"O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Ronald, my son! O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!" "O yes, I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down." This version, which I quote from Mr Allingham's _Ballad Book_ (1864), ends here; so does that given by Sir Walter Scott in the _Border Minstrelsy_. There is, however, another version which goes on: "What will ye leave to your father, Lord Ronald, my son? What will ye leave to your father, my handsome young man?" "Baith my houses and land; mither, mak' my bed sune For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What will ye leave to your brither, Lord Ronald, my son? What will ye leave to your brither, my handsome young man?" "My horse and my saddle; mither, mak' my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What will ye leave to your sister, Lord Ronald, my son? What will ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?" "Baith my gold box and rings; mither, mak' my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What will ye leave to your true love, Lord Ronald, my son? What will ye leave to your true love, my handsome young man?" "The tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree, And let her hang there for the poisoning o' me." Lord Ronald has already been met with, though somewhat disguised, both in Germany and in Sweden, but his appearance two hundred and fifty years ago at Verona has a peculiar interest attached to it. That England shares most of her songs with the Northern nations is a fact familiar to all; but, unless I am mistaken, this is almost the first time of discovering a purely popular British ballad in an Italian dress. It so happens that to the fragments quoted by Camillo and the Canon can be added the complete story as sung at the present date in Tuscany, Venetia, and Lombardy. Professor d'Ancona has taken pains to collate the slightly different texts, because few Italian folk-songs now extant can be traced even as far back as the seventeenth century. The learned Professor, whose great antiquarian services are well known, does not seem to be aware that the song has currency out of Italy. The best version is one set down from word of mouth in the district of Como, and of this I subjoin a literal rendering: "Where were you yester eve? My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, Where were you yester eve?" "I with my love abode; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: I with my love abode; Alas, alas, that I should have to die." "What supper gave she you? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What supper gave she you?" "I supped on roasted eel; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: I supped on roasted eel; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."