The Golden Treasury of the best songs and lyrical poems in the English Language |
1. |
2. |
LXXXV. |
LXXXVI. |
LXXXVII. |
LXXXVIII. |
LXXXIX. |
XC. |
XCI. |
XCII. |
XCIII. |
XCIV. |
XCV. |
XCVI. |
XCVII. |
XCVIII. |
XCIX. |
C. |
CI. |
CII. |
CIII. |
CIV. |
CV. |
CVI. |
CVII. |
CVIII. |
CIX. |
CX. |
CXI. |
CXII. |
CXIII. |
CXIV. |
CXV. |
CXVI. |
CXVII. |
CXVIII. |
CXIX. |
CXX. |
CXXI. |
CXXII. |
CXXIII. |
CXXIV. |
CXXV. |
CXXVI. |
CXXVII. |
CXXVIII. |
CXXIX. |
CXXX. |
CXXXI. |
CXXXII. |
CXXXIII. | CXXXIII
FORSAKEN
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CXXXIV. |
CXXXV. |
CXXXVI. |
CXXXVII. |
CXXXVIII. |
CXXXIX. |
CXL. |
CXLI. |
CXLII. |
CXLIII. |
CXLIV. |
CXLV. |
CXLVI. |
CXLVII. |
CXLVIII. |
CXLIX. |
CL. |
CLI. |
3. |
4. |
The Golden Treasury | ||
104
CXXXIII
FORSAKEN
O waly waly up the bank,
And waly waly down the brae,
And waly waly yon burn-side
Where I and my Love wont to gae!
I leant my back unto an aik,
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
And waly waly down the brae,
And waly waly yon burn-side
Where I and my Love wont to gae!
I leant my back unto an aik,
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
O waly waly, but love be bonny
A little time while it is new;
But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld
And fades awa' like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true Love has me forsook,
And says he'll never loe me mair.
A little time while it is new;
But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld
And fades awa' like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true Love has me forsook,
And says he'll never loe me mair.
Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;
The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me:
Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,
Since my true Love has forsaken me.
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearíe.
The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me:
Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,
Since my true Love has forsaken me.
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearíe.
'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie;
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow town
We were a comely sight to see;
My Love was clad in the black velvét,
And I mysell in cramasie.
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie;
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow town
We were a comely sight to see;
My Love was clad in the black velvét,
And I mysell in cramasie.
105
But had I wist, before I kist,
That love had been sae ill to win;
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd
And pinn'd it with a siller pin.
And, O! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I mysell were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!
That love had been sae ill to win;
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd
And pinn'd it with a siller pin.
And, O! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I mysell were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!
Anon.
The Golden Treasury | ||