43. The Mad Maid’s Song
Good morrow to the day so fair;Good morning, sir, to you;Good morrow to mine own torn hair,Bedabbled with the dew.
Good morning to this primrose too;Good morrow to each maid;That will with flowers the tomb bestrewWherein my Love is laid.
Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,Alack and well-a-day!For pity, sir, find out that bee,Which bore my Love away.
I’ll seek him in your bonnet brave;I’ll seek him in your eyes;Nay, now I think they’ve made his graveI’ th’ bed of strawberries.
I’ll seek him there; I know, ere this,The cold, cold earth doth shake him;But I will go, or send a kissBy you, sir, to awake him.
Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,He knows well who do love him;And who with green turfs rear his head,And who do rudely move him.
He’s soft and tender, pray take heed,With bands of cowslips bind him,And bring him home;—but ’tis decreedThat I shall never find him.