To end my dayes in open fhame,

Which thou mightft well redreffe? Woe worth the time I eer believ'd

That flattering tongue of thine Would God that I had never feene The teares of thy false eyne.

And thus with many a forrowful figh,

Homewards fhe went againe;

Noe reft came in her waterye eyes,

Shee felt fuch privye paine.

In travail strong shee fell that night,

With many a bitter throwe;

What woefull pangs fhee then did feel,
Doth eche good woman knowe.

Shee called up her waiting mayd,
That lay at her bedds feete,

Who mufing at her mistress woe,

Began full faft to weepe.

Weepe not, faid fhee, but shutt the dores,

And windowes round about,

Let none bewray my wretched ftate,

But keepe all perfons out.

O mistress, call your mother deare,
Of women you have neede,
And of fome skilfull midwifes helpe,
That better you may speed.
Call not my mother for thy life,

Nor fetch no women here,

100

105

110

115

120

The midwifes helpe comes all too late,

My death I doe not feare.

With that the babe sprang from her wombe

No creature being nye,

130

And with one fighe, which brake her heart,

XII.

WALY WALY, LOVE BE BONNY.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

This is a very ancient fong, but we could only give it from modern copies. Some editions instead of the four laft lines in the fecond ftanza have these, which have too much merit to be wholly fuppreffed,

"Whan cockle fhells turn filler bells,

"And mufcles grow on every tree,

"Whan froft and fnaw fall warm us aw',
"Than fall my love prove true to me."

See the Orpheus Caledonius, &c.

Arthur-feat mentioned in ver, 17. is a hill near Edinborough.

Waly waly up the bank,

And waly waly down the brae,

And waly waly yon burn fide,

Where I and my love wer wont to gae.
I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree;
But firft it bow'd, and fyne it brak,
Sae my true love did lightly me.

O waly, waly, gin love be bonny,
A little time while it is new,
But when its auld, it waxeth cauld,

And fades awa' like morning dew.

5

10

O where

wherfore fhuld I bufk my head?

Or wherfore fhuld I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forfook,
And fays he'll never loe me mair.

Now Arthur-feat fall be my bed,
The sheets fall neir be fyl'd by me:
Saint Anton's well fall be my
drink,

Since my true love has forfaken me.
Marti'mas wind, whan wilt thou blaw,
And fhake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum ?
For of my life I am wearìe.

Tis not the froft, that freezes fell,

Nor blawing fhaws inclemencìe;

15

20

25

Tis not fic cauld, that makes me cry,

But my loves heart grown cauld to me.

Whan we came in by Glafgowe town,

We were a comely fight to fee,

30

My love was cled i' th' black velvet,

And I my fell in cramasie.

But had I wift, before I kifst,

That love had been fae ill to win,

I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd
And pinnd it with a filler pin.
L

VOL. I.

35

Oh,

Oh oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurses knee,
And I my fell were dead and gane !
For a maid again Ife never be.

40

XII.

THE WANTON WIFE OF BATH.

From an ancient copy in black-print, in the Pepys collection Mr. Addifon has pronounced this an excellent ballad: See the Spectator, No. 248.

N Bath a wanton wife did dwelle,

IN

As Chaucer he doth write;

Who did in pleasure spend her dayes,
And many a fond delight.