‘THE dance is on the Bridge of Death And who will dance with me?’ ‘There’s never a man of living men Will dare to dance with thee.’ Now Margaret’s gone within her bower Put ashes in her hair, And sackcloth on her bonny breast, And on her shoulders bare. There came a knock to her bower door, And blithe she let him in; It was her brother from the wars, The dearest of her kin. ‘Set gold within your hair, Margaret, Set gold within your hair, And gold upon your girdle band, And on your breast so fair. ‘For we are bidden to dance to-night, We may not bide away; This one good night, this one fair night, Before the red new day.’ ‘Nay, no gold for my head brother, Nay, no gold for my hair; It is the ashes and dust of earth That you and I must wear. ‘No gold work for my girdle band, No gold work on my feet; But ashes of the fire, my love, But dust that the serpents eat.’ * * * * * * They danced across the bridge of Death, Above the black water, And the marriage-bell was tolled in hell For the souls of him and her. LE PÈRE SÉVÈRE. KING LOUIS’ DAUGHTER. BALLAD OF THE ISLE OF FRANCE. KING LOUIS on his bridge is he, He holds his daughter on his knee. She asks a husband at his hand That is not worth a rood of land. ‘Give up your lover speedily, Or you within the tower must lie.’ ‘Although I must the prison dree, I will not change my love for thee. ‘I will not change my lover fair Not for the mother that me bare. ‘I will not change my true lover For friends, or for my father dear.’ ‘Now where are all my pages keen, And where are all my serving men? ‘My daughter must lie in the tower alway, Where she shall never see the day.’ * * * * * * 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.