Garland of songs/Lady Anne Bothwell's lamentation
LADY ANNE BOTHWELL'S
LAMENTATION.
Balow, my boy, lie still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep,
If thou'lt be silent, I'll be glad,
Thy mourning makes my heart full sad,
Balow, my boy, thy mother's joy,
Thy father bred me great annoy.
Balow, my boy, lie still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.
Balow, my darling, sleep a while.
And when thou wak'st then sweetly smile ;
But do not smile as thy father did,
To cozen maids, nay God forbid;
For in thine eye his look I see,
The tempting look that ruin'd me.
Balow, my boy, &c.
When he began to court my love,
And with his sugar d words to move,
His tempting face and flatt'ring chear,
In time to me did not appear;
But now I see that cruel he,
Cares neither for his babe nor me,
Balow, my boy, &c.
Farewel, farewel, thou falsest youth,
That ever kiss'd a woman's mouth,
Let never any after me,
Submit unto thy country;
Por, if they do, O! cruel thou,
Wilt her abuse and care not how.
Balow, my boy, &c.
I was too cred'lous at the first,
To yield thee all a maiden durs,
Thou swore for ever true to prove,
Thy faith unchang d, unchang'd thy love;
But quick as thought the change is wrought,
Thy love's no more, thy promise nought.
Below, my boy, &c.
I wish I were a maid again,
From young men's flattery I'd refrain,
For now unto my grief I find,
They all are perjar'd and unkind;
Bewitching charms bred all my harms,
Witness my babe lies in my arms,
Balow, my boy, &c.
I take my fate from bad to worse,
That I must needs be now a nurse,
And lull my young son ou my lap,
From me sweet orphan take the pap.
Balow, my child, thy mother mild,
Shall wail as from all bliss exil'd.
Balow, my boy, &c
Balow, my boy, weep not for me,
Whose greatest grief's for wronging thee,
Nor pity her deserved smart
Who can blame none but her fond heart;
For, too soon trusting latest finds,
With fairest tongues are falsest minds.
Balow, my boy, &c.
Balow, my boy, thy father's fled,
When he the thriftless son has play'd,
Of vows and oaths, forgetful he,
Prefer'd the wars to thee and me.
But now perhaps thy curse and mine,
Make him ate acorns with the swine.
Balow, my boy, &c.
But curse not him perhaps now he,
Stung with remorse, is blessing thee;
Perhaps at death for who can tell;
Whether the Judge of Heaven or Hell,
By some proud foe has struck the blow,
And laid the dear deceiver low.
Below, my boy, &c.
I wish I were into the bounds,
Where he lies smother’d in his wounds,
Repeating, as he pants for air.
My name, whom once he call’d his fair,
No woman’s yet so fiercely set,
But she’ll forgive, though not forget.
Balow, my boy, &c.
If linen lacks, for my love’s sake.
Then quiekly to him I would make
My smock once for his body meet,
And wrap him in that winding sheet,
Ah me ! how happy had I been,
If he had ne’er been wrapt therein.
Balow, my boy, &c.
Balow. my boy, I'll weep for thee;
Too soon, alack, thoo’lt weep for me:
Thy griefs are growing to a sum,
Cod grant thee patience when they come;
Born to sustain a mother’s shame,
A hapless fate, a bastard’s name,
Balow, my boy, lie still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.