I am weary of lying within the chase When the knights are meeting in market-place. Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride, I would only walk by my Lady's side. Alack! and alack! thou art overbold, A Forester's son may not eat off gold.
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen Each Martinmas day in a doublet green? Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie, Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.
Ah, if she is working the arras bright I might ravel the threads by the fire-light. Perchance she is hunting of the deer, How could you follow o'er hill and mere?
Ah, if she is riding with the court, I might run beside her and wind the morte. Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys, ( On her soul may our Lady have gramercy! )
Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle, I might swing the censer and ring the bell. Come in, my son, for you look sae pale, The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.
But who are these knights in bright array? Is it a pageant the rich folks play? ‘ T is the King of England from over sea, Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.
But why does the curfew toll sae low? And why do the mourners walk a-row? O‘ t is Hugh of Amiens my sister's son Who is lying stark, for his day is done.
Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear, It is no strong man who lies on the bier. O‘ t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall, I knew she would die at the autumn fall.
Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair, Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair. O‘ t is none of our kith and none of our kin, ( Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin! )
But I hear the boy's voice chaunting sweet, ‘ Elle est morte, la Marguerite.’ Come in, my son, and lie on the bed, And let the dead folk bury their dead.
O mother, you know I loved her true: O mother, hath one grave room for two?
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