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There are manye that are my friendes, mother ;
But were every one my foe,
She cloathed herself in gallant attire,
And her merrye men all in greene; And as they rid through every towne,
They took her to be some queene.
But when she came to lord Thomas his gate,
She knocked there at the ring;
To lett faire Ellinor in.
Is this your bride, fair Ellinor sayd ?
Methinks she looks wonderous browne; Thou mightest have had as faire a woman,
As ever trod on the grounde.
Despise her not, fair Ellin, he sayd,
Despise her not unto mee;
Than all her whole bodèe.
This browne bride had a little penknife,
That was both long and sharpe,
She prick'd faire Ellinor's harte.
O Christ O Christ thee save, lord Thomas, hee sayd,
Methinks thou lookst wonderous wan;
As ever the sun shone on.
Oh, art thou blind, lord Thomas ? she sayd,
Or canst thou not very well see?
Run trickling down my knee.
Lord Thomas he had a sword by his side ;
As he walked about the halle,
And threw it against the walle.
He set the hilte against the grounde,
And the point against his harte.
That sooner againe did parte.
* The reader will find a Scottish song on a similar subject to this, towards the end of this volume, intitled, “ LORD THOMAS AND LADY ANNET."
CUPID AND CAMPASPE.
This elegant little sonnet is found in the third act of an old play, intitled, “ Alexander and Campaspe," written by John Lilye, a celebrated writer in the time of queen Elizabeth. That play was first printed in 1591 : but this copy is given from a later edition.
Cupid and my Campaspe playd
O Love! has she done this to thee?
THE LADY TURNED SERVING-MAN,
is given from a written copy, containing some improvements (perhaps modern ones), upon the popular ballad, intitled, • The famous flower of Serving-men: " or the Lady turned Serving-man.”
You beauteous ladyes, great and small,
I was by birth a lady faire,
And there my love built me a bower,
And there I livde a ladye gay,
They came upon us in the night,
In the midst of this extremitie,
Yet though my heart was full of care,
And therewithall I cut my haire,
At length all wearied with my toil,
It chanc'd the king of that same place