Soe shall I scape dishonor quite;

And if I should be slaine,

What could they say, but that true love
Had wrought a ladyes bane.

But feare not any further harme;
My selfe will soe devise,

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That I will ryde away with thee
Unknowen of mortall eyes:
Disguised like some pretty page
Ile meete thee in the darke,
And all alone Ile come to thee
Hard by my fathers parke.

And there, quoth hee, Ile meete my deare

70

Att length the wished day was come,
On which this beauteous mayd,

With longing eyes, and strange attire,

For her true lover stayd.

When any person shee espyed

Come ryding ore the plaine,

85

She hop'd it was her owne true love:

But all her hopes were vaine.

Then did shee weepe and sore bewayle

Her most unhappy fate;

Then did shee speake these woefull words,

As succourless she sate;

O false, forsworne, and faithlesse man,

90

Disloyall in thy love,

Hast thou forgott thy promise past,
And wilt thou perjured prove?

95

And hast thou now forsaken mee
In this my great distresse,
To end my dayes in open shame,

Which thou mightst well redresse?
Woe worth the time I eer believ'd
That flattering tongue of thine:
Wold God that I had never seene

100

The teares of thy false eyne.

And thus with many a sorrowful sigh,
Homewards shee went againe;

105

Noe rest came in her waterye eyes,

Shee felt such privye paine.

In travail strong shee fell that night,

With many a bitter throwe;

What woefull paines shee then did feel,

Doth eche good woman knowe.

110

E

Shee called up her waiting mayd,

That lay at her bedds feete,

Who musing at her mistress woe,

115

Began full fast to weepe.

Weepe not, said shee, but shutt the dores,

And with one sighe, which brake her hart,

Next morning came her own true love,

Affrighted at the newes,

XI.

Waly Waly, Lobe 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 sall warm us aw',
Than sall my love prove true to me."

See the Orpheus Caledonius, &c.

Arthur's-seat, mentioned in verse 17, is a hill near Edinborough; 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,

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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 wały, gin love be bonny,
A little time while it is new;

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