'If I must pull off my Holland smock, For it is not fitting that such a ruffian He turned his back towards her, He dropped high, and he dropped low, 'Catch hold of my hand, my pretty maiden, 'Lie there, lie there, you false-hearted man, Six pretty maidens have you drowned here, She mounted on her milk-white steed, She rode till she came to her father's hall, Old Ballad CXI SPRING Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring; Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! The palm and the may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Spring, the sweet Spring. T. Nash CXII SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST There came a ghost to Margaret's door, And aye he tirled at the pin, 'Is that my father Philip, Or is't my brother John? Or is't my true love Willy, From Scotland new come home?' "Tis not thy father Philip, Nor yet thy brother John; But 'tis thy true love Willy, From Scotland new come home. 'O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret, I pray thee speak to me: Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, As I gave it to thee.' 'Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, Nor yet wilt thou me win, Till that thou come within my bower 'If I should come within thy bower, ‘O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret, I pray thee speak to me: Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, As I gave it to thee.' 'Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, Nor yet wilt thou me win, Till you take me to yon kirk-yard, And wed me with a ring.' 'My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard Afar beyond the sea, And it is but my spirit, Margaret, She stretched out her lily-white hand, And for to do her best: 'Have there your faith and troth, Willy, God send your soul good rest.' Q Now she has kilted her robes of green A piece below her knee; And all the live-long winter night 'Is there any room at your head, Willy, 'There's no room at my head, Margaret, There's no room at my feet; There's no room at my side, Margaret, My coffin's made so meet.' Then up and crew the red red cock, "Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margaret, That you were going away.' CXIII Old Ballad THE FOUNTAIN Into the sunshine, Full of the light, Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, When the winds blow! Into the starlight, Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary; Glad of all weathers, Full of a nature Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content, Darkness or sunshine Glorious fountain! Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant, F. R. Lowell |