Part 9

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Seven long years are past and gone And there has seen her never one.

At ending of the seventh year Her father goes to visit her.

‘My child, my child, how may you be?’ ‘O father, it fares ill with me.

‘My feet are wasted in the mould, The worms they gnaw my side so cold.’

‘My child, change your love speedily Or you must still in prison lie.’

‘’Tis better far the cold to dree Than give my true love up for thee.’

THE MILK WHITE DOE.

IT was a mother and a maid That walked the woods among, And still the maid went slow and sad, And still the mother sung.

‘What ails you, daughter Margaret? Why go you pale and wan? Is it for a cast of bitter love, Or for a false leman?’

‘It is not for a false lover That I go sad to see; But it is for a weary life Beneath the greenwood tree.

‘For ever in the good daylight A maiden may I go, But always on the ninth midnight I change to a milk white doe.

‘They hunt me through the green forest With hounds and hunting men; And ever it is my fair brother That is so fierce and keen.’

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‘Good-morrow, mother.’ ‘Good-morrow, son; Where are your hounds so good?’ Oh, they are hunting a white doe Within the glad greenwood.

‘And three times have they hunted her, And thrice she’s won away; The fourth time that they follow her That white doe they shall slay.’

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Then out and spoke the forester, As he came from the wood, ‘Now never saw I maid’s gold hair Among the wild deer’s blood.

‘And I have hunted the wild deer In east lands and in west; And never saw I white doe yet That had a maiden’s breast.’

Then up and spake her fair brother, Between the wine and bread, ‘Behold, I had but one sister, And I have been her dead.’

‘But ye must bury my sweet sister With a stone at her foot and her head, And ye must cover her fair body With the white roses and red.’

And I must out to the greenwood, The roof shall never shelter me; And I shall lie for seven long years On the grass below the hawthorn tree.

A LADY OF HIGH DEGREE.

I be pareld most of prise, I ride after the wild fee.

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WILL ye that I should sing Of the love of a goodly thing, Was no vilein’s may? ’Tis sung of a knight so free, Under the olive tree, Singing this lay.

Her weed was of samite fine, Her mantle of white ermine, Green silk her hose; Her shoon with silver gay, Her sandals flowers of May, Laced small and close.

Her belt was of fresh spring buds, Set with gold clasps and studs, Fine linen her shift; Her purse it was of love, Her chain was the flower thereof, And Love’s gift.