Oh, I will mount thy palfrey white, and ride to kirk with thee, And, by those little dewy eyes, we twain will wedded be!" Back we galloped, never stopping, he before and I behind, And the autumn leaves were dropping, red and yellow, in the wind; And the sun was shining clearer, and my heart was high and proud, As nearer, nearer, nearer, rang the kirk bells sweet and loud, And we saw the kirk before us, as we trotted down the fells, And nearer, clearer, o'er us, rang the welcome of the bells. Ring, sing! ring, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells! Chime, rime! chime, rime! through dales and dells! ROBERT BUCHANAN. SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST THERE came a ghost to Margaret's door, "Is that my father Philip, Or is't my brother John? Or is't my true love Willy, ""Tis not thy father Philip, Nor yet thy brother John; But 'tis thy true love Willy, From Scotland new come home. O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret, Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, "Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, Nor yet wilt thou me win, Till that thou come within my bower And kiss my cheek and chin." "If I should come within thy bower, And should I kiss thy rosy lips O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret, Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, "Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, Nor yet wilt thou me win, Till you take me to yon kirkyard, And wed me with a ring." "My bones are buried in yon kirkyard Afar beyond the sea, And it is but my spirit, Margaret, That's now speaking to thee." She stretched out her lily-white hand, And for to do her best: "Have there your faith and troth, Willy, God send your soul good rest." Now she has kilted her robes of green A piece below her knee; And all the live-long winter night "Is there any room at your head, Willy, Or any room at your side, Willy, "There's no room at my head, Margaret, There's no room at my side, Margaret, Then up and crew the red cock, And up then crew the gray; "Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margaret, That you were going away." OLD BALLAD. THE BOLD PEDDLER AND ROBIN HOOD THERE chanced to be a peddler bold, A peddler bold he chanced to be; By chance he met two troublesome blades, "O peddler, peddler, what's in thy pack? And silken bowstrings two or three." "If you have several suits of gay green silk, Then it's by my body," cries Little John, E |