Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 68

'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en: Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

'Mony a one for him maks mane, But nane sall ken whar he is gane: O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair.'

corbies] ravens. fail] turf. hause] neck. theek] thatch.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

381. A Lyke-Wake Dirge

THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte, --Every nighte and alle, Fire and fleet and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thy saule.

When thou from hence away art past, --Every nighte and alle, To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last; And Christe receive thy saule.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, --Every nighte and alle, Sit thee down and put them on; And Christe receive thy saule.

If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane --Every nighte and alle, The whinnes sall p.r.i.c.k thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thy saule.

From Whinny-muir when thou may'st pa.s.s, --Every nighte and alle, To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last; And Christe receive thy saule.

From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pa.s.s, --Every nighte and alle, To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last; And Christe receive thy saule.

If ever thou gavest meat or drink, --Every nighte and alle, The fire sall never make thee shrink; And Christe receive thy saule.

If meat or drink thou ne'er gav'st nane, --Every nighte and alle, The fire will burn thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thy saule.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, --Every nighte and alle, Fire and fleet and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thy saule.

fleet] house-room.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

382. The Seven Virgins.

A CAROL

ALL under the leaves and the leaves of life I met with virgins seven, And one of them was Mary mild, Our Lord's mother of Heaven.

'O what are you seeking, you seven fair maids, All under the leaves of life?

Come tell, come tell, what seek you All under the leaves of life?'

'We're seeking for no leaves, Thomas, But for a friend of thine; We're seeking for sweet Jesus Christ, To be our guide and thine.'

'Go down, go down, to yonder town, And sit in the gallery, And there you'll see sweet Jesus Christ Nail'd to a big yew-tree.'

So down they went to yonder town As fast as foot could fall, And many a grievous bitter tear From the virgins' eyes did fall.

'O peace, Mother, O peace, Mother, Your weeping doth me grieve: I must suffer this,' He said, 'For Adam and for Eve.

'O Mother, take you John Evangelist All for to be your son, And he will comfort you sometimes, Mother, as I have done.'

'O come, thou John Evangelist, Thou'rt welcome unto me; But more welcome my own dear Son, Whom I nursed on my knee.'

Then He laid His head on His right shoulder, Seeing death it struck Him nigh-- 'The Holy Ghost be with your soul, I die, Mother dear, I die.'

O the rose, the gentle rose, And the fennel that grows so green!

G.o.d give us grace in every place To pray for our king and queen.

Furthermore for our enemies all Our prayers they should be strong: Amen, good Lord; your charity Is the ending of my song.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

383. Two Rivers

SAYS Tweed to Till-- 'What gars ye rin sae still?'

Says Till to Tweed-- 'Though ye rin with speed And I rin slaw, For ae man that ye droon I droon twa.'

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

384. Cradle Song

O MY deir hert, young Jesus sweit, Prepare thy creddil in my spreit, And I sall rock thee in my hert And never mair from thee depart.

But I sall praise thee evermoir With sangis sweit unto thy gloir; The knees of my hert sall I bow, And sing that richt Balulalow!

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

385. The Call

MY blood so red For thee was shed, Come home again, come home again; My own sweet heart, come home again!

You've gone astray Out of your way, Come home again, come home again!

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

386. The Bonny Earl of Murray

YE Highlands and ye Lawlands, O where hae ye been?

They hae slain the Earl of Murray, And hae laid him on the green.

Now wae be to thee, Huntley!

And whairfore did ye sae!

I bade you bring him wi' you, But forbade you him to slay.

He was a braw gallant, And he rid at the ring; Ana the bonny Earl of Murray, O he might hae been a king!