148 
THE WEEPING WILLOW. 
Hark ! the raven flaps his wynge, 
In the briered delle below! 
Hark ! the deathe-owl loud dotlie sing 
To the night-mares, as they go. 
See, the whyte moon sheenes on high ! 
Whyter is my true love’s shrowde, 
Why ter than the morning skie, 
Whyter than the evening cloud. 
Here upon my true love’s graVe, 
Shall the baren fleurs he layde ; 
Ne one bailie savnte to save 
All the coldness of a mayde. 
With my hondes I’ll dente the briers, 
Hound his hallie corse to gre •* 
Ouphantef fairies, light your fires ! 
Here my body still shall he. 
Come, with acorne-cup and thorne, 
Draine my harty’s hlodde awaie! 
Lyfe, and all its goodes I scorne, 
Daunce by night, or feast by day. 
* Grow. 
f Elfin. 
