Modern Greek

THE moon came up above the hill, The sun went down the sea, ‘Go, maids, and draw the well-water, But, lad, come here to me.

Gird on my jack, and my old sword, For I have never a son, And you must be the chief of all When I am dead and gone.

But you must take my old broadsword, And cut the green boughs of the tree, And strew the green boughs on the ground, To make a soft death-bed for me.

And you must bring the holy priest, That I may sainèd be, For I have lived a roving life Fifty years under the greenwood tree.

And you shall make a grave for me, And dig it deep and wide, That I may turn about and dream With my old gun by my side.

And leave a window to the east And the swallows will bring the spring, And all the merry month of May The nightingales will sing.’