But sweare me nowe upon the roode,
That lonesome lodge thou'lt never

spend ;

For when all the world doth frown on thee,

Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.'

The heire of Linne is full of golde;

• And come with me, my friends,' sayd he,

'Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee.'

They ranted, drank, and merry made,

Till all his golde it waxed thinne; And then his friendes they slunk away; They left the unthrifty heire of Linne.

He had never a penny left in his purse,

Never a penny left but three,
And one was brass, another was lead,
And another it was white money.

'Nowe well-a-day,' sayd the heire of Linne,
'Nowe well-a-day, and woe is me,
For when I was the Lord of Linne,
I never wanted golde nor fee.

'But many a trustye friend have I, And why shold I feel dole or care? Ile borrow of them all by turnes,

Soe need I not be never bare.'

But one, I wis, was not at home;

Another had payd his golde away;

Another calld him thriftless loone,

PART THE SECOND.

AWAY then hyed the heire of Linne
O'er hill and holt, and moore and fenne,
Untill he came to lonesome lodge

That stood soe lowe in a lonely glenne.

Hee looked up, hee looked downe,

In hope some comfort for to winne; But bare and lothly were the walles ; 'It's sorry chear,' quo' the heire of Linne.

The little windowe dim and darke

Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; No shimmering sunne heere ever shone ; No halesome breeze heere ever blew.

No chair, ne table he mote spye,

No chearful hearth, ne welcome bed; Nought save a rope with renning noose,

That dangling hung up o'er his head.

And over it, in broad letters,

These words were written soe plain to

see:

'Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all,

And brought thyself to penurie?

• All this my boding mind misgave,
I therefore left this trustye friend:
Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace,
And all thy shame and sorrowes end.'

'Nowe well-a-day,' sayd the heire of Linne,

Nowe well-a-day, and woe is me! For when I had my landes soe broad,

On me they livd right merrilee.

To beg my bread from door to door, I wis, it were a brenning shame; To rob and steal it were a sinne; To worke, my limbs I cannot frame. Nowe Ile away to lonesome lodge,

For there my father bade me wend; When all the world shold frown on me, I there shold find a trusty friend.'

T

Sorely shent was the heire of Linne; His heart, I wis, was near to brast

With guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne.

Never a word spake the heire of Linne, Never a word he spake but three: This is a trustye friend indeed,

And is right welcome unto me.'

Then round his necke the corde he drewe,
And sprang aloft with his bodie;
When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine,
And to the ground came tumbling he.

Then bespake the heire of Linne,

he:

Forty pence thou didst lend me:

Nowe I am again the Lord of Linne, And forty pounds I will give thee.

'Ile make thee keeper of my forrest,

Both of the wild deere and the tame; For but I reward thy bounteous heart,

I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.'

Nowe well-a-day! sayth Joan o' the Scales;

Now well-a-day! and woe is my life;

Yesterday I was Lady of Linne,

Nowe Ime but John o' the Scales his wife.'

Nowe fare thee well,' sayd the heir of Linne;

'Farewell nowe, John o' the Scales," sayd he:

Christs curse light on me if ever again I bring my landes in jeopardie!