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English Poetry I: From Chaucer to Gray.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.

Edmund Spenser

75. Perigot and Willie’s Roundelay

IT fell upon a holly eve,

Hey ho, hollidaye!

When holly fathers wont to shrieve,

Now gynneth this roundelay.

Sitting upon a hill so hye,

Hey ho, the high hyll!

The while my flocke did feede thereby,

The while the shepheard selfe did spill:

I saw the bounching Bellibone,

Hey ho, Bonibell!

Tripping over the dale alone:

She can trippe it very well;

Well decked in a frocke of gray,

Hey ho, gray is greete!

And in a kirtle of greene, saye,

The greene is for maydens meete.

A chapelet on her head she wore,

Hey ho, chapelet!

Of sweete violets therein was store,

—She sweeter then the violet.

My sheepe did leave theyr wonted foode,

Hey ho, seely sheepe!

And gazd on her, as they were wood,

—Woode as he, that did them keepe.

As the bonnilasse passed bye,

Hey ho, bonilasse!

She rovde at me with glauncing eye,

As cleare as the christall glasse:

All as the sunnye beame so bright,

Hey ho, the sunne beame!

Glaunceth from Phœbus face forthright,

So love into my hart did streame:

Or as the thonder cleaves the cloudes,

Hey ho, the thonder!

Wherein the lightsome levin shroudes,

So cleaves thy soule asonder:

Or as Dame Cynthias silver raye

Hey ho, the moonelight!

Upon the glyttering wave doth playe:

Such play is a pitteous plight!

The glaunce into my heart did glide,

Hey ho, the glyder!

Therewith my soule was sharply gryde;

Such woundes soone wexen wider.

Hasting to raunch the arrow out,

Hey ho, Perigot!

I left the head in my hart roote:

It was a desperate shot.

There it ranckleth ay more and more,

Hey ho, the arrowe!

Ne can I find salve for my sore:

Love is a cureless sorrowe.

And though my bale with death I brought,

Hey ho, heavie cheere!

Yet should thilk lasse not from my thought:

So you may buye gold to deare.

But whether in paynefull love I pyne,

Hey ho, pinching payne!

Or thrive in welth, she shalbe mine.

But if thou can her obteine.

And if for gracelesse griefe I dye,

Hey ho, graceless griefe!

Witnesse, shee slewe me with her eye:

Let thy follye be the priefe.

And you that sawe it, simple shepe,

Hey ho, the fayre flocke!

For priefe thereof my death shall weepe,

And mone with many a mocke.

So learnd I love on a hollye eve,—

Hey ho, holidaye!

That ever since my hart did greve:

Now endeth our roundelay.