A Lamentable Ballad, or the Tragical end of
WILLIAM and MARGARET.
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WHEN all was wrap'd in dark midnight.
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And all were fast asleep;
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In came Margaret's Ghost,
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And stood at Williams Feet.
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Her face was like the April morn,
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Clad in a wintry cloud;
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And Clay-cold was her lilly hand,
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That held her sable shroud.
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So shall the fairest Face appear,
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When youth and years are flown;
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Such is the Robes that Kings must wear,
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When death has rest their Crown.
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Her bloom was like the springing Flower,
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That sips the silver dew;
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The Rose was budded in her Cheeks,
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And opening to the view.
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But love had like the Canker-worm,
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Consum'd her early prime:
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They grew pale and left her cheeks,
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She dy'd before her time.
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Awake, she cry'd, thy true love calls,
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Come from her midnight grave:
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Now let thy pity hear the maid,
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Thy love refus'd to save.
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This is the dark and fearful hour,
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When Injur'd ghosts complain;
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Now dreary graves give up their dead,
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To haunt the faithless swain.
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Bethink thee, William of thy fault,
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Thy pledge, and broken oath;
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And give me back my maiden Vow,
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And give me back my troth.
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How could you say my face was fair,
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And yet that face forsake?
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How could you win my Virgin heart,
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Yet leave that Heart to break?
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How could you promise love to me,
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And not that promise keep?
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Why did you swear my eyes were bright,
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Yet leave those eyes to weep.
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How could you say my lips were red,
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And make the scarlet dale?
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And why did I, young witless maid,
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Believe thy flattering tale?
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That face, alass, no more is fair;
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These lips no longer red;
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Dark are my eyes now clos'd in death,
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And every charm is fled.
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The hungry worm my sister is,
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This winding sheet I wear;
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And cold and weary lasts our night,
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that last morn appear.
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But, hark! the cock has warn'd me hence,
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A long and last adieu:
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Come see, false man, how low she lies,
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That dy'd for love of you.
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Now birds did sing, and morning smil'd,
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And shew'd her glistening head;
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Pale William shook in every limb,
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Then raving left his bed.
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He hy'd him to the fatal place,
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Where Margaret's body lay,
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And stretch'd himself on the green grass turf
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That wrapt her breathless clay.
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And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,
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And thrice he wept full sore;
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Then laid his cheek to the cold earth,
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And words spoke never more.
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