  IFalse Sir John a-wooing came To a maid of beauty fair; May Colvin was this lady’s name, Her father’s only heir. IIHe woo’d her but He woo’d her in the ha’; Until he got the lady’s consent To mount and ride awa’. III‘Go fetch me some of your father’s gold, And some of your mother’s fee, And I’ll carry you into the north land, And there I’ll marry thee.’ IVShe’s gane to her father’s coffers Where all his money lay, And she’s taken the red, and she’s left the white, And so lightly she’s tripp’d away. VShe’s gane to her father’s stable Where all the steeds did stand, And she’s taken the best, and she’s left the warst That was in her father’s land. VIShe’s mounted on a milk-white steed, And he on a dapple-grey, And on they rade to a lonesome part, A rock beside the sea. VII‘Loup ‘Your bridal bed you see; Seven ladies I have drownÈd here, And the eight’ one you shall be. VIII‘Cast off, cast off your silks so fine And lay them on a stone, For they are too fine and costly To rot in the salt sea foam. IX‘Cast off, cast off your silken stays, For and your broider’d shoon, For they are too fine and costly To rot in the salt sea foam. X‘Cast off, cast off your Holland smock That’s border’d with the lawn, For it is too fine and costly To rot in the salt sea foam.’— XI‘O turn about, thou false Sir John, And look to the leaf o’ the tree; For it never became a gentleman A naked woman to see.’ XIIHe turn’d himself straight round about To look to the leaf o’ the tree; She’s twined her arms about his waist And thrown him into the sea. XIII‘O hold a grip o’ me, May ColvÍn, For fear that I should drown; I’ll take you home to your father’s bower And safe I’ll set you down.’ XIV‘No help, no help, thou false Sir John, No help, no pity thee! For you lie not in a caulder bed Than you thought to lay me.’ XVShe mounted on her milk-white steed, And led the dapple-grey, And she rode till she reach’d her father’s gate, At the breakin’ o’ the day. XVIUp then spake the pretty parrot, ‘May Colvin, where have you been? What has become o’ false Sir John That went with you yestreen?’— XVII‘O hold your tongue, my pretty parrot! Nor tell no tales o’ me; Your cage shall be made o’ the beaten gold And the spokes o’ ivorie.’ XVIIIUp then spake her father dear, In the bed-chamber where he lay; ‘What ails the pretty parrot, That prattles so long ere day?’— XIX‘There came a cat to my cage, master, I thought ’t would have worried me, And I was calling to May ColvÍn To take the cat from me.’ |
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