The Outlandish Lady’s Love To An English Sailor In The Isle of Wight.

From the isle of Wight I have brought to light
A young virgin born of noble blood:
Dress’d in man’s attire, and she did enquire
After her true love, ’tis understood.
Now this gallant dame from fair France she came,
And hath took upon her for to rove:
And I heard her say, lamenting night and day,
Cruel father, to separate our love!
He was too severe to thee, my dearest dear,
Because that he belonged to the main
I have travell’d round to each sea-port town,
Thinking for meet my love again.
When I first beheld my dear English Will,
I was woanded to the heart I swear.
Altho’ he was bound, guarded thro’ our town,
Taken prisoner by our privateer.
When he passed by, on him I cast an eye,
With a trembling heart I could not stand.
Then these words I said to our chambermaid,
Oh! how I could love that Englishman!
I could find no rest, ’till I had exprest,
So then I goes to our chambermaid,
With my trembling quill there I wrote my fill,
And to him my sorrows did relate.
The daughter of a knight, Sir, these words doth write,
Sir, to you a stranger unto me.
Tho’ your person’s mean, still it shall be seen,
That the god Cupid he hath woanded me.
If my father knew, then we both should rue,
And in a passion kill us both, I fear.
But to what is penn’d strait an answer send,
Here in private to your dearest dear.
When these lines he read, then these words he said,
Sure the gods above are not not severe.
For blessed is the time that I was confin’d,
And was sent to town a prisoner here.
I this answer send to the lines you’ve penn’d,
Virtuous madam, born of high degree,
Why should you adore a brisk seaman poor?
Sure that never, never yet can be.
You an heiress great born to a vast estate,
I am a man that’s born of mean degree.
Dear madam, draw your love, by the powers above,
If your father knew he would hang me.
When these lines she read, then these words she said,
Oh, that Cupid ne’er had wounded me!
To the prison she goes immediately,
Where she at the door did knocking stand,
And these words did say, Let me in I pray,
For to speak unto this Englishman?
Then the turnkey he takes this fair lady,
To a chamber where they might meet;
And the prisoner he came immediately,
Falling down beneath the lady’s feet.
The lady with her charms, catch’d him in her arms,
And said, Thou dearest turtle-dove,
Hero of the sea, come now pity me,
That am wounded by the god of love.
Since you declare your mind, I’ll not be unkind,
By the powers above I’ll speak it here.
May I never thrive, nor prosper here alive,
If that I prove false unto my dear.
So these lovers part with a constant heart,
Shedding tears by their faith and troth,
And the turnkey he wept most bitterly,
All to see the love between them both.

PART II.

The second part I write of this lady bright,
For the truth I mean thus to unfold:
Tho’ it’s full of pain, trouble, grief, and moan,
Sure the like before was never told.
When this lady she thought she had been free,
Then began her anguish, grief, and woe,
Her father came to hear, that she loved dear
A young English sailor mean and low.
Then her father said to her waiting-maid,
Go and call my daughter to me here.
For I do declare, and solemnly do swear,
That I’ll part her love and her he’er fear.
Then this gallant dame to her father came,
Are you come, dear madam, then said he;
By my faith and troth I will part you both,
You shall not disgrace your family.
We have peers in France can your fame advance,
Come a-courting to you day and night.
Father, ’tis not riches, but the leather breeches,
I intend to make my heart’s delight.
When these words she spoke him she did provoke,
And in a passion he his rapier drew;
But her mother she came immediately,
Or else he would have run her thro’-and-thro’.
But this was her doom, to be shut in her room,
Like a prisoner there for to remain.
And the seaman he was at liberty,
Unto Old England to return again.
Then her father he in his cruelty,
Went and begg’d a hanged man, we hear.
Then cut off his head, and these words he said,
Here come now and take your English dear.
When the lady she saw the dead body,
Oh! that I had dy’d, my dear, for thee.
And being in despair, she tore her lovely hair.
Sure never wretch was so distress’d as me.
And, as I was told, she kiss’d the body cold,
It would have griev’d a stony heart to see.
Then her waiting maid that had her betray’d,
Cry’d, Pardon, pardon, good lady.
For I do declare, and solemnly do swear,
This body is none of your dear love.
For your father he sent him beyond the sea.
But where I know not by the powers above.
Is it true, said she, that you speak to me?
Yes, madam, as true as I am here.
Then that very night, this fair lady bright,
Got out of the chamber window clear.
Then away she went, being discontent,
Ever since she has been on the search.
Dress’d in man’s attire, and she did enquire
For her love that she loved so much.
Then the lady she cross’d over the sea,
Where she into fair England came,
Anst had travell’d round most part of the ground,
Ever since she from her father came.
She like a man was drest, and I do protest
As she travell’d to the Isle of Wight;
As she walked round about Newport-town,
There she chanc’d to meet her heart’s delight.
Saying, Dearest dear, I’m glad to meet you here:
I am the daughter of that noble knight.
What my love, said he, that bright French lady?
Yes, quoth she, my love and heart’s delight.
Now, I will relate, they were marry’d strait,
And so here I do conclude my song.
And let lovers all, then both great and small,
Praise her constancy with heart and tongue.

PART III.

My dearest dear, said she now we marry’d be,
Unto fair France we both again will go.
With all my heart, he cry’d, my only sweet bride,
To what you crave I will not answer No.
Then they cross’d the main to fair France again,
And when they arrived on the shore,
Dress’d in man’s array, then she went away,
With her true lover to her father’s door.
Then this lady bright knock’d with all her might,
‘Till her father unto the door came;
Asked who knock’d there, then this lady fair
In this manner spoke, and said to him:
Sir, I am one who is come to let you know
What is become of your daughter dear.
Young man, her father said, she’s dead I’m afraid
For I have not seen her these two years.
Sir, your daughter bright, in the Isle of Wight,
Not two weeks ago I did see.
And I do declare she is marry’d there,
Unto that young man you sent from she.
And in tears one day, I heard her to say,
If my father comes and finds us here,
There is no other hope but he with a rope
Will have us both hanged up I fear.
If these words be true that proceed from you,
Heaven did decree it I declare,
And for joy they live guineas I will give,
To enjoy them both I now do swear.
Then this lady she, and her husband he,
Pitch’d upon their bended knees straitway,
She said to him, Father, I am your daughter,
Give to us your blessing, we now pray.
With that her father gaz’d like a man amaz’d,
On her, to hear such words as these.
And as he did her view, from eyes there flew
Great drops of tears as big as any peas.
So her father then took her by the hand,
And embraced her, and thus did cry,
Since you my blessing crave you shall it have,
I will own you both until I die.
Then with free consent in-a-doors they went,
And for joy his daughter she was come,
They drowned sorrow quite, and both day and night,
They rejoiced all with pipe and drum.
Now to conclude, I may venture for to say,
These words, and not mistaken be;
There are but few do prove so constant in love,
As this young sailor and this French lady.

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BBO Roud Number: V20371