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Posthumous Pieces
The Waithman's Wail.[1]
The waithman goode of Silverwoode,
That bowman stout and hende,
In donjon gloom abydes his doome;
God dele him getil ende.
It breakes trew herte to see him sterte,
Whenas the small birdes sing;
And then to hear his sighynges drere
Whenas his fetters ryng.
Of bowe and shafte he bin bereft,
And eke of bugil horne;
A goodlye wighte, by craftie slyghte,
Alake! is overborne.
—Old Ballad.
My heart is sick! my heart is sick!
And sad as heart can be;
It pineth for the forest brook,
And for the forest tree;
It pineth for all gladsome things
That haunt the woodlands free.
O Silverwood, sweet Silverwood,
Thy leaves be large and long;
- ↑ Waithman—hunter.
