Let the bird sing, let the buck sport,
Let the sun sink to his setting;
Not one star that stands in darkness
Shines upon her absent lover.
But his stone lies 'neath the dark tree,
Cold to bosom, deaf to weeping;
And 'tis gathering moss she touches,
Where the locks lay of her lover.
"A dolesome thing," he said; "but my mother was wont to sing it to the
virginals. 'Cold to bosom,'" he reiterated with a plangent cadence; "I
remember them all, sir; from the cradle I had a gift for music." And
then, with an ample flirt of his bow, he broke, all beams and smiles,
into this ingenuous ditty:
The goodman said,
"'Tis time for bed,
Come, mistress, get us quick to pray;
Call in the maids
From out the glades
Where they with lovers stray,
With love, and love do stray."
"Nay, master mine,
The night is fine,
And time's enough all dark to pray;
'Tis April buds
Bedeck the woods
Where simple maids away
With love, and love do stray.
"Now we are old,
And nigh the mould,
'Tis meet on feeble knees to pray;
When once we'd roam,
'Twas else cried, 'Come,
And sigh the dusk away,
With love, and love to stray.
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