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There twenty-four fayre ladyes were
A playing att the ball:

And Ellen, the fairest ladye there,
Must bring his steed to the stall.
There twenty-four fayre ladyes were
A playinge at the chesse;
And Ellen, the fayrest ladye there,
Must bring his horse to gresse.

And then bespake Childe Waters' sister;
These were the wordes said shee:
You have the pretty est foot-page, brother,
That ever I saw with mine ee.

But that his bellye it is soe bigg,
His girdle goes wonderous hie:
And let him, I pray you, Childe Waters,
Goe into the chamber with mee.

It is not fit for a little foot-page,

That has run throughe mosse and myre, To go into the chamber with any ladye, That weares soe riche attyre.

It is more meete for a litle foote-page, That has run throughe mosse and myre, To take his supper upon his knee,

And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer. But when they had supped every one, To bedd they tooke theyr waye :

He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page, And hearken what I

saye.

Goe thee downe into yonder towne,

And low into the street;

The fayrest ladye that thou can finde,
Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe,
And take her up in thine armes twaine,
For filinge1 of her feete.

Ellen is gone into the towne

And low into the streete :

The fairest ladye that shee cold find,
Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe;
And tooke her up in her armes twayne,
For filing of her feete.

1 i. e. fear of defiling.

I praye you nowe, good Childe Watèrs,
Let mee lye at your bedd's feete:
For there is noe place about this house,
Where I may 'saye' a sleepe.

'He gave her leave, and faire Ellèn
'Down at his bed's feet laye:'
This done the nighte drove on apace,
And when it was neare the daye.

Hee sayd, Rise up, my litle foot-page,
Give my steede corne and haye;
And soe doe thou the good black oats,
To carry mee better awaye.

Up then rose the faire Ellen,

And gave his steede corne and haye:
And soe shee did the good blacke oates,
To carry him the better awaye.

Shee leaned her backe to the manger side,
And grievouslye did groane:

Shee leaned her back to the manger side,
And there shee made her moane.

And that beheard his mother deere,
Shee heard her there monànd.2

Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Watèrs,
I think thee a cursed man.

For in thy stable is a ghost,
That grievouslye doth grone:

Or else some woman laboures of childe,
She is soe woe-begone.

Up then rose Childe Waters soon,
And did on his shirte of silke;
And then he put on his other clothes,
On his body as white as milke.

And when he came to the stable dore,
Full still there hee did stand,
That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellèn,
Howe shee made her monànd.

1 i. e. essay, attempt.

2 i. e. moaning, bemoaning, &c.

She sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deere child,
Lullabye, dere child, dere;

I wold thy father were a king,
Thy mother layd on a biere.

Peace now, hee said, good faire Ellen,
Be of good cheere, I praye;

And the bridal and the churching both
Shall bee upon one day.

verses.

PHILLIDA AND CORYDON,

By Nicholas Breton [b. 1555, d. 1624], a musical writer of pastoral This song won the honour of being commanded a second time, and "highly graced with cheerful acceptance and commendation," by Elizabeth, at an entertainment given to her by the Earl of Hertford.

IN the merrie moneth of Maye,
In a morne by break of daye,
With a troope of damselles playing
Forthe 'I yode' forsooth a-Maying:

When anon by a wood side,
Where as Maye was in his pride,
I espièd all alone

Phillida and Corydon.

Much adoe there was, god wot;
He wold love, and she wold not.
She sayde, never man was trewe;
He sayes, none was false to you.

He sayde, hee had lovde her longe :
She sayes, love should have no wronge.
Corydon wold kisse her then :

She sayes, maydes must kisse no men,

Tyll they doe for good and all
When she made the shepperde call
All the heavens to wytnes truthe,
Never loved a truer youthe.

Then with manie a prettie othe,
Yea and nay, and faith and trothe;
Suche as seelie shepperdes use
When they will not love abuse;

Love, that had bene long deluded,
Was with kisses sweete concluded;
And Phillida with garlands gaye
Was made the lady of the Maye.

LITTLE MUSGRAVE AND LADY BARNARD;

FROM an old printed copy, with corrections, in the British Museum. Ritson declared the only genuine copy to be in Dryden's "Collection of Miscellaneous Poems." The Ballad is quoted in many old plays; and it exists, according to Motherwell, under many forms in Scotland.

As it fell out on a highe holye daye,
As many bee in the yeare,

When yong men and maides together do goe,
Their masses and mattins to heare,

Little Musgrave came to the church door;
The priest was at the mass;

But he had more mind of the fine womèn
Then he had of our Ladye's grace.

And some of them were clad in greene,
And others were clad in pall;
And then came in my lord Barnarde's wife,
The fairest among them all.

Shee cast an eye on little Musgràve
As bright as the summer sunne :
O then bethought him little Musgrave,
This ladye's heart I have wonne.

Quoth she, I have loved thee, little Musgrave,

Fulle long and manye a daye.

So have I loved you, ladye faire,
Yet word I never durst saye.

I have a bower at Bucklesford-Bury,
Full daintilye bedight;

If thoult wend thither, my little Musgrave,
Thoust lig in mine armes all night.

Quoth hee, I thanke yee, ladye faire,
This kindness yee shew to mee;
And whether it be to my weale or woe,
This night will I lig with thee.

All this beheard a litle foot-page,
By his ladye's coach as he ranne :
Quoth he, thoughe I am my ladye's page,
Yet I'me my lord Barnarde's manne.

My lord Barnàrd shall knowe of this,
Although I lose a limbe.

And ever whereas the bridges were broke,
He layd him downe to swimme.

Asleep or awake, thou lord Barnàrd,
As thou art a man of life,

Lo! this same night at Bucklesford-Bury
Litle Musgrave's in bed with thy wife.

If it be trew, thou litle foote-page,
This tale thou hast told to mee,
Then all my lands in Bucklesford-Bury
I freelye will give to thee.

But and it be a lye, thou litle foote-page,
This tale thou hast told to mee,

On the highest tree in Bucklesford-Bury
All hanged shalt thou bee.

Rise up, rise up, my merry men all,
And saddle me my good steede ;
This night must I to Bucklesford-bury;
God wott, I had never more neede.

Then some they whistled, and some they sang,
And some did loudlye saye,

Whenever lord Barnarde's horne it blewe,
Awaye, Musgràve, away.

Methinkes I heare the throstle cocke,

Methinkes I heare the jay,

Methinkes I heare lord Barnard's horne;

I would I were awaye.

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