Andrew Lang - Lady Anne Bothwell`s LamentAndrew Lang - Lady Anne Bothwell`s Lament
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Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep,
If thou`lt be silent, I`ll be glad,
Thy mourning makes my heart full sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mother`s joy,
Thy father bred one great annoy.
Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.
Balow, my darling, sleep a while,
And when thou wak`st then sweetly smile;
But smile not as thy father did,
To cozen maids, nay, God forbid;
For in thine eye his look I see,
The tempting look that ruin`d me.
Balow, my boy, etc.
When he began to court my love,
And with his sugar`d words to move,
His tempting face, and flatt`ring chear,
In time to me did not appear;
But now I see that cruel he
Cares neither for his babe nor me.
Balow, my boy, etc.
Fareweel, fareaeel, thou falsest youth
That ever kist a woman`s mouth.
Let never any after me
Submit unto thy courtesy!
For, if hey do, O! cruel thou
Wilt her abuse and care not how!
Balow, my boy, etc.
I was too cred`lous at the first,
To yield thee all a maiden durst.
Thou swore for ever true to prove,
Thy faith unchang`d, unchang`d thy love;
But quick as thought the change is wrought,
Thy love`s no mair, thy promise nought.
Balow, my boy, etc.
I wish I were a maid again!
From young men`s flatt`ry I`d refrain;
For now unto my grief I find
They all are perjur`d and unkind;
Bewitching charms bred all my harms;--
Witness my babe lies in my arms.
Balow, my boy, etc.
I take my fate from bad to worse,
That I must needs be now a nurse,
And lull my young son on my lap:
From me, sweet orphan, take the pap.
Balow, my child, thy mother mild
Shall wail as from all bliss exil`d.
Balow, my boy, etc.
Balow, my boy, weep not for me,
Whose greatest grief`s for wronging thee.
Nor pity her deserved smart,
Who can blame none but her fond heart;
For, too soon tursting latest finds
With fairest tongues are falsest minds.
Balow, my boy, etc.
Balow, my boy, thy father`s fled,
When he the thriftless son has played;
Of vows and oaths forgetful, he
Preferr`d the wars to thee and me.
But now, perhaps, thy curse and mine
Make him eat acorns with the swine.
Balow, my boy, etc.
But curse not him; perhaps now he,
Stung with remorse, is blessing thee:
Perhaps at death; for who can tell
Whether the judge of heaven or hell,
By some proud foe has struck the blow,
And laid the dear deceiver low?
Balow, my boy, etc.
I wish I were into the bounds
Where he lies smother`d in his wounds,
Repeating, as he pants for air,
My name, whom once he call`d his fair;
No woman`s yet so fiercely set
But she`ll forgive, though not forget.
Balow, my boy, etc.
If linen lacks, for my love`s sake
Then quickly to him would I make
My smock, once for his body meet,
And wrap him in that winding-sheet.
Ah me! how happy had I been,
If he had ne`er been wrapt therein.
Balow, my boy, etc.
Balow, my boy, I`ll weep for thee;
Too soon, alake, thou`lt weep for me:
Thy griefs are growing to a sum,
God grant thee patience when they come;
Born to sustain thy mother`s shame,
A hapless fate, a bastard`s name.
Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.
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