Now she has kilted her robes of green,
A piece below her knee:

And a' the live-lang winter night

The dead corps followed shee.

Is there any room at your head, Willie ?
Or any room at your feet?

45

Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret,

55

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.

60

VII.

Sir John Grehme and Barbara Allan.

A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

PRINTED, with a few conjectural emendations, from a written copy.

Ir was 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 '.

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

And its a' for Barbara Allan.

1 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.

176

SIR JOHN GREHME AND BARBARA ALLAN.

O the better for me ye'se never be,

15

Though your harts blude wer spillan.

20

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.

Then hooly, hooly raise she up,
And hooly, hooly left him;
And sighan said, she could not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.

She had not gane a mile but twa,

Whan she heard the deid-bell knellan;

30

And everye jow the deid-bell geid,

Cried, Wae to Barbara Allan!

O mither, mither, mak my bed,
O mak it saft and narrow:
my love died for me to day,
Ise die for him to morrowe.

Since

35

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.

And when he had been seven long yeares,

And never his love could see:

VOL. III.

N

5

10

15

20

178 THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON.

Many a teare have I shed for her sake,

When she little thought of mee.

Then all the maids of Islington

Went forth to sport and playe,

All but the bayliffes daughter deare;
She secretly stole awaye.

She pulled off her gowne of greene,
And put on ragged attire,

And to faire London she would go
Her true love to enquire.

And as she went along the high road,
The weather being hot and drye,
She sat her downe upon a green bank,
And her true love came riding bye.

She started up, with a colour soe redd,

Catching hold of his bridle-reine;

One penny, one penny, kind sir, she sayd,
Will ease me of much paine.

Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,

Praye tell me where you were borne.

At Islington, kind sir, sayd shee,

Where I have had many a scorne.

I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,

O tell me, whether you knowe