A Bundle of Ballads

SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST.

     There came a ghost to Margaret's door,
       With many a grievous groan,
     And aye he tirl-ed at the pin;
       But answer made she none.

     "Is this my father Philip?
       Or is't my brother John?
     Or is't my true love Willie,
       From Scotland new come home?"

     "'Tis not thy father Philip;
       Nor yet thy brother John:
     But 'tis thy true love Willie
       From Scotland new come home.

     "O sweet Margret! O dear Margret!
       I pray thee speak to me:
     Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
       As I gave it to thee."

     "Thy faith and troth thou'se never get,
       Of me shalt never win,
     Till that thou come within my bower,
       And kiss my cheek and chin."

     "If I should come within thy bower,
       I am no earthly man:
     And should I kiss thy rosy lip,
       Thy days will not be lang.

     "O sweet Margret, O dear Margret,
       I pray thee speak to me:
     Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
       As I gave it to thee."—

     "Thy faith and troth thou'se never get,
       Of me shalt never win,
     Till thou take me to yon kirkyard,
       And wed me with a ring."—

     "My bones are buried in a kirkyard
       Afar beyond the sea,
     And it is but my sprite, Margret,
       That's speaking now to thee."

     She stretch-ed out her lily-white hand,
       As for to do her best:
     "Hae there your faith and troth, Willie,
       God send your soul good rest!"

     Now she has kilted her robes of green,
       A piece below her knee:
     And a' the live-lang winter night
       The dead corpse followed she.

     "Is there any room at your head, Willie?
       Or any room at your feet?
     Or any room at your side, Willie,
       Wherein that I may creep?"

     "There's nae room at my head, Margret,
       There's nae room at my feet,
     There's nae room at my side, Margret,
       My coffin is made so meet."

     Then up and crew the red red cock,
       And up then crew the gray:
     "'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margret,
       That I were gane away."

     No more the ghost to Margret said,
       But, with a grievous groan,
     Evanished in a cloud of mist,
       And left her all alone.

     "O stay, my only true love, stay!"
       The constant Margret cried:
     Wan grew her cheeks, she closed her een,
       Stretched her saft limbs, and died.