The Bonny Bryer,
OR
A Lancashire Lasse, her sore lamentation,
For the death of her Love, and her owne reputation.
To the tune of the Bonny Broome.
|
ONe morning early by the breake of day,
|
walking to Totnam-Court
|
Upon the left hand of the high way,
|
I heard a sad report;
|
I made a stay, and lookd about me then,
|
wondring from whence it was,
|
At last I spyed within my ken
|
a blyth and buxome Lasse.
|
Sing O the Bryer, the bony bony Bryer,
|
the Bryer that is so sweet:
|
Would I had stayd in Lancashire,
|
to milke my mothers Neate.
|
I drew more neare and layd me all along,
|
upon the grasse so greene,
|
Where I might heare her dulcid tongue,
|
yet I was from her unseene:
|
Woes me (quoth shee) that ever I was borne
|
to come to London Citty,
|
For now, alas, I am made a scorne
|
and none my woes will pitty.
|
But O the Bryer, etc.
|
Mine Eame and Aunt have often said at home
|
that London is a place,
|
Where Lasses may to preferment come,
|
within a little space:
|
This I finde true though they meant other-wise,
|
which makes me thus lament,
|
My belly doth to preferment rise,
|
as if some Barne were int..
|
With O the Bryer, the bony bony Bryer,
|
the Bryer that is so sweet:
|
Would I had stayd in Lancashire,
|
to milke my mothers Neate.
|
These words did my desire inflame,
|
at home I could not bide
|
But up to London in hast I came,
|
I may bewaile the Tide,
|
A now I wishd that I at home had stayd,
|
and not preferment sought,
|
Im neither Widdow, Wife, nor Mayde
|
then what may I be thought.
|
With O the Bryet, the bony bony Bryer,
|
the Bryer that is so sweet,
|
Would I had stayd in Lancashire
|
to milke my mothers Neate.
|
I had in London tarryed but a yeare,
|
yet in that tinie while,
|
I fell in love with a bonny Bryer,
|
the sweetest in a mile:
|
He mickle good-will did beare unto me,
|
I thinke he did not faine,
|
For by a craven lately he,
|
was in my quarrell slaine.
|
Sing O the Bryer, etc.
|
Before that deare and most unhappy day,
|
hee with my free consent,
|
Had tane, alas my mayden-head away,
|
and to wed me in hast hee meant:
|
But my great belly seemeth me to twit,
|
with my too wanton carriage,
|
To lose that Jem I wanted wit,
|
before my day of marriage.
|
But O the Bryer, the bonny bonny Bryer,
|
the Bryer that is so sweet:
|
Would I had stayd in Lancashire,
|
to milke my mothers Neate.
|
|
|
|
|
The second Part To the same tune.
|
BUt just foure dayes before the pointed time
|
that should have made me a wife,
|
Sweet Willy-Bryer was slaine in his prime
|
being stabd to the heart with a knife:
|
But had it beene with Staffe or Sword,
|
all in the open field,
|
The Rascall would have eate his word,
|
that thus my deare hath kild.
|
With O the Bryer, the bonny bonny Bryer,
|
the Bryer that is so sweet:
|
Would I had stayd in Lancashire,
|
to milke my mothers Neat.
|
Woe worth the wretch wherever hee be fled,
|
would I revengd could be,
|
Lost is my Love and my Maiden-head,
|
what shall become of me:
|
Might I but see him hanging by the crag,
|
that causeth all this woe.
|
Twould something mitigate the plague,
|
which I must undergoe.
|
But O the Bryer, etc.
|
What shall I doe, my shame I cannot hide,
|
my belly will be knowne
|
And all my friends and kin will me chide,
|
for giving away mine owne:
|
To London Citty will I goe no more,
|
where I have dwelt a yeere,
|
Yet if I knew how to salve my sore,
|
id goe home to Lancashire.
|
But O the Bryer, etc.
|
I hearing her last speeches that she spoke,
|
rose and to her I stept,
|
More pitty did my heart provoke,
|
to see how sore she wept:
|
Faire lasse, quoth I, goe home unto your friends
|
that is your safest way,
|
Great misery all such attends,
|
that in your case heere stay.
|
With O the Bryer, the bonny bonny Bryer.
|
the Bryer that is so sweet,
|
Goe get thee home into Lancashire,
|
and milke thy mothers Neat.
|
She blushing said, Sir I thanke you heartily,
|
for this your counsell kinde
|
But in this field I had rather die
|
with could and hunger pinde:
|
Then to my Kin be made a jest,
|
for going thus astray,
|
Sweet-heart quoth I, set your heart at rest,
|
and list what I shall say.
|
With O the Bryer, etc.
|
Goe home unto your friends faire Lasse,
|
tell them that your good man:
|
Ith the Swedish warres late killed was,
|
none there disprove you can:
|
This is the way which commonly is done
|
and when that you are layd,
|
Youl soone be matchd with a Yeomans son,
|
and an honest wife be made.
|
With O the Bryer, etc.
|
She promised me my counsell to imbrace,
|
and seemed in minde content:
|
She wipt the teares quite from her face,
|
and to Totnam Court she went?
|
On her some Cakes and Ale, I did bestow,
|
then she no longer tarried,
|
But home to Lancashire she did goe,
|
where since I heare shees married.
|
With O the Bryer, the bonny bonny Bryer,
|
the Bryer that is so sweet:
|
Now is the Lasse in Lancashire,
|
and milkes her mothers Neate.
|
|
|
|
|