The book of British ballads . ike the grype, That dead hee downe did fall. GifFe I were a man, as nowe I am none, A battell wolde I prove,To fight with that traitor Aldingar ; Att him I cast my glove. Bot seeing Ime able noe battell to make, My liege, grant mee a knightTo fighte with that traitor Sir Aldingar, To maintaine mee in my righte. Nowe forty dayes I will give thee, To seeke thee a knight therin :If thou finde not a knight in forty dayes Thy bod ye it must brenn. Then shee sent east, and shee sent west, By north and south bedeene ;Bot never a champion colde shee finde, Wolde fighte wi
The book of British ballads . ike the grype, That dead hee downe did fall. GifFe I were a man, as nowe I am none, A battell wolde I prove,To fight with that traitor Aldingar ; Att him I cast my glove. Bot seeing Ime able noe battell to make, My liege, grant mee a knightTo fighte with that traitor Sir Aldingar, To maintaine mee in my righte. Nowe forty dayes I will give thee, To seeke thee a knight therin :If thou finde not a knight in forty dayes Thy bod ye it must brenn. Then shee sent east, and shee sent west, By north and south bedeene ;Bot never a champion colde shee finde, Wolde fighte with that knight soe keene. Nowe twenty dayes were spent and gone,Noe helpe there might bee had : Many a teare shed our comelye queeneAnd aye her hart was sad. Then came one of the Queenes damselles, And knelt upon her knee ;— Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame, I trust yet helpe may bee : And heere I will make mine avowe,And with the same mee binde ; That never will I return to thee,Till I some helpe may finde ! o « 112. Then forthe she rode on a faire palfraye Oer hill and dale about;Bot never a champion colde shee finde, Wolde fighte with that knight so stout. And nowe the daye drewe on apace,When our good queene must dye : All woe-begone was that faire damselle,When shee found no helpe was nye. All woe-begone was that faire damselle,And the salt teares fell from her eye; When lo! as shee rode by a rivers side,Shee mette with a tinye boye. A tinye boye shee mette, God wot, All clad in mantle of golde :Hee seemed noe more in mans likenesse, Then a childe of four yeere old. Why grieve you, damselle faire, hee sayd, And what doth cause you moane 1 The damselle scant wolde deigne a looke,Bot fast shee pricked on. Yet turn againe, thou faire damselle,And greete thy queene from mee : When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest,Nowe helpe enoughe may bee. Bid her remember what shee dreamtIn her bedd, wheras shee lay; How when the grype and the grimlie beastWolde have carryed her cr
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