Volume 8 / Part 5 — PART V.

Now in the fifth part I'll endeavour to shew, How things with her parents and sister did go; Her mother and sister of life [are] bereft, 195 And all alone the old knight he was left. And hearing his daughter being married so brave, He said, "In my noddle a fancy I have; Drest like a poor man a journey I'll make, And see if on me some pity she'll take. 200 Then drest like a beggar he goes to the gate, Where stood his daughter, who appear'd very great; He said, "Noble lady, a poor man I be, And am now forced to crave charity." With a blush she asked him from whence he came, 205 With that then he told her, and also his name; She said, "I'm your daughter, whom you slighted so, Yet, nevertheless, to you kindness I'll shew. "Thro' mercy the Lord hath provided for me. Now, father, come in and sit down," then said she. 210 Then the best of provisions the house could afford, For to make him welcome was set on the board. She said, "Thou art welcome; feed hearty, I pray; And, if you are willing, with me you shall stay So long as you live." Then he made this reply; 215 "I am only come thy love for to try. "Thro' mercy, my child, I am rich, and not poor; I have gold and silver enough now in store; And for the love that at thy house I have found, For a portion I'll give thee ten thousand pounds." 220 So in a few days after, as I understand, This man he went home and sold off his land; And ten thousand pounds to his daughter did give, And now altogether in love they do live.

Al you that are assembled heere, Come listen to my song, But first a pardon I must crave, For feare of further wrong; I must entreat thes good wyves al 5 They wil not angrye be, And I will sing a merrye song, If they thereto agree. Because the song I mean to sing Doth touch them most of all, 10 And loth I were that any one With me shold chide and brawle. I have anough of that at home, At boarde, and eake in bed; And once for singing this same song 15 My wyfe did breake my head. But if thes good wyves all be pleasd, And pleased be the men, Ile venture one more broken pate, To sing it once agayne. 20 But first Ile tell you what it's cald, For feare you heare no more; 'Tis calde the Taming of a Shrew, Not often sung before. And if I then shall sing the rest, 25 A signe I needs must have; Hold but your finger up to me, Or hem,—that's al I crave— Then wil I sing it with a harte, And to it roundelye goe; 30 You know my mynde, now let me see Whether I shal sing't or no. Hem. Well then, I see you willing are That I shall sing the reste; To pleasure al thes good wyves heire 35 I meane to do my best. For I do see even by their lookes No hurte to me they thinke, And thus it chancte upon a tyme, (But first give me a drinke.) 40 Not long agoe a lustye lad Did woe a livelye lasse, And long it was before he cold His purpose bring to passe; Yet at the lenth it thus fell out, 45 She granted his petition, That she would be his wedded wyfe, But yet on this condicion. That she shold weare the breeches on For one yeare and a day, 50 And not to be controld of him Whatsoere she'd do or say. She rulde, shee raignd, she had hir wil Even as she wold require; But marke what fell out afterwards, 55 Good wyves I you desyre. She made him weary of his lyfe; He wisht that death wold come, And end his myserye at once, Ere that the yeare was run; 60 He thought it was the longest yeare That was since he was borne, But he cold not the matter mend, For he was thereto sworne. Yet hath the longest day his date; 65 For this we al do know, Although the day be neer soe long, To even soone wil it goe. So fell it out with hir at lenth, The yeare was now come out; 70 The sun, and moone, and all the starres, Their race had run about. Then he began to rouse himselfe, And to his wyfe he saide, "Since that your raigne is at an end, 75 Now know me for your heade." But she that had borne swaye so long Wold not be under brought, But stil hir tounge on pattens ran, Though many blowes she caught. 80 He bet hir backe, he bet hir syde, He bet hir blacke and blew; But for all this she wolde not mend, But worse and worse she grew. When that he saw she wolde not mend, 85 Another way wrought hee; He mewde hir up as men mew hawkes, Where noe light she cold see. And kept hir without meate or drinke For four dayes space and more; 90 Yet for all this she was as ill As ere she was before. When that he saw she wold not mend, Nor that she wold be quiet, Neither for stroakes nor locking up, 95 Nor yet for want of dyet, He was almost at his wits end, He knew not what to doe; So that with gentlenes againe He gane his wyfe to woo. 100 But she soone bad him holde his peace, And sware it was his best, But then he thought him of a wyle Which made him be at rest. He told a frend or two of his 105 What he had in his mynde; Who went with him into his house, And when they all had dynde, "Good wyfe," quoth he, "thes frends of myne Come hither for your good; 110 There lyes a vayne under your toung, Must now be letten blood." Then she began to use hir tearmes, And rayléd at them fast; Yet bound they hir for al hir strenth 115 Unto a poaste at laste, And let hir blood under the toung, And tho she bled full sore, Yet did she rayle at them as fast As ere she raylde before. 120 "Wel then," quoth he, "the faulte I see, She hath it from her mother; It is hir teeth infects hir toung, And it can be noe other; And since I now doe know the cause, 125 Whatsoever to me befall, Ile plucke hir teeth out of hir toung, Perhaps hir toung and all." And with a payre of pinsers strong He pluckt a great tooth out, 130 And for to plucke another thence, He quicklye went about. But then she held up both her hands, And did for mercye pray, Protesting that against his will, 135 She wold not doe nor saye. Whereat hir husband was right glad, That she had changde hir mynde, For from that tyme unto hir death She proved both good and kynde. 140 Then did he take hir from the poast, And did unbind hir then; I wold al shrews were served thus; Al good wyves say Amen.

You noble minds, and famous martiall wights, That in defence of native country fights, Give eare to me, that ten yeeres fought for Rome, Yet reapt disgrace at my returning home. In Rome I lived in fame fulle threescore yeeres, 5 My name beloved was of all my peeres; Fulle five-and-twenty valiant sonnes I had, Whose forwarde vertues made their father glad. For when Romes foes their warlike forces bent, Against them stille my sonnes and I were sent; 10 Against the Goths full ten yeeres weary warre We spent, receiving many a bloudy scarre. Just two-and-twenty of my sonnes were slaine Before we did returne to Rome againe: Of five-and-twenty sonnes, I brought but three 15 Alive, the stately towers of Rome to see. When wars were done, I conquest home did bring, And did present my prisoners to the king, The queene of Goths, her sons, and eke a Moore, Which did such murders, like was nere before. 20 The emperour did make this queene his wife, Which bred in Rome debate and deadly strife; The Moore, with her two sonnes, did growe soe proud, That none like them in Rome might bee allowd. The Moore soe pleas'd this new-made empress' eie, 25 That she consented to him secretlye For to abuse her husbands marriage bed, And soe in time a blackamore she bred. Then she, whose thoughts to murder were inclinde, Consented with the Moore of bloody minde, 30 Against myselfe, my kin, and all my friendes, In cruell sort to bring them to their endes. Soe when in age I thought to live in peace, Both care and griefe began then to increase: Amongst my sonnes I had one daughter bright, 35 Which joy'd and pleased best my aged sight. My deare Lavinia was betrothed than To Cesars sonne, a young and noble man: Who, in a hunting, by the emperours wife, And her two sonnes, bereaved was of life. 40 He, being slaine, was cast in cruel wise Into a darksome den from light of skies: The cruell Moore did come that way as then With my three sonnes, who fell into the den. The Moore then fetcht the emperour with speed, 45 For to accuse them of that murderous deed; And when my sonnes within the den were found, In wrongfull prison they were cast and bound. But nowe behold what wounded most my mind: The empresses two sonnes, of savage kind, 50 My daughter ravished without remorse, And took away her honour, quite perforce. When they had tasted of soe sweete a flowre, Fearing this sweete should shortly turne to sowre, They cutt her tongue, whereby she could not tell 55 How that dishonoure unto her befell. Then both her hands they basely cutt off quite, Whereby their wickednesse she could not write, Nor with her needle on her sampler sowe The bloudye workers of her direfull woe. 60 My brother Marcus found her in the wood, Staining the grassie ground with purple bloud, That trickled from her stumpes, and bloudlesse armes: Noe tongue at all she had to tell her harmes. But when I sawe her in that woefull case, 65 With teares of bloud I wet mine aged face: For my Lavinia I lamented more Then for my two-and-twenty sonnes before. When as I sawe she could not write nor speake, With grief mine aged heart began to breake; 70 We spred an heape of sand upon the ground, Whereby those bloudy tyrants out we found. For with a staffe, without the helpe of hand, She writt these wordes upon the plat of sand: "The lustfull sonnes of the proud emperesse 75 Are doers of this hateful wickednesse." I tore the milk-white hairs from off mine head, I curst the houre wherein I first was bred; I wisht this hand, that fought for countries fame, In cradle rockt, had first been stroken lame. 80 The Moore, delighting still in villainy, Did say, to sett my sonnes from prison free, I should unto the king my right hand give, And then my three imprisoned sonnes should live. The Moore I caus'd to strike it off with speede, 85 Whereat I grieved not to see it bleed, But for my sonnes would willingly impart, And for their ransome send my bleeding heart. But as my life did linger thus in paine, They sent to me my bootlesse hand againe, 90 And therewithal the heades of my three sonnes, Which filled my dying heart with fresher moanes. Then past reliefe, I upp and downe did goe, And with my teares writ in the dust my woe: I shot my arrowes towards heaven hie, 95 And for revenge to hell often did crye. The empresse then, thinking that I was mad, Like Furies she and both her sonnes were clad, (She nam'd Revenge, and Rape and Murder they) To undermine and heare what I would say. 100 I fed their foolish veines a certaine space, Untill my friendes did find a secret place, Where both her sonnes unto a post were bound, And just revenge in cruell sort was found. I cut their throates, my daughter held the pan 105 Betwixt her stumpes, wherein the bloud it ran: And then I ground their bones to powder small, And made a paste for pyes streight therewithall. Then with their fleshe I made two mighty pyes, And at a banquet, served in stately wise, 110 Before the empresse set this loathsome meat; So of her sonnes own flesh she well did eat. Myselfe bereav'd my daughter then of life, The empresse then I slewe with bloudy knife, And stabb'd the emperour immediatelie, 115 And then myself: even soe did Titus die. Then this revenge against the Moore was found; Alive they sett him halfe in the ground, Whereas he stood untill such time he starv'd: And soe God send all murderers may be serv'd. 120

As it fell on a holy-day, And upon 'a' holy-tide-a, John Dory bought him an ambling nag, To Paris for to ride-a. And when John Dory to Paris was come, 5 A little before the gate-a, John Dory was fitted, the porter was witted, To let him in thereat-a. The first man that John Dory did meet, Was good king John of France-a; 10 John Dory could well of his courtesie, But fell downe in a trance-a. "A pardon, a pardon, my liege and my king, For my merie men and for me-a; And all the churles in merie England, 15 Ile bring them all bound to thee-a." And Nicholl was then a Cornish man, A little beside Bohide-a, And he mande forth a good blacke barke, With fifty good oares on a side-a. 20 "Run up, my boy, unto the maine top, And looke what thou canst spie-a:" "Who ho! who ho! a goodly ship I do see, I trow it be John Dory-a." They hoist their sailes, both top and top, 25 The meisseine and all was tride-a; And every man stood to his lot, Whatever should betide-a. The roring cannons then were plide, And dub-a-dub went the drumme-a; 30 The braying trumpets lowd they cride, To courage both all and some-a. The grapling-hooks were brought at length, The browne bill and the sword-a; John Dory at length, for all his strength, 35 Was clapt fast under board-a.

Sir Eglamore, that valiant knight, With his fa, la, lanctre down dilie, He fetcht his sword and he went to fight, With his fa, la, lanctre, &c. As he went over hill and dale, All cloathed in his coat of male, With his fa, la, lanctre, &c. A huge great dragon leapt out of his den, 5 Which had killed the Lord knows how many men; But when he saw Sir Eglamore, Good lack had ye seen how this dragon did roare! This dragon he had a plaguy hide, Which could both sword and spear abide; 10 He could not enter with hacks and cuts, Which vext the knight to the very hearts blood and guts. All the trees in the wood did shake, Stars did tremble, and men did quake; But had ye seen how the birds lay peeping, 15 'Twould have made a mans heart to fall a-weeping. But it was too late to fear, For now it was come to fight dog, fight bear; And as a yawning he did fall, He thrust his sword in, hilt and all. 20 But now as the knight in choler did burn, He owed the dragon a shrewd good turn: In at his mouth his sword he bent, The hilt appeared at his fundament. Then the dragon, like a coward, began to fly 25 Unto his den, that was hard by; And there he laid him down and roar'd; The knight was vexed for his sword. "The sword, that was a right good blade, As ever Turk or Spaniard made, 30 I for my part do forsake it, And he that will fetch it, let him take it." When all this was done, to the ale-house he went, And by and by his two pence he spent; For he was so hot with tugging with the dragon, 35 That nothing would quench him but a whole flaggon. Now God preserve our King and Queen, And eke in London may be seen As many knights, and as many more, And all so good as Sir Eglamore. 40

I have read that many years agoe, When Jeph[th]a, judge of Israel, Had one fair daughter and no moe, Whom he loved passing well. And as by lot, God wot, 5 It came to passe, most like it was, Great warrs there should be, And who should be the chiefe but he, but he. When Jeph[th]a was appointed now Chiefe captain of the company, 10 To God the Lord he made a vow, If he might have the victory, At his return, to burn, For his offering, the first quick thing, Should meet with him then, 15 From his house when he came agen, agen. It chanced so these warrs were done, And home he came with victory; His daughter out of doors did run To meet her father speedily: 20 And all the way did play To taber and pipe, and many a stripe, And notes full high, For joy that he was so nigh, so nigh. When Jeph[th]a did perceive and see 25 His daughter firm and formostly, He rent his cloths, and tore his haire, And shrieked out most piteously: "For thou art she," quoth he, "Hath brought me low—alas, for woe! 30 And troubled me so, That I cannot tell what to doe, to doe. "For I have made a vow," quoth he, Which must not be diminishéd; A sacrifice to God on high; 35 My promise must be finishéd." "As ye have spoke, provoke No further care, but to prepare Your will to fulfill, According to God's will, God's will. 40 "For sithence God has given you might To overcome your enemies, Let one be offer'd up, as right, For to perform all promises. And this let be," quoth she, 45 "As thou hast said; be not afraid; Although it be I, Keep promise with God on high, on high. "But father, do so much for me As let me go to wildernesse, 50 There to bewaile my virginity, Three months to bemoan my heavinesse. And let there go some moe, Like maids with me." "Content," quoth he, And sent her away, 55 To mourn till her latter day, her day. And when that time was come and gone That she should sacrificed be, This virgin sacrificed was, For to fulfill all promises. 60 As some say, for aye The virgins there, three times a year, Like sorrow fulfill For the daughter of Jeph[th]a still, still, still.

When Samson was a tall young man, His power and strength increased then, And in the host and tribe of Dan The Lord did bless him still. It chanced so upon a day, 5 As he was walking on his way, He saw a maiden fresh and gay In Timnath. With whom he fell so sore in love, That he his fancy could not move; 10 His parents therefore he did prove, And craved their good wills: "I have found out a wife," quoth he; "I pray ye, father, give her me; Though she a stranger's daughter be, 15 I pass not." Then did bespeak his parents dear, "Have we not many maidens here, Of country and acquaintance near, For thee to love and like?" 20 "O no," quoth Samson presently, "Not one so pleasant in my eye, Whom I could find so faithfully To fancy." At length they granted their consent, 25 And so with Samson forth they went; To see the maid was their intent, Which was so fair and bright. But as they were a-going there, A lion put them in great fear, 30 Whom Samson presently did tear In pieces. When they were come unto the place, They were agreed in the case; The wedding day appointed was, 35 And when the time was come, As Samson went for beauty's fees, The lion's carcass there he sees, Wherein a sort of honey bees Had swarmed. 40 Then closely Samson went his way, And not a word thereof did say, Untill the merry feasting-day, Unto the company. "A riddle I will shew," quoth he; 45 "The meaning if you tell to me, Within seven days I will give ye Great riches. "But if the meaning you do miss, And cannot shew me what it is, 50 Then shall you give to me i-wiss So much as I have said." "Put forth the riddle then," quoth they, "And we will tell it by our day, Or we will lose, as thou dost say, 55 The wager." "Then make," quoth he, "the total sum. Out of the eater meat did come, And from the strong did sweetness run; Declare it, if you can." 60 And when they heard the riddle told, Their hearts within them waxed cold, For none of them could then unfold The meaning. Then unto Samson's wife went they, 65 And threatened her, without delay, If she would not the thing bewray, To burn her father's house. Then Samson's wife, with grief and woe, Desired him the same to shew, And when she knew, she straight did go, 70 To tell them. Then were they all full glad of this; To tell the thing they did not miss; "What stronger beast than a lion is? 75 What sweeter meat than honey?" Then Samson answered them full round, "If my heifer had not ploughed the ground, So easily you had not found My riddle. 80 Then Samson did his losses pay, And to his father went his way: But while with them he there did stay, His wife forsook him quite, And took another to her love, 85 Which Samson's anger much did move: To plague them therefore he did prove His cunning. A subtle thought he then had found, To burn their corn upon the ground; 90 Their vineyards he destroyed round, Which made them fret and fume. But when they knew that Samson he Had done them all this injury, Because his wife did him deny, 95 They killed her. And afterward they had decreed To murder Samson for that deed; Three thousand men they sent with speed, To bring him bound to them. 100 But he did break his cords apace, And with the jaw-bone of an ass A thousand men, ere he did pass, He killed. When all his foes were laid in dust, 105 Then Samson was full sore athirst; In God therefore was all his trust, To help his fainting heart: For liquor thereabout was none: The Lord therefore from the jaw-bone 110 Did make fresh water spring, alone To help him. Then Samson had a joyfull spright, And in a city lay that night, Whereas his foes, with deadly spite, 115 Did seek his life to spill: But he at midnight then awakes, And tearing down the city gates, With him away the same he takes Most stoutly. 120 Then on Delilah, fair and bright, Did Samson set his whole delight, Whom he did love both day and night, Which wrought his overthrow. For she with sweet words did entreat, 125 That for her sake he would repeat Wherein his strength, that was so great, Consisted. At length, unto his bitter fall, And through her suit, which was not small, 130 He did not let to show her all The secrets of his heart. "If that my hair be cut," quoth he, "Which now so fair and long you see, Like other men then shall I be 135 In weakness." Then through deceit which was so deep, She lulled Samson fast asleep; A man she call'd, which she did keep, To cut off all his hair. 140 Then did she call his hateful foes, Ere Samson from her lap arose, Who could not then withstand their blows, For weakness. To bind him fast they did devise, 145 Then did they put out both his eyes; In prison wofully he lies, And there he grinds the mill. But God remembered all his pain, And did restore his strength again, 150 Although that bound he did remain In prison. The Philistines now were glad of this; For joy they made a feast i-wiss, And all their princes did not miss 155 To come unto the same. And being merry bent that day, For Samson they did send straightway, That they might laugh to see him play Among them. 160 Then to the house was Samson led, And when he had their fancies fed, He pluck'd the house upon their head, And down they tumbled all. So that with grief and deadly pain, 165 Three thousand persons there were slain; Thus Samson then, with all his train, Was brained.

When Troy towne had, for ten yeeres 'past,' Withstood the Greekes in manfull wise, Then did their foes encrease soe fast, That to resist none could suffice: Wast lye those walls, that were soe good, 5 And corne now growes where Troy towne stoode. Æneas, wandering prince of Troy, When he for land long time had sought, At length arriving with great joy, To mighty Carthage walls was brought; 10 Where Dido queene, with sumptuous feast, Did entertaine that wandering guest. And, as in hall at meate they sate, The queene, desirous newes to heare, Says, "Of thy Troys unhappy fate, 15 Declare to me, thou Trojan deare: The heavy hap and chance soe bad, That thou, poore wandering prince, hast had." And then anon this comelye knight, With words demure, as he cold well, 20 Of his unhappy ten yeares 'fight,' Soe true a tale began to tell, With wordes soe sweete, and sighes soe deepe, That oft he made them all to weepe. And then a thousand sighes he fet, 25 And every sigh brought teares amaine; That where he sate the place was wett, As though he had seene those warrs againe: Soe that the queene, with ruth therfore, Said, "Worthy prince, enough, no more." 30 And then the darksome night drew on, And twinkling starres the skye bespred, When he his dolefull tale had done, And every one was layd in bedd: Where they full sweetly tooke their rest, 35 Save only Dido's boyling brest. This silly woman never slept, But in her chamber, all alone, As one unhappye, alwayes wept, And to the walls shee made her mone; 40 That she shold still desire in vaine The thing she never must obtaine. And thus in grieffe she spent the night, Till twinkling starres the skye were fled, And Ph[oe]bus, with his glistering light, 45 Through misty cloudes appeared red; Then tidings came to her anon, That all the Trojan shipps were gone. And then the queene with bloody knife Did arme, her hart as hard as stone; 50 Yet, something loth to loose her life, In woefull wise she made her mone; And, rowling on her carefull bed, With sighes and sobbes, these words shee sayd: "O wretched Dido queene!" quoth shee, 55 "I see thy end approacheth neare; For hee is fled away from thee, Whom thou didst love and hold so deare: What, is he gone, and passed by? O hart, prepare thyselfe to dye. 60 "Though reason says thou shouldst forbeare, And stay thy hand from bloudy stroke, Yet fancy bids thee not to fear, Which fetter'd thee in Cupids yoke. Come death," quoth shee, "resolve my smart!"— 65 And with those words shee peerced her hart. When death had pierced the tender hart Of Dido, Carthaginian queene, Whose bloudy knife did end the smart, Which shee sustain'd in mournfull teene, 70 Æneas being shipt and gone, Whose flattery caused all her mone, Her funerall most costly made, And all things finisht mournfullye, Her body fine in mold was laid, 75 Where itt consumed speedilye: Her sisters teares her tombe bestrewde, Her subjects griefe their kindnesse shewed. Then was Æneas in an ile In Grecya, where he stayd long space, 80 Whereas her sister in short while Writt to him to his vile disgrace; In speeches bitter to his mind Shee told him plaine he was unkind. "False-harted wretch," quoth shee, "thou art; 85 And traiterouslye thou hast betraid Unto thy lure a gentle hart, Which unto thee much welcome made; My sister deare, and Carthage' joy, Whose folly bred her deere annoy. 90 "Yett on her death-bed when shee lay, Shee prayd for thy prosperitye, Beseeching God, that every day Might breed thy great felicitye: Thus by thy meanes I lost a friend; 95 Heaven send thee such untimely end." When he these lines, full fraught with gall, Perused had, and wayed them right, His lofty courage then did fall; And straight appeared in his sight 100 Queene Dido's ghost, both grim and pale; Which made this valliant souldier quaile. "Æneas," quoth this ghastly ghost, "My whole delight, when I did live, Thee of all men I loved most; 105 My fancy and my will did give; For entertainment I thee gave, Unthankefully thou didst me grave. "Therfore prepare thy flitting soule To wander with me in the aire, 110 Where deadlye griefe shall make it howle, Because of me thou tookst no care: Delay not time, thy glasse is run, Thy date is past, thy life is done." "O stay a while, thou lovely sprite; 115 Be not soe hasty to convay My soule into eternall night, Where itt shall ne're behold bright day: O doe not frowne; thy angry looke Hath made my breath my life forsooke. 120 "But, woe is me! all is in vaine, And bootless is my dismall crye; Time will not be recalled againe, Nor thou surcease before I dye. O lett me live, and make amends 125 To some of thy most dearest friends. "But seeing thou obdurate art, And wilt no pittye on me show, Because from thee I did depart, And left unpaid what I did owe, 130 I must content myselfe to take What lott to me thou wilt partake." And thus, as one being in a trance, A multitude of uglye feinds About this woffull prince did dance: 135 He had no helpe of any friends: His body then they tooke away, And no man knew his dying day.

All youths of fair Englànd That dwell both far and near, Regard my story that I tell, And to my song give ear. A London lad I was, 5 A merchant's prentice bound; My name George Barnwell; that did spend My master many a pound. Take heed of harlots then, And their enticing trains; 10 For by that means I have been brought To hang alive in chains. As I upon a day Was walking through the street, About my master's business, 15 A wanton I did meet. A gallant dainty dame And sumptuous in attire; With smiling look she greeted me, And did my name require. 20 Which when I had declar'd, She gave me then a kiss, And said, if I would come to her I should have more than this. "Fair mistress," then quoth I, 25 "If I the place may know, This evening I will be with you; For I abroad must go, "To gather monies in, That are my master's due: 30 And ere that I do home return I'll come and visit you." "Good Barnwell," then quoth she, "Do thou to Shoreditch come, And ask for Mrs. Milwood's house, 35 Next door unto the Gun. "And trust me on my truth, If thou keep touch with me, My dearest friend, as my own heart Thou shalt right welcome be." 40 Thus parted we in peace, And home I passed right; Then went abroad, and gathered in, By six o'clock at night, An hundred pound and one: 45 With bag under my arm I went to Mrs. Millwood's house, And thought on little harm. And knocking at the door, Straightway herself came down; 50 Rustling in most brave attire, With hood and silken gown. Who, through her beauty bright, So gloriously did shine, That she amaz'd my dazzling eyes, 55 She seemed so divine. She took me by the hand, And with a modest grace, "Welcome, sweet Barnwell," then quoth she, "Unto this homely place. 60 "And since I have thee found As good as thy word to be, A homely supper, ere we part, Thou shalt take here with me." "O pardon me," quoth I, 65 "Fair mistress, I you pray; For why, out of my master's house So long I dare not stay." "Alas, good sir," she said, "Are you so strictly ty'd, 70 You may not with your dearest friend One hour or two abide? "Faith, then the case is hard; If it be so," quoth she, "I would I were a prentice bound, 75 To live along with thee. "Therefore, my dearest George, List well what I shall say, And do not blame a woman much, Her fancy to bewray. 80 "Let not affection's force Be counted lewd desire; Nor think it not immodesty, I should thy love require." With that she turn'd aside, 85 And with a blushing red, A mournful motion she bewray'd By hanging down her head. A handkerchief she had, All wrought with silk and gold, 90 Which she, to stay her trickling tears, Before her eyes did hold. This thing unto my sight Was wondrous rare and strange, And in my soul and inward thought 95 It wrought a sudden change: That I so hardy grew To take her by the hand, Saying, "Sweet mistress, why do you So dull and pensive stand?" 100 "Call me no mistress now, But Sarah, thy true friend, Thy servant, Milwood, honouring thee, Until her life hath end. "If thou wouldst here alledge 105 Thou art in years a boy; So was Adonis, yet was he Fair Venus' only joy." Thus I, who ne'er before Of woman found such grace, 110 But seeing now so fair a dame Give me a kind embrace, I supt with her that night, With joys that did abound; And for the same paid presently, 115 In mony twice three pound. An hundred kisses then, For my farewel she gave; Crying, "Sweet Barnwell, when shall I Again thy company have? 120 "O stay not hence too long; Sweet George, have me in mind:" Her words bewicht my childishness, She uttered them so kind. So that I made a vow, 125 Next Sunday, without fail, With my sweet Sarah once again To tell some pleasant tale. When she heard me say so, The tears fell from her eye; 130 "O George," quoth she, "if thou dost fail, Thy Sarah sure will dye." Though long, yet loe! at last, The appointed day was come, That I must with my Sarah meet; 135 Having a mighty sum Of money in my hand, Unto her house went I, Whereas my love upon her bed In saddest sort did lye. 140 "What ails my heart's delight, My Sarah dear?" quoth I; "Let not my love lament and grieve, Nor sighing pine and die. "But tell me, dearest friend, 145 What may thy woes amend, And thou shalt lack no means of help, Though forty pound I spend." With that she turn'd her head, And sickly thus did say: 150 "Oh me, sweet George, my grief is great; Ten pound I have to pay Unto a cruel wretch; And God he knows," quoth she, "I have it not." "Tush, rise," I said, 155 "And take it here of me. "Ten pounds, nor ten times ten, Shall make my love decay;" Then from my bag into her lap, I cast ten pound straightway. 160 All blithe and pleasant then, To banqueting we go; She proffered me to lye with her, And said it should be so. And after that same time, 165 I gave her store of coyn, Yea, sometimes fifty pound at once; All which I did purloyn. And thus I did pass on; Until my master then 170 Did call to have his reckoning in Cast up among his men. The which when as I heard, I knew not what to say: For well I knew that I was out 175 Two hundred pound that day. Then from my master straight I ran in secret sort; And unto Sarah Milwood there My case I did report. 180 But how she used this youth, In this his care and woe, And all a strumpet's wiley ways, The second part may showe.

"Young Barnwell comes to thee, Sweet Sarah, my delight; I am undone, unless thou stand My faithful friend this night. "Our master to accompts 5 Hath just occasion found; And I am caught behind the hand Above two hundred pound. "And now his wrath to 'scape, My love, I fly to thee, 10 Hoping some time I may remaine In safety here with thee." With that she knit her brows, And looking all aquoy, Quoth she, "What should I have to do 15 With any prentice boy? "And seeing you have purloyn'd Your master's goods away, The case is bad, and therefore here You shall no longer stay." 20 "Why, dear, thou know'st," I said, "How all which I could get, "I gave it, and did spend it all Upon thee every whit." Quoth she, "Thou art a knave, 25 To charge me in this sort, Being a woman of credit fair, And known of good report. "Therefore I tell thee flat, Be packing with good speed; 30 I do defie thee from my heart, And scorn thy filthy deed." "Is this the friendship, that You did to me protest? Is this the great affection, which 35 You so to me exprest? "Now fie on subtle shrews! The best is, I may speed To get a lodging any where For money in my need. 40 "False woman, now farewell; Whilst twenty pound doth last, My anchor in some other haven With freedom I will cast." When she perceiv'd by this, 45 I had store of money there, "Stay, George," quoth she, "thou art too quick: Why, man, I did but jeer. "Dost think for all my speech, That I would let thee go? 50 Faith, no," said she, "my love to thee I-wiss is more than so." "You scorne a prentice boy, I heard you just now swear: Wherefore I will not trouble you:" 55 "Nay, George, hark in thine ear; "Thou shalt not go to-night, What chance soe're befall; But man, we'll have a bed for thee, Or else the devil take all." 60 So I by wiles bewitcht, And snar'd with fancy still, Had then no power to 'get' away, Or to withstand her will. For wine on wine I call'd, 65 And cheer upon good cheer; And nothing in the world I thought For Sarah's love too dear. Whilst in her company, I had such merriment, 70 All, all too little I did think, That I upon her spent. "A fig for care and thought! When all my gold is gone, In faith, my girl, we will have more, 75 Whoever I light upon. "My father's rich; why then Should I want store of gold?" "Nay, with a father, sure," quoth she, "A son may well make bold." 80 "I've a sister richly wed; I'll rob her ere I'll want." "Nay then," quoth Sarah, "they may well Consider of your scant." "Nay, I an uncle have; 85 At Ludlow he doth dwell; He is a grazier, which in wealth Doth all the rest excell. "Ere I will live in lack, And have no coyn for thee, 90 I'll rob his house, and murder him." "Why should you not?" quoth she. "Was I a man, ere I Would live in poor estate, On father, friends, and all my kin, 95 I would my talons grate. "For without money, George, A man is but a beast: But bringing money, thou shalt be Always my welcome guest. 100 "For shouldst thou be pursued With twenty hues and cryes, And with a warrant searched for With Argus' hundred eyes, "Yet here thou shalt be safe; 105 Such privy wayes there be, That if they sought an hundred years, They could not find out thee." And so carousing both Their pleasures to content, 110 George Barnwell had in little space His money wholly spent. Which done, to Ludlow straight He did provide to go, To rob his wealthy uncle there; 115 His minion would it so. And once he thought to take His father by the way, But that he fear'd his master had Took order for his stay.120 Unto his uncle then He rode with might and main, Who with a welcome and good cheer Did Barnwell entertain. One fortnight's space he stayed, 125 Until it chanced so, His uncle with his cattle did Unto a market go. His kinsman rode with him, Where he did see right plain, 130 Great store of money he had took: When, coming home again, Sudden within a wood, He struck his uncle down, And beat his brains out of his head; 135 So sore he crackt his crown. Then seizing fourscore pound, To London straight he hyed, And unto Sarah Millwood all The cruell fact descryed. 140 "Tush, 'tis no matter, George, So we the money have To have good cheer in jolly sort, And deck us fine and brave." Thus lived in filthy sort, 145 Until their store was gone: When means to get them any more, I-wis poor George had none. Therefore in railing sort, She thrust him out of door; 150 Which is the just reward of those, Who spend upon a whore. "O do me not disgrace In this my need," quoth he: She called him thief and murderer, 155 With all the spight might be. To the constable she sent, To have him apprehended; And shewed how far, in each degree, He had the laws offended. 160 When Barnwell saw her drift, To sea he got straightway; Where fear and sting of conscience Continually on him lay. Unto the lord mayor then, 165 He did a letter write, In which his own and Sarah's fault He did at large recite. Whereby she seized was, And then to Ludlow sent, 170 Where she was judg'd, condemn'd, and hang'd, For murder incontinent. There dyed this gallant quean, Such was her greatest gains; For murder in Polonia, 175 Was Barnwell hang'd in chains. Lo! here's the end of youth That after harlots haunt, Who in the spoil of other men About the streets do flaunt. 180

As I gaed in yon greenwood side, I heard a fair maid singing; Her voice was sweet, she sang sae complete, That all the woods were ringing. "O I'm the Duke o' Athole's nurse, 5 My post is well becoming; But I wou'd gie a' my half-year's fee, For ae sight o' my leman." "Ye say, ye're the Duke o' Athole's nurse, Your post is well becoming; 10 Keep well, keep well your half-year's fee, Ye'se hae twa sights o' your leman." He lean'd him ower his saddle bow, And cannilie kiss'd his dearie; "Ohon, and alake! anither has my heart, 15 And I darena mair come near thee!" "Ohon, and alake! if anither hae your heart, These words hae fairly undone me; But let us set a time, tryst to meet again, Then in gude friends you will twine me!" 20 "Ye will do you down to yon tavern house, And drink till the day be dawing; And, as sure as I ance had a love for you, I'll come there and clear your lawing. "Ye'll spare not the wine, altho' it be fine, 25 Nae Malago, tho' it be rarely; But ye'll aye drink the bonnie lassie's health That's to clear your lawing fairly." Then he's done him down to yon tavern house, And drank till day was dawing; 30 And aye he drank the bonny lassie's health That was coming to clear his lawing. And aye as he birled, and aye as he drank The gude beer and the brandy, He spar'd not the wine, altho' it was fine, 35 The sack nor the sugar candy. "It's a wonder to me," the knight he did say, "My bonnie lassie's sae delaying; She promis'd, as sure as she loved me ance, She wou'd be here by the dawing." 40 He's done him to a shott window, A little before the dawing, And there he spied her nine brothers bauld, Were coming to betray him. "Where shall I rin, where shall I gang, 45 Or where shall I gang hide me? She that was to meet me in friendship this day, Has sent nine men to slay me!" He's gane to the landlady o' the house, Says, "O can you supply me? 50 For she that was to meet me in friendship this day, Has sent nine men to slay me! She gae him a suit o' her ain female claise, And set him to the baking; The bird never sang mair sweet on the bush, 55 Nor the knight sung at the baking. As they came in at the ha' door, Sae loudly as they rappit, And when they came upon the floor, Sae loudly as they chappit! 60 "O had ye a stranger here last night, Who drank till the day was dawing? Come, show us the chamber where he lyes in, We'll shortly clear his lawing." "I had nae stranger here last night, 65 That drank till the day was dawing; But ane that took a pint, and paid it ere he went, And there's naething to clear o' his lawing." A lad amang the rest, being o' a merry mood, To the young knight fell a-talking; 70 The wife took her foot, and gae him a kick, Says, "Be busy, ye jilt, at your baking." They stabbed the house, baith but and ben, The curtains they spared nae riving, And for a' that they did search and ca', 75 For a kiss o' the knight they were striving.

As I cam in by Athol's yetts, I heard a fair maid singing; "I am the Duke o' Athol's nourice, And I wat it weel does set me; And I wad gie a' my half-year's fee, 5 For ae sicht o' my Johnie." "Keep weel, keep weel, your half-year's fee, For ye'll soon get a sicht o' your Johnie; But anither woman has my heart, And I am sorry for to leave ye." 10 "Ye'll dow ye doun to yon change-house, And drink till the day be dawing; At ilka pint's end ye'll drink the lass' health, That's coming to pay the lawing." He hied him doun to yon change-house, 15 And he drank till the day was dawing; And at ilka pint's end he drank the lass' health, That was coming to pay for his lawing. Aye he ranted, and aye he sang, And drank till the day was dawing; 20 And aye he drank the bonnie lass' health, That was coming to pay the lawing. He spared na the sack, though it was dear, The wine, nor the sugar-candy; * * * * * * * * He has dune him to the shot-window, 25 To see gin she war coming; There he saw the duke and a' his merry men, That oure the hill cam rinning. He has dune him to the landlady, To see gin she wad protect him; 30 She buskit him up into woman's claise, And set him till a baking. Sae loudlie as they rappit at the yett, Sae loudlie as they war calling; "Had ye a young man here yestreen, 35 That drank till the day was dawing?" "He drank but ae pint, and he paid it or he went, And ye've na mair to do wi' the lawing." They searchit the house a' round and round, And they spared na the curtains to tear them; 40 While the landlady stood upo' the stair-head, Crying, "Maid, be busy at your baking;" They gaed as they cam, and left a' undone, And left the bonnie maid at her baking.

There was a knight, a barone bright, A bauld barone was he, And he had only but one son, A comely youth to see. He's brought him at schools nine, 5 So has he at schools ten, But the boy learn'd to haud the plow Among his father's men. But it fell ance upon a day The bauld barone did say, 10 "My son you maun gae court a wife, And ane o high degree. "Ye have lands, woods, rents, and bouirs, Castels and touirs three; Then go my son and seek some dame 15 To share that gift wi' thee." "Yes, I have lands and woods, father, Castels and touirs three; But what if she like my lands and rents Far more than she loves me? 20 "But I will go and seek a wife That weel can please mine ee, And I sall fairly try her love Before she gang wi me." He then took off the scarlet coat, 25 Bedeck'd wi shinin' gold, And has put on the hireman's coat, To keip him frae the cold. He then laid past the studded sword, That he could bravely draw, 30 And he's gone skipping down the stair, Swift as the bird that flaw. He took a stick into his hand, Which he could bravely wiel, And he's gane whistling o'er the lan', 35 Like a young hireman chiel. And he gaed up yon high high hill, And low down i the glen, And there he saw a gay castell, Wi turrets nine or ten. 40 And he has gone on, and farther on, Till to the yett drew he, And there he saw a lady fair, That pleas'd the young man's ee. He went streight to the greave's chamber, 45 And with humilitie, Said, "Have ye any kind of work For a hireman chiel like me?" "What is the work that ye intend, Or how can we agree? 50 Can ye plow, reap, and sow the corn, And a' for meat and fee?" "Yes, I can plow, and reap, and mow, And sow the corn too; I can weel manage horse and cow, 55 And a' for meat and fee." "If ye can haud the plow right weel, And sow the corn too, By faith and troth, my hireman chiel, We shall not part for fee." 60 He['s] put his hand in his pocket, And taen out shillings nine; Says, "Take ye that, my hireman chiel, And turn in here and dine." He acted all he took in hand, 65 His master lov'd him weel, And the young lady of the land Fell in love wi the hireman chiel. How oft she tried to drown the flame, And oft wept bitterlie; 70 But still she lov'd the hireman chiel, So well's he pleas'd her ee. She has written a broad letter, And seal'd it wi' her hand, And dropt it at the stable door, 75 Where the young man did stand. "I am in love, my hireman chiel, I'm deip in love wi thee; And if ye think me worth your love, I' the garden green meet me." 80 When he had read the letter o'er, A loud loud laugh gae he; Said, "If I manage my business well, I'm sure to get my fee." At night they met behind a tree, 85 Low in the garden green, To tell their tale among the flowers, And view the e'ening scene. Next morning by the rising sun, She, with her maries fair, 90 Walk'd to the fields to see the plow, And meet the hireman there. "Good morn, good morn, my lady gay, I wonder much at you, To rise so early in the morn, 95 While fields are wet wi dew, To hear the linnets on the thorn, And see the plow-boy plow." "But I wonder much at you, young man, I wonder much at you, 100 That ye no other station have Than hold my father's plow." "I love as weel to rise each morn As ye can your maries fair; I love as weel to hold the plow 105 As I were your father's heir. "If ye love me, as ye protest, And I trust weel ye do, The morn's night at eight o'clock, In gude green wood meet me." 110 "Yes, I love you, my hireman chiel, And that most tenderlie, But when my virgin honor's gone, I soon will slighted be." "Take ye no dread, my lady gay, 115 Lat a your folly be; If ye com a maiden to green wood, You'll return the same for me." The lady she went home again Wi a mary on every hand; 120 She was so very sick in love, She could not sit nor stand. It was a dark and cloudy night, No stars beam'd o'er the lea, When the lady and the hireman met 125 Beneath a spreading tree. He took the lady in his arms, Embraced her tenderlie, And thrice he kiss'd her rosy lips Under the green wood tree. 130 "Hold off your hands, young man, I pray; I wonder much at thee; The man that holds my father's plow, To lay his hands on me." "No harm I mean, my winsome dame, 135 No impudence at a'; I never laid a hand on you Till your libertie I saw." "It is a dark and dismal night, 140 The dew is falling down; I will go home, least I should spoil My cap and satin gown." "If you are wearied so soon, Why did ye tryst me here?" 145 "I would not weary with you, my dear, Tho this night were a year." When morning beams began to peep Among the branches green, The lovers rose, and part to meet, 150 And tell their tale again. "Ye will go home unto the plow, Where often ye hae been; I'll tak my mantle folded up, And walk i the garden green. 155 "The barone and my mother dear Will wonder what I mean; They'll think I've been disturbed sair, When I am up so soon." But this pass'd on, and farther on, 160 For two months and a day, Till word came to the bauld barone, And an angry man was he. The barone swore a solemn oath, An angry man was he, 165 "The morn, before I eat or drink, High hanged shall he be." "Farewell, my lovely maiden fair, A long adieu to thee; Your father's sworn a solemn swear 170 That hanged I shall be." "O woe's me," the lady said, "Yet do not troubled be; If e'er they touch the hair on thy head, They'll get no good of me." 175 He turn'd him right and round about, And a loud loud laugh gae he; "That man stood never in the court That dare this day hang me." The lady spake from her bouir door, 180 An angry woman was she; "What insolence in you to tryst Her to the green wood tree." "If she had not given her consent, She had not gone wi me; 185 If she came a maiden to green wood, She return'd again for me." He turn'd him right and round about, And a loud loud laugh gae he; "Ye may wed your daughter whan ye will, 190 She's none the worse for me." He has gone whistling o'er the knowe, Swift as the bird that flaw; The lady stood in her bouir door, And lout the salt tears fa. 195 But this pass'd on, and further on, A twelve month and a day, Till there came a knight and a barone bright To woo this lady gay. He soon gain'd the baronne's will, 200 Likewise the mother gay; He woo'd and won the lady's love, But by a slow degree. "O weel befa' you, daughter dear, And happy may ye be, 205 To lay your love on the grand knight, And let the hireman be." "O haud your tongue, my father dear, And speak not so to me; Far more I love the hireman chiel 210 Than a' the knights I see. The morn was come, and bells were rung, And all to church repair; But like the rose among the throng Was the lady and her maries fair. 215 But as they walked o'er the field, Among the flowers fair, Beneath a tree stood on the plain, The hireman chiel was there. "I wish you joy, my gay madam, 220 And aye well may ye be; There is a ring, a pledge of love, That ance I got from thee." "O wae befa' ye, you hireman chiel, Some ill death may ye die; 225 Ye might hae tauld to me your name, Your hame, or what countrie." "If ye luve me, my lady gay, As ye protest ye do, Then turn your love from this gay knight, 230 And reach your hand to me." Then out spake the gay baronne, And an angry man was he; "If I had known she was belov'd, She had never been lov'd by me." 235 When she was set on high horse-back, And riding thro' the glen, They saw her father posting quick, With fifty armed men. "Do for yourself, my hireman lad, 240 And for your safety flee; My father he will take me back, But married I'll never be." When they were up yon rising hill, There low down i' the glen, 245 He saw his father's gilded coach, Wi' five hundred gentlemen. "Come back, turn back, my hireman chiel, Turn back and speak wi' me; Ye've serv'd me lang for the lady's sake, 250 Come back, and get your fee." "Your blessing give us instantly, Is all we crave o' thee; These seven years I've serv'd for her sake, But now I'm paid my fee." 255

As it fell out one Whitsunday, The blith time of the year, When every tree was clad with green, And pretty birds sing clear, The Lady Dacres took her way 5 Unto the church that pleasant day, With her fair daughter fresh and gay, A bright and bonny lass. Sir Michael Musgrave, in like sort, To church repaired then, 10 And so did Sir John Armstrong too, With all his merry men. Two greater friends there could not be, Nor braver knights for chivalry, Both batchelors of high degree, 15 Fit for a bonny lass. They sat them down upon one seat, Like loving brethren dear, With hearts and minds devoutly bent God's service for to hear; 20 But rising from their prayers tho, Their eyes a ranging strait did go, Which wrought their utter overthrow, All for one bonny lass. Quoth Musgrave unto Armstrong then, 25 "Yon sits the sweetest dame, That ever for her fair beauty Within this country came." "In sooth," quoth Armstrong presently, "Your judgment I must verify, 30 There never came unto my eye A braver bonny lass." "I swear," said Musgrave, "by this sword, Which did my knighthood win, To steal away so sweet a dame, 35 Could be no ghostly sin." "That deed," quoth Armstrong, "would be ill, Except you had her right good will, That your desire she would fulfil, And be thy bonny lass." 40 By this the service quite was done, And home the people past; They wish'd a blister on his tongue That made thereof such haste. At the church door the knights did meet, 45 The Lady Dacres for to greet, But most of all her daughter sweet, That beauteous bonny lass. Said Armstrong to the lady fair, "We both have made a vow 50 At dinner for to be your guests, If you will it allow." With that bespoke the lady free, "Sir knights, right welcome shall you be;" "The happier men therefore are we, 55 For love of this bonny lass." Thus were the knights both prick'd in love, Both in one moment thrall'd, And both with one fair lady gay, Fair Isabella call'd. 60 With humble thanks they went away, Like wounded harts chas'd all the day, One would not to the other say, They lov'd this bonny lass. Fair Isabel, on the other side, 65 As far in love was found; So long brave Armstrong she had ey'd, Till love her heart did wound; "Brave Armstrong is my joy," quoth she, "Would Christ he were alone with me, 70 To talk an hour, two, or three, With his fair bonny lass." But as these knights together rode, And homeward did repair, Their talk and eke their countenance shew'd 75 Their hearts were clogg'd with care. "Fair Isabel," the one did say, "Thou hast subdu'd my heart this day;" "But she's my joy," did Musgrave say, "My bright and bonny lass." 80 With that these friends incontinent Became most deadly foes; For love of beauteous Isabel, Great strife betwixt them rose: Quoth Armstrong, "She shall be my wife, 85 Although for her I lose my life;" And thus began a deadly strife, And for one bonny lass. Thus two years long this grudge did grow These gallant knights between, 90 While they a-wooing both did go, Unto this beauteous queen; And she who did their furies prove, To neither would bewray her love, The deadly quarrel to remove 95 About this bonny lass. But neither, for her fair intreats, Nor yet her sharp dispute, Would they appease their raging ire, Nor yet give o'er their suit. 100 The gentlemen of the North Country At last did make this good decree, All for a perfect unity About this bonny lass. The love-sick knights should be set 105 Within one hall so wide, Each of them in a gallant sort Even at a several tide; And 'twixt them both for certainty Fair Isabel should placed be, 110 Of them to take her choice full free, Most like a bonny lass. And as she like an angel bright Betwixt them mildly stood, She turn'd unto each several knight 115 With pale and changed blood; "Now am I at liberty To make and take my choice?" quoth she: "Yea," quoth the knights, "we do agree; Then chuse, thou bonny lass." 120 "O Musgrave, thou art all too hot To be a lady's love," Quoth she, "and Armstrong seems a sot, Where love binds him to prove. Of courage great is Musgrave still, 125 And sith to chuse I have my will, Sweet Armstrong shall my joys fulfil, And I his bonny lass." The nobles and the gentles both That were in present place, 130 Rejoiced at this sweet record; But Musgrave, in disgrace, Out of the hall did take his way, And Armstrong marryed was next day With Isabel his lady gay, 135 A bright and bonny lass. But Musgrave on the wedding-day, Like to a Scotchman dight, In secret sort allured out The bridegroom for the fight; 140 And he, that will not outbraved be, Unto his challenge did agree, Where he was slain most suddenly For his fair bonny lass. The news whereof was quickly brought 145 Unto the lovely bride; And many of young Armstrong's kin Did after Musgrave ride. They hew'd him when they had him got, As small as flesh into the pot; 150 Lo! thus befel a heavy lot About this bonny lass. The lady young, which did lament This cruel cursed strife, For very grief dyed that day, 155 A maiden and a wife. An hundred men that hapless day Did lose their lives in that same fray, And 'twixt those names, as many say, Is deadly strife still biding. 160

Fair Marg'ret of Craignargat Was the flow'r of all her kin, And she's fallen in love with a false young man, Her ruin to begin. The more she lov'd, the more it prov'd 5 Her fatal destiny, And he that sought her overthrow Shar'd of her misery. Before that lady she was born, Her mother, as we find, 10 She dreamt she had a daughter fair, That was both dumb and blind. But as she sat in her bow'r door, A-viewing of her charms, There came a raven from the south, 15 And pluck'd her from her arms. Three times on end she dreamt this dream, Which troubled sore her mind, That from that very night and hour She could no comfort find. 20 Now she has sent for a wise woman, Liv'd nigh unto the port, Who being call'd, instantly came, That lady to comfort. To her she told her dreary dream, 25 With salt tears in her eye, Hoping that she would read the same, Her mind to satisfy. "Set not your heart on children young, Whate'er their fortune be, 30 And if I tell what shall befal, Lay not the blame on me. "The raven which ye dreamed of, He is a false young man, With subtile heart and flatt'ring tongue, 35 Your daughter to trepan. "Both night and day, 'tis you I pray For to be on your guard, For many are the subtile wyles By which youth are ensnar'd." 40 When she had read the dreary dream, It vex'd her more and more, For Craignargat, of birth and state, Liv'd nigh unto the shore. But as in age her daughter wax'd, 45 Her beauty did excel All the ladies far and near That in that land did dwell. The Gordon, Hay, and brave Agnew, Three knights of high degree, 50 Unto the dame a-courting came, All for her fair beauty. Which of these men, they ask'd her then, That should her husband be; But scornfully she did reply, 55 "I'll wed none of the three." "Since it is so, where shall we go A match for thee to find, That art so fair and beautiful, That none can suit thy mind?" 60 With scorn and pride she answer made, "You'll ne'er choice one for me, Nor will I wed against my mind, For all their high degree." The brave Agnew, whose heart was true, 65 A solemn vow did make, Never to love a woman more All for that lady's sake. To counsel this lady was deaf, To judgement she was blind, 70 Which griev'd her tender parents dear, And troubled sore their mind. From the Isle of Man a courter came, And a false young man was he, With subtile heart and flatt'ring tongue, 75 To court this fair lady. This young man was a bold outlaw, A robber and a thief, But soon he gain'd this lady's heart, Which caused all their grief. 80 "O will you wed," her mother said, "A man you do not know, For to break your parents' heart, With shame but and with woe?" "Yes, I will go with him," she said, 85 "Either by land or sea; For he's the man I've pitchéd on My husband for to be." "O let her go," her father said, "For she shall have her will; 90 My curse and mallison she's got, For to pursue her still." "Your curse, father, I don't regard, Your blessing I'll ne'er crave; To the man I love I'll constant prove, 95 And never him deceive." On board with him fair Margaret's gone, In hopes his bride to be; But mark ye well, and I shall tell Of their sad destiny. 100 They had not sail'd a league but five, Till the storm began to rise; The swelling seas ran mountains high, And dismal were the skies. In deep despair that lady fair 105 For help aloud she cries, While crystal tears like fountains ran Down from her lovely eyes. "O I have got my father's curse My pride for to subdue! 110 With sorrows great my heart will break, Alas what shall I do! "O were I at my father's house, His blessing to receive, Then on my bended knees I'd fall, 115 His pardon for to crave! "To aid my grief, there's no relief, To speak it is in vain; Likewise my loving parents dear I ne'er shall see again." 120 The winds and waves did both conspire Their lives for to devour; That gallant ship that night was lost, And never was seen more. When tidings to Craignargat came, 125 Of their sad overthrow, It griev'd her tender parent's heart; Afresh began their woe. Of the dreary dream that she had seen, And often thought upon,— 130 "O fatal news," her mother cries, "My darling, she is gone! "O fair Marg'ret, I little thought The seas should be thy grave, When first thou left thy father's house, 135 Without thy parent's leave." May this tragedy a warning be To children while they live, That they may love their parents dear, Their blessing to receive. 140

The Earl o' Wigton had three daughters, O braw wallie, but they were bonnie! The youngest o' them, and the bonniest too, Has fallen in love wi' Richie Storie. "Here's a letter for ye, madame, 5 Here's a letter for ye, madame; The Erle o' Home wad fain presume To be a suitor to ye, madame." "I'll hae nane o' your letters, Richie; I'll hae nane o' your letters, Richie; 10 For I've made a vow, and I'll keep it true, That I'll have nane but you, Richie." "O do not say so, madame; O do not say so, madame; For I have neither land nor rent, 15 For to maintain you o', madame. "Ribands ye maun wear, madame, Ribands ye maun wear, madame; With the bands about your neck O' the goud that shines sae clear, madame." 20 "I'll lie ayont a dyke, Richie, I'll lie ayont a dyke, Richie; And I'll be aye at your command And bidding, whan ye like, Richie." O he's gane on the braid braid road, 25 And she's gane through the broom sae bonnie, Her silken robes down to her heels, And she's awa' wi' Richie Storie. This lady gaed up the Parliament stair, Wi' pendles in her lugs sae bonnie; 30 Mony a lord lifted his hat, But little did they ken she was Richie's lady. Up then spak the Erle o' Home's lady; "Was na ye richt sorrie, Annie, To leave the lands o' bonnie Cumbernauld, 35 And follow Richie Storie, Annie?" "O what need I be sorrie, madame, O what need I be sorrie, madame? For I've got them that I like best, And was ordained for me, madame." 40 "Cumbernauld is mine, Annie, Cumbernauld is mine, Annie; And a' that's mine, it shall be thine, As we sit at the wine, Annie."

There lived a carl on Kellyburn braes, Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme, And he had a wife was the plague o' his days, And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime.

There was an old farmer in Sussex did dwell, And he had a bad wife, as many knew well. Then Satan came to the old man at the plough,— "One of your family I must have now. "It is not your eldest son that I crave, 5 But it is your old wife, and she I will have." "O welcome, good Satan, with all my heart! I hope you and she will never more part." Now Satan has got the old wife on his back, And he lugged her along like a pedlar's pack. 10 He trudged away till they came to his hall-gate: Says he, "Here, take in an old Sussex chap's mate. O then she did kick the young imps about,— Says one to the other, "Let's try turn her out." She spied thirteen imps all dancing in chains, 15 She up with her pattens, and beat out their brains. She knocked the old Satan against the wall,— "Let's try turn her out, or she'll murder us all." Now he's bundled her up on his back amain, And to her old husband he took her again. 20 "I have been a tormentor the whole of my life, But I ne'er was tormented till I met with your wife."

It grieveth me to tell you o' Near London late what did befall, 'Twixt two young gallant gentlemen; It grieveth me, and ever shall. One of them was Sir George Wharton, 5 My good Lord Wharton's son and heir; The other, James Stuart, a Scottish knight, One that a valiant heart did bear. When first to court these nobles came, One night, a-gaming, fell to words,10 And in their fury grew so hot, That they did both try their keen swords. No manner of treating, nor advice, Could hold from striking in that place; For, in the height and heat of blood, 15 James struck George Wharton on the face. "What doth this mean," George Wharton said, "To strike in such unmanly sort? But, that I take it at thy hands, The tongue of man shall ne'er report!" 20 "But do thy worst, then," said Sir James, "Now do thy worst, appoint a day! There's not a lord in England breathes Shall gar me give an inch of way." "Ye brag right weel," George Wharton said; 25 "Let our brave lords at large alane, And speak of me, that am thy foe, For you shall find enough o' ane." "I'll interchange my glove wi' thine; I'll show it on the bed of death; 30 I mean the place where we shall fight; There ane or both maun lose life and breath!" "We'll meet near Waltham," said Sir James; "To-morrow, that shall be the day. We'll either take a single man, 35 And try who bears the bell away." Then down together hands they shook, Without any envious sign; Then went to Ludgate, where they lay, And each man drank his pint of wine. 40 No kind of envy could be seen, No kind of malice they did betray; But a' was clear and calm as death, Whatever in their bosoms lay: Till parting time; and then, indeed, 45 They show'd some rancour in their heart; "Next time we meet," says George Wharton, "Not half sae soundly we shall part!" So they have parted, firmly bent Their valiant minds equal to try: 50 The second part shall clearly show, Both how they meet, and how they die.

George Wharton was the first ae man Came to the appointed place that day, Where he espyed our Scots lord coming, 55 As fast as he could post away. They met, shook hands; their cheeks were pale; Then to George Wharton James did say, "I dinna like your doublet, George, It stands sae weel on you this day. 60 "Say, have you got no armour on? Have you no under robe of steel? I never saw an Englishman Become his doublet half sae weel." "Fy no! fy no!" George Wharton said, 65 "For that's the thing that mauna be, That I should come wi' armour on, And you a naked man truly." "Our men shall search our doublets, George, And see if one of us do lie; 70 Then will we prove, wi' weapons sharp, Ourselves true gallants for to be." Then they threw off their doublets both, And stood up in their sarks of lawn; "Now, take my counsel," said Sir James, 75 "Wharton, to thee I'll make it knawn: "So as we stand, so will we fight, Thus naked in our sarks," said he; "Fy no! fy no!" George Wharton says, "That is the thing that must not be. 80 "We're neither drinkers, quarrellers, Nor men that cares na for oursell, Nor minds na what we're gaun about, Or if we're gaun to heav'n or hell. "Let us to God bequeath our souls, 85 Our bodies to the dust and clay:" With that he drew his deadly sword, The first was drawn on field that day. Se'en bouts and turns these heroes had, Or e'er a drop o' blood was drawn; 90 Our Scotch lord, wond'ring, quickly cry'd, "Stout Wharton, thou still hauds thy awn!" The first stroke that George Wharton gae, He struck him thro' the shoulder-bane; The neist was thro' the thick o' the thigh; 95 He thought our Scotch lord had been slain. "O ever alack!" George Wharton cry'd, "Art thou a living man, tell me? If there's a surgeon living can, He's cure thy wounds right speedily." 100 "No more of that," James Stuart said; "Speak not of curing wounds to me! For one of us must yield our breath, Ere off the field one foot we flee." They looked oure their shoulders both, 105 To see what company was there: They both had grievous marks of death, But frae the other nane wad steer. George Wharton was the first that fell, Our Scotch lord fell immediately; 110 They both did cry to Him above To save their souls, for they boud die.

This story I'm going to sing, I hope it will give you content, Concerning a silly old man That was going to pay his rent. As he was a-riding along, 5 Along all on the highway, A gentleman-thief overtook him, And thus unto him did say. "O well overtaken, old man, O well overtaken," said he; 10 "Thank you kindly, sir," says the old man, "If you be for my companie." "How far are you going this way?" It made the old man to smile; "To tell you the truth, kind sir, 15 I'm just a-going twa mile. "I am but a silly old man, Who farms a piece of ground; My half-year rent, kind sir, Just comes to forty pound. 20 "But my landlord's not been at hame,— I've not seen him twelve month or more; It makes my rent to be large, I've just to pay him fourscore." "You should not have told any body, 25 For thieves there are ganging many; If they were to light upon you, They would rob you of every penny." "O never mind," says the old man, "Thieves I fear on no side; 30 My money is safe in my bags, In the saddle on which I ride." As they were a-riding along, And riding a-down a ghyll, The thief pulled out a pistòl, 35 And bade the old man stand still. The old man was crafty and false, As in this world are many; He flung his old saddle o'er t' hedge, And said, "Fetch it, if thou'lt have any." 40 This thief got off his horse, With courage stout and bold, To search this old man's bags, And gave him his horse to hold. The old man put foot in stirrup, 45 And he got on astride, He set the thief's horse in a gallop,— You need not bid th' old man ride! "O stay! O stay!" says the thief, "And thou half my share shalt have:" 50 "Nay, marry, not I," quoth the old man, "For once I've bitten a knave!" This thief he was not content; He thought these must be bags; So he up with his rusty sword, 55 And chopped the old saddle to rags. The old man gallop'd and rode Until he was almost spent, Till he came to his landlord's house, And paid him his whole year's rent. 60 He opened this rogue's portmantle; It was glorious for to behold; There was five hundred pound in money, And other five hundred in gold. His landlord it made him to stare, 65 When he did the sight behold; "Where did thou get the white money, And where get the yellow gold?" "I met a fond fool by the way, I swapped horses, and gave him no boot; 70 But never mind," says the old man, "I got a fond fool by the foot." "But now you're grown cramped and old, Nor fit for to travel about;" "O never mind," says the old man, 75 "I can give these old bones a root!" As he was a-riding hame, And a-down a narrow lane, He spied his mare tied to a tree, And said, "Tib, thou'lt now gae hame." 80 And when that he got hame, And told his old wife what he'd done, She rose and she donned her clothes, And about the house did run. She sung, and she danced, and sung, 85 And she sung with a merry devotion, "If ever our daughter gets wed, It will help to enlarge her portion!"

"O whare are ye gaun?" Quo' the fause knicht upon the road; "I'm gaun to the scule," Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude. "What is that upon your back?" 5 Quo' the fause knicht upon the road; "Atweel it is my bukes," Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude. "What's that ye've got on your arm?" Quo' the fause knicht, &c. 10 "Atweel it is my peit," Quo' the wee boy, &c. "Wha's aucht they sheep?" Quo' the fause knicht, &c. "They are mine and my mither's," 15 Quo' the wee boy, &c. "How monie o' them are mine?" Quo' the fause knicht, &c. "A' they that hae blue tails," Quo' the wee boy, &c. 20 "I wiss ye were on yon tree," Quo' the fause knicht, &c. "And a gude ladder under me," Quo' the wee boy, &c. "And the ladder for to break," 25 Quo' the fause knicht, &c. "And you for to fa' doun," Quo' the wee boy, &c. "I wiss ye were in yon sie," Quo' the fause knicht, &c. 30 "And a gude bottom under me," Quo' the wee boy, &c. "And the bottom for to break," Quo' the fause knicht upon the road; "And ye to be drowned," 35 Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude.

I have a zong suster fer bezondyn the se, Many be the drowryis that [s]che sente me. [S]che sente me the cherye withoutyn ony ston, And so [s]che dede [the] dowe withoutyn ony bon: Sche sente me the brere withoutyn ony rynde, Sche bad me love my lemman withoute longgyng. How xuld ony cherye be withoute ston? And how xuld ony dowe ben withoute bon? How xuld any brere ben withoute rynde? How xuld I love myn lemman without longyng? Quan the cherye was a flour, than hadde it non ston: Quan the dowe was an ey, than hadde it non bon: Quan the brere was on-bred, than hadde it non rynd: Quan the mayden hazt that [s]che louth, [s]che is without longyng.