SELECT ANCIENT POEMS. ON THE CHILD OF ELLE. N yonder hill a caftle flandes, The Child of Elle to his garden wente, Come trippinge downe the dale. The Childe of Elle he hyed him thence, And foone he mette faire Emmeline's page Come climbing up the hille. Nowe Chrifte thee fave, thou little foot-page, Now Chrifte thee fave and fee! Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, And what may the tydinges bee? B My lady fhee is all woe-begone, And the teares they falle from her eyne; And aye fhee laments the deadlye feude Betweene her house and thine. And here fhee fends thee a filken scarfe And biddes the fometimes thinke on her, And here fhee fends thee a ring of golde For ah! her gentle heart is broke, And in grave foone must shee bee, Sith her fathir hath chofe her a new new love, And forbidde her to thinke of thee. Her fathir hath brought her a carlish knight, Sir John of the northe countraye, And within three days fhee muft him wedde, Or he vowes he will her flaye. Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And telle her that I her owne true love Now hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And let thy fair ladye know This night will I bee at her bowre-windowe. Betide me weale or woe. The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, Untill he came to faire Emmelines bowre, O ladye, Ive been with thy own true love, This night will he bee at thy bowre-windowe, Nowe daye was gone, and night was come, And all were fast asleepe, All fave the ladye Emmeline, Who fate in her bowre to weepe: And foone fhee heard her true loves voice Lowe whispering at the walle, Awake, awake, my deare ladye, Tis I thy true love call. Awake, awake, my ladye deare, Come, mount this faire palfraye: This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe, Ile carry thee hence awaye. Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, For aye fhould I tint my maiden fame, O ladye, thou with a knighte so true To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, "My father he is a baron bolde, And what would he faye if his daughter Ah! well I wot, he never would reft, Till he had flayne thee, Child of Elle, O ladye, wert thou in thy faddle fette, I would not care for thy crucl father, Faire Emmeline fighde, fair Emmeline wept, At length he seizde her lilly-white hand, |