“Oh, you are blind, Lord Thomas!” she said.
“Or can’t you very well see?
Oh, can’t you see my own heart’s blood
As it trickles down on thee?”
He took the Brown Girl by the hand
And led her across the hall.
He took off his sword and cut off her head
And threw it against the wall.
“Oh, Mother, oh, Mother, go dig my grave;
Go dig it both wide and deep,
And place Fair Ellender in my arms
And the Brown Girl at my feet.”
He placed his sword against the wall
The point against his breast,
Saying,“This is the end of three poor lovers
God take us all to rest.”
They buried Ellender in the old churchyard;
They buried Lord Thomas beside her.
Out of his grave grew a red, red rose,
And out of hers a briar.
They grew and grew up the old church wall
Till they could grow no higher,
And at the top twined a lover’s knot
The red rose and the briar.1
“Miss Elizabeth,” Sir William cried, “you clearly brought me to tears. Such a song!”
Elizabeth dropped her eyes, looking away demurely.“I apologize, Sir William. I did not mean to place a cold sheet on your festivities.”
“Really, Miss Elizabeth, it was worth the silence to hear one of the traditional ballads done so well; so few people these days remember them.”
Darcy stood near, praying for another topic of conversation. Engrossed in his thoughts, he took little note of Mary Bennet succeeding Elizabeth at the pianoforte, nor did he approve of her younger sisters’ demand that Mary perform Scottish and Irish airs instead of a concerto. Bingley joined the group of dancers, along with several of the officers; yet Darcy still did not move—he could not—would not.