Where did you get that wondrous gown,
Those patches, and that hair?
And how were things in London town
The last time you were there?

And did you die a maid or wife,
Your husband lord or knave?
And how did you like this jolly life?
And how do you like the grave?




The Serenade.

Under my casement, as I pray,
My lover sings my cares away
With many a half-forgotten lay.

He leans against the linden-tree,
And sings old songs of Arcady
That he knows well are loved by me.

Half through the night the sweet strains float
Like wind-blown rose-leaves, note by note,
Over the great wall and the moat,

Up to my window, till they teem
Into my soul, and almost seem