But if't be a lye, thou little tiny page,

This thing thou tell'st to me,
On the highest tree in Bucklesford-Bury,
Then hanged shalt thou be."

He called up his merry men all:
"Come saddle me my steed;
This night must I to Bucklesford-Bury;
For I never had greater need."

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And some of them whistled, and some of them sung,
And some these words did say,

And ever when as the lord Barnards horn blew,
Away, thou little Musgrave, away.

"Methinks I hear the throstle-cock,

Methinks I hear the jay,

Methinks I hear my lord Barnards horn;
And I would I were away.”

"Lie still, lie still, thou little Musgrave,
And huggle me from the cold;
'Tis nothing but a shepherds boy,
A-driving his sheep to fold.

Is not thy hawk upon the perch?
Thy steed eats oats and hay;
And thy fair lady in thine arms;
And would'st thou be away?"

With that

my lord Barnard came to the door, And lighted upon a stone;

He plucked out three silver keys,

And opened the doors each one.

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He lifted up the coverlet,

He lifted up the sheet:

"How now, how now, thou little Musgrave,

Dost find my lady sweet?"

I find her sweet, quoth little Musgrave,

The more 'tis to my pain;

I would gladly give the three hundred pounds
That I were on yonder plain.

"Arise, arise, thou little Musgrave,
And put thy clothes on;

It shall never be said in my country,
That I killed a naked man.

I have two swords in one scabbard,
Full dear they cost my purse,

And thou shalt have the best of them,

And I will have the worse."

The first stroke that little Musgrave struck,

He hurt lord Barnard sore;

The next stroke that lord Barnard struck

Little Musgrave ne'er struck more.

With that bespake the lady fair,

In bed whereas she lay,

Although th' art dead, thou little Musgrave,
Yet I for thee will pray:

And wish well to thy soul will I,

So long as I have life;

So will not I do for thee, Barnard,
Though I am thy wedded wife.

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He cut her paps from off her breasts;

Great pity it was to see;

Some drops of this fair ladys heart-blood

Ran trickling down her knee.

،، Woe worth you, woe worth [you], my merry men all, You never were born for my good;

Why did you not offer to stay my hand,
When you‘saw'me wax so wood?

For I have slain the bravest sir knight,

A grave, a grave, lord Barnard cried,
To put these lovers in;

But lay my lady o' th' upper hand,
For she came o' the better kin.

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XXIX.

FAIR ROSAMOND.

BY THOMAS DELONEY*.

WHEN as king Henry rul'd this land,

The second of that name,
Besides the queen, he dearly lov'd
A fair and comely dame:

* See Percys Reliques, &c. (edition 1794) III. 405. wise, in the Garland of good will.

It is, like

Most peerless was her beauty found,

Her favour, and her face;

A sweeter creature in this world

Did never prince embrace.

Her crisped locks like threads of gold

Appear'd to each mans sight;

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Her sparkling eyes, like orient pearls,
Did cast a heavenly light;

The blood within her crystal cheeks

Did such a colour drive,

As if the lily and the rose
For mastership did strive.

Yea Rosamond, fair Rosamond,
Her name was called so,

To whom dame Eleanor, our queen,

Was known a deadly foe.

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The king therefore, for her defence

Against the furious queen,

At Woodstock builded such a bower,

The like was never seen.

Most curiously that bower was built,
Of stone and timber strong,
One hundred and fifty doors
Did to this bower belong;
And they so cunningly contriv'd,
With turnings round about,

That none, but with a clew of thread,

Could enter in or out.

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And, for his love and ladys sake,
That was so fair and bright,
The keeping of this bower he gave
Unto a valiant knight.

But Fortune, that doth often frown
Where she before did smile,
The kings delight, the ladys joy,
Full soon she did beguile.

For why, the kings ungracious son,

Whom he did high advance,
Against his father raised wars,
Within the realm of France.
But yet before our comely king
The English land forsook,
Of Rosamond, his lady fair,
His farewel thus he took:

My Rosamond, my only Rose,
That pleasest best mine eye,

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