O waly, waly, but love be bonnie
  A little time while it is new! 
But when it’s auld it waxeth cauld,
  And fadeth awa’ like the morning dew. 
O wherefore should I busk my heid. 
  Or wherefore should I kame my hair? 
For my true love has me forsook,
  And says he’ll never lo’e me mair.

Noo Arthur’s Seat sall be my bed,
  The sheets sall ne’er be pressed by me;
Saint Anton’s well sall be my drink;
  Since my true love’s 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 am wearie.

’Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
  Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie,
’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry;
  But my love’s heart grown cauld to me. 
When we cam’ in by Glasgow toun,
  We were a comely sicht to see;
My love was clad in the black velvet,
  An’ I mysel’ in cramasie.

But had I wist before I kissed
  That love had been so ill to win,
I ‘d locked my heart in a case o’ goud,
  And pinn’d it wi’ a siller pin. 
Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,
  And set upon the nurse’s knee;
And I mysel’ were dead and gane,
  And the green grass growing over me!

ANONYMOUS.

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 mither’s 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, etc.

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,
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, etc.

I cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil: 
Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde,
My luve with him maun stil abyde: 
In weil or wae, whaireir he gae,
Mine hart can neir depart him frae.
    Balow, etc.

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, etc.

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 forgeit man’s cruelty.
    Balow, etc.