‘Give my respects to my mother, As she sits in her chair of oak, And bid her come to my sickening, Or my merry lake-wake[511]. XIV ‘Give my love to my brothers William, Ralph, and John, And to my sister Betty fair, And to her white as bone: XV ‘And bid her keep her maidenhead, Be sure [to keep it lang:] For if e’er she come into man’s bed, The same gate will she gang.’ XVI Away this little boy is gone, As fast as he could run; When he came where brigs were broke, He laid him down and swum. XVII When he saw the lady, he said, ‘Lord may your keeper be!’-- ‘What news, my pretty boy, Hast thou to tell to me?’-- XVIII ‘Your daughter Mary orders me As you sit in a chair of stone, To ask you how you like the news, Of seven to have but one? XIX ‘Your daughter gives you her commands, As you sit in a chair of oak, And bids you come to her sickening, Or her merry lake-wake. XX ‘She gives command to her brothers William, Ralph, and John, [And] to her sister Betty fair, And to her white as bone. XXI ‘She bids her keep her maidenhead, Be sure [to keep it lang:] For if e’er she come into man’s bed, The same gate will she gang.’ XXII She kickt the table with her foot, She kickt it with her knee, The silver plate into the fire, So far she made it flee. XXIII Then she call’d her waiting-maid To bring her riding-hood, So did she on her stable-groom To bring her riding-steed. XXIV ‘Go saddle to me the black, the black, Go saddle to me the brown, Go saddle to me the swiftest steed That e’er rid to Wallington!’ XXV When they came to Wallington, And into Wallington hall, There she spy’d her son Fenwick, Walking about the wall. XXVI ‘God save you, my dearest son, Lord may your keeper be! Tell me where is my daughter fair, That used to walk with thee?’ XXVII He turn’d his head him round about, The tears did fill his e’e: ‘’Tis a month,’ he said, ‘since Fair Mary Took her chambers from me.’ XXVIII She went on [to her daughter’s chamber]; And there were in the hall Four and twenty ladies, Letting the tears down fall. XXIX Her daughter had a scope[512] into Her cheek and eke her chin, All to keep in her dear life Till her dear mother came. XXX ‘Come take the rings off my fingers, The skin it is so white, And give them to my mother dear, For she was all the wyte[513]. XXXI ‘Come take the rings off my fingers, The veins they are so red, Give them to Sir William Fenwick, I’m sure his heart will bleed.’ XXXII