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Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,
Where they are gone, nor yet this year,
WALY waly up the bank,
And waly waly down the brae,
Where I and my Love wont to gae!
I thought it was a trusty tree;
Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
O waly waly, but love be bonny
A little time while it is new;
And fades awa' like morning dew.
And says he'll never loe me mair.
Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;
The sheets shall ne'er be 'filed by me:
Since my true Love has forsaken me.
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
life I am wearie.
'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie;
But my Love's heart grown cauld to me,
We were a comely sight to see;
And I myself in cramasie.
But had I wist, before I kist,
That love had been sae ill to win;
And pinned it with a siller pin.
And set upon the nurse's knee,
THE BANKS O' DOON
E banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
And I sae weary, fu' o' care?
That wantons through the flowering thorn;
Departed-never to return.
Wist: known Cramasie: crimson
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And fondly sae did I o' mine.
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
fause luver stole my rose,
They know not I knew thee
Who knew thee too well:
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met:
In silence I grieve
Thy spirit deceive.
After long years,
With silence and tears.
INCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part,
Nay I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free; Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, passion speechless lies; When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And innocence is closing up his eyes, -Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou mightst him yet recover!
Michael Drayton 128
THE RECONCILIATION 1
HILST I was dear and thou wert kind,
And I, and I alone, might lie
Not Persia's king so blest as I.
Whilst I to thee was all in all,
Nor Chloë might with Lydia vie,
Not Roman Ilia famed as I.
I now am Thracian Chloë's slave,
With hand and voice that charms the air, For whom even death itself I'd brave,
So fate the darling girl would spare!
I dote on Calaïs—and I
Am all his passion, all his care,
So fate the darling boy would spare!
1 Translated by Sir Theodore Martin.