[17] 'Carm. Bur.,' page 185: "Waer diu werlt alliu min." The tone is not directly communal, but it smacks more of the village dance than of the troubadour's harp; for even Bernart of Ventadour did not dare to address Eleanor save in the conventional tone of despair. The clerks and gleemen, however, and even English peasants of modern times,[18] took another view of the matter. The "clerk," that delightful vagabond who made so nice a balance between church and tavern, between breviary and love songs, has probably done more for the preservation of folk-song than all other agents known to us. In the above verses he protests a trifle or so too much about himself; let us hear him again as mere reporter for the communal lyric, in verses that he may have brought from the dance to turn into his inevitable Latin:-- Come, my darling, come to me, I am waiting long for thee,-- I am waiting long for thee, Come, my darling, come to me! Rose-red mouth, so sweet and fain, Come and make me well again;-- Come and make me well again, Rose-red mouth, so sweet and fain.[19] [18] See Child's Ballads, vi. 257, and Grandfer Cantle's ballad in Mr. Hardy's 'Return of the Native.' See next page. [19] 'Carm. Bur.,' page 208: "Kume, Kume, geselle min." More graceful yet are the anonymous verses quoted in certain Latin love-letters of a manuscript at Munich; and while a few critics rebel at the notion of a folk-song, the pretty lines surely hint more of field and dance than of the study. Thou art mine, I am thine, Of that may'st certain be; Locked thou art Within my heart, And I have lost the key: There must thou ever be! Now it happens that this notion of heart and key recurs in later German folk-song. A highly popular song of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries has these stanzas:[20] For thy dear sake I'm hither come, Sweetheart, O hear me woo! My hope rests evermore on thee, I love thee well and true. Let me but be thy servant, Thy dear love let me win; Come, ope thy heart, my darling, And lock me fast within! * * * * * Where my love's head is lying, There rests a golden shrine; And in it lies, locked hard and fast, This fresh young heart of mine: Oh would to God I had the key,-- I'd throw it in the Rhine; What place on earth were more to me, Than with my sweeting fine? Where my love's feet are lying, A fountain gushes cold, And whoso tastes the fountain Grows young and never old: Full often at the fountain I knelt and quenched my drouth,-- Yet tenfold rather would I kiss My darling's rosy mouth! And in my darling's garden[21] Is many a precious flower; Oh, in this budding season, Would God 'twere now the hour To go and pluck the roses And nevermore to part: I think full sure to win her Who lies within my heart! * * * * *