Then they fought four hours in a long summer day, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; Till the wild boar fain would have got him away From Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter. Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword with might, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; And he fairly cut the boar’s head off quite, For he was a jovial hunter. Then out of the wood the wild woman flew, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; ‘Oh, my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew, For thou beest a jovial hunter. ‘There are three things, I demand them of thee,’ Wind well thy horn, good hunter; ‘It’s thy horn, and thy hound, and thy gay lady, As thou beest a jovial hunter.’ ‘If these three things thou dost ask of me,’ Wind well thy horn, good hunter; ‘It’s just as my sword and thy neck can agree, For I am a jovial hunter.’ Then into his long locks the wild woman flew, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; Till she thought in her heart to tear him through, Though he was a jovial hunter. Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword again, Wind well thy horn, good hunter, And he fairly split her head into twain, For he was a jovial hunter. In Bromsgrove church, the knight he doth lie, Wind well thy horn, good hunter; And the wild boar’s head is pictured thereby, Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter. LADY ALICE. [THIS old ballad is regularly published by the stall printers. The termination resembles that of _Lord Lovel_ and other ballads. See _Early Ballads_, Ann. Ed. p. 134. An imperfect traditional copy was printed in _Notes and Queries_.] LADY ALICE was sitting in her bower window, At midnight mending her quoif; And there she saw as fine a corpse As ever she saw in her life. ‘What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall? What bear ye on your shouldèrs?’ ‘We bear the corpse of Giles Collins, An old and true lover of yours.’ ‘O, lay him down gently, ye six men tall, All on the grass so green, And to-morrow when the sun goes down, Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen. ‘And bury me in Saint Mary’s Church, All for my love so true; And make me a garland of marjoram, And of lemon thyme, and rue.’ Giles Collins was buried all in the east, Lady Alice all in the west; And the roses that grew on Giles Collins’s grave, They reached Lady Alice’s breast. The priest of the parish he chancèd to pass, And he severed those roses in twain. Sure never were seen such true lovers before, Nor e’er will there be again. THE FELON SEWE OF ROKEBY AND THE FREERES OF RICHMOND.