The Betrayed Maiden, 17th century

From C. H. Firth, editor. An American Garland, being a Collection of Ballads Relating to America 1563-1759. Oxford: B. H. Blackwell, 1915. 69-71.

Of a Brazier's daughter who lived near,
A pretty story you shall hear,
And she would up to London go,
To seek a service you shall know.

Her master had one only son,
Sweet Betsy's heart was fairly won,
For Betsy being so very fair
She drew his heart in a fatal snare.

One Sunday night he took his time,
Unto sweet Betsy he told his mind.
Swearing by all the powers above,
'Tis you, sweet Betsy, 'tis you I love.

His mother happening for to hear,
Which thew her in a fatal snare,
For soon she contrived sweet Betsy away
For a slave in the province of Virginia.

Betsy, Betsy, pack up your cloaths,
For I must see what the country shews,
You must go with me a day or two
Some of our relations there for to view.

They rode till they came to a sea town
Where ships were sailing in the Down,
Quickly a captain there was found,
Unto Virginia they were bound.

Both hired a boat along side they went,
Sweet Betsy rode in sad discontent,
For now sweet Betsy's upon the salt wave,
Sweet Betsy's gone for an arrant slave.

A few days after she returned again,
You are welcome mother, says the son,
But where is Betsy, tell me I pray,
That she behind so long doth stay?

O son, O son, I plainly see,
How great your love is for pretty Betsy,
Of all such thoughts you must refrain,
Since Betsy's sailing over the watery main.

We would rather see our son lie dead,
Than with a servant girl to wed,
His father spoke most scornfully,
It will bring disgrace to our family.

Four days after the son fell bad,
No kind of music could make him glad,
He sighed and slumbered, and often cried,
'Tis for you, sweet Betsy, for you I died.

A few days after the son was dead,
They wrung their hands and shook each head,
Saying would our son but rise again,
We would send for Betsy over the main.