Were still to set,
That my love Marie
Might love me yet!



THE BRIGAND'S GRAVE--MODERN GREEK



The moon came up above the hill,
The sun went down the sea,
'Go, maids, and draw the well-water,
But, lad, come here to me.

Gird on my jack, and my old sword,
For I have never a son,
And you must be the chief of all
When I am dead and gone.

But you must take my old broadsword,
And cut the green boughs of the tree,
And strew the green boughs on the ground,
To make a soft death-bed for me.

And you must bring the holy priest,
That I may sained be,
For I have lived a roving life
Fifty years under the greenwood tree.