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'Tis sorrow and pain,'Tis endless chagrinFor Dafydd to gainHis dark-haired girl.Her house is a jail,Her turnkey a vile,Sour, yellow-eyed, pale,Odious churl.She cannot go outUnless he's about,The blackguard, the lout,The stingy boor.The look in her eyeOf fondness for me—God bless her bounty!—He can't endure.I know he hates play:The greenwood in May,The birds' roundelayAre not for himThe cuckoo, I know,He'd never allowTo sing on his bough,Light on his limbThe flash of the wing,The swell of the song,Harp-music playingDraw his black looks,The hounds in fully cry,A race-horse of bay,He cannot enjoyMore than the pox.My heart would be gladAt seeing him laidAll gray in his shroud;How could I grieve?Should he die this year,I'd give him with cheerGood oak for his bier,Sods for his grave.O starling, O swift,Go soaring aloft,Come down to the croftBy Dovekie's home.This message give her,Tell her I love her,And I will have herAll in good time.

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