On Bamboroughshire’s rocky shore, Just as you enter _Bowmer_ Raw, There lives the bonny fisher lad, The fisher lad that bangs them a’. O the bonny fisher lad, That brings the fishes fra’ the sea; O the bonny fisher lad, The fisher lad gat had of me. My mother sent me out one day, To gather cockles fra’ the sea; But I had not been long away, When the fisher lad gat had of me. O the bonny, &c. A sailor I will never marry, Nor soldier, for he’s got no _brass_; But I will have a fisher lad Because I am a fisher’s lass. O the bonny, &c. THE KYE’s COME HOME. The kye are come hame, But I see not my hinny, The kye are come hame, But I see not my bairn: I’d rather lose all the kye Than lose my hinny, I’d rather lose all the kye Than lose my bairn. Fair fac’d is my hinny, His blue eyes are bonny, His hair in curl’d ringlets Hang sweet to the sight; O mount the old poney, Seek after my hinny, And bring to his mammy Her only delight. SONG. _A lamentable Ditty made upon the death of a worthy gentleman, named GEORGE STOOLE, dwelling sometime on Gate-side Moor, and sometime at Newcastle, in Northumberland: with his penitent end._ [c. 1610.] To a delicate Scottish Tune. Come you lusty Northerne lads, That are so blith and bonny, Prepare your hearts to be full sad, To heare the end of Georgy. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny love, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my honny; Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my owne deare love, And God be with my Georgie. When Georgie to his triall came, A thousand hearts were sorry, A thousand lasses wept full sore, And all for love of Georgie. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho my bonny love, Heigh-ho, &c. Some did say he would escape, Some at his fall did glory: But these were clownes and fickle friends, And none that loved Georgy. Heigh-ho, &c. Might friends have satisfied the law, Then Georgie would find many: Yet bravely did he plead for life, If mercy might be any. Heigh-ho, &c. But when this doughty carle was cast, He was full sad and sorry: Yet boldly did he take his death, So patiently dyde Georgie. Heigh-ho, &c. As Georgie went up to the gate, He tooke his leave of many: He tooke his leave of his laird’s wife, Whom he lov’d best of any. Heigh-ho, &c. With thousand sighs and heavy looks, Away from thence he parted, Where he so often blithe had beene, Though now so heavy hearted. Heigh-ho, &c. He writ a letter with his owne hand, He thought he writ it bravely: He sent it to New-castle towne, To his beloved lady. Heigh-ho, &c. Wherein he did at large bewaile, The occasion of his folly: Bequeathing life unto the law, His soule to heaven holy. Heigh-ho, &c.