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5
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.
