English Poetry I: From Chaucer to Gray.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Anonymous
189. O Waly, Waly
O
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.
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.
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.
Now blawing snaw’s inclemencie;
’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my Love’s heart grown cauld to me.
We were a comely sight to see;
My Love was clad in the black velvèt,
And I mysell in cramasie.
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!