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Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get,

'Of me shalt nevir win,'

Till that thou come within my bower,

And kiss my cheek and chin.

If I should come within thy bower,

I am no earthly man :

And should I kiss thy rosy lipp,
Thy days will not be lang.

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My bones are buried in a kirk yard

Afar beyond the sea,

And it is but my sprite, Margret,

That's speaking now to thee.

She stretched out her lilly-white hand,

As for to do her best :

Hae there your faith and troth, Willie,

God send your soul good rest.

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Now

Now she has kilted her robes of green,

A piece below her knee:

And a' the live-lang winter night

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Is there any room at your head; Willie ?

Or any room at your feet?

Or any room at your side, Willie,

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Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret,

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That I' were gane away.

No more the ghost to Margret said,

But, with a grievous grone, Evanish'd in a cloud of mist, And left her all alone.

O stay, my only true love, stay,
The constant Margret cried :

Wan grew her cheeks, she clos'd her een,

Stretch'd her saft limbs, and died.

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VII.

SIR JOHN GREHME AND BARBARA ALLAN.

A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

Printed, with a few conjectural emendations, from

Irv

a written copy.

Twas in and about the Martinmas time,

When the greene leaves wer a fallan;

That Sir John Grehme o' the west countrye,
Fell in luve wi' Barbara Allan.

He sent his man down throw the towne,

To the plaice wher she was dwellan:
O haste and cum to my maister deare,
Gin
ye bin Barbara Allan,

O hooly, hooly raise she up,

To the plaice wher he was lyan;
And whan she drew the curtain by,

Young man, I think ye're dyan *.

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* An ingenious friend thinks the rhymes Dyand and Lyand ought to be transposed; as the taunt Young man, I think ye're tyand, would be very characteristical.

SIR JOHN GREHME AND BARBARA ALLAN.

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O its I'm sick, and very very sick,

And its a' for Barbara Allan.
O the better for me ye'se never be,

Though your harts blude wer spillan.

Remember ye nat in the tavern, sir,
Whan ye the cups wer fillan;

How ye

made the healths gae round and round, And slighted Barbara Allan?

He turn'd his face unto the wa',

And death was with him dealan ;

Adiew! adiew! my dear friends a',

Be kind to Barbara Allan.

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VIII.

THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON.

From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, with some improvements communicated by a lady as she had heard the same recited in her youth. The full title is, "True love requited: Or, the Bailiff's daughter of Islington."

ISLINGTON in Norfolk is probably the place here meant.

THERE was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,

And he was a squires son:

He loved the bayliffes daughter deare,

That lived in Islington.

Yet she was coye, and would not believe

That he did love her soe,

Noe nor at any time would she
Any countenance to him showe.

But when his friendes did understand
His fond and foolish minde,
They sent him up to faire London

An apprentice for to binde.

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