Текст песни: Theatre Of Tragedy - Lorelei



Ferie dearest, was it loe soothfast or a faзade;

A serenade siren`d to lure - Zounds! not to court me?

A menad, yet the sweetest colleen -

Certes didst thou me unveil meekly life pristine.



Lorelei,

A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death,

Yet who the hell was I to dare?

Lorelei,

Canst thou not see thou to me needful art?

Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?



Dedally didst thou perform the tragic pasquinade,

For all years a damndest and driegh`d accolade -

Caus`d for all eyes mazed to behold a mкlee;

In the midst did I swainly cast thee my bouquet:

The one and sole faggot that feedeth the fire,

Bellow`d bidingly by my heart`s quailing quire.



Lorelei,

A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death,

Yet who the hell was I to dare?

Lorelei,

Canst thou not see thou to me needful art?

Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?



Perchance author I thee this ikon`d apologue for aught,

Doth the wecht burthen thee?, then bethink thine afterthought:

`Tween Aether and `Nether art thou the peerless phoenix -

Prithee, darlingmost! - court me rather than the peevish prolix.

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Ferie dearest, was it loe soothfast or a faзade;

A serenade siren`d to lure - Zounds! not to court me?

A menad, yet the sweetest colleen -

Certes didst thou me unveil meekly life pristine.



Lorelei,

A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death,

Yet who the hell was I to dare?

Lorelei,

Canst thou not see thou to me needful art?

Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?



Dedally didst thou perform the tragic pasquinade,

For all years a damndest and driegh`d accolade -

Caus`d for all eyes mazed to behold a mкlee;

In the midst did I swainly cast thee my bouquet:

The one and sole faggot that feedeth the fire,

Bellow`d bidingly by my heart`s quailing quire.



Lorelei,

A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death,

Yet who the hell was I to dare?

Lorelei,

Canst thou not see thou to me needful art?

Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?



Perchance author I thee this ikon`d apologue for aught,

Doth the wecht burthen thee?, then bethink thine afterthought:

`Tween Aether and `Nether art thou the peerless phoenix -

Prithee, darlingmost! - court me rather than the peevish prolix.

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