Now she has kilted her robes of green

A piece below her knee;

And all the live-long winter night
The dead corpse followed she.

'Is there any room at your head, Willy, Or any room at your feet?

Or any room at your side, Willy,
Wherein that I may creep:
?'

'There's no room at my head, Margaret,

There's no room at my feet; There's no room at my side, Margaret, My coffin's made so meet.'

Then up and crew the red red cock,
And up then crew the grey;

"Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margaret,

That you were going away.'

CXIII

Old Ballad

THE FOUNTAIN

Into the sunshine,

Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing
From morn till night!

Into the moonlight,

Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like

When the winds blow!

Into the starlight,
Rushing in spray,
Happy at midnight,
Happy by day!

Ever in motion,

Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward,

Never aweary;

Glad of all weathers,
Still seeming best,
Upward or downward
Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature

Nothing can tame, Changed every moment, Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring,

Ceaseless content,

Darkness or sunshine
Thy element;

Glorious fountain!

Let my heart be

Fresh, changeful, constant,
Upward like thee!

J. R. Lowell

CXIV

FAIR ROSAMUND

When as King Henry ruled this land
The second of that name,
Above all else, he dearly loved
A fair and comely dame.

Her crisped locks like threads of gold
Appear'd to each man's sight;
Her sparkling eyes, like orient pearls,
Did cast a heavenly light.

The blood within her crystal cheeks
Did such a colour drive,

As though the lily and the rose
For mastership did strive.

Yea Rosamund, fair Rosamund,
Her name was called so,
To whom our queen, queen Ellinor
Was known a deadly foe.

The king therefore, for her defence
Against the furious queen,
At Woodstock builded such a bower,
The like was never seen.

Most curiously that bower was built,

Of stone and timber strong, An hundred and fifty doors

Did to this bower belong.

And they so cunningly contrived,
With turnings round about,

That none, but with a clue of thread,
Could enter in and out.

And for his love and lady's sake,
That was so fair and bright,
The keeping of this bower he gave
Unto a valiant knight.

But fortune, that doth often frown
Where she before did smile,
The king's delight and lady's joy
Full soon she did beguile :

For why? the king's ungracious son, Whom he did high advance, Against his father raised wars, Within the realm of France.

But yet before our comely king
The English land forsook,
Of Rosamund, his lady fair,
His farewell thus he took:

'My Rosamund, my only rose,

That pleaseth best mine eye : The fairest flower in all the world To feed my fantasy;

'The flower of mine affected heart, Whose sweetness doth excel

All roses else a thousand times,
I bid thee now farewell.'

When Rosamund, that lady bright,
Did hear the king say so,

The sorrow of her grieved heart
Her outward looks did show;

And from her clear and crystal eyes
The tears gush'd out apace,
Which like the silver pearled dew
Ran down her comely face.

'Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?' The king did often say. 'Because,' quoth she, 'to bloody wars

My lord must part away.

'But since your Grace on foreign coasts,

Among your foes unkind, Must go to hazard life and limb, Why should I stay behind?

'Nay, rather let me, like a page,
Your sword and target bear,
That on my breast the blows may light,
Which would offend you there.

'So I your presence may enjoy
No toil I will refuse ;

But wanting you, my life is death;
Nay, death I'd rather choose!'

'Content thyself, my dearest love,
Thy rest at home shall be

In England's sweet and pleasant isle ;
For travel fits not thee.