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Ah! wretched me! I little little ken'd

LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. He was in these to meet his ruin.

A SCOTTISH SONG. The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed,

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! Unheedful of my dule and sorrow,

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ;

If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,
But e'er the to-fall of the night
He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.

Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy, Much I rejoic'd that waeful waeful day;

Thy father breides me great annoy. I sang, my voice the woods returning,

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! But lang e'er night the spear was flown

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. That slew my love, and left me mourning.

When he began to court my love,

And with his sugred words to muve,
What can my barbarous barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me ?

His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,

To me that time did not appeire:
My luver's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou, barbarous man,

But now I see, most cruell hee
then woo me?

Cares neither for my babe nor mee. My happy sisters may be may be proud ;

Balow, &c. With cruel and ungentle scoffin,

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe a while, May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes

And when thou wakest sweitly smile: My luver nailed in his coffin.

But smile not, as thy father did,

To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid ! My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,

But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire, And strive with threatening words to muve me,

Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. My luver's blood is on thy spear,

Balow, &c. How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?

I cannae chuse, but ever will Yes yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love,

Be luving to thy father stil: With bridal sheets my body cover,

Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, Unbar bridal maids the door,

My love with him maun stil abyde: ye Let in the expected husband lover.

In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,

Mine hart can neir depart him frae. But who the expected husband liusband is ?

Balow, &c. His hands methinks are bath'd in slaughter.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

To faynings fals thine hart incline: Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after.

Be loyal to thy luver trew,

And nevir change hir for a new : Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down,

If gude or faire, of hir have care, Olay his cold head on my pillow ;

For womens banning's wonderous sair. Take aff take aff these bridal weids,

Balow, &c. And crown my careful head with willow.

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Pale tho' thou art, yet best yet best beluv'd,

Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ; O could my warmth to life restore thee!

My babe and I'll together live, Yet lie all night between my briests,

He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve: No youth lay ever there before thee.

My babe and I right saft will ly,

And quite forget man's cruelty. Pale pale indeed, O lovely lovely youth,

Balow, &c. Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, And lye all night between my briests,

That ever kist a woman's mouth! No youth shall ever lye there after.

I wish all maids be warn'd by mee,

Nevir to trust man's curtesy; A. Return return, O mournful mournful bride,

For if we doe bot chance to bow, Return and dry thy useless sorrow.

They'lle use us than they care not how. Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs,

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! He lyes a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY J. WAITING, LOMBARD STREET.

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