THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

T was a friar of orders gray

Walked forth to tell his beads:

And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,

"And how should I know your true love From many another one?"

"O, by his cockle hat and staff,

And by his sandal shoon.

But chiefly by his face and mien,

That were so fair to view;

His flaxen locks that sweetly curled, of lovely blue."

And eyes

"O lady he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green grass turf,
And at his heels a stone.

Within these holy cloisters long

He languished, and he died.

Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.

Here bore him barefaced on his bier

Six

proper youths and tall,

And many a tear bedewed his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall."

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth And art thou dead and gone!

And didst thou die for love of me!

Break, cruel heart of stone!"

"Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain ;

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For violets plucked the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow again.

Our joys as winged dreams do fly,
Why then should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy loss,
Grieve not for what is past.'

"O say not so, thou holy friar;

I

pray thee, say not so:

For since my true love died for me,

'Tis meet my tears should flow.

And will he ne'er come again?

Will he ne'er come again? Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, For ever to remain.

His cheek was redder than the rose;

The comeliest youth was he!

But he is dead and laid in his

grave:

Alas! and woe is me!"

"Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever:

One foot on sea and one on land,
To one thing constant never.

Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,
And left thee sad and heavy;

For

young men ever were fickle found,
Since summer trees were leafy."

"Now say not so, thou holy friar,
I pray thee say not so;
My love he had the truest heart :

O he was ever true!

"And art thou dead, thou much loved youth, And didst thou die for me?

Then farewell home; for ever-more

A pilgrim I will be.

"But first upon my true-love's

My weary limbs I'll lay,

grave

And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,

That wraps his breathless clay."