THE BRIDAL BED.
It was a maid of low degree
sat on her true love's grave,
And with her tears most piteously
the green turf she did lave;
She strew'd the flower, she pluck'd the weed,
and show'rs of tears she shed;
Sweet turf, she cried, by fate decreed
to be my bridal bed.
I've set thee, flower, for that the flower
of manhood lieth here;
And water'd thee with plenteous shower
of many a briny tear.
And still she cried, Oh stay my love,
my true love, stay for me:
Stay till I've deck'd my bridal bed,
and I will follow thee.
I pluck'd thee, weed, for that no weed
did in his bosom grow;
But sweetest flowers, from virtue's seed,
did there spontaneous blow:
But ah! their beautecus tints no more
Their balmy fragrance shed;
And I must strew this meaner flow'r,
To deck my bridal bed.
Sweet turf, thy green more green appears,
Tears make thy verdure grow;
Then still I'll water three with my tears;
