« PreviousContinue »
Asleep or awake, thou lord Barnard,
As thou art a man of life,
Litle Musgrave's in bed with thy wife.
If it be trew, thou litle foote-page,
This tale thou hast told to mee, Then all my lands in Bucklesford-Bury
I freelye will give to thee.
But and it be a lye, thou litle foot-page,
This tale thou hast told to mee,
All hanged shalt thou bee.
up, my merry men all,
God wott, I had never more neede,
Then some they whistled, and some they sang,
And some did loudlye saye,
Awaye, Musgrave, away.
Methinkes I heare the throstle cocke,
Methinkes I heare the jay,
I would I were awaye.
Lye Lye still, lye still, thou little Musgrave,
And huggle me from the cold ; For it is but some shephardes boye
A whistling his sheepe to the fold.
Is not thy hawke upon the pearche,
Thy horse eating corne and haye ?
And wouldst thou be awaye ?
By this lord Barnard was come to the dore,
And lighted upon a stone:
And opened the dores eche one.
He lifted up the coverlett,
He lifted up the sheete;
Dost find my gaye ladye sweete?
I find her sweete, quoth little Musgrave,
The more is my griefe and paine; Ide gladlye give three hundred poundes
That I were on yonder plaine.
Arise, arise, thou little Musgrave,
And put thy cloathes nowe on,
That I killed a naked man.
Ver. 64. Is whistling sheepe ore the mold, fol. MS.
I have two swordes in one scabbarde,
Full deare they cost my purse ;
And I will have the worse.
The first stroke that little Musgrave strucke,
He hurt lord Barnard sore ;
Little Musgrave never strucke more.
With that bespake the ladye faire,
In bed whereas she laye, Althoughe thou art dead, my little Musgrave, 95
Yet for thee I will praye :
And wishe well to thy soule will I,
So long as I have life e;
Thoughe I am thy wedded wife.
He cut her pappes from off her brest ;
Great pitye it was to see
Run trickling downe her knee.
Wo worth, wo worth ye, my merrye men all, 105
You never were borne for my goode: Why did you not offer to stay my hande,
When you sawe me wax so woode?
For I have slaine the fairest sir knighte,
That ever rode on a steede ;
That ever ware womans weede.
A grave, a grave, lord Barnard cryde,
To putt these lovers in ;
For shee comes o' the better kin.
ttt That the more modern copy is to be dated about the middle of the last century, will be readily conceived from the tenor of the concluding stanza, viz.
« This sad Mischief by Lust was wrought;
Then let us call for Grace,
And fly from Sin a-pace.”
THE EW-BUGHTS MARION.
A SCOTTISH SONG,
This sonnet appears to be ancient : that and its simplicity of sentiment have recommended it to a place here. Will ze gae to the ew-bughts, Marion,
And wear in the sheip wi' mee?
But nae half sae sweit as thee.
Gin Marion wad marrie mee.
Theire's gowd in zour garters, Marion ;
And siller on zour white hauss-bane* :
Quha gape and glowr wi' their ee
Bot nane of them lues like mee.
* Hauss-bane. i.e. The neck-bone. Marion had probably a silver locket on, tied close to her neck with a ribband, an usual ornament in Scotland; where a sore throat is called “ a sair hause," properly halse, VOL. III.