Mediæval Bæbes - Under The Willow Tree lyrics

Here upon my true love's grave, Shall the barren flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save, All the celness of a maid: Black his hair as winter's night, White he rode as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, Gone to his d**h-bed, Under the willow-tree. Come, with acorn-cup and thorne, Drain my hartys blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day. Water-witches, crowned with reytes, Bear me to your lethal tide. I die! I come! My true love waits;- Thus the damsel spake and died.