he cried,
'Who's there?' ''Tis I,' she then replied;
Who wondered much her voice to hear,
And was possest with dread and fear.

Her father he did tell, and then
He stared like an affrighted man:
Down stairs he ran, and when he see her,
Cried out, 'My child, how cam'st thou here?'

'Pray, sir, did you not send for me
By such a messenger?' said she:
Which made his hair stand on his head,
As knowing well that he was dead.

'Where is he?' then to her he said;
'He's in the stable,' quoth the maid.
'Go in,' said he, 'and go to bed;
I'll see the horse well littered.'

He stared about, and there could he
No shape of any mankind see,
But found his horse all on a sweat;
Which made him in a deadly fret.

His daughter he said nothing to,
Nor none else, (though full well they knew
That he was dead a month before,)
For fear of grieving her full sore.

Her father to the father went
Of the deceased, with full intent
To tell him what his daughter said;
So both came back unto this maid.

They asked her, and she still did say
'Twas he that then brought her away;
Which when they heard, they were amazed,
And on each other strangely gazed.

A handkerchief she said she tied
About his head, and that they tried;
The sexton they did speak unto
That he the grave would then undo.

Affrighted then they did behold
His body turning into mould,
And though he had a month been dead
This handkerchief was about his head.

This thing unto her then they told,
And the whole truth they did unfold;
She was thereat so terrified
And grieved, that she quickly died.

_Old Ballad_

LXXXIII

_THE NIGHTINGALE_

As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring,
Everything did banish moan,
Save the Nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefullest ditty
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
Tereu, Tereu, by and by:
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shewn
Made me think upon mine own.
--Ah,