Bess the gawkie/Peggy Irvine
PEGGY IRVINE.
OUR Lady stands in her chamber door,
viewing the Grahams are a coming,
She knew by the light of their livery so red,
they were new come down from London.
She called on her chambermaid,
and Jeany her gentle woman:
You'll dress my body in some fine dress,
for you is my good Lord a coming.
Her smock was of the Holland so fine,
her body round with busting.
Her shoes were of the small corded twine,
and her stockings silk and twisting.
Her petticoats was of the silk to fine.
set out out with the silver and scalloping,
Her gown was of the red damask silk so fine,
trimmed with the red gold mounting.
You guildery maids, come trim up gauze
and make them silver shining;
With strawberry flowers cover all my bowers,
and hang them round with the linen.
⟨The⟩ minstrels all be on our call,
when you see his horses coming;
(illegible text)s music spring spare not your string,
when your hear his bridles ringing.
⟨He⟩ call'd on Mag her chamber maid,
and Jeanny her gentle comas,
⟨To⟩ bring me a bottle of the good Spanish wine,
for to drink his health that's coming.
⟨She⟩ gently tripped down the stair,
and away to the gate to meet him:
⟨You⟩ are welcome, you lord of the Boyne,
you are welcome home from London.
⟨If⟩ this be so, come let me know,
come kiss me for my coming;
⟨Yet⟩ tomorrow should have been my wedding day,
If I had staid in London.
⟨She⟩ gave the glass out of her hand,
She was a woeful woman,
⟨The⟩ morrow should be your wedding day,
go back to your whores in London.
⟨He⟩ looked o'er his right shoulder,
his comely court behind him,
⟨This⟩ is is a merry welcome, he says,
that we have got from London.
To your horse, to your horse my nobles all,
to your horse, let us be going,
This night we'll lodge in Drummond castle,
and to-morrow we'll march to London.
New this Lady has fallen sick,
and doctors we her dealing
But at length her heart did break,
and letters sent to London.
He took the letter in his hand,
and loud, loud was he laughing,
But before he read it to an end,
the tears did come down rapping.
To your horse, to your horse my nobles all,
to your hors, let's be going;
To your horse let us all go in black
and mourn for Peggy Irvine.
When he came to his own castle gate,
the Knight was weary weeping
Cheer up your heart you lord of the Boyne,
your lady is but sleeping.
Sleeping deary, sleeping dow,
I'm afraid she s o'er sound sleeping;
Its I had rather lost all the land, of the Boyne,
Before I would have lost Peggy Irvine.