Then up and crew the red red cock,
And up then crew the gray:
Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret,
That [I] were gane away.'

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,
Stretch'd her saft limbs, and died.

55

60

VII.

SIR JOHN GREHME AND BARBARA

ALLAN.

A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

Printed, with a few conjectural emendations, from a written copy.
Ir was in and about the Martinmas time,
When the greene leaves wer a fallan;
That Sir John Grehme o' the west countrye,
Fell in luve wi' Barbara Allan.

He sent his man down throw the towne,
To the plaice wher she was dwellan:
'O haste and cum to my maister deare,
Gin
ye bin Barbara Allan.'

O hooly, hooly raise she up,

5

To the plaice wher he was lyan;

10

And whan she drew the curtain by,
'Young man, I think ye're dyan.'

'O, its I'm sick, and very very sick.
And its a' for Barbara Allan.'
O the better for me ye'se never be,
Though your harts blude wer spillan.

Remember ye nat in the tavern, sir,
Whan ye the cups wer fillan;

How ye made the healths gae round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allan?"

He turn'd his face unto the wa'
And death was with him dealan;
'Adiew! adiew! my dear friends a',
Be kind to Barbara Allan.'

Then hooly, hooly raise she up,
And hooly, hooly left him;

And sighan said, she could not stay,

15

20

25

**

*

35

35

1 An ingenious friend thinks the rhymes dyan' and 'lyan' ought to be transposed; as the taunt Young man, I think ye're lyan,' would be very characteristical.

VIII.

THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON.

From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, with some improvements communicated by a lady as she had heard the same recited in her youth. The full title is, 'True love requited: Or, the Bailiff's daughter of Islington.'

Islington in Norfolk is probably the place here meant.

THERE was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,
And he was a squires son:

He loved the bayliffes daughter deare,
That lived in Islington.

Yet she was coye and would not believe

That he did love her soe,

Noe, nor at any time would she

Any countenance to him showe.

But when his friendes did understand

5

His fond and foolish minde,

They sent him up to faire London
An apprentice for to binde.

10

15

And when he had been seven long yeares,
And never his love could see:

'Many a teare have I shed for her sake,
When she little thought of mee.'

Then all the maids of Islington
Went forth to sport and playe,
All but the bayliffes daughter deare;
She secretly stole awaye.

She pulled off her gowne of greene,
And put on ragged attire,

And to faire London she would go
Her true love to enquire.

And as she went along the high road,
The weather being hot and drye,
She sat her downe upon a green bank,
And her true love came riding bye.

She started up, with a colour soe redd,
Catching hold of his bridle-reine;

'One penny, one penny, kind sir,' she sayd,
Will ease me of much paine.'

'Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,
Praye tell me where you were borne.'
'At Islington, kind sir,' sayd shee,
"Where I have had many a scorne.'

'I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,
O tell me, whether you knowe
The bayliffes daughter of Islington.'
'She is dead, sir, long agoe.'

'If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also;

For I will into some farr countrye,

Where noe man shall me knowe.'

25

30

35

40

'O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youth, She standeth by thy side;

45

She is here alive, she is not dead,

And readye to be thy bride.'

'O, farewell griefe, and welcome joye, • Ten thousand times therefore;

50

For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,

Whom I thought I should never see more.'

IX.

THE WILLOW TREE.

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE.

From the small black-letter collection, entitled, 'The Golden Garland of Princely Delights;' collated with two other copies, and corrected by conjec

ture.

WILLY.

How now, shepherde, what meanes that?
Why that willowe in thy hat?

Why thy scarffes of red and yellowe

Turn'd to branches of greene willowe?

CUDDY.

They are chang'd, and so am I;

Sorrowes live, but pleasures die:
Phillis hath forsaken mee,

Which makes me weare the willowe-tree.

WILLY.

5

Shee that long true love profest,
She hath robb'd my heart of rest:

For she a new love loves, not mee;

Which makes me wear the willowe-tree.

WILLY.

Come then, shepherde, let us joine,

Since thy happ is like to mine:

15