King Leir once ruled in this land
     With princely power and peace,
     And had all things with hearts content,
     That might his joys increase.
     Amongst those things that nature gave,
     Three daughters fair had he,
     So princely seeming beautiful,
     As fairer could not be.

     So on a time it pleas'd the king
     A question thus to move,
     Which of his daughters to his grace
     Could shew the dearest love:
     "For to my age you bring content,"
     Quoth he, "then let me hear,
     Which of you three in plighted troth
     The kindest will appear."

     To whom the eldest thus began:
     "Dear father, mind," quoth she,
     "Before your face, to do you good,
     My blood shall render'd be.
     And for your sake my bleeding heart
     Shall here be cut in twain,
     Ere that I see your reverend age
     The smallest grief sustain."

     "And so will I," the second said;
     "Dear father, for your sake,
     The worst of all extremities
     I'll gently undertake:
     And serve your highness night and day
     With diligence and love;
     That sweet content and quietness
     Discomforts may remove."

     "In doing so, you glad my soul,"
     The aged king reply'd;
     "But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,
     How is thy love ally'd?"
     "My love" (quoth young Cordelia then),
     "Which to your grace I owe,
     Shall be the duty of a child,
     And that is all I'll show."

     "And wilt thou shew no more," quoth he,
     "Than doth thy duty bind?
     I well perceive thy love is small,
     When as no more I find.
     Henceforth I banish thee my court;
     Thou art no child of mine;
     Nor any part of this my realm
     By favour shall be thine.

     "Thy elder sisters' loves are more
     Than well I can demand;
     To whom I equally bestow
     My kingdome and my land,
     My pompal state and all my goods,
     That lovingly I may
     With those thy sisters be maintain'd
     Until my dying day."

     Thus flattering speeches won renown,
     By these two sisters here;
     The third had causeless banishment,
     Yet was her love more dear.
     For poor Cordelia patiently
     Went wandring up and down,
     Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,
     Through many an English town:

     Untill at last in famous France
     She gentler fortunes found;
     Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd
     The fairest on the ground:
     Where when the king her virtues heard,
     And this fair lady seen,
     With full consent of all his court
     He made his wife and queen.

     Her father, old King Leir, this while
     With his two daughters staid;
     Forgetful of their promis'd loves,
     Full soon the same decay'd;
     And living in Queen Ragan's court,
     The eldest of the twain,
     She took from him his chiefest means,
     And most of all his train.

     For whereas twenty men were wont
     To wait with bended knee,
     She gave allowance but to ten,
     And after scarce to three,
     Nay, one she thought too much for him;
     So took she all away,
     In hope that in her court, good king,
     He would no longer stay.

     "Am I rewarded thus," quoth he,
     "In giving all I have
     Unto my children, and to beg
     For what I lately gave?
     I'll go unto my Gonorell:
     My second child, I know,
     Will be more kind and pitiful,
     And will relieve my woe."

     Full fast he hies then to her court;
     Where when she heard his moan,
     Return'd him answer, that she griev'd
     That all his means were gone,
     But no way could relieve his wants;
     Yet if that he would stay
     Within her kitchen, he should have
     What scullions gave away.

     When he had heard, with bitter tears,
     He made his answer then;
     "In what I did, let me be made
     Example to all men.
     I will return again," quoth he,
     "Unto my Ragan's court;
     She will not use me thus, I hope,
     But in a kinder sort."

     Where when he came, she gave command
     To drive him thence away:
     When he was well within her court,
     (She said) he would not stay.
     Then back again to Gonorel
     The woeful king did hie,
     That in her kitchen he might have
     What scullion boys set by.

     But there of that he was deny'd
     Which she had promis'd late
     For once refusing, he should not,
     Come after to her gate.
     Thus twixt his daughters for relief
     He wandred up and down,
     Being glad to feed on beggars' food
     That lately wore a crown.

     And calling to remembrance then
     His youngest daughters words,
     That said, the duty of a child
     Was all that love affords—
     But doubting to repair to her,
     Whom he had ban'sh'd so,
     Grew frantic mad; for in his mind
     He bore the wounds of woe.

     Which made him rend his milk-white locks
     And tresses from his head,
     And all with blood bestain his cheeks,
     With age and honour spread.
     To hills and woods and watry founts,
     He made his hourly moan,
     Till hills and woods and senseless things
     Did seem to sigh and groan.

     Even thus possest with discontents,
     He passed o'er to France,
     In hopes from fair Cordelia there
     To find some gentler chance.
     Most virtuous dame! which, when she heard
     Of this her father's grief,
     As duty bound, she quickly sent
     Him comfort and relief.

     And by a train of noble peers,
     In brave and gallant sort,
     She gave in charge he should be brought
     To Aganippus' court;
     Whose royal king, with noble mind,
     So freely gave consent
     To muster up his knights at arms,
     To fame and courage bent.

     And so to England came with speed,
     To repossesse King Leir,
     And drive his daughters from their thrones
     By his Cordelia dear.
     Where she, true-hearted, noble queen,
     Was in the battel stain;
     Yet he, good king, in his old days,
     Possest his crown again.

     But when he heard Cordelia's death,
     Who died indeed for love
     Of her dear father, in whose cause
     She did this battle move,
     He swooning fell upon her breast,
     From whence he never parted;
     But on her bosom left his life
     That was so truly hearted.

     The lords and nobles, when they saw
     The end of these events,
     The other sisters unto death
     They doomed by consents;
     And being dead, their crowns they left
     Unto the next of kin:
     Thus have you seen the fall of pride,
     And disobedient sin.

     When as King Henry rulde this land,
     The second of that name,
     Besides the queene, he dearly lovde
     A faire and comely dame.

     Most peerlesse was her beautye founde,
     Her favour, and her face;
     A sweeter creature in this worlde
     Could never prince embrace.

     Her crisped lockes like threads of golde,
     Appeard to each man's sight;
     Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles,
     Did cast a heavenlye light.

     The blood within her crystal cheekes
     Did such a colour drive,
     As though the lillye and the rose
     For mastership did strive.

     Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde,
     Her name was called so,
     To whom our queene, Dame Ellinor,
     Was known a deadlye foe.

     The king therefore, for her defence
     Against the furious queene,
     At Woodstocke builded such a bower,
     The like was never seene.

     Most curiously that bower was built,
     Of stone and timber strong;
     An hundered and fifty doors
     Did to this bower belong:

     And they so cunninglye contriv'd,
     With turnings round about,
     That none but with a clue of thread
     Could enter in or out.

     And for his love and ladyes sake,
     That was so faire and brighte,
     The keeping of this bower he gave
     Unto a valiant knighte.

     But fortune, that doth often frowne
     Where she before did smile,
     The kinges delighte and ladyes joy
     Full soon shee did beguile:

     For why, the kinges ungracious sonne,
     Whom he did high advance,
     Against his father raised warres
     Within the realme of France.

     But yet before our comelye king
     The English land forsooke,
     Of Rosamond, his lady faire,
     His farewelle thus he tooke:

     "My Rosamonde, my only Rose,
     That pleasest best mine eye,
     The fairest flower in all the worlde
     To feed my fantasye,—

     "The flower of mine affected heart,
     Whose sweetness doth excelle,
     My royal Rose, a thousand times
     I bid thee nowe farwelle!

     "For I must leave my fairest flower,
     My sweetest Rose, a space,
     And cross the seas to famous France,
     Proud rebelles to abase.

     "But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt
     My coming shortlye see,
     And in my heart, when hence I am,
     Ile beare my Rose with mee."

     When Rosamond, that ladye brighte,
     Did heare the king saye soe,
     The sorrowe of her grieved heart
     Her outward lookes did showe.

     And from her cleare and crystall eyes
     The teares gusht out apace,
     Which, like the silver-pearled dewe,
     Ranne downe her comely face.

     Her lippes, erst like the corall redde,
     Did waxe both wan and pale,
     And for the sorrow she conceivde
     Her vitall spirits faile.

     And falling downe all in a swoone
     Before King Henryes face,
     Full oft he in his princelye armes
     Her bodye did embrace.

     And twentye times, with watery eyes,
     He kist her tender cheeke,
     Untill he had revivde againe
     Her senses milde and meeke.

     "Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?"
     The king did often say:
     "Because," quoth shee, "to bloodye warres
     My lord must part awaye.

     "But since your Grace on forrayne coastes,
     Amonge your foes unkinde,
     Must goe to hazard life and limbe,
     Why should I staye behinde?

     "Nay, rather let me, like a page,
     Your sworde and target beare;
     That on my breast the blowes may lighte,
     Which would offend you there.

     "Or lett mee, in your royal tent,
     Prepare your bed at nighte,
     And with sweete baths refresh your grace,
     At your returne from fighte.

     "So I your presence may enjoye
     No toil I will refuse;
     But wanting you, my life is death:
     Nay, death Ild rather chuse."

     "Content thy self, my dearest love,
     Thy rest at home shall bee,
     In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle;
     For travell fits not thee.

     "Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres;
     Soft peace their sexe delightes;
     Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers;
     Gay feastes, not cruell fightes.

     "My Rose shall safely here abide,
     With musicke passe the daye,
     Whilst I amonge the piercing pikes
     My foes seeke far awaye.

     "My Rose shall shine in pearle and golde,
     Whilst Ime in armour dighte;
     Gay galliards here my love shall dance,
     Whilst I my foes goe fighte.

     "And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste
     To bee my loves defence,
     Be carefull of my gallant Rose
     When I am parted hence."

     And therewithall he fetcht a sigh,
     As though his heart would breake;
     And Rosamonde, for very griefe,
     Not one plaine word could speake.

     And at their parting well they mighte
     In heart be grieved sore:
     After that daye, faire Rosamonde
     The king did see no more.

     For when his Grace had past the seas,
     And into France was gone,
     With envious heart, Queene Ellinor
     To Woodstocke came anone.

     And forth she calls this trustye knighte
     In an unhappy houre,
     Who, with his clue of twined-thread,
     Came from this famous bower.

     And when that they had wounded him,
     The queene this thread did gette,
     And wente where Ladye Rosamonde
     Was like an angell sette.

     But when the queene with stedfast eye
       Beheld her beauteous face,
     She was amazed in her minde
     At her exceeding grace.

     "Cast off from thee those robes," she said,
     "That riche and costlye bee;
     And drinke thou up this deadlye draught
     Which I have brought to thee."

     Then presentlye upon her knees
     Sweet Rosamonde did falle;
     And pardon of the queene she crav'd
     For her offences all.

     "Take pitty on my youthfull yeares,"
     Faire Rosamonde did crye;
     "And lett mee not with poison stronge
     Enforced bee to dye.

     "I will renounce my sinfull life,
     And in some cloyster bide;
     Or else be banisht, if you please,
     To range the world soe wide.

     "And for the fault which I have done,
     Though I was forc'd theretoe,
     Preserve my life, and punish mee
     As you thinke meet to doe."

     And with these words, her lillie handes
     She wrunge full often there;
     And downe along her lovely face
     Did trickle many a teare.

     But nothing could this furious queene
     Therewith appeased bee;
     The cup of deadlye poyson stronge,
     As she knelt on her knee,

     She gave this comelye dame to drinke;
     Who tooke it in her hand,
     And from her bended knee arose,
     And on her feet did stand,

     And casting up her eyes to heaven,
     Shee did for mercye calle;
     And drinking up the poison stronge,
     Her life she lost withalle.

     And when that death through everye limbe
     Had showde its greatest spite,
     Her chiefest foes did plain confesse
     Shee was a glorious wight.

     Her body then they did entomb,
     When life was fled away,
     At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne,
     As may be seene this day.

     In the merrie moneth of Maye,
     In a morne by break of daye,
     With a troope of damselles playing
     Forthe 'I yode' forsooth a maying;

     When anon by a wood side,
     Where that Maye was in his pride,
     I espied all alone
     Phillida and Corydon.

     Much adoe there was, God wot:
     He wold love, and she wold not.
     She sayde, "Never man was trewe;"
     He sayes, "None was false to you."

     He sayde, hee had lovde her longe;
     She sayes, love should have no wronge.
     Corydon wold kisse her then;
     She sayes, "Maydes must kisse no men,

     "Tyll they doe for good and all."
     When she made the shepperde call
     All the heavens to wytnes truthe,
     Never loved a truer youthe.

     Then with manie a prettie othe,
     Yea and nay, and faithe and trothe,
     Suche as seelie shepperdes use
     When they will not love abuse,

     Love, that had bene long deluded,
     Was with kisses sweete concluded;
     And Phillida with garlands gaye
     Was made the lady of the Maye.

     As it fell out on a long summer's day,
     Two lovers they sat on a hill;
     They sat together that long summer's day,
     And could not talk their fill.

     "I see no harm by you, Margaret,
     And you see none by mee;
     Before to-morrow at eight o' the clock
     A rich wedding you shall see."

     Fair Margaret sat in her bower-wind w,
     Combing her yellow hair;
     There she spyed sweet William and his bride,
     As they were a riding near.

     Then down she layd her ivory combe,
     And braided her hair in twain:
     She went alive out of her bower,
     But ne'er came alive in't again.

     When day was gone, and night was come,
     And all men fast asleep,
     Then came the spirit of Fair Marg'ret,
     And stood at William's feet.

     "Are you awake, sweet William?" shee said,
     "Or, sweet William, are you asleep?
     God give you joy of your gay bride-bed,
     And me of my winding sheet."

     When day was come, and night was gone,
     And all men wak'd from sleep,
     Sweet William to his lady sayd,
     "My dear, I have cause to weep.

     "I dreamt a dream, my dear ladye,
     Such dreames are never good:
     I dreamt my bower was full of red 'wine,'
     And my bride-bed full of blood."

     "Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir,
     They never do prove good;
     To dream thy bower was full of red 'wine,'
     And thy bride-bed full of blood."

     He called up his merry men all,
     By one, by two, and by three;
     Saying, "I'll away to fair Marg'ret's bower,
     By the leave of my ladie."

     And when he came to fair Marg'ret's bower,
     He knocked at the ring;
     And who so ready as her seven brethren
     To let sweet William in.

     Then he turned up the covering-sheet;
     "Pray let me see the dead;
     Methinks she looks all pale and wan.
     She hath lost her cherry red.

     "I'll do more for thee, Margaret,
     Than any of thy kin:
     For I will kiss thy pale wan lips,
     Though a smile I cannot win."

     With that bespake the seven brethren,
     Making most piteous mone,
     "You may go kiss your jolly brown bride,
     And let our sister alone."

     "If I do kiss my jolly brown bride,
     I do but what is right;
     I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse,
     By day, nor yet by night.

     "Deal on, deal on, my merry men all,
     Deal on your cake and your wine:
     For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day,
     Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine."

     Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day,
     Sweet William dyed the morrow:
     Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love,
     Sweet William dyed for sorrow.

     Margaret was buryed in the lower chancel,
     And William in the higher:
     Out of her brest there sprang a rose,
     And out of his a briar.

     They grew till they grew unto the church top,
     And then they could grow no higher;
     And there they tyed in a true lover's knot,
     Which made all the people admire.

     Then came the clerk of the parish,
     As you the truth shall hear,
     And by misfortune cut them down,
     Or they had now been there.

     "Annan Water's wading deep,
     And my love Annie's wondrous bonny;
     I will keep my tryst to-night,
     And win the heart o' lovely Annie."

     He's loupen on his bonny grey,
     He rade the right gate and the ready',
     For a' the storm he wadna stay,
     For seeking o' his bonny lady.

     And he has ridden o'er field and fell,
     Through muir and moss, and stones and mire;
     His spurs o' steel were sair to bide,
     And frae her four feet flew the fire.

     "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.

     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."

     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."

     "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."

     He's mounted her on a milk-white steed,
     And himself on a dapple grey,
     With a buglet horn hung down by his side
     And lightly they rode away.

     Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder,
     To see what he could see,
     And there he spied her seven brethren bold
     Come riding o'er the lea.

     "Light down, light down, Lady Margaret," he said,
     "And hold my steed in your hand,
     Until that against your seven brethren bold,
     And your father I make a stand."

     She held his steed in her milk-white hand,
     And never shed one tear,
     Until that she saw her seven brethren fa'
     And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear.

     "O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said,
     "For your strokes they are wondrous sair;
     True lovers I can get many a ane,
     But a father I can never get mair."

     O, she's ta'en out her handkerchief,
     It was o' the holland sae fine,
     And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds,
     That were redder than the wine.

     "O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margaret," he said,
     "O whether will ye gang or bide?"
     "I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said,
     "For you have left me nae other guide."

     He's lifted her on a milk-white steed,
     And himself on a dapple grey,
     With a buglet horn hung down by his side,
     And slowly they baith rade away.

     O they rade on, and on they rade,
     And a' by the light of the moon,
     Until they came to yon wan water,
     And there they lighted down.

     They lighted down to tak a drink
     Of the spring that ran sae clear;
     And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood,
     And sair she 'gan to fear.

     "Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says,
     "For I fear that you are slain!"
     "'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak,
     That shines in the water sae plain."

     O they rade on, and on they rade,
     And a' by the light of the moon,
     Until they came to his mother's ha' door,
     And there they lighted down.

     "Get up, get up, lady mother," he says,
     "Get up, and let me in!
     Get up, get up, lady mother," he says,
     "For this night my fair lady I've win.

     "O mak my bed, lady mother," he says,
     "O mak it braid and deep!
     And lay Lady Margaret close at my back,
     And the sounder I will sleep."

     Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,
     Lady Margaret lang ere day:
     And all true lovers that go thegither,
     May they have mair luck than they!

     Lord William was buried in St. Marie's kirk,
     Lady Margaret in Marie's quire;
     Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose,
     And out o' the knight's a brier.

     And they twa met, and they twa plat
     And fain they wad be near;
     And a' the world might ken right weel,
     They were twa lovers dear.

     But bye and rade the black Douglas
     And wow but he was rough!
     For he pulled up the bonny brier,
     And flanged in St. Marie's Loch.

     About Yule, when the wind blew cool;
     And the round tables began,
     A' there is come to our king's court
     Mony a well-favoured man.

     The queen looked o'er the castle wa',
     Beheld baith dale and down,
     And then she saw young Waters
     Come riding to the town.

     His footmen they did rin before,
     His horsemen rade behind;
     Ane mantle of the burning gowd
     Did keep him frae the wind.

     Gowden graith'd[FN#1] his horse before,
     And siller shod behind;
     The horse young Waters rade upon
     Was fleeter than the wind.

     [FN#1]  Graitih'd, girthed.

     Out then spake a wily lord,
     Unto the queen said he:
     "O tell me wha's the fairest face
     Rides in the company?"

     "I've seen lord, and I've seen laird,
     And knights of high degree,
     But a fairer face than young Waters
     Mine eyen did never see."

     Out then spake the jealous king
     And an angry man was he:
     "O if he had been twice as fair,
     You might have excepted me."

     "You're neither laird nor lord," she says,
     "But the king that wears the crown;
     There is not a knight in fair Scotland,
     But to thee maun bow down."

     For a' that she could do or say,
     Appeased he wad nae be;
     But for the words which she had said,
     Young Waters he maun dee.

     They hae ta'en young Waters,
     And put fetters to his feet;
     They hae ta'en young Waters,
     And thrown him in dungeon deep.

     "Aft I have ridden thro' Stirling town,
     In the wind but and the weet;
     But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town
     Wi' fetters at my feet.

     "Aft have I ridden thro' Stirling town,
     In the wind but and the rain;
     But I ne'er rade thro' Stirling town
     Ne'er to return again."

     They hae ta'en to the heading-hill
     His young son in his cradle;
     And they hae ta'en to the heading-hill
     His horse but and his saddle.

     They hae ta'en to the heading-hill
     His lady fair to see;
     And for the words the queen had spoke
     Young Waters he did dee.

     King Jamie hath made a vow,
     Keepe it well if he may:
     That he will be at lovely London
     Upon Saint James his day.

     Upon Saint James his day at noone,
     At faire London will I be,
     And all the lords in merrie Scotland,
     They shall dine there with me.

     "March out, march out, my merry men,
     Of hie or low degree;
     I'le weare the crowne in London towne,
     And that you soon shall be."

     Then bespake good Queene Margaret,
     The teares fell from her eye:
     "Leave off these warres, most noble King,
     Keepe your fidelitie.

     "The water runnes swift, and wondrous deepe,
     From bottome unto the brimme;
     My brother Henry hath men good enough;
     England is hard to winne."

     "Away" quoth he "with this silly foole!
     In prison fast let her lie:
     For she is come of the English bloud,
     And for these words she shall dye."

     With that bespake Lord Thomas Howard,
     The Queenes chamberlaine that day:
     "If that you put Queene Margaret to death,
     Scotland shall rue it alway."

     Then in a rage King Jamie did say,
     "Away with this foolish mome;
     He shall be hanged, and the other be burned,
     So soone as I come home."

     At Flodden Field the Scots came in,
     Which made our English men faine;
     At Bramstone Greene this battaile was seene,
     There was King Jamie slaine.

     His bodie never could be found,
     When he was over throwne,
     And he that wore faire Scotland's crowne
     That day could not be knowne.

     Then presently the Scot did flie,
     Their cannons they left behind;
     Their ensignes gay were won all away,
     Our souldiers did beate them blinde.

     To tell you plaine, twelve thousand were slaine,
     That to the fight did stand,
     And many prisoners tooke that day,
     The best in all Scotland.

     That day made many [a] fatherlesse child,
     And many a widow poore,
     And many a Scottish gay lady
     Sate weeping in her bower.

     Jack with a feather was lapt all in leather,
     His boastings were all in vaine;
     He had such a chance, with a new morrice-dance
     He never went home againe.

            ————

     This was written to adapt the ballad to the seventeenth century.

     Now heaven we laude that never more
     Such biding shall come to hand;
     Our King, by othe, is King of both
     England and faire Scotland.

     I wad I were where Helen lies;
     Night and day on me she cries;
     O that I were where Helen lies,
     On fair Kirkconnell lea!

     Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
     And curst the hand that fired the shot,
     When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
     And died to succour me!

     O think na but my heart was sair
     When my Love dropt and spak nae mair!
     I laid her down wi' meikle care,
     On fair Kirkconnell lea.

     As I went down the water side,
     Nane but my foe to be my guide,
     Nane but my foe to be my guide,
     On fair Kirkconnell lea.

     I lighted down my sword to draw,
     I hacked him in pieces sma',
     I hacked him in pieces sma',
     For her sake that died for me.

     O Helen fair, beyond compare!
     I'll make a garland of thy hair,
     Shall bind my heart for evermair,
     Until the day I dee!

     O that I were where Helen lies
     Night and day on me she cries;
     Out of my bed she bids me rise,
     Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

     O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
     If I were with thee, I were blest,
     Where thou lies low and takes thy rest,
     On fair Kirkconnell lea.

     I wad my grave were growing green,
     A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
     And I in Helen's arms lying,
     On fair Kirkconnell lea.

     I wad I were where Helen lies!
     Night and day on me she cries,
     And I am weary of the skies,
     Since my Love died for me.

     Come listen to me, you gallants so free,
     All you that love mirth for to hear,
     And I will tell you of a bold outlaw,
     That lived in Nottinghamshire.

     As Robin Hood in the forest stood
     All under the greenwood tree,
     There he was aware of a brave young man,
     As fine as fine might be.

     The youngster was clad in scarlet red,
     In scarlet fine and gay
     And he did frisk it over the plain,
     And chaunted a roundelay.

     As Robin Hood next morning stood
     Amongst the leaves so gay,
     There did he espy the same young man
     Come drooping along the way.

     The scarlet he wore the day before
     It was clean cast away;
     And at every step he fetched a sigh,
     "Alas! and a well-a-day!"

     Then stepped forth brave Little John,
     And Midge, the miller's son;
     Which made the young man bend his bow,
     When as he see them come.

     "Stand off! stand off!" the young man said,
     "What is your will with me?"
     "You must come before our master straight,
     Under yon greenwood tree."

     And when he came bold Robin before,
     Robin asked him courteously,
     O, hast thou any money to spare,
     For my merry men and me?

     "I have no money," the young man said,
     "But five shillings and a ring;
     And that I have kept this seven long years,
     To have at my wedding.

     "Yesterday I should have married a maid,
     But she was from me ta'en,
     And chosen to be an old knight's delight,
     Whereby my poor heart is slain."

     "What is thy name?" then said Robin Hood,
     "Come tell me, without any fail."
     "By the faith of my body," then said the young man,
     "My name it is Allen-a-Dale."

     "What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood,
     "In ready gold or fee,
     To help thee to thy true love again,
     And deliver her unto thee?"

     "I have no money," then quoth the young man,
     "No ready gold nor fee,
     But I will swear upon a book
     Thy true servant for to be."

     "How many miles is it to thy true love?
     Come tell me without guile."
     "By the faith of my body," then said the young man,
     "It is but five little mile."

     Then Robin he hasted over the plain,
     He did neither stint nor lin,
     Until he came unto the church
     Where Allen should keep his weddin'.

     "What hast thou here?" the bishop then said,
     "I prithee now tell unto me."
     "I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood,
     "And the best in the north country."

     "O welcome, O welcome," the bishop he said,
     "That music best pleaseth me."
     "You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood,
     "Till the bride and bridegroom I see."

     With that came in a wealthy knight,
     Which was both grave and old;
     And after him a finikin lass,
     Did shine like the glistering gold.

     "This is not a fit match," quoth Robin Hood,
     "That you do seem to make here;
     For since we are come into the church,
     The bride shall chuse her own dear."

     Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth,
     And blew blasts two and three;
     When four-and-twenty bowmen bold
     Came leaping over the lea.

     And when they came into the church-yard,
     Marching all in a row,
     The first man was Allen-a-Dale,
     To give bold Robin his bow.

     "This is thy true love," Robin he said,
     Young Allen, as I hear say;
     And you shall be married this same time,
     Before we depart away."

     "That shall not be," the bishop he cried,
     "For thy word shall not stand;
     They shall be three times asked in the church,
     As the law is of our land."

     Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat,
     And put it upon Little John;
     "By the faith of my body," then Robin said,
     "This cloth doth make thee a man."

     When Little John went into the quire,
     The people began to laugh;
     He asked them seven times into church,
     Lest three times should not be enough.

     "Who gives me this maid?" said Little John,
     Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I;
     And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale,
     Full dearly he shall her buy."

     And then having ended this merry wedding,
     The bride looked like a queen;
     And so they returned to the merry greenwood,
     Amongst the leaves so green.

     When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre,
     And leaves both large and longe,
     Itt is merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest
     To heare the small birdes songe.

     The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
     Sitting upon the spraye,
     Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,
     In the greenwood where he lay.

     "Now, by my faye," sayd jollye Robin,
     "A sweaven I had this night;
     I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,
     That fast with me can fight.

     "Methought they did mee beate and binde,
     And tooke my bow mee froe;
     Iff I be Robin alive in this lande,
     Ile be wroken on them towe."

     "Sweavens are swift, master," quoth John,
     "As the wind that blowes ore the hill;
     For if itt be never so loude this night,
     To-morrow it may be still."

     "Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
     And John shall goe with mee,
     For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen,
     In greenwood where the bee."

     Then they cast on their gownes of grene,
     And tooke theyr bowes each one;
     And they away to the greene forrest
     A shooting forth are gone;

     Untill they came to the merry greenwood,
     Where they had gladdest to bee;
     There were they ware of a wight yeoman,
     His body leaned to a tree.

     A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
     Of manye a man the bane;
     And he was clad in his capull hyde,
     Topp and tayll and mayne.

     "Stand you still, master," quoth Little John,
     "Under this tree so grene,
     And I will go to yond wight yeoman
     To know what he doth meane."

     "Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,
     And that I farley finde:
     How offt send I my men beffore,
     And tarry my selfe behinde!

     "It is no cunning a knave to ken,
     And a man but heare him speake;
     And itt were not for bursting of my bowe,
     John, I thy head wold breake."

     As often wordes they breeden bale,
     So they parted Robin and John;
     And John is gone to Barnesdale;
     The gates he knoweth eche one.

     But when he came to Barnesdale,
     Great heavinesse there hee hadd,
     For he found tow of his owne fell wes
     Were slaine both in a slade.

     And Scarlette he was flying a-foote
     Faste over stocke and stone,
     For the sheriffe with seven score men
     Fast after him is gone.

     "One shoote now I will shoote," quoth John,
     "With Christ his might and mayne;
     Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,
     To stopp he shall be fayne."

     Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
     And fetteled him to shoote:
     The bow was made of tender boughe,
     And fell down to his foote.

     "Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
     That ere thou grew on a tree;
     For now this day thou art my bale,
     My boote when thou shold bee."

     His shoote it was but loosely shott,
     Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
     For itt mett one of the sherriffes men,
     Good William a Trent was slaine.

     It had bene better of William a Trent
     To have bene abed with sorrowe,
     Than to be that day in the green-wood slade
     To meet with Little Johns arrowe.

     But as it is said, when men be mett
     Fyve can doe more than three,
     The sheriffe hath taken Little John,
     And bound him fast to a tree.

     "Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
     And hanged hye on a hill."
     "But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose," quoth John,
     "If itt be Christ his will."

     Lett us leave talking of Little John,
     And thinke of Robin Hood,
     How he is gone to the wight yeoman,
     Where under the leaves he stood.

     "Good morrowe, good fellowe," sayd Robin so fayre,
     "Good morrowe, good fellow," quoth he.
     "Methinks by this bowe thou beares in thy hande,
     A good archere thou sholdst bee."

     "I am wilfulle of my waye," quo' the yeoman,
     "And of my morning tyde:"
     "Ile lead thee through the wood," sayd Robin,
     "Good fellow, Ile be thy guide."

     "I seeke an outlawe," the straunger sayd,
     "Men call him Robin Hood;
     Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe
     Than fortye pound soe good."

     "Now come with me, thou wight yeman,
     And Robin thou soone shalt see;
     But first let us some pastime find
     Under the greenwood tree.

     "First let us some masterye make
     Among the woods so even;
     We may chance to meet with Robin Hood
     Here att some unsett steven."

     They cutt them down two summer shroggs,
     That grew both under a breere,
     And set them threescore rood in twaine,
     To shoote the prickes y-fere.

     "Leade on, good fellowe," quoth Robin Hood,
     "Leade on, I doe bidd thee."
     "Nay, by my faith, good fellowe," hee sayd,
     "My leader thou shalt bee."

     The first time Robin shot at the pricke,
     He mist but an inch it fro;
     The yeoman he was an archer good,
     But he cold never shoote soe.

     The second shoote had the wightye yeoman,
     He shote within the garlande;
     But Robin he shott far better than hee,
     For he clave the good pricke-wande.

     "A blessing upon thy heart," he sayd,
     "Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode
     For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
     Thou wert better then Robin Hoode.

     Now tell me thy name, good fellowe," sayd he,
     "Under the leaves of lyne."
     "Nay, by my faith," quoth bolde Robin,
     "Till thou have told me thine."

     "I dwell by dale and downe," quoth hee,
     "And Robin to take Ime sworne;
     And when I am called by my right name,
     I am Guy of good Gisbrne."

     "My dwelling is in this wood," sayes Robin,
     "By thee I set right nought:
     I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale,
     Whom thou so long hast sought."

     He that had neither beene kithe nor kin,
     Might have seen a full fayre sight,
     To see how together these yeomen went
     With blades both browne and bright:

     To see how these yeomen together they fought
     Two howres of a summers day,
     Yett neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy
     Them fettled to flye away.

     Robin was reachles on a roote,
     And stumbled at that tyde;
     And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all,
     And hitt him ore the left side.

     "Ah, deere Lady," sayd Robin Hood tho,
     "Thou art but mother and may';
     I think it was never mans destinye
     To dye before his day."

     Robin thought on Our Ladye deere,
     And soone leapt up againe,
     And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke,
     And he Sir Guy hath slayne.

     He took Sir Guy's head by the hayre,
     And stuck itt upon his bowes end:
     "Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe,
     Which thing must have an end."

     Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,
     And nicked Sir Guy in the face,
     That he was never on woman born
     Cold tell whose head it was.

     Sayes, "Lye there, lye there now, Sir Guy,
     And with me be not wrothe;
     Iff thou have had the worst strokes at my hand,
     Thou shalt have the better clothe."

     Robin did off his gowne of greene,
     And on Sir Guy did throwe,
     And hee put on that capull hyde,
     That cladd him topp to toe.

     "The bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne,
     Now with me I will beare;
     For I will away to Barnesdale,
     To see how my men doe fare."

     Robin Hood sett Guy's horne to his mouth,
     And a loud blast in it did blow:
     That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
     As he leaned under a lowe.

     "Hearken, hearken," sayd the sheriffe,
     "I heare nowe tydings good,
     For yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe,
     And he hath slaine Robin Hoode.

     "Yonder I heare Sir Guy's horne blowe,
     Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
     And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,
     Cladd in his capull hyde.

     "Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy,
     Aske what thou wilt of mee."
     "O I will none of thy gold," sayd Robin,
     "Nor I will none of thy fee.

     "But now I have slaine the master," he sayes,
     "Let me goe strike the knave;
     For this is all the rewarde I aske.
     Nor noe other will I have."

     "Thou art a madman," said the sheriffe,
     "Thou sholdst have had a knightes fee;
     But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
     Well granted it shale be."

     When Little John heard his master speake,
     Well knewe he it was his steven;
     "Now shall I be looset," quoth Little John,
     "With Christ his might in heaven."

     Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John,
     He thought to loose him belive:
     The sheriffe and all his companye
     Fast after him can drive.

     "Stand abacke, stand abacke," sayd Robin;
     "Why draw you mee so neere?
     Itt was never the use in our countrye,
     Ones shrift another shold heere."

     But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife,
     And losed John hand and foote,
     And gave him Sir Guy's bow into his hand,
     And bade it be his boote.

     Then John he took Guy's bow in his hand,
     His boltes and arrowes eche one:
     When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,
     He fettled him to be gone.

     Towards his house in Nottingham towne
     He fled full fast away,
     And soe did all the companye,
     Not one behind wold stay.

     But he cold neither runne soe fast,
     Nor away soe fast cold ryde,
     But Little John with an arrowe soe broad
     He shott him into the 'backe'-syde.