The bride's burial, or, the affectionate lovers (2)

THE

BRIDE's BURIAL,

OR, THE

Affectionate Lovers,

A True Love Song.

FALKIRK: Printed by T. JOHNSTON.
1810.

††††††††††††††††††††††††††

THE

BRIDE's BURIAL.

❋-^—^—^-❋-^—^—^-❋

Come mourn, come mourn with me,
⁠ye loyal Lovers all;
Lament my loſs in weeds of woe,
⁠whom gripping death doth thrall.

Like to the dropping Vine,
⁠cut by the gard'ner's knife,
Even ſo my heart, with ſorrow ſlain,
⁠doth mourn for my ſweet wife.

By Death, that grizly Ghoſt,
⁠my turtle dove was ſlain,
And I am left, unhappy man,
⁠to ſpend my days in vain.

Her beauty, late ſo bright,
⁠like roſes in their prime,
Is waſted like the mountain ſnow,
⁠by force of Phœbus ſhine.

Her fair and coloured cheeks,
⁠now pale and wane; her eyes,
That late did ſhine like chryſtal ſtars,
⁠alas! their light now dies.

Her pretty lilly hands,
⁠with fingers long and ſmall,
In colour like the carly dew,
⁠yea, cold and ſtiff withal.

When, as the morning gay,
⁠her golden gates had ſpread,
And that the glittering Sun aroſe,
⁠forth from Thetis's bed;

Then did my love awake,
⁠moſt like the lilly flower,
And as the lovely Queen of May,
⁠ſo ſhone ſhe in her bower.

Attired was ſhe then,
⁠like Flora in ber bower,
Fair as any of Diana's nymphs,
⁠ſo look'd my lovely flower.

And as fair Helen's face
⁠gave Grecian dames the lurch,

So did my dear exceed, in ſight,
⁠all the virgins in the church.

When we had knit the knot
⁠of holy wedlock bands,
Like alabaſter join'd to wine,
⁠ſo ſtood we hand in hand.

Then lo! a chilling cold
⁠ſtruck ev'ry vital part,
And grippling grief, like pangs of death,
⁠ſeiz'd on my true love's heart!

Down in a ſwoon ſhe fell,
⁠as cold as any ſtone,
Like Venus' picture wanting life,
⁠ſo was my love brought home.

At length a roſy red
⁠throughout her comely face,
As Phœbus' beams with wat'ry cloud
⁠o'ercover'd for a ſpace,

Then, with a grievous groan!
⁠and voice both hoarſe and dry,
Farewel, quoth ſhe, my lovely friends,
⁠for I this day muſt die!

The Meſſenger of Death
⁠with golden trump I ſee,
With many other angels more,
⁠which ſound and call for me.

Inſtead of muſic ſweet,
⁠go ring my paſſing bell,
And with ſweet flowers ſtraw my grave,
⁠that in my chamber ſmell.

Strip off my bride’s array,
⁠my cork ſhoes from my feet,
And gentle mother be ſo kind
⁠as to bring my winding-ſheet.

My wedding-dinner dreſt,
⁠beſtow upon the poor,
And to the hungry, blind and lame,
⁠that craveth at the door.

Inſtead of Virgins young,
⁠my bride's bed for to ſee,
Go cauſe ſome curions carpenter
⁠to make a cheſt for me.

My broad laces of ſilk
⁠below on maidens meet,

May fitly ſerve, when I am dead,
⁠to tie my hands and feet.

And thou my lover true,
⁠my huſband and my friend,
Let me intreat thee here to ſtay
⁠until my life doth end.

Now leave to talk of love,
⁠and humbly on your knees,
Direct your prayers to God,
⁠and mourn no more for me:

In love as we have liv'd,
⁠in love now let us part;
And I in token of my love,
⁠kiſs thee with all my heart.

Oh! ſtaunch this bootleſs tear,
⁠thy weeping is in vain;
I am not loſt, for we in heav'n
⁠ſhall one day meet again.

With that ſhe turn'd aſide,
⁠as one dispos'd to ſleep,
And like a lamb departed life,
⁠while friends did ſorely weep.

Her true love ſeeing this,
⁠did fetch a grievous groan,
As tho' his heart would burſt in two,
⁠and thus he made his moan:

Oh! diſmal unhappy day!
⁠a day of grief and care,
That hath bereav'd me of my love,
⁠whoſe beauty was ſo fair.

Now woe unto the world,
⁠and all therein that dwell;
Oh! that I were in heaven,
⁠for here I live in hell.

And now this lover lives
⁠a diſcontented life,
Whoſe bride was bought unto the grave
⁠a maiden and wife.

A garland freſh and fair
⁠of lillies there was made,
⟨In⟩ ſigns of her virginity,
⁠and on her coffin laid.

Six maidens all in white
⁠did bear her to the ground;

The bells did ring in ſolemn ſort,
⁠and made a doleful ſound.

In earth they laid her then,
⁠for hungry worms a prey;
So ſhall the faireſt face alive
⁠at length be brought to clay.

Thus do you ſee by this,
⁠how frail in life and grace;
Now Heaven bids us all prepare
⁠for that bleſt happy place.

FINIS.

FALKIRK:
PRINTED BY T. JOHNSTON.
1810.