Under The Willow Tree

Here upon my true love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the celness of a maid

Black his hair as winter's night
White he rode as summer snow
Red his face as morning light;
Cold he lies below

My love is dead
Gone to his death-bed
Under the willow-tree

Come, with acorn-cup and thorne
Drain my hartys blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn
Dance by night, or feast by day

Water-witches, crowned with reytes
Bear me to your lethal tide
I die! I come! My true love waits;-
Thus the damsel spake and died

My love is dead
Gone to his death-bed
Under the willow-tree