Uploaded June 2025 | Updated September 2026, 1 week ago

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Lyric: Oscar Wilde

I am weary of lying within the chase,
When knights are meeting in the marketplace...

Nay, go not to the red-roofed town,
Lest the hoofs of war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady's side.

Alack! Thou art overbold,
A Forester's son may not eat gold.

O mother, you know I loved her true,
O mother, hath one grave room for two?
Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,
And let the dead folk bury their dead.

But who are these knights in bright array?
'Tis the King of England from over sea.
Yet why does the curfew toll so low?
And why do mourners walk a-row?

O 'tis Hugh of Amiens my sister's son,
Who lies stark, his day is done.

O mother, you know I loved her true,
O mother, hath one grave room for two?
Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,
And let the dead folk bury their dead.

Elle est morte, la Marguerite...
Grave room for two...