( 5 )
Lie still, lie still my only son,
and sound sleep may'st thou get,
For its but an hour or little mair,
since she was at the yate.
Awa, awa, ye wicked woman,
and an ill death may you die,
Ye might have either letten her in,
or else have wakened me.
I will go down into some silent grove,
my sad moan for to make,
It is for the Lass of Ocram,
my poor heart now will break.
¤ - ¤ - ¤ - ¤ ·.· ¤ - ¤ - ¤ - ¤
THE heavy hours are almost past,
that part my love and me;
My longing eyes may hope at last,
their only with to see.
But how, my Delia, will you meet,
the man you’ve lost so long?
Will love in all your pulses beat,
and tremble on your tongue?
Will you in every look declare
your heart is still the fame?
And heal each anxious care,
our fears in absence frame?
