[24] See also Ritson, 'Ancient Songs and Ballads,' 3rd Ed., pages xlviii., 202 ff. The Percy folio MS. preserved a cradle song, 'Balow, my Babe, ly Still and Sleepe,' which was published as a broadside, and finally came to be known as 'Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament.' These "balow" lullabies are said by Mr. Ebbsworth to be imitations of a pretty poem first published in 1593, and now printed by Mr. Bullen in his 'Songs from Elizabethan Romances,' page 92. The same English manuscript which has kept the refrain 'Blow, Northern Wind,' offers another song which may be given in modern translation and entire. All these songs were written down about the year 1310, and probably in Herefordshire. As with the _carmina burana_, the lays of German "clerks," so these English lays represent something between actual communal verse and the poetry of the individual artist; they owe more to folk-song than to the traditions of literature and art. Some of the expressions in this song are taken, if we may trust the critical insight of Ten Brink, directly from the poetry of the people. A maid as white as ivory bone, A pearl in gold that golden shone, A turtle-dove, a love whereon My heart must cling: Her blitheness nevermore be gone While I can sing! When she is gay, In all the world no more I pray Than this: alone with her to stay Withouten strife. Could she but know the ills that slay Her lover's life! Was never woman nobler wrought; And when she blithe to sleep is brought, Well for him who guessed her thought, Proud maid! Yet O, Full well I know she will me nought. My heart is woe. And how shall I then sweetly sing That thus am marred with mourning? To death, alas, she will me bring Long ere my day. _Greet her well, the sweete thing, With eyen gray!_ Her eyes have wounded me, i-wis. Her arching brows that bring the bliss; Her comely mouth whoso might kiss, In mirth he were; And I would change all mine for his That is her fere.[25] Her fere, so worthy might I be, Her fere, so noble, stout and free, For this one thing I would give three, Nor haggle aught. From hell to heaven, if one could see, So fine is naught, [Nor half so free;[26] All lovers true, now listen unto me.] Now hearken to me while I tell, In such a fume I boil and well; There is no fire so hot in hell As his, I trow, Who loves unknown and dares not tell His hidden woe. _I will her well, she wills me woe; I am her friend, and she my foe;_ Methinks my heart will break in two For sorrow's might; _In God's own greeting may she go, That maiden white!_ _I would I were a throstlecock, A bunting, or a laverock,[27] Sweet maid! Between her kirtle and her smock I'd then be hid!_