g widow; but the song belies any
such origin. It has the marks of tradition:--

My love has built a bonny ship, and set her on the sea,
With sevenscore good mariners to bear her company;
There's threescore is sunk, and threescore dead at sea,
And the Lowlands of Holland has twin'd[33] my love and me.

My love he built another ship, and set her on the main,
And nane but twenty mariners for to bring her hame,
But the weary wind began to rise, and the sea began to rout;
My love then and his bonny ship turned withershins[34] about.

There shall neither coif come on my head nor comb come in my hair;
There shall neither coal nor candle-light come in my bower mair;
Nor will I love another one until the day I die,
For I never loved a love but one, and he's drowned in the sea.

"O haud your tongue, my daughter dear, be still and be content;
There are mair lads in Galloway, ye neen nae sair lament."
O there is none in Gallow, there's none at a' for me;
For I never loved a love but one, and he's drowned in the sea.

[32] Quoted by Child, 'Ballads,' iv. 318.

[33] Separated, divided.

[34] An equivalent to upside down, "in the wrong direction."

The French song[35] has a more tender note:--

Low, low he lies who holds my heart,
The sea is rolling fair above;
Go, little bird, and tell him this,--
Go, little bird, and fear no harm,--
Say I am still his faithful love,
Say that to him I stretch my arms.

[35] See Tiersot, 'La Chanson Populaire,' p. 103, with the
music. The final verses, simple as they are, are not rendered
even remotely well. They run:--

Que je suis sa fidele amie,
Et que vers lui je tends les bras.

Another song, widely scattered in varying versions throughout France,
is of the forsaken and too trustful maid,--'En revenant des Noces.'
The narrative in this, as in the Scottish song, makes it approach the
ballad.

Back from the wedding-feast,
All weary by the way,

I rested by a fount
And watched the waters' play;

And at the fount I bathed,
So clear the waters' play;

And with a leaf of oak
I wiped the drops away.

Upon the highest branch
Loud sang the nightingale.

Sing, nightingale, oh sing,
Thou hast a heart so gay!

Not gay, this heart of mine:
My love has gone away,

Because I gave my rose
Too soon, too soon away.

Ah, would to God that rose
Yet on the ros