« PreviousContinue »
“Makyne, to-morn be this ilk tyde,
Gif ye will meit me heir,
Quhyle we have liggd full neir;
Frae thay begin to steir; Quhat lyes on heart I will nocht hyd,
Then Makyne mak gude cheir.”
“Robin, thou reivs me of my rest;
I luve bot thee alane." “ Makyne, adieu ! the sun goes west,
The day is neir-hand gane." “Robin, in dule I am so drest,
That luve will be my bane.” “Makyn, gae luv quhair-eir ye list,
For leman I luid nane.”
“ Robin, I stand in sic a style,
I sich and that full sair.” “ Makyne, I have bene here this quyle:
At hame I wish I ware.” “Robin, my hinny, talk and smyle,
Gif thou will do nae mair.” “ Makyne, som other man beguyle,
For hameward I will fare.”
Syne Robin on his ways he went,
As light as leif on tree; But Makyne murnt and made lament,
Scho trow'd him neir to see. Robin he brayd attowre the bent;
Then Makyne cried on hie, “ Now may thou sing, for I am shent !
Quhat ailis luve at me?'
Makyne went hame withouten fail,
And weirylie could weip; Then Robin in a full fair dale
Assemblit all his sheip.
Be that some part of Makyne's ail
Out-throw his heart could creip; Hir fast he followt to assail,
And till her tuke gude keip.
“ Abyd, abyd, thou fair Makyne,
A word for ony thing;
Is all my coveting :
Will need of nae keiping."
In gests and storys auld,
Sall have nocht when he wald.
Be eiked their cares sae cauld,
Be forrest, firth, or fauld."
- Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry,
The wether warm and fair,
To walk attowre all where :
That is in luve contrair;
Unseen may mak repair.”
And quyt brocht till an end,
Sall it be as thou wend;
I words in vain did spend :
Murn on, I think to mend.”
V. 99, Bannatyne's MS. has woid, not woud, as in ed. 1770.
“Makyne, the hope of all my heil,
My heart on thee is set,
Quhat grace so eir I get."
120 Makyne went hameward blyth enough,
Outowre the holtis hair;
Scho sang, and he sicht sair:
In dolor and in care,
Amang the rushy gair.
Bentle Herdsman, tell to Me.
DIALOGUE BETWEEN A PILGRIM AND HERDSMAN,
The scene of this beautiful old ballad is laid near Walsingham 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 possessed. Erasmus 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, entitled, Peregrinatio Religionis Ergo. He tells us, the rich offerings in silver, gold, and precious stones, that were there shown him, were incredible, there being scarcely 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.
See at the end of this ballad an account of the annual offerings of the Earls of Northumberland.
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 reinaining, some conjectural supplements have been attempted, which, for greater exactness, are in this one ballad distinguished by italics.
GENTLE heardsman, tell to me,
Of curtesy I thee pray,
Which is the right and ready way.
The way is hard for to be gon;
For you to find out all alone.”
And the way never soe ill,
Itt is soe grievous and soe ill.
Thy witts are weake, thy thoughts are greene;
For to committ so great a sinne.”
If thou knewest soe much as I;
Have well deserved for to dye.
My clothes and sexe doe differ farr :
Born to greeffe and irksome care.
My wayward cruelty could kill :
Most dearely I bewail him still.
None ever more sincere colde bee;
And tenderlye hee loved mee.
When thus I saw he loved me well,
I grewe so proud his paine to see,
Thought scorne of such a youth as hee.
As women's lookes are often soe,
Unlesse I willed him soe to doe.
To see I pittyed not his greeffe,
And there he dyed without releeffe.
And sacriffice my tender age;
To undergoe this pilgrimage.
And ever will doe till I dye;
For soe did hee, and soe will I.
? Three of the following stanzas have been finely paraphrased by Dr. Goldsmith, in his charming ballad of Edwin and Emma; the reader of taste will have a pleasure in comparing them with the original.
And still I try'd each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;
I triumph'd in his pain.
He left me to my pride;
In secret, where he dy'd.
And well my life shall pay;
And stretch me where he lay.
I'll lay me down and die :
And so for him will I.