WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY

ANONYMOUS

O waly, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn-side, Where I and my love wont to gae.

I lean'd my back unto an aik, And thought it was a trusty tree, But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true love did lightly me.

O waly, waly, but love is bonny, A little time while it is new, But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades away like morning dew.

Oh! 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 love me mair.

Now Arthur Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne'er be fil'd by me, Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, Since my true love's forsaken me.

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree?

Oh, gentle death! when wilt thou come?

For of my life I am weary.

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blowing snow's inclemency; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love's heart grown cauld to me.

When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; My love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel' in cramasie.

But had I wist before I kiss'd That love had been so ill to win, I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, And pinn'd it with a silver pin.

And oh! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee, And I mysel' were dead and gane, Wi' the green gra.s.s growin' over me!

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY

HENRY CAREY

Of all the girls that are so smart, There's none like pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

There's ne'er a lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage nets, And through the streets doth cry them; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy them: But sure such folk can have no part In such a girl as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely; My master comes, like any Turk, And bangs me most severely: But let him bang, long as he will, I'll bear it all for Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

Of all the days are in the week, I dearly love but one day, And that's the day that comes betwixt A Sat.u.r.day and Monday; For then I'm dress'd, in all my best, To walk abroad with Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church, And often I am blamed, Because I leave him in the lurch, Soon as the text is named: I leave the church in sermon time, And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again, O then I shall have money; I'll h.o.a.rd it up and, box and all, I'll give unto my honey: I would it were ten thousand pounds, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbours all, Make game of me and Sally, And but for she I'd better be A slave, and row a galley: But when my seven long years are out, O then I'll marry Sally, And then how happily we'll live-- But not in our alley.

THE BRAES OF YARROW

WILLIAM HAMILTON

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?

Where gat ye that winsome marrow?

I gat her where I daurna weel be seen, Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow; Nor let thy heart lament to leive Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?

And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her luver, luver dear, Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; And I hae slain the comliest swain That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid?

Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?

And why yon melancholious weids Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude?

What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!

O 'tis he the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow; And wrap his limbs in mourning weids, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow; And weep around in waeful wise His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow!

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast, His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve?

And warn from fight? but to my sorrow Too rashly bauld a stronger arm Thou mett'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the gra.s.s, Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan; Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin'!

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its gra.s.s, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae its rocks as mellow.

Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve, In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; Tho' he was fair, and weel beluv'd again Than me he never luv'd thee better.

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.