The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang :: :: University of Virginia Library

All beneath the white-rose tree
Walks a lady fair to see,
She is as white as the snows,
She is as fair as the day:
From her father's garden close
Three 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 them
As they were lighting down.

‘And are ye here by force,’ she said,
‘Or are ye here for play?’
‘From out my father's garden close
Three 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 me
Will make you lie for dead.’

‘Come in and sup, fair lady,’ they said,
‘Come busk ye and be bright;
It is with three bold captains
That ye must be this night.’

When they had eaten well and drunk,
She fell down like one slain:
‘Now, out and alas! for my bonnie may
Shall live no more again.’

‘Within her father's garden stead
There 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 again
To my mother and to thee.’

The Bridge of Death

‘The dance is on the Bridge of Death
And who will dance with me?’
‘There's never a man of living men
Will dare to dance with thee.’

Now Margaret's gone within her bower
Put ashes in her hair,
And sackcloth on her bonnie 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 earth
That 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 hell
For the souls of him and her.

Le Père Sévère

King Louis' Daughter ballad of the isle of france

King louis on his bridge is he,
He holds his daughter on his knee.

She asks a husband at his hand
That 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 fair
Not for the mother that me bare.

‘I will not change my true lover
For 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 gone
And there has seen her never one.

At ending of the seventh year
Her 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 speedily
Or you must still in prison lie.’

‘'Tis better far the cold to dree
Than give my true love up for thee.’

A Lady of High Degree

I be pareld most of prise,
I ride after the wild fee.

Will ye that I should sing
Of 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 were
That 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 were
Given unto me, being fair,
My lady and love to be.’

For a Rose's Sake

I laved my hands
By the water side;
With the willow leaves
My hands I dried.

The nightingale sung
On the bough of the tree;
Sing, sweet nightingale,
It is well with thee.

Thou hast heart's delight,
I have sad heart's sorrow
For a false, false maid
That will wed to-morrow.

'Tis all for a rose,
That I gave her not,
And I would that it grew
In the garden plot.

And I would the rose-tree
Were still to set,
That my love Marie
Might love me yet.

The Fragment of the Fause Lover and the Dead Leman

Owillie rade, and Willie gaed
Atween the shore and sea,
And still it was his dead lady
That kept him company.

O Willie rade, and Willie gaed
Atween the loch and heather,
And still it was his dead lady
That held his stirrup leather.

‘O Willie, tak' me up by ye,
Sae far it is I gang;
O tak' me on your saddle bow,
Or your day shall not be lang.’

‘Gae back, gae back, ye fause ill wife,
To the grave wherein ye lie,
It never was seen that a dead leman
Kept lover's company

‘Gae back, gae back frae me,’ he said,
‘For this day maun I wed,
And how can I kiss a living lass,
When ye come frae the dead?

‘If ye maun haunt a living man,
Your brither haunt,’ says he,
‘For it was never my knife, but his
That twined thy life and thee!’

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.

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.

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 you must bring the holy priest
That I may sained be;
For I have lived a roving life
Fifty years under the greenwood tree.

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 leave a window to the east,
And the swallows will bring the spring;
And all the merry month of May
The nightingales will sing.

The Sudden Bridal

It was a maid lay sick of love,
All for a leman fair;
And it was three of her bower-maidens
That 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 stone,
Had 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 hills
And 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 hills
My 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 leman
Beneath a flag of green.

'Twas four and twenty ladies fair
Were 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 fair
You 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 bonnie face.

‘Yea, crows shall build in the eagle's nest,
The hawk the dove shall wed,
Before my old true love and I
Meet in one wedding bed.’

When she had heard his bitter rede
That 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 street
With a goodly company.

He was clad on with Venice gold,
Wrought upon cramoisie,
His yellow hair shone like the sun
About his fair body.

‘Now shall I call him blossomed branch
That 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 chamber
Where 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 love
And 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 love
Shall be my true love still.’

Iannoula

All the maidens were merry and wed
All to lovers so fair to see;
The lover I took to my bridal bed
He is not long for love and me.

I spoke to him and he nothing 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.’

The Milk-White Doe

It was a mother and a maid
That 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 lover
That I go sad to see;
But it is for a weary life
Beneath the greenwood tree.

‘For ever in the good daylight
A maiden may I go,
But always on the ninth midnight
I change to a milk-white doe.

‘They hunt me through the green forest
With hounds and hunting men;
And ever it is my fair brother
That is so fierce and keen.’

‘Good-morrow, mother.’ ‘Good-morrow, son;
Where are your hounds so good?’
‘Oh, they are hunting a white doe
Within the glad greenwood.

‘And three times have they hunted her,
And thrice she's won away;
The fourth time that they follow her
That white doe they shall slay.’

Then out and spoke the forester,
As he came from the wood,
‘Now never saw I maid's gold hair
Among the wild deer's blood.

‘And I have hunted the wild deer
In east lands and in west;
And never saw I white doe yet
That 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 sister
With a stone at her foot and her head,
And ye must cover her fair body
With 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 years
On the grass below the hawthorn tree.’

FOLK SONGS

French Peasant Songs

I

O fair apple-tree, and O fair apple-tree!
As heavy and sweet as the blossoms on thee,
My heart is heavy with love.
It wanteth but a little wind
To make the blossoms fall;
It wanteth but a young lover
To win me heart and all.

II

I send my love letters
By larks on the wing;
My love sends me letters
When nightingales sing.

Without reading or writing,
Their burden we know:
They only say, ‘Love me,
Who love you so.’

III

And if they ask for me, brother,
Say I come never home,
For I have taken a strange wife
Beyond the salt sea foam.

The green grass is my bridal bed,
The black tomb my good mother,
The stones and dust within the grave
Are my sister and my brother.

The Tell-Tales

All in 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 discovers
To the sea what the green sea has told to the oars,
And the oars to the sailors, and they of us lovers
Go singing this song at their mistress's doors.