Classic Poem

O waly, waly, up the bank,
And waly, waly, down the brae,
And waly, waly, yon burn side,
Where I and my love were wont to gae.

I leant my back upon an oak
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bent, and then it broke,
Just as my love proved false to me.

O waly, waly, love is bonny,
A little while when it is new;
But when it's old, it waxes cold,
And fades away like morning dew.

O wherefore should I busk my head?
O wherefore should I comb my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,
And says he'll never love me more.

Now Arthur's Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne'er be filled by me:
Saint Anthony's well shall be my drink,
Since my true love has forsaken me.

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blow,
And shake the green leaves off the tree?
O gentle death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am weary.

'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
Nor blowing snow's inclemency;
'Tis not such cold that makes me cry,
But my love's heart grown cold to me.

When we came in by Glasgow town,
We were a comely sight to see,
My love was clad in black velvet,
And I myself in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kissed,
That love had been so ill to win,
I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,
And pinned it with a silver pin.

And oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I my self were dead and gone
For a maid again I'll never be.