A fair maid sat in her bower door, Wringing her lily hands; And by it came a sprightly youth, Fast tripping oer the strands. "Where gang ye, young John," she says, "Sae early in the day? It gars me think, by your fast trip, Your journey's far away." He turn'd about wi' surly look, And said, "What's that to thee? I'm ga'en to see a lovely maid, Mair fairer far than ye." "Now hae ye play'd me this, fause love, In simmer, mid the flowers? I shall repay ye back again, In winter, 'mid the showers. [Illustration: 0237] "But again, dear love, and again, dear love, Will ye not turn again? For as ye look to ither women, I shall to other men." "Make your choice o' whom you please, For I my choice will have; I've chosen a maid more fair than thee, I never will deceive." But she's kilt up her claithing fine, And after him gaed she; But aye he said, "Ye'll turn again, Nae farder gae wi' me." "But again, dear love, and again, dear love, Will ye never love me again? Alas! for loving you sae well, And you na me again." The firstan' town that they come till, He bought her brooch and ring; But aye he bade her turn again, And gang nae farder wi' him. "But again, dear love, and again, dear love,'' &c. The nextan' town that they came till, He bought her muff and gloves; But aye he bade her turn again, And choose some other loves. "But again, dear love, and again, dear love," &c. The nextan' town that they came till, His heart it grew mair fain; And he was deep in love wi' her, As she was ower again. The nextan' town that they came till, He bought her wedding gown; And made her lady o' ha's and bowers, In sweet Berwick town. [Illustration: 0238] THE UNQUIET GRAVE. [Illustration: 0239] |The wind doth blow to-day, my love, And a few small drops of rain; I never had but one true-love, In cold grave she was lain. I'll do as much for my true-love As any young man may; I'll sit and mourn all at her grave For a twelvemonth and a day. The twelvemonth and a day being up, The dead began to speak: "Oh, who sits weeping on my grave, And will not let me sleep?" "'Tis I, my love, sits on your grave, And will not let you sleep; For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips, And that is all I seek." "You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips, But my breath smells earthy strong; If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips, Your time will not be long. "'Tis down in yonder garden green, Love, where we used to walk; The finest flower that ere was seen Is withered to a stalk. "The stalk is withered,dry, my love, So will our hearts decay; So make yourself content, my love, Till God call you away!" PEASANT BALLADS THE BROKEN TOKEN |One summer evening, a maiden fair