Lye still, my darling, sleipe a while, And when thou wakest, sweitly smile: But smile not, as thy father did, To cozen maids; nay, God forbid! But yett I feire, thou wilt gae neire 20 Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. _Balow, &c._ I cannae chuse, but ever will Be luving to thy father still: Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde, 25 My luve with him doth still abyde: In weil or wae, whaireir he gae, Mine hart can neire depart him frae. _Balow, &c._ But doe not, doe not, pretty mine, 30 To faynings fals thine hart incline; Be loyal to thy luver trew, And nevir change her for a new: If gude or faire, of hir have care, For womens banning 's wonderous sair. 35 _Balow, &c._ Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine; My babe and I'll together live, He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve: My babe and I right saft will ly, 40 And quite forgeit man's cruelty. _Balow, &c._ Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, That evir kist a womans mouth! 45 I wish all maides be warned by mee Nevir to trust mans curtesy; For if we doe bot chance to bow, They'll use us then they care not how. _Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe_, _It grieves me sair to see thee weipe_. 50 WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. These beautiful verses are thought to be only a part of _Lord Jamie Douglas_, (see the next piece,) in one copy or another of which, according to Motherwell, nearly all of them are to be found. They were first published in the _Tea-Table Miscellany_, (i. 231,) and are here given as they there appear, separate from an explicit story. Although in this condition they must be looked upon as a fragment, still, they are too awkwardly introduced in the ballad above mentioned, and too superior to the rest of the composition, to allow of our believing that they have as yet found their proper connection. In Johnson's _Museum_, (i. 166,) besides several trifling variations from Ramsay's copy, the fourth is replaced by the following: When cockle shells turn siller bells, And mussels grow on every tree, When frost and snaw shall warm us a', Then shall my love prove true to me. The third stanza stands thus in a Christmas medley, quoted by Leyden from a "MS. Cantus of the latter part of the 17th century:" Hey troly loly, love is joly, A whyle whill it is new; When it is old, it grows full cold,-- Woe worth the love untrue! _Complaynt of Scotland_, i. 278.