'And what will you leave to your own mother dear? Edward! Edward! And what will you leave to your own mother dear? My dear son, now tell me, O!' 'The curse of hell from me shall you bear, Mother! Mother! The curse of hell from me shall you bear, Such counsels you gave to me, O!' _THOMAS PERCY_ NANNY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME? O NANNY, wilt thou go with me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot and russet gown? No longer drest in silken sheen, No longer deck'd with jewels rare,-- Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O Nanny, when thou'rt far away, Wilt thou not cast a wish behind? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind? Oh, can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor sad, regret each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O Nanny, canst thou love so true, Through perils keen with me to go, Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe? Say, should disease or pain befall, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care Nor wistful those gay scenes recall, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath, Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay Strew flowers and drop the tender tear, Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY IT was a friar of orders gray Walk'd forth to tell his beads; And he met with a lady fair Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 'Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see.' 'And how should I know your true-love From many another one?' 'Oh, by his cockle-hat and staff, And by his sandal shoon. 'But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view; His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, And eyes of lovely blue.' 'O lady, he is dead and gone! Lady, he's dead and gone! And at his head a green-grass turf, And at his heels a stone. Within these holy cloisters long He languish'd, and he died Lamenting of a lady's love, And 'plaining of her pride. They bore him barefaced on his bier Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall.' And art thou dead, thou gentle youth And art thou dead and gone; And didst thou die for love of me? Break, cruel heart of stone!' 'Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so, Some ghostly comfort seek; Let not vain sorrows rive thy heart, Nor tears bedew thy cheek.' Oh, do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth That e'er won lady's love. And now, alas! for thy sad loss I'll ever weep and sigh; For thee I only wish'd to live, For thee I wish to die.'