Studies in Folk-Song and Popular Poetry

Name: Studies in Folk-Song and Popular Poetry
Author: Williams, Alfred M. (Alfred Mason)

Williams, Alfred M. (Alfred Mason)

Folk songs -- History and criticism

My deir son? Now tell mee, O."

     "The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir,

               Mither, mither.

     The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir,

          Sic counseils ye gave to me, O."

Edward was communicated to Bishop Percy from Scotland by Lord Hailes,
and there is some affectation in the ancient spelling, but it is
undoubtedly genuine, and, as Professor Child remarks, "as spelling will
not make an old ballad, so it will not unmake one."

One of the most famous and best known of the ancient Scottish ballads
is that entitled Waly, Waly, gin Love be Bony, or, as it is sometimes
called, Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament, which was first published in
Ramsay's Tea Table Miscellany. It has numerous variants embodying the
language of the lament in stories of a more dramatic character, founded
on a tradition of the Douglas family, but this has the strength and
simplicity of an original:--

     O, waly, waly, up the bank,

          And waly, waly, down the brae;

     And waly, waly, yon burn-side,

          Where I and my love wont to gae.

     I leaned my back unto an aik,

          I thought it was a trusty tree;

     But first it bowed, and syne it brak,

          Sae my true love did lightly me.

     O, waly, waly, but love be bony,

          A little time, while it is new;

     But when it's auld it waxeth cauld,

          And fades away like morning dew.

     O, wherefore should I brush my head?

          O, wherefore should I kaim my hair,

     For my true love has me forsook,

          And says he 'll never love me mair.

     Now, Arthur's seat shall be my bed,

          The sheets shall ne'er be fyld by me;

     Saint Anton's well shall be my drink

          Since my true love's forsaken me.

     Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blow,

          And shake the green leaves off the tree

     O, gentle death, when wilt thou come,

          For of my life I am weary.

     'T is not the frost that freezes fell,

          Nor blawing snaw's inclemency;

     'T is not the cauld as makes me cry,

          But my love's heart grown cauld to me.

     When we came in by Glasgow town,

          We were a comelie sight to see;

     My love was clad in black velvet,

          And I myself in cramoisie.

     But had I wist before I kist

          That love had been sae ill to win;

     I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,

          And pinned it with a silver pin.

     Oh, oh, if my young babe was born,

          And set upon the nurse's knee;

     And I mysell were dead and gone,

          For a maid again I 'll never be.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Studies in Folk-Song and Popular Poetry

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