BALLADS AND SONGS BY UNKNOWN AUTHORS

TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; A ferlie he spied wi’ his e’e; And there he saw a ladye bright Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. Her skirt was o’ the grass-green silk, Her mantle o’ the velvet fyne; At ilka tett o’ her horse’s mane, Hung fifty siller bells and nine. True Thomas he pu’d aff his cap, And louted low down on his knee: ‘Hail to thee, Mary, Queen of Heaven! For thy peer on earth could never be.’ ‘O no, O no, Thomas,’ she said, ‘That name does not belang to me; I’m but the Queen o’ fair Elfland, That am hither come to visit thee. ‘Harp and carp, Thomas,’ she said; ‘Harp and carp along wi’ me; And if ye dare to kiss my lips, Sure of your bodie I will be.’

‘BETIDE me weal, betide me woe, That weird shall never daunten me.’ Syne he has kiss’d her rosy lips, All underneath the Eildon Tree. ‘Now ye maun go wi’ me,’ she said, ‘True Thomas, ye maun go wi’ me; And ye maun serve me seven years, Thro’ weal or woe as may chance to be.’ She’s mounted on her milk-white steed, She’s ta’en true Thomas up behind; And aye, whene’er her bridle rang, The steed gaed swifter than the wind. O they rade on, and farther on, The steed gaed swifter than the wind; Until they reach’d a desert wide, And living land was left behind. ‘Light down, light down now, true Thomas, And lean your head upon my knee; Abide ye there a little space, And I will show you ferlies three. ‘O see ye not yon narrow road, So thick beset wi’ thorns and briers? That is the Path of Righteousness, Though after it but few inquires. ‘And see ye not yon braid, braid road, That lies across the lily leven? That is the Path of Wickedness, Though some call it the Road to Heaven.

‘AND see ye not yon bonny road That winds about the fernie brae? That is the Road to fair Elfland, Where thou and I this night maun gae. ‘But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue, Whatever ye may hear or see; For speak ye word in Elfyn-land, Ye’ll ne’er win back to your ain countrie.’ O they rade on, and farther on, And they waded rivers abune the knee; And they saw neither sun nor moon, But they heard the roaring of the sea. It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight, They waded thro’ red blude to the knee; For a’ the blude that’s shed on the earth Rins through the springs o’ that countrie. Syne they came to a garden green, And she pu’d an apple frae a tree: ‘Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.’ ‘My tongue is my ain,’ true Thomas he said; ‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me! I neither dought to buy or sell At fair or tryst where I might be. ‘I dought neither speak to prince or peer, Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!’— ‘Now haud thy peace, Thomas,’ she said, ‘For as I say, so must it be.’

HE has gotten a coat of the even cloth, And a pair o’ shoon of the velvet green; And till seven years were gane and past, True Thomas on earth was never seen.

THE king sits in Dunfermline town Drinking the blude-red wine; ‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship o’ mine?’ O up and spak an eldern knight, Sat at the king’s right knee; ‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sail’d the sea.’ Our king has written a braid letter, And seal’d it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand. ‘To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o’er the faem; The king’s daughter o’ Noroway, ’Tis thou must bring her hame.’ The first word that Sir Patrick read So loud, loud laugh’d he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read The tear blinded his e’e.

‘O WHA is this has done this deed And tauld the king o’ me, To send us out, at this time o’ year, To sail upon the sea? ‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king’s daughter o’ Noroway, ’Tis we must fetch her hame.’ They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn Wi’ a’ the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday.

‘MAK ready, mak ready, my merry men a’; Our gude ship sails the morn.’ ‘Now ever alack, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm. ‘I saw the new moon late yestreen Wi’ the auld moon in her arm; And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we’ll come to harm.’ They hadna sail’d a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the topmast lap, It was sic a deadly storm: And the waves cam owre the broken ship Till a’ her sides were torn.

‘GO fetch a web o’ the silken claith, Another o’ the twine, And wap them into our ship’s side, And let nae the sea come in.’ They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith, Another o’ the twine, And they wapp’d them round that gude ship’s side, But still the sea came in. O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To wet their cork-heel’d shoon; But lang or a’ the play was play’d They wat their hats aboon. And mony was the feather bed That flatter’d on the faem; And mony was the gude lord’s son That never mair cam hame. O lang, lang may the ladies sit, Wi’ their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand! And lang, lang may the maidens sit Wi’ their gowd kames in their hair, A-waiting for their ain dear loves! For them they’ll see nae mair. Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour, ’Tis fifty fathoms deep; And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet!

‘O WHA will shoe my bonny foot? And wha will glove my hand? And wha will bind my middle jimp Wi’ a lang, lang linen band? ‘O wha will kame my yellow hair, With a haw bayberry kame? And wha will be my babe’s father Till Gregory come hame?’ ‘Thy father, he will shoe thy foot, Thy brother will glove thy hand, Thy mither will bind thy middle jimp Wi’ a lang, lang linen band. ‘Thy sister will kame thy yellow hair, Wi’ a haw bayberry kame; The Almighty will be thy babe’s father Till Gregory come hame.’ ‘And wha will build a bonny ship, And set it on the sea? For I will go to seek my love, My ain love Gregory.’ Up then spak her father dear, A wafu’ man was he; ‘And I will build a bonny ship, And set her on the sea.

‘AND I will build a bonny ship, And set her on the sea, And ye sal gae and seek your love, Your ain love Gregory.’ Then he’s gart build a bonny ship, And set it on the sea, Wi’ four-and-twenty mariners, To bear her company. O he’s gart build a bonny ship, To sail on the salt sea; The mast was o’ the beaten gold, The sails o’ cramoisie. The sides were o’ the gude stout aik, The deck o’ mountain pine, The anchor o’ the silver shene, The ropes o’ silken twine. She hadna sail’d but twenty leagues, But twenty leagues and three, When she met wi’ a rank reiver, And a’ his companie. ‘Now are ye Queen of Heaven hie, Come to pardon a’ our sin? Or are ye Mary Magdalane, Was born at Bethlam?’ ‘I’m no the Queen of Heaven hie, Come to pardon ye your sin, Nor am I Mary Magdalane, Was born in Bethlam.

‘BUT I’m the lass of Lochroyan, That’s sailing on the sea To see if I can find my love, My ain love Gregory.’ ‘O see na ye yon bonny bower? It’s a’ covered owre wi’ tin; When thou hast sail’d it round about, Lord Gregory is within.’ And when she saw the stately tower, Shining both clear and bright, Whilk stood aboon the jawing wave, Built on a rock of height, Says, ‘Row the boat, my mariners, And bring me to the land, For yonder I see my love’s castle, Close by the salt sea strand.’ She sail’d it round, and sail’d it round, And loud and loud cried she, ‘Now break, now break your fairy charms, And set my true-love free.’ She’s ta’en her young son in her arms. And to the door she’s gane, And long she knock’d, and sair she ca’d. But answer got she nane. ‘O open, open, Gregory! O open! if ye be within; For here’s the lass of Lochroyan, Come far fra kith and kin. ‘O open the door, Lord Gregory! O open and let me in! The wind blows loud and cauld, Gregory, The rain drops fra my chin. ‘The shoe is frozen to my foot, The glove unto my hand, The wet drops fra my yellow hair, Na langer dow I stand.’ O up then spak his ill mither, —An ill death may she die! ‘Ye’re no the lass of Lochroyan, She’s far out-owre the sea. ‘Awa’, awa’, ye ill woman, Ye’re no come here for gude; Ye’re but some witch or wil’ warlock, Or mermaid o’ the flood.’ ‘I am neither witch nor wil’ warlock, Nor mermaid o’ the sea, But I am Annie of Lochroyan, O open the door to me!’ ‘Gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan, As I trow thou binna she, Now tell me of some love-tokens That pass’d ’tween thee and me.’ ‘O dinna ye mind, love Gregory, As we sat at the wine, We changed the rings frae our fingers? And I can shew thee thine.

‘O YOURS was gude, and gude enough, But ay the best was mine, For yours was o’ the gude red gowd, But mine o’ the diamond fine. ‘Yours was o’ the gude red gowd, Mine o’ the diamond fine; Mine was o’ the purest troth, But thine was false within.’ ‘If ye be the lass of Lochroyan, As I kenna thou be, Tell me some mair o’ the love-tokens Pass’d between thee and me.’ ‘And dinna ye mind, love Gregory! As we sat on the hill, Thou twin’d me o’ my maidenheid, Right sair against my will? ‘Now open the door, love Gregory! Open the door! I pray; For thy young son is in my arms, And will be dead ere day.’ ‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye ill woman, So loud I hear ye lie; For Annie of the Lochroyan Is far out-owre the sea.’ Fair Annie turn’d her round about: ‘Weel, sine that it be sae, May ne’er woman that has borne a son Hae a heart sae fu’ o’ wae! ‘Tak down, tak down that mast o’ gowd, Set up a mast of tree; It disna become a forsaken lady To sail sae royallie.’ When the cock had crawn, and the day did dawn, And the sun began to peep, Up then raise Lord Gregory, And sair, sair did he weep. ‘O I hae dream’d a dream, mither, I wish it may bring good! That the bonny lass of Lochroyan At my bower window stood. ‘O I hae dream’d a dream, mither, The thought o’t gars me greet! That fair Annie of Lochroyan Lay dead at my bed-feet.’ ‘Gin it be for Annie of Lochroyan That ye mak a’ this mane, She stood last night at your bower-door, But I hae sent her hame.’ ‘O wae betide ye, ill woman, An ill death may ye die! That wadna open the door yoursell Nor yet wad waken me.’ O he’s gane down to yon shore-side, As fast as he could dree, And there he saw fair Annie’s bark A rowing owre the sea. ‘O Annie, Annie,’ loud he cried, ‘O Annie, O Annie, bide!’ But ay the mair he cried ‘Annie,’ The braider grew the tide. ‘O Annie, Annie, dear Annie, Dear Annie, speak to me!’ But ay the louder he gan call, The louder roar’d the sea. The wind blew loud, the waves rose hie And dash’d the boat on shore; Fair Annie’s corpse was in the faem, The babe rose never more. Lord Gregory tore his gowden locks And made a wafu’ moan; Fair Annie’s corpse lay at his feet, His bonny son was gone. ‘O cherry, cherry was her cheek, And gowden was her hair, And coral, coral was her lips, Nane might with her compare,’ Then first he kiss’d her pale, pale cheek, And syne he kiss’d her chin, And syne he kiss’d her wane, wane lips, There was na breath within. ‘O wae betide my ill mither, An ill death may she die! She turn’d my true-love frae my door, Who cam so far to me. ‘O wae betide my ill mither, An ill death may she die! She has no been the deid o’ ane, But she’s been the deid of three.’ Then he’s ta’en out a little dart, Hung low down by his gore, He thrust it through and through his heart, And words spak never more.

LATE at een, drinkin’ the wine, And ere they paid the lawin’, They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawin’. ‘O stay at hame, my noble lord! O stay at hame, my marrow! My cruel brother will you betray, On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.’ ‘O fare ye weel, my lady gay! O fare ye weel, my Sarah! For I maun gae, tho’ I ne’er return Frae the dowie banks o’ Yarrow.’ She kiss’d his cheek, she kamed his hair, As she had done before, O; She belted on his noble brand, An’ he’s awa to Yarrow.

O HE’s gane up yon high, high hill— I wat he gaed wi’ sorrow— An’ in a den spied nine arm’d men, I’ the dowie houms o’ Yarrow. ‘O are ye come to drink the wine, As ye hae doon before, O? Or are ye come to wield the brand, On the dowie banks o’ Yarrow?’ ‘I am no come to drink the wine, As I hae don before, O, But I am come to wield the brand, On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.’ Four he hurt, an’ five he slew, On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him behind, An’ ran his body thorrow. ‘Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, An’ tell your sister Sarah To come an’ lift her noble lord, Who’s sleepin’ sound on Yarrow.’ ‘Yestreen I dream’d a dolefu’ dream; I ken’d there wad be sorrow; I dream’d I pu’d the heather green, On the dowie banks o’ Yarrow.’ She gaed up yon high, high hill— I wat she gaed wi’ sorrow— An’ in a den spied nine dead men, On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow. She kiss’d his cheek, she kamed his hair, As oft she did before, O; She drank the red blood frae him ran, On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow. ‘O haud your tongue, my douchter dear, For what needs a’ this sorrow? I’ll wed you on a better lord Than him you lost on Yarrow.’ ‘O haud your tongue, my father dear, An’ dinna grieve your Sarah; A better lord was never born Than him I lost on Yarrow. ‘Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye, For they hae bred our sorrow; I wiss that they had a’ gane mad Whan they cam first to Yarrow.’

CLERK Saunders and may Margaret Walk’d owre yon garden green; And deep and heavy was the love That fell thir twa between. ‘A bed, a bed,’ Clerk Saunders said, ‘A bed for you and me!’ ‘Fye na, fye na,’ said may Margaret, ’Till anes we married be!’ ‘Then I’ll take the sword frae my scabbard And slowly lift the pin; And you may swear, and save your aith, Ye ne’er let Clerk Saunders in. ‘Take you a napkin in your hand, And tie up baith your bonnie e’en, And you may swear, and save your aith, Ye saw me na since late yestreen.’ It was about the midnight hour, When they asleep were laid, When in and came her seven brothers, Wi’ torches burning red: When in and came her seven brothers, Wi’ torches burning bright: They said, ‘We hae but one sister, And behold her lying with a knight!’ Then out and spake the first o’ them, ‘I bear the sword shall gar him die.’ And out and spake the second o’ them, ‘His father has nae mair but he.’ And out and spake the third o’ them, ‘I wot that they are lovers dear.’ And out and spake the fourth o’ them, ‘They hae been in love this mony a year.’ Then out and spake the fifth o’ them, ‘It were great sin true love to twain.’ And out and spake the sixth o’ them, ‘It were shame to slay a sleeping man.’ Then up and gat the seventh o’ them, And never a word spake he; But he has striped his bright brown brand Out through Clerk Saunders’ fair bodye.

CLERK Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn’d Into his arms as asleep she lay; And sad and silent was the night That was atween thir twae. And they lay still and sleepit sound Until the day began to daw’; And kindly she to him did say, ‘It is time, true love, you were awa’.’ But he lay still, and sleepit sound, Albeit the sun began to sheen; She look’d atween her and the wa’, And dull and drowsie were his e’en. Then in and came her father dear; Said, ‘Let a’ your mourning be; I’ll carry the dead corse to the clay, And I’ll come back and comfort thee.’ ‘Comfort weel your seven sons, For comforted I will never be: I ween ’twas neither knave nor loon Was in the bower last night wi’ me.’ The clinking bell gaed through the town, To carry the dead corse to the clay; And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret’s window, I wot, an hour before the day. ‘Are ye sleeping, Marg’ret?’ he says, ‘Or are ye waking presentlie? Give me my faith and troth again, I wot, true love, I gied to thee.’ ‘Your faith and troth ye sail never get, Nor our true love sail never twin, Until ye come within my bower, And kiss me cheik and chin.’ ‘My mouth it is full cold, Marg’ret; It has the smell, now, of the ground; And if I kiss thy comely mouth, Thy days of life will not be lang. ‘O cocks are crowing a merry midnight; I wot the wild fowls are boding day; Give me my faith and troth again, And let me fare me on my way.’ ‘Thy faith and troth thou sallna get, And our true love sail never twin, Until ye tell what comes o’ women, I wot, who die in strong traivelling?’ ‘Their beds are made in the heavens high, Down at the foot of our good Lord’s knee, Weel set about wi’ gillyflowers; I wot, sweet company for to see. ‘O cocks are crowing a merry midnight; I wot the wild fowls are boding day; The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, And I, ere now, will be miss’d away.’ Then she has taken a crystal wand, And she has stroken her troth thereon; She has given it him out at the shot-window, Wi’ mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.

‘I THANK ye, Marg’ret; I thank ye, Marg’ret; And ay I thank ye heartilie; Gin ever the dead come for the quick, Be sure, Marg’ret, I’ll come for thee.’ It’s hosen and shoon, and gown alone, She climb’d the wall, and follow’d him, Until she came to the green forest, And there she lost the sight o’ him. ‘Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? Is there ony room at your feet? Or ony room at your side, Saunders, Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?’ ‘There’s nae room at my head, Marg’ret, There’s nae room at my feet; My bed it is fu’ lowly now, Amang the hungry worms I sleep. ‘Cauld mould is my covering now, But and my winding-sheet; The dew it falls nae sooner down Than my resting-place is weet. ‘But plait a wand o’ bonny birk, And lay it on my breast; And shed a tear upon my grave, And wish my saul gude rest.’ Then up and crew the red, red cock, And up and crew the gray: ‘’Tis time, ’tis time, my dear Marg’ret, That you were going away. ‘And fair Marg’ret, and rare Marg’ret, And Marg’ret o’ veritie, Gin e’er ye love another man, Ne’er love him as ye did me.’

THE reivers they stole Fair Annie, As she walk’d by the sea; But a noble knight was her ransom soon, Wi’ gowd and white monie. She bided in strangers’ land wi’ him, And none knew whence she cam; She lived in the castle wi’ her love, But never told her name. ‘It’s narrow, narrow, mak your bed, And learn to lie your lane; For I’m gaun owre the sea, Fair Annie, A braw Bride to bring hame. Wi’ her I will get gowd and gear, Wi’ you I ne’er gat nane. ‘But wha will bake my bridal bread, Or brew my bridal ale? And wha will welcome my bright Bride, That I bring owre the dale?’ ‘It’s I will bake your bridal bread, And brew your bridal ale; And I will welcome your bright Bride, That you bring owre the dale.’ ‘But she that welcomes my bright Bride Maun gang like maiden fair; She maun lace on her robe sae jimp, And comely braid her hair. ‘Bind up, bind up your yellow hair, And tie it on your neck; And see you look as maiden-like As the day that first we met.’ ‘O how can I gang maiden-like, When maiden I am nane? Have I not borne six sons to thee, And am wi’ child again?’ ‘I’ll put cooks into my kitchen, And stewards in my hall, And I’ll have bakers for my bread, And brewers for my ale; But you’re to welcome my bright Bride, That I bring owre the dale.’ Three months and a day were gane and past, Fair Annie she gat word That her love’s ship was come at last, Wi’ his bright young Bride aboard. She ’s ta’en her young son in her arms, Anither in her hand; And she’s gane up to the highest tower, Looks over sea and land.

‘COME doun, come doun, my mother dear, Come aff the castle wa’! I fear if langer ye stand there, Ye’ll let yoursell doun fa’.’ She’s ta’en a cake o’ the best bread, A stoup o’ the best wine, And a’ the keys upon her arm, And to the yett is gane. ‘O ye’re welcome hame, my ain gude lord, To your castles and your towers; Ye’re welcome hame, my ain gude lord, To your ha’s, but and your bowers. And welcome to your hame, fair lady! For a’ that’s here is yours.’ ‘O whatna lady’s that, my lord, That welcomes you and me? Gin I be lang about this place, Her friend I mean to be.’ Fair Annie served the lang tables Wi’ the white bread and the wine; But ay she drank the wan water To keep her colour fine. And she gaed by the first table, And smiled upon them a’; But ere she reach’d the second table, The tears began to fa’.

SHE took a napkin lang and white, And hung it on a pin; It was to wipe away the tears, As she gaed out and in. When bells were rung and mass was sung, And a’ men bound for bed, The bridegroom and the bonny Bride In ae chamber were laid. Fair Annie’s ta’en a harp in her hand, To harp thir twa asleep; But ay, as she harpit and she sang, Fu’ sairly did she weep. ‘O gin my sons were seven rats, Rinnin’ on the castle wa’, And I mysell a great grey cat, I soon wad worry them a’! ‘O gin my sons were seven hares, Rinnin’ owre yon lily lea, And I mysell a good greyhound, Soon worried they a’ should be!’ Then out and spak the bonny young Bride, In bride-bed where she lay: ‘That’s like my sister Annie,’ she says; ‘Wha is it doth sing and play? ‘I’ll put on my gown,’ said the new-come Bride, ‘And my shoes upon my feet; I will see wha doth sae sadly sing, And what is it gars her greet. ‘What ails you, what ails you, my housekeeper, That ye mak sic a mane? Has ony wine-barrel cast its girds, Or is a’ your white bread gane?’ ‘It isna because my wine is spilt, Or that my white bread’s gane; But because I’ve lost my true love’s love, And he’s wed to anither ane.’ ‘Noo tell me wha was your father?’ she says, ‘Noo tell me wha was your mother? And had ye ony sister?’ she says, ‘And had ye ever a brother?’ ‘The Earl of Wemyss was my father, The Countess of Wemyss my mother, Young Elinor she was my sister dear, And Lord John he was my brother.’ ‘If the Earl of Wemyss was your father, I wot sae was he mine; And it’s O my sister Annie! Your love ye sallna tyne. ‘Tak your husband, my sister dear; You ne’er were wrang’d for me, Beyond a kiss o’ his merry mouth As we cam owre the sea. ‘Seven ships, loaded weel, Cam owre the sea wi’ me; Ane o’ them will tak me hame, And six I’ll gie to thee.’

‘WHY does your brand sae drop wi’ blude, Edward, Edward? Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude, And why sae sad gang ye, O?’ ‘O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude, Mither, mither; O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude, And I had nae mair but he, O.’ ‘Your hawk’s blude was never sae red, Edward, Edward; Your hawk’s blude was never sae red, My dear son, I tell thee, O.’ ‘O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed, Mither, mither; O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed, That erst was sae fair and free, O.’ ‘Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair, Edward, Edward; Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair; Some other dule ye dree, O.’ ‘O I hae kill’d my father dear, Mither, mither; O I hae kill’d my father dear, Alas, and wae is me, O!’

‘AND whatten penance will ye dree for that, Edward, Edward? Whatten penance will ye dree for that? My dear son, now tell me, O.’ ‘I’ll set my feet in yonder boat, Mither, mither; I’ll set my feet in yonder boat, And I’ll fare over the sea, O.’ ‘And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’, Edward, Edward? And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’, That were sae fair to see, O?’ ‘I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’, Mither, mither; I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’, For here never mair maun I be, O.’ ‘And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, When ye gang owre the sea, O?’ ‘The warld’s room: let them beg through life, Mither, mither; The warld’s room: let them beg through life; For them never mair will I see, O.’ ‘And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear. Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, My dear son, now tell me, O?’ ‘The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear, Mither, mither; The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear: Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!’

IT fell about the Martinmas, When the wind blew shrill and cauld, Said Edom o’ Gordon to his men, ‘We maun draw to a hauld. ‘And what a hauld sall we draw to, My merry men and me? We will gae to the house o’ the Rodes, To see that fair ladye.’ The lady stood on her castle wa’, Beheld baith dale and down; There she was ware of a host of men Cam riding towards the town. ‘O see ye not, my merry men a’, O see ye not what I see? Methinks I see a host of men; I marvel wha they be.’ She ween’d it had been her lovely lord, As he cam riding hame; It was the traitor, Edom o’ Gordon, Wha reck’d nae sin nor shame.

SHE had nae sooner buskit hersell, And putten on her gown, But Edom o’ Gordon an’ his men Were round about the town. They had nae sooner supper set, Nae sooner said the grace, But Edom o’ Gordon an’ his men Were lighted about the place. The lady ran up to her tower-head, Sae fast as she could hie, To see if by her fair speeches She could wi’ him agree. ‘Come doun to me, ye lady gay, Come doun, come doun to me; This night sall ye lig within mine arms, To-morrow my bride sall be.’ ‘I winna come down, ye fals Gordon, I winna come down to thee; I winna forsake my ain dear lord, That is sae far frae me.’ ‘Gie owre your house, ye lady fair, Gie owre your house to me; Or I sall brenn yoursel therein, But and your babies three.’ ‘I winna gie owre, ye fals Gordon, To nae sic traitor as yee; And if ye brenn my ain dear babes, My lord sail mak ye dree.

‘NOW reach my pistol, Glaud, my man, And charge ye weel my gun; For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher, My babes, we been undone!’ She stood upon her castle wa’, And let twa bullets flee: She miss’d that bluidy butcher’s heart, And only razed his knee. ‘Set fire to the house!’ quo’ fals Gordon, All wud wi’ dule and ire: ‘Fals lady, ye sail rue this deid As ye brenn in the fire!’ Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man! I paid ye weel your fee; Why pu’ ye out the grund-wa’ stane, Lets in the reek to me? ‘And e’en wae worth ye, Jock, my man! I paid ye weel your hire; Why pu’ ye out the grund-wa’ stane, To me lets in the fire?’ ‘Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye, Ye paid me weel my fee: But now I’m Edom o’ Gordon’s man— Maun either do or die.’ O then bespake her little son, Sat on the nurse’s knee: Says, ‘Mither dear, gie owre this house, For the reek it smithers me.’

‘I WAD gie a’ my gowd, my bairn, Sae wad I a’ my fee, For ae blast o’ the western wind, To blaw the reek frae thee.’ O then bespake her dochter dear— She was baith jimp and sma’: ‘O row me in a pair o’ sheets, And tow me owre the wa’!’ They row’d her in a pair o’ sheets, And tow’d her owre the wa’; But on the point o’ Gordon’s spear She gat a deadly fa’. O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth, And cherry were her cheiks, And clear, clear was her yellow hair, Whereon the red blood dreips. Then wi’ his spear he turn’d her owre; O gin her face was wane! He said, ‘Ye are the first that e’er I wish’d alive again.’ He turn’d her owre and owre again; O gin her skin was white! ‘I might hae spared that bonnie face To hae been some man’s delight. ‘Busk and boun, my merry men a’, For ill dooms I do guess; I canna look in that bonnie face As it lies on the grass.’

‘WHA looks to freits, my master dear, It’s freits will follow them; Let it ne’er be said that Edom o’ Gordon Was daunted by a dame.’ But when the lady saw the fire Come flaming owre her head, She wept, and kiss’d her children twain, Says, ‘Bairns, we been but dead.’ The Gordon then his bugle blew, And said, ‘Awa’, awa’! This house o’ the Rodes is a’ in a flame; I hauld it time to ga’.’ And this way lookit her ain dear lord, As he cam owre the lea; He saw his castle a’ in a lowe, As far as he could see. Then sair, O sair, his mind misgave, And all his heart was wae: ‘Put on, put on, my wighty men, Sae fast as ye can gae. ‘Put on, put on, my wighty men, Sae fast as ye can drie! For he that’s hindmost o’ the thrang Sall ne’er get good o’ me.’ Then some they rade, and some they ran, Out-owre the grass and bent; But ere the foremost could win up, Baith lady and babes were brent.

AND after the Gordon he is gane, Sae fast as he might drie; And soon i’ the Gordon’s foul heart’s blude He’s wroken his dear ladye.

MARIE Hamilton’s to the kirk gane, Wi’ ribbons in her hair; The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton Than ony that were there. Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane Wi’ ribbons on her breast; The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton Than he listen’d to the priest. Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane, Wi’ gloves upon her hands; The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton Than the Queen and a’ her lands. She hadna been about the King’s court A month, but barely one, Till she was beloved by a’ the King’s court And the King the only man. She hadna been about the King’s court A month, but barely three, Till frae the King’s court Marie Hamilton, Marie Hamilton durstna be. The King is to the Abbey gane, To pu’ the Abbey tree, To scale the babe frae Marie’s heart; But the thing it wadna be. O she has row’d it in her apron, And set it on the sea— ‘Gae sink ye or swim ye, bonny babe, Ye’se get nae mair o’ me.’ Word is to the kitchen gane, And word is to the ha’, And word is to the noble room Amang the ladies a’, That Marie Hamilton’s brought to bed, And the bonny babe’s miss’d and awa’. Scarcely had she lain down again, And scarcely fa’en asleep, When up and started our gude Queen Just at her bed-feet; Saying—‘Marie Hamilton, where’s your babe? For I am sure I heard it greet.’ ‘O no, O no, my noble Queen! Think no sic thing to be; ’Twas but a stitch into my side, And sair it troubles me!’ ‘Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton: Get up and follow me; For I am going to Edinburgh town, A rich wedding for to see.’

O SLOWLY, slowly rase she up, And slowly put she on; And slowly rade she out the way Wi’ mony a weary groan. The Queen was clad in scarlet, Her merry maids all in green; And every town that they cam to, They took Marie for the Queen. ‘Ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen, Ride hooly now wi’ me! For never, I am sure, a wearier burd Rade in your companie.’— But little wist Marie Hamilton, When she rade on the brown, That she was gaen to Edinburgh town, And a’ to be put down. ‘Why weep ye so, ye burgess wives, Why look ye so on me? O I am going to Edinburgh town, A rich wedding to see.’ When she gaed up the tolbooth stairs, The corks frae her heels did flee; And lang or e’er she cam down again, She was condemn’d to die. When she cam to the Netherbow port, She laugh’d loud laughters three; But when she came to the gallows foot The tears blinded her e’e.

‘YESTREEN the Queen had four Maries, The night she’ll hae but three; There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaton, And Marie Carmichael, and me. ‘O often have I dress’d my Queen And put gowd upon her hair; But now I’ve gotten for my reward The gallows to be my share. ‘Often have I dress’d my Queen And often made her bed; But now I’ve gotten for my reward The gallows tree to tread. ‘I charge ye all, ye mariners, When ye sail owre the faem, Let neither my father nor mother get wit But that I’m coming hame. ‘I charge ye all, ye mariners, That sail upon the sea, That neither my father nor mother get wit The dog’s death I’m to die. ‘For if my father and mother got wit, And my bold brethren three, O mickle wad be the gude red blude This day wad be spilt for me! ‘O little did my mother ken, The day she cradled me, The lands I was to travel in Or the death I was to die!

THERE were twa sisters sat in a bour; Binnorie, O Binnorie! There cam a knight to be their wooer, By the bonnie milldams o’ Binnorie. He courted the eldest with glove and ring, But he lo’ed the youngest abune a thing. The eldest she was vexèd sair, And sair envied her sister fair. Upon a morning fair and clear, She cried upon her sister dear: ‘O sister, sister, tak my hand, And let’s go down to the river-strand.’ She’s ta’en her by the lily hand, And led her down to the river-strand. The youngest stood upon a stane, The eldest cam and push’d her in. ‘O sister, sister, reach your hand! And ye sall be heir o’ half my land: ‘O sister, reach me but your glove! And sweet William sall be your love.’ Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam, Until she cam to the miller’s dam. Out then cam the miller’s son, And saw the fair maid soummin’ in. ‘O father, father, draw your dam! There’s either a mermaid or a milk-white swan.’

THE miller hasted and drew his dam, And there he found a drown’d womàn. You couldna see her middle sma’, Her gowden girdle was sae braw. You couldna see her lily feet, Her gowden fringes were sae deep. All amang her yellow hair A string o’ pearls was twisted rare. You couldna see her fingers sma’, Wi’ diamond rings they were cover’d a’. And by there cam a harper fine, That harpit to the king at dine. And when he look’d that lady on, He sigh’d and made a heavy moan. He’s made a harp of her breast-bane, Whose sound wad melt a heart of stane. He’s ta’en three locks o’ her yellow hair, And wi’ them strung his harp sae rare. He went into her father’s hall, And there was the court assembled all. He laid his harp upon a stane, And straight it began to play by lane. ‘O yonder sits my father, the King, And yonder sits my mother, the Queen; ‘And yonder stands my brother Hugh, And by him my William, sweet and true.’ But the last tune that the harp play’d then— Binnorie, O Binnorie! Was, ‘Woe to my sister, false Helèn!’ By the bonnie milldams o’ Binnorie.

IT fell on a day, and a bonnie simmer day, When green grew aits and barley, That there fell out a great dispute Between Argyll and Airlie. Argyll has raised an hunder men, An hunder harness’d rarely, And he’s awa’ by the back of Dunkell, To plunder the castle of Airlie. Lady Ogilvie looks o’er her bower-window, And O but she looks warely! And there she spied the great Argyll, Come to plunder the bonnie house of Airlie. ‘Come down, come down, my Lady Ogilvie, Come down and kiss me fairly:’ ‘O I winna kiss the fause Argyll, If he shouldna leave a standing stane in Airlie.’ He hath taken her by the left shoulder, Says, ‘Dame, where lies thy dowry?’ ‘O it’s east and west yon wan water side, And it’s down by the banks of the Airlie.’ They hae sought it up, they hae sought it down, They hae sought it maist severely, Till they fand it in the fair plum-tree That shines on the bowling-green of Airlie. He hath taken her by the middle sae small, And O but she grat sairly! And laid her down by the bonnie burn-side, Till they plunder’d the castle of Airlie. ‘Gif my gude lord war here this night, As he is with King Charlie, Neither you, nor ony ither Scottish lord, Durst avow to the plundering of Airlie. ‘Gif my gude lord war now at hame, As he is with his king, There durst nae a Campbell in a’ Argyll Set fit on Airlie green. ‘Ten bonnie sons I have borne unto him, The eleventh ne’er saw his daddy; But though I had an hunder mair, I’d gie them a’ to King Charlie!’

THERE lived a wife at Usher’s well, And a wealthy wife was she; She had three stout and stalwart sons, And sent them o’er the sea. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely ane, When word came to the carline wife That her three sons were gane. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely three, When word came to the carline wife That her sons she’d never see. ‘I wish the wind may never cease. Nor fashes in the flood, Till my three sons come hame to me, In earthly flesh and blood!’ It fell about the Martinmas, When nights are lang and mirk, The carline wife’s three sons came hame, And their hats were o’ the birk. It neither grew in syke nor ditch, Nor yet in ony sheugh; But at the gates o’ Paradise That birk grew fair eneugh. ‘Blow up the fire, my maidens! Bring water from the well! For a’ my house shall feast this night, Since my three sons are well.’ And she has made to them a bed, She’s made it large and wide; And she’s ta’en her mantle her about, Sat down at the bedside.

UP then crew the red, red cock, And up and crew the gray; The eldest to the youngest said. ‘’Tis time we were away.’ The cock he hadna craw’d but once, And clapp’d his wings at a’, When the youngest to the eldest said, ‘Brother, we must awa’. ‘The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin’ worm doth chide; Gin we be miss’d out o’ our place, A sair pain we maun bide.’ ‘Lie still, lie still but a little wee while, Lie still but if we may; Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes, She’ll go mad ere it be day.’ ‘Fare ye weel, my mother dear! Fareweel to barn and byre! And fare ye weel, the bonny lass That kindles my mother’s fire!’

THERE were three ravens sat on a tree, They were as black as they might be. The one of them said to his make, ‘Where shall we our breakfast take?’

‘DOWN in yonder greene field There lies a knight slain under his shield; ‘His hounds they lie down at his feet, So well they can their master keep; ‘His hawks they flie so eagerly, There ’s no fowl dare come him nigh.’ Down there comes a fallow doe As great with young as she might goe. She lift up his bloudy head And kist his wounds that were so red. She gat him up upon her back And carried him to earthen lake. She buried him before the prime, She was dead herself ere evensong time. God send every gentleman Such hounds, such hawks, and such a leman.

AS I was walking all alane I heard twa corbies making a mane: The tane unto the tither did say, ‘Whar sall we gang and dine the day?’

‘—In behint yon auld fail dyke I wot there lies a new-slain knight; And naebody kens that he lies there But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. ‘His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady’s ta’en anither mate, So we may mak our dinner sweet. ‘Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane, And I’ll pike out his bonny blue e’en: Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare. ‘Mony a one for him maks mane, But nane sall ken whar he is gane: O’er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair.’

THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte, —Every nighte and alle, Fire and fleet and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thy saule. When thou from hence away art past, —Every nighte and alle, To Whinny-muir thou com’st at last; And Christe receive thy saule.

IF ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, —Every nighte and alle, Sit thee down and put them on; And Christe receive thy saule. If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gav’st nane —Every nighte and alle, The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thy saule. From Whinny-muir when thou may’st pass, —Every nighte and alle, To Brig o’ Dread thou com’st at last; And Christe receive thy saule. From Brig o’ Dread when thou may’st pass, —Every nighte and alle, To Purgatory fire thou com’st at last; And Christe receive thy saule. If ever thou gavest meat or drink, —Every nighte and alle, The fire sall never make thee shrink; And Christe receive thy saule. If meat or drink thou ne’er gav’st nane, —Every nighte and alle, The fire will burn thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thy saule. This ae nighte, this ae nighte, —Every nighte and alle, Fire and fleet and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thy saule.

ALL under the leaves and the leaves of life I met with virgins seven, And one of them was Mary mild, Our Lord’s mother of Heaven. ‘O what are you seeking, you seven fair maids. All under the leaves of life? Come tell, come tell, what seek you All under the leaves of life?’ ‘We’re seeking for no leaves, Thomas, But for a friend of thine; We’re seeking for sweet Jesus Christ, To be our guide and thine.’ ‘Go down, go down, to yonder town, And sit in the gallery, And there you’ll see sweet Jesus Christ Nail’d to a big yew-tree.’ So down they went to yonder town As fast as foot could fall, And many a grievous bitter tear From the virgins’ eyes did fall. ‘O peace, Mother, O peace, Mother, Your weeping doth me grieve: I must suffer this,’ He said, ‘For Adam and for Eve. ‘O Mother, take you John Evangelist All for to be your son, And he will comfort you sometimes, Mother, as I have done.’ ‘O come, thou John Evangelist, Thou’rt welcome unto me; But more welcome my own dear Son, Whom I nursed on my knee.’ Then He laid His head on His right shoulder, Seeing death it struck Him nigh— ‘The Holy Ghost be with your soul, I die, Mother dear, I die.’ O the rose, the gentle rose, And the fennel that grows so green! God give us grace in every place To pray for our king and queen. Furthermore for our enemies all Our prayers they should be strong: Amen, good Lord; your charity Is the ending of my song.

SAYS Tweed to Till— ‘What gars ye rin sae still?’ Says Till to Tweed— ‘Though ye rin with speed And I rin slaw, For ae man that ye droon I droon twa.’

O MY deir hert, young Jesus sweit, Prepare thy creddil in my spreit, And I sall rock thee in my hert And never mair from thee depart. But I sall praise thee evermoir With sangis sweit unto thy gloir; The knees of my hert sall I bow, And sing that richt Balulalow!

MY blood so red For thee was shed, Come home again, come home again; My own sweet heart, come home again! You’ve gone astray Out of your way, Come home again, come home again!

YE Highlands and ye Lawlands, O where hae ye been? They hae slain the Earl of Murray, And hae laid him on the green. Now wae be to thee, Huntley! And whairfore did ye sae! I bade you bring him wi’ you. But forbade you him to slay. He was a braw gallant, And he rid at the ring; And the bonny Earl of Murray, O he might hae been a king! He was a braw gallant, And he play’d at the ba’; And the bonny Earl of Murray Was the flower amang them a’! He was a braw gallant, And he play’d at the gluve; And the bonny Earl of Murray, O he was the Queen’s luve! O lang will his Lady Look owre the Castle Downe, Ere she see the Earl of Murray Come sounding through the town!

I WISH I were where Helen lies, Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirconnell lea! Curst be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me! O think na ye my heart was sair, When my Love dropp’d and spak nae mair! There did she swoon wi’ meikle care, On fair Kirconnell lea. As I went down the water side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnell lea; I lighted down my sword to draw, I hackèd him in pieces sma’, I hackèd him in pieces sma’, For her sake that died for me. O Helen fair, beyond compare! I’ll mak a garland o’ thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I die! O that I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, ‘Haste, and come to me!’ O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I’d be blest, Where thou lies low and taks thy rest, On fair Kirconnell lea. I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn owre my e’en, And I in Helen’s arms lying, On fair Kirconnell lea. I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me.

O WALY, waly, up the bank, And waly, waly, doun the brae, And waly, waly, yon burn-side, Where I and my Love wont to gae! I lean’d my back unto an aik, I thocht it was a trustie tree; But first it bow’d and syne it brak— Sae my true love did lichtlie me. O waly, waly, gin love be bonnie A little time while it is new! But when ’tis auld it waxeth cauld, And fades awa’ like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my heid, Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true Love has me forsook, And says he’ll never lo’e me mair. Now Arthur’s Seat sall be my bed, The sheets sall ne’er be ’filed 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, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearìe. ’Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie, ’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry; But my Love’s heart grown cauld to me. When we cam in by Glasgow toun, We were a comely sicht to see; My Love was clad in the black velvèt, And I mysel in cramasie. But had I wist, before I kist, That love had been sae ill to win, I had lock’d my heart in a case o’ gowd. And pinn’d it wi’ a siller pin. And O! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse’s knee; And I mysel were dead and gane, And the green grass growing over me!

IN Scarlet town, where I was born, There was a fair maid dwellin’, Made every youth cry Well-a-way! Her name was Barbara Allen. All in the merry month of May, When green buds they were swellin’, Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen. He sent his man in to her then, To the town where she was dwellin’, ‘O haste and come to my master dear, If your name be Barbara Allen.’ So slowly, slowly rase she up, And slowly she came nigh him, And when she drew the curtain by— ‘Young man, I think you’re dyin’.’ ‘O it’s I am sick and very very sick, And it’s all for Barbara Allen.’ ‘O the better for me ye’se never be, Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spillin’! ‘O dinna ye mind, young man,’ says she, ‘When the red wine ye were fillin’, That ye made the healths go round and round, And slighted Barbara Allen?’ He turn’d his face unto the wall, And death was with him dealin’: ‘Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, And be kind to Barbara Allen!’ As she was walking o’er the fields, She heard the dead-bell knellin’; And every jow the dead-bell gave Cried ‘Woe to Barbara Allen.’ ‘O mother, mother, make my bed, O make it saft and narrow: My love has died for me to-day, I’ll die for him to-morrow. ‘Farewell,’ she said, ‘ye virgins all, And shun the fault I fell in: Henceforth take warning by the fall Of cruel Barbara Allen.’

THE Indian weed witherèd quite; Green at morn, cut down at night; Shows thy decay: all flesh is hay: Thus think, then drink Tobacco. And when the smoke ascends on high, Think thou behold’st the vanity Of worldly stuff, gone with a puff: Thus think, then drink Tobacco. But when the pipe grows foul within, Think of thy soul defiled with sin, And that the fire doth it require: Thus think, then drink Tobacco. The ashes, that are left behind, May serve to put thee still in mind That unto dust return thou must: Thus think, then drink Tobacco.

WHEN as the chill Charokko blows, And Winter tells a heavy tale; When pyes and daws and rooks and crows Sit cursing of the frosts and snows; Then give me ale. Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, Such as will make grimalkin prate; Bids valour burgeon in tall men, Quickens the poet’s wit and pen, Despises fate. Ale, that the absent battle fights, And frames the march of Swedish drum, Disputes with princes, laws, and rights, What’s done and past tells mortal wights, And what’s to come.

ALE, that the plowman’s heart up-keeps And equals it with tyrants’ thrones, That wipes the eye that over-weeps, And lulls in sure and dainty sleeps Th’ o’er-wearied bones. Grandchild of Ceres, Bacchus’ daughter, Wine’s emulous neighbour, though but stale, Ennobling all the nymphs of water, And filling each man’s heart with laughter— Ha! give me ale!

OVER the mountains And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves; Under floods that are deepest, Which Neptune obey, Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way. When there is no place For the glow-worm to lie, When there is no space For receipt of a fly; When the midge dares not venture Lest herself fast she lay, If Love come, he will enter And will find out the way. You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward for his flight; But if she whom Love doth honour Be conceal’d from the day— Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way. Some think to lose him By having him confined; And some do suppose him, Poor heart! to be blind; But if ne’er so close ye wall him, Do the best that ye may, Blind Love, if so ye call him, He will find out his way. You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist; Or you may inveigle The Phœnix of the east; The lioness, you may move her To give over her prey; But you’ll ne’er stop a lover— He will find out the way. If the earth it should part him, He would gallop it o’er; If the seas should o’erthwart him, He would swim to the shore; Should his Love become a swallow, Through the air to stray, Love will lend wings to follow, And will find out the way. There is no striving To cross his intent; There is no contriving His plots to prevent; But if once the message greet him That his True Love doth stay, If Death should come and meet him, Love will find out the way!

O WHAT a plague is love! How shall I bear it? She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it. She so torments my mind That my strength faileth, And wavers with the wind As a ship saileth. Please her the best I may, She loves still to gainsay; Alack and well-a-day! Phillada flouts me. At the fair yesterday She did pass by me; She look’d another way And would not spy me: I woo’d her for to dine, But could not get her; Will had her to the wine— He might entreat her. With Daniel she did dance, On me she look’d askance: O thrice unhappy chance! Phillada flouts me. Fair maid, be not so coy, Do not disdain me! I am my mother’s joy: Sweet, entertain me! She’ll give me, when she dies, All that is fitting: Her poultry and her bees, And her goose sitting, A pair of mattrass beds, And a bag full of shreds; And yet, for all this guedes, Phillada flouts me! She hath a clout of mine Wrought with blue Coventry, Which she keeps for a sign Of my fidelity: But i’ faith, if she flinch She shall not wear it; To Tib, my t’other wench, I mean to bear it. And yet it grieves my heart So soon from her to part: Death strike me with his dart! Phillada flouts me. Thou shalt eat crudded cream All the year lasting,

AND drink the crystal stream Pleasant in tasting; Whig and whey whilst thou lust, And bramble-berries, Pie-lid and pastry-crust, Pears, plums, and cherries. Thy raiment shall be thin, Made of a weevil’s skin— Yet all’s not worth a pin! Phillada flouts me. In the last month of May I made her posies; I heard her often say That she loved roses. Cowslips and gillyflowers And the white lily I brought to deck the bowers For my sweet Philly. But she did all disdain, And threw them back again; Therefore ’tis flat and plain Phillada flouts me. Fair maiden, have a care, And in time take me; I can have those as fair If you forsake me: For Doll the dairy-maid Laugh’d at me lately, And wanton Winifred Favours me greatly. One throws milk on my clothes, T’other plays with my nose; What wanting signs are those? Phillada flouts me. I cannot work nor sleep At all in season: Love wounds my heart so deep Without all reason. I ’gin to pine away In my love’s shadow, Like as a fat beast may, Penn’d in a meadow. I shall be dead, I fear, Within this thousand year: And all for that my dear Phillada flouts me.