With that the babe sprang from her wombe And with one sighe, which brake her hart, This gentle dame did dye. The lovely litle infant younge, The mother being dead, Resigned its new received breath To him that had it made. Next morning came her own true love, 130 135 And he for sorrow slew himselfe, 140 The mother with her new borne babe, Were laide both in one grave: Their parents overworne with woe, Take heed, you dayntye damsells all, 145 Of flattering words beware, And to the honour of your name Have an especial care. Too true, alas! this story is, As many one can tell: By others harmes learne to be wise 150 XI. WALY WALY, LOVE BE BONNY. A SCOTTISH SONG. This is a very ancient song, but we could only give it from a modern copy. Some editions instead of the four last lines in the second stanza have these, which have too much merit to be wholly suppressed: 'Whan cockle shells turn siller bells, And muscles grow on every tree, See the 'Orpheus Caledonius,' &c. Arthur's-seat mentioned in ver. 17, is a hill near Edinburgh; at the bottom of which is St. Anthony's well.1 O WALY, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, Where I and my love wer wont to gae. I leant my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; O waly, waly, gin love be bonny, Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed, hair? The sheets shall neir be fyl'd by me: 10 15 1 The heroine of this song was Lady Barbara Erskine, daughter of John, ninth Earl of Mar, and wife of James, second Marquis of Douglas. She was divorced from her husband, owing to the malicious insinuations of a rejected lover.-ED. Saint Anton's well sall be my drink, And shake the green leaves aff the tree? "Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, But had I wist, before I kisst, That love had been sae ill to win; And, oh! if my young babe were born, And I my sell were dead and gane! XII. THE BRIDE'S BURIAL. From two ancient copies in black-letter: one in the Pepys Collection; the other in the British Museum. To the tune of The Lady's Fall.' COME mourne, come mourne with mee, You loyall lovers all; Lament my loss in weeds of woe, Whom griping grief doth thrall. Like to the drooping vine, Cut by the gardener's knife, Now pale and wan; her eyes, That late did shine like crystal stars, Her prettye lilly hands, With fingers long and small, In colour like the earthly claye, Yea, cold and stiff withall. When as the morning-star Her golden gates had spred, And that the glittering sun arose Forth from fair Thetis' bed; Then did my love awake, Most like a lilly-flower, And as the lovely queene of heaven, Attired was shee then Like Flora in her pride, Like one of bright Diana's nymphs, And as fair Helens face, Did Grecian dames besmirche, So did my dear exceed in sight, All virgins in the church. When we had knitt the knott Then lo! a chilling cold Strucke every vital part, And griping grief, like pangs of death, Down in a swoon she fell, As cold as any stone; Like Venus picture lacking life, At length her rosye red, Throughout her comely face, As Phoebus beames with watry cloudes When with a grievous groane, 35 40 45 50 55 Farewell,' quoth she, my loving friend, For I this daye must dye; 60 |