dirge in d minor
When breeze blows down o’er the trees
and treacle flows down the tart,
my love lies cold neath the knoll.
My blood don’t warm at the hearth.
My bonny cries from the grave.
The sound, it near breaks my heart.
Cut down she was by the knaves,
her honor, forced her to part.
I know I ought to forgive.
I know I ought, though it’s hard.
For how am I to go on,
to heal this weary a heart?
A bird comes crying at night.
I spy it call from the trees.
I’ll have my peace when I die
enraptured by folds in the fleece,
enraptured by folds in the fleece.
A mournful tune sprang up in my head to accompany this original folksong that I just wrote. I sang it and played its tune on my keyboard and flute. I think it will sound eerily nice on my recorder, as well.