The Brigand’s Grave
MODERN GREEK
THE moon came up above the hill,The sun went down the sea,‘Go, maids, and draw 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 allWhen I am dead and gone.
But you must take my old broadsword,And cut the green boughs 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 sainèd be,For I have lived a roving lifeFifty years under the greenwood tree.
And you shall make a grave for me,And dig it deep and wide,That I may turn about and dreamWith my old gun by my side.
And leave a window to the eastAnd the swallows will bring the spring,And all the merry month of MayThe nightingales will sing.’