'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemency; 25. 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, 30 We were a comely sight to see; But had I wist, before I kissed, That love had been sae ill to win, And oh! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee, And I mysel' were dead and gane, With the green grass growing over me! 35 .40 Anon. LXXIV BURD HELEN. I wish I were where Helen lies; Oh that I were where Helen lies On fair Kirconnell lea! Curst be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me! Oh think na but my heart was sair, When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair! On fair Kirconnell lea. 5 ΙΟ As I went down the water-side, On fair Kirconnell lea; I lighted down my sword to draw, For her sake that died for me. O Helen fair, beyond compare! Until the day I die. Oh that I were where Helen lies! 1 15 20 25 O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I were blest, 30 On fair Kirconnell lea. I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, 35 On fair Kirconnell lea. I wish I were where Helen lies: Since my Love died for me. 40 Anon. LXXV LOVE'S ENTERPRISE: Over the mountains And over the waves, And under the graves; Where there is no place For the glowworm to lie; Where there is no space For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dares not venture, If Love come, he will enter You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward from his flight; 5 ΙΟ 15 20 Poor heart! to be blind; But if ne'er so close you wall him, Do the best that you may, Blind Love, if so you call him, Will find out his way. 30 His plots to prevent; But if once the message greet him, There were twa brothers at the scule, Its will ye play at the stane-chucking, Or will ye gae up to yon hill head, And there we'll warsell a fa'.' 5 I winna play at the stane-chucking, Nor will I play at the ba', But I'll gae up to yon bonnie green hill, They warsled up, they warsled down, Till John fell to the ground; A dirk fell out of Willie's pouch, And gave him a deadly wound. 'Oh, Billie, lift me on your back, Take me to yon well fair, And wash the bluid frae aff my wound, And it will bleed nae mair.' 10 15 He's lifted his brother upon his back, Ta'en him to yon well fair; 20 He's washed the bluid frae aff his wound, But ay it bled mair and mair. 'Tak ye aff my Holland sark, He's taken aff his Holland sark, And torn it gair by gair; He's stappit it in his bluidy wound, 'Tak now aff my green sleiding, 25 30 |