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[Be 121] Be she good, or kind, or fayre,
I will never more dispayre.
If she love mee, this believe,
I will dye ere she shall grieve:
If she slight mee, when I woe,
I will scorne and let her goe:
If she be not made for mee,
What care I for whom she bee?

IV.

FAIR MARGARET AND SWEET WILLIAM.

20

This seems to be the old song quoted in Fletcher's "Knight "of the burning pestle," Acts 2d and 3d; altho' the six lines there preserved are somewhat different from those in the ballad, as it stands at present. The Reader will not 15 wonder at this, when he is informed that this is only given. from a modern printed copy picked up on a stall. It's full title is "Fair Margaret's Misfortunes; or Sweet William's "frightful dreams on his wedding night, with the sudden "death and burial of those noble lovers."

20 The lines preserved in the play are this distich, "You are no love for me, Margaret,

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"I am no love for you."

And the following stanza,

"When it was grown to dark midnight,
"And all were fast asleep,

"In came Margarets grimly ghost

"And stood at Williams feet."

These lines have acquired an importance by giving birth to one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or any language. 30 See the song intituled MARGARET'S GHOST, at the end of this volume.

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[AS 122]

As

S 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, Margarèt,
And you see none by mee
Before to-morrow at eight o'clock
A rich wedding you shall see.

Fair Margaret sate in her bower-window,
A combing of her hair;

She spyed sweet William and his bride,
As they were a riding near.

Down she layd her ivory combe,

And up she bound her hair;

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She went her way forth of the bower,

But never more came there.

When day was gone, and night was come,

And all men fast asleep,

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There came the spirit or fair Margret,

And stood at Williams feet.

God give you joy, you lovers true,

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30

In bride-bed fast asleep;

Lo! I am going to my green-grass grave,
And I'm in my winding-sheet.

[When 123] 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 lady,
Such dreames are never good.

I dreamt my bower was full of red swine,
And my bride-bed full of blood.

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Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured Sir,
They never do prove good;

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To dream thy bower was full of 'red' swine,
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❜rets bower,
By the leave of my lady.

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5

And when he came to fair Marg'rets bower,

He knocked at the ring;

So ready were her seven brethrèn

To let sweet William in.

Then he turned up the covering-sheet.
Pray let me see the dead:

Methinks she does look pale and wan,

She hath lost her cherry red.

[I'll 124] I'll do more for thee, Margaret,
Than any of thy kin;

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For I will kiss thy pale wan lips,
Though a smile I cannot win.

With that bespake the seven brethren,

Making most piteous mone:

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You may go kiss your jolly brown bride,
And let our sister alone.

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If I do kiss my jolly brown bride,
I do but what is right;

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For I made no vow to your sister dear,
By day, nor yet by night.

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Pray tell me then how much you'll deal,
Of your white bread and your wine;
So much as is dealt at her funeral to-day,
To-morrow shall be dealt at mine.

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Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day,
Sweet William dyed the morrow:

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Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love.
Sweet William dyed for sorrow.

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Margaret was buryed in the lower chancèl,
And William in the higher:

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Out of her brest there sprang a rose,
And out of his a briar.

[They 125] They grew as high as the church-top,
Till they could grow no higher;

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And there they grew in a true lovers knot,
Made all the folke admire.

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

V.

BARBARA ALLEN's CRUELTY.

Given, with some corrections, from an old printed copy in the editor's possession, intitled "Barbara Allen's cruelty, "or the young man's tragedy."

5

IN

N Scarlet towne, where I was borne,
There was a faire maid dwellin,
Made every youth crye, wel-awaye!
Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merrye month of may,

When greene buds they were swellin,

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15

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15

Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.

[He 126] He sent his man unto her then,

To the town, where shee was dwellin;
You must come to my master deare,

Giff your name be Barbara Allen.

For death is printed on his face,
And ore his hart is stealin:
Then haste away to comfort him,

O lovelye Barbara Allen.

Though death be printed on his face,
And ore his harte is stealin,

Yet little better shall he bee,
For bonny Barbara Allen.

So slowly, slowly, she came up,
And slowly she came nye him;

And all she sayd, when there she came,
Yong man, I think y'are dying.

Percy's Reliques ed. Schröer.

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He turnd his face unto her strait,
With deadlye sorrow sighing;
O lovely maid, come pity mee,
Ime on my death-bed lying.

If on your death-bed you doe lye,
What needs the tale you are tellin:
I cannot keep you from your death;
Farewell, sayd Barbara Allen.

[He 127] He turnd his face unto the wall,

As deadlye pangs he fell in:
Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all,

Adieu to Barbara Allen.

As she was walking ore the fields,
She heard the bell a knellin;
And every stroke did seem to saye,
Unworthy Barbara Allen.

She turnd her bodye round about,

And spied the corps a coming:

Laye down, laye down the corps, she sayd,

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That I may look upon him.

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With scornful eye she looked downe,
Her cheeke with laughter swellin;
That all her friends cryd out amaine,
Unworthye Barbara Allen.

When he was dead, and laid in grave,
Her harte was struck with sorrowe,

O mother, mother, make my bed,

For I shall dye to morrowe.

Hard harted creature him to slight,
Who loved me so dearlye:

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O that I had beene more kind to him,
When he was live and neare me!

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[She 128] She, on her death-bed as she laye,

Beg'd to be buried by him:

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And sore repented of the daye,

That she did ere denye him.

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