LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;
If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire:
But now I see, most cruell hee
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.
Balow, &c.

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe a while,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile:
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids; nay, God forbid!
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

Balow, &c.

I cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil:
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
My love with him maun stil abyde:
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neir depart him frae.
Balow, &c.

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, To faynings fals thine hart incline: Be loyal to thy luver trew, And nevir change hir for a new: If gude or faire, of hir have care, For womens banning's wonderous sair. Balow, &c. Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine; My babe and I'll together live, He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve: My babe and I right saft will ly, And quite forget man's cruelty. Balow, &c. Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, That ever kist a woman's mouth! I wish all maids be warn'd by mee, Nevir to trust man's curtesy; For if we doe bot chance to bow, They'lle use us than they care not how. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipel It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.