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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.  The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes.  1917.
 
Mynstrelles Songe
By Thomas Chatterton (1752–1770)
 
O! SYNGE untoe mie roundelaie,
  O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
  Lycke a reynynge ryver bee;
      Mie love ys dedde,        5
      Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
      Al under the wyllowe tree.
 
Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
  Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,        10
  Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe;
      Mie love ys dedde,
      Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
      Al under the wyllowe tree.
 
Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note,        15
  Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee,
Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote,
  O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree;
      Mie love ys dedde,
      Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,        20
      Alle underre the wyllowe tree.
 
Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
  In the briered delle belowe;
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
  To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;        25
      Mie love ys dedde,
      Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
      Al under the wyllowe tree.
 
See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
  Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;        30
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
  Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;
      Mie love ys dedde,
      Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
      Al under the wyllowe tree.        35
 
Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
  Schalle the baren fleurs be layde;
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
  Al the celness of a mayde.
      Mie love ys dedde,        40
      Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
      Alle under the wyllowe tree.
 
Wythe mie hondes I’ll dente the brieres
  Rounde his hallie corse to gre;
Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres;        45
  Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee.
      Mie love ys dedde,
      Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
      Al under the wyllowe tree.
 
Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,        50
  Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne,
  Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.
      Mie love ys dedde,
      Gon to hys deathe-bedde,        55
      Al under the wyllowe tree.
 
Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,
  Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.
I die! I come! mie true love waytes.
  Thus the damselle spake, and died.        60
 
 
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