Thomas Chatterton: Song from Ælla

Thomas Chatterton

(1752-1770)

Song from Ælla

 

SING unto my roundelay,

O drop the briny tear with me;

Dance no more at holyday,

Like a running river be:

 

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed

 

All under the willow-tree.

 

Black his cryne [1] as the winter night,

White his rode [2] as the summer snow,

Red his face as the morning light,

Cole he lies in the grave below:

 

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed

 

All under the willow-tree.

 

Sweet his tongue as the throstle’s note,

Quick in dance as thought can be,

Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;

O 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 brier’d 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 barren flowers be laid;

Not one holy saint to save

All the coldness of a maid:

 

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed

 

All under the willow-tree.

 

With my hands I’ll dent the briers

Round his holy corse to gre [3]:

Ouph [4] and 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 heartès blood 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.

 

 

1 cryne – hair – 2 rode – complexion – 3 gre – grow – 4 ouph – elf

Thomas Chatterton poetry

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