The Northern Turtle:  
Wailing his unhappy fate,  
In being deprived of his sweet Mate.  
To a new Northern tune, or A health to betty.  
 

AS I was walking all alone,  
I heard a man lamenting,  
Under a hollow bush he lay,  
but sore he did repent him  
Alas quoth he, my Love is gone:  
which causeth me to wander,  
Yet merry will I never be,  
till I lie lulling beyond her.   

Good Lord, so sound I could sleep,  
if that I lay lulling beyond her,  
All the night till the day were light  
and the sun did shine upon her:  
Yet early by day I would steal away  
to keep my Love from slander,  
Yet I will never quiet be,  
till I lie lulling beyond her.   

My love and I, we gallantly,  
so many years together,  
Her love was so inclined to me,  
that now I'm loath to leave her:  
But now this wicked world is such  
that causeth me to wander:  
Yet will I never woman touch,  
till I lie lulling beyond her.   

Like to the Turtle I will mourn,  
in absence of my marrow,  
With bitter tears I cry and morn  
my joy is all but sorrow;  
My comfort is to me much care,  
whilst floods and woods I wander  
Nay, merry will I never be,  
till I lie lulling beyond her.   

O Gods that made the birds to fly,  
to love their mates so dear,  
Yet for her sake they do refuse,  
to sing or chirp once cheerly.  
What comfort can the world afford  
what joys then can I render?  
Nay merry will I never be,  
till I lie lulling beyond her.   

A pretty Dame was once my Love,  
till death made separation,  
And she to me did constant prove,  
without dissimulation:  
Yet for her sake still will I weep  
while I on earth do wander:  
Nay sound will I never sleep,  
till I lie lulling beyond her.   

Though cruel death hath cut the breath,  
of this my comely creature,  
To meet again we have true faith,  
our change is but a feature.  
Death may indeed in bondage keep,  
yet not our love can hinder,  
Then sound, sound shall I sleep;  
when as I lay lulling beyond her.   

My dearest Deer I come to thee.  
when pleaseth death to send me,  
The grave I count my dearest home,  
oh quiokely then befriend me:  
She proved a Hero true to me,  
and I will be a Leander,  
I never shall in quiet be,  
till I lie lulling beyond her.   
FINIS.   

London, printed for I. H.