The English and Scottish Popular Ballads/Part 4/Chapter 111

Crow and Pie

a forest as I can ryde, To take my sporte yn an mornyng, I cast my eye on euery syde, I was ware of a bryde syngynge. I sawe a faire mayde come rydyng; I speake to hur of loue, I trowe; She answered me all yn scornyng, And sayd, The crowe shall byte yow. 'I pray yow, damesell, scorne me nott; To wyn your loue ytt ys my wyll; For your loue I haue dere bought, And I wyll take good hede thertyll.' 'Nay, for God, ser, that I nyll; I tell the, Jenken, as I trowe, Thou shalt nott fynde me suche a gyll; Therfore the crowe shall byte yow.' He toke then owt a good golde ryng, A purse of velweytt, that was soo fyne: 'Haue ye thys, my dere swetyng, With that ye wylbe lemman myn.' 'Be Cryst, I dare nott, for my dame, To dele with hym that I doo nott knowe; For soo I myght dyspyse my name; Therfore the crow shall byte yow.' He toke hur abowte the mydell small, That was soo faire of hyde and hewe; He kyssed hur cheke as whyte as whall, And prayed hur that she wolde vpon hym rewe. She scornyd hym, and callyd hym Hew; His loue was as a paynted blowe: 'To-day me, to-morrowe a newe; Therfore the crow shall byte yow.' He toke hur abowte the mydell small, And layd hur downe vpon the grene; Twys or thrys he served hur soo withall, He wolde nott stynt yet, as I wene. 'But sythe ye haue i-lyen me bye, Ye wyll wedde me now, as I trowe:' 'I wyll be aduysed, Gyll,' sayd he, 'For now the pye hathe peckyd yow.' 'But sythe ye haue i-leyn me by, And brought my body vnto shame, Some of your good ye wyll part with me, Or elles, be Cryst, ye be to blame.' 'I wylbe aduysed,' he sayde; 'e wynde ys wast that thow doyst blowe; I haue a-noder that most be payde; Therfore the pye hathe pecked yow.' 'Now sythe ye haue i-leyn me bye, A lyttle thyng ye wyll tell; In case that I with chylde be, What ys your name? Wher doo ye dwell?' 'At Yorke, at London, at Clerkenwell, At Leycester, Cambryge, at myrye Brystowe; Some call me Rychard, Robart, Jacke, and Wyll; For now the pye hathe peckyd yow. 'But, all medons, be ware be rewe, And lett no man downe yow throwe; For and yow doo, ye wyll ytt rewe, For then the pye wyll pecke yow.' 'Farewell, corteor, ouer the medoo, Pluke vp your helys, I yow beshrew! Your trace, wher so euer ye ryde or goo, Crystes curse goo wythe yow! 'Thoughe a knave hathe by me layne, Yet am I noder dede nor slowe; I trust to recouer my harte agayne, And Crystes curse goo wythe yow!'