illustration to an unidentified publication.

Block cut by George Dalziel

After Frederick Richard Pickersgill

1835-1861

The British Museum

WHILE pensive I thought on my love,
The moon on the mountains was bright,
And Philomel down in the grove,
Broke sweetly the silence of night.

I wish that the tear drop would flow,
But I felt too much auguish to weep,
Till worn by the weight of my woe,
I sunk on my pillow to sleep.

Methought, that my Love, as I lay,
His ringlets all clotted with gore,
In the paleness of Death seem’d to say,
Alas ! we must never meet more.

Yes, yes, my belov’d, we must part,
The steel of my Rival was true,
The assassin had struck on that heart,
Which beat with such fervor for you.

— Old English Ballad