Thursday, May 26, 2011


The Garden-Gate by Anonymous 
(an old minstrel's tune published in Hume's History of England, 1778 ed.)

The day was spent, the moon shone bright,
The village clock struck eight;
Young Mary hastened, with delight,
Unto the garden-gate:

But what was there that made her sad?
The gate was there, but not the lad,
Which made poor Mary say and sigh,
'Was ever poor girl so sad as I?'

She traced the garden here and there,
The village clock struck nine;
Which made poor Mary sigh, and say,
'You shan't, you shan't be mine!

You promised to meet at the gate at eight,
You ne'er shall keep me, nor make me wait,
For I'll let all such creatures see,
They ne'er shall make a fool of me!'

She traced the garden here and there,
The village clock struck ten;
Young William caught her in his arms,
No more to part again:

For he'd been to buy the ring that day,
And O! he had been a long, long way; 
Then, how could Mary cruel prove,
To banish the lad she so dearly did love?

Up with the morning sun they rose,
To church they went away,
And all the village joyful were,
Upon their wedding-day:

Now in a cot, by a river side,
William and Mary both reside;

And she blesses the night that she did wait
For her absent swain, at the garden-gate.

What is a "Study in . . ."?
A visual record defined by a single element, such as color, texture, or type. My previous journal entries include Studies in PurpleStone Faces, Yellow, and Bark.
I hope you enjoy them.

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