THOMAS CHATTERTON

Hark ! the raven flaps his wing In the brier' d dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares, as they go:

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

See ! the white moon shines on high j Whiter is my true-love's shroud : Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud :

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true-love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid:

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll dent the briers Round his holy corse to gre : Ouph and fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be:

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

dent] fasten. gre] grow. ouph] elf.

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