To help thee to thy true love again,

And deliver her unto thee?"

"I have no money," then quoth the young man, "No ready gold nor fee;

But I will swear upon a book

Thy true servánt for to be."

"How many miles is it to thy true love?

Come, tell me without guile."

"By the faith of my body," then said the young

mau,

"It is but five little mile."

Then Robin he hasted over the plain,
He did neither stint nor bin,
Until he came unto the church

Where Allin should keep his wedding.

"What hast thou here?" the bishop then said; "I prithee now tell unto me."

"I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, "And the best in the north countree." "O welcome, O welcome!" the bishop he said, "That music best pleaseth me."

"You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, "Till the bride and the bridegroom I see.” With that came in a wealthy knight,

Which was both grave and old;

And after him a finikin lass

Did shine like the glistering gold.

"This is not a fit match," quoth bold Robin Hood, "That you do seem to make here;

For since we are come into the church,

The bride shall choose her own dear."
Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth,
And blew blasts two or three,

When four-and-twenty bowmen bold
Came leaping o'er the lea.

And when they came into the church-yard,

Marching all in a row,

The very first man was Allin-a-Dale
To give bold Robin his bow.

"This is thy true love," Robin he said, "Young Allin, as I hear say;

And you shall be married at this same time,

Before we depart away."

"That shall not be," the bishop he said,

"For thy word shall not stand;

They shall be three times asked in the church,

As the law is of our land."

Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat,

And put it on Little John:

"By the faith of my body," then Robin said, "This cloth doth make thee a man."

When Little John went into the quire
The people began to laugh;

He asked them seven times in the church,
Lest three times should not be enough.
"Who gives me this maid?" said Little John.
Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I;

And he that takes her from Allin-a-Dale,

Full dearly he shall her buy."

And thus having end of this merry wedding, The bride looked like a queen ;

And so they returned to the merry greenwood, Amongst the leaves so green.

WALY, WALY.

ANONYMOUS.

First published as an old song in Allan Ramsay's "Tea-Table Miscellany," in 1724. Part of it (by Robert Chambers all of it) has been pieced into a later ballad on the Marchioness of Douglass; married 1670, and deserted by her husband.

Oh waly, waly,' up the bank,

Oh waly, waly, doun the brae,
And waly, waly, yon burn-side,"

Where I and my love were wont to gae!

I leaned my back unto an aik,

I thocht it was a trustie tree,
But first it bowed, and syne it brak',-
And sae did my fause love to me.

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 cam' in by Glas-gow toun, We were a comely sicht to see; My love was clad in the black velvet, An' I mysel' in cramasie.'

But had I wist, before I kissed,

That love had been so ill to win,
I'd locked my heart in a case o' goud,
And pinned it wi' a siller pin.
Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee;
And I mysel' were deid and gone,

And the green grass growing over me!

EDWARD.

ANONYMOUS.

This remarkable little dramatic ballad was first printed in Perry's "Reliques," from a manuscript transmitted by Lord Halles. There are several versions, and a good German transation of it by Herder.

"Why does your brand sae drap wi' blude,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drap wi' blude,
And why sae sad gang ye, O ?”

"Oh, I ha'e killed my hawk sae gude,
Mither, mither:

Oh, I ha'e killed my hawk sae gude,
And I ha'e nae mair but he, O."

"And what will ye leave to your mither dear,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your mither dear?
My dear son, now tell me, O."

"The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,
Mither, mither:
The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,-
Sic counsels ye gied me, O!"

LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG.
ANONYMOUS (1570).

Love me little, love me long,
Is the burden of my song.
Love that is too hot and strong
Burneth soon to waste.
Still I would not have thee cold,
Not too backward or too bold;
Love that lasteth till 'tis old
Fadeth not in haste.

If thou lovest me too much,
"Twill not prove as true as touch;
Love me little, more than such,
For I fear the end.

I'm with little well content,

And a little from thee sent

Is enough, with true intent,

To be steadfast friend.

Say thou lov'st me while thou live,
I to thee my love will give,
Never dreaming to deceive

While that life endures:

Nay, and after death, in sooth,
I to thee will keep my truth
As now, in my May of youth,

This my love assures.

Constant love is moderate ever,
And it will through life perséver;
Give me that, with true endeavor
I will it restore ;

A suit of durance let it be
For all weathers; that for me,
For the land or for the sea,

Lasting evermore.

Winter's cold or Summer's heat, Autumn's tempests on it beat, It can never know defeat,

Never can rebel:

Such the love that I would gain, Such the love, I tell thee plain, Thou must give, or woo in vainSo to thee farewell!

LINES WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, BEING YOUNG, AND CONDEMNED TO DIE. CHIDIOCK TYCHBORN.

Chidiock Tychborn, the author of these lines, shared in Babington's conspiracy, and was executed with him in 1586. For more about him, see an article in D'Israeli's "Curiosities of Literature."

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares;
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain;

My crop of corn is but a field of tares;
And all my good is but vain hope of gain :
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done.

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung; The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green; My youth is gone, and yet I am but young;

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen : My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun ; And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death, and found it in the womb; I looked at life, and saw it was a shade;

I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb; And now I die, and now I am but made : The glass is full, and now my glass is run; And now I live, and now my life is done.

HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL.

ANONYMOUS.

Helen Irving, daughter of the laird of Kirkconnell, in Dumfriesshire, was beloved by two gentlemen. The name of the one suitor was Adam Fleming; that of the other has escaped tradition. The addresses of the latter were, however, favored by the lady, and the lovers were obliged to meet in the churchyard of Kirkconnell. During one of these interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carbine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between the rivals, in which Fleming was cut to pieces. The graves of the lovers are still shown in the church-yard of Kirkconnell.

I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries. Oh that I were where Helen lies,

On fair Kirkconnell 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 succor me!

Oh, think ye na my heart was sair,

When my love dropt down and spake nae mair? There did she swoon wi' meikle care,

On fair Kirkconnell lea.

As I went down the water-side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirkconnell lea,

I lighted down, my sword did draw;
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma',
For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare!
I'll weave a garland of thy hair
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Until the day I dee!

Oh that I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! Were I with thee I would be blest,

1 Maid.

Where thou lies low and takes thy rest,

On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn o'er my een, And I in Helen's arms lying,

On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries, And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me.

King Charles J.

Charles I., King of England, grandson of Mary, Queen of Scots, was born at Dunfermline, in Scotland, in 1600, and executed in London, January 30th, 1649. The poem from which the following twelve triplets are taken consists of twenty-four, most of them quite inferior to the following. Archbishop Trench does "not doubt that these lines are what they profess to be, the composition of King Charles; their authenticity is stamped on every line." They are creditable to his literary culture, and show that he inherited some of the poetical faculty of his grandmother.