Обсуждение:Песня из трагедии «Элла» (Чаттертон)

Более современное правописание:

<poem>

O SING unto my roundelay, O drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holyday, Like a running river be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Black his cryne [1] as the winter night, White his rode [2] as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light, Cole he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; O he lies by the willow-tree! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the brier'd dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares, as they go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud: Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true-love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll dent the briers Round his holy corse to gre [3]: Ouph [4] and fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heartès blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

<1777>

MORE POEMS BY THOMAS CHATTERTON ________________________________________ 1 cryne - hair 2 rode - complexion 3 gre - grow 4 ouph - elf

MYNSTRELLES SONGE

   O! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
   O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,                                 
   Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
   Lycke a reynynge ryver bee;
       Mie love ys dedde,
       Gon to hys death-bedde,
       Al under the wyllowe tree.                                        

   Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
   Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
   Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
   Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe;
       Mie love ys dedde,                                                
       Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
       Al under the wyllowe tree.

   Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note,
   Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee,
   Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote,                                    
   O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree:
       Mie love ys dedde,
       Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
       Alle underre the wyllowe tree.

   Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,                                 
   In the briered delle belowe;
   Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
   To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;
       Mie love ys dedde,
       Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,                                        
       Al under the wyllowe tree.

   See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
   Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
   Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
   Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude:                                   
       Mie love ys dedde,
       Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
       Al under the wyllowe tree.

   Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
   Schalle the baren fleurs be layde.                                    
   Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
   Al the celness of a mayde.
       Mie love ys dedde,
       Gonne to hys death-bedde,
       Alle under the wyllowe tree.                                      

   Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres
   Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
   Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres,
   Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee.
       Mie love ys dedde,                                                
       Gon to hys death-bedde,
       Al under the wyllowe tree.

   Comme, wythe acorne-coppe & thorne,
   Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
   Lyfe & all yttes goode I scorne,                                      
   Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.
       Mie love ys dedde,
       Gon to hys death-bedde,
       Al under the wyllowe tree.