The burden of this lament, its simple passion appealing to the popular heart and its melody holding the ear, has been perpetuated through the generations since it was first sung. It has been printed in all forms and variations in the broadsides and penny song books, as well as in the critical collections of poetry, solaced the sentimental feeling of the dairy maid as well as haunted the vision of Charles Lamb, and its refrain may be heard to-day in the burlesque choruses of the negro minstrel stage. A very interesting example is given by Professor Child of the way in which an old ballad of perfect form and construction may be made incoherent and shapeless in a broadside copy, mere matter of "silly sooth" for old age or primitive ignorance, without losing the fine flower of pathos and feeling, or the grace of expression, in its disconnected and ejaculatory stanzas. It is also interesting as an example, of which many others could be given, of the effect of oral tradition passing from minds of native strength, if without education, down to and through those of a lower order of intelligence, from whom now only the debris of the ancient songs and ballads can be obtained. It is from a broadside printed in Edinburgh, without date, but of considerable antiquity, and entitled Arthur's Seat shall be My Bed, etc., or Love in Despair. Come lay me soft and draw me near, And lay thy white hand over me; For I am starving in the cold, And thou art bound to cover me. O, cover me in my distress, And help me in my miserie; For I do wake, when I should sleep, All for the love of my dearie. My rents they are but very small, For to maintain my love withall; But with my labour and my pain, I will maintain my love with them. O, Arthur's seat shall be my bed, And the sheets shall never be filed by me, St. Anthony's well shall be my drink, Since my true love's forsaken me. Should I be bound, that may go free? Should I love them that love not me? I 'll rather travel into Spain, Where I 'll get love for love again. And I 'll cast off my robes of black, And will put on the robes of blue; And I will come to some other land To see if my love will on me rue. It is not the cold that makes me cry, It is not the weet that wearies me; Nor is it the frost that freezes fell, But I love a lad, and I dare not tell. Oh, faith is gone, and truth is past, And my true love's forsaken me; If all be true that I hear say, I 'll mourn until the day I die. Oh, if I had nere been born, That to have died, when I was young; Then I had never wet my cheeks For the love of any woman's son. Oh, oh, if my young babe was born, And set upon the nurse's knee; And I myself were dead and gone,