Alison

Bitweene Merch and Averil,

When spray biginnith to springe,

The litel fowl hath hire wil

On hire leod to singe.

Ich Libbe in love-longinge

For semlokest of alle thinge.

Heo may me blisse bringe:

Ich am un hire baundoun.

An hendy hap ich habbe yhent,

Ichoot from hevene it is me sent:

From alle wommen my love is lent,

And light, on Alisoun.

On hew hire heer is fair ynough,

Hire brow browne, hire ye blake;

With lossum cheere heo on me lough;

With middel smale and wel ymake.

But heo me wolle to hire take

For to been hire own make,

Longe to liven ichulle forsake,

And feye fallen adown.

An hendy hap ich habbe yhent,

Ichoot from hevene it is me sent:

From alle wommen my love is lent,

And light, on Alisoun.

Nightes when I wende and wake,

Forthy mine wonges waxeth wan:

Levedy, al for thine sake

In world nis noon so witer man

That all hire bountee telle can;

Hire swire is whittere than the swan,

And fairest may in town.

An hendy hap ich habbe yhent,

Ichoot from hevene it is me sent:

From alle wommen my love is lent,

And light, on Alisoun.

Ich am for wowing al forwake,

Wery so water in wore.

Lest any reve me my make

Ich habbe y-yerned yore.

Bettere is tholien while sore

Than mournen evermore.

Geinest under gore,

Herkne to my youn:

An hendy hap ich habbe yhent,

Ichoot from hevene it is me sent:

From alle wommen my love is lent,

And light, on Alisoun.

Lord Randall

"Oh where ha'e ye been, Lord Randall my son?

O where ha'e ye been, my handsome young man?"

"I ha'e been to the wild wood: mother make my bed soon,

For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."

"Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randall my son?"

Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?"

"I dined wi' my true love; mother make my bed soon,

For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."

"What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randall my son?

What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?"

"I gat eels boiled in broo: mother make my bed soon,

For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."

"What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Randall my son?

What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?"

"O they swelled and they died: mother make my bed soon,

For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."

"O I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randall my son!

O I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young man?"

"O yes I am poisoned: mother make my bed soon,

For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down."

Sir Patrick Spens

The king sits in Dumferline town,

Drinking the blude-reid wine:

"O whar will I get a guid sailor

To sail this ship of mine?"

Up and spak an eldern knicht,

Sat at the king's richt knee:

"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor

That sails upon the sea."

The king has written a braid letter

And signed it wi' his hand,

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,

Was walking in the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick read,

A laud lauch launched he;

The next line that Sir Patrick read,

The tear blinded his ee.

"O wha is this has done this deed,

This ill deed done to me,

To send me out this time o' the year

To sail upon the sea?"

"Make haste, make haste, my mirry men all,

Our guid ship sails the morn."

"O say na sae, my master dear,

For I fear a deadly storm."

"Late late yestre'en I saw the new moon

Wi' the auld moon in her arm,

And I fear, I fear, my dear master,

That we will come to harm."

O our Scots nobles were richt laith

To weet their cork-heeled shoon,

But lang owre a' the play were played

Their hats they swam aboon.

O lang, lang may their ladies sit,

Wi' their fans into their hand,

Or e'er they see Sir Patrick Spens

Come sailing to the land.

O lang, lang may their ladies stand,

Wi' their gold kembs in their hair,

Waiting for their ain dear lords,

For they'll see thame na mair.

Half o'er, half o'er to Aberdour

Its fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies guid Sir patrick Spens,

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

Thomas the Rhymer

True Thomas lay on Huntly bank;

A ferly he spied wi' his ee;

And there he saw a lady bright

Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.

Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk,

Her mantle o' the velvet fine;

At ilka tett of her horse's mane

Hung fifty sil'er bells and nine.

True Thomas he pulled off his cap

And louted low down to his knee:

"All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!

For thy peer on earth I never did see."

"O no, O no Thomas," she said,

"That name does not belong to me;

"I am but the Queen of fair Elfland,

That am hither come to visit thee."

"Play and speak, Thomas," she said,

"Play and speak along wi' me;

And if ye dare to kiss my lips,

Sure of your body I will be."

"Betide me weal, betide me woe,

That fate shall never daunten me."

Then he has kissed her rosy lips,

All underneath the Eildon Tree.

"Now you must go wi' me," she said,

"True Thomas you must go wi' me;

And you must serve me seven years

Through weal or woe, as may chance to be."

She mounted on her milk-white steed;

She's taken True Thomas up behind;

And ay whene'er her bridle rung,

The steed flew swifter than the wind.

On they rode on and farther on;

The steed went swifter than the wind,

Until they reached a desert wide,

And living land was left behind.

"Light down, light down now, True Thomas,

And lean your head upon my knee.

Abide and rest a little space,

And I will show you frelies three."

"O see ye not yon narrow road,

So thick beset with thorns and briars?

That is the path of righteousness,

Though after it but few inquires."

"And see you that braid, braid road

That lies across that lily lawn?

That is the path of wickedness,

Though some call it the road to heaven."

"And see not ye that bonny road

That winds about the ferny brae?

That is the road to fair Elfland

Where you and I this night must go."

"But Thomas you must hold your tongue,

Whatever ye may hear or see;

For if you speak word in Elfenland,

Ye'll ne'er get back to your ain country."

O they rode on and further on,

And they waded through rivers above the knee,

And they heard neither sun nor moon,

But they heard the roaring of the sea.

It was dark, dark night and there was no starlight,

And they waded through red blude to the knee,

For a' the blude that's shed on earth

Runs through the springs o' that country.

Soon they came onto a garden green,

And she pulled an apple from a tree.

"Take this for thy wages, True Thomas,

It will give thee the tongue that ne'er can lie."

"My tongue is mine own," True Thomas said;

"A goodly gift ye would give to me!

I neither feared to buy or sell

At fair or tryst where I may be."

"I feared neither speak to prince or peer,

Nor ask of grace from fair lady."

"Now hold thy peace," the lady said,

"For as I say, so must it be."

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,

And a pair of shoes of velvet green;

And till seven years were gone and past,

True Thomas on earth was never seen.

Saucy Sailor

"Come my own one, come my fair one,

Come now unto me,

Could you fancy a poor sailor lad

Who has just come from sea?"

"You are ragged love, you are dirty love,

And your clothes smell much of tar

So be gone you saucy sailor lad,

So be gone you Jack Tar."

"If I am ragged love and I am dirty love,

And my clothes smell much of tar,

I have silver in my pocket love

And gold in great store."

And then when she heard him say so

On her bended knees she fell,

"I will mary my dear Henry

For I love a sailor lad so well."

"Do you think that I am foolish love,

Do you think that I am mad,

For to wed a poor country girl

Where no fortune's to be had?

I will cross the briny ocean,

I will whistle and sing,

And since you have refused the offer love

Some other girl shall wear the ring.

I am frolicsome, I am easy,

Good tempered and free,

And I don't give a single pin my boys

What the world thinks of me."

Marigold

When the marigold no longer blooms,

When summer sun has turned to gloom,

See the forecast winter snow,

See the evergreen that lonely grows.

Mood glows to the fireplace,

Neglect the garden, see the ground harden

At a ghostly pace.

The golden summer sun is silver now,

The fruit has fallen from the bough,

The season moves to chestnut time,

Toffee apples, treakle, and mulled wine.

Quilts and furs and woolens gay,

You wrap around you, but the cold confounds you

On an autumn day.

Stout and strong the walls of home and hearth,

The curtains drawn against the draft,

The grain is reaped, the blade is mown,

Nights go in to call the harvest home.

The quiet of a heart at rest,

In peaced abounded, by love surrounded,

Here the home is blessed.

Barbara Allan

In Scarlet town, where I was born,

There was a fair maid dwellin',

Made every youth cry Well-a-way!

Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merry month of May,

When the green buds they were swellin',

Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,

For love of Barbara Allen

He sent his men down to her then,

To the town where she was dwelling:

"O haste and come to my master dear,

Gin ye be Barbara Allen."

So slowly, slowly rase she up,

And slowly she came nigh him,

And when she drew the curtains by--

"Young man, I think you're dyin'."

"O it's I am sick and very very sick,

And 'tis a' for Barbara Allen." --

"O the better for me ye'se never be,

Tho your heart's blood were a-spillin'!.

"O dinna ye mind, young man," said she,

"When the red wine ye were fillin',

That ye made the healths gae round and round,

And slighted Barbara Allen?"

He turned his face unto the wall,

And death was with him dealin':

"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,

And be kind to Barbara Allen!"

And slowly, slowly raise she up,

And slowly, slowly left him,

And sighing said she could not stay,

Since death of life had reft him.

As she was walkin o'er the fields

She heard the dead-bell knellin',

And every jow that the dead-bell geid,

Cried, "Woe to Barbara Allen!"

"O mother, mother, make my bed!

O make it saft and narrow:

My love has died for me today,

I'll die for him to-morrow."

"Farewell", she said, "ye virgins all,

And shun the fault I fell in:

Henceforward take warning by the fall

Of cruel Barbara Allen."

The Bellman's Song

Maids to bed and cover coal;

Let the mouse out of her hole;

Crickets in the chimney sing

Whilst the little bell doth ring:

If fast asleep, who can tell

When the clapper hits the bell?

The Silver Swan

The silver swan, who living had no note,

When death approached, unlocked her silent throat,

Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,

Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more:

Farewell all joys! O death, come close mine eyes;

More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.

Western Wind

Western Wind, when wilt thou blow,

The small rain down can rain?

Christ, were my love in my arms,

And I in my bed again.

Though Amaryllis Dance in Green

Though Amaryllis dance in green

        Like Fairy Queen,

        And sing full clear;

Corinna can, with smiling, cheer.

Yet since their eyes make heart so sore,

Hey ho! chill love no more

My sheep are lost for want of food,

        And I so wood

        That all the day

I sit and watch a herd-maid gay,

Who laughs to see me sigh so sore;

Hey ho! chill love no more.

Her loving looks, her beauty bright,

        Is such delight

        That all in vain

I love to like, and lose my gain

For her, that thanks me not therefore.

Hey ho! chill love no more.

Ah, wanton eyes! my friendly foes

        And causes of woes,

        Your sweet desire

Breeds flames of ice, and freezing fire.

Ye scorn to see me weep so sore:

Hey ho! chill love no more.

Love ye who list, I force him not:

        Sith God it wot,

        The more I wail,

The less my sighs and tears prevail:

What shall I do, but say therefore,

Hey ho! chill love no more.