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With that the babe sprang from her wombe
No creature being nye,
This gentle dame did dye.
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,
Whom eche one did accuse.
Were laide both in one grave:
No joy thenceforth cold have.
Take heed, you dayntye damsells all,
Of flattering words beware,
Have an especial care.
As many one can tell :
And you shall do full well.
WALY WALY, LOVE BE BONNY.
A SCOTTISH SONG.
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,
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,
Where I and my love wer wont to gae.
I thought it was a trusty tree ;
Sae my true love did lichtly me.
O waly waly, gin love be bonny,
A little time while it is new;
And fades awa’ like morning dew.
Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair For my true love has me forsook,
he'll never loe me mair.
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 had I wist, before I kisst,
That love had been sae ill to win ;
And pinnd it with a siller pin.
And set upon the nurses knee,
For a maid again Ise never be.
THE BRIDE'S BURIAL.
From two ancient copies in black-letter : one in the
To the tune of “The Lady's Fall.”
You loyall lovers all ;
Whom griping grief doth thrall.
Like to the drooping vine,
Cut by the gardener's knife,
Doth bleed for my sweet wife.
By death, that grislye ghost,
My turtle dove is slaine,
To spend my dayes in paine.
Her beauty late so bright,
Like roses in their prime,
Before warme Phebus' shine.