Dirge
COME
away,
come
away,
death,
And
in
sad
cypres
let
me
be
laid;
Fly
away,
fly
away,
breath;
I
am
slain
by
a
fair
cruel
maid.
My
shroud
of
white,
stuck
all
with
yew,
O
prepare
it!
My
part
of
death,
no
one
so
true
Did
share
it.
Not
a
flower,
not
a
flower
sweet,
On
my
black
coffin
let
there
be
strown;
Not
a
friend,
not
a
friend
greet
My
poor
corse,
where
my
bones
shall
be
thrown:
A
thousand
thousand
sighs
to
save,
Lay
me,
O,
where
Sad
true
lover
never
find
my
grave
To
weep
there!
