Death and the Lady

As I walked out one day, one day,
All in the mer-ry month of May,
When lambs did skip and thrush-es sing,
And ev'-ry bush with buds did spring.

I met an old man by the way,
His head was bald his beard was grey,
His coat was of the Myr-tle-green,
But un-der-neath his ribs were seen.

He in his hand a glass did hold,
He shook as one that shakes with cold.
I asked of him what was his name,
And what strange place from which he came.

"My name is Death, fair mai-den, see
Lords, Dukes and Squires bow down to me,
For of the Bran-chy Tree am I
And you, fair maid, with me must hie"

"I'll give you gold, if me you'll spare,
I'll give you cost-ly robes to wear!"
"0 no, sweet maid, make no de-lay
Your sand is run, you must a-way!"

A-las! a-lack! the fair maid died,
And these the last sad words she cried:
"Here lies a poor, dis-tress-ed maid,
By Death— and Death a-lone be-trayed."

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