Lyr. Add: BALOW SLUMBER SONG (Ba Low)
Words, Eugene Field; music Mary Southwick.

Hush, dinna greit,
Moder will rocke her sweete Balow, my boy,
Balow, Balow, my boy, Balow.
When that his toile has been done,
Daddie will come to his own
Hush then my lytelle one,
Balow, my boy, Balow.

Soe bonnie dinna greit,
Moder doth rocks her sweete Balow my boy,
Blow, Balow, my boy, Balow,
Give me thy lyttle hand
Moder will hold it and lead thee,
Lead thee to Balow land,
Balow, my boy, Balow.

From sheet music, 1905, copyright Tolbert R. Ingram Music Co., Denver, CO. (Chas. Sheard, London). BaLow Slumber Song

The lullaby owes the name to the anonymous and much more meaty 16c. song, "Balow." I don't know whether Field used an old text as a starting point, or was attempting old dialect.

Lyr. Add: BALOW

Balow, my babe, lie still and sleep!
It grieves me sore o see thee weep.
Wouldst thou be quiet I'se be glad,
Thy mourning makes my sorrow sad:
Balow my boy, thy mother's joy,
Thy father breeds me great annoy-
Balow, la-low!

When he began to court my love,
And with his sugred words me move,
His faynings false and flattering cheer
To me that time did not appear:
But now I see most cruellye
He cares ne for my babe nor me-
Balow, la-low!

Lie still, my darling, sleep awhile,
And when thou wak'st thoo'le sweetly smile:
But smile not as thy father did,
To cozen maids: nay, God forbid!
But yet I fear thou wilt go near
Thy father's heart and face to bear-
Balow, la-low!

I cannot choose but ever will
Be loving to thy father still;
Where'er he go, where'er he ride,
My love with him doth still abide;
In weal or woe, where'er he go,
My heart shall ne'er depart him fro-
Balow, la-low!

But do not, do not, pretty mine,
To faynings false thy heart incline!
Be loyal to thy lover true,
And never change her for a new:
If good or fair, of her have care
For women's banning's wondrous sare-
Balow, la-low!

Bairn, by thy face I will beware;
Like Sirens' words, I'll come not near;
My babe and I together will live;
He'll comfort me when cares do grieve.
My babe and I right soft will lie,
And ne'er respect man's crueltye-
Balow, la-low!

Farewell, farewell, the falsest youth
That ever kist a woman's mouth!
I wish all maids be warn'd by me
Never to trust man's curtesye;
For if we do but chance to bow,
They'll use us then they care not how-
Balow, la-low!

From A. Quiller-Couch,1919 ed., The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250-1900.
Balow

Bruce Olson's website had a version in his Scarce Songs 2, as well as a melody, but that site is no longer available. There are broadsides, but I cannot locate them.