The 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 sainèd be, p. 103For I have lived a roving life Fifty years under the greenwood tree. p. 103 And you shall make a grave for me, And dig it deep and wide, That I may turn about and dream With my old gun by my side. And leave a window to the east And the swallows will bring the spring, And all the merry month of May The nightingales will sing.’ p. 104THE NEW-LIVERIED YEAR p. 104 FROM CHARLES D’ORLÉANS FROM CHARLES D’ORLÉANS The year has changed his mantle cold Of wind, of rain, of bitter air, And he goes clad in cloth of gold Of laughing suns and season fair; No bird or beast of wood or wold But doth in cry or song declare ‘The year has changed his mantle cold!’ All founts, all rivers seaward rolled Their pleasant summer livery wear With silver studs on broidered vair, The world puts off its raiment old, The year has changed his mantle cold. The p. 105MORE STRONG THAN DEATH p. 105 FROM VICTOR HUGO FROM VICTOR HUGO Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet, Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid, Since I have known your soul and all the bloom of it, And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade, Since Since it was given to me to hear one happy while The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries, Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile, Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes;
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