A Lamentable Ballad of the Little Musgrove, and the Lady Barnet.
To an Excellent New Tune.
|
AS it fell out on a Holly-day,
|
as many more be in the Year,
|
Little Musgrove would to the Church & pray,
|
to see the fair Ladies there:
|
Gallants there were of good degree,
|
for beauty exceeding fair,
|
Most wondrous lovely to the eye,
|
which did to the Church repair.
|
Some came down in red velvet,
|
and some came down in Pale:
|
The next came down the Lady Barnet,
|
the fairest among them all:
|
She cast a look on Little Musgrove,
|
as bright as the Summers Sun,
|
Full well then perceived Little Musgrove,
|
Lady Barnets Love he had won.
|
The Lady Barnet meek and mild,
|
saluted this little Musgrove,
|
Who did repay her kind courtesie,
|
with favour and gentle love:
|
I have a Bower in merry Barnet,
|
bestrewed with Couslips sweet,
|
If that you please Little Musgrove,
|
in Love me there to meet.
|
Within mine arms one night to sleep,
|
for you my love have won,
|
You need not fear my suspitious Lord,
|
for he from home is gone;
|
Betide me life, betide me death,
|
this night I will lye with thee,
|
And for thy sake Ile hazard my breath,
|
so dear is my love to thee.
|
What shall we do with our little Foot-page,
|
our counsel for to keep,
|
And watch for fear Lord Barnet come,
|
while we together sleep?
|
Red Gold shall be his hire, quoth he,
|
and silver shall be his Fee;
|
So he our counsel safely keep,
|
that I may sleep with thee.
|
I will have none of your Gold, he said,
|
nor none of your silver fee,
|
If I should keep your counsel Sir,
|
twere great disloyalty.
|
I will not be false unto my Lord,
|
for house nor yet for Land,
|
But if my Lady prove untrue,
|
Lord Barnet shall understand.
|
Then swiftly ran this little Foot-page,
|
unto his Lord with speed,
|
Who then was feasting with his own friends
|
not dreaming of this ill deed:
|
Most speedily the Page did hast,
|
most swiftly he did run,
|
And when he came to the broken bridge,
|
he bent his breast and swum.
|
The Page did make no stay at all,
|
but went to the Lord with speed,
|
That he the truth may say to him,
|
concerning this wicked deed:
|
He found his Lord at Supper then,
|
great merriment they did make,
|
My Lord, quoth he, this night upon my word,
|
Musgrove with your Lady doth sleep.
|
IF this be true my little Foot-Page,
|
and true that thou tellest to me,
|
My eldest Daughter ile give thee,
|
and wedded thou shalt be:
|
If this be a lye my little Foot-Page,
|
and a lye thou tellest to me,
|
A new pair of Gallows shall be set up,
|
and hanged thou shalt be.
|
If this be a lye my Lord (said he)
|
and a lye that thou hearest of me,
|
Never stay a pair of Gallows to make,
|
but hang me on the next tree.
|
Lord Barnet calld his merry men all,
|
away with speed he would go,
|
His heart was so perplexd with grief,
|
the truth of this he must know.
|
Saddle your horses with speed, he said,
|
and saddle me my white Steed;
|
If this be true as the Page hath said,
|
Musgrove shall repent this deed:
|
He charged his men to make no noise,
|
as they rode along the way,
|
Nor wind no horn (quoth he) on your Life,
|
lest our coming it should betray.
|
But one of them that Musgrove did love,
|
and respected his friendship most dear,
|
To give him notice Lord Barnet was come,
|
did wind the Bugle most clear:
|
And evermore as he did sound,
|
away Musgrove and away,
|
For if he take thee with my Lady,
|
then slain thou shalt be this day.
|
O hark fair Lady, your Lord is near,
|
I hear his little horn blow,
|
And if he find me in your arms thus,
|
then slain I shall be I know.
|
O lye still, lye still little Musgrove,
|
and keep my back from the cold,
|
I know it is my fathers Shepherd,
|
driving Sheep unto the Pinfold.
|
Musgrove did turn him round about,
|
sweet slumber his eyes did greet,
|
When he did awake, he then did espy,
|
Lord Barnet at the beds feet.
|
O rise up, rise up little Musgrove,
|
and put thy cloathing on,
|
It never shall be said in England fair,
|
that I slew a naked man.
|
Heres two good swords, Lord Barnet said,
|
the choice Musgrove shall make,
|
The best of them thy self shall have,
|
and I the worst will take;
|
The first blow Musgrove did strike,
|
he wounded Lord Barnet sore,
|
The second blow Lord Barnet gave,
|
Musgrove could strike no more.
|
He took his Lady by the white hand,
|
all love to rage convert,
|
And with his sword in most furious wise,
|
he piercd her tender heart:
|
A Grave, a Grave, Lord Barnet cryd,
|
prepare to lay us in,
|
My Lady shall lye on the upper side,
|
cause she is the better Skin.
|
Then suddenly he slew himself,
|
which grievd his friends full sore,
|
The death of these worthy wights,
|
with tears they did deplore.
|
This sad mischief by lust was wrought,
|
then let us call for grace,
|
That we may shun this wicked vice,
|
and flye from sin apace.
|
|
|
|
|
|