And thrice he claspde her to his breste, The teares that fell from her fair eyes, Hee mounted himselfe on his fleede fo talle, And flung his bugle about his necke, All this beheard her owne damfelle, Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle, To doe the deede of fhame. The baron he woke, the baron he rose, And callde his merrye men all: "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte, Thy ladye is carried to thrall.” Fair Emmeline fcant had ridden a mile, A mile forth of the towne, When she was aware of her fathers men Come galloping over the downe: And foremost came the carlish knight, For fhe is come of hye lynage, And was of a ladye borne, And ill it befeems thee a falfe churles fonne Nowe loud thou lycft, Sir John the knight, A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, But light nowe downe, my ladye faire, But lighte now downe, my deare ladye, Fair Emmeline fighde, fair Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe, While twixt her love, and the carlish knight Paft many a baleful blowe. The Child of Elle hee fought foe well, And nowe the baron, and all his men Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe? Her lover he put his horne to his mouth, "Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron, Thy daughter I have dearly lovde Full long and many a day, O give confent, fhee may be mine, My mother fhe was an erles daughter, The baron he frownde, and turnde away Fair Emmeline fighde, faire Emmeline wept, At lengthe fhe fprange upon her knee, Pardon, my lorde and father deare, Oft have you callde your Emmeline The baron he ftroakt his dark-brown cheeke, And turnde his heade afyde To whipe awaye the ftarting teare, He proudly ftrave to hyde. In deepe revolving thought he stoode, And mufde a little space; Then raifde faire Emmeline from the grounde, With many a fond embrace. Here take her, child of Elle, he fayd, And gave her lillye hand, Here take my deare and only child, Thy father once mine honour wrongde Do thou the injurye repayre And as thou love her, and hold her deare, LITTLE MUSGRAVE AND LADY BARNARD. A S it fell out on a highe holye daye, As many bee in the yeare, When young men and maides together do goe Their maffes and mattins to heare. Little Mufgrave came to the church door, The priest was at the mafs, But he had more mind of the fine women Then he had of our Ladyes grace. |