70 75 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, Then came the clerk of the parish, V. BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY. Given, with some corrections, from an old black letter copy, intitled,' Barbara IN Scarlet towne, where I was borne, All in the merrye month of may, He sent his man unto her then, To the town, where shee was dwellin; 'You must come to my master deare, your name be Barbara Allen. Giff 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.' So slowly, slowly, she came up, And slowly she came nye him; And all she sayd, when there she came, "Yong man, I think y'are dying.' He turnd his face unto her strait, "If on your death-bed you doe lye, What needs the tale you are tellin; I cannot keep you from your death; Farewell,' sayd Barbara Allen. 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, "That I may look upon him.' 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, Beg'd to be buried by him; And sore repented of the daye, That she did ere denye him. Farewell,' she sayd, 'ye virgins all, Henceforth take warning by the fall ** 45 50 > 55 60 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, And ay he tirled at the pin; But answer made she none. 'Is this my father Philip? From Scotland new come home?' "Tis not thy father Philip; But tis thy true love Willie From Scotland new come home. 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, Till that thou come within my bower, If I should come within thy bower, And should I kiss thy rosy lipp, O sweet Margret, O dear Margret, 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 Afar beyond the sea, And it is but my sprite, Margret, That's speaking now to thee.' She stretched out her lilly-white hand, Hae there your faith and troth, Willie, Now she has kilted her robes of green, A piece below her knee: And a' the live-lang winter night The dead corps followed shee. 35 40 'Is there any room at your head, Willie? Or any room at your feet? 45 6 There's nae room at my head, Margret, There's nae room at my feet, There's no room at my side, Margret, My coffin is made so meet.' 50 |