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.
O wherfore shuld I busk my head ?

Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,

And says he'll never loe me mair.

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

Since my true love has forsaken me.
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum?

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15

20

Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaws inclemencie;

'Tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry,
But my loves heart grown cauld to me.
Whan we came in by Glasgowe town,

We were a comely sight to see,
My love was cled in black velvet,
And I my sell in cramasie.

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But had I wist, before I kisst,

That love had been sae ill to win;

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

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And, oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurses knee,

And I my sell were dead and gane!

For a maid again Ise never be.

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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,

Even so my heart, with sorrow slaine,
Doth bleed for my sweet wife.

By death, that grislye ghost,
My turtle dove is slaine,
And I am left, unhappy man,

To spend my dayes in paine.

Her beauty late so bright,

Like roses in their prime,

Is wasted like the mountain snowe,
Before warme Phebus' shine.

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15

Her faire red colour'd cheeks

Now pale and wan; her eyes,

That late did shine like crystal stars,
Alas, their light it dies :

When we had knitt the knott

Of holy wedlock-band, Like alabaster joyn'd to jett, So stood we hand in hand;

Then lo! a chilling cold

Strucke every vital part,

And griping grief, like pangs of death,

Seiz'd on my true love's heart.

Down in a swoon she fell,

As cold as any stone;

Like Venus picture lacking life,

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When with a grievous groane,
And voice both hoarse and drye,

Farewell, quoth she, my loving friend,
For I this daye must dye;

The messenger of God

With golden trumpe I see, With manye other angels more,

Which sound and call for mee.

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