'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.'
LOST 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.
BALLADS OF MODERN GREECE.
THE BRIGAND'S GRAVE.
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 bough 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.
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