Ballad XVIII: The Friar of Orders Gray

"It was a jovial tinker,All of the north countrie,As he walk'd forth, along the way

It was a friar of orders grayWalkt forth to tell his beades;And he met with a lady faireClad in a pilgrime's weedes.

Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,I pray thee tell to me,If ever at yon holy shrineMy true love thou didst see.

And how should I know your true loveFrom many another one?O by his cockle hat, and staff,And by his sandal shoone.

But chiefly by his face and mien,That were so fair to view;His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,And eyne of lovely blue.

O lady, he is dead and gone!Lady, he's dead and gone!And at his head a green grass turfe,And at his heels a stone.

Within these holy cloysters longHe languisht, and he dyed,Lamenting of a ladyes love,And 'playning of her pride.

Here bore him barefac'd on his bierSix proper youths and tall,And many a tear bedew'd his graveWithin yon kirk-yard wall.

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!And art thou dead and gone!And didst thou dye for love of me!Break, cruel heart of stone!

O weep not, lady, weep not soe;Some ghostly comfort seek:Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,Ne teares bedew thy cheek.

O do not, do not, holy friar,My sorrow now reprove;For I have lost the sweetest youth,That e'er wan ladyes love.

And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse,I'll evermore weep and sigh;For thee I only wisht to live,For thee I wish to dye.

Weep no more, lady, weep no more,Thy sorrowe is in vaine:For violets pluckt the sweetest showersWill ne'er make grow againe.

Our joys as winged dreams doe flye,Why then should sorrow last?Since grief but aggravates thy losse,Grieve not for what is past.

O say not soe, thou holy friar;I pray thee, say not soe:For since my true-love dyed for mee,'Tis meet my tears should flow.

And will he ne'er come again?Will he ne'er come again?Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,For ever to remain.

His cheek was redder than the rose;The comliest youth was he!But he is dead and laid in his grave:Alas, and woe is me!

Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,Men were deceivers ever:One foot on sea and one on land,To one thing constant never.

Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,And left thee sad and heavy;For young men ever were fickle found,Since summer trees were leafy.

Now say not so, thou holy friar,I pray thee say not soe;My love he had the truest heart:O he was ever true!

And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth,And didst thou dye for mee?Then farewell home; for ever-moreA pilgrim I will bee.

But first upon my true-loves graveMy weary limbs I'll lay,And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,That wraps his breathless clay

Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhileBeneath this cloyster wall:See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind.And drizzly rain doth fall.

O stay me not, thou holy friar;O stay me not, I pray;No drizzly rain that falls on me,Can wash my fault away.

Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,And dry those pearly tears;For see beneath this gown of grayThy owne true-love appears.

Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love,These holy weeds I sought;And here amid these lonely wallsTo end my days I thought.

But haply for my year of graceIs not yet past away,Might I still hope to win thy love,No longer would I stay.

Now farewell grief, and welcome joyOnce more unto my heart;For since I have found thee, lovely youth,We never more will part.