The Mad Maid's Song

By Robert Herrick

1591-1674


GOOD-MORROW to the day so fair,
         Good-morning, sir, to you;
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair
         Bedabbled with the dew.

Good-morning to this primrose too,
         Good-morrow to each maid
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
         Wherein my love is laid.

Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me!
         Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee
         Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave,
         I'll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they've made his grave
         I' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know ere this
         The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
         By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
         He knows well who do love him,
And who with green turfs rear his head,
         And who do rudely move him.

He 's soft and tender (pray take heed);
         With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home--but 'tis decreed
         That I shall never find him!

DayPoems Poem No. 268
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/268.html">The Mad Maid's Song by Robert Herrick</a>

The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor

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