The other on Saint Paul's good gate, A dreary spectacle; His head was placed on the high cross, In high street most noble. Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate: God prosper long our king, And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, In heaven God s mercy sing! MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA OH, sing unto my roundelay; Oh, drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday, Like a running river be; My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought was he; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; Oh! he lies by the willow-tree. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Hark! the raven flaps his wing, In the briered 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; 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 garish flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the sorrows of a maid. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. With my hands I'll bind the briers, Round his holy corse to gre; Elfin-fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Come with acorn cup and thorn, Drain my heart's blood all away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day, My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Water-witches, crowned with reytes, Bear me to your deadly tide. I die--I come--my true-love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died. _WILLIAM BLAKE_ THE PIPER PIPING down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he, laughing, said to me, 'Pipe a song about a lamb,' So I piped with merry cheer; Piper, pipe that song again,' So I piped: he wept to hear. Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, Sing thy songs of happy cheer.' So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. 'Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read.' So he vanish'd from my sight: And I plu ck'd a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. THE TIGER TIGER, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the ardour of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire-- What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?