My Love was clad in the black velvét,
And I myself in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kist,

That love had been sae ill to win;

I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd

And pinn'd it with a siller pin.
And, O! if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurse's knee,

And I mysell were dead and gane,

And the green grass growing over me!

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Anon.

Upon my lap my sovereign sits

And sucks upon my breast;

Meantime his love maintains my life

And gives my sense her rest.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,

Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

When thou hast taken thy repast,
Repose, my babe, on me;

So may thy mother and thy nurse
Thy cradle also be.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

I grieve that duty doth not work
All that my wishing would,
Because I would not be to thee
But in the best I should.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,

Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Yet as I am, and as I may,

I must and will be thine,

1 From Martin Peerson's "Private Music," 1620.

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Though all too little for thyself
Vouchsafing to be mine.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,

Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Anon.

CXXXV

FAIR HELEN 1

I wish I were where Helen lies;
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies

On fair Kirconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,

And died to succor me!

O think na but my heart was sair

When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!

I laid her down wi' meikle care

On fair Kirconnell lea.

As I went down the water-side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,

On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma',

For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare!
I'll make a garland of thy hair
Shall bind my heart for evermair
Until the day I die.

1 From Scott's "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," 1802-1803.

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THE TWA CORBIES 1

As I was walking all alane

I heard twa corbies making a mane;

The tane unto the t'other say,

"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?

In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there,

But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

"His hound is to the hunting gane,

His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,

1 From Scott's "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," 1802-1803. An older version appeared in Ravenscroft's "Melismata," 1611.

His lady 's ta'en another mate,

So we may mak our dinner sweet.

"Ye 'll sit on his white hause-bane,

And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een:
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair

We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

"Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair."

Anon.

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Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling light,
When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,
By something liker death possest.

My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,

And on my soul hung the dull weight

Of some intolerable fate.

What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know!

My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,

Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,
Thy end forever, and my life, to moan?

O thou hast left me all alone!
Thy soul and body, when death's agony
Besieged around thy noble heart,

Did not with more reluctance part

Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee.

Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,
Have ye not seen us, walking every day?

Was there a tree about which did not know

The love betwixt us two?

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Henceforth, ye gentle trees, forever fade,

Or your sad branches thicker join,

And into darksome shades combine,

Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.

Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er
Submitted to inform a body here;

High as the place 't was shortly in Heaven to have,
But low and humble as his grave;

So high that all the virtues there did come

As to the chiefest seat

Conspicuous, and great;

So low that for me too it made a room.

Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
As if for him knowledge had rather sought;
Nor did more learning ever crowded lie

In such a short mortality.

Whene'er the skillful youth discoursed or writ,

Still did the notions throng

About his eloquent tongue;

Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.

His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
Yet never did his God or friends forget.
And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,
Retired, and gave to them their due.

For the rich help of books he always took,

Though his own searching mind before
Was so with notions written o'er,

As if wise Nature had made that her book.

With as much zeal, devotion, piety,

He always lived, as other saints do die.
Still with his soul severe account he kept,
Weeping all debts out ere he slept.

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