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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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