I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn owre my e’en, And I in Helen’s arms lying, On fair Kirconnell lea. I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me. _388._ _Waly, Waly_ O waly, waly, up the bank, And waly, waly, doun the brae, And waly, waly, yon burn-side, Where I and my Love wont to gae! I lean’d my back unto an aik, I thocht it was a trustie tree; But first it bow’d and syne it brak-- Sae my true love did lichtlie me. O waly, waly, gin love be bonnie A little time while it is new! But when ’tis auld it waxeth cauld, And fades awa’ like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my heid, Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true Love has me forsook, And says he’ll never lo’e me mair. Now Arthur’s Seat sall be my bed, The sheets sall ne’er be ’filed by me; Saint Anton’s well sall be my drink; Since my true Love has forsaken me. Marti’mas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle Death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearìe. ’Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie, ’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry; But my Love’s heart grown cauld to me. When we cam in by Glasgow toun, We were a comely sicht to see; My Love was clad in the black velvèt, And I mysel in cramasie. But had I wist, before I kist, That love had been sae ill to win, I had lock’d my heart in a case o’ gowd. And pinn’d it wi’ a siller pin. And O! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse’s knee; And I mysel were dead and gane, And the green grass growing over me! _388._ cramasie] crimson. _389._ _Barbara Allen’s Cruelty_ In Scarlet town, where I was born, There was a fair maid dwellin’, Made every youth cry _Well-a-way_! Her name was Barbara Allen. All in the merry month of May, When green buds they were swellin’, Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen. He sent his man in to her then, To the town where she was dwellin’, ‘O haste and come to my master dear, If your name be Barbara Allen.’ So slowly, slowly rase she up, And slowly she came nigh him, And when she drew the curtain by-- ‘Young man, I think you’re dyin’.’ ‘O it’s I am sick and very very sick, And it’s all for Barbara Allen.’ ‘O the better for me ye’se never be, Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spillin’! ‘O dinna ye mind, young man,’ says she, ‘When the red wine ye were fillin’, That ye made the healths go round and round, And slighted Barbara Allen?’