Fayre Robyn he rad owre the brae,
Hys steede he was a wighty browne;
The countrie a’ lay at hys back,
Hys eyen were to the toune.
Bauld Robyn owre the brae did ride,
Nor yet a Horde nor yerle was he,
But mae than ony nobleman
Hys fayreness was to see.
And Robyn rad adoun the brae,
And cam yth High Strete;
A gentil pace hys horse hadde
Whych was baith goode and meete.
The Shyreff’s dauter sate yth wane
And luikt out o’ the window round,
Therebye Robyn rad and sang,
A braw and pleasant sound.
She luikt upon hys goodely forme
He luikt a’ in hir deepe blue yee;
Robyn doft hys bonnet; a rose to hym
She dropit for replye.
Leeve may o meete me bye the yett,
And a’ taegither we will flie.
I’ll meete thee when the nyghte be com,
So ryde again soone bye.
She’s met hym when the nyghte was com,
And a’ taegither they hae fled,
Now gin the Shyreff com, most sure
They maun baith be dead.
The hae na gane a league, a league,
A league nor barely ane,
When Robyn saith now by my bloode
They’re reasin a’ the toon.
They hae na gane anither league,
A league nor barely twa,
When they do heare a not ffar off
Some bernes that them pursue.
The be com unto a great roke;
Ye faith it was baith deepe and wide.
The Shyreff’s bernes byn sonygh
The maun plunge them in the tyde.
They’ve plunged them in the cauld water,
The spait was ful swift bye;
Now byr Ladye, quoth the may,
Methinks we baith maun dee.
They’ve plunged them into the cauld roke;
The hors they rade sank doun.
A’ yth black water then
The baith were neere to droune.
He bare hir firme in hys left arme
And swam a’ wi’ his right:
When the cam to yearth againe
The bernes byn in sight.
The bernes rad the roke along
And saw Robyn’s bonnet on the tide.
Now be the baith to bottom gane,
Ther may the bide!
The Shyreff turned him home again,
Turned back and went awaie,
But Robyn and His Ladye ffayre
Were wed the nextin daye.
Coeur de Femme.
I cannot think that woman love as we
Love them, with soul and body, breath and blood,
And spent soul tortured in the strangling flood
Of passion’s tense oblivious agony;
I cannot think the kiss She gives to me
Thrills her white body as it pulses mine,
Or in Love’s chalice of ambrosial wine
She drowns all things which were or are to be.
We please them with our smile, for they are vain
And Love a flatterer is; they joy to fling
A rose-entwinèd leash about their slave;
Purple and gold they take, and winnowed grain
Of gems from Hesperus’ isle,--all men will bring;
But _Love_--lies bleeding by a woman’s grave!