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LADY ANNE BOTHTVELL's LAMENT. 127
Balow, my boy, thy father's fled, When he the thriftless son has played; Of vows and oaths forgetful, he «>
Preferr'd the wars to thee and me. But now, perhaps, thy curse and mine Make him eat acorns with the swine. Balow, my boy, fyc.
But curse not him ; perhaps now he, <b
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 ? 70
Balow, my boy, fyc.
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; n No woman's yet so fiercely set, But she'll forgive, though not forget. Balow, my boy, fyc.
If linen lacks, for my love's sake, Then quickly to him would I make so
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, fyc.