May Colvin

False Sir John a-wooing cameTo a maid of beauty fair;May Colvin was this lady’s name,Her father’s only heir.

He woo’d her but, he woo’d her ben,He woo’d her in the ha’;Until he got the lady’s consentTo mount and ride awa’.

‘Go fetch me some of your father’s gold,And some of your mother’s fee,And I’ll carry you into the north land,And there I’ll marry thee.’

She’s gane to her father’s coffersWhere all his money lay,And she’s taken the red, and she’s left the white,And so lightly she’s tripp’d away.

She’s gane to her father’s stableWhere all the steeds did stand,And she’s taken the best, and she’s left the warstThat was in her father’s land.

She’s mounted on a milk-white steed,And he on a dapple-grey,And on they rade to a lonesome part,A rock beside the sea.

‘Loup off the steed,’ says false Sir John,‘Your bridal bed you see;Seven ladies I have drownèd here,And the eight’ one you shall be.

‘Cast off, cast off your silks so fineAnd lay them on a stone,For they are too fine and costlyTo rot in the salt sea foam.

‘Cast off, cast off your silken stays,For and your broider’d shoon,For they are too fine and costlyTo rot in the salt sea foam.

‘Cast off, cast off your Holland smockThat’s border’d with the lawn,For it is too fine and costlyTo rot in the salt sea foam.’--

‘O turn about, thou false Sir John,And look to the leaf o’ the tree;For it never became a gentlemanA naked woman to see.’

He turn’d himself straight round aboutTo look to the leaf o’ the tree;She’s twined her arms about his waistAnd thrown him into the sea.

‘O hold a grip o’ me, May Colvín,For fear that I should drown;I’ll take you home to your father’s bowerAnd safe I’ll set you down.’

‘No help, no help, thou false Sir John,No help, no pity thee!For you lie not in a caulder bedThan you thought to lay me.’

She mounted on her milk-white steed,And led the dapple-grey,And she rode till she reach’d her father’s gate,At the breakin’ o’ the day.

Up then spake the pretty parrot,‘May Colvin, where have you been?What has become o’ false Sir JohnThat went with you yestreen?’--

‘O hold your tongue, my pretty parrot!Nor tell no tales o’ me;Your cage shall be made o’ the beaten goldAnd the spokes o’ ivorie.’

Up then spake her father dear,In the bed-chamber where he lay;‘What ails the pretty parrot,That prattles so long ere day?’--

‘There came a cat to my cage, master,I thought ’t would have worried me,And I was calling to May ColvínTo take the cat from me.’