I
am
weary
of
lying
within
the
chase
When
the
knights
are
meeting
in
market-place.
Nay,
go
not
thou
to
the
red-roofed
town
Lest
the
hoofs
of
the
war-horse
tread
thee
down.
But
I
would
not
go
where
the
Squires
ride,
I
would
only
walk
by
my
Lady's
side.
Alack!
and
alack!
thou
art
overbold,
A
Forester's
son
may
not
eat
off
gold.
Will
she
love
me
the
less
that
my
Father
is
seen
Each
Martinmas
day
in
a
doublet
green?
Perchance
she
is
sewing
at
tapestrie,
Spindle
and
loom
are
not
meet
for
thee.
Ah,
if
she
is
working
the
arras
bright
I
might
ravel
the
threads
by
the
fire-light.
Perchance
she
is
hunting
of
the
deer,
How
could
you
follow
o'er
hill
and
mere?
Ah,
if
she
is
riding
with
the
court,
I
might
run
beside
her
and
wind
the
morte.
Perchance
she
is
kneeling
in
St.
Denys,
(On
her
soul
may
our
Lady
have
gramercy!)
Ah,
if
she
is
praying
in
lone
chapelle,
I
might
swing
the
censer
and
ring
the
bell.
Come
in,
my
son,
for
you
look
sae
pale,
The
father
shall
fill
thee
a
stoup
of
ale.
But
who
are
these
knights
in
bright
array?
Is
it
a
pageant
the
rich
folks
play?
'T
is
the
King
of
England
from
over
sea,
Who
has
come
unto
visit
our
fair
countrie.
But
why
does
the
curfew
toll
sae
low?
And
why
do
the
mourners
walk
a-row?
O
't
is
Hugh
of
Amiens
my
sister's
son
Who
is
lying
stark,
for
his
day
is
done.
Nay,
nay,
for
I
see
white
lilies
clear,
It
is
no
strong
man
who
lies
on
the
bier.
O
't
is
old
Dame
Jeannette
that
kept
the
hall,
I
knew
she
would
die
at
the
autumn
fall.
Dame
Jeannette
had
not
that
gold-brown
hair,
Old
Jeannette
was
not
a
maiden
fair.
O
't
is
none
of
our
kith
and
none
of
our
kin,
(Her
soul
may
our
Lady
assoil
from
sin!)
But
I
hear
the
boy's
voice
chaunting
sweet,
'Elle
est
morte,
la
Marguerite.'
Come
in,
my
son,
and
lie
on
the
bed,
And
let
the
dead
folk
bury
their
dead.
O
mother,
you
know
I
loved
her
true:
O
mother,
hath
one
grave
room
for
two?
