Margaret was buryed in the lower chancèl, And William in the higher: Out of her brest there sprang a rose, They grew till they grew unto the church-top, Then came the clerk of the parish, And by misfortune cut them down. V. BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY. 6 Given, with some corrections, from an old black letter oopy, intitled, Barbara IN Scarlet towne, where I was borne, 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. He sent his man unto her then, To the town, where shee was dwellin; 'You must come to my master deare, Giff your name be Barbara Allen. 10 For death is printed on his face, And ore his hart is stealin: Then haste 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, So slowly, slowly, she came up, And slowly she came nye him; And all she sayd, when there she came, 'Yong man, I think y'are dying.' He turnd 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, 15 20 25 30 35 40 She turnd her bodye round about, And spied the corps a coming: 'Laye down, laye down the corps,' she sayd, 'That I may look upon him.' With scornful eye she looked downe, When he was dead, and laid in grave, Hard-harted creature him to slight, O that I had beene more kind to him, She, on her death-bed as she laye, Farewell,' she sayd, 'ye virgins all, And shun the fault I fell in: Henceforth take warning by the fall Of cruel Barbara Allen.' ** 45 50 > 55 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 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! Give me my faith and troth, Margret, Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, Till that thou come within my bower, If I should come within thy bower, And should I kiss thy rosy lipp, O sweet Margret, O dear Margret, I pray thee speak to mee: 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 Afar beyond the sea, And it is but my sprite, Margret, She stretched out her lilly-white hand, Hae there your faith and troth, Willie, Now she has kilted her robes of green, A piece below her knee: And a' the live-lang winter night The dead corps followed shee. Is there any room at your head, Willie? 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.' 40 45 50 |