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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 :
Thy days will not be lang.
O sweet Margret, О dear Margret,
pray thee speak to mee :
As I gave it to thee.
Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get,
Of me shalt nevir win,'
And wed me with a ring.
My bones are buried in a kirk yard
Afar beyond the sea,
That's speaking now to thee.
She stretched out her lilly-white hand,
As for to do her best :
God send your soul good rest.
Now she has kilted her robes of green,
A piece below her knee :
The dead corps followed shee.
Is there any room at your head; Willie ?
Or any room at your feet?
Wherein that I may creep?
There's nae room at my head, Margret,
There's nae room at my feet, There's no room at my side, Margret,
My coffin is made so meet.
and crew the red red cock, And up then crew the
gray: Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret,
That 'I' were gane away.
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.
SIR JOHN GREHME AND BARBARA ALLAN.
A SCOTTISH BALLAD.
Printed, with a few conjectural emendations, from
a written copy.
When the greene leaves wer a fallan ;
Fell in luve wi' Barbara Allan.
He sent his man down throw the towne,
To the plaice wher she was dwellan:
bin Barbara Allan.
O hooly, hooly raise she up,
To the plaice wher he was lyan;
Young man, I think ye're dyan *.
* An ingenious friend thinks the rhymes Dyand and Lyand ought to be transposed; as the taunt Young man, I think ye're lyand, would be very characteristical.
O its I'm sick, and very very sick,
And its a' for Barbara Allan.
Though your harts blude wer spillan.
nat in the tavern, sir,
cups wer fillan; How
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.
Then hooly, hooly raise she up,
And hooly, hooly left him;
Since death of life had reft him.
She had not gane a mile but twa,
Whan she heard the deid-bell knellan; And everye jow the deid-bell geid,
Cried, Wae to Barbara Allan!
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:
That lived in Islington.
Yet she was coye, and would not believe
That he did love her soe,
Any countenance to him showe.
But when his friendes did understand
His fond and foolish minde,
An apprentice for to binde,