The Book of Old English Ballads Part 5

"My bonny grey, noo play your part!

Gin ye be the steed that wins my dearie, Wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye, And never spur sail mak' you wearie."

The grey was a mare, and a right gude mare: But when she wan the Annan Water, She couldna hae found the ford that night Had a thousand merks been wadded at her.

"O boatman, boatman, put off your boat, Put off your boat for gouden money!"

But for a' the goud in fair Scotland, He dared na tak' him through to Annie.

"O I was sworn sae late yestreen, Not by a single aith, but mony.

I'll cross the drumly stream to-night, Or never could I face my honey."

The side was stey, and the bottom deep, Frae bank to brae the water pouring; The bonny grey mare she swat for fear, For she heard the water-kelpy roaring.

He spurred her forth into the flood, I wot she swam both strong and steady; But the stream was broad, her strength did fail, And he never saw his bonny lady.

O wae betide the frush saugh wand!

And wae betide the bush of brier!

That bent and brake into his hand, When strength of man and horse did tire.

And wae betide ye, Annan Water!

This night ye are a drumly river; But over thee we'll build a brig, That ye nae mair true love may sever.

The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington

There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, And he was a squire's son; He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare, That lived in Islington.

Yet she was coye, and would not believe That he did love her soe, Noe nor at any time would she Any countenance to him showe.

But when his friendes did understand His fond and foolish minde, They sent him up to faire London, An apprentice for to binde.

And when he had been seven long yeares, And never his love could see,-- "Many a teare have I shed for her sake, When she little thought of mee."

Then all the maids of Islington Went forth to sport and playe, All but the bayliffe's daughter deare; She secretly stole awaye.

She pulled off her gowne of greene, And put on ragged attire, And to faire London she would go Her true love to enquire.

And as she went along the high road, The weather being hot and drye, She sat her downe upon a green bank, And her true love came riding bye.

She started up, with a colour soe redd, Catching hold of his bridle-reine; "One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, "Will ease me of much paine."

"Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, Praye tell me where you were borne."

"At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee, "Where I have had many a scorne."

"I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, O tell me, whether you knowe The bayliffes daughter of Islington."

"She is dead, sir, long agoe."

"If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also; For I will into some farr countrye, Where noe man shall me knowe."

"O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, She standeth by thy side; She is here alive, she is not dead, And readye to be thy bride."

"O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, Ten thousand times therefore; For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, Whom I thought I should never see more."

Barbara Allen's Cruelty

All in the merry month of May, When green buds they were swelling, Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay For love o' Barbara Allen.

He sent his man unto her then, To the town where she was dwelling: "O haste and come to my master dear, If your name be Barbara Allen."

Slowly, slowly rase she up, And she cam' where he was lying; And when she drew the curtain by, Says, "Young man, I think you're dying."

"O it's I am sick, and very, very sick, And it's a' for Barbara Allen."

"O the better for me ye'se never be, Tho' your heart's blude were a-spilling!

"O dinna ye min', young man," she says, "When the red wine ye were filling, That ye made the healths gae round and round And ye slighted Barbara Allen?"

He turn'd his face unto the wa', And death was wi' him dealing: "Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'; Be kind to Barbara Allen."

As she was walking o'er the fields, She heard the dead-bell knelling;

And every jow the dead-bell gave, It cried, "Woe to Barbara Allen!"

"O mother, mother, mak' my bed, To lay me down in sorrow.

My love has died for me to-day, I'll die for him to-morrow."

The Douglas Tragedy

"Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, "And put on your armour so bright; Sweet William will hae Lady Margaret awi'

Before that it be light.

"Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, And put on your armour so bright, And take better care of your youngest sister, For your eldest's awa' the last night."