Wit Restor'd/The old Ballad of Little Musgrave and the Lady Barnard

For other versions of this work, see Little Musgrove and the Lady Barnet.

The old Ballad of Little Musgrave and the Lady Barnard.

As it fell one holy-day, hay downe,As many be in the yeare,When young men and maidsTogether did goe,Their Mattins and Masse to heare,

Little Musgrave came to the church dore,The Preist was at private MasseBut he had more minde of the faire women;Then he had of our lady grace

The one of them was clad in greenAnother was clad in pale,And then came in my lord Bernards wifeThe fairest amonst them all;

She cast an eye on little MusgraveAs bright as the summer sun,And then bethought this little MusgraveThis lady,s heart have I woonn.

Quoth she I have loved thee little MusgraveFull long and many a day,So have I loved you fair Lady,Yet never word durst I say.

I have a bower at BuckelsfordberyFull daintyly it is geight.If thou wilt wed thither thou little MusgraveThou’s lig in mine armes all night.

Quoth he,I thank yee faire ladyThis kindnes thou showest to me,But whether it be to my weal or woeThis night I will lig with thee.

With that he heard a little tyne pageBy his ladyes coach as he ran,All though I am my ladyes foot pageYet I am lord Barnards man

My lord Barnard shall knowe of thisWhether I sink or sinn;And ever where the bridges were broakeHe laid him downe to swimme.

A sleepe or wake thou Lord Barnard,As thou art a man of lifeFor little Musgrave is at Bucklesfordbery:A bed with thy own wedded wife.

If this be true thou litele tinny Page,This thing thou tellest to mee,Then all the land in BucklesfordberyI freely will give to thee.

But if it be a ly, thou little tinny Page,This thing thou tellest to me;On the hyest tree in BucklesfordberyThen hanged shalt thou be.

He called up his merry men allCome sadle me my steed,This night must I to Buckellsfordbery,For I never had greater need.

And some of them whistl’d & some of them sung,And some these words did say;And ever when my lord Barnards horn blew,A way Musgrave a way.

Me-thinks I hear the Thresel-cock,Me-thinks I hear the Jaye,Me-thinks I hear my Lord Barnard,And I would I were away.

Lye still, lye still, thou little MusgraveAnd huggell me from the cold,Tis nothing but a shephards boy,A driving his sheep to the fold.

Is not thy hawke upon a perch?Thy steed eats oats and hay;And thou fair Lady in thine armes,And wouldst thou bee away?

With that my lord Barnard came to the doreAnd lit a stone uponHe plucked out three silver keys,And he open’d the dores each one.

He lifted up the coverlett,He lifted up the sheet,How now, how now, thou littell MusgraveDoest thou find my lady sweet?

I find her sweet, quoth little MusgraveThe more ’tis to my paine,I would gladly give three hundred poundsThat I were on yonder plaine.

Arise arise thou littell Musgrave,And put thy cloth-es on,It shal ne’re be said in my countryI have killed a naked man.

I have two Swords in one scabberd,Full deere they cost my purse:And thou shalt have the best of themAnd I will have the worse.

The first stroke that little Musgrave stroke,He hurt Lord Barnard soreThe next stroke that Lord Barnard strokeLittle Musgrave ne’re struck more.

With that bespake this faire lady,In bed whereas she lay,Although thou’rt dead thou little Musgrave,Yet I for thee will pray,

And wish well to thy soule will ISo long as I have life,So will I not for thee BarnardAlthough I am thy wedded wife.

He cut her paps from off her brest,Great pitty it was to see,That some drops of this ladies heart’s bloodRan trickling downe her knee.

Woe worth you, woe worth, my mery men all,You were ne’re borne for my good:Why did you not offer to stay my hand,When you see me wax so wood.

For I have slaine the bravest Sir KnightThat ever rode on steed,So have I done the fairest ladyThat ever did womans deed.

A grave, a grave, Lord Barnard crydTo put these lovers in:But lay my lady on upper handFor she came of the better kin.