Too true, alas! this story is,

As many one can tell :

By others harmes learne to be wise,
And you shall do full well.

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XI.

WALY WALY, LOVE BE BONNY.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

THIS is a very ancient song, but we could only give it from a modern copy. Some editions instead of the four last lines in the second stanza have these, which have too much merit to be wholly suppressed:

"Whan cockle shells turn siller bells,

And muscles grow on every tree,

When frost and snaw sallarm us aw',
Than sall my love prove true to me.'

See the "Orpheus Caledonius," &c.

Arthur's-seat mentioned in ver. 17, is a hill near Edinburgh ; at the bottom of which is St. Anthony's well.

O WALY waly up the bank,

And waly waly down the brae,

And waly waly yon burn side,

Where I and my love wer wont to gae.

I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree;

But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
Sae my true love did lichtly me.

O waly waly gin love be bonny,
A little time while it is new;
But when its auld, it waxeth cauld,

And fades awa' like morning dew.
O wherfore shuld I busk my head?

Or wherfore shuld I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,
And says he'll never loe me mair.

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Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed,

The sheets shall neir be fyl'd 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, whan wilt thou cum ?
For of my life I am wearìe.

Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaws inclemencie ;
'Tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry,
But my loves heart grown cauld to me.
Whan we came in by Glasgowe town,
We were a comely sight to see,
My love was cled in black velvet,
And I my sell in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kisst,

That love had been sae ill to win ;

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I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd,
And pinnd it with a siller pin.
And, oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurses knee,

And I my sell were dead and gane !
For a maid again Ise never be.

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XII.

THE BRIDE'S BURIAL.

FROM two ancient copies in black-letter: one in the Pepys Collection; the other in the British Museum. To the tune of "The Lady's Fall."

COME mourne, come mourne with mee,
You loyall lovers all ;

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Lament my loss in weeds of woe,
Whom griping grief doth thrall.

Like to the drooping vine,

Cut by the gardener's knife,

Even so my heart, with sorrow slaine,
Doth bleed for my sweet wife.

By death, that grislye ghost,
My turtle dove is slaine,
And I am left, unhappy man,
To spend my dayes in paine.

Her beauty late so bright,

Like roses in their prime,

Is wasted like the mountain snowe,
Before warme Phebus' shine.

Her faire red colour'd cheeks
Now pale and wan; her eyes,

That late did shine like crystal stars ;
Alas! their light it dies :

Her prettye lilly hands,

With fingers long and small, In colour like the earthly claye, Yea, cold and stiff withall.

When as the morning-star

Her golden gates had spred, And that the glittering sun arose Forth from fair Thetis' bed;

Then did my love awake,
Most like a lilly-flower,

And as the lovely queene of heaven
So shone shee in her bower.

Attired was shee then

Like Flora in her pride,

Like one of bright Diana's nymphs,
So look'd my loving bride.

And as fair Helen's face,

Did Grecian dames besmirche,
So did my dear exceed in sight,
All virgins in the church.

When we had knitt the knott
Of holy wedlock-band,
Like alabaster joyn'd to jett,
So stood we hand in hand;

Then lo! a chilling cold
Strucke every vital part,

And griping grief, like pangs of death,
Seiz'd on my true love's heart.

Down in a swoon she fell,

As cold as any stone;
Like Venus picture lacking life,
So was my love brought home.

At length her rosye red,

Throughout her comely face,

As Phoebus beames with watry cloudes
Was cover'd for a space.

When with a grievous groane,

And voice both hoarse and drye,

"Farewell," quoth she, "my loving friend,

For I this daye must dye;

Instead of musicke sweet,

Go toll my passing bell;

And with sweet flowers strow my grave,

That in my chamber smell.

Strip off my bride's arraye,
My cork shoes from my feet;

And, gentle mother, be not coye
To bring my winding-sheet.

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My wedding dinner drest,
Bestowe upon the poor,

And on the hungry, needy, maimde,
Now craving at the door.

Instead of virgins yong,

My bride-bed for to see,

Go cause some cunning carpenter,
To make a chest for mee.

My bride laces of silk

Bestowd, for maidens meet,

May fitly serve, when I am dead,
To tye my hands and feet.

And thou, my lover true,
My husband and my friend,

Let me intreat thee here to staye,
Until my life doth end.

Now leave to talk of love,

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And humblye on your knee, Direct your prayers unto God:

But mourn no more for mee.

In love as we have livde,

In love let us depart;
And I, in token of my love,
Do kiss thee with my heart.

O staunch those bootless teares,
Thy weeping tis in vaine;
I am not lost, for wee in heaven
Shall one daye meet againe."

With that shee turn'd aside,
As one dispos'd to sleep,

And like a lamb departed life ;
Whose friends did sorely weep.

Her true love seeing this,

Did fetch a grievous groane,

As tho' his heart would burst in twaine,

And thus he made his moane.

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