Identifier: gri_33125012902363 (find matches)
Title: The book of British ballads
Year: 1842 (1840s)
Authors: Hall, S. C. (Samuel Carter), 1800-1889
Subjects: Ballads, English
Publisher: London : J. How
Contributing Library: Getty Research Institute
Digitizing Sponsor: Getty Research Institute

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praying still for thee,Without repining or complaint, Her gentle soul did flee. What tongue can paint Lord Alberts woe,— The bitter tears he shed,—The bitter pangs that wrung his heart, To find his lady dead! He beat his breast, he tore his hair, And, shedding many a tear,At length he askt to see his son— The son that cost so dear. New sorrowe seized the damsells all:At length they faultering say:— Alas, my lord ! how shall we tell ?Thy son is stoln away. Fair as the sweetest flower of spring, Such was his infant mien :And on his little body stampt, Three wonderous marks were seen : A blood-red cross was on his arm ; A dragon on his breast;A little garter all of gold Was round his leg exprest. Three carefull nurses we provide, Our little lord to keep :One gave him sucke, one gave him food, And one did lull to sleep. But, lo ! all in the dead of night, We heard a fearful sound :Loud thunder clapt; the castle shook ; And lightning flasht around. W^t a&rtfi of §bt. ©eorge.
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Dead with affright at first we lay ; But rousing up anon,We ran to see our little lord— Our little lord was gone ! But how or where we could not tell; For, lying on the ground,In deep and magic slumbers laid, The nurses there we found. O grief on grief! Lord Albert said :No more his tongue coud say, When falling in a deadly swoone,Long time he lifeless lay. At length restored to life and sense, He nourisht endless woe ;No future joy his heart could taste, No future comfort know. So withers on the mountain top A fair and stately oake,Whose vigorous arms are torn away By some rude thunder-stroke. At length his castle irksome grew,He loathes his wonted home ; His native country he forsakes,In foreign lands to roame. There up and downe he wandered far, Clad in a palmers gown,Till his brown locks grew white as wool, His beard as thistle down. At length, all wearied, down in deathHe laid his reverend head.— Meantime amid the lonely wildsHis little son was bred.

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