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Abyd, abyd, thou fair Makyne,

A word for ony thing;
For all my luve, it fall be thyne,

Withouten departing.
All hale thy heart for till have myne,

Is all my coveting;
My sheip to morn quhyle houris nyne,

Will need of nae keiping.



Robin, thou hast heard sung and say,

“ In gests and storys auld, “ The man that will not when he may,

“ Sall have nocht when he wald. " I pray to heaven baith nicht and day,

e Be eiked their cares fae cauld, " That presses first with thee to play

“Be forreft, firth, or fauld."



Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry,

The wether warm and fair,
And the grene wod richt neir-hand by,

To walk attowre all where :
There may nae janglers us espy,

That is in luve contrair; Therin, Makyne, baith you and I

Unseen may mak repair.

1.99. Bannatyne's MS. bas woid, nat woud, as in Ed. 1970.



Robin, that warld is now away,

" And quyt brocht till an end ;
“ And nevir again thereto, perfay,

Sall it be as thou wend;
" For of my pain thou made but play ;

“ I words in vain did spend :
6 As thou hast done, fae fall I say,

• Murn on, I think to mend.”



Makyne, the hope of all my heil,

My heart on thee is set;
I'll evermair to thee be leil,

Quhyle I may live but lett,
Never to fail as uthers feill,

Quhat grace fo eir I get.
“ Robin, with thee I will not deill;

6 Adieu, for this we met.”


Makyne went hameward blyth enough,

Outowre the holtis hair ;
Pure Robin murnd, and Makyne leugh;

Scho sang, and he licht fair:
And so left him bayth wc and wreuch, 125

In dolor and in care,
Keipand his herd under a heuch,

Amang the rushy gair.
V. 117. Bannatyne's MS. reads as above feill, not faill, as in Ed. 1770.





The scene of this beautiful old ballad is laid near Wal. fingham, in Norfolk, where was anciently an image of the Virgin Mary, famous over all Europe for the numerous pilgrimages made to it, and the great riches it poseled. Erafmus has given a very exact, and humorous description of the superstitions practised there in his time. See his account of the VIRGO PARATHALASSIA, in his colloquy, intitled, PERE

He tells us, the rich offer. ings in silver, gold, and preciouo stones, that were there fewe him, were incredible

, there being scarce a person of any note in England, but what some time or other paid a visit, or sent a present to OUR LADY OF WALSINGHAM *. At the dissolution of the monasteries in 1538, this Splendid image, with another from Ipswich, was carried to Chelsea, and there burnt in the presence of commissioners; who, we trust, did not burn the jewels and the finery. This poem is printed

from a copy in the Editor's folio MS. which had greatly suffered by the hand of time; but vestiges of several of the lines remaining, some conjectural supplements have been attempted, which, for greater exactness, are in this one ballad distinguished by Italicks,


ENTLE heardfinan, tell to me,

Of curtesy I thee pray,
Unto the towne of Walsingham

Which is the right and ready way. * See at the end of this Ballad an account of tbe annual offerings of the Earls of Northumberland.

6. Unto


66 The

“ Unto the town of Walfingham


is hard for to be gon; " And verry crooked are those pathes

“ For you to find out all alone.”


Weere the miles doubled thrise,

And the way never soe ill,
Itt were not enough for mine offence;

Itt is foe grievous and foe ill.

“ Thy yeeares are young, thy face is faire,

Thy witts are weake, thy thoughts are greene; " Time hath not given thee leave, as yett, 15

« For to committ so great a finne.”

Yes, heardsman, yes, foe woldest thou say,

If thou knewest soe much as I;
My witts, and thoughts, and all the rest,

Have well deserved for to dye,

I am not what I seeme to bee,

My clothes and sexe doe differ farr : I am a woman, woe is me!

Born to greeffe and irksome care.


For my beloved, and well-beloved,

My wayward cruelty could kill:
And though my teares will nought avail,

Mof dearely I bewail kim ftill.


He was the flower of noble wights,

None ever more fincere colde bee;
Of comely mien and shape hee was,

And tenderlye bee loved mee.


When thus I saw he loved me well,

1 grewe so proud bis paine to fee, That I, who did not know myselfe,

Thought scorne of such a youth as hee.


* And grew foe coy and nice to please,

As women's lookes are often soe,
He might not kiffe, nor hand forfooth,

Unlesse I willed him foe to doe.


Thus being wearyed with delayes

To see I pittyed not his greeffe,
He gott him to a secrett place,

And there he dyed without releeffe,


* Three of the following stanzas have been finely paraphrased by Dr. GOLDSMITH, in his charming ballad of EDWIN AND EMMA; the reader of tafte will bave a pleafure in comparing them with the original,

And fill I try'd each fickle art,

Importunate and vain;
And while his paffion touch'd my beart,

I triumph'd in bis pain.

'Till quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride;
And fought a solitude forlorn,

In secret, where he dy’d.

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