thenche[61]
  So gay a popelot[62] or swiche[63] a wenche. 
  Ful brighter was the shining of hire hewe
  Than in the tour, the noble yforged newe. 
  But of hire song, it was as loud and yerne[64]
  As any swalow sitting on a berne. 
  Thereto she coude skip and make a game
  As any kid or calf folowing his dame. 
  Hire mouth was swete as braket[65] or the meth,[66]
  Or horde of apples laid in hay or heth. 
  Winsing[67] she was, as is a jolly colt,
  Long as a mast, and upright as a bolt. 
  A broche she bare upon hire low colere. 
  As brode as is the bosse of a bokelere.[68]
  Hire shoon were laced on hire legges hie;
  She was a primerole,[69] a piggesnie,[70]
  For any lord, to liggen[71] in his bedde,
  Or yet for any good yeman[72] to wedde.

[Footnote 48:  Trim and slim.] [Footnote 49:  Girdle.] [Footnote 50:  Apron.] [Footnote 51:  Morning’s milk.] [Footnote 52:  Loins.] [Footnote 53:  Embroidered.] [Footnote 54:  Collar.] [Footnote 55:  Cap.] [Footnote 56:  Surely.] [Footnote 57:  Wanton.] [Footnote 58:  Trimmed fine.] [Footnote 59:  Young pear.] [Footnote 60:  Ornamented with pearl-shaped beads of a metal resembling
   brass.]
[Footnote 61:  Think.] [Footnote 62:  Puppet.] [Footnote 63:  Such.] [Footnote 64:  Brisk.] [Footnote 65:  A sweet drink of ale, honey, and spice.] [Footnote 66:  Mead.] [Footnote 67:  Skittish.] [Footnote 68:  Buckler.] [Footnote 69:  Primrose.] [Footnote 70:  Pansy.] [Footnote 71:  Lie.] [Footnote 72:  Yeoman.]

* * * * *

ANONYMOUS BALLADS OF THE SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES.

WALY, WALY BUT LOVE BE BONNY.

  O waly,[73] waly up the bank,
    And waly, waly down the brae,[74]
  And waly, waly yon burn[75] side,
    Where I and my love wont to gae.

  I lean’d my back unto an aik,[76]
    I thought it was a trusty tree;
  But first it bow’d and syne[77] it brak,
    Sae my true love did lightly me.

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

  O wherefore should I busk[78] my head? 
    Or wherefore should I kame[79] 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 fyl’d by me;
  Saint Anton’s well[80] shall be my drink,
    Sinn my true love has forsaken me.

  Martinmas’ wind, when wilt thou blaw
    And shake the green leaves off the tree? 
  O gentle death, when wilt thou come? 
    For of my life I’m aweary.

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