The first professed edition of this piece is in the Third Part of Watson's _Collection of Comic and Serious Scots Poems_, p. 79; the next in the _Tea-Table Miscellany_, i. 161. Both of these copies have been modernized, but Ramsay's is the better of the two, and equally authentic. We therefore select Ramsay's, and add to it Percy's, which contains three stanzas not found in the others, and preserves somewhat more of the air of antiquity. There is a version extending to fifteen stanzas, arranged in a very different order, in Evans's _Old Ballads_, i. 259. Herd, Ritson, &c., have followed Ramsay. Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep, It grieves me sore to hear thee weep: If thou'lt be silent, I'll be glad, Thy mourning makes my heart full sad. Balow, my boy, thy mother's joy, 5 Thy father bred me great annoy. _Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep_, _It grieves me sore to hear thee weep_. Balow, my darling, sleep a while, And when thou wak'st, then sweetly smile; 10 But smile not as thy father did, To cozen maids, nay, God forbid; For in thine eye his look I see, The tempting look that ruin'd me, _Balow, my boy, &c._ 15 When he began to court my love, And with his sugar'd words to move, His tempting face, and flatt'ring chear In time to me did not appear; But now I see that cruel he 20 Cares neither for his babe nor me. _Balow, my boy, &c._ Fareweel, fareweel, thou falsest youth That ever kist a woman's mouth; Let never any after me 25 Submit unto thy courtesy! For, if they do, O! cruel thou Wilt her abuse, and care not how. _Balow, my boy, &c._ I was too cred'lous at the first, 30 To yield thee all a maiden durst; Thou swore for ever true to prove, Thy faith unchang'd, unchang'd thy love; But quick as thought the change is wrought, Thy love's no mair, thy promise nought. 35 _Balow, my boy, &c._ I wish I were a maid again! From young men's flatt'ry I'd refrain; For now unto my grief I find They all are perjur'd and unkind; 40 Bewitching charms bred all my harms;-- Witness my babe lies in my arms. _Balow, my boy, &c._ I take my fate from bad to worse, That I must needs be now a nurse, 45 And lull my young son on my lap: From me, sweet orphan, take the pap. Balow, my child, thy mother mild Shall wail as from all bliss exil'd. _Balow, my boy, &c._ 50