Or are you returned backe againe
To know more of my love?

Glafgèrion fwore a full great othe,

By oake, and afhe, and thorne ;

Ladye, I was never in your

chambère,

75

Sith the time that I was borne.

O then it was your lither foot-page,

He hath beguiled mee.

Then fhee pulled forth a little pen-knìffe,
That hanged by her knee.

Sayes, there fhall never noe churlès blood

Within my bodye spring:

No churlès blood fhall eer defile

The daughter of a kinge.

Home then went Glafgèrion,

And woe, good lord, was hee.

Sayes, come thou hither, Jacke my boy,

Come hither unto mee.

80

85

If I had killed a man to night,

Jacke, I would tell it thee:

go

But if I have not killed a man to night
Jacke, thou haft killed three.

And

Ver. 77. little. MS.

And he pulled out his bright browne word
And dryed it on his fleeve,

And he fmote off that lither ladds head,
Who did his ladye grieve.

95

He fett the swords poynt till his breft,

The pummil untill a stone :

Throw the falfeneffe of that lither ladd,
These three lives all were gone.

Ver: 100. werne all. MS.

VIII.

OLD SIR ROBIN OF PORTINGALE

From an ancient copy in the Editor's MS collection.

L

ET never again foe old a man

Marrye foe yonge a wife,

As did old fir' Robin of Portingale;

Who may rue all the dayes of his life.

For the mayors daughter of Lin, god wott,
He chofe her to his wife,

And thought with her to have lived in love,
But they fell to hate and strife.

100

They scarce were in their wed-bed laid,
And scarce was hee asleepe,

But upp

she rofe, and forth fhee goes,

To the steward, and gan to weepe,

Sleepe you, wake you, faire fir Gyles?

Or be you not withinn ?

Sleepe you, wake you, faire fir Gyles,
Arife and let me inn.

O, I am waking, fweete, he faid,
Sweete ladye, what is your wille?
I have bethought me of a wyle
How my wed-lord weell fpille.

Twenty-four good knights, fhee fayes,
That dwell about this towne,
Even twenty-four of my near cozèns,
Shall helpe to ding him downe.

19

15

20

25

He mourned, fighed, and wept full fore:

I fweare by the holy roode

The teares he for his mafter wept

Were blent water and bloode.

VOL. I.

Ver 19. unbethought. MS.

30

Ver. 32. blend. MS.

All that beheard his deare mastèr

As he stood at his garden pale: ·
Sayes, Ever alacke, my litle foot-page,
What causes thee to wail ?

Hath any one done to thee wronge

Any of thy fellowes here?

Or is any 'one' of thy good friends dead,

That thou fhedst manye a teare ?

Or if it be my head bookes-man,
Aggrieved he fhal bee:

For no man here within my howse,
Shall doe wrong unto thee.

O, it is not your head bookes-man,
Nor none of his degree:

But on to-morrow ere it be noone

All doomed to die are yee.

And of that bethank your head steward,
And thank your gay ladèe.

If this be true, my litle foot-page,
The heyre of my land thouft bee.

If it be not true, my dear maftèr,
No good death let me die.

If it bee not true, thou litle foot-page,

A dead corfe fhalt thou lie.

Ver. 47. or. MS. V. 48. deemed. MS.

35

40

45

50

55

O call

V. 56, bes. MS.

O call now downe my faire ladye,

O call her downe to mee:
And tell my ladye gay how ficke,

And like to die I bee.

Downe then came his ladye faire,
All clad in purple and pall:
The rings that were on her fingers,
Caft light throughout the hall.

60

What is your will, my owne wed-lord?

63

What is your will with mee?

O fee, my ladye deere, how ficke,

And like to die I bee.

And thou be ficke, my own wed-lord,

Soe fore it grieveth mee:

But my five maydens and myfelfe

Will make the bedde for thee:

70

And at the waking of your firft fleepe,
We will a hot drinke make:

And at the waking of your firft fleepe,

75

Your forrowes we will flake.

He

put a filk cote on his backe,

And mail of manye a fold:

And heé putt a steele cap on his head,
Was gilt with good red gold.

E 2

80

He