Page images


With that the babe sprang from her wombe

No creature being nye,
And with one sighe, which brake her hart,

This gentle dame did dye.
The lovely litle infant younge,

The mother being dead, Resigned its new received breath

To him that had it made.



Next morning came her own true love,

Affrighted at the newes,
And he for sorrow slew himselfe,

Whom eche one did accuse.
The mother with her new borne babe,

Were laide both in one grave:
Their parents overworne with woe,

No joy thenceforth cold have.


Take heed, you dayntye damsells all,

Of flattering words beware,
And to the honour of your name

Have an especial care.
Too true, alas ! this story is,

As many one can tell :
By others harmes learne to be wise,

And you shall do full well.

150 XI.




This is a very ancient song, but we could only give it from a modern copy. Some editions instead of the four last lines in the second stanza have these, which have too much merit to be wholly suppressed :

“ Whan cockle shells turn siller bells,

“ And muscles grow on every tree,
or When frost and snaw sall warm us aw,
Than sall my love prove true to me.

See the Orpheus Caledonius, &c. Arthur's-seat, mentioned in ver. 17, is a hill near Edinborough; at the bottom of which is St. Anthony's well.

WALY waly up the bank,
And waly waly down the brae,
And waly waly yon burn side,

Where I and my love wer wont to gae.
I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree ;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,

Sae my true love did lichtly me.

O waly


O waly waly, gin love be bonny,

A little time while it is new;
But when its auld, it waxeth cauld,

And fades awa’ like morning dew.
O wherfore shuld I busk my head ?

Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair For my true love has me forsook,

he'll never loe me mair.


And says


Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed,

The sheets shall neir be fyl'd by me: Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,

Since my true love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum?

For of my life I am wearie.


Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaws inclemencie ; 'Tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry, But my loves heart


cauld to me. Whan we came in by Glasgowe town,

We were a comely sight to see, My love was cled in black velvet,

And I my sell in cramasie.


But 35

But had I wist, before I kisst,

That love had been sae ill to win ;
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd,

And pinnd it with a siller pin.
And, oh! if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurses knee,
And I my sell were dead and gane !

For a maid again Ise never be.

40 XII.


From two ancient copies in black-letter : one in the
Pepys Collection; the other in the British Museum,

To the tune of “The Lady's Fall.”
Come mourne, come mourne with mee,

You loyall lovers all ;
Lament my loss in weeds of woe,

Whom griping grief doth thrall.


Like to the drooping vine,

Cut by the gardener's knife,
Even so my heart, with sorrow slaine,

Doth bleed for my sweet wife.


By death, that grislye ghost,

My turtle dove is slaine,
And I am left, unhappy man,

To spend my dayes in paine.

Her beauty late so bright,

Like roses in their prime,
Is wasted like the mountain snowe,

Before warme Phebus' shine.


[ocr errors]


« PreviousContinue »