There is no mercye, sure, above!
All, all were spar'd but hee!'

Knell downe, thy paternoster saye, "Twill calm thy troubled spright; The Lord is wyse, the Lord is good: What hee hath done is right.'

'O mother, mother! say not so; Most cruel is my fate:

I prayde, and prayde; but watt avayl'd! 'Tis now, alas! too late.'

Our Heavenly Father, if we praye,
Will help a suff'ring childe;

Go take the holy sacrament:

So shall thy grief grow milde.'

'O mother, what I feel within,
No sacrament can staye;
No sacrament can teche the dead
To bear the sight of daye.'

May be, among the heathen folk Thy William false doth prove, And puts away his faith and troth, And takes another love.

Then wherefore sorrow for his loss?

Thy moans are all in vain :
And when his soul and body parte,
His falsehode brings him paine.'

'O mother, mother! gone is gone:
My hope is all forlorne;

The grave mie only safeguard is-
O, had I ne'er been borne !

'Go out, go out, my lampe of life:
In grislie darkness die ;
There is no mercye, sure, above!
For ever let me die.'

'Almighty God! O do not judge
My poor unhappy childe;

She knows not what her lips pronounce,
Her anguish makes her wilde.

'My girl, forget thine earthly woe,
And think on God and bliss ;
For so, at least, shall not thy soule
Its heavenly bridegroom miss.'

'O mother, mother! what is blisse,
And what the fiendis celle ?
With him 'tis heaven any where,
Without my William, helle.

'Go out, go out, my lampe of life
In endless darkness die :
Without him I must loathe the earth,
Without him scorn the skye.'

And so despaire did rave and rage
Athwarte her boiling veins;
Against the Providence of Heaven
She hurlde her impious strains...

She bet her breaste, and wrung
And rollde her tearlesse eye,

her hands,

From rise of morne, till the pale stars

Again did freeke the skye.

When, harke! abroade she hearde the trampe

Of nimble-hoofed steed;

She hearde a knighte with clank alighte,

And climb the stair in speede.

And soon she herde a tinkling hande,
That twirled at the pin;

And thro' her door, that open'd not,

These words were breathed in..

'What ho! what ho! thy dore undoe;
Art watching or asleepe?

My love, dost yet remember mee,
And dost thou laugh or weep?'

Ah! William, here so late at night!
Oh! I have watchte and wak'd:
Whence dost thou come? For thy return
My herte has sorely ak'd.'

'At midnight only we may ride ;

I come o'er land and sea :

I mounted late, but soon I go;
Aryse, and come with mee.'

'O William, enter first my bowre, And give me one embrace:

The blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss;

Awayte a little space.'

The blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss,
I may not harboure here;

My spurre

is sharpe, my courser pawes,

My houre of flighte is nere.

'All as thou lyest upon thy couch,

Aryse, and mount behinde;

To-night we'le ride a thousand miles,

The bridal bed to finde.'

'How! ride to-night a thousand miles?

Thy love thou dost bemocke:

Eleven is the stroke that still

Rings on within the clocke.'

'Looke up; the moone is bright, and we Outstride the earthlie men :

I'll take thee to the bridal bed,
And night shall end but then.'

'And where is, then, thy house and home? And where thy bridal bed?',

'Tis narrow, silent, chilly, dark;

Far hence I rest my head.'

'And is there any room for mee, Wherein that I mày creepe ?

'There's room enough for thee and mee, Wherein that wee may sleepe.

'All as thou ly'st upon thy couch,
Aryse, no longer stop;

The wedding guests thy coming waite,
The chamber door is ope.'

All in her sarke, as there she lay,

Upon his horse she sprung;

And with her lily hands so pale
About her William clung.

And hurry-skurry forth they go,
Unheeding wet or dry;

And horse and rider snort and blow,
And sparkling pebbles fly.

How swift the flood, the mead, the wood,

Aright, aleft, are gone!

The bridges thunder as they pass,

But earthlie swoone is none.

Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;

Splash, splash, across the see:

Hurrah! the dead can ride apace :

Dost feare to ride with mee?

'The moone is bryghte, and blue the nyghte; Dost quake the blast to stem?

Dost shudder, mayde, to seek the dead?' 'No, no, but what of them?'

How glumlie sownes yon dirgye song!
Night-ravens flappe the wing.

What knell doth slowlie toll ding-dong?
The psalmes of death who sing?

'It creeps, the swarthie funeral traine,
The corse is onn the beere ;

Like croke of todes from lonely moors,
The chaunte doth meet the eere.

Go, bear her corse, when midnight's past,
With song, and tear and wayle;