“Stond well, moder, under Rode.”
Behold thy sone with glade mode—
Blithe moder might thou be.’
‘Sone, how shulde I blithe stonde?
I se thine fet, I se thine honde,
Nailed to the harde Tre.’

‘Moder, do wey thy wepinge.
I thole deth for monkinde—
For my gult thole I non.’
‘Sone, I fele the dedestounde:
The swerd is at mine herte grounde,
That me bihet Simeon.’

‘Moder, thou rewe all of thy bern:
Thou woshe away the blody tern—
It doth me worse then my ded.’
‘Sone, how may I teres werne?
I se the blody stremes erne

Gone art thou, then, O mystical musician!
Pure-thoughted singer of these sinful years!
No more shall dreams and doubts and hopes and fears
Pass and repass before thy stricken vision;
No more from thine high sorrowing position
Shall fall thy song-irradiated tears;
Alas! no more against our listening years
Shall new lays ring from thy lone lute elysian.
For unto thee at last has rest been given,
Whether in sleep eternal by the shore
Of Time's wide ocean or in song without
Or break or flaw, by the gold bar of that heaven

Catullus man, ye maunna gang sae gyte.
Scryve 't doun for tint, nou that ye see it's fled ye.
Umquhile the sun shone on ye, braw and whyte,
ye aye gaed eftir whaur the lassie led ye,—
‘I'll loena onie ither lass sae dear’.
Thon tyme ye'd monie a ploy to your delyte
that ye socht out,—the lassie wasna sweir.
Ay, ye had sunsheen yince, richt braw and whyte.
But nou she's sweir. Ye canna help it, sae
be thraward as weel. She flees, but dinna chase her.
Makna your life forfairn wi dule and wae,
wi tholesome sweirty ettle to outface her.

A traveller through a dusty road,
Strewed acorns on the lea,
And one took root, and sprouted up,
And grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening time,
To breathe its early vows,
And Age was pleased, in heats of noon,
To bask beneath its boughs:
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,
The birds sweet music bore;
It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore!

A little spring had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern;
A passing stranger scoop'd a well,
Where weary men might turn;
He wall'd it in, and hung with care

Oh very early all in the spring
I went on board for to serve the king,
Leaving my dearest dear behind,
She oft-times told me her heart was mine.

Oh then I hugged her all in my arms,
I thought I got ten thousand charms,
For promise vows and kisses sweet
Promised to marry next time we meet.

Oh when I was sailing all on the raging seas
Taking of all opportunities,
Sending of letters to my dearest dear,
But one from her could not I hear.

Oh then I returned back to old England,
I went unto her father's house.

Oh, what was it he meant
By his question as he went?
“I am making a loom,
'T will be up in April's bloom;
If you think it may be,
Spin for me!”

Oh, what shall I believe?
Does he think himself to weave?
And the yarn that I spin,
Lo, he thinks to weave it in?
And so soon as the Spring
Flowers shall bring?

And he laughed when he'd done;
Oh, he is so full of fun.
Dare I trust all my skein
To so young and wild a swain?—
May God help to bind in

Love has crept out of her sealèd heart
As a field-bee, black and amber,
Breaks from the winter-cell, to clamber
Up the warm grass where the sunbeams start.

Mischief has come in her dawning eyes,
And a glint of coloured iris brings
Such as lies along the folded wings
Of the bee before he flies.

Who, with a ruffling, careful breath,
Has opened the wings of the wild young sprite?
Has fluttered her spirit to stumbling flight
In her eyes, as a young bee stumbleth?

Love makes the burden of her voice.
The hum of his heavy, staggering wings

Being tired—
Ah, the time I fall into the inn—
The wistaria flowers.

A thowsand storiis kowde I m[o] reherse
Off olde poets touchyng this matere:
How that Cupide the hertis gan to perse
Off his seruauntis, settyng tham affere:
‘Lo here [the fin of] th'errour and the weere,
Lo here of loue the guerdoun and greuaunce
That euyr with woo his seruaunts doth avaunce.’

Wherfore I wil now pleynly my stile redresse,
Of on to speke, at nede that will not faile.
Allas. for dool I [ne] can nor may expresse
Hir passand pris, and that is no mervaile.
O wynd of grace, now blowe into my saile,
O auriat lycour of Clyo, for to wryte

I vomit blood at year's end while laid up ill.
I just recall how my condition resembles my teacher's.
Our lives are determined by Yama's registry.
Someone useless like me is always forgotten.