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Poem by Anonymous
O, WALY, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn-side, Where I and my love wont to gae. I leaned my back unto an aik, And thought it was a trusty tree, But first it bowed, and syne it brak’, Sae my true-love did lightly me. O, waly, waly, but love is bonny, A little time while it is new, But when ’t is auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades away like morning dew. O, wherefore should I busk my head? Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true-love has me forsook, And says he ’ll never love me mair. Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne’er be filed by me, Saint Anton’s well shall 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 weary. ’T is not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blowing snows inclemency; ’T is not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love’s heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; My love was clad in the black velvet, And 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 of gold, And pinned it with a silver pin. And, O, if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse’s knee, And I mysel’ were dead and gane, Wi’ the green grass growing over me!
Poem Theme: Edinburgh
Anonymous's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org