XLVI.
A Scotch Ballad.
Sawny was tall, and of noble race,
He lov'd me better then any eane;
But now he ligs by another lass,
And Sawny wil nere be my love againe.
I gave him fine a Scotch sarke and band,
I put it on with mine owne hand,
I gave him house, and I gave him land,
Yet Sawny wil nere be my love againe.
He lov'd me better then any eane;
But now he ligs by another lass,
And Sawny wil nere be my love againe.
I gave him fine a Scotch sarke and band,
I put it on with mine owne hand,
I gave him house, and I gave him land,
Yet Sawny wil nere be my love againe.
I rob'd the groves of all there store,
And nosegaies made to give Sawny one,
He kist my hand, and faine wou'd do more,
Gud feth methought be was a bonny ean.
He squeesd my fingers, graspt my knee,
And carvd my name on each green tree,
And sigh'd, and languisht to lig by me,
Yet now he wonot be my love agen.
And nosegaies made to give Sawny one,
He kist my hand, and faine wou'd do more,
Gud feth methought be was a bonny ean.
He squeesd my fingers, graspt my knee,
And carvd my name on each green tree,
And sigh'd, and languisht to lig by me,
Yet now he wonot be my love agen.
My bon grace, and my sun-burnt face,
He praisd, as alsoe my russet gowne;
But now he doats on the copper lace,
Of some lewd quean of London towne.
He gangs, and he gives her curds and cream,
Whilst I, poor soule, sits sighing at heam,
I ne'er see Sawny but in a dreame,
For now he will ne'er be my love againe.
He praisd, as alsoe my russet gowne;
But now he doats on the copper lace,
Of some lewd quean of London towne.
He gangs, and he gives her curds and cream,
Whilst I, poor soule, sits sighing at heam,
I ne'er see Sawny but in a dreame,
For now he will ne'er be my love againe.