Thou hast heart’s delight, I have sad heart’s sorrow For a false false maid That will wed to-morrow. ’Tis all for a rose, That I gave her not, And I would that it grew In the garden plot. And I would the rose-tree Were still to set, That my love Marie Might love me yet. BALLADS OF MODERN GREECE. THE BRIGAND’S GRAVE. THE moon came up above the hill, The sun went down the sea; Go, maids, and fetch the well-water, But, lad, come here to me. Gird on my jack and my old sword, For I have never a son; And you must be the chief of all When I am dead and gone. But you must take my old broad sword, And cut the green bough of the tree, And strew the green boughs on the ground To make a soft death bed for me. And you must bring the holy priest That I may sained be; For I have lived a roving life Fifty years under the greenwood tree. And you shall make a grave for me, And make it deep and wide; That I may turn about and dream With my old gun by my side. And leave a window to the east, And the swallows will bring the spring; And all the merry month of May The nightingales will sing. THE SUDDEN BRIDAL. IT was a maid lay sick of love, All for a leman fair; And it was three of her bower-maidens That came to comfort her. The first she bore a blossomed branch, The second an apple brown, The third she had a silk kerchief, And still her tears ran down. The first she mocked, the second she laughed— ‘We have loved lemans fair, We made our hearts like the iron stone Had little teen or care.’ ‘If ye have loved ’twas a false false love, And an ill leman was he; But her true love had angel’s eyes, And as fair was his sweet body. And I will gird my green kirtle, And braid my yellow hair, And I will over the high hills And bring her love to her.’ ‘Nay, if you braid your yellow hair, You’ll twine my love from me.’ ‘Now nay, now nay, my lady good, That ever this should be!’ ‘When you have crossed the western hills My true love you shall meet, With a green flag blowing over him, And green grass at his feet.’ She has crossed over the high hills, And the low hills between, And she has found the may’s leman Beneath a flag of green. ’Twas four and twenty ladies fair Were sitting on the grass; But he has turned and looked on her, And will not let her pass. ‘You’ve maidens here, and maidens there, And loves through all the land; But what have you made of the lady fair You gave the rose-garland?’ She was so harsh and cold of love, To me gave little grace; She wept if I but touched her hand, Or kissed her bonny face.