“Cast off, cast off, my May Colven,
All and your embroiderd shoen,
For oer good and oer costly
To rot in the salt sea foam.”
“O turn you about, O false Sir John,
And look to the leaf of the tree,
For it never became a gentleman
A naked woman to see.”
He turned himself straight round about,
To look to the leaf of the tree,
So swift as May Colven was
To throw him in the sea.
“O help, O help, my May Colven,
O help, or else I’ll drown;
I’ll take you home to your father’s bower,
And set you down safe and sound.”
“No help, no help, O false Sir John,
No help, nor pity thee;
Tho’ seven kings’ daughters you have drownd,
But the eighth shall not be me.”
So she went on her father’s steed,
As swift as she could flee,
And she came home to her father’s bower
Before it was break of day.
Up then and spoke the pretty parrot:
“May Colven, where have you been?
What has become of false Sir John,
That woo’d you so late the streen?
“He woo’d you butt, he woo’d you ben,
He woo’d you in the ha,
Until he got your own consent
For to mount and gang awa.”
“O hold your tongue, my pretty parrot,
Lay not the blame upon me;
Your cup shall be of the flowered gold,
Your cage of the root of the tree.”
Up then spake the king himself,
In the bed-chamber where he lay:
“What ails the pretty parrot,
That prattles so long or day?”