The Brown Girl
My eyes as black as a sloe;
I am as brisk as a nightingale,
And as wilde as any doe.
“My love has sent me a love-letter,
Not far from yonder town,
That he could not fancy me,
Because I was so brown.
“I sent him his letter back again,
For his love I valu'd not,
Whether that he could fancy me
Or whether he could not.
He sent me his letter back again,
That he lay dangerous sick,
That I might then go speedily
To give him up his faith.”
Now you shall hear what love she had
Then for this love-sick man;
She was a whole long summer's day
In a mile a going on.
When she came to her love's bed-side,
Where he lay dangerous sick,
She could not for laughing stand
Upright upon her feet.
She had a white wand all in her hand,
And smoothd it all on his breast;
“In faith and troth come pardon me,
I hope your soul's at rest.
“I'll do as much for my true-love
As other maidens may;
I'll dance and sing on my love's grave
A whole twelvemonth and a day.”
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2017/11/28 - 16:11
“Io sono bruna quanto si può esser bruna,
Ho gli occhi neri come una prugnola;
sono svelta come un usignolo,
e selvatica come una daina. 
“Ho avuto una lettera d'amore
dal mio innamorato, da non lungi in città,
ch'egli non poteva desiderarmi
perché io ero troppo bruna.
“E gli ho spedito indietro la lettera
perché del suo amore non m'importava nulla,
sia che mi desiderasse,
o che non mi desiderasse.
E allora mi ha rispedito la lettera,
dicendo ch'era malato seriamente,
e che andassi allora da lui alla svelta
a sposarmi con lui.”
Ora sentirete come lei lo amava,
quell'uomo ammalato d'amore;
in tutto un lungo giorno d'estate
lei si fece e rifece quel miglio.
Quando giunse al capezzale del suo amore
dov'egli giaceva malato seriamente,
lei quasi non si reggeva in piedi dal ridere,
in piedi ritta non ce la faceva a stare.
Lei aveva una bacchetta bianca in mano
e se la lisciava tutta sul seno;
“Siimi fedele e perdonami, e spero
che la tua anima riposi in pace.
“Io farò per il mio innamorato
tutto quel che fa ogni altra fanciulla;
ballerò e canterò sulla tomba del mio amore
per tutto un anno intero più un giorno.”
I am as brown as brown can be and my eyes as black as sloes,
I am as brisk as nightingale and wild as forest doe.
My love he was so high and proud, his fortune too so high,
He for another fair pretty maid left me and passed me by.
He sent to me a love-letter, he sent it from the town,
Saying no more he loved me because I was so brown.
I sent his letter back again, saying his love I valued not,
Whether he would fancy me or whether he would not.
When that six months were gone and past, were over gone and past,
Then did my love, once so bold, grow sick with love at last.
When that six months were past and gone, were over past and gone,
Then did my love, once so bold, lie on his bed and moan.
Oh, first he sent for the doctor-man, “You doctor must me cure.
The pains that now do torture me I can not long endure.”
Oh ne'er a bit the doctor-man his sufferings could relieve;
Never a one but the brown, brown girl that could his life reprieve.
Oh, then did he send from out the town, oh then he sent for me,
He sent for me, the brown, brown girl who once his wife should be.
Now you shall hear what love she had for that poor love-sick man,
How all one day, one summer’s day, she walked and never ran.
”I'll do as much for my true love as any young girl may,
I'll dance and sing all on his grave for a twelve month and a day.”
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2017/11/28 - 16:19
krzyś Ѡ - 2017/11/30 - 00:27
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