THE THREE MAIDENS

There were three maidens met on the highway;

The sun was down, the night was late:

And two sang loud with the birds of May,

O the nightingale is merry with its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Why walk you there so still?

The land is dark, the night is late:

O, but the heart in my side is ill,

And the nightingale will languish for its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Of lovers there is store;

The moon mounts up, the night is late:

O, I shall look on man no more,

And the nightingale is dumb without its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Uncross your arms and sing;

The moon mounts high, the night is late:

O my dear lover can hear no thing,

And the nightingale sings only to its mate.

They slew him in revenge, and his true-love was his lure;

The moon is pale, the night is late:

His grave is shallow on the moor;

O the nightingale is dying for its mate.

His blood is on his breast, and the moss-roots at his hair;

The moon is chill, the night is late:

But I will lie beside him there:

O the nightingale is dying for its mate.