名人诗歌|Ballads and Lyrics of Old France (38)

THE moon came up above the hill, The sun went down the sea； Go, maids, and fetch the well-water, But, lad, come here to me.

Gird on my jack^{1 and my old sword, For I have never a son； And you must be the chief of all When I am dead and gone.}

But you must take my old broad sword, And cut the green bough^{2 of the tree, And strew3 the green boughs4 on the ground To make a soft death bed for me.}

And you must bring the holy priest That I may sained be； For I have lived a roving life Fifty years under the greenwood tree.

And you shall make a grave for me, And make it deep and wide； That I may turn about and dream With my old gun by my side.

And leave a window to the east, And the swallows will bring the spring； And all the merry month of May The nightingales will sing.