The Oxford Book of Ballads - online book

A Selection Of The Best English Lyric Ballads Chosen & Edited by Arthur Quiller-Couch

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' An' the mstin kirk that ye come till,
Ye gar the bells be rung, An' the nextin kirk that ye come till,
Ye gar the mass be sung.
' An' the thirdin kirk that ye come till,
You deal gold for my sake, An' the fourthin kirk that ye come till.
You tarry there till night.'
She is doen her to her bigly bow'r,
As fast as she could fare, An' she has tane a sleepy draught,
That she had mixt wi' care.
She's laid her down upon her bed,
An' soon she's fa'n asleep, And soon o'er every tender limb
Cauld death began to creep.
Whan night was flown, an' day was come,
Nae ane that did her see But thought she was as surely dead
As ony lady cou'd be.
Her father an' her brothers dear
Gar'd make to her a bier; The tae half was o' guid red gold,
The tither o' silver clear.
bigly] commodious.
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