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ancient awaye ballad Bannatyne's banyshed beggar bonny brave Cęsura copy cowe-hide dame daye death doth Earl earl marshall Earl of Murray Editor Edward England fair fame father fayd folio frae gallant Gods worde gold grace grene wode go grype Harpalus hart hath heart heire of Linne Henry intitled ivas ivhich John king knight kyng lady land lazar Lilli lise little John live Lord Vaux luve Makyne mankynde Mary Ambree merry metre mynde myne never noble nought poem poet pray pretty Bessee prince printed queene quoth Robin sayd schal Scotland Scots Scottish sear sellowe shalt shee sholde sir Aldingar Sir Andrew sirst sone song sorrow stanzas Synge tanner tell thay thee ther Therfore thou art unto Vaux verse wele wode wold writers written wyll wyth Yarrow
Page 128 - LITHE and listen, gentlemen, To sing a song I will beginne : It is of a lord of faire Scotland, Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne. His father was a right good lord, His mother a lady of high degree ; But they, alas \ were dead, him froe. And he lov'd keeping companie. To spend the daye with merry cheare, To...
Page 315 - The following is chiefly printed from an ancient black-letter copy to "the tune of Deny down." AN ancient story He tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John ; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.
Page 322 - That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate ; Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier.
Page 379 - My love, as he had not been a lover. The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing; Ah!
Page 337 - Even then her charming melody doth prove, That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. I am that bird, whom they combine Thus to deprive of liberty ; But though they do my corps confine, Yet maugre hate, my soul is free : And though immur'd, yet can I chirp, and sing Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.
Page 389 - Twas true and loyal still to her. Amid those unrelenting flames She bore this constant heart to see, But when 'twas moulder'd into dust, ' Yet, yet, (she cried) I follow thee!
Page 321 - You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own; What are you when the rose is blown? So, when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not designed Th' eclipse and glory of her kind.
Page 130 - My gold is gone, my money is spent ; My lande nowe take it unto thee : Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales, And thine for aye my lande shall bee.