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Onne Rudborne bank twa pynynge maydens sate,

Their tears faste dryppeynge to the waterre cleere;
Ecchone bementynge for her absente mate,
Who at Seyncte Albonns shouke the morthynge speare.
The nottebrowne Elinoure to Juga fayre

Dydde speke acroole, wythe languishment of eyne. Lyche droppes of pearlie dew, lemed the quyvryng brine.


O gentle Juga! heare mie dernie plainte,
To fyghte for Yorke mie love ys dyghte in stele;
O mai ne sanguen steine the whyte rose payncte,

Mai good Seyncte Cuthberte watche Syrre Roberte wele. Moke moe thanne deathe in phantasie I feele;

See! see! upon the ground he bleedynge lies Inhild some joice of lyffe, or else mie deare love dies.


Systers in sorrowe, on thys daise-ey'd banke,
Where melancholych broods, we wylle lamente;
Be wette wythe mornynge dewe and evene danke:
Lyche levynde okes in eche the odher bente,
Or lyche forlettenn halles of merrimente,

Whose gastlie mitches holde the train of fryghte,
Where lethale ravens bark, and owlets wake the nyghte.


No moe the myskynette shall wake the morne,
The minstrelle daunce, good cheere, and morryce plaie ;
No more the amblynge palfrie and the horne
Shall from the lessel rouze the foxe awaie;
I'll seeke the foreste all the lyve-longe daie;

All nete amonge the gravde chyrche glebe wyll goe,
And to the passante Spryghtes lecture mie tale of woe.


Whan mokie cloudis do hange upon the leme
Of leden moon, ynn sylver mantels dyghte;
The tryppeygne faeries weve the golden dreme
Of selyness, whyche flyethe wythe the nyghte;
Then (botte the scynctes forbydde !) gif to a spryte

Syrr Rychardes forme ys lyped, I'll hold dystraughte
Hys bledeynge claie colde corse, and die eche daie ynn



Ah woe bementynge wordes; what wordes can shewe!
Thou limed ryver, on thie linche maie bleede
Champyons, whose bloude wylle wythe thie waterres flowe,
And Rudborne streeme be Rudborne streeme indeede!
Haste, gentle Juga, tryppe ytte oere the meade,

To knowe, or wheder we muste waile agayne,
Or wythe oure fallen knyghtes be menged onne the plain.

Soe sayinge, lyke twa levyn-blasted trees,
Or twayne of cloudes that holdeth stormie rayne;
Theie moved gentle oere the dewie mees,

There dyd theye fynde that bothe their knyghtes were

slayne, Distraughte theie wandered to swollen Rudbornes syde, Yelled theyre leathalle knelle, sonke ynn the waves, and dyde.



0! synge untoe inie roundelaie,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a reynynge ryver bee;

Mie love deade,
Gon to hys death-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,
Cald he lyes ynne the grave belowe;
Mie love


Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynn daunce as thought canne bee,
Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote,
0! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree :

Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under 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;

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;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,

ys dedde,

Mie love
Gon to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
Heere uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee on hallie seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gone to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
Wythe mie hondes I'll dente the brieres
Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie bodie still schalle be.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all ytts goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.
Waterre wythes, crownede wythe reytes
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.
I die; I comme ; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.


CURSE onne mie tardie woundes ! brynge mee a stede !
I wylle awaie to Birtha bie thys nyghte;
Albeytte fro mie woundes mie soul doe blede,
I wylle awaie, and die wythynne her syghte.
Brynge mee a stede, wythe eagle wynges for flyghte,

The Danes have wrought mee myckle woe ynne fyghte, Inne kepeynge mee from Birtha's armes so longe.

0! whatte a dome was myne, sythe masterie Canne yeve ne pleasaunce, nor mie londes goode leme myne

eie !
Yee goddes, howe ys a loverres temper formed !
Some tymes the samme thynge wyll both bane and blesse?
On tyme encalede, yanne bie the same thynge warmed,
Estroughted foorthe, and yanne ybroghten less.
'Tys Birtha's loss whyche doe mie thoughts possesse ;
I wylle, I must awaie : whie staies mie stede?
Mie huscarles, hyther haste; prepare a dresse,
Whyche couracyrs yn hastie journies nede.

O heavens! I most awaie to Byrtha's eyne,
For yn her looks I fynde mie beynge doe entwyne.


Whan freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned veste,

To everie knyghte her warre-songe sunge, Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spredde, A gorie anlace bye her honge.

She daunced onne the heathe;

She hearde the voice of deathe;
Pale-eyned affryghte, hys harte of sylver hue,
In vayne assayled her bosomme to acale ;
She hearde onflemed the shriekynge voice of woe,
And sadnesse ynne the owlette shake the dale.

She shooke the burled speere,
On hie she jeste her sheelde,
Her foemen all appere,

And flizze alonge the feelde.
Power, wythe his heafod straught ynto the skyes,
Hys speere a sonne-beame, and his sheelde a starre.
Alyche twaie brendeynge gronfyres rolls hys eyes,
Chaftes with hys yronne feete and soundes to war.

She syttes upon a rocke,
She bendes before hys speere,
She ryses from the shocke,

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