Wit Reſtor’d.
177
Me-thinks I hear the Threſel-cock,
Me-thinks I hear the Jaye,
Me-thinks I hear my Lord Barnard,
And I would I were away.
Me-thinks I hear the Jaye,
Me-thinks I hear my Lord Barnard,
And I would I were away.
Lye ſtill, lye ſtill, thou little Muſgrave
And huggell me from the cold,
Tis nothing but a ſhephards boy,
A driving his ſheep to the fold.
And huggell me from the cold,
Tis nothing but a ſhephards boy,
A driving his ſheep to the fold.
Is not thy hawke upon a perch?
Thy ſteed eats oats and hay;
And thou fair Lady in thine armes,
And wouldſt thou bee away?
Thy ſteed eats oats and hay;
And thou fair Lady in thine armes,
And wouldſt thou bee away?
With that my lord Barnard came to the dore
And lit a ſtone upon
He plucked out three ſilver keys,
And he open’d the dores each one.
And lit a ſtone upon
He plucked out three ſilver keys,
And he open’d the dores each one.
He lifted up the coverlett,
He lifted up the ſheet,
How now, how now, thou littell Muſgrave
Doeſt thou find my lady ſweet?
He lifted up the ſheet,
How now, how now, thou littell Muſgrave
Doeſt thou find my lady ſweet?
I find her ſweet, quoth little Muſgrave
The more ’tis to my paine,
I would gladly give three hundred pounds
That I were on yonder plaine.
The more ’tis to my paine,
I would gladly give three hundred pounds
That I were on yonder plaine.
O
Ariſe
