1 do more for thee, Margarèt, Than any of thy kin; For I will kifs thy pale wan lips, Though a smile I cannot win. 50 With that befpake the feven brethren, You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, 55 And let our fifter alone. If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, I do but what is right; I neer made a vow to yonder poor corpfe Deal on, deal on, my merry men all, Deal on your cake and your wine; For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine. Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day, 60 65 They grew till they grew unto the church-top, 75 Then came the clerk of the parish, And by misfortune cut them down, 80 V. BARBARA ALLEN's CRUELTY. Given, with fome corrections, from an old printed copy in the editor's poffeffion, intitled, "Barbara Allen's cruelty, 66 or the young man's tragedy." I N Scarlet towne, where I was borne, Made every youth crye, wel-awaye! All in the merrye month of may, When greene buds they were swellin, Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen. 5 He He fent his man unto her then, To the town, where fhee was dwellin; You must come to my mafter deare, Giff your name be Barbara Allen. For death is printed on his face, And ore his hart is ftealin: Then hafte away to comfort him, O lovelye Barbara Allen. Though death be printed on his face, And ore his harte is stealin, Yet little better shall he bee, For bonny Barbara Allen. So flowly, flowly, fhe came up, And flowly fhe came nye him ; He turnd his face unto her ftrait,] If on your death-bed you doe lye, What needs the tale you are tellin : I cannot keep you from your death; Farewell, fayd Barbara Allen. 10. 15 20 25 30 He He turnd his face unto the wall, As deadlye pangs he fell in: Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all, Adieu to Barbara Allen. `As she was walking ore the fields, She turnd her bodye round about, Laye downe, laye down the corps, the fayd, With scornful eye she looked downe, Her cheeke with laughter swellin ; Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine, When he was dead, and laid in grave, Her harte was struck with forrowe, O mother, mother, make my bed, For I fhall dye to morrowe. 35 40 45 50 Hard harted creature him to flight, Who loved me fo dearlye: O that I had beene more kind to him, 55 She, on her death-bed as fhe laye, Farewell, fhe fayd, ye virgins all, 60 VI. SWEET WILLIAM's GHOST. A SCOTTISH BALLAD. From Allan Ramsay's Tea Table mifcellany. The concluding ftanza of this piece feems modern. THERE came a ghoft to Margaret's door, T And ay he tirled at the pin; But anfwer made fhe none. Is this my father Philip? Or is't my brother John? Or is't my true love Willie, From Scotland new come home? Tis |