The book of British ballads . would rest, Nor his meate should do him no goode, Until he had slain thee, Child of Elle,And seene thy deare hearts bloode. O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And a little space him fro,I would not care for thy cruel father, Nor the worst that he could doe. 0 ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And once without this walle, 1 would not care for thy cruel father, Nor the worst that might befalle. Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe:At length he seized her lilly-white hand, And downe the ladder he drewe : And thrice he clasped
The book of British ballads . would rest, Nor his meate should do him no goode, Until he had slain thee, Child of Elle,And seene thy deare hearts bloode. O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And a little space him fro,I would not care for thy cruel father, Nor the worst that he could doe. 0 ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And once without this walle, 1 would not care for thy cruel father, Nor the worst that might befalle. Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe:At length he seized her lilly-white hand, And downe the ladder he drewe : And thrice he clasped her to his breste, And kist her tenderlie :The teares that fell from her fair eyes Ranne like the fountayne free. Hee mounted himselfe on his stede so talle, And her on a fair palfraye,And slung his bugle about his necke, And roundlye they rode awaye. All this beheard her owne damselle, In her bed whereas shee ley,Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this, Soe I shall have golde and fee. Franklin, del. Williams,so. 62 mt of Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! Awake, my noble dame !Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle To doe the deede of shame. The baron he woke, the baron he rose,And called his merrye men all: And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte,Thy ladye is carried to thrall. Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile A mile forth of the towne,When she was aware of her fathers men Come galloping over the downe : And formost came the carlish knighte,Sir John of the north countraye: Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitdure,Nor carry that ladye awaye. For she is come of hye lineage, And was of a ladye born,And ill it beseems thee—a false churls sonne To carry her hence to scorne. Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knighte, Nowe thou doest lye of mee;A knighte me bred, and a ladye me bore, Soe never did none by thee. But light nowe downe, my ladye faire,Light downe, and hold my steed ; While I and this discourteous knighteDoe try this arduous deede. But light nowe d
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