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Ah! wretched me! I little little ken'd
LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LANENT.
A SCOTTISH SONG.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;
If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! But lang e'er night the spear was flown
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. That slew my love, and left me mourning.
When he began to court my luve, What can my barbarous barbarous father do,
And with his sugred words to muve, But with his cruel rage pursue me?
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire:
But now I see, most cruell hee
Cares neither for my babe nor mee. My liappy sisters may be may be proud;
Balow, &c. With cruel and ungentle scoffin,
Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe a while, May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes
And when thou wakest sweitly smile: My luver nailed in his coffin.
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids; nay, God forbid !
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire, My luver's blood is on thy spear,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?
I cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil:
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, Unbar ye bridal maids the door,
My love with him maun stil abyde:
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neir depart him frae. But who the expected husband husband is ?
Balow, &c. His hands methinks are bath'd in slaughter. Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,
But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline: Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after.
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new :
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For womens banning's wonderous sair. And crown my careful head with willow.
Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Pale tho' thou art, yet best yet best beluv'd,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ; O could my warmth to life restore thee!
My babe and I'll together live, Yet lie all night between my briests,
He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve: No youth lay ever there before thee.
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forget man's cruelty: Pale pale indeed, O lovely lovely youth,
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lye all night between my briests,
No youth shall ever lye there after.
4. Return return, O mournful mournful bride,
Return and dry thy useless sorrow. Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs,
He lyes a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.
Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth,
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipel