Asleep or awake, thou lord Barnard,

As thou art a man of life,

Lo! this same night at Bucklesford-Bury

Litle Musgrave's in bed with thy wife.

40

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,

45

On the highest tree in Bucklesford-Bury
All hanged shalt thou bee.

Rise up, rise up, my merry men all,

And saddle me my good steede

This night must I to Bucklesford-bury;

God wott, I had never more neede,

Then some they whistled, and some they sang,

And some did loudlye saye,

50

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 thou a gay lady within thine armes :
And wouldst thou be awaye?

By this lord Barnard was come to the dore,

And lighted upon a stone:

And he pulled out three silver keyes,

And opened the dores eche one.

He lifted up the coverlett,

He lifted up the sheete;

65

70

75

How now, how now, thou little Musgràve,
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,

It shall never be said in my countree,
That I killed a naked man.

Ver. 64. Is whistling sheepe ore the mold, fol. MS.

50

I have two swordes in one scabbàrde,

Full deare they cost my purse;

And thou shalt have the best of them,

And I will have the worse.

The first stroke that little Musgrave strucke,
He hurt lord Barnard sore;

The next stroke that lord Barnard strucke,

Little Musgrave never strucke more.

With that bespake the ladye faire,

In bed whereas she laye,

85

90

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;

So will I not do for thee, Barnard,
Thoughe I am thy wedded wife.

He cut her pappes from off her brest;

Great pitye it was to see

The drops of this fair ladyes bloode

Run trickling downe her knee.

100

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

For I have slaine the fairest sir knighte,

That ever rode on a steede;
So have I done the fairest lady,

That ever ware womans weede.

A grave, a grave, lord Barnard cryde,
To putt these lovers in ;

110

But lay my ladye o' the upper hande,

115

For shee comes o' the better kin.

+++ 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,

That we may shun the wicked vice,
And fly, from Sin a-pace."

XII.

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?
The sun shines sweit, my Marion,
But nae half sae sweit as thee.
O Marion's a bonnie lass

And the blyth blinks in her ee :
And fain wad I marrie Marion,

Gin Marion wad marrie mee.

5

Theire's gowd in zour garters, Marion;

And siller on zour white hauss-bane* :

Fou faine wad I kisse my Marion

At eene quhan I cum hame.

Theire's braw lads in Earnslaw, Marion,
Quha gape and glowr wi' their ee
At kirk, quhan they see my Marion;

Bot nane of them lues like mee.

10

15

*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.

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