Whom in heart I loved, From his royal queen Unkindly now is gone;

Upon my bed I lie,

Sick and like to die:

Help me ladies to lament,

For in heart I bear,

He loves a lady dear;

Better can his love content:

Oh, Philip! most unkind,

Bear not fuch a mind,

To leave the daughter of a king:

Gentle prince of Spain,

Come, oh come again,

And sweet content to thee I'll bring.

For thy royal fake,

This my country's danger,

And my fubjects woes,

I daily do procure:

My burning love to flake,

Noble princely stranger,

And the fame to move,

Where it was fettled fure,

Divers in this land,

Against my foes did ftand,

Pawning their lives therefore

And for the fame were flain,

Gentle king of Spain,

Streets ran down with purple gore.

Forty

Forty thousand men,

All in armour then,

This noble kingdom did provide:
T'o marry England's queen,
Before thou fhould'st be seen,

Or I be made thy gallant bride.

But now my great good-will,
I fee is not regarded,
And my favours kind,

Are here forgotten quite :
My good is paid with ill,

And with hatred rewarded,

I unhappy queen,

Left here in woful plight, On our English shore,

Never fhall I more

Thy comely perfonage behold;

For upon the throne,

Gloriously he fhone,

In purple robes of gold.

Oh my heart is flain,

Sorrow, care and pain,

Dwell within my fobbing breast:

Death approacheth near me,

Because thou wilt not cheer me,

Thou gallant king of all the west.

Thofe jewels and those rings,

And that golden treafure, First to win my love,

Thou broughteft out of Spain; Now unto me brings

No delight, no pleasure,

But a forrowful tear,

Which ever will remain :

Thy picture when I fee,

· Much amazeth me,

Caufeth tears a-main to flow, The fubftance being gone, Pleasures I have none,

But lamenting fighs of woe;

The chair of state adorn'd,

Seems as if it mourn'd,

Binding up mine eyes with weeping,

And when that I am led

Unto my marriage-bed,

Sorrow keeps me ftill from fleeping,

Come you ladies kind,

Bring my gown, of fable,

For I now muft mourn,
The abfence of my lord.

You fee my love-fick mind,

Is no longer able,

To endure the fting

Of Cupid's pricking fword:

My

My dying heart doth reft,

In Philip's princely breast,

My bofom keeps no heart at all: But ever will abide,

In fecret by his fide,

And follow him through bower and hall. Though I live disdained,

Ring out my dying knell,

Ladies fo renowned,

For your queen must die,
And all her pomp forfake:
England now farewell,

For the fates have frowned,
And now ready stand,

My breathing life to take: Confume with speed to air, Fading ghoft prepare

With my milk-white wings to fly;

Where fitting on the throne,

Let my love be shown,

That for his fake is forc'd to die.

Be for ever bleffed,

Tho' I die diftreffed,

Gallant king of high renown.
The queen now broken-hearted,
From this world's departed,

In the heavens to wear a crown.

XIV.

The battle of Corichie on the Hill of Fair, fought Oct. 28, 1562.

This ballad, which is very ancient, has been but lately printed in Scotland. It is faid to have been the production of one Forbes, a Schoolmaster, at Mary Culter, upon Diefide.

URN ye heighlands, and murn ye leighlands,
I trow ye
hae meikle need;

MUR

For thi bonny burn o' Corichie,
His run this day wi' bleid,

Thi hopefu' laird o' Finliter,
Erle Huntly's gallant fon,

For thi love hi bare our beauteous quine

His gar't fair Scotland mone..