Perigot and Cuddy’s Roundelay

It fell upon a holy-eve (Heigho, holy-day!), When holy fathers wont to shrive (Now ’ginneth this roundelay), Sitting upon a hill so high (Heigho, the high hill!) The while my flock did feed thereby, The while the shepherd’s self did spill.

I saw the bouncing Bellibone (Heigho, bonny-bell!) Tripping over the dale alone— She can trip it very well— Well decked in a frock of gray (Heigho, gray is great!) And in a kirtle of green say— The green is for maidens meet.

A chaplet on her head she wore (Heigho, the chaplet!); Of sweet violets therein was store— She’s sweeter than the violet.

My sheep did leave their wonted food (Heigho, silly sheep!) And gazed on her as they were wood— Wood as he that did them keep.

As the bonny lass passed by (Heigho, bonny lass!) She rolled at me with glancing eye As clear as the crystal glass. All as the sunny beam so bright (Heigho, the sunbeam!) Glanceth from Phœbus’ face forth-right, So love into my heart did stream.

Or as the thunder cleaves the clouds (Heigho, the thunder!) Wherein the lightsome leaven shrouds, So cleaves my soul asunder; Or as dame Cynthia’s silver ray (Heigho, the moonlight!) Upon the glistening wave doth play, Such play is a piteous plight.

The glance into my heart did glide (Heigho, the glide!), Therewith my soul was sharply gride. Such wounds some waxen wide; Hasting to wrench the arrow out (Heigho, Perigot!), I left the head in my heart-root: It was a desperate shot.

Then it rankleth aye more and more (Heigho, the arrow!), Nor can I find salve for my sore— Love is a cureless sorrow. And though my bale with death I bought (Heigho, heavy cheer!) Yet should this lass not from my thought, So you may buy gold too dear.

But whether in painful love I pine (Heigho, pinching pain!) Or thrive in wealth, she shall be mine. But if thou can her obtain, And if for graceless grief I die (Heigho, graceless grief!), Witness she slew me with her eye, Let thy folly be the preef (sic).

And you that saw it, simple sheep (Heigho, the fair flock!), For prief thereof my death shall weep And moan with many a mock. So learn’d I love on a holy-eve (Heigho, holy-day!) That ever since my heart did grieve. Now endeth our roundelay.