My lips do need thy breath,
My lips do need thy smile,
And my pallid eyne, that light in thine
Which met the stars erewhile:
Yet go with light and life
If that thou lovest one
In all the earth who loveth thee
As truly as the sun.
But better loveth he
Thy chaliced wine than thy chanted song,
And better both than thee,
But better loveth she Thy golden comb than thy gathered flowers, And better both than thee, Margret, Margret.
We brake no gold, a sign Of stronger faith to be, But I wear his last look in my soul, Which said, I love but thee! Margret, Margret.
A knights bloodhound and he The funeral watch did keep; With a thought o the chase he stroked its face As it howled to see him weep. A fair child kissed the dead, But shrank before its cold. And alone yet proudly in his hall Did stand a baron of old. Margret, Margret.