William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.
Clerk SaundersAnonymous
C
Walk’d owre yon garden green;
And sad and heavy was the love
That fell thir twa between.
‘A bed for you and me!’
‘Fye na, fye na,’ said may Margaret,
‘Till anes we married be!’
Wi’ torches burning bright;
They’ll say,—‘We hae but ae sister,
And behold she’s wi’ a knight!’
And slowly lift the pin;
And you may swear, and save your aith,
Ye ne’er let Clerk Saunders in.
And tie up baith your bonnie e’en,
And you may swear, and save your aith,
Ye saw me na since late yestreen.’
When they asleep were laid,
When in and came her seven brothers,
Wi’ torches burning red.
Wi’ torches burning bright:
They said, ‘We hae but ae sister,
And behold her lying with a knight!’
‘I bear the sword shall gar him die,’
And out and spake the second o’ them,
‘His father has nae mair but he.’
‘I wot that they are lovers dear.’
And out and spake the fourth o’ them,
‘They hae been in love this mony a year.’
‘It were great sin true love to twain.’
And out and spake the sixth o’ them,
‘It were shame to slay a sleeping man.’
And never a word spake he;
But he has striped his bright brown brand
Out through Clerk Saunders’ fair bodye.
Into his arms as asleep she lay;
And sad and silent was the night
That was atween thir twae.
Albeit the sun began to sheen;
She look’d atween her and the wa
And dull and drowsie were his e’en.
Said, ‘Let a’ your mourning be;
I’ll carry the dead corpse to the clay,
And I’ll come back and comfort thee.’
For comforted I will never be:
I ween ’twas neither knave nor loon
Was in the bower last night wi’ me.’
To carry the dead corse to the clay;
And Clerk Saunders stood at may Marg’ret’s window,
I wot, an hour before the day.
‘Or are ye walking presentlie?
Give me my faith and troth again,
I wot, true love, I gied to thee.’
Nor our true love sall never twin,
Until ye come within my bower,
And kiss me cheik and chin.’
It has the smell, now, of the ground;
And if I kiss thy comely mouth,
Thy days of life will not be lang.
I wot the wild fowls are boding day;
Give me my faith and troth again,
And let me fare me on my way.’
And our true love sall never twin,
Until ye tell what comes o’ women,
I wot, who die in strong traivelling?’
Down at the foot of our good Lord’s knee,
Weel set about wi’ gillyflowers;
I wot, sweet company for to see.
I wot the wild fowls are boding day;
The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,
And I, ere now, will be miss’d away.’
And she has stroken her troth thereon;
She has given it him out at the shot-window,
Wi’ mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.
And ay I thank ye heartilie;
Gin ever the dead come for the quick,
Be sure, Marg’ret, I’ll come for thee.’
She climb’d the wall, and follow’d him,
Until she came to the green forest,
And there she lost the sight o’ him.
Is there ony room at your feet?
Or ony room at your side, Saunders,
Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?’
There’s nae room at my feet;
My bed it is fu’ lowly now,
Amang the hungry worms I sleep.
But and my winding-sheet;
The dew it falls nae sooner down
Than my resting-place is weet.
And lay it on my breast;
And shed a tear upon my grave,
And wish my saul gude rest.
And Marg’ret, o’ veritie,
Gin ere ye love another man,
Ne’er love him as ye did me.’
And up and crew the gray;
Her lover vanish’d in the air,
And she gaed weeping away.