'What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall? What bear ye on your shoulders ?'

'We bear the corpse of Giles Collins,

An old and true lover of yours.'

'Oh, lay him down gently, ye six men tall,

All on the grass so green,

And to-morrow when the sun goes down,
Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.

‘And bury me in Saint Mary's church,
All for my love so true;

And make me a garland of marjoram,
And of lemon-thyme, and rue.'

Giles Collins was buried all in the east,

Lady Alice all in the west;

And the roses that grew on Giles Collins's grave, They reached Lady Alice's breast.

The priest of the parish he chanced to pass,
And he severed those roses in twain.

Sure never were seen such true lovers before,
Nor e'er will there be again.

Old Ballad

CX

THE OUTLANDISH KNIGHT

An outlandish knight came from the North lands, And he came a wooing to me;

And he told me he'd take me unto the North lands, And there he would marry me.

'Come, fetch me some of your father's gold, And some of your mother's fee;

And two of the best nags out of the stable, Where they stand thirty and three.'

She fetched him some of her father's gold And some of her mother's fee;

And two of the best nags out of the stable, Where they stood thirty and three.

She mounted her on her milk-white steed, He on the dapple grey;

They rode till they came unto the sea-side, Three hours before it was day.

'Light off, light off thy milk-white steed,
And deliver it unto me;

Six pretty maids have I drowned here,
And thou the seventh shall be.

'Pull off, pull off thy silken gown,

And deliver it unto me,
Methinks it looks too rich and too gay
To rot in the salt sea.

'Pull off, pull off thy silken stays,
And deliver them unto me!
Methinks they are too fine and gay
To rot in the salt sea.'

• Pull off, pull off thy Holland smock,
And deliver it unto me;

Methinks it looks too rich and gay
To rot in the salt sea.'

'If I must pull off my Holland smock,
Pray turn thy back unto me,

For it is not fitting that such a ruffian
A woman unclad should see.'

He turned his back towards her,
And viewed the leaves so green;
She catch'd him round the middle so small,
And tumbled him into the stream.

He dropped high, and he dropped low,
Until he came to the tide,-

'Catch hold of my hand, my pretty maiden,
And I will make you my bride.'

'Lie there, lie there, you false-hearted man,
Lie there instead of me;

Six pretty maidens have you drowned here,
And the seventh has drowned thee.'

She mounted on her milk-white steed,
And led the dapple grey,

She rode till she came to her father's hall,
Three hours before it was day.

Old Ballad

CXI

SPRING

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;

Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring; Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and the may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.

Spring, the sweet Spring.

T. Nash

CXII

SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST

There came a ghost to Margaret's door,
With many a grievous groan,

And aye he tirled at the pin,
But answer made she none.

'Is that my father Philip,

Or is't my brother John?

Or is't my true love Willy,

From Scotland new come home?'

"Tis not thy father Philip,

Nor yet thy brother John;

But 'tis thy true love Willy,

From Scotland new come home.

'O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret,
I pray thee speak to me:

Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, As I gave it to thee.'

'Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, Nor yet wilt thou me win,

Till that thou come within my bower
And kiss my cheek and chin.'

'If I should come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man:
And should I kiss thy rosy lips
Thy days would not be lang.

'O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret, I pray thee speak to me:

Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, As I gave it to thee.'

'Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, Nor yet wilt thou me win,

Till you take me to yon kirk-yard,
And wed me with a ring.'

'My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard

Afar beyond the sea,

And it is but my spirit, Margaret,
That's now speaking to thee.'

She stretched out her lily-white hand, And for to do her best:

'Have there your faith and troth, Willy, God send your soul good rest.'

Q