Though death be printed on his face, And ore his harte is stealin, Yet little better shall he bee him ; So slowly, slowly, she came up, He turned his face unto her strait, If on your death-bed you doe lye, He turnd his face unto the wall, As she was walking ore the fields, She heard the bell a knellin; And every stroke did seem to saye, 20 25 30 35 40 She turnd her bodye round about, And spied the corps a coming: Lave down, laye down the corps, she sayd, With scornful eye she looked downe, When he was dead, and laid in grave, 45 50 Hard-harted creature him to slight, Who loved me so dearlye: O that I had beene more kind to him, 55 When he was alive and neare me! She, on her death-bed as she laye, That she did ere denye him. Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all, 60 VI. SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST. A SCOTTISH BALLAD. From Allan Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany. The concluding stanza of this piece seems modern. THERE came a ghost to Margaret's door, With many a grievous grone, And ay he tirled at the pin; But answer made she none. Is this my father Philip? Or is't my brother John? 5 Or is't my true love Willie, From Scotland new come home? 'Tis not thy father Philip; Nor yet thy brother John: But tis thy true love Willie From Scotland new come home. O sweet Margret! O dear Margret! I pray thee speak to mee: 10 15 Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, Of me shalt nevir win,' Till that thou come within my bower, If I should come within thy bower, O sweet Margret, O dear Margret, Give me my faith and troth, Margret, Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, Till thou take me to yon kirk yard, My bones are buried in a kirk yard And it is but my sprite, Margret, She stretched out her lilly-white hand, Hae there your faith and troth, Willie, God send your soul good rest. Now she has kilted her robes of A piece below her knee : green, And a' the live-lang winter night The dead corps followed shee. Is there any room at your head, Willie ? Or any room at your feet? Or any room at your side, Willie, Wherein that I may creep? There's nae room at my head, Margret, There's nae room at my feet, There's no room at my side, Margret, My coffin is made so meet. Then up and crew the red red cock, And up then crew the gray: 45 50 Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret, 55 No more the ghost to Margret said, But, with a grievous grone, Evanish'd in a cloud of mist, And left her all alone. O stay, my only true love, stay, The constant Margret cried : Wan grew her cheeks, she clos'd her een, 60 |