he pang of woe?
Say, should disease or pain befall,
Wilt thou assume the nurse's care
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath,
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And cheer with smiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay
Strew flowers and drop the tender tear,
Nor then regret those scenes so gay,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY

IT was a friar of orders gray
Walk'd 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,
I pray thee tell to me,
If ever at yon holy shrine
My true love thou didst see.'

'And how should I know your true-love
From many another one?'
'Oh, 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 curl'd,
And eyes of lovely blue.'

'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 languish'd, and he died
Lamenting of a lady's love,
And 'plaining of her pride.

They bore him barefaced on his bier
Six proper youths and tall,
And many a tear bedew'd 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!'

'Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so,
Some ghostly comfort seek;
Let not vain sorrows rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek.'

Oh, do not, do not, holy friar,
My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth
That e'er won lady's love.

And now, alas! for thy sad loss
I'll ever weep and sigh;
For thee I only wish'd to live,
For thee I wish to die.'

'Weep no more, lady, weep no more,
Thy sorrow is in vain;
For violets pluck'd, the sweetest shower
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.'

'Oh, 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 never 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