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And sore those wars my minde distresse; Where many a widow lost her mate,

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And many a child was fatherlesse.

And now that I a banisht man,

Shold bring such evil happe with mee,

To cause my faire and noble friends
To be suspect of treacherie :

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This rives my heart with double woe;
And lever had I dye this day,

Than thinke a Douglas can be false,
Or ever he will his guest betray.

If you'll give me no trust, my lord,

Nor unto mee no credence yield;

Yet step one moment here aside,

Ile showe you all your foes in field.

Lady, I never loved witchcraft,

Never dealt in privy wyle;

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But evermore held the high-waye

Of truth and honours, free from guile.

If you'll not come yourselfe, my lorde,

Yet send your chamberlaine with mee; Let me but speak three words with him,

And he shall come again to thee.

James Swynard with that lady went,

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She showed him through the weme of her ring How many English lords there were

Waiting for his master and him.

And who walkes yonder, my good lady,

*

So royallyè on yonder greene?
O yonder is the lord Hunsdèn:
Alas! he'll doe you drie and teene.

And who beth yonder, thou gay ladye,
That walkes so proudly him beside?
That is Sir William Drury,† shee sayd,
A keen captàine he is and tryde.

How many miles is itt, madàme,

Betwixt yond English lords and mee?

Marry it is thrice fifty miles,

To saile to them upon

the sea.

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I never was on English ground,

Ne never sawe it with mine eye, But as my book it sheweth mee,

And through my ring I may descrye.

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My mother shee was a witch ladye,
And of her skille she learned mee;
She wold let me see out of Lough-leven

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What they did in London citìe.

But who is yond, thou lady faire,

That looketh with sic an austerne face? Yonder is Sir John Foster,* quoth shee,

Alas! he'll do ye sore disgrace.

He pulled his hatt down over his browe,
He wept; in his heart he was full of woe;
And he is gone to his noble Lord,

Those sorrowful tidings him to show.

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Now nay, now nay, good James Swynàrd,
I may not believe that witch ladìe:

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The Douglasses were ever true,

And they can ne'er prove false to mee.

I have now in Lough-leven been

The most part of these years three,

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Warden of the middle March.

Yett have I never had noe outrake,

Ne no good games that I cold see.

Therefore I'll to yond shooting wend,
As to the Douglas I have hight:
Betide me weale, betide me woe,

He ne'er shall find my promise light.

He writhe a gold ring from his finger,
And gave itt to that gay ladìe:

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Sayes, It was all that I cold save,

In Harley woods where I cold bee.*

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And wilt thou goe, thou noble lord,
Then farewell truth and honestìe;
And farewell heart and farewell hand;
For never more I shall thee see.

The wind was faire, the boatmen call'd,
And all the saylors were on borde;

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Then William Douglas took to his boat,
And with him went that noble lord.

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Now let us goe back, Douglas, he sayd,

A sickness hath taken yond faire ladìe :

If ought befall yond lady but good,
Then blamed for ever I shall bee.

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Come on, come on, my lord, he sayes;
Come on, come on, and let her bee:
There's ladyes enow in Lough-leven

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If you'll not turne yourself, my lord,
Let me goe with my chamberlaine;
We will but comfort that faire lady,

And wee will return to you againe.

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Come on, come on, my lord, he sayes,
Come on, come on, and let her bee:
My sister is craftye, and wold beguile

A thousand such as you and mee.

When they had sayled * fifty myle,

Now fifty mile upon the sea;
Hee sent his man to ask the Douglas,

When they shold that shooting see.

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Faire words, quoth he, they make fooles faine,
And that by thee and thy lord is seen:

* There is no navigable stream between Lough-leven and the sea but a ballad-maker is not obliged to understand geography.

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