrement ne voulust plus héberger si laide femme et si détestable pescheresse. Ung seul clerc qui feut premièrement son lacquays et son entremetteur en matière d'amour la reçut chez luy et la récéla dans une petite cabane. Là mourut la meschinette de grande misère et de male mort: et après elle décéda ledist clerc qui pour grand amour l'avoyt six mois durant soignée, lavée, habillée et deshabillée tous les jours de ses mains propres. Mesme dist-on que ce meschant homme et mauldict clerc se remémourant de la grande beauté passée et guastée de ceste femme se délectoyt maintesfois à la baiser sur sa bouche orde et lépreuse et l'accoller doulcement de ses mains amoureuses. Aussy est-il mort de ceste mesme maladie abhominable. Cecy advint près Fontainebellant en Gastinois. Et quand ouyt le roy Philippe ceste adventure moult en estoyt esmerveillé.Grandes Chroniques de France, 1505.[4]Nam te præcipuè in suis urbibus colit oraHellespontia, cæteris ostreosior oris.Catull.Carm.xviii.[5]Suggested by a drawing of Mr. D. G. Rossetti's.
[1]Æsch. Fr. Niobe:—μόνος θεῶν γὰρ Θάνατος οὐ δώρων ἐρᾷ, κ.τ.λ.
[1]Æsch. Fr. Niobe:—μόνος θεῶν γὰρ Θάνατος οὐ δώρων ἐρᾷ, κ.τ.λ.
[2]ψυχάριον εἶ βαστάζον νεκρόν.Epictetus.
[2]ψυχάριον εἶ βαστάζον νεκρόν.Epictetus.
[3]En ce temps-là estoyt dans ce pays grand nombre de ladres et de meseaulx, ce dont le roy eut grand desplaisir, veu que Dieu dust en estre moult griefvement courroucé. Ores il advint qu'une noble damoyselle appelée Yolande de Sallières estant atteincte et touste guastée de ce vilain mal, tous ses amys et ses parens ayant devant leurs yeux la paour de Dieu la firent issir fors de leurs maisons et oncques ne voulurent recepvoir ni reconforter chose mauldicte de Dieu et à tous les hommes puante et abhominable. Ceste dame avoyt esté moult belle et gracieuse de formes, et de son corps elle estoyt large et de vie lascive. Pourtant nul des amans qui l'avoyent souventesfois accollée et baisée moult tendrement ne voulust plus héberger si laide femme et si détestable pescheresse. Ung seul clerc qui feut premièrement son lacquays et son entremetteur en matière d'amour la reçut chez luy et la récéla dans une petite cabane. Là mourut la meschinette de grande misère et de male mort: et après elle décéda ledist clerc qui pour grand amour l'avoyt six mois durant soignée, lavée, habillée et deshabillée tous les jours de ses mains propres. Mesme dist-on que ce meschant homme et mauldict clerc se remémourant de la grande beauté passée et guastée de ceste femme se délectoyt maintesfois à la baiser sur sa bouche orde et lépreuse et l'accoller doulcement de ses mains amoureuses. Aussy est-il mort de ceste mesme maladie abhominable. Cecy advint près Fontainebellant en Gastinois. Et quand ouyt le roy Philippe ceste adventure moult en estoyt esmerveillé.Grandes Chroniques de France, 1505.
[3]En ce temps-là estoyt dans ce pays grand nombre de ladres et de meseaulx, ce dont le roy eut grand desplaisir, veu que Dieu dust en estre moult griefvement courroucé. Ores il advint qu'une noble damoyselle appelée Yolande de Sallières estant atteincte et touste guastée de ce vilain mal, tous ses amys et ses parens ayant devant leurs yeux la paour de Dieu la firent issir fors de leurs maisons et oncques ne voulurent recepvoir ni reconforter chose mauldicte de Dieu et à tous les hommes puante et abhominable. Ceste dame avoyt esté moult belle et gracieuse de formes, et de son corps elle estoyt large et de vie lascive. Pourtant nul des amans qui l'avoyent souventesfois accollée et baisée moult tendrement ne voulust plus héberger si laide femme et si détestable pescheresse. Ung seul clerc qui feut premièrement son lacquays et son entremetteur en matière d'amour la reçut chez luy et la récéla dans une petite cabane. Là mourut la meschinette de grande misère et de male mort: et après elle décéda ledist clerc qui pour grand amour l'avoyt six mois durant soignée, lavée, habillée et deshabillée tous les jours de ses mains propres. Mesme dist-on que ce meschant homme et mauldict clerc se remémourant de la grande beauté passée et guastée de ceste femme se délectoyt maintesfois à la baiser sur sa bouche orde et lépreuse et l'accoller doulcement de ses mains amoureuses. Aussy est-il mort de ceste mesme maladie abhominable. Cecy advint près Fontainebellant en Gastinois. Et quand ouyt le roy Philippe ceste adventure moult en estoyt esmerveillé.
Grandes Chroniques de France, 1505.
[4]Nam te præcipuè in suis urbibus colit oraHellespontia, cæteris ostreosior oris.Catull.Carm.xviii.
[4]Nam te præcipuè in suis urbibus colit oraHellespontia, cæteris ostreosior oris.Catull.Carm.xviii.
[5]Suggested by a drawing of Mr. D. G. Rossetti's.
[5]Suggested by a drawing of Mr. D. G. Rossetti's.