 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
15
The Brigand's Grave
A Ballad of Modern Greece
The moon came up above the hill,
The sun went down the sea;
Go, maids, and fetch the well-water,
But lad! come here to me.
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 all,
When I am dead and gone.
For I have never a son;
And you must be the chief of all,
When I am dead and gone.
But you must take my old broad sword,
And cut the green boughs of the tree,
And strew the green boughs on the ground
To make a soft death-bed for me.
And cut the green boughs of the tree,
And strew the green boughs on the ground
To make a soft death-bed for me.
And you must bring the holy priest
That I may sained be;
For I have lived a roving life
Fifty years under the greenwood tree.
That I may sained be;
For I have lived a roving life
Fifty years under the greenwood tree.
16
And you shall make a grave for me,
And dig it deep and wide;
That I may turn about and dream
With my old gun by my side.
And dig it deep and wide;
That I may turn about and dream
With 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 May
The nightingales will sing.
And the swallows will bring the spring;
And all the merry month of May
The nightingales will sing.
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |