THOMAS CHATTERTON
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabor, cudgel stout, O he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Hark' the raven flaps his wing In the brier'd dell below; Hark' the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares, as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
See' the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud. Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Here upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
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