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THE TREES SO HIGH |
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At the huffle of the gale, Here I toss and cannot sleep : Whilst my pretty lad is young And is growing.
V
My daughter, daughter dear,
If better be, more fit, I'll send him to the court awhile, To point his pretty wit.
But the snow, snowflakes fall, O and I am chill as dead:
Whilst my pretty lad is young And is growing.
VI
To let the lovely ladies know
They may not touch and taste, I'll bind a bunch of ribbons red About his little waist.
But the raven hoarsely croaks, And I shiver in my bed ;
Whilst my pretty lad is young And is growing.
VII
I married was, alas,
A lady high to be, In court and stall and stately hall, And bower of tapestry.
But the bell did only knell, And I shuddered as one cold: When I wed the pretty lad
Not done growing. |
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