Ballads, English -- England -- Texts; Ballads, Scots -- Scotland -- Texts
She took me by the hand,
And with a modest grace,
"Welcome, sweet Barnwell," then quoth she,
"Unto this homely place. 60
"And since I have thee found
As good as thy word to be,
A homely supper, ere we part,
Thou shalt take here with me."
"O pardon me," quoth I, 65
"Fair mistress, I you pray;
For why, out of my master's house
So long I dare not stay."
"Alas, good sir," she said,
"Are you so strictly ty'd, 70
You may not with your dearest friend
One hour or two abide?
"Faith, then the case is hard;
If it be so," quoth she,
"I would I were a prentice bound, 75
To live along with thee.
"Therefore, my dearest George,
List well what I shall say,
And do not blame a woman much,
Her fancy to bewray. 80
"Let not affection's force
Be counted lewd desire;
Nor think it not immodesty,
I should thy love require."
With that she turn'd aside, 85
And with a blushing red,
A mournful motion she bewray'd
By hanging down her head.
A handkerchief she had,
All wrought with silk and gold, 90
Which she, to stay her trickling tears,
Before her eyes did hold.
This thing unto my sight
Was wondrous rare and strange,
And in my soul and inward thought 95
It wrought a sudden change:
That I so hardy grew
To take her by the hand,
Saying, "Sweet mistress, why do you
So dull and pensive stand?" 100
"Call me no mistress now,
But Sarah, thy true friend,
Thy servant, Milwood, honouring thee,
Until her life hath end.
"If thou wouldst here alledge 105
Thou art in years a boy;
So was Adonis, yet was he
Fair Venus' only joy."
Thus I, who ne'er before
Of woman found such grace, 110
But seeing now so fair a dame
Give me a kind embrace,
I supt with her that night,
With joys that did abound;
And for the same paid presently, 115
In mony twice three pound.
An hundred kisses then,
For my farewel she gave;
Crying, "Sweet Barnwell, when shall I
Again thy company have? 120
"O stay not hence too long;
Sweet George, have me in mind:"
Her words bewicht my childishness,
She uttered them so kind.
So that I made a vow, 125
Next Sunday, without fail,
With my sweet Sarah once again
To tell some pleasant tale.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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