Now she has kilted her robes of green A piece below her knee; And all the live-long winter night 'Is there any room at your head, Willy, 'There's no room at my head, Margaret, There's no room at my feet; There's no room at my side, Margaret, My coffin's made so meet.' Then up and crew the red red cock, "Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margaret, That you were going away.' CXIII Old Ballad THE FOUNTAIN Into the sunshine, Full of the light, Leaping and flashing Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow. When the winds blow! Into the starlight, Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary; Glad of all weathers, Full of a nature Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content, Darkness or sunshine Glorious fountain! Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant, J. R. Lowell CXIV FAIR ROSAMUND When as King Henry ruled this land Her crisped locks like threads of gold The blood within her crystal cheeks As though the lily and the rose Yea Rosamund, fair Rosamund, Her name was called so, ༣ To whom our queen, queen Ellinor The king therefore, for her defence Most curiously that bower was built, Of stone and timber strong, An hundred and fifty doors Did to this bower belong. And they so cunningly contrived, That none, but with a clue of thread, And for his love and lady's sake, But fortune, that doth often frown For why? the king's ungracious son, Whom he did high advance, Against his father raised wars, Within the realm of France. But yet before our comely king 'My Rosamund, my only rose, That pleaseth best mine eye : The fairest flower in all the world 'The flower of mine affected heart, Whose sweetness doth excel All roses else a thousand times, When Rosamund, that lady bright, The sorrow of her grieved heart And from her clear and crystal eyes 'Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose? The king did often say. 'Because,' quoth she, ‘to bloody wars My lord must part away. But since your Grace on foreign coasts, Among your foes unkind, Must go to hazard life and limb, 'Nay, rather let me, like a page, That on my breast the blows may light, 'So I your presence may enjoy But wanting you, my life is death; 'Content thyself, my dearest love, In England's sweet and pleasant isle ; |