Four favourite songs/William and Margaret

SONGS.

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WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

'Twas at the silent solemn hour,
When night and morning meet,
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April morn
Clad in a wintry cloud,
And clay-cold was her lily hand
That held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear,
When youth and years are flown
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,
Consum'd her early prime,
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She died before her time.

"Awake!" she cried, " thy true love calls.
Come from her midnight grave:
Now let thy pity hear the maid
Thy love refus'd to save.

This is the dumb and dreary hour
When injur'd ghosts complain.
When yawning graves give up their dead
To haunt the faithless swain.

Bethink thee, William! of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath;
And give me back my maiden vow,
And give me back my troth.

Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep?
Why did you swear my eyes were bright.
Yet leave those eyes to weep?

How could you say my face was fair.
And yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin heart.
Yet leave that heart to break?

Why did you say my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid!
Believe the flattering tale?

That face, alas! no more is fair,
Those lips no longer red!
Dark are my eyes, now clos' in death,
And every charm is fled.

The hungry worm my sister is
This winding-sheet I wear;
And cold and weary lasts our night,
Till the last morn appear.

But, lark! the cock has warn'd me hence;
A long and late adieu!
Come see, false man! how low she lies
Who died for love of you."

The lark sung loud, the morning smil'd
With beans of rosy red;
Pale William quak'd in every limb,
And, raving, left his bed.

He lied him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay,
And stretch'a him on the green-grass turf
That wrapt her breathless clay.

And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore;
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave.
And word spake never more.