Here and now, by the angel-orders nine, 
That take no care for love nor yet for loss, 
Woman most dear, I choose you out for mine, 
I turn my errant feet your way across. 

I set a charm upon your hurrying breath, 
I set a charm upon your wandering feet, 
You shall not leave me — not for life, nor death, 
Not even though you cease to love me, Sweet. 

A woman's love nine Angels cannot bind, 
Nor any rune that wind or water knows, 
My heart were all as well set on the wind, 
Or bound, to live or die, upon a rose. 

I set a charm upon you, foot and hand, 
That you and Knowledge, love, may never meet, 
That you may never chance to understand 
How strong you are, how weak your lover, Sweet. 

I set my charm upon your kindly arm, 
I set it as a seal upon your breast; 
That you may never hear another's charm. 
Nor guess another's gift outruns my best. 

I bid your wandering footsteps me to follow, 
Your thoughts to travel after in my track, 
I am the sky that waits you, dear grey swallow, 
No wind of mine shall ever blow you back. 

I am your dream, Sweet: so no more of dreaming, 
Your lips to mine must end this chanted charm, 
Your heart to mine, 'neath nut-brown tresses streaming, 
I set my love a seal upon your arm. 

Whisht! laatle bees, sad tidings I bear,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Cauld i' his grave ligs your maister dear,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Nea mair he'll ride to t' soond o' t' horn,
Nea mair he'll fettle his sickle for t' corn.
Nea mair he'll coom to your skep of a morn,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Muther sits cryin' i' t' ingle nook,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Parson's anent her wi' t' Holy Book,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
T' mourners are coom, an' t' arval is spread,
Cakes fresh frae t' yoon, an' fine havver-bread.
But toom' is t' seat at t' table-head,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Look, conny bees, I's winndin' black crape,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Slowly an' sadly your skep I mun drape,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Else you will sicken an' dwine reet away,
Heart-brokken bees, now your maister is clay;
Or, mebbe, you'll leave us wi' t' dawn o' t' day,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Sitha! I bring you your share o' our feast,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Cakes an' yal an' wine you mun taste,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Gie some to t' queen on her gowlden throne,
There's foison to feed both worker an' drone;
Oh! dean't let us fend for oursels alone;
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.