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 there they tyed in a true lovers knot, Then came the clerk of the parish, And by misfortune cut them down, 70 75 80 V. 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, All in the merrye month of May, Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay, He sent his man unto her then, To the town where shee was dwellin; 5 10 For death is printed on his face, And ore his hart is stealin: Then haste away to comfort him, O lovelye Barbara Allen. Though death be printed on his face, And ore his harte is stealin, Yet little better shall he bee For bonny Barbara Allen. 15 20 So slowly, slowly, she came up, And slowly she came nye him; And all she sayd, when there she came, 25 He turnd his face unto her strait, If on your death-bed you doe lye, He turnd his face unto the wall, As she was walking ore the fields, She turnd her bodye round about, And spied the corps a coming: Laye down, laye down the corps, she sayd, 30 35 40 With scornful eye she looked downe, When he was dead, and laid in grave, Hard-harted creature him to slight, O that I had beene more kind to him, She, on her death-bed as she laye, Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all, VI. Sweet William's Ghost. A SCOTTISH BALLAD. FROM Allan Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany. The concluding stanza of this piece seems modern. THERE came a ghost to Margaret's door, With many a grievous grone, And ay he tirled at the pin; But answer made she none. Give me my faith and troth, Margret, 15 Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, 'Of me shalt nevir win,' Till that thou come within my bower, And kiss my cheek and chin. 20 If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man: And should I kiss thy rosy lipp, Thy days will not be lang. O sweet Margret, O dear Margret, I pray thee speak to mee: Give me my faith and troth, Margret, Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, 'Of me shalt nevir win,' Till thou take me to yon kirk yard, And wed me with a ring. My bones are buried in a kirk yard And it is but my sprite, Margret, That's speaking now to thee. She stretched out her lilly-white hand, As for to do her best: Hae there your faith and troth, Willie, Now she has kilted her robes of green, 40 The dead corps followed shee. Is there any room at your head, Willie? 45 My coffin is made so meet. Then up and crew the red red cock, Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret, 55 No more the ghost to Margret said, 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. 60 |