THE wanton troopers, riding by, Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men! they cannot thrive Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive
Them any harm, alas! nor could Thy death yet do, them any good. I'm sure I never wished them ill; Nor do I for all this, nor will: But, if my simple prayers may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears, Rather than fail. But, O my fears! It cannot die so. Heaven's King Keeps register of every thing,
And nothing may we use in vain; Even beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands. Though they should wash their guilty hands
In this warm life-blood which doth
From thine, and wound me to the
Yet could they not be clean, their
Is dyed in such a purple grain. There is not such another in The world, to offer for their sin.
It is a wondrous thing how fleet 'Twas on those little silver feet; With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race; And, when it had left me far away, 'Twould stay and run again and stay;
For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness, And all the spring time of the year It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie,
Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For, in the flaxen lilies' shade, It like a bank of lilies laid. Upon the roses it would feed, Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed, And then to me 'twould boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill,
I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been,
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands, And never ending care.
But as for thee, thou false woman, My sister and my fae,
Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword
That through thy soul shall gae: The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee;
Nor the balm that draps on wounds of woe
Frae woman's pitying e'e.
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