Reliques of Ancient English Poetry

mory of Christ's miracles, in verse. Lond. 1618," 4to. (4.) "Heaven's glory, earth's vanity, and hell's horror." Lond. 1638, 8vo. [These two in Bod. Cat.]

In the present edition, the foregoing poem has been much improved from the printed copy.

III.

The Auld Good-Wan.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

I HAVE not been able to meet with a more ancient copy of this humorous old song, than that printed in The Tea-Table Miscellany, &c., which seems to have admitted some corruptions.

LATE in an evening forth I went

A little before the sun gade down,
And there I chanc't, by accident,
To light on a battle new begun:

A man and his wife wer fawn in a strife,
I canna weel tell ye how it began;

Cryeng, Evir alake, mine auld goodman!

But aye she wail'd her wretched life,

He gart the poor stand frae the door;
Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman.

SHE.

My heart, alake! is liken to break,

Whan I think on my winsome John,

His blinkan ee, and gait sae free,

Was naithing like thee, thou dosend drone;

Wi' his rosie face, and flaxen hair,

And skin as white as ony swan,

He was large and tall, and comely withall;
Thou'lt nevir be like mine auld goodman.

HE.

Why dost thou plein? I thee maintein;
For meal and mawt thou disna want:
But thy wild bees I canna please,

Now whan our gear gins to grow scant:
Of houshold stuff thou hast enough;

Thou wants for neither pot nor pan;

Of sicklike ware he left thee bare;
Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman

SHE.

Yes I may tell, and fret my sell,
To think on those blyth days I had,

Whan I and he together ley

In armes into a well-made bed:

But now I sigh and may be sad,

Thy courage is cauld, thy colour wan,

Thou falds thy feet, and fa's asleep;

Thou'lt nevir be like mine auld goodman.

Then coming was the night sae dark,
And gane was a' the light of day:
The carle was fear'd to miss his mark,
And therefore wad nae longer stay:
Then up he gat, and ran his way,

I trowe, the wife the day she wan;
And aye the owreword of the fray

Was, Evir alake! mine auld goodman.

Saying, I'll away to fair Margret's bower,
By the leave of my ladiè.

And when he came to fair Marg'ret's bower,
He knocked at the ring;

And who so ready as her seven brethren
To let sweet William in.

Then he turned up the covering-sheet,
Pray let me see the dead;
Methinks she looks all pale and wan,
She hath lost her cherry red.

I'll do more for thee, Margarèt,
Than any of thy kin;

For I will kiss thy pale wan lips,
Though a smile I cannot win.

With that bespake the seven brethren,
Making most piteous mone:

You may go kiss your jolly brown bride,
And let our sister alone.

If I do kiss my jolly brown bride,

I do but what is right;

I neer made a vow to yonder poor corpse
By day, nor yet by night.

Deal on, deal on, my merry men all,

Deal on your cake and your wine1,

For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day,
Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine.

Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day,

Sweet William dyed the morrow:

Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love,
Sweet William dyed for sorrow.

1 Alluding to the dole anciently given at funerals.

Margaret was buryed in the lower chancèl,

And William in the higher;

Out of her brest there sprang a rose,

And out of his a briar.

They grew till they grew unto the church top,
And then they could grow no higher;
And there they tyed in a true lovers knot,
Which made all the people admire.

Then came the clerk of the parish,
As you the truth shall hear,

And by misfortune cut them down,
Or they had now been there.

Barbara Allen's Cruelty.

GIVEN, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy entitled, "Barbara Allen's cruelty, or the young man's tragedy."

IN Scarlet towne, where I was borne,
There was a faire maid dwellin,
Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye!
Her name was Barbara Allen.

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.

Saying, I'll away to fair Margret's bower,
By the leave of my

ladiè.

And when he came to fair Margret's bower,

He knocked at the ring;

And who so ready as her seven brethren

To let sweet William in.

Then he turned up the covering-sheet,

Pray let me see the dead;

Methinks she looks all pale and wan,
She hath lost her cherry red.

I'll do more for thee, Margaret,
Than any of thy kin;