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_Balow, my boy, &c._

I was too cred'lous at the first, 30 To yield thee all a maiden durst; Thou swore for ever true to prove, Thy faith unchang'd, unchang'd thy love; But quick as thought the change is wrought, Thy love's no mair, thy promise nought. 35 _Balow, my boy, &c._

I wish I were a maid again!

From young men's flatt'ry I'd refrain; For now unto my grief I find They all are perjur'd and unkind; 40 Bewitching charms bred all my harms;-- Witness my babe lies in my arms.

_Balow, my boy, &c._

I take my fate from bad to worse, That I must needs be now a nurse, 45 And lull my young son on my lap: From me, sweet orphan, take the pap.

Balow, my child, thy mother mild Shall wail as from all bliss exil'd.

_Balow, my boy, &c._ 50

Balow, my boy, weep not for me, Whose greatest grief's for wronging thee; Nor pity her deserved smart, Who can blame none but her fond heart; For, too soon trusting latest finds 55 With fairest tongues are falsest minds.

_Balow, my boy, &c._

Balow, my boy, thy father's fled, When he the thriftless son has played; Of vows and oaths forgetful, he 60 Preferr'd the wars to thee and me.

But now, perhaps, thy curse and mine Make him eat acorns with the swine.

_Balow, my boy, &c._

But curse not him; perhaps now he, 65 Stung with remorse, is blessing thee: Perhaps at death; for who can tell, Whether the judge of heaven or hell, By some proud foe has struck the blow, And laid the dear deceiver low? 70 _Balow, my boy, &c._

I wish I were into the bounds Where he lies smother'd in his wounds, Repeating, as he pants for air, My name, whom once he call'd his fair; 75 No woman's yet so fiercely set, But she'll forgive, though not forget.

_Balow, my boy, &c._

If linen lacks, for my love's sake, Then quickly to him would I make 80 My smock, once for his body meet, And wrap him in that winding-sheet Ah me! how happy had I been, If he had ne'er been wrapt therein.

_Balow, my boy, &c._

Balow, my boy, I'll weep for thee: 85 Too soon, alake, thou'lt weep for me: Thy griefs are growing to a sum, God grant thee patience when they come; Born to sustain thy mother's shame, A hapless fate, a bastard's name. 90 _Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep_, _It grieves me sore to hear thee weep_.


From Percy's _Reliques_, ii. 207.

"From a copy in the Editor's folio MS., corrected by another in Allan Ramsay's _Miscellany_."

Balow, my babe, lye still 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 mothers joy, 5 Thy father breides me great annoy.

_Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe_, _It grieves me sair to see thee weepe_.

Whan he began to court my luve, And with his sugred wordes to muve, 10 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.

_Balow, &c._ 15

Lye still, my darling, sleipe a while, And when thou wakest, sweitly smile: But smile not, as thy father did, To cozen maids; nay, God forbid!

But yett I feire, thou wilt gae neire 20 Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

_Balow, &c._

I cannae chuse, but ever will Be luving to thy father still: Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde, 25 My luve with him doth still abyde: In weil or wae, whaireir he gae, Mine hart can neire depart him frae.

_Balow, &c._

But doe not, doe not, pretty mine, 30 To faynings fals thine hart incline; Be loyal to thy luver trew, And nevir change her for a new: If gude or faire, of hir have care, For womens banning 's wonderous sair. 35 _Balow, &c._

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine; My babe and I'll together live, He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve: My babe and I right saft will ly, 40 And quite forgeit man's cruelty.

_Balow, &c._

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, That evir kist a womans mouth! 45 I wish all maides be warned by mee Nevir to trust mans curtesy; For if we doe bot chance to bow, They'll use us then they care not how.

_Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe_, _It grieves me sair to see thee weipe_. 50


These beautiful verses are thought to be only a part of _Lord Jamie Douglas_, (see the next piece,) in one copy or another of which, according to Motherwell, nearly all of them are to be found. They were first published in the _Tea-Table Miscellany_, (i. 231,) and are here given as they there appear, separate from an explicit story. Although in this condition they must be looked upon as a fragment, still, they are too awkwardly introduced in the ballad above mentioned, and too superior to the rest of the composition, to allow of our believing that they have as yet found their proper connection.

In Johnson's _Museum_, (i. 166,) besides several trifling variations from Ramsay's copy, the fourth is replaced by the following:

When cockle shells turn siller bells, And mussels grow on every tree, When frost and snaw shall warm us a', Then shall my love prove true to me.

The third stanza stands thus in a Christmas medley, quoted by Leyden from a "MS. Cantus of the latter part of the 17th century:"

Hey troly loly, love is joly, A whyle whill it is new; When it is old, it grows full cold,-- Woe worth the love untrue!

_Complaynt of Scotland_, i. 278.

O waly, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn side, Where I and my love wont to gae.

I lean'd my back unto an aik, 5 I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true love did lightly me!

O waly, waly, but love be bonny, A little time while it is new; 10 But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades away like the morning dew.

O wherefore should I busk my head?

Or wherfore should I kame my hair?

For my true love has me forsook, 15 And says he'll never love me mair.

Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne'er be fyl'd by me: Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, Since my true love has forsaken me. 20

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree?

O gentle death, when wilt thou come?

For of my life I'm weary.

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 25 Nor blawing snaw's inclemency; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love's heart grown cauld to me.

When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; 30 My love was clad in the black velvet, And I my sell in cramasie.

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