With that the babe sprang from her wombe

No creature being nye,

130

And with one sighe, which brake her hart,

Next morning came her own true love,

Affrighted at the newes,

XI.

LOVE

WALY WALY, LOVE BE BONNY.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

This is a very ancient song, but we could only give it from a modern copy. Some editions instead of the four last lines in the second stanza have these, which have too much merit to be wholly suppressed:

"Whan cockle shells turn siller bells,
"And muscles grow on every tree,
"When frost and snaw sall warm us aw',
"Than sall my love prove true to me."

See the Orpheus Caledonius, &c.

Arthur's-seat, mentioned in ver. 17, is a hill near Edinborough; at the bottom of which is St. Anthony's well.

WALY waly up the bank,

And waly waly down the brae,

And waly waly yon burn side,

Where I and my love wer wont to gae.

I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree;

But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,

Sae my true love did lichtly me.

O waly

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
For my true love has me forsook,

hair?

And says he'll never loe me mair.

10

15

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 ?
For of my life I am wearìe.

Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaws inclemencìe;

20

25

'Tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry,

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.

35

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.

40

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.

5