Come away, come away, death,
   And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath;
   I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
            O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
        Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
   On my black coffin let there be strown.
Not a friend, not a friend greet
   My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
            Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
            To weep there!

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Lawrence Mathebula Аня Бруцкая

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