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diff --git a/1054-h/1054-h.htm b/1054-h/1054-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6213b7a --- /dev/null +++ b/1054-h/1054-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9208 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>A Collection of Ballads, by Andrew Lang</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Collection of Ballads, by Andrew Lang + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: A Collection of Ballads + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: February 6, 2015 [eBook #1054] +[This file was first posted on August 1, 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A COLLECTION OF BALLADS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1910 Chapman and Hall editionby David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" + src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>A COLLECTION OF<br /> +BALLADS</h1> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">EDITED, WITH +INTRODUCTION</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND NOTES</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br /> +ANDREW LANG</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">LONDON</span><br /> +CHAPMAN AND HALL, LIMITED</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pagevi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vi</span><i>First Published in 1897</i><br /> +<i>Reprinted 1910</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Introduction</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#pageix">ix</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Sir Patrick Spens</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Battle of Otterbourne</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page5">5</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Tam Lin</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page10">10</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Thomas the Rhymer</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page16">16</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">Sir Hugh; or the Jew’s +Daughter</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Son Davie</span>! <span +class="smcap">Son Davie</span>!</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page22">22</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Wife of Usher’s +Well</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Twa Corbies</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page26">26</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Bonnie Earl Moray</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Clerk Saunders</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page30">30</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Waly, Waly</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page35">35</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Love Gregor; or, the Lass of +Lochroyan</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Queen’s Marie</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Kinmont Willie</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Jamie Telfer</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page52">52</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Douglas Tragedy</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Bonny Hind</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page62">62</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Young Bicham</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page65">65</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Loving Ballad of Lord +Bateman</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page69">69</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pageviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +viii</span><span class="smcap">The Bonnie House o’ +Airly</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page73">73</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Rob Roy</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Battle of +Killie-Crankie</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Annan Water</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page79">79</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Elphin Nourrice</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page81">81</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Cospatrick</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page82">82</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Johnnie Armstrang</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page87">87</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Edom o’ Gordon</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page92">92</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Lady Anne Bothwell’s +Lament</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page98">98</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Jock o the Side</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page101">101</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Lord Thomas and Fair Annet</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page107">107</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Fair Annie</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page111">111</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Dowie Dens of Yarrow</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page116">116</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Sir Roland</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Rose the Red and White Lily</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page123">123</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Battle of Harlaw—Evergreen +Version</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page131">131</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Traditionary Version</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page138">138</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Dickie Macphalion</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page142">142</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Lyke-Wake Dirge</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page143">143</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Laird of Waristoun</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page145">145</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">May Colven</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page147">147</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Johnie Faa</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page150">150</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Hobbie Noble</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page152">152</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Twa Sisters</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page157">157</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Mary Ambree</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page160">160</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +ix</span><span class="smcap">Alison Gross</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page165">165</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Heir of Lynne</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page167">167</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Gordon of Brackley</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page172">172</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Edward, Edward</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page175">175</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Young Benjie</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page177">177</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Auld Maitland</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page180">180</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Broomfield Hill</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page189">189</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Willie’s Ladye</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page193">193</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Robin Hood and the Monk</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page196">196</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Robin Hood and the Potter</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page209">209</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Robin Hood and the Butcher</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page221">221</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Notes</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page227">227</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xi</span>INTRODUCTION</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> the learned first gave serious +attention to popular ballads, from the time of Percy to that of +Scott, they laboured under certain disabilities. The +Comparative Method was scarcely understood, and was little +practised. Editors were content to study the ballads of +their own countryside, or, at most, of Great Britain. +Teutonic and Northern parallels to our ballads were then adduced, +as by Scott and Jamieson. It was later that the ballads of +Europe, from the Faroes to Modern Greece, were compared with our +own, with European <i>Märchen</i>, or children’s +tales, and with the popular songs, dances, and traditions of +classical and savage peoples. The results of this more +recent comparison may be briefly stated. Poetry begins, as +Aristotle says, in improvisation. Every man is his own +poet, and, in moments of stronge motion, expresses himself in +song. A typical example is the Song of Lamech in +Genesis—</p> +<blockquote><p>“I have slain a man to my wounding,<br /> +And a young man to my hurt.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><a name="pagexii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xii</span>Instances perpetually occur in the Sagas: Grettir, +Egil, Skarphedin, are always singing. In <i>Kidnapped</i>, +Mr. Stevenson introduces “The Song of the Sword of +Alan,” a fine example of Celtic practice: words and air are +beaten out together, in the heat of victory. In the same +way, the women sang improvised dirges, like Helen; lullabies, +like the lullaby of Danæ in Simonides, and flower songs, as +in modern Italy. Every function of life, war, agriculture, +the chase, had its appropriate magical and mimetic dance and +song, as in Finland, among Red Indians, and among Australian +blacks. “The deeds of men” were chanted by +heroes, as by Achilles; stories were told in alternate verse and +prose; girls, like Homer’s Nausicaa, accompanied dance and +ball play, priests and medicine-men accompanied rites and magical +ceremonies by songs.</p> +<p>These practices are world-wide, and world-old. The +thoroughly popular songs, thus evolved, became the rude material +of a professional class of minstrels, when these arose, as in the +heroic age of Greece. A minstrel might be attached to a +Court, or a noble; or he might go wandering with song and harp +among the people. In <a name="pagexiii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiii</span>either case, this class of men +developed more regular and ample measures. They evolved the +hexameter; the <i>laisse</i> of the <i>Chansons de Geste</i>; the +strange technicalities of Scandinavian poetry; the metres of +Vedic hymns; the choral odes of Greece. The narrative +popular chant became in their hands the Epic, or the +mediæval rhymed romance. The metre of improvised +verse changed into the artistic lyric. These lyric forms +were fixed, in many cases, by the art of writing. But +poetry did not remain solely in professional and literary +hands. The mediæval minstrels and <i>jongleurs</i> +(who may best be studied in Léon Gautier’s +Introduction to his <i>Epopées Françaises</i>) sang +in Court and Camp. The poorer, less regular brethren of the +art, harped and played conjuring tricks, in farm and grange, or +at street corners. The foreign newer metres took the place +of the old alliterative English verse. But unprofessional +men and women did not cease to make and sing.</p> +<p>Some writers have decided, among them Mr. Courthope, that our +traditional ballads are degraded popular survivals of literary +poetry. The plots and situations of some ballads are, +indeed, the same as those of <a name="pagexiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiv</span>some literary mediæval +romances. But these plots and situations, in Epic and +Romance, are themselves the final literary form of +<i>märchen</i>, myths and inventions originally +<i>popular</i>, and still, in certain cases, extant in popular +form among races which have not yet evolved, or borrowed, the +ampler and more polished and complex <i>genres</i> of +literature. Thus, when a literary romance and a ballad have +the same theme, the ballad may be a popular degradation of the +romance; or, it may be the original popular shape of it, still +surviving in tradition. A well-known case in prose, is that +of the French fairy tales.</p> +<p>Perrault, in 1697, borrowed these from tradition and gave them +literary and courtly shape. But <i>Cendrillon</i> or +<i>Chaperon Rouge</i> in the mouth of a French peasant, is apt to +be the old traditional version, uncontaminated by the refinements +of Perrault, despite Perrault’s immense success and +circulation. Thus tradition preserves pre-literary forms, +even though, on occasion, it may borrow from literature. +Peasant poets have been authors of ballads, without being, for +all that, professional minstrels. Many such poems survive +in our ballad literature.</p> +<p><a name="pagexv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xv</span>The +material of the ballad may be either romantic or +historical. The former class is based on one of the +primeval invented situations, one of the elements of the +<i>Märchen</i> in prose. Such tales or myths occur in +the stories of savages, in the legends of peasants, are +interwoven later with the plot in Epic or Romance, and may also +inspire ballads. Popular superstitions, the witch, +metamorphosis, the returning ghost, the fairy, all of them +survivals of the earliest thought, naturally play a great +part. The Historical ballad, on the other hand, has a basis +of resounding fact, murder, battle, or fire-raising, but the +facts, being derived from popular rumour, are immediately +corrupted and distorted, sometimes out of all knowledge. +Good examples are the ballads on Darnley’s murder and the +youth of James VI.</p> +<p>In the romantic class, we may take <i>Tamlane</i>. Here +the idea of fairies stealing children is thoroughly popular; they +also steal young men as lovers, and again, men may win fairy +brides, by clinging to them through all transformations. A +classical example is the seizure of Thetis by Peleus, and Child +quotes a modern Cretan example. The dipping in milk and +water, <a name="pagexvi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xvi</span>I +may add, has precedent in ancient Egypt (in <i>The Two +Brothers</i>), and in modern Senegambia. The fairy tax, +tithe, or teind, paid to Hell, is illustrated by old trials for +witchcraft, in Scotland. <a name="citation0a"></a><a +href="#footnote0a" class="citation">[0a]</a> Now, in +literary forms and romance, as in <i>Ogier le Danois</i>, persons +are carried away by the Fairy King or Queen. But here the +literary romance borrows from popular superstition; the ballad +has no need to borrow a familiar fact from literary +romance. On the whole subject the curious may consult +“The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns, and +Fairies,” by the Reverend Robert Kirk of Aberfoyle, +himself, according to tradition, a victim of the fairies.</p> +<p>Thus, in <i>Tamlane</i>, the whole <i>donnée</i> is +popular. But the current version, that of Scott, is +contaminated, as Scott knew, by incongruous modernisms. +Burns’s version, from tradition, already localizes the +events at Carterhaugh, the junction of Ettrick and Yarrow. +But Burns’s version does not make the Earl of Murray father +of the hero, nor the Earl of March father of the heroine. +Roxburgh is the hero’s father in Burns’s variant, +which is more plausible, and the modern verses do not +occur. This <a name="pagexvii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xvii</span>ballad apparently owes nothing to literary +romance.</p> +<p>In <i>Mary Hamilton</i> we have a notable instance of the +Historical Ballad. No Marie of Mary Stuart’s suffered +death for child murder.</p> +<p>She had no Marie Hamilton, no Marie Carmichael among her four +Maries, though a lady of the latter name was at her court. +But early in the reign a Frenchwoman of the queen’s was +hanged, with her paramour, an apothecary, for slaying her +infant. Knox mentions the fact, which is also recorded in +letters from the English ambassador, uncited by Mr. Child. +Knox adds that there were ballads against the Maries. Now, +in March 1719, a Mary Hamilton, of Scots descent, a maid of +honour of Catherine of Russia, was hanged for child murder +(<i>Child</i>, vi. 383). It has therefore been supposed, +first by Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe long ago, later by Professor +Child, and then by Mr. Courthope, that our ballad is of 1719, or +later, and deals with the Russian, not the Scotch, tragedy.</p> +<p>To this we may reply (1) that we have no example of such a +throwing back of a contemporary event, in ballads. (2) +There <a name="pagexviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xviii</span>is a version (<i>Child</i>, viii. 507) in which Mary +Hamilton’s paramour is a “pottinger,” or +apothecary, as in the real old Scotch affair. (3) The +number of variants of a ballad is likely to be proportionate to +its antiquity and wide distribution. Now only <i>Sir +Patrick Spens</i> has so many widely different variants as +<i>Mary Hamilton</i>. These could hardly have been evolved +between 1719 and 1790, when Burns quotes the poem as an old +ballad. (4) We have no example of a poem so much in the old +ballad manner, for perhaps a hundred and fifty years before +1719. The style first degraded and then expired: compare +<i>Rob Roy</i> and <i>Killiecrankie</i>, in this collection, also +the ballads of <i>Loudoun Hill</i>, <i>The Battle of +Philiphaugh</i>, and others much earlier than 1719. New +styles of popular poetry on contemporary events as +<i>Sherriffmuir</i> and <i>Tranent Brae</i> had arisen. (5) +The extreme historic inaccuracy of <i>Mary Hamilton</i> is +paralleled by that of all the ballads on real events. The +mention of the Pottinger is a trace of real history which has no +parallel in the Russian affair, and there is no room, says +Professor Child, for the supposition that it was voluntarily +inserted by reciter or copyist, <a name="pagexix"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xix</span>to tally with the narrative in +Knox’s History.</p> +<p>On the other side, we have the name of Mary Hamilton occurring +in a tragic event of 1719, but then the name does not uniformly +appear in the variants of the ballad. The lady is there +spoken of generally as Mary Hamilton, but also as Mary Myle, Lady +Maisry, as daughter of the Duke of York (Stuart), as Marie Mild, +and so forth. Though she bids sailors carry the tale of her +doom, she is not abroad, but in Edinburgh town. Nothing can +be less probable than that a Scots popular ballad-maker in 1719, +telling the tale of a yesterday’s tragedy in Russia, should +throw the time back by a hundred and fifty years, should change +the scene to Scotland (the heart of the sorrow would be +Mary’s exile), and, above all, should compose a ballad in a +style long obsolete. This is not the method of the popular +poet, and such imitations of the old ballad as <i>Hardyknute</i> +show that literary poets of 1719 had not knowledge or skill +enough to mimic the antique manner with any success.</p> +<p>We may, therefore, even in face of Professor Child, regard +<i>Mary Hamilton</i> as an old example of popular perversion <a +name="pagexx"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xx</span>of history in +ballad, not as “one of the very latest,” and also +“one of the very best” of Scottish popular +ballads.</p> +<p><i>Rob Roy</i> shows the same power of perversion. It +was not Rob Roy but his sons, Robin Oig (who shot Maclaren at the +plough-tail), and James Mohr (alternately the spy, the Jacobite, +and the Hanoverian spy once more), who carried off the heiress of +Edenbelly. Indeed a kind of added epilogue, in a different +measure, proves that a poet was aware of the facts, and wished to +correct his predecessor.</p> +<p>Such then are ballads, in relation to legend and +history. They are, on the whole, with exceptions, +absolutely popular in origin, composed by men of the people for +the people, and then diffused among and altered by popular +reciters. In England they soon won their way into printed +stall copies, and were grievously handled and moralized by the +hack editors.</p> +<p>No ballad has a stranger history than <i>The Loving Ballad of +Lord Bateman</i>, illustrated by the pencils of Cruikshank and +Thackeray. Their form is a ludicrous cockney perversion, +but it retains the essence. Bateman, a captive of +“this Turk,” is beloved by the Turk’s daughter +<a name="pagexxi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxi</span>(a +staple incident of old French romance), and by her +released. The lady after seven years rejoins Lord Bateman: +he has just married a local bride, but “orders another +marriage,” and sends home his bride “in a coach and +three.” This incident is stereotyped in the ballads +and occurs in an example in the Romaic. <a +name="citation0b"></a><a href="#footnote0b" +class="citation">[0b]</a></p> +<p>Now Lord Bateman is <i>Young Bekie</i> in the Scotch ballads, +who becomes <i>Young Beichan</i>, <i>Young Bichem</i>, and so +forth, and has adventures identical with those of Lord Bateman, +though the proud porter in the Scots version is scarcely so +prominent and illustrious. As Motherwell saw, Bekie +(Beichan, Buchan, Bateman) is really Becket, Gilbert Becket, +father of Thomas of Canterbury. Every one has heard how +<i>his</i> Saracen bride sought him in London. (Robert of +Gloucester’s <i>Life and Martyrdom of Thomas Becket</i>, +Percy Society. See Child’s Introduction, IV., i. +1861, and <i>Motherwell’s Minstrelsy</i>, p. xv., +1827.) The legend of the dissolved marriage is from the +common stock of ballad lore, Motherwell found an example in the +state of <i>Cantefable</i>, alternate prose and verse, <a +name="pagexxii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xxii</span>like +<i>Aucassin and Nicolette</i>. Thus the cockney rhyme +descends from the twelfth century.</p> +<p>Such are a few of the curiosities of the ballad. The +examples selected are chiefly chosen for their romantic charm, +and for the spirit of the Border raids which they record. A +few notes are added in an appendix. The text is chosen from +among the many variants in Child’s learned but still +unfinished collection, and an effort has been made to choose the +copies which contain most poetry with most signs of +uncontaminated originality. In a few cases Sir Walter +Scott’s versions, though confessedly “made up,” +are preferred. Perhaps the editor may be allowed to say +that he does not merely plough with Professor Child’s +heifer, but has made a study of ballads from his boyhood.</p> +<p>This fact may exempt him, even in the eyes of too patriotic +American critics, from “the common blame of a +plagiary.” Indeed, as Professor Child has not yet +published his general theory of the Ballad, the editor does not +know whether he agrees with the ideas here set forth.</p> +<p>So far the Editor had written, when news came of Professor +Child’s regretted <a name="pagexxiii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xxiii</span>death. He had lived to +finish, it is said, the vast collection of all known traditional +Scottish and English Ballads, with all accessible variants, a +work of great labour and research, and a distinguished honour to +American scholarship. We are not told, however, that he had +written a general study of the topic, with his conclusions as to +the evolution and diffusion of the Ballads: as to the influences +which directed the selection of certain themes of +<i>Märchen</i> for poetic treatment, and the processes by +which identical ballads were distributed throughout Europe. +No one, it is to be feared, is left, in Europe at least, whose +knowledge of the subject is so wide and scientific as that of +Professor Child. It is to be hoped that some pupil of his +may complete the task in his sense, if, indeed, he has left it +unfinished.</p> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>SIR +PATRICK SPENS</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Border Minstrelsy</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> king sits in +Dunfermline town,<br /> + Drinking the blude-red wine o:<br /> +“O whare will I get a skeely skipper<br /> + To sail this new ship of mine o?”</p> +<p class="poetry">O up and spake an eldern-knight,<br /> + Sat at the king’s right knee:<br /> +“Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor<br /> + That ever saild the sea.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Our king has written a braid letter,<br /> + And seald it with his hand,<br /> +And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,<br /> + Was walking on the strand.</p> +<p class="poetry">“To Noroway, to Noroway,<br /> + To Noroway oer the faem;<br /> +The king’s daughter of Noroway,<br /> + ’Tis thou maun bring her hame.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The first word that Sir Patrick read,<br /> + Sae loud, loud laughed he;<br /> +The neist word that Sir Patrick read,<br /> + The tear blinded his ee.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +2</span>“O wha is this has done this deed,<br /> + And tauld the king o me,<br /> +To send us out, at this time of the year,<br /> + To sail upon the sea?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Be it wind, be it weet, be it hall, be +it sleet,<br /> + Our ship must sail the faem;<br /> +The king’s daughter of Noroway,<br /> + ’Tis we must fetch her hame.”</p> +<p class="poetry">They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,<br /> + Wi’ a’ the speed they may;<br /> +They hae landed in Noroway,<br /> + Upon a Wodensday.</p> +<p class="poetry">They hadna been a week, a week<br /> + In Noroway but twae,<br /> +When that the lords o Noroway<br /> + Began aloud to say:</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our +king’s goud,<br /> + And a’ our queenis fee.”<br /> +“Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!<br /> + Fu’ loud I hear ye lie!</p> +<p class="poetry">“For I brought as much white monie<br /> + As gane my men and me,<br /> +And I brought a half-fou’ o’ gude red goud,<br /> + Out o’er the sea wi’ me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Make ready, make ready, my merry-men +a’!<br /> + Our gude ship sails the morn.”<br /> +“Now ever alake, my master dear,<br /> + I fear a deadly storm!</p> +<p class="poetry">I saw the new moon, late yestreen,<br /> + Wi’ the auld moon in her arm;<br /> +And if we gang to sea, master,<br /> + I fear we’ll come to harm.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +3</span>They hadna sail’d a league, a league,<br /> + A league but barely three,<br /> +When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,<br /> + And gurly grew the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">The ankers brak, and the top-masts lap,<br /> + It was sic a deadly storm;<br /> +And the waves cam o’er the broken ship,<br /> + Till a’ her sides were torn.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O where will I get a gude sailor,<br /> + To take my helm in hand,<br /> +Till I get up to the tall top-mast;<br /> + To see if I can spy land?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O here am I, a sailor gude,<br /> + To take the helm in hand,<br /> +Till you go up to the tall top-mast<br /> + But I fear you’ll ne’er spy +land.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He hadna gane a step, a step,<br /> + A step but barely ane,<br /> +When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,<br /> + And the salt sea it came in.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gae, fetch a web o’ the silken +claith,<br /> + Another o’ the twine,<br /> +And wap them into our ship’s side,<br /> + And let na the sea come in.”</p> +<p class="poetry">They fetchd a web o the silken claith,<br /> + Another o the twine,<br /> +And they wapped them roun that gude ship’s side<br /> + But still the sea came in.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +4</span>O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords<br /> + To weet their cork-heel’d shoon!<br /> +But lang or a the play was play’d<br /> + They wat their hats aboon,</p> +<p class="poetry">And mony was the feather-bed<br /> + That fluttered on the faem,<br /> +And mony was the gude lord’s son<br /> + That never mair cam hame.</p> +<p class="poetry">The ladyes wrang their fingers white,<br /> + The maidens tore their hair,<br /> +A’ for the sake of their true loves,<br /> + For them they’ll see na mair.</p> +<p class="poetry">O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,<br /> + Wi’ their fans into their hand,<br /> +Before they see Sir Patrick Spens<br /> + Come sailing to the strand!</p> +<p class="poetry">And lang, lang may the maidens sit,<br /> + Wi’ their goud kaims in their hair,<br /> +A’ waiting for their ain dear loves!<br /> + For them they’ll see na mair.</p> +<p class="poetry">O forty miles off Aberdeen,<br /> + ’Tis fifty fathoms deep,<br /> +And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,<br /> + Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.</p> +<h2><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>BATTLE +OF OTTERBOURNE</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. vi.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> fell about the +Lammas tide,<br /> + When the muir-men win their hay,<br /> +The doughty Douglas bound him to ride<br /> + Into England, to drive a prey.</p> +<p class="poetry">He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,<br /> + With them the Lindesays, light and gay;<br /> +But the Jardines wald nor with him ride,<br /> + And they rue it to this day.</p> +<p class="poetry">And he has burn’d the dales of Tyne,<br +/> + And part of Bambrough shire:<br /> +And three good towers on Reidswire fells,<br /> + He left them all on fire.</p> +<p class="poetry">And he march’d up to Newcastle,<br /> + And rode it round about:<br /> +“O wha’s the lord of this castle?<br /> + Or wha’s the lady o’t?”</p> +<p class="poetry">But up spake proud Lord Percy then,<br /> + And O but he spake hie!<br /> +“I am the lord of this castle,<br /> + My wife’s the lady gaye.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“If thou’rt the lord of this +castle,<br /> + Sae weel it pleases me!<br /> +For, ere I cross the Border fells,<br /> + The tane of us sall die.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +6</span>He took a lang spear in his hand,<br /> + Shod with the metal free,<br /> +And for to meet the Douglas there,<br /> + He rode right furiouslie.</p> +<p class="poetry">But O how pale his lady look’d,<br /> + Frae aff the castle wa’,<br /> +When down, before the Scottish spear,<br /> + She saw proud Percy fa’.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Had we twa been upon the green,<br /> + And never an eye to see,<br /> +I wad hae had you, flesh and fell;<br /> + But your sword sall gae wi’ mee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“But gae ye up to Otterbourne,<br /> + And wait there dayis three;<br /> +And, if I come not ere three dayis end,<br /> + A fause knight ca’ ye me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“The Otterbourne’s a bonnie +burn;<br /> + ’Tis pleasant there to be;<br /> +But there is nought at Otterbourne,<br /> + To feed my men and me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The deer rins wild on hill and dale,<br +/> + The birds fly wild from tree to tree;<br /> +But there is neither bread nor kale,<br /> + To feed my men and me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yet I will stay it Otterbourne,<br /> + Where you shall welcome be;<br /> +And, if ye come not at three dayis end,<br /> + A fause lord I’ll ca’ thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Thither will I come,” proud Percy +said,<br /> + “By the might of Our Ladye!”—<br +/> +“There will I bide thee,” said the Douglas,<br /> + “My troth I plight to thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +7</span>They lighted high on Otterbourne,<br /> + Upon the bent sae brown;<br /> +They lighted high on Otterbourne,<br /> + And threw their pallions down.</p> +<p class="poetry">And he that had a bonnie boy,<br /> + Sent out his horse to grass,<br /> +And he that had not a bonnie boy,<br /> + His ain servant he was.</p> +<p class="poetry">But up then spake a little page,<br /> + Before the peep of dawn:<br /> +“O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord,<br /> + For Percy’s hard at hand.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud!<br /> + Sae loud I hear ye lie;<br /> +For Percy had not men yestreen,<br /> + To dight my men and me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But I have dream’d a dreary +dream,<br /> + Beyond the Isle of Sky;<br /> +I saw a dead man win a fight,<br /> + And I think that man was I.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He belted on his guid braid sword,<br /> + And to the field he ran;<br /> +But he forgot the helmet good,<br /> + That should have kept his brain.</p> +<p class="poetry">When Percy wi the Douglas met,<br /> + I wat he was fu fain!<br /> +They swakked their swords, till sair they swat,<br /> + And the blood ran down like rain.</p> +<p class="poetry">But Percy with his good broad sword,<br /> + That could so sharply wound,<br /> +Has wounded Douglas on the brow,<br /> + Till he fell to the ground.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>Then he calld on his little foot-page,<br /> + And said—“Run speedilie,<br /> +And fetch my ain dear sister’s son,<br /> + Sir Hugh Montgomery.</p> +<p class="poetry">“My nephew good,” the Douglas +said,<br /> + “What recks the death of ane!<br /> +Last night I dreamd a dreary dream,<br /> + And I ken the day’s thy ain.</p> +<p class="poetry">“My wound is deep; I fain would sleep;<br +/> + Take thou the vanguard of the three,<br /> +And hide me by the braken bush,<br /> + That grows on yonder lilye lee.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O bury me by the braken-bush,<br /> + Beneath the blooming brier;<br /> +Let never living mortal ken<br /> + That ere a kindly Scot lies here.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He lifted up that noble lord,<br /> + Wi the saut tear in his e’e;<br /> +He hid him in the braken bush,<br /> + That his merrie men might not see.</p> +<p class="poetry">The moon was clear, the day drew near,<br /> + The spears in flinders flew,<br /> +But mony a gallant Englishman<br /> + Ere day the Scotsmen slew.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Gordons good, in English blood,<br /> + They steepd their hose and shoon;<br /> +The Lindesays flew like fire about,<br /> + Till all the fray was done.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Percy and Montgomery met,<br /> + That either of other were fain;<br /> +They swapped swords, and they twa swat,<br /> + And aye the blood ran down between.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +9</span>“Yield thee, now yield thee, Percy,” he +said,<br /> + “Or else I vow I’ll lay thee +low!”<br /> +“To whom must I yield,” quoth Earl Percy,<br /> + “Now that I see it must be so?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Thou shalt not yield to lord nor +loun,<br /> + Nor yet shalt thou yield to me;<br /> +But yield thee to the braken-bush,<br /> + That grows upon yon lilye lee!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I will not yield to a braken-bush,<br /> + Nor yet will I yield to a brier;<br /> +But I would yield to Earl Douglas,<br /> + Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were +here.”</p> +<p class="poetry">As soon as he knew it was Montgomery,<br /> + He stuck his sword’s point in the gronde;<br +/> +The Montgomery was a courteous knight,<br /> + And quickly took him by the honde.</p> +<p class="poetry">This deed was done at Otterbourne,<br /> + About the breaking of the day;<br /> +Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush,<br /> + And the Percy led captive away.</p> +<h2><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>TAM +LIN</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, Part II., p. 340, +Burns’s Version.)</p> +<p class="poetry">O I <span class="smcap">forbid</span> you, +maidens a’,<br /> + That wear gowd on your hair,<br /> +To come or gae by Carterhaugh,<br /> + For young Tam Lin is there.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s nane that gaes by Carterhaugh<br +/> + But they leave him a wad,<br /> +Either their rings, or green mantles,<br /> + Or else their maidenhead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Janet has kilted her green kirtle<br /> + A little aboon her knee,<br /> +And she has braided her yellow hair<br /> + A little aboon her bree,<br /> +And she’s awa’ to Carterhaugh,<br /> + As fast as she can hie.</p> +<p class="poetry">When she came to Carterhaugh<br /> + Tam Lin was at the well,<br /> +And there she fand his steed standing,<br /> + But away was himsel.</p> +<p class="poetry">She had na pu’d a double rose,<br /> + A rose but only twa,<br /> +Till up then started young Tam Lin,<br /> + Says, “Lady, thou’s pu nae mae.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span>“Why pu’s thou the rose, Janet,<br /> + And why breaks thou the wand?<br /> +Or why comes thou to Carterhaugh<br /> + Withoutten my command?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Carterhaugh, it is my ain,<br /> + My daddie gave it me;<br /> +I’ll come and gang by Carterhaugh,<br /> + And ask nae leave at thee.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Janet has kilted her green kirtle<br /> + A little aboon her knee,<br /> +And she has snooded her yellow hair<br /> + A little aboon her bree,<br /> +And she is to her father’s ha,<br /> + As fast as she can hie.</p> +<p class="poetry">Four and twenty ladies fair<br /> + Were playing at the ba,<br /> +And out then cam the fair Janet,<br /> + Ance the flower amang them a’.</p> +<p class="poetry">Four and twenty ladies fair<br /> + Were playing at the chess,<br /> +And out then cam the fair Janet,<br /> + As green as onie grass.</p> +<p class="poetry">Out then spak an auld grey knight,<br /> + Lay oer the castle wa,<br /> +And says, “Alas, fair Janet, for thee<br /> + But we’ll be blamed a’.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Haud your tongue, ye auld-fac’d +knight,<br /> + Some ill death may ye die!<br /> +Father my bairn on whom I will,<br /> + I’ll father nane on thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>Out then spak her father dear,<br /> + And he spak meek and mild;<br /> +“And ever alas, sweet Janet,” he says.<br /> + “I think thou gaes wi child.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“If that I gae wi’ child, +father,<br /> + Mysel maun bear the blame;<br /> +There’s neer a laird about your ha<br /> + Shall get the bairn’s name.</p> +<p class="poetry">“If my love were an earthly knight,<br /> + As he’s an elfin grey,<br /> +I wad na gie my ain true-love<br /> + For nae lord that ye hae.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The steed that my true-love rides on<br +/> + Is lighter than the wind;<br /> +Wi siller he is shod before<br /> + Wi burning gowd behind.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Janet has kilted her green kirtle<br /> + A little aboon her knee,<br /> +And she has snooded her yellow hair<br /> + A little aboon her bree,<br /> +And she’s awa’ to Carterhaugh,<br /> + As fast as she can hie.</p> +<p class="poetry">When she cam to Carterhaugh,<br /> + Tam Lin was at the well,<br /> +And there she fand his steed standing,<br /> + But away was himsel.</p> +<p class="poetry">She had na pu’d a double rose,<br /> + A rose but only twa,<br /> +Till up then started young Tam Lin,<br /> + Says, “Lady, thou pu’s nae mae.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Why pu’s thou the rose, Janet,<br +/> + Amang the groves sae green,<br /> +And a’ to kill the bonie babe<br /> + That we gat us between?”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +13</span>“O tell me, tell me, Tam Lin,” she says,<br +/> + “For’s sake that died on tree,<br /> +If eer ye was in holy chapel,<br /> + Or christendom did see?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Roxbrugh he was my grandfather,<br /> + Took me with him to bide,<br /> +And ance it fell upon a day<br /> + That wae did me betide.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And ance it fell upon a day,<br /> + A cauld day and a snell,<br /> +When we were frae the hunting come,<br /> + That frae my horse I fell;<br /> +The Queen o Fairies she caught me,<br /> + In yon green hill to dwell.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And pleasant is the fairy land,<br /> + But, an eerie tale to tell,<br /> +Ay at the end of seven years<br /> + We pay a tiend to hell;<br /> +I am sae fair and fu’ o flesh<br /> + I’m feared it be mysel.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But the night is Halloween, lady,<br /> + The morn is Hallowday;<br /> +Then win me, win me, an ye will,<br /> + For weel I wat ye may.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Just at the mirk and midnight hour<br /> + The fairy folk will ride,<br /> +And they that wad their true love win,<br /> + At Miles Cross they maun bide.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“But how shall I thee ken, Tam Lin,<br /> + Or how my true-love know,<br /> +Amang sae mony unco knights<br /> + The like I never saw?”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +14</span>“O first let pass the black, lady,<br /> + And syne let pass the brown,<br /> +But quickly run to the milk-white steed,<br /> + Pu ye his rider down.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For I’ll ride on the milk-white +steed,<br /> + And ay nearest the town;<br /> +Because I was an earthly knight<br /> + They gie me that renown.</p> +<p class="poetry">“My right hand will be gloyd, lady,<br /> + My left hand will be bare,<br /> +Cockt up shall my bonnet be,<br /> + And kaimd down shall my hair;<br /> +And thae’s the takens I gie thee,<br /> + Nae doubt I will be there.</p> +<p class="poetry">“They’ll turn me in your arms, +lady,<br /> + Into an esk and adder;<br /> +But hold me fast, and fear me not,<br /> + I am your bairn’s father.</p> +<p class="poetry">“They’ll turn me to a bear sae +grim,<br /> + And then a lion bold;<br /> +But hold me fast, and fear me not,<br /> + As ye shall love your child.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Again they’ll turn me in your +arms<br /> + To a red het gaud of airn;<br /> +But hold me fast, and fear me not,<br /> + I’ll do to you nae harm.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And last they’ll turn me in your +arms<br /> + Into the burning gleed;<br /> +Then throw me into well water,<br /> + O throw me in wi speed.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And then I’ll be your ain +true-love,<br /> + I’ll turn a naked knight;<br /> +Then cover me wi your green mantle,<br /> + And cover me out o sight.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>Gloomy, gloomy was the night,<br /> + And eerie was the way,<br /> +As fair Jenny in her green mantle<br /> + To Miles Cross she did gae.</p> +<p class="poetry">About the middle o’ the night<br /> + She heard the bridles ring;<br /> +This lady was as glad at that<br /> + As any earthly thing.</p> +<p class="poetry">First she let the black pass by,<br /> + And syne she let the brown;<br /> +But quickly she ran to the milk-white steed,<br /> + And pu’d the rider down,</p> +<p class="poetry">Sae weel she minded whae he did say,<br /> + And young Tam Lin did win;<br /> +Syne coverd him wi her green mantle,<br /> + As blythe’s a bird in spring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Out then spak the Queen o Fairies,<br /> + Out of a bush o broom:<br /> +“Them that has gotten young Tam Lin<br /> + Has gotten a stately groom.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Out then spak the Queen o Fairies,<br /> + And an angry woman was she;<br /> +“Shame betide her ill-far’d face,<br /> + And an ill death may she die,<br /> +For she’s taen awa the bonniest knight<br /> + In a’ my companie.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But had I kend, Tam Lin,” she +says,<br /> + “What now this night I see,<br /> +I wad hae taen out thy twa grey e’en,<br /> + And put in twa een o tree.”</p> +<h2><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>THOMAS +THE RHYMER</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, Part II., p. +317.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">True</span> Thomas lay on +Huntlie bank;<br /> + A ferlie he spied wi’ his ee;<br /> +And there he saw a lady bright,<br /> + Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her skirt was o the grass-green silk,<br /> + Her mantle o the velvet fyne,<br /> +At ilka tett of her horse’s mane<br /> + Hang fifty siller bells and nine.</p> +<p class="poetry">True Thomas he pulld aff his cap,<br /> + And louted low down to his knee:<br /> +“All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!<br /> + For thy peer on earth I never did see.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O no, O no, Thomas,” she said,<br +/> + “That name does not belang to me;<br /> +I am but the queen of fair Elfland,<br /> + That am hither come to visit thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Harp and carp, Thomas,” she +said,<br /> + “Harp and carp, along wi’ me,<br /> +And if ye dare to kiss my lips,<br /> + Sure of your bodie I will be!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Betide me weal, betide me woe,<br /> + That weird sall never daunton me;<br /> +Syne he has kissed her rosy lips,<br /> + All underneath the Eildon Tree.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>“Now, ye maun go wi me,” she said,<br /> + “True Thomas, ye maun go wi me,<br /> +And ye maun serve me seven years,<br /> + Thro weal or woe as may chance to be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She mounted on her milk-white steed,<br /> + She’s taen True Thomas up behind,<br /> +And aye wheneer her bride rung,<br /> + The steed flew swifter than the wind.</p> +<p class="poetry">O they rade on, and farther on—<br /> + The steed gaed swifter than the wind—<br /> +Until they reached a desart wide,<br /> + And living land was left behind.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Light down, light down, now, True +Thomas,<br /> + And lean your head upon my knee;<br /> +Abide and rest a little space,<br /> + And I will shew you ferlies three.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O see ye not yon narrow road,<br /> + So thick beset with thorns and briers?<br /> +That is the path of righteousness,<br /> + Tho after it but few enquires.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And see ye not that braid braid road,<br +/> + That lies across that lily leven?<br /> +That is the path of wickedness,<br /> + Tho some call it the road to heaven.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And see not ye that bonny road,<br /> + That winds about the fernie brae?<br /> +That is the road to fair Elfland,<br /> + Where thou and I this night maun gae.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But, Thomas, ye maun hold your +tongue,<br /> + Whatever ye may hear or see,<br /> +For, if you speak word in Elflyn land,<br /> + Ye’ll neer get back to your ain +countrie.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>O they rade on, and farther on,<br /> + And they waded thro rivers aboon the knee,<br /> +And they saw neither sun nor moon,<br /> + But they heard the roaring of the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern +light,<br /> + And they waded thro red blude to the knee;<br /> +For a’ the blude that’s shed an earth<br /> + Rins thro the springs o that countrie.</p> +<p class="poetry">Syne they came on to a garden green,<br /> + And she pu’d an apple frae a tree:<br /> +“Take this for thy wages, True Thomas,<br /> + It will give the tongue that can never +lie.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“My tongue is mine ain,” True +Thomas said,<br /> + “A gudely gift ye wad gie me!<br /> +I neither dought to buy nor sell,<br /> + At fair or tryst where I may be.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I dought neither speak to prince or +peer,<br /> + Nor ask of grace from fair ladye:”<br /> +“Now hold thy peace,” the lady said,<br /> + “For as I say, so must it be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,<br /> + And a pair of shoes of velvet green,<br /> +And till seven years were gane and past<br /> + True Thomas on earth was never seen.</p> +<h2><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +19</span>“SIR HUGH; OR THE JEW’S DAUGHTER”</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. v.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Four-and-twenty</span> +bonny boys<br /> + Were playing at the ba,<br /> +And by it came him sweet Sir Hugh,<br /> + And he playd o’er them a’.</p> +<p class="poetry">He kickd the ba with his right foot<br /> + And catchd it wi his knee,<br /> +And throuch-and-thro the Jew’s window<br /> + He gard the bonny ba flee.</p> +<p class="poetry">He’s doen him to the Jew’s +castell<br /> + And walkd it round about;<br /> +And there he saw the Jew’s daughter,<br /> + At the window looking out.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Throw down the ba, ye Jew’s +daughter,<br /> + Throw down the ba to me!”<br /> +“Never a bit,” says the Jew’s daughter,<br /> + “Till up to me come ye.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“How will I come up? How can I come +up?<br /> + How can I come to thee?<br /> +For as ye did to my auld father,<br /> + The same ye’ll do to me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s gane till her father’s +garden,<br /> + And pu’d an apple red and green;<br /> +’Twas a’ to wyle him sweet Sir Hugh,<br /> + And to entice him in.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>She’s led him in through ae dark door,<br /> + And sae has she thro nine;<br /> +She’s laid him on a dressing-table,<br /> + And stickit him like a swine.</p> +<p class="poetry">And first came out the thick, thick blood,<br +/> + And syne came out the thin;<br /> +And syne came out the bonny heart’s blood;<br /> + There was nae mair within.</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s rowd him in a cake o lead,<br /> + Bade him lie still and sleep;<br /> +She’s thrown him in Our Lady’s draw-well,<br /> + Was fifty fathom deep.</p> +<p class="poetry">When bells were rung, and mass was sung,<br /> + And a’ the bairns came hame,<br /> +When every lady gat hame her son,<br /> + The Lady Maisry gat nane.</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s taen her mantle her about,<br /> + Her coffer by the hand,<br /> +And she’s gane out to seek her son,<br /> + And wandered o’er the land.</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s doen her to the Jew’s +castell,<br /> + Where a’ were fast asleep:<br /> +“Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,<br /> + I pray you to me speak.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,<br +/> + Prepare my winding-sheet,<br /> +And at the back o merry Lincoln<br /> + The morn I will you meet.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Lady Maisry is gane hame,<br /> + Make him a winding-sheet,<br /> +And at the back o merry Lincoln,<br /> + The dead corpse did her meet.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>And a the bells o merry Lincoln<br /> + Without men’s hands were rung,<br /> +And a’ the books o merry Lincoln<br /> + Were read without man’s tongue,<br /> +And neer was such a burial<br /> + Sin Adam’s days begun.</p> +<h2><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>SON +DAVIE! SON DAVIE!</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Mackay</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">What</span> +bluid’s that on thy coat lap?<br /> + Son Davie! Son Davie!<br /> +What bluid’s that on thy coat lap?<br /> + And the truth come tell to me, O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It is the bluid of my great hawk,<br /> + Mother lady, Mother lady!<br /> +It is the bluid of my great hawk,<br /> + And the truth I hae tald to thee, O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Hawk’s bluid was ne’er sae +red,<br /> + Son Davie! Son Davie!<br /> +Hawk’s bluid was ne’er sae red,<br /> + And the truth come tell to me, O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It is the bluid of my grey hound,<br /> + Mother lady! Mother lady!<br /> +It is the bluid of my grey hound,<br /> + And it wudna rin for me, O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Hound’s bluid was ne’er sae +red,<br /> + Son Davie! Son Davie!<br /> +Hound’s bluid was ne’er sae red,<br /> + And the truth come tell to me, O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It is the bluid o’ my brother +John,<br /> + Mother lady! Mother lady!<br /> +It is the bluid o’ my brother John,<br /> + And the truth I hae tald to thee, O.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span>“What about did the plea begin?<br /> + Son Davie! Son Davie!”<br /> +“It began about the cutting o’ a willow wand,<br /> + That would never hae been a tree, O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“What death dost thou desire to die?<br +/> + Son Davie! Son Davie!<br /> +What death dost thou desire to die?<br /> + And the truth come tell to me, O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’ll set my foot in a bottomless +ship,<br /> + Mother lady! mother lady!<br /> +I’ll set my foot in a bottomless ship,<br /> + And ye’ll never see mair o’ me, +O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“What wilt thou leave to thy poor +wife?<br /> + Son Davie! Son Davie!”<br /> +“Grief and sorrow all her life,<br /> + And she’ll never get mair frae me, +O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“What wilt thou leave to thy young +son?<br /> + Son Davie! son Davie!”<br /> +“The weary warld to wander up and down,<br /> + And he’ll never get mair o’ me, +O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“What wilt thou leave to thy mother +dear?<br /> + Son Davie! Son Davie!”<br /> +“A fire o’ coals to burn her wi’ hearty +cheer,<br /> + And she’ll never get mair o’ me, +O.”</p> +<h2><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>THE +WIFE OF USHER’S WELL</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. iii.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> lived a wife +at Usher’s Well,<br /> + And a wealthy wife was she;<br /> +She had three stout and stalwart sons,<br /> + And sent them oer the sea,</p> +<p class="poetry">They hadna been a week from her,<br /> + A week but barely ane,<br /> +When word came to the carline wife<br /> + That her three sons were gane.</p> +<p class="poetry">They hadna been a week from her,<br /> + A week but barely three,<br /> +Whan word came to the carlin wife<br /> + That her sons she’d never see.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I wish the wind may never cease,<br /> + Nor fashes in the flood,<br /> +Till my three sons come hame to me,<br /> + In earthly flesh and blood!”</p> +<p class="poetry">It fell about the Martinmass,<br /> + Whan nights are lang and mirk,<br /> +The carline wife’s three sons came hame,<br /> + And their hats were o the birk.</p> +<p class="poetry">It neither grew in syke nor ditch,<br /> + Nor yet in ony sheugh;<br /> +But at the gates o Paradise<br /> + That birk grew fair eneugh.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +25</span>“Blow up the fire, my maidens!<br /> + Bring water from the well;<br /> +For a’ my house shall feast this night,<br /> + Since my three sons are well.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And she has made to them a bed,<br /> + She’s made it large and wide;<br /> +And she’s taen her mantle her about,<br /> + Sat down at the bedside.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Up then crew the red, red cock,<br /> + And up and crew the gray;<br /> +The eldest to the youngest said,<br /> + “’Tis time we were away.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The cock he hadna crawd but once,<br /> + And clapp’d his wings at a’,<br /> +Whan the youngest to the eldest said,<br /> + “Brother, we must awa.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,<br +/> + The channerin worm doth chide;<br /> +Gin we be mist out o our place,<br /> + A sair pain we maun bide.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Fare ye weel, my mother dear!<br /> + Fareweel to barn and byre!<br /> +And fare ye weel, the bonny lass<br /> + That kindles my mother’s fire!”</p> +<h2><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>THE +TWA CORBIES</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. i.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> I was walking all +alane,<br /> +I heard twa corbies making a mane;<br /> +The tane unto the t’other say,<br /> +“Where sall we gang and dine the day?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“In behint yon auld fail dyke,<br /> +I wot there lies a new-slain knight;<br /> +And naebody kens that he lies there<br /> +But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">“His hound is to the hunting gane,<br /> +His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,<br /> +His lady’s ta’en another mate,<br /> +So we may make our dinner sweet.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye’ll sit on his white +hause-bane,<br /> +And I’ll pike out his bonny blue een;<br /> +Wi ae lock o his gowden hair<br /> +We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Mony a one for him makes mane,<br /> +But nane sall ken whae he is gane,<br /> +Oer his white banes, when they are bare,<br /> +The wind sall blaw for evermair.”</p> +<h2><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>THE +BONNIE EARL MORAY</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. vi.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center">A.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ye</span> Highlands, and ye +Lawlands<br /> + Oh where have you been?<br /> +They have slain the Earl of Murray,<br /> + And they layd him on the green.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now wae be to thee, Huntly!<br /> + And wherefore did you sae?<br /> +I bade you bring him wi you,<br /> + But forbade you him to slay.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He was a braw gallant,<br /> + And he rid at the ring;<br /> +And the bonny Earl of Murray,<br /> + Oh he might have been a King!</p> +<p class="poetry">He was a braw gallant,<br /> + And he playd at the ba;<br /> +And the bonny Earl of Murray,<br /> + Was the flower amang them a’.</p> +<p class="poetry">He was a braw gallant,<br /> + And he playd at the glove;<br /> +And the bonny Earl of Murray,<br /> + Oh he was the Queen’s love!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh lang will his lady<br /> + Look oer the castle Down,<br /> +Eer she see the Earl of Murray<br /> + Come sounding thro the town!<br /> + Eer she, etc.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page28"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 28</span>B.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Open the gates<br /> + and let him come in;<br /> +He is my brother Huntly,<br /> + he’ll do him nae harm.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The gates they were opent,<br /> + they let him come in,<br /> +But fause traitor Huntly,<br /> + he did him great harm.</p> +<p class="poetry">He’s ben and ben,<br /> + and ben to his bed,<br /> +And with a sharp rapier<br /> + he stabbed him dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lady came down the stair,<br /> + wringing her hands:<br /> +“He has slain the Earl o Murray,<br /> + the flower o Scotland.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But Huntly lap on his horse,<br /> + rade to the King:<br /> +“Ye’re welcome hame, Huntly,<br /> + and whare hae ye been?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Where hae ye been?<br /> + and how hae ye sped?”<br /> +“I’ve killed the Earl o Murray<br /> + dead in his bed.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Foul fa you, Huntly!<br /> + and why did ye so?<br /> +You might have taen the Earl o Murray,<br /> + and saved his life too.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>“Her bread it’s to bake,<br /> + her yill is to brew;<br /> +My sister’s a widow,<br /> + and sair do I rue.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Her corn grows ripe,<br /> + her meadows grow green,<br /> +But in bonnie Dinnibristle<br /> + I darena be seen.”</p> +<h2><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>CLERK +SAUNDERS</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. iii.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Clerk Saunders</span> and +may Margaret<br /> + Walked ower yon garden green;<br /> +And sad and heavy was the love<br /> + That fell thir twa between.</p> +<p class="poetry">“A bed, a bed,” Clerk Saunders +said,<br /> + “A bed for you and me!”<br /> +“Fye na, fye na,” said may Margaret,<br /> + “’Till anes we married be.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For in may come my seven bauld +brothers,<br /> + Wi’ torches burning bright;<br /> +They’ll say,—‘We hae but ae sister,<br /> + And behold she’s wi a +knight!’”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Then take the sword frae my scabbard,<br +/> + And slowly lift the pin;<br /> +And you may swear, and save your aith.<br /> + Ye never let Clerk Saunders in.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And take a napkin in your hand,<br /> + And tie up baith your bonny e’en,<br /> +And you may swear, and save your aith,<br /> + Ye saw me na since late yestreen.”</p> +<p class="poetry">It was about the midnight hour,<br /> + When they asleep were laid,<br /> +When in and came her seven brothers,<br /> + Wi’ torches burning red.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>When in and came her seven brothers,<br /> + Wi’ torches burning bright:<br /> +They said, “We hae but ae sister,<br /> + And behold her lying with a knight!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out and spake the first o’ them,<br +/> + “I bear the sword shall gar him die!”<br +/> +And out and spake the second o’ them,<br /> + “His father has nae mair than he!”</p> +<p class="poetry">And out and spake the third o’ them,<br +/> + “I wot that they are lovers dear!”<br /> +And out and spake the fourth o’ them,<br /> + “They hae been in love this mony a +year!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out and spake the fifth o’ them,<br +/> + “It were great sin true love to +twain!”<br /> +And out and spake the sixth o’ them,<br /> + “It were shame to slay a sleeping +man!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up and gat the seventh o’ them,<br +/> + And never a word spake he;<br /> +But he has striped his bright brown brand<br /> + Out through Clerk Saunders’ fair bodye.</p> +<p class="poetry">Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she +turned<br /> + Into his arms as asleep she lay;<br /> +And sad and silent was the night<br /> + That was atween thir twae.</p> +<p class="poetry">And they lay still and sleeped sound<br /> + Until the day began to daw;<br /> +And kindly to him she did say,<br /> + “It is time, true love, you were +awa’.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But he lay still, and sleeped sound,<br /> + Albeit the sun began to sheen;<br /> +She looked atween her and the wa’,<br /> + And dull and drowsie were his e’en.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>Then in and came her father dear;<br /> + Said,—“Let a’ your mourning be:<br +/> +I’ll carry the dead corpse to the clay,<br /> + And I’ll come back and comfort +thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Comfort weel your seven sons;<br /> + For comforted will I never be:<br /> +I ween ’twas neither knave nor loon<br /> + Was in the bower last night wi’ me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The clinking bell gaed through the town,<br /> + To carry the dead corse to the clay;<br /> +And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret’s window,<br /> + I wot, an hour before the day.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Are ye sleeping, Margaret?” he +says,<br /> + “Or are ye waking presentlie?<br /> +Give me my faith and troth again,<br /> + I wot, true love, I gied to thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Your faith and troth ye sall never +get,<br /> + Nor our true love sall never twin,<br /> +Until ye come within my bower,<br /> + And kiss me cheik and chin.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“My mouth it is full cold, Margaret,<br +/> + It has the smell, now, of the ground;<br /> +And if I kiss thy comely mouth,<br /> + Thy days of life will not be lang.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O, cocks are crowing a merry +midnight,<br /> + I wot the wild fowls are boding day;<br /> +Give me my faith and troth again,<br /> + And let me fare me on my way.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Thy faith and troth thou sall na get,<br +/> + And our true love sall never twin,<br /> +Until ye tell what comes of women,<br /> + I wot, who die in strong traivelling?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>“Their beds are made in the heavens high,<br /> + Down at the foot of our good lord’s knee,<br +/> +Weel set about wi’ gillyflowers;<br /> + I wot, sweet company for to see.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O, cocks are crowing a merry +midnight,<br /> + I wot the wild fowl are boding day;<br /> +The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,<br /> + And I, ere now, will be missed away.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then she has ta’en a crystal wand,<br /> + And she has stroken her troth thereon;<br /> +She has given it him out at the shot-window,<br /> + Wi’ mony a sad sigh, and heavy groan.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I thank ye, Marg’ret, I thank ye, +Marg’ret;<br /> + And aye I thank ye heartilie;<br /> +Gin ever the dead come for the quick,<br /> + Be sure, Mag’ret, I’ll come for +thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">It’s hosen and shoon, and gown alone,<br +/> + She climb’d the wall, and followed him,<br /> +Until she came to the green forest,<br /> + And there she lost the sight o’ him.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Is there ony room at your head, +Saunders?<br /> + Is there ony room at your feet?<br /> +Is there ony room at your side, Saunders,<br /> + Where fain, fain I wad sleep?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“There’s nae room at my head, +Marg’ret,<br /> + There’s nae room at my feet;<br /> +My bed it is full lowly now,<br /> + Amang the hungry worms I sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Cauld mould is my covering now,<br /> + But and my winding-sheet;<br /> +The dew it falls nae sooner down<br /> + Than my resting-place is weet.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +34</span>“But plait a wand o’ bonnie birk,<br /> + And lay it on my breast;<br /> +And shed a tear upon my grave,<br /> + And wish my saul gude rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And fair Marg’ret, and rare +Marg’ret,<br /> + And Marg’ret, o’ veritie,<br /> +Gin ere ye love another man,<br /> + Ne’er love him as ye did me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up and crew the milk-white cock,<br /> + And up and crew the gray;<br /> +Her lover vanish’d in the air,<br /> + And she gaed weeping away.</p> +<h2><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>WALY, +WALY</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Mackay</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">waly</span>, waly, up the +bank,<br /> + O waly, waly, down the brae.<br /> +And waly, waly, yon burn side,<br /> + Where I and my love wont to gae.<br /> +I leaned my back unto an aik,<br /> + An’ thocht it was a trustie tree,<br /> +But first it bow’d and syne it brak,<br /> + Sae my true love did lichtly me.</p> +<p class="poetry">O waly, waly, but love is bonnie<br /> + A little time while it is new,<br /> +But when it’s auld it waxes cauld,<br /> + And fades away like morning dew.<br /> +O wherefore should I busk my head,<br /> + O wherefore should I kame my hair,<br /> +For my true love has me forsook,<br /> + And says he’ll never love me mair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Arthur’s Seat shall be my bed,<br /> + The sheets shall ne’er be pressed by me,<br /> +St. Anton’s well shall be my drink,<br /> + Since my true love has forsaken me.<br /> +Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,<br /> + And shake the green leaves off the tree!<br /> +O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?<br /> + For of my life I am wearie!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>’Tis not the frost that freezes fell,<br /> + Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie,<br /> +’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,<br /> + But my love’s heart’s grown cauld to +me.<br /> +When we came in by Glasgow toun<br /> + We were a comely sicht to see;<br /> +My love was clad in the black velvet,<br /> + And I mysel in cramasie.</p> +<p class="poetry">But had I wist before I kist<br /> + That love had been sae ill to win,<br /> +I’d locked my heart in a case of gold,<br /> + And pinned it wi’ a siller pin.<br /> +Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,<br /> + And set upon the nurse’s knee;<br /> +And I myself were dead and gane,<br /> + And the green grass growing over me!</p> +<h2><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>LOVE +GREGOR; OR, THE LASS OF LOCHROYAN</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, Part III., p. +220.)</p> +<p class="poetry">“O <span class="smcap">wha</span> will +shoe my fu’ fair foot?<br /> + And wha will glove my hand?<br /> +And wha will lace my middle jimp,<br /> + Wi’ the new-made London band?</p> +<p class="poetry">“And wha will kaim my yellow hair,<br /> + Wi’ the new made silver kaim?<br /> +And wha will father my young son,<br /> + Till Love Gregor come hame?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Your father will shoe your fu’ +fair foot,<br /> + Your mother will glove your hand;<br /> +Your sister will lace your middle jimp<br /> + Wi’ the new-made London band.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Your brother will kaim your yellow +hair,<br /> + Wi’ the new made silver kaim;<br /> +And the king of heaven will father your bairn,<br /> + Till Love Gregor come haim.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“But I will get a bonny boat,<br /> + And I will sail the sea,<br /> +For I maun gang to Love Gregor,<br /> + Since he canno come hame to me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O she has gotten a bonny boat,<br /> + And sailld the sa’t sea fame;<br /> +She langd to see her ain true-love,<br /> + Since he could no come hame.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>“O row your boat, my mariners,<br /> + And bring me to the land,<br /> +For yonder I see my love’s castle,<br /> + Close by the sa’t sea strand.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She has ta’en her young son in her +arms,<br /> + And to the door she’s gone,<br /> +And lang she’s knocked and sair she ca’d,<br /> + But answer got she none.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O open the door, Love Gregor,” she +says,<br /> + “O open, and let me in;<br /> +For the wind blaws thro’ my yellow hair,<br /> + And the rain draps o’er my chin.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Awa, awa, ye ill woman,<br /> + You’r nae come here for good;<br /> +You’r but some witch, or wile warlock,<br /> + Or mer-maid of the flood.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I am neither a witch nor a wile +warlock,<br /> + Nor mer-maid of the sea,<br /> +I am Fair Annie of Rough Royal;<br /> + O open the door to me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gin ye be Annie of Rough Royal—<br +/> + And I trust ye are not she—<br /> +Now tell me some of the love-tokens<br /> + That past between you and me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O dinna you mind now, Love Gregor,<br /> + When we sat at the wine,<br /> +How we changed the rings frae our fingers?<br /> + And I can show thee thine.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O yours was good, and good enough,<br /> + But ay the best was mine;<br /> +For yours was o’ the good red goud,<br /> + But mine o’ the diamonds fine.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span>“But open the door now, Love Gregor,<br /> + O open the door I pray,<br /> +For your young son that is in my arms<br /> + Will be dead ere it be day.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Awa, awa, ye ill woman,<br /> + For here ye shanno win in;<br /> +Gae drown ye in the raging sea,<br /> + Or hang on the gallows-pin.”</p> +<p class="poetry">When the cock had crawn, and day did dawn,<br +/> + And the sun began to peep,<br /> +Then up he rose him, Love Gregor,<br /> + And sair, sair did he weep.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O I dreamd a dream, my mother dear,<br +/> + The thoughts o’ it gars me greet,<br /> +That Fair Annie of Rough Royal<br /> + Lay cauld dead at my feet.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gin it be for Annie of Rough Royal<br /> + That ye make a’ this din,<br /> +She stood a’ last night at this door,<br /> + But I trow she wan no in.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O wae betide ye, ill woman,<br /> + An ill dead may ye die!<br /> +That ye woudno open the door to her,<br /> + Nor yet woud waken me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O he has gone down to yon shore-side,<br /> + As fast as he could fare;<br /> +He saw Fair Annie in her boat,<br /> + But the wind it tossd her sair.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +40</span>And “Hey, Annie!” and “How, Annie!<br +/> + O Annie, winna ye bide?”<br /> +But ay the mair that he cried “Annie,”<br /> + The braider grew the tide.</p> +<p class="poetry">And “Hey, Annie!” and “How, +Annie!<br /> + Dear Annie, speak to me!”<br /> +But ay the louder he cried “Annie,”<br /> + The louder roard the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough,<br /> + And dashd the boat on shore;<br /> +Fair Annie floats on the raging sea,<br /> + But her young son rose no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">Love Gregor tare his yellow hair,<br /> + And made a heavy moan;<br /> +Fair Annie’s corpse lay at his feet,<br /> + But his bonny young son was gone.</p> +<p class="poetry">O cherry, cherry was her cheek,<br /> + And gowden was her hair,<br /> +But clay cold were her rosey lips,<br /> + Nae spark of life was there,</p> +<p class="poetry">And first he’s kissd her cherry cheek,<br +/> + And neist he’s kissed her chin;<br /> +And saftly pressd her rosey lips,<br /> + But there was nae breath within.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O wae betide my cruel mother,<br /> + And an ill dead may she die!<br /> +For she turnd my true-love frae my door,<br /> + When she came sae far to me.”</p> +<h2><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>THE +QUEEN’S MARIE</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"> (<i>Child</i>, +vi., <i>Border Minstrelsy</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Marie +Hamilton’s</span> to the kirk gane,<br /> + Wi ribbons in her hair;<br /> +The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,<br /> + Than ony that were there.</p> +<p class="poetry">Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane,<br /> + Wi ribbons on her breast;<br /> +The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,<br /> + Than he listend to the priest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane,<br /> + Wi gloves upon her hands;<br /> +The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,<br /> + Than the queen and a’ her lands.</p> +<p class="poetry">She hadna been about the king’s court<br +/> + A month, but barely one,<br /> +Till she was beloved by a’ the king’s court,<br /> + And the king the only man.</p> +<p class="poetry">She hadna been about the king’s court<br +/> + A month, but barely three,<br /> +Till frae the king’s court Marie Hamilton,<br /> + Marie Hamilton durst na be.</p> +<p class="poetry">The king is to the Abbey gane,<br /> + To pu the Abbey tree,<br /> +To scale the babe frae Marie’s heart;<br /> + But the thing it wadna be.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>O she has rowd it in her apron,<br /> + And set it on the sea:<br /> +“Gae sink ye, or swim ye, bonny babe,<br /> + Ye’s get na mair o me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Word is to the kitchen gane,<br /> + And word is to the ha,<br /> +And word is to the noble room,<br /> + Amang the ladyes a’,<br /> +That Marie Hamilton’s brought to bed,<br /> + And the bonny babe’s mist and awa.</p> +<p class="poetry">Scarcely had she lain down again,<br /> + And scarcely faen asleep,<br /> +When up then started our gude queen,<br /> + Just at her bed-feet,<br /> +Saying “Marie Hamilton, where’s your babe?<br /> + For I am sure I heard it greet.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O no, O no, my noble queen!<br /> + Think no such thing to be!<br /> +’Twas but a stitch into my side,<br /> + And sair it troubles me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton,<br /> + Get up, and follow me,<br /> +For I am going to Edinburgh town,<br /> + A rich wedding for to see.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O slowly, slowly raise she up,<br /> + And slowly put she on;<br /> +And slowly rode she out the way,<br /> + Wi mony a weary groan.</p> +<p class="poetry">The queen was clad in scarlet,<br /> + Her merry maids all in green;<br /> +And every town that they cam to,<br /> + They took Marie for the queen.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>“Ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen,<br /> + Ride hooly now wi’ me!<br /> +For never, I am sure, a wearier burd<br /> + Rade in your cumpanie.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But little wist Marie Hamilton,<br /> + When she rade on the brown,<br /> +That she was ga’en to Edinburgh town,<br /> + And a’ to be put down.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Why weep ye so, ye burgess-wives,<br /> + Why look ye so on me?<br /> +O, I am going to Edinburgh town,<br /> + A rich wedding for to see!”</p> +<p class="poetry">When she gaed up the Tolbooth stairs,<br /> + The corks frae her heels did flee;<br /> +And lang or eer she cam down again,<br /> + She was condemned to die.</p> +<p class="poetry">When she cam to the Netherbow Port,<br /> + She laughed loud laughters three;<br /> +But when she cam to the gallows-foot,<br /> + The tears blinded her ee.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yestreen the queen had four Maries,<br +/> + The night she’ll hae but three;<br /> +There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaten,<br /> + And Marie Carmichael, and me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O, often have I dressd my queen,<br /> + And put gold upon her hair;<br /> +But now I’ve gotten for my reward<br /> + The gallows to be my share.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Often have I dressd my queen,<br /> + And often made her bed:<br /> +But now I’ve gotten for my reward<br /> + The gallows-tree to tread.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>“I charge ye all, ye mariners,<br /> + When ye sail ower the faem,<br /> +Let neither my father nor mother get wit,<br /> + But that I’m coming hame.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I charge ye all, ye mariners,<br /> + That sail upon the sea,<br /> +Let neither my father nor mother get wit,<br /> + This dog’s death I’m to die.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For if my father and mother got wit,<br +/> + And my bold brethren three,<br /> +O mickle wad be the gude red blude,<br /> + This day wad be spilt for me!</p> +<p class="poetry">“O little did my mother ken,<br /> + The day she cradled me,<br /> +The lands I was to travel in,<br /> + Or the death I was to die!”</p> +<h2><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>KINMONT WILLIE</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. vi.)</p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">have</span> ye na heard o +the fause Sakelde?<br /> + O have ye na heard o the keen Lord Scroop?<br /> +How they hae taen bauld Kinmont Willie,<br /> + On Hairibee to hang him up?</p> +<p class="poetry">Had Willie had but twenty men,<br /> + But twenty men as stout as be,<br /> +Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont taen<br /> + Wi eight score in his companie.</p> +<p class="poetry">They band his legs beneath the steed,<br /> + They tied his hands behind his back;<br /> +They guarded him, fivesome on each side,<br /> + And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.</p> +<p class="poetry">They led him thro the Liddel-rack.<br /> + And also thro the Carlisle sands;<br /> +They brought him to Carlisle castell.<br /> + To be at my Lord Scroope’s commands.</p> +<p class="poetry">“My hands are tied; but my tongue is +free,<br /> + And whae will dare this deed avow?<br /> +Or answer by the border law?<br /> + Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now haud thy tongue, thou rank +reiver!<br /> + There’s never a Scot shall set ye free:<br /> +Before ye cross my castle-yate,<br /> + I trow ye shall take farewell o me.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +46</span>“Fear na ye that, my lord,” quo Willie:<br +/> + “By the faith o my body, Lord Scroope,” +he said,<br /> +“I never yet lodged in a hostelrie—<br /> + But I paid my lawing before I gaed.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper,<br /> + In Branksome Ha where that he lay,<br /> +That Lord Scroope has taen the Kinmont Willie,<br /> + Between the hours of night and day.</p> +<p class="poetry">He has taen the table wi his hand,<br /> + He garrd the red wine spring on hie;<br /> +“Now Christ’s curse on my head,” he said,<br /> + “But avenged of Lord Scroope I’ll +be!</p> +<p class="poetry">“O is my basnet a widow’s curch?<br +/> + Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree?<br /> +Or my arm a lady’s lilye hand,<br /> + That an English lord should lightly me?</p> +<p class="poetry">“And have they taen him, Kinmont +Willie,<br /> + Against the truce of Border tide?<br /> +And forgotten that the bauld Bacleuch<br /> + Is keeper here on the Scottish side?</p> +<p class="poetry">“And have they een taen him, Kinmont +Willie,<br /> + Withouten either dread or fear,<br /> +And forgotten that the bauld Bacleuch<br /> + Can back a steed, or shake a spear?</p> +<p class="poetry">“O were there war between the lands,<br +/> + As well I wot that there is none,<br /> +I would slight Carlisle castell high,<br /> + Tho it were builded of marble stone.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +47</span>“I would set that castell in a low,<br /> + And sloken it with English blood;<br /> +There’s nevir a man in Cumberland<br /> + Should ken where Carlisle castell stood.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But since nae war’s between the +lands,<br /> + And there is peace, and peace should be;<br /> +I’ll neither harm English lad or lass,<br /> + And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!”</p> +<p class="poetry">He has calld him forty marchmen bauld,<br /> + I trow they were of his ain name,<br /> +Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, calld<br /> + The Laird of Stobs, I mean the same.</p> +<p class="poetry">He has calld him forty marchmen bauld,<br /> + Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch,<br /> +With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,<br /> + And gleuves of green, and feathers blue.</p> +<p class="poetry">There were five and five before them +a’,<br /> + Wi hunting-horns and bugles bright;<br /> +And five and five came wi Buccleuch,<br /> + Like Warden’s men, arrayed for fight.</p> +<p class="poetry">And five and five, like a mason-gang,<br /> + That carried the ladders lang and hie;<br /> +And five and five, like broken men;<br /> + And so they reached the Woodhouselee.</p> +<p class="poetry">And as we crossd the Bateable Land,<br /> + When to the English side we held,<br /> +The first o men that we met wi,<br /> + Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Where be ye gaun, ye hunters +keen?”<br /> + Quo fause Sakelde; “come tell to me!”<br +/> +“We go to hunt an English stag,<br /> + Has trespassed on the Scots countrie.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +48</span>“Where be ye gaun, ye marshal-men?”<br /> + Quo fause Sakelde; “come tell me +true!”<br /> +“We go to catch a rank reiver,<br /> + Has broken faith wi the bauld Buccleuch.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Where are ye gaun, ye mason-lads,<br /> + Wi a’ your ladders lang and hie?”<br /> +“We gang to herry a corbie’s nest,<br /> + That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Where be ye gaun, ye broken +men?”<br /> + Quo fause Sakelde; “come tell to me?”<br +/> +Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,<br /> + And the nevir a word o lear had he.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Why trespass ye on the English side?<br +/> + Row-footed outlaws, stand!” quo he;<br /> +The neer a word had Dickie to say,<br /> + Sae he thrust the lance thro his fause bodie.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then on we held for Carlisle toun,<br /> + And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we crossd;<br /> +The water was great and meikle of spait,<br /> + But the nevir a horse nor man we lost.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when we reachd the Staneshaw-bank,<br /> + The wind was rising loud and hie;<br /> +And there the laird garrd leave our steeds,<br /> + For fear that they should stamp and nie.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when we left the Staneshaw-bank,<br /> + The wind began full loud to blaw;<br /> +But ’twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet,<br /> + When we came beneath the castell-wa.</p> +<p class="poetry">We crept on knees, and held our breath,<br /> + Till we placed the ladders against the wa;<br /> +And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell<br /> + To mount she first, before us a’.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +49</span>He has taen the watchman by the throat,<br /> + He flung him down upon the lead:<br /> +“Had there not been peace between our lands,<br /> + Upon the other side thou hadst gaed.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now sound out, trumpets!” quo +Buccleuch;<br /> + “Let’s waken Lord Scroope right +merrilie!”<br /> +Then loud the warden’s trumpet blew<br /> + “O whae dare meddle wi me?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then speedilie to wark we gaed,<br /> + And raised the slogan ane and a’,<br /> +And cut a hole through a sheet of lead,<br /> + And so we wan to the castel-ha.</p> +<p class="poetry">They thought King James and a’ his men<br +/> + Had won the house wi bow and speir;<br /> +It was but twenty Scots and ten<br /> + That put a thousand in sic a stear!</p> +<p class="poetry">Wi coulters, and wi fore-hammers,<br /> + We garrd the bars bang merrilie,<br /> +Until we came to the inner prison,<br /> + Where Willie o Kinmont he did lie.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when we came to the lower prison,<br /> + Where Willie o Kinmont he did lie,<br /> +“O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,<br /> + Upon the morn that thou’s to die?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O I sleep saft, and I wake aft,<br /> + It’s lang since sleeping was fley’d frae +me;<br /> +Gie my service back to my wyfe and bairns<br /> + And a’ gude fellows that speer for +me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Red Rowan has hente him up,<br /> + The starkest man in Teviotdale:<br /> +“Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,<br /> + Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>“Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope!<br /> + My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!” he cried;<br +/> +“I’ll pay you for my lodging-maill,<br /> + When first we meet on the border-side.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,<br /> + We bore him down the ladder lang;<br /> +At every stride Red Rowan made,<br /> + I wot the Kinmont’s airms playd clang!</p> +<p class="poetry">“O mony a time,” quo Kinmont +Willie.<br /> + “I have ridden horse baith wild and wood;<br +/> +But a rougher beast than Red Rowan,<br /> + I ween my legs have neer bestrode.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And mony a time,” quo Kinmont +Willie,<br /> + “I’ve pricked a horse out oure the +furs;<br /> +But since the day I backed a steed<br /> + I nevir wore sic cumbrous spurs!”</p> +<p class="poetry">We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,<br /> + When a’ the Carlisle bells were rung,<br /> +And a thousand men, in horse and foot,<br /> + Cam wi the keen Lord Scroope along.</p> +<p class="poetry">Buccleuch has turned to Eden Water,<br /> + Even where it flowd frae bank to brim,<br /> +And he has plunged in wi a’ his band,<br /> + And safely swam them thro the stream.</p> +<p class="poetry">He turned him on the other side,<br /> + And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he:<br /> +“If ye like na my visit in merry England,<br /> + In fair Scotland come visit me!”</p> +<p class="poetry">All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,<br /> + He stood as still as rock of stane;<br /> +He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,<br /> + When thro the water they had gane.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +51</span>“He is either himsell a devil frae hell,<br /> + Or else his mother a witch maun be;<br /> +I wad na have ridden that wan water<br /> + For a’ the gowd in Christentie.”</p> +<h2><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>JAMIE +TELFER</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. vi. Early +Edition.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> fell about the +Martinmas tyde,<br /> + When our Border steeds get corn and hay<br /> +The captain of Bewcastle hath bound him to ryde,<br /> + And he’s ower to Tividale to drive a prey.</p> +<p class="poetry">The first ae guide that they met wi’,<br +/> + It was high up Hardhaughswire;<br /> +The second guide that we met wi’,<br /> + It was laigh down in Borthwick water.</p> +<p class="poetry">“What tidings, what tidings, my trusty +guide?”<br /> + “Nae tidings, nae tidings, I hae to thee;<br +/> +But, gin ye’ll gae to the fair Dodhead,<br /> + Mony a cow’s cauf I’ll let thee +see.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And whan they cam to the fair Dodhead,<br /> + Right hastily they clam the peel;<br /> +They loosed the kye out, ane and a’,<br /> + And ranshackled the house right weel.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Jamie Telfer’s heart was sair,<br /> + The tear aye rowing in his e’e;<br /> +He pled wi’ the captain to hae his gear,<br /> + Or else revenged he wad be.</p> +<p class="poetry">The captain turned him round and leugh;<br /> + Said—“Man, there’s naething in thy +house,<br /> +But ae auld sword without a sheath,<br /> + That hardly now wad fell a mouse!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +53</span>The sun was na up, but the moon was down,<br /> + It was the gryming o’ a new fa’n +snaw,<br /> +Jamie Telfer has run three myles a-foot,<br /> + Between the Dodhead and the Stobs’s +Ha’</p> +<p class="poetry">And whan he cam to the fair tower yate,<br /> + He shouted loud, and cried weel hie,<br /> +Till out bespak auld Gibby Elliot—<br /> + “Wha’s this that brings the fraye to +me?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the +fair Dodhead,<br /> + And a harried man I think I be!<br /> +There’s naething left at the fair Dodhead,<br /> + But a waefu’ wife and bairnies three.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gae seek your succour at Branksome +Ha’.<br /> + For succour ye’se get nane frae me!<br /> +Gae seek your succour where ye paid black-mail,<br /> + For, man! ye ne’er paid money to +me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Jamie has turned him round about,<br /> + I wat the tear blinded his e’e—<br /> +“I’ll ne’er pay mail to Elliot again,<br /> + And the fair Dodhead I’ll never see!</p> +<p class="poetry">“My hounds may a’ rin +masterless,<br /> + My hawks may fly frae tree to tree;<br /> +My lord may grip my vassal lands,<br /> + For there again maun I never be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He has turned him to the Tiviot side,<br /> + E’en as fast as he could drie,<br /> +Till he came to the Coultart Cleugh<br /> + And there he shouted baith loud and hie.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up bespak him auld Jock Grieve—<br +/> + “Wha’s this that brings the fray to +me?”<br /> +“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead,<br +/> + A harried man I trow I be.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span>“There’s naething left in the fair +Dodhead,<br /> + But a greeting wife and bairnies three,<br /> +And sax poor câ’s stand in the sta’,<br /> + A’ routing loud for their minnie.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Alack a wae!” quo’ auld Jock +Grieve,<br /> + “Alack! my heart is sair for thee!<br /> +For I was married on the elder sister,<br /> + And you on the youngest of a’ the +three.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then he has ta’en out a bonny black,<br +/> + Was right weel fed wi’ corn and hay,<br /> +And he’s set Jamie Telfer on his back,<br /> + To the Catslockhill to tak’ the fray.</p> +<p class="poetry">And whan he cam to the Catslockhill,<br /> + He shouted loud and weel cried he,<br /> +Till out and spak him William’s Wat—<br /> + “O wha’s this brings the fraye to +me?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the +fair Dodhead,<br /> + A harried man I think I be!<br /> +The captain of Bewcastle has driven my gear;<br /> + For God’s sake rise, and succour +me!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Alas for wae!” quo’ +William’s Wat,<br /> + “Alack, for thee my heart is sair!<br /> +I never cam by the fair Dodhead,<br /> + That ever I fand thy basket bare.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He’s set his twa sons on coal-black +steeds,<br /> + Himsel’ upon a freckled gray,<br /> +And they are on wi, Jamie Telfer,<br /> + To Branksome Ha to tak the fray.</p> +<p class="poetry">And whan they cam to Branksome Ha’,<br /> + They shouted a’ baith loud and hie,<br /> +Till up and spak him auld Buccleuch,<br /> + Said—“Wha’s this brings the fray +to me?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair +Dodhead,<br /> + And a harried man I think I be!<br /> +There’s nought left in the fair Dodhead,<br /> + But a greeting wife and bairnies three.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Alack for wae!” quoth the gude +auld lord,<br /> + “And ever my heart is wae for thee!<br /> +But fye gar cry on Willie, my son,<br /> + And see that he come to me speedilie!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gar warn the water, braid and wide,<br +/> + Gar warn it soon and hastily!<br /> +They that winna ride for Telfer’s kye,<br /> + Let them never look in the face o’ me!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Warn Wat o’ Harden, and his +sons,<br /> + Wi’ them will Borthwick water ride;<br /> +Warn Gaudilands, and Allanhaugh,<br /> + And Gilmanscleugh, and Commonside.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire,<br +/> + And warn the Currors o’ the Lee;<br /> +As ye come down the Hermitage Slack,<br /> + Warn doughty Willie o’ Gorrinbery.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The Scots they rade, the Scots they ran,<br /> + Sae starkly and sae steadilie!<br /> +And aye the ower-word o’ the thrang,<br /> + Was—“Rise for Branksome +readilie!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The gear was driven the Frostylee up,<br /> + Frae the Frostylee unto the plain,<br /> +Whan Willie has looked his men before,<br /> + And saw the kye right fast driving.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Wha drives thir kye?” ’gan +Willie say,<br /> + “To mak an outspeckle o’ me?”<br +/> +“It’s I, the captain o’ Bewcastle, Willie;<br +/> + I winna layne my name for thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +56</span>“O will ye let Telfer’s kye gae back,<br /> + Or will ye do aught for regard o’ me?<br /> +Or, by the faith o’ my body,” quo’ Willie +Scott,<br /> + “I se ware my dame’s cauf’s-skin +on thee!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I winna let the kye gae back,<br /> + Neither for thy love, nor yet thy fear,<br /> +But I will drive Jamie Telfer’s kye,<br /> + In spite of every Scot that’s here.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Set on them, lads!” quo’ +Willie than,<br /> + “Fye, lads, set on them cruellie!<br /> +For ere they win to the Ritterford,<br /> + Mony a toom saddle there sall be!”</p> +<p class="poetry">But Willie was stricken ower the head,<br /> + And through the knapscap the sword has gane;<br /> +And Harden grat for very rage,<br /> + Whan Willie on the ground lay slain.</p> +<p class="poetry">But he’s ta’en aff his gude +steel-cap,<br /> + And thrice he’s waved it in the air—<br +/> +The Dinlay snaw was ne’er mair white,<br /> + Nor the lyart locks of Harden’s hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Revenge! revenge!” auld Wat +’gan cry;<br /> + “Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie!<br /> +We’ll ne’er see Tiviotside again,<br /> + Or Willie’s death revenged shall +be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O mony a horse ran masterless,<br /> + The splintered lances flew on hie;<br /> +But or they wan to the Kershope ford,<br /> + The Scots had gotten the victory.</p> +<p class="poetry">John o’ Brigham there was slain,<br /> + And John o’ Barlow, as I hear say;<br /> +And thirty mae o’ the captain’s men,<br /> + Lay bleeding on the grund that day.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span>The captain was run thro’ the thick of the +thigh—<br /> + And broken was his right leg bane;<br /> +If he had lived this hundred year,<br /> + He had never been loved by woman again.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Hae back thy kye!” the captain +said;<br /> + “Dear kye, I trow, to some they be!<br /> +For gin I suld live a hundred years,<br /> + There will ne’er fair lady smile on +me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then word is gane to the captain’s +bride,<br /> + Even in the bower where that she lay,<br /> +That her lord was prisoner in enemy’s land,<br /> + Since into Tividale he had led the way.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I wad lourd have had a winding-sheet,<br +/> + And helped to put it ower his head,<br /> +Ere he had been disgraced by the Border Scot,<br /> + When he ower Liddel his men did lead!”</p> +<p class="poetry">There was a wild gallant amang us a’,<br +/> + His name was Watty wi’ the Wudspurs,<br /> +Cried—“On for his house in Stanegirthside,<br /> + If ony man will ride with us!”</p> +<p class="poetry">When they cam to the Stanegirthside,<br /> + They dang wi’ trees, and burst the door;<br /> +They loosed out a’ the captain’s kye,<br /> + And set them forth our lads before.</p> +<p class="poetry">There was an auld wife ayont the fire,<br /> + A wee bit o’ the captain’s kin—<br +/> +“Wha daur loose out the captain’s kye,<br /> + Or answer to him and his men?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It’s I, Watty Wudspurs, loose the +kye,<br /> + I winna layne my name frae thee!<br /> +And I will loose out the captain’s kye,<br /> + In scorn of a’ his men and he.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>When they cam to the fair Dodhead,<br /> + They were a wellcum sight to see!<br /> +For instead of his ain ten milk-kye,<br /> + Jamie Telfer has gotten thirty and three.</p> +<p class="poetry">And he has paid the rescue shot,<br /> + Baith wi’ goud, and white monie;<br /> +And at the burial o’ Willie Scott,<br /> + I wot was mony a weeping e’e.</p> +<h2><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>THE +DOUGLAS TRAGEDY</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. ii. Early +Edition.)</p> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Rise</span> up, rise +up now, Lord Douglas,” she says,<br /> + “And put on your armour so bright;<br /> +Let it never be said that a daughter of thine<br /> + Was married to a lord under night.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons,<br +/> + And put on your armour so bright,<br /> +And take better care of your youngest sister,<br /> + For your eldest’s awa the last +night.”—</p> +<p class="poetry">He’s mounted her on a milk-white +steed,<br /> + And himself on a dapple grey,<br /> +With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,<br /> + And lightly they rode away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord William lookit o’er his left +shoulder,<br /> + To see what he could see,<br /> +And there be spy’d her seven brethren bold,<br /> + Come riding o’er the lee.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Light down, light down, Lady +Marg’ret,” he said,<br /> + “And hold my steed in your hand,<br /> +Until that against your seven brothers bold,<br /> + And your father I make a stand.”—</p> +<p class="poetry">She held his steed in her milk white hand,<br +/> + And never shed one tear,<br /> +Until that she saw her seven brethren fa’,<br /> + And her father hard fighting, who loved her so +dear.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +60</span>“O hold your hand, Lord William!” she +said,<br /> + “For your strokes they are wondrous sair;<br +/> +True lovers I can get many a ane,<br /> + But a father I can never get mair.”—</p> +<p class="poetry">O she’s ta’en out her +handkerchief,<br /> + It was o’ the holland sae fine,<br /> +And aye she dighted her father’s bloody wounds,<br /> + That were redder than the wine.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O chuse, O chuse, Lady +Marg’ret,” he said,<br /> + “O whether will ye gang or bide?”<br /> +“I’ll gang, I’ll gang, Lord William,” she +said,<br /> + “For ye have left me no other +guide.”—</p> +<p class="poetry">He’s lifted her on a milk-white steed,<br +/> + And himself on a dapple grey.<br /> +With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,<br /> + And slowly they baith rade away.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>O they rade on, and on they rade,<br /> + And a’ by the light of the moon,<br /> +Until they came to yon wan water,<br /> + And there they lighted down.</p> +<p class="poetry">They lighted down to tak a drink<br /> + Of the spring that ran sae clear:<br /> +And down the stream ran his gude heart’s blood,<br /> + And sair she ’gan to fear.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Hold up, hold up, Lord William,” +she says,<br /> + “For I fear that you are slain!”<br /> +“’Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak<br +/> + That shines in the water sae plain.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O they rade on, and on they rade,<br /> + And a’ by the light of the moon,<br /> +Until they cam to his mother’s ha’ door,<br /> + And there they lighted down.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Get up, get up, lady mother,” he +says,<br /> + “Get up, and let me in!—<br /> +Get up, get up, lady mother,” he says,<br /> + “For this night my fair ladye I’ve +win.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O mak my bed, lady mother,” he +says,<br /> + “O mak it braid and deep!<br /> +And lay Lady Marg’ret close at my back,<br /> + And the sounder I will sleep.”—</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,<br /> + Lady Marg’ret lang ere day—<br /> +And all true lovers that go thegither,<br /> + May they have mair luck than they!</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord William was buried in St. Marie’s +kirk,<br /> + Lady Margaret in Marie’s quire;<br /> +Out o’ the lady’s grave grew a bonny red rose,<br /> + And out o’ the knight’s a brier.</p> +<p class="poetry">And they twa met, and they twa plat,<br /> + And fain they wad be near;<br /> +And a’ the warld might ken right weel,<br /> + They were twa lovers dear.</p> +<p class="poetry">But by and rade the Black Douglas,<br /> + And wow but he was rough!<br /> +For he pull’d up the bonny brier,<br /> + An flang’t in St. Marie’s Loch.</p> +<h2><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>THE +BONNY HIND</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. ii.)</p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">May</span> she comes, and +may she goes,<br /> + Down by yon gardens green,<br /> +And there she spied a gallant squire<br /> + As squire had ever been.</p> +<p class="poetry">And may she comes, and may she goes,<br /> + Down by yon hollin tree,<br /> +And there she spied a brisk young squire,<br /> + And a brisk young squire was he.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Give me your green manteel, fair +maid,<br /> + Give me your maidenhead;<br /> +Gif ye winna gie me your green manteel,<br /> + Gi me your maidenhead.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He has taen her by the milk-white hand,<br /> + And softly laid her down,<br /> +And when he’s lifted her up again<br /> + Given her a silver kaim.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Perhaps there may be bairns, kind +sir,<br /> + Perhaps there may be nane;<br /> +But if you be a courtier,<br /> + You’ll tell to me your name.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I am na courtier, fair maid,<br /> + But new come frae the sea;<br /> +I am nae courtier, fair maid,<br /> + But when I court’ith thee.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>“They call me Jack when I’m abroad,<br /> + Sometimes they call me John;<br /> +But when I’m in my father’s bower<br /> + Jock Randal is my name.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny lad,<br /> + Sae loud’s I hear ye lee!<br /> +For I’m Lord Randal’s yae daughter,<br /> + He has nae mair nor me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny may,<br /> + Sae loud’s I hear ye lee!<br /> +For I’m Lord Randal’s yae yae son,<br /> + Just now come oer the sea.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s putten her hand down by her +spare<br /> + And out she’s taen a knife,<br /> +And she has putn’t in her heart’s bluid,<br /> + And taen away her life.</p> +<p class="poetry">And he’s taen up his bonny sister,<br /> + With the big tear in his een,<br /> +And he has buried his bonny sister<br /> + Amang the hollins green.</p> +<p class="poetry">And syne he’s hyed him oer the dale,<br +/> + His father dear to see:<br /> +“Sing O and O for my bonny hind,<br /> + Beneath yon hollin tree!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“What needs you care for your bonny +hyn?<br /> + For it you needna care;<br /> +There’s aught score hyns in yonder park,<br /> + And five score hyns to spare.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Fourscore of them are siller-shod,<br /> + Of thae ye may get three;”<br /> +“But O and O for my bonny hyn,<br /> + Beneath yon hollin tree!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>“What needs you care for your bonny hyn?<br /> + For it you needna care;<br /> +Take you the best, gi me the warst,<br /> + Since plenty is to spare.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I care na for your hyns, my lord,<br /> + I care na for your fee;<br /> +But O and O for my bonny hyn,<br /> + Beneath the hollin tree!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O were ye at your sister’s +bower,<br /> + Your sister fair to see,<br /> +Ye’ll think na mair o your bonny hyn<br /> + Beneath the hollin tree.”</p> +<h2><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>YOUNG +BICHAM</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. ii.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> London city was +Bicham born,<br /> + He longd strange countries for to see,<br /> +But he was taen by a savage Moor,<br /> + Who handld him right cruely.</p> +<p class="poetry">For thro his shoulder he put a bore,<br /> + An thro the bore has pitten a tree,<br /> +And he’s gard him draw the carts o wine,<br /> + Where horse and oxen had wont to be.</p> +<p class="poetry">He’s casten [him] in a dungeon deep,<br +/> + Where he coud neither hear nor see;<br /> +He’s shut him up in a prison strong,<br /> + An he’s handld him right cruely.</p> +<p class="poetry">O this Moor he had but ae daughter,<br /> + I wot her name was Shusy Pye;<br /> +She’s doen her to the prison-house,<br /> + And she’s calld young Bicham one word by.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O hae ye ony lands or rents,<br /> + Or citys in your ain country,<br /> +Coud free you out of prison strong,<br /> + An coud maintain a lady free?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O London city is my own,<br /> + An other citys twa or three,<br /> +Coud loose me out o prison strong,<br /> + An could maintain a lady free.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +66</span>O she has bribed her father’s men<br /> + Wi meikle goud and white money,<br /> +She’s gotten the key o the prison doors,<br /> + And she has set Young Bicham free.</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s gi’n him a loaf o good white +bread,<br /> + But an a flask o Spanish wine,<br /> +An she bad him mind on the ladie’s love<br /> + That sae kindly freed him out o pine.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Go set your foot on good ship-board,<br +/> + An haste you back to your ain country,<br /> +An before that seven years has an end,<br /> + Come back again, love, and marry me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">It was long or seven years had an end<br /> + She longd fu sair her love to see;<br /> +She’s set her foot on good ship-board,<br /> + An turnd her back on her ain country.</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s saild up, so has she down,<br /> + Till she came to the other side;<br /> +She’s landed at Young Bicham’s gates,<br /> + An I hop this day she sal be his bride.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Is this Young Bicham’s +gates?” says she.<br /> + “Or is that noble prince within?”<br /> +“He’s up the stair wi his bonny bride,<br /> + An monny a lord and lady wi him.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O has he taen a bonny bride,<br /> + An has he clean forgotten me?”<br /> +An sighing said that gay lady,<br /> + “I wish I were in my ain country!”</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s pitten her ban in her pocket,<br /> + An gin the porter guineas three;<br /> +Says, “Take ye that, ye proud porter,<br /> + An bid the bridegroom speak to me.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>O whan the porter came up the stair,<br /> + He’s fa’n low down upon his knee:<br /> +“Won up, won up, ye proud porter,<br /> + And what makes a’ this courtesy?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O I’ve been porter at your +gates<br /> + This mair nor seven years an three,<br /> +But there is a lady at them now<br /> + The like of whom I never did see.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For on every finger she has a ring,<br +/> + An on the mid-finger she has three,<br /> +An there’s as meikle goud aboon her brow<br /> + As woud buy an earldom o lan to me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up it started Young Bicham,<br /> + An sware so loud by Our Lady,<br /> +“It can be nane but Shusy Pye<br /> + That has come oor the sea to me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O quickly ran he down the stair,<br /> + O fifteen steps he has made but three,<br /> +He’s tane his bonny love in his arms<br /> + An a wot he kissd her tenderly.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O hae you tane a bonny bride?<br /> + An hae you quite forsaken me?<br /> +An hae ye quite forgotten her<br /> + That gae you life an liberty?”</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s lookit oer her left shoulder<br /> + To hide the tears stood in her ee;<br /> +“Now fare thee well, Young Bicham,” she says,<br /> + “I’ll strive to think nae mair on +thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +68</span>“Take back your daughter, madam,” he +says,<br /> + “An a double dowry I’ll gie her wi;<br +/> +For I maun marry my first true love,<br /> + That’s done and suffered so much for +me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He’s tak his bonny love by the han,<br /> + And led her to yon fountain stane;<br /> +He’s changed her name frae Shusy Pye,<br /> + An he’s cald her his bonny love, Lady +Jane.</p> +<h2><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>THE +LOVING BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. ii. +<i>Cockney copy</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lord Bateman</span> was a +noble lord,<br /> + A noble lord of high degree;<br /> +He shipped himself all aboard of a ship,<br /> + Some foreign country for to see.</p> +<p class="poetry">He sailed east, he sailed west,<br /> + Until he came to famed Turkey,<br /> +Where he was taken and put to prison,<br /> + Until his life was quite weary.</p> +<p class="poetry">All in this prison there grew a tree,<br /> + O there it grew so stout and strong!<br /> +Where he was chained all by the middle,<br /> + Until his life was almost gone.</p> +<p class="poetry">This Turk he had one only daughter,<br /> + The fairest my two eyes eer see;<br /> +She steal the keys of her father’s prison,<br /> + And swore Lord Bateman she would let go free.</p> +<p class="poetry">O she took him to her father’s cellar,<br +/> + And gave to him the best of wine;<br /> +And every health she drank unto him<br /> + Was “I wish, Lord Bateman, as you was +mine.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>“O have you got houses, have you got land,<br /> + And does Northumberland belong to thee?<br /> +And what would you give to the fair young lady<br /> + As out of prison would let you go free?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O I’ve got houses and I’ve +got land,<br /> + And half Northumberland belongs to me;<br /> +And I will give it all to the fair young lady<br /> + As out of prison would let me go free.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O in seven long years I’ll make a +vow<br /> + For seven long years, and keep it strong,<br /> +That if you’ll wed no other woman,<br /> + O I will wed no other man.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O she took him to her father’s harbor,<br +/> + And gave to him a ship of fame,<br /> +Saying, “Farewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman,<br /> + I fear I shall never see you again.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Now seven long years is gone and past,<br /> + And fourteen days, well known to me;<br /> +She packed up all her gay clothing,<br /> + And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.</p> +<p class="poetry">O when she arrived at Lord Bateman’s +castle,<br /> + How boldly then she rang the bell!<br /> +“Who’s there? who’s there?” cries the +proud young porter,<br /> + “O come unto me pray quickly tell.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O is this here Lord Bateman’s +castle,<br /> + And is his lordship here within?”<br /> +“O yes, O yes,” cries the proud young porter,<br /> + “He’s just now taking his young bride +in.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>“O bid him to send me a slice of bread,<br /> + And a bottle of the very best wine,<br /> +And not forgetting the fair young lady<br /> + As did release him when close confine.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O away and away went this proud young +porter,<br /> + O away and away and away went he,<br /> +Until he came to Lord Bateman’s chamber,<br /> + Where he went down on his bended knee.</p> +<p class="poetry">“What news, what news, my proud young +porter?<br /> + What news, what news? come tell to me:”<br /> +“O there is the fairest young lady<br /> + As ever my two eyes did see.</p> +<p class="poetry">“She has got rings on every finger,<br /> + And on one finger she has got three;<br /> +With as much gay gold about her middle<br /> + As would buy half Northumberlee.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O she bids you to send her a slice of +bread,<br /> + And a bottle of the very best wine,<br /> +And not forgetting the fair young lady<br /> + As did release you when close confine.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord Bateman then in passion flew,<br /> + And broke his sword in splinters three,<br /> +Saying, “I will give half of my father’s land,<br /> + If so be as Sophia has crossed the sea.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up and spoke this young bride’s +mother,<br /> + Who never was heard to speak so free;<br /> +Saying, “You’ll not forget my only daughter,<br /> + If so be Sophia has crossed the sea.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>“O it’s true I made a bride of your +daughter,<br /> + But she’s neither the better nor the worse for +me;<br /> +She came to me with a horse and saddle,<br /> + But she may go home in a coach and three.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord Bateman then prepared another marriage,<br +/> + With both their hearts so full of glee,<br /> +Saying, “I will roam no more to foreign countries,<br /> + Now that Sophia has crossed the sea.”</p> +<h2><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>THE +BONNIE HOUSE O’ AIRLY</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. vii. +Early Edition.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> fell on a day, +and a bonnie summer day,<br /> + When the corn grew green and yellow,<br /> +That there fell out a great dispute<br /> + Between Argyle and Airly.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Duke o’ Montrose has written to +Argyle<br /> + To come in the morning early,<br /> +An’ lead in his men, by the back O’ Dunkeld,<br /> + To plunder the bonnie house o’ Airly.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lady look’d o’er her window sae +hie,<br /> + And O but she looked weary!<br /> +And there she espied the great Argyle<br /> + Come to plunder the bonnie house o’ Airly.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Come down, come down, Lady +Margaret,” he says,<br /> + “Come down and kiss me fairly,<br /> +Or before the morning clear daylight,<br /> + I’ll no leave a standing stane in +Airly.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I wadna kiss thee, great Argyle,<br /> + I wadna kiss thee fairly,<br /> +I wadna kiss thee, great Argyle,<br /> + Gin you shouldna leave a standing stane +Airly.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He has ta’en her by the middle sae +sma’,<br /> + Says, “Lady, where is your drury?”<br /> +“It’s up and down by the bonnie burn side,<br /> + Amang the planting of Airly.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>They sought it up, they sought it down,<br /> + They sought it late and early,<br /> +And found it in the bonnie balm-tree,<br /> + That shines on the bowling-green o’ Airly,</p> +<p class="poetry">He has ta’en her by the left shoulder,<br +/> + And O but she grat sairly,<br /> +And led her down to yon green bank,<br /> + Till he plundered the bonnie house o’ +Airly.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O it’s I hae seven braw +sons,” she says,<br /> + “And the youngest ne’er saw his +daddie,<br /> +And altho’ I had as mony mae,<br /> + I wad gie them a’ to Charlie.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But gin my good lord had been at +hame,<br /> + As this night he is wi’ Charlie,<br /> +There durst na a Campbell in a’ the west<br /> + Hae plundered the bonnie house o’ +Airly.”</p> +<h2><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>ROB +ROY</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. vi. Early +Edition.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Rob Roy</span> from the +Highlands cam,<br /> + Unto the Lawlan’ border,<br /> +To steal awa a gay ladie<br /> + To haud his house in order.<br /> +He cam oure the lock o’ Lynn,<br /> + Twenty men his arms did carry;<br /> +Himsel gaed in, an’ fand her out,<br /> + Protesting he would many.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O will ye gae wi’ me,” he +says,<br /> + “Or will ye be my honey?<br /> +Or will ye be my wedded wife?<br /> + For I love you best of any.”<br /> +“I winna gae wi’ you,” she says,<br /> + “Nor will I be your honey,<br /> +Nor will I be your wedded wife;<br /> + You love me for my money.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">But he set her on a coal-black steed,<br /> + Himsel lap on behind her,<br /> +An’ he’s awa to the Highland hills,<br /> + Whare her frien’s they canna find her.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">“Rob Roy was my father ca’d,<br /> + Macgregor was his name, ladie;<br /> +He led a band o’ heroes bauld,<br /> + An’ I am here the same, ladie.<br /> +Be content, be content,<br /> + Be content to stay, ladie,<br /> +For thou art my wedded wife<br /> + Until thy dying day, ladie.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>“He was a hedge unto his frien’s,<br /> + A heckle to his foes, ladie,<br /> +Every one that durst him wrang,<br /> + He took him by the nose, ladie.<br /> +I’m as bold, I’m as bold,<br /> + I’m as bold, an more, ladie;<br /> +He that daurs dispute my word,<br /> + Shall feel my guid claymore, ladie.”</p> +<h2><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>THE +BATTLE OF KILLIE-CRANKIE</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. vii. +Early Edition.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Clavers</span> and his +Highlandmen<br /> + Came down upo’ the raw, man,<br /> +Who being stout, gave mony a clout;<br /> + The lads began to claw then.<br /> +With sword and terge into their hand,<br /> + Wi which they were nae slaw, man,<br /> +Wi mony a fearful heavy sigh,<br /> + The lads began to claw then.</p> +<p class="poetry">O’er bush, o’er bank, o’er +ditch, o’er stark,<br /> + She flang amang them a’, man;<br /> +The butter-box got many knocks,<br /> + Their riggings paid for a’ then.<br /> +They got their paiks, wi sudden straiks,<br /> + Which to their grief they saw, man:<br /> +Wi clinkum, clankum o’er their crowns,<br /> + The lads began to fa’ then.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hur skipt about, hur leapt about,<br /> + And flang amang them a’, man;<br /> +The English blades got broken beads,<br /> + Their crowns were cleav’d in twa then.<br /> +The durk and door made their last hour,<br /> + And prov’d their final fa’, man;<br /> +They thought the devil had been there,<br /> + That play’d them sic a paw then.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>The Solemn League and Covenant<br /> + Came whigging up the hills, man;<br /> +Thought Highland trews durst not refuse<br /> + For to subscribe their bills then.<br /> +In Willie’s name, they thought nag ane<br /> + Durst stop their course at a’, man,<br /> +But hur-nane-sell, wi mony a knock,<br /> + Cry’d, “Furich—Whigs +awa’,” man.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sir Evan Du, and his men true,<br /> + Came linking up the brink, man;<br /> +The Hogan Dutch they feared such,<br /> + They bred a horrid stink then.<br /> +The true Maclean and his fierce men<br /> + Came in amang them a’, man;<br /> +Nane durst withstand his heavy hand.<br /> + All fled and ran awa’ then.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Oh’ on a ri</i>, <i>Oh’ on a +ri</i>,<br /> + Why should she lose King Shames, man?<br /> +<i>Oh’ rig in di</i>, <i>Oh’ rig in di</i>,<br /> + She shall break a’ her banes then;<br /> +With <i>furichinish</i>, an’ stay a while,<br /> + And speak a word or twa, man,<br /> +She’s gi’ a straike, out o’er the neck,<br /> + Before ye win awa’ then.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh fy for shame, ye’re three for ane,<br +/> + Hur-nane-sell’s won the day, man;<br /> +King Shames’ red-coats should be hung up,<br /> + Because they ran awa’ then.<br /> +Had bent their brows, like Highland trows,<br /> + And made as lang a stay, man,<br /> +They’d sav’d their king, that sacred thing,<br /> + And Willie’d ran awa’ then.</p> +<h2><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>ANNAN +WATER</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. ii. Early +Edition.)</p> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Annan</span> +water’s wading deep,<br /> + And my love Annie’s wondrous bonny;<br /> +And I am laith she suld weet her feet,<br /> + Because I love her best of ony.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gar saddle me the bonny black,—<br +/> + Gar saddle sune, and make him ready:<br /> +For I will down the Gatehope-Slack,<br /> + And all to see my bonny ladye.”—</p> +<p class="poetry">He has loupen on the bonny black,<br /> + He stirr’d him wi’ the spur right +sairly;<br /> +But, or he wan the Gatehope-Slack,<br /> + I think the steed was wae and weary.</p> +<p class="poetry">He has loupen on the bonny gray,<br /> + He rade the right gate and the ready;<br /> +I trow he would neither stint nor stay,<br /> + For he was seeking his bonny ladye.</p> +<p class="poetry">O he has ridden o’er field and fell,<br +/> + Through muir and moss, and mony a mire;<br /> +His spurs o’ steel were sair to bide,<br /> + And fra her fore-feet flew the fire.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now, bonny grey, now play your part!<br +/> + Gin ye be the steed that wins my deary,<br /> +Wi’ corn and hay ye’se be fed for aye,<br /> + And never spur sall make you wearie.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +80</span>The gray was a mare, and a right good mare;<br /> + But when she wan the Annan water,<br /> +She couldna hae ridden a furlong mair,<br /> + Had a thousand merks been wadded at her.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O boatman, boatman, put off your +boat!<br /> + Put off your boat for gowden monie!<br /> +I cross the drumly stream the night,<br /> + Or never mair I see my honey.”—</p> +<p class="poetry">“O I was sworn sae late yestreen,<br /> + And not by ae aith, but by many;<br /> +And for a’ the gowd in fair Scotland,<br /> + I dare na take ye through to Annie.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The side was stey, and the bottom deep,<br /> + Frae bank to brae the water pouring;<br /> +And the bonny grey mare did sweat for fear,<br /> + For she heard the water-kelpy roaring.</p> +<p class="poetry">O he has pou’d aff his dapperpy coat,<br +/> + The silver buttons glancèd bonny;<br /> +The waistcoat bursted aff his breast,<br /> + He was sae full of melancholy.</p> +<p class="poetry">He has ta’en the ford at that stream +tail;<br /> + I wot he swam both strong and steady;<br /> +But the stream was broad, and his strength did fail,<br /> + And he never saw his bonny ladye.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O wae betide the frush saugh wand!<br /> + And wae betide the bush of brier!<br /> +It brake into my true love’s hand,<br /> + When his strength did fail, and his limbs did +tire.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And wae betide ye, Annan water,<br /> + This night that ye are a drumlie river!<br /> +For over thee I’ll build a bridge,<br /> + That ye never more true love may +sever.”—</p> +<h2><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>THE +ELPHIN NOURRICE</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>C. K. Sharpe</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">heard</span> a cow low, a +bonnie cow low,<br /> + An’ a cow low down in yon glen;<br /> +Lang, lang will my young son greet,<br /> + Or his mither bid him come ben.</p> +<p class="poetry">I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,<br /> + An’ a cow low down in yon fauld;<br /> +Lang, lang will my young son greet,<br /> + Or is mither take him frae cauld.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Waken, Queen of Elfan,<br /> + An hear your Nourrice moan.<br /> + O moan ye for your meat,<br /> + Or moan ye for your fee,<br /> + Or moan ye for the ither bounties<br /> + That ladies are wont to gie?</p> +<p class="poetry">I moan na for my meat,<br /> + Nor yet for my fee,<br /> +But I mourn for Christened land—<br /> + It’s there I fain would be.</p> +<p class="poetry">O nurse my bairn, Nourice, she says,<br /> + Till he stan’ at your knee,<br /> +An’ ye’s win hame to Christen land,<br /> + Whar fain it’s ye wad be.</p> +<p class="poetry">O keep my bairn, Nourice,<br /> + Till he gang by the hauld,<br /> +An’ ye’s win hame to your young son,<br /> + Ye left in four nights auld.</p> +<h2><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +82</span>COSPATRICK</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Mackay</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Cospatrick</span> has sent +o’er the faem;<br /> +Cospatrick brought his ladye hame;<br /> +And fourscore ships have come her wi’,<br /> +The ladye by the green-wood tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">There were twal’ and twal’ +wi’ baken bread,<br /> +And twal’ and twal’ wi’ gowd sae red,<br /> +And twal’ and twal’ wi’ bouted flour,<br /> +And twal’ and twal’ wi’ the paramour.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweet Willy was a widow’s son,<br /> +And at her stirrup he did run;<br /> +And she was clad in the finest pall,<br /> +But aye she loot the tears down fall.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O is your saddle set awrye?<br /> +Or rides your steed for you owre high?<br /> +Or are you mourning, in your tide,<br /> +That you suld be Cospatrick’s bride?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I am not mourning, at this tide,<br /> +That I suld he Cospatrick’s bride;<br /> +But I am sorrowing in my mood,<br /> +That I suld leave my mother good.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“But, gentle boy, come tell to me,<br /> +What is the custom of thy countrie?”<br /> +“The custom thereof, my dame,” he says,<br /> +“Will ill a gentle ladye please.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>“Seven king’s daughters has our lord +wedded,<br /> +And seven king’s daughters has our lord bedded;<br /> +But he’s cutted their breasts frae their breast-bane,<br /> +And sent them mourning hame again.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yet, gin you’re sure that +you’re a maid,<br /> +Ye may gae safely to his bed;<br /> +But gif o’ that ye be na sure,<br /> +Then hire some damsel o’ your bour.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The ladye’s called her bour-maiden,<br /> +That waiting was unto her train.<br /> +“Five thousand marks I’ll gie to thee,<br /> +To sleep this night with my lord for me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">When bells were rung, and mass was sayne,<br /> +And a’ men unto bed were gane,<br /> +Cospatrick and the bonny maid,<br /> +Into ae chamber they were laid.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now speak to me, blankets, and speak to +me, bed,<br /> +And speak, thou sheet, enchanted web;<br /> +And speak, my sword, that winna lie,<br /> +Is this a true maiden that lies by me?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It is not a maid that you hae wedded,<br +/> +But it is a maid that you hae bedded;<br /> +It is a leal maiden that lies by thee,<br /> +But not the maiden that it should be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O wrathfully he left the bed,<br /> +And wrathfully his claes on did;<br /> +And he has ta’en him through the ha’,<br /> +And on his mother he did ca’.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span>“I am the most unhappy man,<br /> +That ever was in Christen land?<br /> +I courted a maiden, meik and mild,<br /> +And I hae gotten naething but a woman wi’ child.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O stay, my son, into this ha’,<br +/> +And sport ye wi’ your merry men a’;<br /> +And I will to the secret bour,<br /> +To see how it fares wi’ your paramour.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The carline she was stark and stare,<br /> +She aff the hinges dang the dure.<br /> +“O is your bairn to laird or loun,<br /> +Or is it to your father’s groom?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O hear me, mother, on my knee,<br /> +Till my sad story I tell to thee:<br /> +O we were sisters, sisters seven,<br /> +We were the fairest under heaven.</p> +<p class="poetry">“It fell on a summer’s +afternoon,<br /> +When a’ our toilsome work was done,<br /> +We coost the kevils us amang,<br /> +To see which suld to the green-wood gang.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ohon! alas, for I was youngest,<br /> +And aye my weird it was the strongest!<br /> +The kevil it on me did fa’,<br /> +Whilk was the cause of a’ my woe.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For to the green-wood I maun gae,<br /> +To pu’ the red rose and the slae;<br /> +To pu’ the red rose and the thyme,<br /> +To deck my mother’s bour and mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I hadna pu’d a flower but ane,<br +/> +When by there came a gallant hinde,<br /> +Wi’ high colled hose and laigh colled shoon,<br /> +And he seemed to be some king’s son.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +85</span>“And be I maid, or be I nae,<br /> +He kept me there till the close o’ day;<br /> +And be I maid, or be I nane,<br /> +He kept me there till the day was done.</p> +<p class="poetry">“He gae me a lock o’ his yellow +hair,<br /> +And bade me keep it ever mair;<br /> +He gae me a carknet o’ bonny beads,<br /> +And bade me keep it against my needs.</p> +<p class="poetry">“He gae to me a gay gold ring,<br /> +And bade me keep it abune a’ thing.”<br /> +“What did ye wi’ the tokens rare,<br /> +That ye gat frae that gallant there?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O bring that coffer unto me,<br /> +And a’ the tokens ye sall see.”<br /> +“Now stay, daughter, your bour within,<br /> +While I gae parley wi’ my son.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O she has ta’en her thro’ the +ha’,<br /> +And on her son began to ca’:<br /> +“What did ye wi’ the bonny beads,<br /> +I bade ye keep against your needs?</p> +<p class="poetry">“What did you wi’ the gay gold +ring,<br /> +I bade you keep abune a’ thing?”<br /> +“I gae them to a ladye gay,<br /> +I met in green-wood on a day.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But I wad gie a’ my halls and +tours,<br /> +I had that ladye within my bours,<br /> +But I wad gie my very life,<br /> +I had that ladye to my wife.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now keep, my son, your ha’s and +tours;<br /> +Ye have that bright burd in your bours;<br /> +And keep, my son, your very life;<br /> +Ye have that ladye to your wife.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span>Now, or a month was come and gane,<br /> +The ladye bore a bonny son;<br /> +And ’twas written on his breast-bane,<br /> +“Cospatrick is my father’s name.”</p> +<h2><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>JOHNNIE ARMSTRANG</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Some</span> speak of lords, +some speak of lairds,<br /> + And sic like men of high degree;<br /> +Of a gentleman I sing a sang,<br /> + Some time call’d Laird of Gilnockie.</p> +<p class="poetry">The king he writes a loving letter,<br /> + With his ain hand sae tenderlie,<br /> +And he hath sent it to Johnnie Armstrang,<br /> + To come and speak with him speedilie.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Elliots and Armstrangs did convene,<br /> + They were a gallant companie:<br /> +“We’ll ride and meet our lawful king,<br /> + And bring him safe to Gilnockie.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Make kinnen <a name="citation87"></a><a +href="#footnote87" class="citation">[87]</a> and capon ready, +then,<br /> + And venison in great plentie;<br /> +We’ll welcome here our royal king;<br /> + I hope he’ll dine at Gilnockie!”</p> +<p class="poetry">They ran their horse on the Langholm howm,<br +/> + And brake their spears with meikle main;<br /> +The ladies lookit frae their loft windows—<br /> + “God bring our men weel hame again!”</p> +<p class="poetry">When Johnnie came before the king,<br /> + With all his men sae brave to see,<br /> +The king he moved his bonnet to him;<br /> + He ween’d he was a king as well as he.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +88</span>“May I find grace, my sovereign liege,<br /> + Grace for my loyal men and me?<br /> +For my name it is Johnnie Armstrang,<br /> + And a subject of yours, my liege,” said +he.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Away, away, thou traitor strang!<br /> + Out of my sight soon may’st thou be!<br /> +I granted never a traitor’s life,<br /> + And now I’ll not begin with thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!<br +/> + And a bonnie gift I’ll gi’e to thee;<br +/> +Full four-and-twenty milk-white steeds,<br /> + Were all foal’d in ae year to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’ll gi’e thee all these +milk-white steeds,<br /> + That prance and nicher <a name="citation88a"></a><a +href="#footnote88a" class="citation">[88a]</a> at a spear;<br /> +And as meikle gude Inglish gilt, <a name="citation88b"></a><a +href="#footnote88b" class="citation">[88b]</a><br /> + As four of their braid backs dow <a +name="citation88c"></a><a href="#footnote88c" +class="citation">[88c]</a> bear.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Away, away, thou traitor strang!<br /> + Out of my sight soon may’st thou be!<br /> +I granted never a traitor’s life,<br /> + And now I’ll not begin with thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!<br +/> + And a bonnie gift I’ll gi’e to thee:<br +/> +Gude four-and-twenty ganging <a name="citation88d"></a><a +href="#footnote88d" class="citation">[88d]</a> mills,<br /> + That gang thro’ all the year to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“These four-and-twenty mills complete,<br +/> + Shall gang for thee thro’ all the year;<br /> +And as meikle of gude red wheat,<br /> + As all their happers dow to bear.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>“Away, away, thou traitor strang!<br /> + Out of my sight soon may’st thou be!<br /> +I granted never a traitor’s life,<br /> + And now I’ll not begin with thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!<br +/> + And a great gift I’ll gi’e to thee:<br +/> +Bauld four-and-twenty sisters’ sons<br /> + Shall for thee fecht, tho’ all shou’d +flee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Away, away, thou traitor strang!<br /> + Out of my sight soon may’st thou be!<br /> +I granted never a traitor’s life,<br /> + And now I’ll not begin with thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!<br +/> + And a brave gift I’ll gi’e to thee:<br +/> +All between here and Newcastle town<br /> + Shall pay their yearly rent to thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Away, away, thou traitor strang!<br /> + Out of my sight soon may’st thou be!<br /> +I granted never a traitor’s life,<br /> + And now I’ll not begin with thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye lied, ye lied, now, king,” he +says,<br /> + “Altho’ a king and prince ye be!<br /> +For I’ve loved naething in my life,<br /> + I weel dare say it, but honestie.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Save a fat horse, and a fair woman,<br +/> + Twa bonnie dogs to kill a deer;<br /> +But England shou’d have found me meal and mault,<br /> + Gif I had lived this hundred year.</p> +<p class="poetry">“She shou’d have found me meal and +mault,<br /> + And beef and mutton in all plentie;<br /> +But never a Scots wife cou’d have said,<br /> + That e’er I skaith’d her a puir +flee.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +90</span>“To seek het water beneath cauld ice,<br /> + Surely it is a great follie:<br /> +I have ask’d grace at a graceless face,<br /> + But there is nane for my men and me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But had I kenn’d, ere I came frae +hame,<br /> + How unkind thou wou’dst been to me,<br /> +I wou’d ha’e keepit the Border side,<br /> + In spite of all thy force and thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Wist England’s king that I was +ta’en,<br /> + Oh, gin a blythe man he wou’d be!<br /> +For ance I slew his sister’s son,<br /> + And on his breast-bane brak a tree.”</p> +<p class="poetry">John wore a girdle about his middle,<br /> + Embroider’d o’er with burning gold,<br +/> +Bespangled with the same metal,<br /> + Maist beautiful was to behold.</p> +<p class="poetry">There hang nine targats <a +name="citation90a"></a><a href="#footnote90a" +class="citation">[90a]</a> at Johnnie’s hat,<br /> + An ilk ane worth three hundred pound:<br /> +“What wants that knave that a king shou’d have,<br /> + But the sword of honour and the crown?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, where got thee these targats, +Johnnie.<br /> + That blink sae brawly <a name="citation90b"></a><a +href="#footnote90b" class="citation">[90b]</a> aboon thy +brie?”<br /> +“I gat them in the field fechting, <a +name="citation90c"></a><a href="#footnote90c" +class="citation">[90c]</a><br /> + Where, cruel king, thou durst not be.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Had I my horse and harness gude,<br /> + And riding as I wont to be,<br /> +It shou’d have been tauld this hundred year,<br /> + The meeting of my king and me!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>“God be with thee, Kirsty, <a +name="citation91"></a><a href="#footnote91" +class="citation">[91]</a> my brother,<br /> + Lang live thou laird of Mangertoun!<br /> +Lang may’st thou live on the Border side,<br /> + Ere thou see thy brother ride up and down!</p> +<p class="poetry">“And God he with thee, Kirsty, my son,<br +/> + Where thou sits on thy nurse’s knee!<br /> +But an thou live this hundred year,<br /> + Thy father’s better thou’lt never +be.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Farewell, my bonnie Gilnock hall,<br /> + Where on Esk side thou standest stout!<br /> +Gif I had lived but seven years mair,<br /> + I wou’d ha’e gilt thee round +about.”</p> +<p class="poetry">John murder’d was at Carlinrigg,<br /> + And all his gallant companie;<br /> +But Scotland’s heart was ne’er sae wae,<br /> + To see sae mony brave men die;</p> +<p class="poetry">Because they saved their country dear<br /> + Frae Englishmen! Nane were sae bauld<br /> +While Johnnie lived on the Border side,<br /> + Nane of them durst come near his hauld.</p> +<h2><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>EDOM +O’ GORDON</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> fell about the +Martinmas,<br /> + When the wind blew shrill and cauld,<br /> +Said Edom o’ Gordon to his men,—<br /> + “We maun draw to a hald. <a +name="citation92"></a><a href="#footnote92" +class="citation">[92]</a></p> +<p class="poetry">“And whatna hald shall we draw to,<br /> + My merry men and me?<br /> +We will gae straight to Towie house,<br /> + To see that fair ladye.”</p> +<p class="poetry">[The ladye stood on her castle wall,<br /> + Beheld baith dale and down;<br /> +There she was ’ware of a host of men<br /> + Came riding towards the town.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, see ye not, my merry men all,<br /> + Oh, see ye not what I see?<br /> +Methinks I see a host of men;<br /> + I marvel who they be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She thought it had been her own wed lord.<br /> + As he came riding hame;<br /> +It was the traitor, Edom o’ Gordon,<br /> + Wha reck’d nae sin nor shame.]</p> +<p class="poetry">She had nae sooner buskit hersel’,<br /> + And putten on her gown,<br /> +Till Edom o’ Gordon and his men<br /> + Were round about the town.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +93</span>They had nae sooner supper set,<br /> + Nae sooner said the grace,<br /> +Till Edom o’ Gordon and his men<br /> + Were round about the place.</p> +<p class="poetry">The ladye ran to her tower head,<br /> + As fast as she cou’d hie,<br /> +To see if, by her fair speeches,<br /> + She cou’d with him agree.</p> +<p class="poetry">As soon as he saw this ladye fair.<br /> + And her yetts all lockit fast,<br /> +He fell into a rage of wrath,<br /> + And his heart was all aghast.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Come down to me, ye ladye gay,<br /> + Come down, come down to me;<br /> +This night ye shall lye within my arms,<br /> + The morn my bride shall be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I winna come down, ye false Gordon,<br +/> + I winna come down to thee;<br /> +I winna forsake my ain dear lord,<br /> + That is sae far frae me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gi’e up your house, ye ladye +fair,<br /> + Gi’e up your house to me;<br /> +Or I shall burn yoursel’ therein,<br /> + Bot and your babies three.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I winna gi’e up, ye false +Gordon,<br /> + To nae sic traitor as thee;<br /> +Tho’ you shou’d burn mysel’ therein,<br /> + Bot and my babies three.</p> +<p class="poetry">[“But fetch to me my pistolette,<br /> + And charge to me my gun;<br /> +For, but if I pierce that bluidy butcher,<br /> + My babes we will be undone.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>She stiffly stood on her castle wall,<br /> + And let the bullets flee;<br /> +She miss’d that bluidy butcher’s heart,<br /> + Tho’ she slew other three.]</p> +<p class="poetry">“Set fire to the house!” quo’ +the false Gordon,<br /> + “Since better may nae be;<br /> +And I will burn hersel’ therein,<br /> + Bot and her babies three.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my +man,<br /> + I paid ye weel your fee;<br /> +Why pull ye out the grund-wa’-stance,<br /> + Lets in the reek <a name="citation94"></a><a +href="#footnote94" class="citation">[94]</a> to me?</p> +<p class="poetry">“And e’en wae worth ye, Jock, my +man,<br /> + I paid ye weel your hire;<br /> +Why pull ye out my grund-wa’-stane,<br /> + To me lets in the fire?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye,<br /> + Ye paid me weel my fee;<br /> +But now I’m Edom o’ Gordon’s man,<br /> + Maun either do or dee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, then out spake her youngest son,<br /> + Sat on the nurse’s knee:<br /> +Says—“Mither dear, gi’e o’er this +house,<br /> + For the reek it smothers me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">[“I wou’d gi’e all my gold, +my bairn,<br /> + Sae wou’d I all my fee,<br /> +For ae blast of the westlin’ wind,<br /> + To blaw the reek frae thee.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +95</span>“But I winna gi’e up my house, my dear,<br +/> + To nae sic traitor as he;<br /> +Come weal, come woe, my jewels fair,<br /> + Ye maun take share with me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, then out spake her daughter dear,<br /> + She was baith jimp and small:<br /> +“Oh, row me in a pair of sheets,<br /> + And tow me o’er the wall.”</p> +<p class="poetry">They row’d her in a pair of sheets,<br /> + And tow’d her o’er the wall;<br /> +But on the point of Gordon’s spear<br /> + She got a deadly fall.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,<br /> + And cherry were her cheeks;<br /> +And clear, clear was her yellow hair,<br /> + Whereon the red bluid dreeps.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then with his spear he turn’d her +o’er,<br /> + Oh, gin her face was wan!<br /> +He said—“You are the first that e’er<br /> + I wish’d alive again.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He turn’d her o’er and o’er +again,<br /> + Oh, gin her skin was white!<br /> +“I might ha’e spared that bonnie face<br /> + To ha’e been some man’s delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Busk and boun, my merry men all,<br /> + For ill dooms I do guess;<br /> +I canna look on that bonnie face,<br /> + As it lyes on the grass!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Wha looks to freits, <a +name="citation95"></a><a href="#footnote95" +class="citation">[95]</a> my master dear,<br /> + Their freits will follow them;<br /> +Let it ne’er be said brave Edom o’ Gordon<br /> + Was daunted with a dame.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +96</span>[But when the ladye saw the fire<br /> + Come flaming o’er her head,<br /> +She wept, and kissed her children twain;<br /> + Said—“Bairns, we been but +dead.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The Gordon then his bugle blew,<br /> + And said—“Away, away!<br /> +The house of Towie is all in a flame,<br /> + I hald it time to gae.”]</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, then he spied her ain dear lord,<br /> + As he came o’er the lea;<br /> +He saw his castle all in a flame,<br /> + As far as he could see.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then sair, oh sair his mind misgave,<br /> + And oh, his heart was wae!<br /> +“Put on, put on, my wighty <a name="citation96a"></a><a +href="#footnote96a" class="citation">[96a]</a> men,<br /> + As fast as ye can gae.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Put on, put on, my wighty men,<br /> + As fast as ye can drie;<br /> +For he that is hindmost of the thrang<br /> + Shall ne’er get gude of me!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then some they rade, and some they ran,<br /> + Full fast out o’er the bent;<br /> +But ere the foremost could win up,<br /> + Baith ladye and babes were brent.</p> +<p class="poetry">[He wrang his hands, he rent his hair,<br /> + And wept in tearful mood;<br /> +“Ah, traitors! for this cruel deed,<br /> + Ye shall weep tears of bluid.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And after the Gordon he has gane,<br /> + Sae fast as he might drie;<br /> +And soon in the Gordon’s foul heart’s bluid<br /> + He’s wroken <a name="citation96b"></a><a +href="#footnote96b" class="citation">[96b]</a> his dear +layde.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>And mony were the mudie <a name="citation97"></a><a +href="#footnote97" class="citation">[97]</a> men<br /> + Lay gasping on the green;<br /> +And mony were the fair ladyes<br /> + Lay lemanless at hame.</p> +<p class="poetry">And mony were the mudie men<br /> + Lay gasping on the green;<br /> +For of fifty men the Gordon brocht,<br /> + There were but five gaed hame.</p> +<p class="poetry">And round, and round the walls he went,<br /> + Their ashes for to view;<br /> +At last into the flames he flew,<br /> + And bade the world adieu.</p> +<h2><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>LADY +ANNE BOTHWELL’S LAMENT</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. iv. Early +Edition.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Balow</span>, my boy, ly +still and sleep,<br /> +It grieves me sore to hear thee weep,<br /> +If thou’lt be silent, I’ll be glad,<br /> +Thy mourning makes my heart full sad.<br /> +Balow, my boy, thy mother’s joy,<br /> +Thy father bred one great annoy.<br /> + <i>Balow</i>, <i>my boy</i>, <i>ly still and +sleep</i>,<br /> + <i>It grieves me sore to hear thee weep</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Balow, my darling, sleep a while,<br /> +And when thou wak’st then sweetly smile;<br /> +But smile not as thy father did,<br /> +To cozen maids, nay, God forbid;<br /> +For in thine eye his look I see,<br /> +The tempting look that ruin’d me.<br /> + <i>Balow</i>, <i>my boy</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p class="poetry">When he began to court my love,<br /> +And with his sugar’d words to move,<br /> +His tempting face, and flatt’ring chear,<br /> +In time to me did not appear;<br /> +But now I see that cruel he<br /> +Cares neither for his babe nor me.<br /> + <i>Balow</i>, <i>my boy</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>Fareweel, fareaeel, thou falsest youth<br /> +That ever kist a woman’s mouth.<br /> +Let never any after me<br /> +Submit unto thy courtesy!<br /> +For, if hey do, O! cruel thou<br /> +Wilt her abuse and care not how!<br /> + <i>Balow</i>, <i>my boy</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p class="poetry">I was too cred’lous at the first,<br /> +To yield thee all a maiden durst.<br /> +Thou swore for ever true to prove,<br /> +Thy faith unchang’d, unchang’d thy love;<br /> +But quick as thought the change is wrought,<br /> +Thy love’s no mair, thy promise nought.<br /> + <i>Balow</i>, <i>my boy</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p class="poetry">I wish I were a maid again!<br /> +From young men’s flatt’ry I’d refrain;<br /> +For now unto my grief I find<br /> +They all are perjur’d and unkind;<br /> +Bewitching charms bred all my harms;—<br /> +Witness my babe lies in my arms.<br /> + <i>Balow</i>, <i>my boy</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p class="poetry">I take my fate from bad to worse,<br /> +That I must needs be now a nurse,<br /> +And lull my young son on my lap:<br /> +From me, sweet orphan, take the pap.<br /> +Balow, my child, thy mother mild<br /> +Shall wail as from all bliss exil’d.<br /> + <i>Balow</i>, <i>my boy</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>Balow, my boy, weep not for me,<br /> +Whose greatest grief’s for wronging thee.<br /> +Nor pity her deserved smart,<br /> +Who can blame none but her fond heart;<br /> +For, too soon tursting latest finds<br /> +With fairest tongues are falsest minds.<br /> + <i>Balow</i>, <i>my boy</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Balow, my boy, thy father’s fled,<br /> +When he the thriftless son has played;<br /> +Of vows and oaths forgetful, he<br /> +Preferr’d the wars to thee and me.<br /> +But now, perhaps, thy curse and mine<br /> +Make him eat acorns with the swine.<br /> + <i>Balow</i>, <i>my boy</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p class="poetry">But curse not him; perhaps now he,<br /> +Stung with remorse, is blessing thee:<br /> +Perhaps at death; for who can tell<br /> +Whether the judge of heaven or hell,<br /> +By some proud foe has struck the blow,<br /> +And laid the dear deceiver low?<br /> + <i>Balow</i>, <i>my boy</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p class="poetry">I wish I were into the bounds<br /> +Where he lies smother’d in his wounds,<br /> +Repeating, as he pants for air,<br /> +My name, whom once he call’d his fair;<br /> +No woman’s yet so fiercely set<br /> +But she’ll forgive, though not forget.<br /> + <i>Balow</i>, <i>my boy</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p class="poetry">If linen lacks, for my love’s sake<br /> +Then quickly to him would I make<br /> +My smock, once for his body meet,<br /> +And wrap him in that winding-sheet.<br /> +Ah me! how happy had I been,<br /> +If he had ne’er been wrapt therein.<br /> + <i>Balow</i>, <i>my boy</i>, <i>etc.</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Balow, my boy, I’ll weep for thee;<br /> +Too soon, alake, thou’lt weep for me:<br /> +Thy griefs are growing to a sum,<br /> +God grant thee patience when they come;<br /> +Born to sustain thy mother’s shame,<br /> +A hapless fate, a bastard’s name.<br /> + <i>Balow</i>, <i>my boy</i>, <i>ly still and +sleep</i>,<br /> + <i>It grieves me sore to hear thee weep</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>JOCK +O THE SIDE</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, Part VI., p. +479.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> Liddisdale has +ridden a raid,<br /> + But I wat they had better staid at hame;<br /> +For Mitchell o Winfield he is dead,<br /> + And my son Johnie is prisner tane?<br /> + With my fa ding diddle, la la dew diddle.</p> +<p class="poetry">For Mangerton house auld Downie is gane,<br /> + Her coats she has kilted up to her knee;<br /> +And down the water wi speed she rins,<br /> + While tears in spaits fa fast frae her eie.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up and bespake the lord Mangerton:<br /> + “What news, what news, sister Downie, to +me?”<br /> + “Bad news, bad news, my lord Mangerton;<br /> + Mitchel is killd, and tane they hae my son +Johnie.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Neer fear, sister Downie,” quo +Mangerton;<br /> + “I hae yokes of oxen, four-and-twentie,<br /> +My barns, my byres, and my faulds, a’ weel filld,<br /> + And I’ll part wi them a’ ere Johnie +shall die.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Three men I’ll take to set him +free,<br /> + Weel harnessd a’ wi best of steel;<br /> +The English rogues may hear, and drie<br /> + The weight o their braid swords to feel</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>“The Laird’s Jock ane, the Laird’s +Wat twa,<br /> + O Hobie Noble, thou ane maun be!<br /> +Thy coat is blue, thou has been true,<br /> + Since England banishd thee, to me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, Hobie was an English man,<br /> + In Bewcastle-dale was bred and born;<br /> +But his misdeeds they were sae great,<br /> + They banished him neer to return.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord Mangerton then orders gave,—<br /> + “Your horses the wrang way maun a’ be +shod;<br /> +Like gentlemen ye must not seem,<br /> + But look like corn-caugers gawn ae road.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Your armour gude ye maunna shaw,<br /> + Nor ance appear like men o weir;<br /> +As country lads be all arrayd,<br /> + Wi branks and brecham on ilk mare.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Sae now a’ their horses are shod the +wrang way,<br /> + And Hobie has mounted his grey sae fine,<br /> +Jock his lively bay, Wat’s on his white horse behind,<br /> + And on they rode for the water o Tyne.</p> +<p class="poetry">At the Cholerford they a’ light down,<br +/> + And there, wi the help o the light o the moon,<br /> +A tree they cut, wi fifteen naggs upon each side,<br /> + To climb up the wall of Newcastle toun.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when they came to Newcastle toun,<br /> + And were alighted at the wa,<br /> +They fand their tree three ells oer laigh,<br /> + They fand their stick baith short aid sma.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +103</span>Then up and spake the Laird’s ain Jock,<br /> + “There’s naething for’t; the gates +we maun force.”<br /> +But when they cam the gate unto,<br /> + A proud porter withstood baith men and horse.</p> +<p class="poetry">His neck in twa I wat they hae wrung;<br /> + Wi foot or hand he neer play’d paw;<br /> +His life and his keys at anes they hae taen,<br /> + And cast his body ahind the wa.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now soon they reached Newcastle jail,<br /> + And to the prisner thus they call:<br /> +“Sleips thou, wakes thou, Jock o the Side,<br /> + Or is thou wearied o thy thrall?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Jock answers thus, wi dolefu tone:<br /> + “Aft, aft I wake, I seldom sleip;<br /> +But wha’s this kens my name sae weel,<br /> + And thus to hear my waes does seek?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up and spake the good Laird’s +Jock:<br /> + “Neer fear ye now, my billie,” quo +he;<br /> +“For here’s the Laird’s Jock, the Laird’s +Wat,<br /> + And Hobie Noble, come to set thee free.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, had thy tongue, and speak nae +mair,<br /> + And o thy talk now let me be!<br /> +For if a’ Liddesdale were here the night,<br /> + The morn’s the day that I maun die.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Full fifteen stane o Spanish iron,<br /> + They hae laid a’ right sair on me;<br /> +Wi locks and keys I am fast bound<br /> + Into this dungeon mirk and drearie.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span>“Fear ye no that,” quo the Laird’s +Jock;<br /> + “A faint heart neer wan a fair ladie;<br /> +Work thou within, we’ll work without,<br /> + And I’ll be sworn we set thee free.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The first strong dore that they came at,<br /> + They loosed it without a key;<br /> +The next chaind dore that they cam at,<br /> + They gard it a’ in flinders flee.</p> +<p class="poetry">The prisner now, upo his back,<br /> + The Laird’s Jock’s gotten up fu hie;<br +/> +And down the stair him, irons and a’,<br /> + Wi nae sma speed and joy brings he.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now, Jock, I wat,” quo Hobie +Noble,<br /> + “Part o the weight ye may lay on me,”<br +/> +“I wat weel no,” quo the Laird’s Jock<br /> + “I count him lighter than a flee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Sae out at the gates they a’ are gane,<br +/> + The prisner’s set on horseback hie;<br /> +And now wi speed they’ve tane the gate;<br /> + While ilk ane jokes fu wantonlie.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O Jock, sae winsomely’s ye +ride,<br /> + Wi baith your feet upo ae side!<br /> +Sae weel’s ye’re harnessd, and sae trig!<br /> + In troth ye sit like ony bride.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The night, tho wat, they didna mind,<br /> + But hied them on fu mirrilie,<br /> +Until they cam to Cholerford brae,<br /> + Where the water ran like mountains hie.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when they came to Cholerford,<br /> + There they met with an auld man;<br /> +Says, “Honest man, will the water ride?<br /> + Tell us in haste, if that ye can.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +105</span>“I wat weel no,” quo the good auld man;<br +/> + “Here I hae livd this threty yeirs and +three,<br /> +And I neer yet saw the Tyne sae big,<br /> + Nor rinning ance sae like a sea.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up and spake the Laird’s saft +Wat,<br /> + The greatest coward in the company;<br /> +“Now halt, now halt, we needna try’t;<br /> + The day is comd we a’ maun die!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Poor faint-hearted thief!” quo the +Laird’s Jock,<br /> + “There’ll nae man die but he +that’s fie;<br /> +I’ll lead ye a’ right safely through;<br /> + Lift ye the prisner on ahint me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Sae now the water they a’ hae tane,<br /> + By anes and ’twas they a’ swam +through<br /> +“Here are we a’ safe,” says the Laird’s +Jock,<br /> + “And, poor faint Wat, what think ye +now?”</p> +<p class="poetry">They scarce the ither side had won,<br /> + When twenty men they saw pursue;<br /> +Frae Newcastle town they had been sent,<br /> + A’ English lads right good and true.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when the land-sergeant the water saw,<br /> + “It winna ride, my lads,” quo he;<br /> +Then out he cries, “Ye the prisner may take,<br /> + But leave the irons, I pray, to me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I wat weel no,” cryd the +Laird’s Jock,<br /> + “I’ll keep them a’; shoon to my +mare they’ll be;<br /> +My good grey mare; for I am sure,<br /> + She’s bought them a’ fu dear frae +thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>Sae now they’re away for Liddisdale,<br /> + Een as fast as they coud them hie;<br /> +The prisner’s brought to his ain fireside,<br /> + And there o’s airns they make him free.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now, Jock, my billie,” quo +a’ the three,<br /> + “The day was comd thou was to die;<br /> +But thou’s as weel at thy ain fireside,<br /> + Now sitting, I think, ’tween thee and +me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">They hae gard fill up ae punch-bowl,<br /> + And after it they maun hae anither,<br /> +And thus the night they a’ hae spent,<br /> + Just as they had been brither and brither.</p> +<h2><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>LORD +THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, Part III., p. +182.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lord Thomas</span> and Fair +Annet<br /> + Sate a’ day on a hill;<br /> +Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,<br /> + They had not talkt their fill.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord Thomas said a word in jest,<br /> + Fair Annet took it ill:<br /> +“A, I will nevir wed a wife<br /> + Against my ain friend’s will.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife,<br /> + A wife wull neir wed yee;”<br /> +Sae he is hame to tell his mither,<br /> + And knelt upon his knee.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O rede, O rede, mither,” he +says,<br /> + “A gude rede gie to mee;<br /> +O sall I tak the nut-browne bride,<br /> + And let Faire Annet bee?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“The nut-browne bride haes gowd and +gear,<br /> + Fair Annet she has gat nane;<br /> +And the little beauty Fair Annet haes<br /> + O it wull soon be gane.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And he has till his brother gane:<br /> + “Now, brother, rede ye mee;<br /> +A, sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,<br /> + And let Fair Annet bee?”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>“The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother,<br /> + The nut-browne bride has kye;<br /> +I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride,<br /> + And cast Fair Annet bye.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Her oxen may dye i’ the house, +billie,<br /> + And her kye into the byre;<br /> +And I sall hae nothing to mysell<br /> + Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And he has till his sister gane:<br /> + “Now, sister, rede ye mee;<br /> +O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,<br /> + And set Fair Annet free?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’se rede ye tak Fair Annet, +Thomas,<br /> + And let the browne bride alane;<br /> +Lest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace,<br /> + What is this we brought hame!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“No, I will tak my mither’s +counsel,<br /> + And marrie me owt o hand;<br /> +And I will tak the nut-browne bride,<br /> + Fair Annet may leive the land.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Up then rose Fair Annet’s father,<br /> + Twa hours or it wer day,<br /> +And he is gane unto the bower<br /> + Wherein Fair Annet lay.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Rise up, rise up, Fair Annet,” he +says<br /> + “Put on your silken sheene;<br /> +Let us gae to St. Marie’s Kirke,<br /> + And see that rich weddeen.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“My maides, gae to my dressing-roome,<br +/> + And dress to me my hair;<br /> +Whaireir yee laid a plait before,<br /> + See yee lay ten times mair.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +109</span>“My maids, gae to my dressing-room,<br /> + And dress to me my smock;<br /> +The one half is o the holland fine,<br /> + The other o needle-work.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The horse Fair Annet rade upon,<br /> + He amblit like the wind;<br /> +Wi siller he was shod before,<br /> + Wi burning gowd behind.</p> +<p class="poetry">Four and twanty siller bells<br /> + Wer a’ tyed till his mane,<br /> +And yae tift o the norland wind,<br /> + They tinkled ane by ane.</p> +<p class="poetry">Four and twanty gay gude knichts<br /> + Rade by Fair Annet’s side,<br /> +And four and twanty fair ladies,<br /> + As gin she had bin a bride.</p> +<p class="poetry">And whan she cam to Marie’s Kirk,<br /> + She sat on Marie’s stean:<br /> +The cleading that Fair Annet had on<br /> + It skinkled in their een.</p> +<p class="poetry">And whan she cam into the kirk,<br /> + She shimmerd like the sun;<br /> +The belt that was about her waist<br /> + Was a’ wi pearles bedone.</p> +<p class="poetry">She sat her by the nut-browne bride,<br /> + And her een they wer sae clear,<br /> +Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride,<br /> + When Fair Annet drew near.</p> +<p class="poetry">He had a rose into his hand,<br /> + He gae it kisses three,<br /> +And reaching by the nut-browne bride,<br /> + Laid it on Fair Annet’s knee.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>Up then spak the nut-browne bride,<br /> + She spak wi meikle spite:<br /> +“And whair gat ye that rose-water,<br /> + That does mak yee sae white?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O I did get the rose-water<br /> + Whair ye wull neir get nane,<br /> +For I did get that very rose-water<br /> + Into my mither’s wame.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The bride she drew a long bodkin<br /> + Frae out her gay head-gear,<br /> +And strake Fair Annet unto the heart,<br /> + That word spak nevir mair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord Thomas he saw Fair Annet wex pale,<br /> + And marvelit what mote bee;<br /> +But when he saw her dear heart’s blude,<br /> + A’ wood-wroth wexed bee.</p> +<p class="poetry">He drew his dagger that was sae sharp,<br /> + That was sae sharp and meet,<br /> +And drave it into the nut-browne bride,<br /> + That fell deid at his feit.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now stay for me, dear Annet,” he +sed,<br /> + “Now stay, my dear,” he cry’d;<br +/> +Then strake the dagger untill his heart,<br /> + And fell deid by her side.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord Thomas was buried without kirk-wa,<br /> + Fair Annet within the quiere,<br /> +And o the ane thair grew a birk,<br /> + The other a bonny briere.</p> +<p class="poetry">And ay they grew, and ay they threw,<br /> + As they wad faine be neare;<br /> +And by this ye may ken right weil<br /> + They were twa luvers deare.</p> +<h2><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>FAIR +ANNIE</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, Part III., p. +69.)</p> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">It’s</span> +narrow, narrow, make your bed,<br /> + And learn to lie your lane:<br /> +For I’m ga’n oer the sea, Fair Annie,<br /> + A braw bride to bring hame.<br /> +Wi her I will get gowd and gear;<br /> + Wi you I neer got nane.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But wha will bake my bridal bread,<br /> + Or brew my bridal ale?<br /> +And wha will welcome my brisk bride,<br /> + That I bring oer the dale?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It’s I will bake your bridal +bread,<br /> + And brew your bridal ale,<br /> +And I will welcome your brisk bride,<br /> + That you bring oer the dale.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“But she that welcomes my brisk bride<br +/> + Maun gang like maiden fair;<br /> +She maun lace on her robe sae jimp,<br /> + And braid her yellow hair.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“But how can I gang maiden-like,<br /> + When maiden I am nane?<br /> +Have I not born seven sons to thee,<br /> + And am with child again?”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +112</span>She’s taen her young son in her arms,<br /> + Another in her hand,<br /> +And she’s up to the highest tower,<br /> + To see him come to land.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Come up, come up, my eldest son,<br /> + And look oer yon sea-strand,<br /> +And see your father’s new-come bride,<br /> + Before she come to land.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Come down, come down, my mother dear,<br +/> + Come frae the castle wa!<br /> +I fear, if langer ye stand there,<br /> + Ye’ll let yoursell down fa.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And she gaed down, and farther down,<br /> + Her love’s ship for to see,<br /> +And the topmast and the mainmast<br /> + Shone like the silver free.</p> +<p class="poetry">And she’s gane down, and farther down,<br +/> + The bride’s ship to behold,<br /> +And the topmast and the mainmast<br /> + They shone just like the gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s taen her seven sons in her hand,<br +/> + I wot she didna fail;<br /> +She met Lord Thomas and his bride,<br /> + As they came oer the dale.</p> +<p class="poetry">“You’re welcome to your house, Lord +Thomas,<br /> + You’re welcome to your land;<br /> +You’re welcome with your fair ladye,<br /> + That you lead by the hand.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>“You’re welcome to your ha’s, +ladye,<br /> + You’re welcome to your bowers;<br /> +Your welcome to your hame, ladye,<br /> + For a’ that’s here is yours.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I thank thee, Annie; I thank thee, +Annie,<br /> + Sae dearly as I thank thee;<br /> +You’re the likest to my sister Annie,<br /> + That ever I did see.</p> +<p class="poetry">“There came a knight out oer the sea,<br +/> + And steald my sister away;<br /> +The shame scoup in his company,<br /> + And land where’er he gae!”</p> +<p class="poetry">She hang ae napkin at the door,<br /> + Another in the ha,<br /> +And a’ to wipe the trickling tears,<br /> + Sae fast as they did fa.</p> +<p class="poetry">And aye she served the lang tables<br /> + With white bread and with wine,<br /> +And aye she drank the wan water,<br /> + To had her colour fine.</p> +<p class="poetry">And aye she served the lang tables,<br /> + With white bread and with brown;<br /> +And aye she turned her round about,<br /> + Sae fast the tears fell down.</p> +<p class="poetry">And he’s taen down the silk napkin,<br /> + Hung on a silver pin,<br /> +And aye he wipes the tear trickling<br /> + A’down her cheek and chin.</p> +<p class="poetry">And aye he turn’d him round about,<br /> + And smiled amang his men;<br /> +Says, “Like ye best the old ladye,<br /> + Or her that’s new come hame?”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span>When bells were rung, and mass was sung,<br /> + And a’ men bound to bed,<br /> +Lord Thomas and his new-come bride<br /> + To their chamber they were gaed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Annie made her bed a little forbye,<br /> + To hear what they might say;<br /> +“And ever alas!” Fair Annie cried,<br /> + “That I should see this day!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gin my seven sons were seven young +rats,<br /> + Running on the castle wa,<br /> +And I were a grey cat mysell,<br /> + I soon would worry them a’.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gin my young sons were seven young +hares,<br /> + Running oer yon lilly lee,<br /> +And I were a grew hound mysell,<br /> + Soon worried they a’ should be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And wae and sad Fair Annie sat,<br /> + And drearie was her sang,<br /> +And ever, as she sobbd and grat,<br /> + “Wae to the man that did the wrang!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“My gown is on,” said the new-come +bride,<br /> + “My shoes are on my feet,<br /> +And I will to Fair Annie’s chamber,<br /> + And see what gars her greet.</p> +<p class="poetry">“What ails ye, what ails ye, Fair +Annie,<br /> + That ye make sic a moan?<br /> +Has your wine-barrels cast the girds,<br /> + Or is your white bread gone?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span>“O wha was’t was your father, Annie,<br /> + Or wha was’t was your mother?<br /> +And had ye ony sister, Annie,<br /> + Or had ye ony brother?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“The Earl of Wemyss was my father,<br /> + The Countess of Wemyss my mother;<br /> +And a’ the folk about the house<br /> + To me were sister and brother.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“If the Earl of Wemyss was your +father,<br /> + I wot sae was he mine;<br /> +And it shall not be for lack o gowd<br /> + That ye your love sall fyne.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For I have seven ships o mine ain,<br /> + A’ loaded to the brim,<br /> +And I will gie them a’ to thee<br /> + Wi four to thine eldest son:<br /> +But thanks to a’ the powers in heaven<br /> + That I gae maiden hame!”</p> +<h2><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>THE +DOWIE DENS OF YARROW</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, Part III. +Early Edition.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Late</span> at e’en, +drinking the wine,<br /> + And ere they paid the lawing,<br /> +They set a combat them between,<br /> + To fight it in the dawing.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, stay at hame, my noble lord,<br /> + Oh, stay at hame, my marrow!<br /> +My cruel brother will you betray<br /> + On the dowie houms of Yarrow.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, fare ye weel, my ladye gaye!<br /> + Oh, fare ye weel, my Sarah!<br /> +For I maun gae, though I ne’er return,<br /> + Frae the dowie banks of Yarrow.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She kiss’d his cheek, she kaim’d +his hair,<br /> + As oft she had done before, O;<br /> +She belted him with his noble brand,<br /> + And he’s away to Yarrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">As he gaed up the Tennies bank,<br /> + I wot he gaed wi’ sorrow,<br /> +Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm’d men,<br /> + On the dowie houms of Yarrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, come ye here to part your land,<br +/> + The bonnie Forest thorough?<br /> +Or come ye here to wield your brand,<br /> + On the dowie houms of Yarrow?”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span>“I come not here to part my land,<br /> + And neither to beg nor borrow;<br /> +I come to wield my noble brand,<br /> + On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">“If I see all, ye’re nine to +ane;<br /> + An that’s an unequal marrow:<br /> +Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand,<br /> + On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Four has he hurt, and five has slain,<br /> + On the bloody braes of Yarrow;<br /> +Till that stubborn knight came him behind,<br /> + And ran his body thorough.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gae hame, gae hame, good-brother +John,<br /> + And tell your sister Sarah,<br /> +To come and lift her leafu’ lord;<br /> + He’s sleepin’ sound on +Yarrow.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yestreen I dream’d a dolefu’ +dream;<br /> + I fear there will be sorrow!<br /> +I dream’d I pu’d the heather green,<br /> + Wi’ my true love, on Yarrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O gentle wind, that bloweth south,<br /> + From where my love repaireth,<br /> +Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,<br /> + And tell me how he fareth!</p> +<p class="poetry">“But in the glen strive armed men;<br /> + They’ve wrought me dole and sorrow;<br /> +They’ve slain—the comeliest knight they’ve +slain—<br /> + He bleeding lies on Yarrow.”</p> +<p class="poetry">As she sped down yon high, high hill,<br /> + She gaed wi’ dole and sorrow,<br /> +And in the den spied ten slain men,<br /> + On the dowie banks of Yarrow.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span>She kiss’d his cheek, she kaim’d his +hair,<br /> + She search’d his wounds all thorough,<br /> +She kiss’d them, till her lips grew red,<br /> + On the dowie houms of Yarrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now, haud your tongue, my daughter +dear!<br /> + For a’ this breeds but sorrow;<br /> +I’ll wed ye to a better lord<br /> + Than him ye lost on Yarrow.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, haud your tongue, my father dear!<br +/> + Ye mind me but of sorrow:<br /> +A fairer rose did never bloom<br /> + Than now lies cropp’d on Yarrow.”</p> +<h2><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>SIR +ROLAND</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. i. Early +Edition.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Whan</span> he cam to his +ain luve’s bouir<br /> + He tirled at the pin,<br /> +And sae ready was his fair fause luve<br /> + To rise and let him in.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O welcome, welcome, Sir Roland,” +she says,<br /> + “Thrice welcome thou art to me;<br /> +For this night thou wilt feast in my secret bouir,<br /> + And to-morrow we’ll wedded be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“This night is hallow-eve,” he +said,<br /> + “And to-morrow is hallow-day;<br /> +And I dreamed a drearie dream yestreen,<br /> + That has made my heart fu’ wae.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I dreamed a drearie dream yestreen,<br +/> + And I wish it may cum to gude:<br /> +I dreamed that ye slew my best grew hound,<br /> + And gied me his lappered blude.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">“Unbuckle your belt, Sir Roland,” +she said,<br /> + And set you safely down.”<br /> +“O your chamber is very dark, fair maid,<br /> + And the night is wondrous lown.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span>“Yes, dark, dark is my secret bouir,<br /> + And lown the midnight may be;<br /> +For there is none waking in a’ this tower<br /> + But thou, my true love, and me.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">She has mounted on her true love’s +steed,<br /> + By the ae light o’ the moon;<br /> +She has whipped him and spurred him,<br /> + And roundly she rade frae the toun.</p> +<p class="poetry">She hadna ridden a mile o’ gate,<br /> + Never a mile but ane,<br /> +When she was aware of a tall young man,<br /> + Slow riding o’er the plain,</p> +<p class="poetry">She turned her to the right about,<br /> + Then to the left turn’d she;<br /> +But aye, ’tween her and the wan moonlight,<br /> + That tall knight did she see.</p> +<p class="poetry">And he was riding burd alane,<br /> + On a horse as black as jet,<br /> +But tho’ she followed him fast and fell,<br /> + No nearer could she get.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O stop! O stop! young man,” +she said;<br /> + “For I in dule am dight;<br /> +O stop, and win a fair lady’s luve,<br /> + If you be a leal true knight.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But nothing did the tall knight say,<br /> + And nothing did he blin;<br /> +Still slowly ride he on before<br /> + And fast she rade behind.</p> +<p class="poetry">She whipped her steed, she spurred her +steed,<br /> + Till his breast was all a foam;<br /> +But nearer unto that tall young knight,<br /> + By Our Ladye she could not come.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +121</span>“O if you be a gay young knight,<br /> + As well I trow you be,<br /> +Pull tight your bridle reins, and stay<br /> + Till I come up to thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But nothing did that tall knight say,<br /> + And no whit did he blin,<br /> +Until he reached a broad river’s side<br /> + And there he drew his rein.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O is this water deep?” he said,<br +/> + “As it is wondrous dun?<br /> +Or is it sic as a saikless maid,<br /> + And a leal true knight may swim?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“The water it is deep,” she +said,<br /> + “As it is wondrous dun;<br /> +But it is sic as a saikless maid,<br /> + And a leal true knight may swim.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The knight spurred on his tall black steed;<br +/> + The lady spurred on her brown;<br /> +And fast they rade unto the flood,<br /> + And fast they baith swam down.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The water weets my tae,” she +said;<br /> + “The water weets my knee,<br /> +And hold up my bridle reins, sir knight,<br /> + For the sake of Our Ladye.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“If I would help thee now,” he +said,<br /> + “It were a deadly sin,<br /> +For I’ve sworn neir to trust a fair may’s word,<br /> + Till the water weets her chin.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, the water weets my waist,” she +said,<br /> + “Sae does it weet my skin,<br /> +And my aching heart rins round about,<br /> + The burn maks sic a din.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span>“The water is waxing deeper still,<br /> + Sae does it wax mair wide;<br /> +And aye the farther that we ride on,<br /> + Farther off is the other side.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O help me now, thou false, false +knight,<br /> + Have pity on my youth,<br /> +For now the water jawes owre my head,<br /> + And it gurgles in my mouth.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The knight turned right and round about,<br /> + All in the middle stream;<br /> +And he stretched out his head to that lady,<br /> + But loudly she did scream.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O this is hallow-morn,” he +said,<br /> + “And it is your bridal-day,<br /> +But sad would be that gay wedding,<br /> + If bridegroom and bride were away.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And ride on, ride on, proud Margaret!<br +/> + Till the water comes o’er your bree,<br /> +For the bride maun ride deep, and deeper yet,<br /> + Wha rides this ford wi’ me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Turn round, turn round, proud +Margaret!<br /> + Turn ye round, and look on me,<br /> +Thou hast killed a true knight under trust,<br /> + And his ghost now links on with thee.”</p> +<h2><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>ROSE +THE RED AND WHITE LILY</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, Part IV.)</p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">Rose</span> the Red and +White Lilly,<br /> + Their mother dear was dead,<br /> +And their father married an ill woman,<br /> + Wishd them twa little guede.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet she had twa as fu fair sons<br /> + As eer brake manis bread,<br /> +And the tane of them loed her White Lilly,<br /> + And the tither lood Rose the Red.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, biggit ha they a bigly bowr,<br /> + And strawn it oer wi san,<br /> +And there was mair mirth i the ladies’ bowr<br /> + Than in a’ their father’s lan.</p> +<p class="poetry">But out it spake their step-mother,<br /> + Wha stood a little foreby:<br /> +“I hope to live and play the prank<br /> + Sal gar your loud sang ly.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s calld upon her eldest son:<br /> + “Come here, my son, to me;<br /> +It fears me sair, my eldest son,<br /> + That ye maun sail the sea.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gin it fear you sair, my mither dear,<br +/> + Your bidding I maun dee;<br /> +But be never war to Rose the Red<br /> + Than ye ha been to me.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span>“O had your tongue, my eldest son,<br /> + For sma sal be her part;<br /> +You’ll nae get a kiss o her comely mouth<br /> + Gin your very fair heart should break.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s calld upon her youngest son:<br /> + “Come here, my son, to me;<br /> +It fears me sair, my youngest son,<br /> + That ye maun sail the sea.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gin it fear you sair, my mither dear,<br +/> + Your bidding I maun dee;<br /> +But be never war to White Lilly<br /> + Than ye ha been to me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O haud your tongue, my youngest son,<br +/> + For sma sall be her part;<br /> +You’ll neer get a kiss o her comely mouth<br /> + Tho your very fair heart should break.”</p> +<p class="poetry">When Rose the Red and White Lilly<br /> + Saw their twa loves were gane,<br /> +Then stopped ha they their loud, loud sang,<br /> + And tane up the still moarnin;<br /> +And their step-mother stood listnin by,<br /> + To hear the ladies’ mean.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out it spake her, White Lily;<br /> + “My sister, we’ll be gane;<br /> +Why shou’d we stay in Barnsdale,<br /> + To waste our youth in pain?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then cutted ha they their green cloathing,<br +/> + A little below their knee;<br /> +And sae ha they their yallow hair,<br /> + A little aboon there bree;<br /> +And they’ve doen them to haely chapel<br /> + Was christened by Our Ladye.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +125</span>There ha they changed their ain twa names,<br /> + Sae far frae ony town;<br /> +And the tane o them hight Sweet Willy,<br /> + And the tither o them Roge the Roun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Between this twa a vow was made,<br /> + An they sware it to fulfil;<br /> +That at three blasts o a buglehorn,<br /> + She’d come her sister till.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Sweet Willy’s gane to the kingis +court,<br /> + Her true-love for to see,<br /> +And Roge the Roun to good green wood,<br /> + Brown Robin’s man to be.</p> +<p class="poetry">As it fell out upon a day,<br /> + They a did put the stane;<br /> +Full seven foot ayont them a<br /> + She gard the puttin-stane gang.</p> +<p class="poetry">She leand her back against an oak,<br /> + And gae a loud Ohone!<br /> +Then out it spake him Brown Robin,<br /> + “But that’s a woman’s +moan!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, ken ye by my red rose lip?<br /> + Or by my yallow hair;<br /> +Or ken ye by my milk-white breast?<br /> + For ye never saw it bare?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I ken no by your red rose lip,<br /> + Nor by your yallow hair;<br /> +Nor ken I by your milk-white breast,<br /> + For I never saw it bare;<br /> +But, come to your bowr whaever sae likes,<br /> + Will find a ladye there.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +126</span>“Oh, gin ye come to my bowr within,<br /> + Thro fraud, deceit, or guile,<br /> +Wi this same bran that’s in my han<br /> + I swear I will thee kill.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“But I will come thy bowr within,<br /> + An spear nae leave,” quoth he;<br /> +“An this same bran that’s i my ban,<br /> + I sall ware back on the.”</p> +<p class="poetry">About the tenth hour of the night,<br /> + The ladie’s bowr door was broken,<br /> +An eer the first hour of the day<br /> + The bonny knave bairn was gotten.</p> +<p class="poetry">When days were gane and months were run,<br /> + The ladye took travailing,<br /> +And sair she cry’d for a bow’r-woman,<br /> + For to wait her upon.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out it spake him, Brown Robin:<br /> + “Now what needs a’ this din?<br /> +For what coud any woman do<br /> + But I coud do the same?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Twas never my mither’s +fashion,” she says,<br /> + “Nor sall it ever be mine,<br /> +That belted knights shoud eer remain<br /> + Where ladies dreed their pine.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But ye take up that bugle-horn,<br /> + An blaw a blast for me;<br /> +I ha a brother i the kingis court<br /> + Will come me quickly ti.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O gin ye ha a brither on earth<br /> + That ye love better nor me,<br /> +Ye blaw the horn yoursel,” he says,<br /> + “For ae blast I winna gie.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +127</span>She’s set the horn till her mouth,<br /> + And she’s blawn three blasts sae shrill;<br /> +Sweet Willy heard i the kingis court,<br /> + And came her quickly till.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up it started Brown Robin,<br /> + An an angry man was he:<br /> +“There comes nae man this bowr within<br /> + But first must fight wi me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O they hae fought that bowr within<br /> + Till the sun was gaing down,<br /> +Till drops o blude frae Rose the Red<br /> + Cam trailing to the groun.</p> +<p class="poetry">She leand her back against the wa,<br /> + Says, “Robin, let a’ be;<br /> +For it is a lady born and bred<br /> + That’s foughten sae well wi thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O seven foot he lap a back;<br /> + Says, “Alas, and wae is me!<br /> +I never wisht in a’ my life,<br /> + A woman’s blude to see;<br /> +An ae for the sake of ae fair maid<br /> + Whose name was White Lilly.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out it spake her White Lilly,<br /> + An a hearty laugh laugh she:<br /> +“She’s lived wi you this year an mair,<br /> + Tho ye kenntna it was she.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Now word has gane thro a’ the lan,<br /> + Before a month was done,<br /> +That Brown Robin’s man, in good green wood,<br /> + Had born a bonny young son.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span>The word has gane to the kingis court,<br /> + An to the king himsel;<br /> +“Now, by my fay,” the king could say,<br /> + “The like was never heard tell!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out it spake him Bold Arthur,<br /> + An a hearty laugh laugh he:<br /> +“I trow some may has playd the loun,<br /> + And fled her ain country.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Bring me my steed,” then +cry’d the king,<br /> + “My bow and arrows keen;<br /> +I’ll ride mysel to good green wood,<br /> + An see what’s to be seen.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“An’t please your grace,” +said Bold Arthur,<br /> + “My liege, I’ll gang you wi,<br /> +An try to fin a little foot-page,<br /> + That’s strayd awa frae me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">O they’ve hunted i the good green wood<br +/> + The buck but an the rae,<br /> +An they drew near Brown Robin’s bowr,<br /> + About the close of day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out it spake the king in hast,<br /> + Says, “Arthur look an see<br /> +Gin that be no your little foot-page<br /> + That leans against yon tree.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Arthur took his bugle-horn,<br /> + An blew a blast sae shrill;<br /> +Sweet Willy started at the sound,<br /> + An ran him quickly till.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O wanted ye your meat, Willy?<br /> + Or wanted ye your fee?<br /> +Or gat ye ever an angry word,<br /> + That ye ran awa frae me?”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +129</span>“I wanted nought, my master dear;<br /> + To me ye ay was good;<br /> +I came but to see my ae brother,<br /> + That wons in this green wood.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out it spake the king again,<br /> + Says, “Bonny boy, tell to me,<br /> +Wha lives into yon bigly bowr,<br /> + Stands by yon green oak tree?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, pardon me,” says Sweet +Willie,<br /> + “My liege, I dare no tell;<br /> +An I pray you go no near that bowr,<br /> + For fear they do you fell.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, haud your tongue, my bonny boy,<br +/> + For I winna be said nay;<br /> +But I will gang that bowr within,<br /> + Betide me weal or wae.”</p> +<p class="poetry">They’ve lighted off their milk-white +steeds,<br /> + An saftly enterd in,<br /> +And there they saw her White Lilly,<br /> + Nursing her bonny young son.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now, by the rood,” the king coud +say,<br /> + “This is a comely sight;<br /> +I trow, instead of a forrester’s man,<br /> + This is a lady bright!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out it spake her, Rose the Red,<br /> + An fell low down on her knee:<br /> +“Oh, pardon us, my gracious liege,<br /> + An our story I’ll tell thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Our father was a wealthy lord,<br /> + That wond in Barnsdale;<br /> +But we had a wicked step-mother,<br /> + That wrought us meickle bale.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>“Yet she had twa as fu fair sons<br /> + As ever the sun did see,<br /> +An the tane of them lood my sister dear,<br /> + An the tother said he lood me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out it spake him Bold Arthur,<br /> + As by the king he stood:<br /> +“Now, by the faith o my body,<br /> + This shoud be Rose the Red!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then in it came him Brown Robin,<br /> + Frae hunting O the deer;<br /> +But whan he saw the king was there,<br /> + He started back for fear.</p> +<p class="poetry">The king has taen him by the hand,<br /> + An bide him naithing dread;<br /> +Says, “Ye maun leave the good greenwood,<br /> + Come to the court wi speed.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up he took White Lilly’s son,<br /> + An set him on his knee;<br /> +Says—“Gin ye live to wield a bran,<br /> + My bowman ye sall bee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The king he sent for robes of green,<br /> + An girdles o shinning gold;<br /> +He gart the ladies be arrayd<br /> + Most comely to behold.</p> +<p class="poetry">They’ve done them unto Mary kirk,<br /> + An there gat fair wedding,<br /> +An fan the news spread oer the lan,<br /> + For joy the bells did ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out it spake her Rose the Red,<br /> + An a hearty laugh laugh she:<br /> +“I wonder what would our step-dame say,<br /> + Gin she his sight did see!”</p> +<h2><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>THE +BATTLE OF HARLAW<br /> +<span class="smcap">Evergreen Version</span></h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. vii. +Early Edition, Appendix.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Frae</span> Dunidier as I +cam throuch,<br /> + Doun by the hill of Banochie,<br /> +Allangst the lands of Garioch.<br /> + Grit pitie was to heir and se<br /> + The noys and dulesum hermonie,<br /> +That evir that dreiry day did daw!<br /> + Cryand the corynoch on hie,<br /> +Alas! alas! for the Harlaw.</p> +<p class="poetry">I marvlit what the matter meant;<br /> + All folks were in a fiery fariy:<br /> +I wist nocht wha was fae or freind,<br /> + Yet quietly I did me carrie.<br /> + But sen the days of auld King Hairy,<br /> +Sic slauchter was not hard nor sene,<br /> + And thair I had nae tyme to tairy,<br /> +For bissiness in Aberdene.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus as I walkit on the way,<br /> + To Inverury as I went,<br /> +I met a man, and bad him stay,<br /> + Requeisting him to mak me quaint<br /> + Of the beginning and the event<br /> +That happenit thair at the Harlaw;<br /> + Then he entreited me to tak tent,<br /> +And he the truth sould to me schaw.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>Grit Donald of the Ysles did claim<br /> + Unto the lands of Ross sum richt,<br /> +And to the governour he came,<br /> + Them for to haif, gif that he micht,<br /> + Wha saw his interest was but slicht,<br /> +And thairfore answerit with disdain.<br /> + He hastit hame baith day and nicht,<br /> +And sent nae bodward back again.</p> +<p class="poetry">But Donald richt impatient<br /> + Of that answer Duke Robert gaif,<br /> +He vow’d to God Omniyotent,<br /> + All the hale lands of Ross to half,<br /> + Or ells be graithed in his graif:<br /> +He wald not quat his richt for nocht,<br /> + Nor be abusit like a slaif;<br /> +That bargin sould be deirly bocht.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then haistylie he did command<br /> + That all his weir-men should convene;<br /> +Ilk an well harnisit frae hand,<br /> + To melt and heir what he did mein.<br /> + He waxit wrath and vowit tein;<br /> +Sweirand he wald surpryse the North,<br /> + Subdew the brugh of Aberdene,<br /> +Mearns, Angus, and all Fyfe to Forth.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus with the weir-men of the yles,<br /> + Wha war ay at his bidding bown,<br /> +With money maid, with forss and wyls,<br /> + Richt far and neir, baith up and doun,<br /> + Throw mount and muir, frae town to town,<br /> +Allangst the lands of Ross he roars,<br /> + And all obey’d at his bandown,<br /> +Evin frae the North to Suthren shoars.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then all the countrie men did yield;<br /> + For nae resistans durst they mak,<br /> +<a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>Nor +offer batill in the feild,<br /> + Be forss of arms to beir him bak.<br /> + Syne they resolvit all and spak,<br /> +That best it was for thair behoif,<br /> + They sould him for thair chiftain tak,<br /> +Believing weil he did them luve.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then he a proclamation maid,<br /> + All men to meet at Inverness,<br /> +Throw Murray land to mak a raid,<br /> + Frae Arthursyre unto Spey-ness.<br /> + And further mair, he sent express,<br /> +To schaw his collours and ensenzie,<br /> + To all and sindry, mair and less,<br /> +Throchout the bounds of Byne and Enzie.</p> +<p class="poetry">And then throw fair Strathbogie land<br /> + His purpose was for to pursew,<br /> +And whatsoevir durst gainstand,<br /> + That race they should full sairly rew.<br /> + Then he bad all his men be trew,<br /> +And him defend by forss and slicht,<br /> + And promist them rewardis anew,<br /> +And mak them men of mekle micht.</p> +<p class="poetry">Without resistans, as he said,<br /> + Throw all these parts he stoutly past,<br /> +Where sum war wae, and sum war glaid,<br /> + But Garioch was all agast.<br /> + Throw all these feilds be sped him fast,<br /> +For sic a sicht was never sene;<br /> + And then, forsuith, he langd at last<br /> +To se the bruch of Aberdene.</p> +<p class="poetry">To hinder this prowd enterprise,<br /> + The stout and michty Erl of Marr<br /> +With all his men in arms did ryse,<br /> + Even frae Curgarf to Craigyvar:<br /> + <a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span>And down the syde of Don richt far,<br /> +Angus and Mearns did all convene<br /> + To fecht, or Donald came sae nar<br /> +The ryall bruch of Aberdene.</p> +<p class="poetry">And thus the martial Erle of Marr<br /> + Marcht with his men in richt array;<br /> +Befoir his enemis was aware,<br /> + His banner bauldly did display.<br /> + For weil enewch they kent the way,<br /> +And all their semblance well they saw:<br /> + Without all dangir or delay,<br /> +Come haistily to the Harlaw.</p> +<p class="poetry">With him the braif Lord Ogilvy,<br /> + Of Angus sheriff principall,<br /> +The constable of gude Dundè,<br /> + The vanguard led before them all.<br /> + Suppose in number they war small,<br /> +Thay first richt bauldlie did pursew,<br /> + And maid thair faes befor them fall,<br /> +Wha then that race did sairly rew.</p> +<p class="poetry">And then the worthy Lord Salton,<br /> + The strong undoubted Laird of Drum,<br /> +The stalwart Laird of Lawristone,<br /> + With ilk thair forces all and sum.<br /> + Panmuir with all his men, did cum,<br /> +The provost of braif Aberdene,<br /> + With trumpets and with tuick of drum,<br /> +Came schortly in thair armour schene.</p> +<p class="poetry">These with the Earle of Marr came on,<br /> + In the reir-ward richt orderlie,<br /> +Thair enemies to sett upon;<br /> + In awfull manner hardilie,<br /> + Togither vowit to live and die,<br /> +Since they had marchit mony mylis,<br /> + For to suppress the tyrannie<br /> +Of douted Donald of the Ysles.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>But he, in number ten to ane,<br /> + Right subtilè alang did ryde,<br /> +With Malcomtosch, and fell Maclean,<br /> + With all thair power at thair syde;<br /> + Presumeand on their strenth and pryde,<br /> +Without all feir or ony aw,<br /> + Richt bauldie battil did abyde,<br /> +Hard by the town of fair Harlaw.</p> +<p class="poetry">The armies met, the trumpet sounds,<br /> + The dandring drums alloud did touk,<br /> +Baith armies byding on the bounds,<br /> + Till ane of them the feild sould bruik.<br /> + Nae help was thairfor, nane wald jouk,<br /> +Ferss was the fecht on ilka syde,<br /> + And on the ground lay mony a bouk<br /> +Of them that thair did battil byd.</p> +<p class="poetry">With doutsum victorie they dealt,<br /> + The bludy battil lastit lang;<br /> +Each man fits nibours forss thair felt,<br /> + The weakest aft-tymes gat the wrang:<br /> + Thair was nae mowis thair them amang,<br /> +Naithing was hard but heavy knocks,<br /> + That eccho mad a dulefull sang,<br /> +Thairto resounding frae the rocks.</p> +<p class="poetry">But Donalds men at last gaif back,<br /> + For they war all out of array:<br /> +The Earl of Marris men throw them brak,<br /> + Pursewing shairply in thair way,<br /> + Thair enemys to tak or slay,<br /> +Be dynt of forss to gar them yield;<br /> + Wha war richt blyth to win away,<br /> +And sae for feirdness tint the feild.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Donald fled, and that full fast,<br /> + To mountains hich for all his micht;<br /> +For he and his war all agast,<br /> + And ran till they war out of sicht;<br /> + <a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span>And sae of Ross he lost his richt,<br /> +Thocht mony men with hem he brocht;<br /> + Towards the yles fled day and nicht,<br /> +And all he wan was deirlie bocht.</p> +<p class="poetry">This is (quod he) the richt report<br /> + Of all that I did heir and knaw;<br /> +Thocht my discourse be sumthing schort,<br /> + Tak this to be a richt suthe saw:<br /> + Contrairie God and the kings law,<br /> +Thair was spilt mekle Christian blude,<br /> + Into the battil of Harlaw:<br /> +This is the sum, sae I conclude.</p> +<p class="poetry">But yet a bonnie while abide,<br /> + And I sall mak thee cleirly ken<br /> +What slaughter was on ilkay syde,<br /> + Of Lowland and of Highland men,<br /> + Wha for thair awin haif evir bene;<br /> +These lazie lowns micht weil be spared,<br /> + Chased like deers into their dens,<br /> +And gat their wages for reward.</p> +<p class="poetry">Malcomtosh, of the clan heid-cheif,<br /> + Macklean with his grit hauchty heid,<br /> +With all thair succour and relief,<br /> + War dulefully dung to the deid;<br /> + And now we are freid of thair feid,<br /> +They will not lang to cum again;<br /> + Thousands with them, without remeid,<br /> +On Donald’s syd, that day war slain.</p> +<p class="poetry">And on the uther syde war lost,<br /> + Into the feild that dismal day,<br /> +Chief men of worth, of mekle cost,<br /> + To be lamentit sair for ay.<br /> + The Lord Saltoun of Rothemay,<br /> +A man of micht and mekle main;<br /> + Grit dolour was for his decay,<br /> +That sae unhappylie was slain.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +137</span>Of the best men amang them was<br /> + The gracious gude Lord Ogilvy,<br /> +The sheriff-principal of Angus,<br /> + Renownit for truth and equitie,<br /> + For faith and magnanimitie;<br /> +He had few fallows in the field,<br /> + Yet fell by fatall destinie,<br /> +For he naeways wad grant to yield.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sir James Scrimgeor of Duddap, knicht,<br /> + Grit constabill of fair Dundè,<br /> +Unto the dulefull deith was dicht;<br /> + The kingis cheif bannerman was he,<br /> + A valiant man of chevalrie,<br /> +Whose predecessors wan that place<br /> + At Spey, with gude King William frie<br /> +’Gainst Murray, and Macduncan’s race.</p> +<p class="poetry">Gude Sir Allexander Irving,<br /> + The much renowit laird of Drum,<br /> +Nane in his days was bettir sene<br /> + When they war semblit all and sum.<br /> + To praise him we sould not be dumm,<br /> +For valour, witt, and worthyness;<br /> + To end his days he ther did cum<br /> +Whose ransom is remeidyless.</p> +<p class="poetry">And thair the knicht of Lawriston<br /> + Was slain into his armour schene,<br /> +And gude Sir Robert Davidson,<br /> + Wha provost was of Aberdene:<br /> + The knicht of Panmure, as was sene,<br /> +A mortall man in armour bricht,<br /> + Sir Thomas Murray, stout and kene,<br /> +Left to the warld thair last gude nicht.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thair was not sen King Keneths days<br /> + Sic strange intestine crewel stryf<br /> +In Scotland sene, as ilk man says,<br /> + Whare mony liklie lost thair lyfe;<br /> + <a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>Whilk maid divorce twene man and wyfe,<br /> +And mony childrene fatherless,<br /> + Whilk in this realme has bene full ryfe:<br /> +Lord help these lands, our wrangs redress.</p> +<p class="poetry">In July, on Saint James his even,<br /> + That four and twenty dismall day,<br /> +Twelve hundred, ten score and eleven<br /> + Of theirs sen Chryst, the suthe to say,<br /> + Men will remember, as they may,<br /> +When thus the ventie they knaw,<br /> + And mony a ane may murn for ay,<br /> +The brim battil of the Harlaw.</p> +<h2>TRADITIONARY VERSION</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, Part VI.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> I came in by +Dunidier,<br /> + An doun by Netherha,<br /> +There was fifty thousand Hielanmen<br /> + A marching to Harlaw.<br /> +(Chorus) Wi a dree dree dradie drumtie dree.</p> +<p class="poetry">As I cam on, an farther on,<br /> + An doun an by Balquhain,<br /> +Oh there I met Sir James the Rose,<br /> + Wi him Sir John the Gryme.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O cam ye frae the Hielans, man?<br /> + And cam ye a’ the wey?<br /> +Saw ye Macdonell an his men,<br /> + As they cam frae the Skee?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yes, me cam frae ta Hielans, man,<br /> + An me cam a ta wey,<br /> +An she saw Macdonell an his men,<br /> + As they cam frae ta Skee.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +139</span>“Oh, was ye near Macdonell’s men?<br /> + Did ye their numbers see?<br /> +Come, tell to me, John Hielanman,<br /> + What micht their numbers be?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yes, me was near, an near eneuch,<br /> + An me their numbers saw;<br /> +There was fifty thousand Hielanmen<br /> + A marching to Harlaw.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gin that be true,” says James the +Rose,<br /> + “We’ll no come meikle speed;<br /> +We’ll cry upo our merry men,<br /> + And lichtly mount our steed.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh no, oh no!” quo’ John the +Gryme,<br /> + “That thing maun never be;<br /> +The gallant Grymes were never bate,<br /> + We’ll try what we can dee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">As I cam on, an farther on,<br /> + An doun an by Harlaw,<br /> +They fell fu close on ilka side;<br /> + Sic fun ye never saw.</p> +<p class="poetry">They fell fu close on ilka side,<br /> + Sic fun ye never saw;<br /> +For Hielan swords gied clash for clash,<br /> + At the battle o Harlaw.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Hielanmen, wi their lang swords,<br /> + They laid on us fu sair,<br /> +An they drave back our merry men<br /> + Three acres breadth an mair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Brave Forbës to his brither did say,<br /> + “Noo brither, dinna ye see?<br /> +They beat us back on ilka side,<br /> + An we’se be forced to flee.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +140</span>“Oh no, oh no, my brither dear,<br /> + That thing maun never be;<br /> +Tak ye your good sword in your hand,<br /> + An come your wa’s wi me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh no, oh no, my brither dear,<br /> + The clans they are ower strang,<br /> +An they drive back our merry men,<br /> + Wi swords baith sharp an lang.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Brave Forbës drew his men aside,<br /> + Said, “Tak your rest a while,<br /> +Until I to Drumminnor send,<br /> + To fess my coat o mail.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The servan he did ride,<br /> + An his horse it did na fail,<br /> +For in twa hours an a quarter<br /> + He brocht the coat o mail.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then back to back the brithers twa<br /> + Gaed in amo the thrang,<br /> +An they hewed doun the Hielanmen,<br /> + Wi swords baith sharp an lang.</p> +<p class="poetry">Macdonell he was young an stout,<br /> + Had on his coat o mail,<br /> +And he has gane oot throw them a’<br /> + To try his han himsell.</p> +<p class="poetry">The first ae straik that Forbës strack,<br +/> + He garrt Macdonell reel;<br /> +An the neist ae straik that Forbës strack,<br /> + The great Macdonell fell.</p> +<p class="poetry">And siccan a lierachie,<br /> + I’m sure ye never sawe<br /> +As wis amo the Hielanmen,<br /> + When they saw Macdonell fa.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>An whan they saw that he was deid,<br /> + They turnd and ran awa,<br /> +An they buried him in Legget’s Den,<br /> + A large mile frae Harlaw.</p> +<p class="poetry">They rade, they ran, an some did gang,<br /> + They were o sma record;<br /> +But Forbës and his merry men,<br /> + They slew them a’ the road.</p> +<p class="poetry">On Monanday, at mornin,<br /> + The battle it began,<br /> +On Saturday at gloamin’,<br /> + Ye’d scarce kent wha had wan.</p> +<p class="poetry">An sic a weary buryin,<br /> + I’m sure ye never saw,<br /> +As wis the Sunday after that,<br /> + On the muirs aneath Harlaw.</p> +<p class="poetry">Gin anybody speer at ye<br /> + For them ye took awa,<br /> +Ye may tell their wives and bairnies,<br /> + They’re sleepin at Harlaw.</p> +<h2><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +142</span>DICKIE MACPHALION</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Sharpe’s Ballad Book</i>, +No. XIV.)</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">went</span> to the mill, +but the miller was gone,<br /> +I sat me down, and cried ochone!<br /> +To think on the days that are past and gone,<br /> + Of Dickie Macphalion that’s slain.<br /> + Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo,<br /> + To think on the days that are past and gone,<br /> + Of Dickie Macphalion that’s +slain.</p> +<p class="poetry">I sold my rock, I sold my reel,<br /> +And sae hae I my spinning wheel,<br /> +And a’ to buy a cap of steel<br /> + For Dickie Macphalion that’s slain!<br /> + Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo,<br /> + And a’ to buy a cap of steel<br /> + For Dickie Macphalion that’s +slain.</p> +<h2><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 143</span>A +LYKE-WAKE DIRGE</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Border Minstrelsy</i>, vol. +ii., p. 357.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> ae nighte, this +ae nighte,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br /> +Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte,<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thye saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">When thou from hence away art paste,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br /> +To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste;<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thye saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br /> +Sit thee down and put them on;<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thye saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gavest +nane,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br /> +The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane;<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thye saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br /> +To Brigg o’ Dread thou comest at laste,<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thye saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>From Brigg o’ Dread when thou mayst passe,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br /> +To Purgatory fire thou comest at last,<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thye saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">If ever thou gavest meat or drink,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br /> +The fire sall never make thee shrinke;<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thye saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane,<br +/> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br /> +The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thye saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">This ae nighte, this ae nighte,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br /> +Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte,<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thye saule</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>THE +LAIRD OF WARISTOUN</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. iii. +Early Edition.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Down</span> by yon garden +green,<br /> + Sae merrily as she gaes;<br /> +She has twa weel-made feet,<br /> + And she trips upon her taes.</p> +<p class="poetry">She has twa weel-made feet;<br /> + Far better is her hand;<br /> +She’s as jimp in the middle<br /> + As ony willow wand.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gif ye will do my bidding,<br /> + At my bidding for to be,<br /> +It’s I will make you lady<br /> + Of a’ the lands you see.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">He spak a word in jest;<br /> + Her answer was na good;<br /> +He threw a plate at her face,<br /> + Made it a’ gush out o’ blood.</p> +<p class="poetry">She wasna frae her chamber<br /> + A step but barely three,<br /> +When up and at her richt hand<br /> + There stood Man’s Enemy.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gif ye will do my bidding,<br /> + At my bidding for to be,<br /> +I’ll learn you a wile,<br /> + Avenged for to be.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span>The foul thief knotted the tether;<br /> + She lifted his head on hie;<br /> +The nourice drew the knot<br /> + That gar’d lord Waristoun die.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then word is gane to Leith,<br /> + Also to Edinburgh town<br /> +That the lady had kill’d the laird,<br /> + The laird o’ Waristoun.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Tak aff, tak aff my hood<br /> + But lat my petticoat be;<br /> +Pat my mantle o’er my head;<br /> + For the fire I downa see.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, a’ ye gentle maids,<br /> + Tak warning now by me,<br /> +And never marry ane<br /> + But wha pleases your e’e.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For he married me for love,<br /> + But I married him for fee;<br /> +And sae brak out the feud<br /> + That gar’d my dearie die.”</p> +<h2><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>MAY +COLVEN</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, Part I., p. 56.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">False</span> Sir John a +wooing came<br /> + To a maid of beauty fair;<br /> +May Colven was this lady’s name,<br /> + Her father’s only heir.</p> +<p class="poetry">He wood her butt, he wood her ben,<br /> + He wood her in the ha,<br /> +Until he got this lady’s consent<br /> + To mount and ride awa.</p> +<p class="poetry">He went down to her father’s bower,<br /> + Where all the steeds did stand,<br /> +And he’s taken one of the best steeds<br /> + That was in her father’s land.</p> +<p class="poetry">He’s got on and she’s got on,<br /> + As fast as they could flee,<br /> +Until they came to a lonesome part,<br /> + A rock by the side of the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Loup off the steed,” says false +Sir John,<br /> + “Your bridal bed you see;<br /> +For I have drowned seven young ladies,<br /> + The eighth one you shall be.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Cast off, cast off, my May Colven,<br /> + All and your silken gown,<br /> +For it’s oer good and oer costly<br /> + To rot in the salt sea foam.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span>“Cast off, cast off, my May Colven,<br /> + All and your embroiderd shoen,<br /> +For oer good and oer costly<br /> + To rot in the salt sea foam.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O turn you about, O false Sir John,<br +/> + And look to the leaf of the tree,<br /> +For it never became a gentleman<br /> + A naked woman to see.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He turned himself straight round about,<br /> + To look to the leaf of the tree,<br /> +So swift as May Colven was<br /> + To throw him in the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O help, O help, my May Colven,<br /> + O help, or else I’ll drown;<br /> +I’ll take you home to your father’s bower,<br /> + And set you down safe and sound.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“No help, no help, O false Sir John,<br +/> + No help, nor pity thee;<br /> +Tho’ seven kings’ daughters you have drownd,<br /> + But the eighth shall not be me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So she went on her father’s steed,<br /> + As swift as she could flee,<br /> +And she came home to her father’s bower<br /> + Before it was break of day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Up then and spoke the pretty parrot:<br /> + “May Colven, where have you been?<br /> +What has become of false Sir John,<br /> + That woo’d you so late the streen?</p> +<p class="poetry">“He woo’d you butt, he woo’d +you ben,<br /> + He woo’d you in the ha,<br /> +Until he got your own consent<br /> + For to mount and gang awa.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +149</span>“O hold your tongue, my pretty parrot,<br /> + Lay not the blame upon me;<br /> +Your cup shall be of the flowered gold,<br /> + Your cage of the root of the tree.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Up then spake the king himself,<br /> + In the bed-chamber where he lay:<br /> +“What ails the pretty parrot,<br /> + That prattles so long or day?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“There came a cat to my cage door,<br /> + It almost a worried me,<br /> +And I was calling on May Colven<br /> + To take the cat from me.”</p> +<h2><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +150</span>JOHNIE FAA</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vol. iv. Early +Edition.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> gypsies came to +our good lord’s gate<br /> + And wow but they sang sweetly!<br /> +They sang sae sweet and sae very complete<br /> + That down came the fair lady.</p> +<p class="poetry">And she came tripping doun the stair,<br /> + And a’ her maids before her;<br /> +As soon as they saw her weel-far’d face,<br /> + They coost the glamer o’er her.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O come with me,” says Johnie +Faw,<br /> + “O come with me, my dearie;<br /> +For I vow and I swear by the hilt of my sword,<br /> + That your lord shall nae mair come near +ye.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then she gied them the beer and the wine,<br /> + And they gied her the ginger;<br /> +But she gied them a far better thing,<br /> + The goud ring aff her finger.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gae take frae me this yay mantle,<br /> + And bring to me a plaidie;<br /> +For if kith and kin, and a’ had sworn,<br /> + I’ll follow the gypsy laddie.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span>“Yestreen I lay in a weel-made bed,<br /> + Wi’ my good lord beside me;<br /> +But this night I’ll lye in a tenant’s barn,<br /> + Whatever shall betide me!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Come to your bed,” says Johnie +Faw,<br /> + “Oh, come to your bed, my dearie:<br /> +For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword,<br /> + Your lord shall nae mair come near ye.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’ll go to bed to my Johnie +Faw,<br /> + I’ll go to bed to my dearie;<br /> +For I vow and I swear by the fan in my hand,<br /> + My lord shall nae mair come near me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’ll mak a hap to my Johnie +Faw,<br /> + I’ll mak a hap to my dearie;<br /> +And he’s get a’ the coat gaes round,<br /> + And my lord shall nae mair come near me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And when our lord came hame at e’en,<br +/> + And spier’d for his fair lady,<br /> +The tane she cry’d, and the other reply’d,<br /> + “She’s awa’ wi’ the gypsy +laddie!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gae saddle to me the black black +steed,<br /> + Gae saddle and make him ready;<br /> +Before that I either eat or sleep,<br /> + I’ll gae seek my fair lady.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And we were fifteen weel-made men,<br /> + Altho’ we were na bonny;<br /> +And we were a’ put down but ane,<br /> + For a fair young wanton lady.</p> +<h2><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +152</span>HOBBIE NOBLE</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Child</i>, vi. Early +Edition.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Foul</span> fa’ the +breast first treason bred in!<br /> + That Liddesdale may safely say:<br /> +For in it there was baith meat and drink,<br /> + And corn unto our geldings gay.</p> +<p class="poetry">We were stout-hearted men and true,<br /> + As England it did often say;<br /> +But now we may turn our backs and fly,<br /> + Since brave Noble is seld away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Hobie he was an English man,<br /> + And born into Bewcastle dale;<br /> +But his misdeeds they were sae great,<br /> + They banish’d him to Liddisdale.</p> +<p class="poetry">At Kershope foot the tryst was set,<br /> + Kershope of the lilye lee;<br /> +And there was traitour Sim o’ the Mains,<br /> + With him a private companie.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Hobie has graith’d his body weel,<br +/> + I wat it was wi’ baith good iron and steel;<br +/> +And he has pull’d out his fringed grey,<br /> + And there, brave Noble, he rade him weel.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>Then Hobie is down the water gane,<br /> + E’en as fast as he may drie;<br /> +Tho’ they shoud a’ brusten and broken their +hearts,<br /> + Frae that tryst Noble he would na be.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Weel may ye be, my feiries five!<br /> + And aye, what is your wills wi’ me?”<br +/> +Then they cry’d a’ wi’ ae consent,<br /> + “Thou’rt welcome here, brave Noble, to +me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Wilt thou with us in England ride,<br /> + And thy safe warrand we will be?<br /> +If we get a horse worth a hundred punds,<br /> + Upon his back that thou shalt be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I dare not with you into England +ride;<br /> + The Land-sergeant has me at feid:<br /> +I know not what evil may betide,<br /> + For Peter of Whitfield, his brother, is dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And Anton Shiel he loves not me,<br /> + For I gat twa drifts o his sheep;<br /> +The great Earl of Whitfield loves me not,<br /> + For nae gear frae me he e’er could keep.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But will ye stay till the day gae +down,<br /> + Until the night come o’er the grund,<br /> +And I’ll be a guide worth ony twa,<br /> + That may in Liddesdale be fund?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Tho’ dark the night as pitch and +tar,<br /> + I’ll guide ye o’er yon hills fu’ +hie;<br /> +And bring ye a’ in safety back,<br /> + If ye’ll be true and follow me.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>He’s guided them o’er moss and muir,<br /> + O’er hill and houp, and mony a down;<br /> +Til they came to the Foulbogshiel,<br /> + And there, brave Noble, he lighted down.</p> +<p class="poetry">But word is gane to the Land-sergeant,<br /> + In Askirton where that he lay—<br /> +“The deer that ye hae hunted lang,<br /> + Is seen into the Waste this day.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Then Hobbie Noble is that deer!<br /> + I wat he carries the style fu’ hie;<br /> +Aft has he beat your slough-hounds back,<br /> + And set yourselves at little lee.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gar warn the bows of Hartlie-burn;<br /> + See they shaft their arrows on the wa’!<br /> +Warn Willeva and Spear Edom,<br /> + And see the morn they meet me a’.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gar meet me on the Rodric-haugh,<br /> + And see it be by break o’ day;<br /> +And we will on to Conscowthart-Green,<br /> + For there, I think, we’ll get our +prey.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Hobbie Noble has dream’d a dream,<br +/> + In the Foulbogshiel, where that he lay;<br /> +He thought his horse was neath him shot,<br /> + And he himself got hard away.</p> +<p class="poetry">The cocks could crow, the day could dawn,<br /> + And I wot so even down fell the rain;<br /> +If Hobbie had no waken’d at that time,<br /> + In the Foulbogshiel he had been tane or slain.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Get up, get up, my feiries five!<br /> + For I wot here makes a fu’ ill day;<br /> +Yet the warst cloak of this companie,<br /> + I hope, shall cross the Waste this day.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +155</span>Now Hobie thought the gates were clear;<br /> + But, ever alas! it was not sae:<br /> +They were beset wi’ cruel men and keen,<br /> + That away brave Hobbie could not gae.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yet follow me, my feiries five,<br /> + And see of me ye keep good ray;<br /> +And the worst cloak o’ this companie<br /> + I hope shall cross the Waste this day.”</p> +<p class="poetry">There was heaps of men now Hobbie before,<br /> + And other heaps was him behind,<br /> +That had he wight as Wallace was,<br /> + Away brave Noble he could not win.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Hobie he had but a laddies sword;<br /> + But he did more than a laddies deed;<br /> +In the midst of Conscouthart-Green,<br /> + He brake it oer Jersawigham’s head.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now they have tane brave Hobie Noble,<br /> + Wi’ his ain bowstring they band him sae;<br /> +And I wat heart was ne’er sae sair,<br /> + As when his ain five band him on the brae.</p> +<p class="poetry">They have tane him on for West Carlisle;<br /> + They ask’d him if he knew the why?<br /> +Whate’er he thought, yet little he said;<br /> + He knew the way as well as they.</p> +<p class="poetry">They hae ta’en him up the Ricker gate;<br +/> + The wives they cast their windows wide;<br /> +And every wife to anither can say,<br /> + “That’s the man loos’d Jock +o’ the Side!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Fye on ye, women! why ca’ ye me +man?<br /> + For it’s nae man that I’m used like;<br +/> +I am but like a forfoughen hound,<br /> + Has been fighting in a dirty syke.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +156</span>Then they hae tane him up thro’ Carlisle town,<br +/> + And set him by the chimney fire;<br /> +They gave brave Noble a wheat loaf to eat,<br /> + And that was little his desire.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then they gave him a wheat loaf to eat,<br /> + And after that a can o beer;<br /> +Then they cried a’ with ae consent,<br /> + “Eat, brave Noble, and make gude cheer!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Confess my lord’s horse, +Hobie,” they said,<br /> + “And the morn in Carlisle thou’s no +die;”<br /> +“How shall I confess them,” Hobie says,<br /> + “For I never saw them with mine +eye?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Hobie has sworn a fu’ great aith,<br +/> + By the day that he was gotten and born,<br /> +He never had ony thing o’ my lord’s,<br /> + That either eat him grass or corn.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now fare thee weel, sweet Mangerton!<br +/> + For I think again I’ll ne’er thee +see:<br /> +I wad betray nae lad alive,<br /> + For a’ the goud in Christentie.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And fare thee weel, sweet Liddesdale!<br +/> + Baith the hie land and the law;<br /> +Keep ye weel frae traitor Mains!<br /> + For goud and gear he’ll sell ye a’.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yet wad I rather be ca’d Hobie +Noble,<br /> + In Carlisle where he suffers for his faut,<br /> +Before I’d be ca’d traitor Mains,<br /> + That eats and drinks of the meal and +maut.”</p> +<h2><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>THE +TWA SISTERS</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Sharpe’s Ballad Book</i>, +No. X., p. 30.)</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">There</span> liv’d twa sisters in a bower,<br +/> + Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.<br +/> + There liv’d twa sisters in a bower,<br /> + Stirling for +aye:<br /> + The youngest o’ them, O, she was a flower!<br +/> +Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> There came a squire frae the +west,<br /> + Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.<br +/> + There cam a squire frae the west,<br /> + Stirling for +aye:<br /> + He lo’ed them baith, but the youngest best,<br +/> +Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> He gied the eldest a gay gold +ring,<br /> + Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.<br +/> + He gied the eldest a gay gold ring,<br /> + Stirling for +aye:<br /> + But he lo’ed the youngest aboon a’ +thing,<br /> +Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page158"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 158</span>“Oh sister, sister, will ye go +to the sea?<br /> + Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.<br +/> + Oh sister, sister, will ye go to the sea?<br /> + Stirling for +aye:<br /> + Our father’s ships sail bonnilie,<br /> +Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> The youngest sat down upon a +stane,<br /> + Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.<br +/> + The youngest sat down upon a stane,<br /> + Stirling for +aye:<br /> + The eldest shot the youngest in,<br /> +Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Oh sister, sister, +lend me your hand,<br /> + Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.<br +/> + Oh, sister, sister, lend me your hand,<br /> + Stirling for +aye:<br /> + And you shall hae my gouden fan,<br /> +Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Oh, sister, sister, +save my life,<br /> + Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.<br +/> + Oh sister, sister, save my life,<br /> + Stirling for +aye:<br /> + And ye shall be the squire’s wife,<br /> +Bonny Sweet Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> First she sank, and then she +swam,<br /> + Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.<br +/> + First she sank, and then she swam,<br /> + Stirling for +aye:<br /> + Until she cam to Tweed mill dam,<br /> +Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page159"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 159</span>The millar’s daughter was +baking bread,<br /> + Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.<br +/> + The millar’s daughter was baking bread,<br /> + Stirling for +aye:<br /> + She went for water, as she had need,<br /> +Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Oh father, father, in +our mill dam,<br /> + Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch,<br +/> + Oh father, father, in our mill dam,<br /> + Stirling for +aye:<br /> + There’s either a lady, or a milk-white +swan,<br /> +Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> They could nae see her +fingers small,<br /> + Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.<br +/> + They could nae see her fingers small,<br /> + Stirling for +aye:<br /> + Wi’ diamond rings they were cover’d +all,<br /> +Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> They could nae see her yellow +hair,<br /> + Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.<br +/> + They could nae see her yellow hair,<br /> + Stirling for +aye:<br /> + Sae mony knots and platts war there,<br /> +Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Bye there cam a fiddler +fair,<br /> + Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.<br +/> + Bye there cam a fiddler fair,<br /> + Stirling for +aye:<br /> + And he’s ta’en three tails o’ her +yellow hair,<br /> +Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.</p> +<h2><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>MARY +AMBREE</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Reliques of Ancient English +Poetry</i>, vol. ii. p. 230.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> captaines +couragious, whom death cold not daunte,<br /> +Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt,<br /> +They mustred their souldiers by two and by three,<br /> +And the formost in battle was Mary Ambree.</p> +<p class="poetry">When [the] brave sergeant-major was slaine in +her sight,<br /> +Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight,<br /> +Because he was slaine most treacherouslie<br /> +Then vowd to revenge him Mary Ambree.</p> +<p class="poetry">She clothed herselfe from the top to the toe<br +/> +In buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe;<br /> +A faire shirt of male then slipped on shee:<br /> +Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?</p> +<p class="poetry">A helmett of proofe shee strait did provide,<br +/> +A stronge arminge-sword shee girt by her side,<br /> +On her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee:<br /> +Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +161</span>Then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand,<br +/> +Bidding all such, as wold, [to] bee of her band;<br /> +To wayte on her person came thousand and three:<br /> +Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?</p> +<p class="poetry">“My soldiers,” she saith, +“soe valliant and bold,<br /> +Nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde;<br /> +Still formost in battell myselfe will I bee:”<br /> +Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?</p> +<p class="poetry">Then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they +did say,<br /> +“Soe well thou becomest this gallant array,<br /> +Thy harte and thy weapons so well do agree,<br /> +No mayden was ever like Mary Ambree.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She cheared her souldiers, that foughten for +life,<br /> +With ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife,<br /> +With brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free;<br /> +Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Before I will see the worst of you +all<br /> +To come into danger of death or of thrall,<br /> +This hand and this life I will venture so free:”<br /> +Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +162</span>Shee ledd upp her souldiers in battaile array,<br /> +Gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye;<br /> +Seven howers in skirmish continued shee:<br /> +Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?</p> +<p class="poetry">She filled the skyes with the smoke of her +shott,<br /> +And her enemyes bodyes with bulletts so hott;<br /> +For one of her own men a score killed shee:<br /> +Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?</p> +<p class="poetry">And when her false gunner, to spoyle her +intent,<br /> +Away all her pellets and powder had sent,<br /> +Straight with her keen weapon she slasht him in three:<br /> +Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?</p> +<p class="poetry">Being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre,<br +/> +At length she was forced to make a retyre;<br /> +Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee:<br /> +Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?</p> +<p class="poetry">Her foes they besett her on everye side,<br /> +As thinking close siege shee cold never abide;<br /> +To beate down the walles they all did decree:<br /> +But stoutlye deffyd them brave Mary Ambree.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then tooke shee her sword and her targett in +hand,<br /> +And mounting the walls all undaunted did stand,<br /> +There daring their captaines to match any three:<br /> +O what a brave captaine was Mary Ambree!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +163</span>“Now saye, English captaine, what woldest thou +give<br /> +To ransome thy selfe, which else must not live?<br /> +Come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee:”<br +/> +Then smiled sweetlye brave Mary Ambree.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye captaines couragious, of valour so +bold,<br /> +Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?”<br /> +“A knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free,<br /> +Who shortlye with us a prisoner must bee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“No captaine of England; behold in your +sight<br /> +Two brests in my bosome, and therefore no knight:<br /> +Noe knight, sirs, of England, nor captaine you see,<br /> +But a poor simple mayden called Mary Ambree.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“But art thou a woman, as thou dost +declare,<br /> +Whose valor hath proved so undaunted in warre?<br /> +If England doth yield such brave maydens as thee,<br /> +Full well mey they conquer, faire Mary Ambree.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The Prince of Great Parma heard of her +renowne,<br /> +Who long had advanced for England’s fair crowne;<br /> +Hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee,<br /> +And offered rich presents to Mary Ambree.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>But this virtuous mayden despised them all:<br /> +“’Ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall;<br /> +A maiden of England, sir, never will bee<br /> +The wench of a monarcke,” quoth Mary Ambree.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then to her owne country shee back did +returne,<br /> +Still holding the foes of rare England in scorne!<br /> +Therfore English captaines of every degree<br /> +Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree.</p> +<h2><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +165</span>ALISON GROSS</h2> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">Alison Gross</span>, that +lives in yon tow’r,<br /> + The ugliest witch in the north countrie,<br /> +She trysted me ae day up till her bow’r,<br /> + And mony fair speeches she made to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">She straik’d my head, and she +kaim’d my hair,<br /> + And she set me down saftly on her knee;<br /> +Says—“If ye will be my leman sae true,<br /> + Sae mony braw things as I will you +gi’e.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She shaw’d me a mantle of red scarlet,<br +/> + With gowden flowers and fringes fine;<br /> +Says—“If ye will be my leman sae true,<br /> + This goodly gift it shall be thine.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Awa, awa, ye ugly witch,<br /> + Hand far awa, and let me be;<br /> +I never will be your leman sae true,<br /> + And I wish I were out of your company.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She neist brocht a sark of the saftest silk,<br +/> + Weel wrought with pearls about the band;<br /> +Says—“If ye will be my ain true love,<br /> + This goodly gift ye shall command.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She show’d me a cup of the good red +gowd,<br /> + Weel set with jewels sae fair to see;<br /> +Says—“If ye will be my leman sae true,<br /> + This goodly gift I will you gi’e.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +166</span>“Awa, awa, ye ugly witch,<br /> + Haud far awa, and let me be;<br /> +For I wadna ance kiss your ugly mouth,<br /> + For all the gifts that ye cou’d +gi’e.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s turn’d her richt and round +about,<br /> + And thrice she blew on a grass-green horn;<br /> +And she sware by the moon and the stars aboon,<br /> + That she’d gar me rue the day I was born.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out has she ta’en a silver wand,<br +/> + And she turn’d her three times round and +round;<br /> +She mutter’d sic words, that my strength it +fail’d,<br /> + And I fell down senseless on the ground.</p> +<p class="poetry">She turn’d me into an ugly worm,<br /> + And gar’d me toddle about the tree;<br /> +And aye on ilka Saturday night,<br /> + Auld Alison Gross she came to me,</p> +<p class="poetry">With silver basin, and silver kame,<br /> + To kame my headie upon her knee;<br /> +But rather than kiss her ugly mouth,<br /> + I’d ha’e toddled for ever about the +tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">But as it fell out on last +Hallow-e’en,<br /> + When the seely court was ridin’ by,<br /> +The queen lighted down on a gowan bank,<br /> + Near by the tree where I wont to lye.</p> +<p class="poetry">She took me up in her milk-white hand,<br /> + And she straik’d me three times o’er her +knee;<br /> +She chang’d me again to my ain proper shape,<br /> + And nae mair do I toddle about the tree.</p> +<h2><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>THE +HEIR OF LYNNE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Of</span> all the lords in +faire Scotland<br /> + A song I will begin:<br /> +Amongst them all dwelled a lord<br /> + Which was the unthrifty Lord of Lynne.</p> +<p class="poetry">His father and mother were dead him froe,<br /> + And so was the head of all his kinne;<br /> +He did neither cease nor blinne<br /> + To the cards and dice that he did run.</p> +<p class="poetry">To drinke the wine that was so cleere!<br /> + With every man he would make merry.<br /> +And then bespake him John of the Scales,<br /> + Unto the heire of Lynne say’d hee,</p> +<p class="poetry">Sayes “how dost thou, Lord of Lynne,<br +/> + Doest either want gold or fee?<br /> +Wilt thou not sell thy land so brode<br /> + To such a good fellow as me?</p> +<p class="poetry">“For . . . I . . . ” he said,<br /> + “My land, take it unto thee;<br /> +I draw you to record, my lords all;”<br /> + With that he cast him a Gods pennie.</p> +<p class="poetry">He told him the gold upon the bord,<br /> + It wanted never a bare penny.<br /> +“That gold is thine, the land is mine,<br /> + The heire of Lynne I will bee.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span>“Heeres gold enough,” saithe the heire of +Lynne,<br /> + “Both for me and my company.”<br /> +He drunke the wine that was so cleere,<br /> + And with every man he made merry.</p> +<p class="poetry">Within three quarters of a yeare<br /> + His gold and fee it waxed thinne,<br /> +His merry men were from him gone,<br /> + And left himselfe all alone.</p> +<p class="poetry">He had never a penny left in his purse,<br /> + Never a penny but three,<br /> +And one was brasse and another was lead<br /> + And another was white mony.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now well-a-day!” said the heire of +Lynne,<br /> + “Now well-a-day, and woe is mee!<br /> +For when I was the Lord of Lynne,<br /> + I neither wanted gold nor fee;</p> +<p class="poetry">“For I have sold my lands so broad,<br /> + And have not left me one penny!<br /> +I must go now and take some read<br /> + Unto Edenborrow and beg my bread.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He had not beene in Edenborrow<br /> + Nor three quarters of a yeare,<br /> +But some did give him and some said nay,<br /> + And some bid “to the deele gang yee!</p> +<p class="poetry">“For if we should hang some land +selfeer,<br /> + The first we would begin with thee.”<br /> +“Now well-a-day!” said the heire of Lynne,<br /> + “Now well-a-day, and woe is mee!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +169</span>“For now I have sold my lands so broad<br /> + That merry man is irke with mee;<br /> +But when that I was the Lord of Lynne<br /> + Then on my land I lived merrily;</p> +<p class="poetry">“And now I have sold my land so broade<br +/> + That I have not left me one pennye!<br /> +God be with my father!” he said,<br /> + “On his land he lived merrily.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Still in a study there as he stood,<br /> + He unbethought him of a bill,<br /> +He unbethought him of a bill<br /> + Which his father had left with him.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bade him he should never on it looke<br /> + Till he was in extreame neede,<br /> +“And by my faith,” said the heire of Lynne,<br /> + “Then now I had never more neede.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He tooke the bill and looked it on,<br /> + Good comfort that he found there;<br /> +It told him of a castle wall<br /> + Where there stood three chests in feare:</p> +<p class="poetry">Two were full of the beaten gold,<br /> +The third was full of white money.<br /> +He turned then downe his bags of bread<br /> +And filled them full of gold so red.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then he did never cease nor blinne<br /> +Till John of the Scales house he did winne.<br /> +When that he came John of the Scales,<br /> +Up at the speere he looked then;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +170</span>There sate three lords upon a rowe,<br /> +And John o’ the Scales sate at the bord’s head,<br /> +And John o’ the Scales sate at the bord’s head<br /> +Because he was the lord of Lynne.</p> +<p class="poetry">And then bespake the heire of Lynne<br /> + To John o’ the Scales wife thus sayd hee,<br +/> +Sayd “Dame, wilt thou not trust me one shott<br /> + That I may sit downe in this company?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now Christ’s curse on my +head,” she said,<br /> + “If I do trust thee one pennye,”<br /> +Then bespake a good fellowe,<br /> + Which sate by John o’ the Scales his knee,</p> +<p class="poetry">Said “have thou here, thou heire of +Lynne,<br /> + Forty-pence I will lend thee,—<br /> +Some time a good fellow thou hast beene<br /> + And other forty if it need bee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">They drunken wine that was so cleere,<br /> + And every man they made merry,<br /> +And then bespake him John o’ the Scales<br /> + Unto the Lord of Lynne said hee;</p> +<p class="poetry">Said “how doest thou heire of Lynne,<br +/> + Since I did buy thy lands of thee?<br /> +I will sell it to thee twenty better cheepe,<br /> + Nor ever did I buy it of thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I draw you to recorde, lords +all:”<br /> + With that he cast him god’s penny;<br /> +Then he tooke to his bags of bread,<br /> + And they were full of the gold so red.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +171</span>He told him the gold then over the borde<br /> + It wanted never a broad pennye;<br /> +“That gold is thine, the land is mine,<br /> + And the heire of Lynne againe I will bee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now well-a-day!” said John +o’ the Scales’ wife,<br /> + “Well-a-day, and woe is me!<br /> +Yesterday I was the lady of Lynne,<br /> + And now I am but John o’ the Scales +wife!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Says “have thou here, thou good +fellow,<br /> +Forty pence thou did lend me;<br /> +Forty pence thou did lend me,<br /> +And forty I will give thee,<br /> +I’ll make thee keeper of my forrest,<br /> +Both of the wild deere and the tame.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But then bespake the heire of Lynne,<br /> + These were the words and thus spake hee,<br /> +“Christ’s curse light upon my crowne<br /> + If ere my land stand in any jeopardye!”</p> +<h2><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +172</span>GORDON OF BRACKLEY</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Down</span> Deeside cam +Inveraye<br /> + Whistlin’ and playing,<br /> +An’ called loud at Brackley gate<br /> + Ere the day dawning—<br /> +“Come, Gordon of Brackley.<br /> + Proud Gordon, come down,<br /> +There’s a sword at your threshold<br /> + Mair sharp than your own.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Arise now, gay Gordon,”<br /> + His lady ’gan cry,<br /> +“Look, here is bold Inveraye<br /> + Driving your kye.”<br /> +“How can I go, lady,<br /> + An’ win them again,<br /> +When I have but ae sword,<br /> + And Inveraye ten?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Arise up, my maidens,<br /> + Wi’ roke and wi’ fan,<br /> +How blest had I been<br /> + Had I married a man!<br /> +Arise up, my maidens,<br /> + Tak’ spear and tak’ sword,<br /> +Go milk the ewes, Gordon,<br /> + An’ I will be lord.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +173</span>The Gordon sprung up<br /> + Wi’ his helm on his head,<br /> +Laid his hand on his sword,<br /> + An’ his thigh on his steed,<br /> +An’ he stooped low, and said,<br /> + As he kissed his young dame,<br /> +“There’s a Gordon rides out<br /> + That will never ride hame.”</p> +<p class="poetry">There rode with fierce Inveraye<br /> + Thirty and three,<br /> +But wi’ Brackley were nane<br /> + But his brother and he;<br /> +Twa gallanter Gordons<br /> + Did never blade draw,<br /> +But against three-and-thirty<br /> + Wae’s me! what are twa?</p> +<p class="poetry">Wi’ sword and wi’ dagger<br /> + They rushed on him rude;<br /> +The twa gallant Gordons<br /> + Lie bathed in their blude.<br /> +Frae the springs o’ the Dee<br /> + To the mouth o’ the Tay,<br /> +The Gordons mourn for him,<br /> + And curse Inveraye.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O were ye at Brackley?<br /> + An’ what saw ye there?<br /> +Was his young widow weeping<br /> + An’ tearing her hair?”<br /> +“I looked in at Brackley,<br /> + I looked in, and oh!<br /> +There was mirth, there was feasting,<br /> + But naething o’ woe.</p> +<p class="poetry">“As a rose bloomed the lady,<br /> + An’ blithe as a bride,<br /> +As a bridegroom bold Inveraye<br /> + Smiled by her side.<br /> +<a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>Oh! she +feasted him there<br /> + As she ne’er feasted lord,<br /> +While the blood of her husband<br /> + Was moist on his sword.</p> +<p class="poetry">“In her chamber she kept him<br /> + Till morning grew gray,<br /> +Thro’ the dark woods of Brackley<br /> + She shewed him the way.<br /> +‘Yon wild hill,’ she said,<br /> + ‘Where the sun’s shining on,<br /> +Is the hill of Glentanner,—<br /> + One kiss, and begone!’”</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s grief in the cottage,<br /> + There’s grief in the ha’,<br /> +For the gude, gallant Gordon<br /> + That’s dead an’ awa’.<br /> +To the bush comes the bud,<br /> + An’ the flower to the plain,<br /> +But the gude and the brave<br /> + They come never again.</p> +<h2><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>EDWARD, EDWARD</h2> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Why</span> does your +brand sae drop wi’ blude,<br /> + Edward, +Edward?<br /> +Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude<br /> + And why sae sad gang ye, O?”<br /> +“O I hae killed my hawk sae gude,<br /> + Mither, +mither;<br /> +O I hae killed my hawk sae gude,<br /> + And I hae nae mair but he, O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Your hawk’s blude was never sae +red,<br /> + Edward, +Edward;<br /> +Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,<br /> + My dear son, I tell thee, O.”<br /> +“O I hae killed my red-roan steed,<br /> + Mither, +mither;<br /> +O I hae killed my red-roan steed,<br /> + That was sae fair and free, O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Your steed was auld, and ye’ve +plenty mair,<br /> + Edward, +Edward;<br /> +Your steed was auld, and ye’ve plenty mair;<br /> + Some ither dule ye dree, O.”<br /> +“O I hae killed my father dear,<br /> + Mither, +mither;<br /> +O I hae killed my father dear,<br /> + Alas, and wae is me, O!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“And whatten penance will ye dree for +that,<br /> + Edward, +Edward?<br /> +Whatten penance will ye dree for that?<br /> + My dear son, now tell me, O.”<br /> +<a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +176</span>“I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,<br /> + Mither, +mither;<br /> +I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,<br /> + And I’ll fare over the sea, O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“And what will ye do wi’ your +tow’rs and your ha’,<br /> + Edward, +Edward?<br /> +And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your +ha’,<br /> + That were sae fair to see, O?”<br /> +“I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,<br /> + Mither, +mither;<br /> +I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,<br /> + For here never mair maun I be, O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“And what will ye leave to your bairns +and your wife,<br /> + Edward, +Edward?<br /> +And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,<br /> + When ye gang ower the sea, O?”<br /> +“The warld’s room: let them beg through life,<br /> + Mither, +mither;<br /> +The warld’s room: let them beg through life;<br /> + For them never mair will I see, O.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“And what will ye leave to your ain +mither dear,<br /> + Edward, +Edward?<br /> +And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,<br /> + My dear son, now tell me, O?”<br /> +“The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,<br /> + Mither, +mither;<br /> +The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear:<br /> + Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!”</p> +<h2><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +177</span>YOUNG BENJIE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Of</span> all the maids of +fair Scotland,<br /> + The fairest was Marjorie;<br /> +And young Benjie was her ae true love,<br /> + And a dear true love was he.</p> +<p class="poetry">And wow but they were lovers dear,<br /> + And lov’d full constantlie;<br /> +But aye the mair when they fell out,<br /> + The sairer was their plea.</p> +<p class="poetry">And they ha’e quarrell’d on a +day,<br /> + Till Marjorie’s heart grew wae;<br /> +And she said she’d chuse another luve,<br /> + And let young Benjie gae.</p> +<p class="poetry">And he was stout and proud-hearted,<br /> + And thought o’t bitterlie;<br /> +And he’s gane by the wan moonlight,<br /> + To meet his Marjorie.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, open, open, my true love,<br /> + Oh, open and let me in!”<br /> +“I darena open, young Benjie,<br /> + My three brothers are within.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonnie burd,<br /> + Sae loud’s I hear ye lee;<br /> +As I came by the Louden banks,<br /> + They bade gude e’en to me.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +178</span>“But fare ye weel, my ae fause love,<br /> + That I have lov’d sae lang!<br /> +It sets ye chuse another love,<br /> + And let young Benjie gang.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Marjorie turn’d her round about,<br +/> + The tear blinding her e’e;<br /> +“I darena, darena let thee in,<br /> + But I’ll come down to thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then salt she smil’d, and said to +him—<br /> + “Oh, what ill ha’e I done?”<br /> +He took her in his arms twa,<br /> + And threw her o’er the linn.</p> +<p class="poetry">The stream was strong, the maid was stout,<br +/> + And laith, laith to be dang;<br /> +But ere she wan the Louden banks,<br /> + Her fair colour was wan.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up bespake her eldest brother—<br /> + “Oh, see na ye what I see?”<br /> +And out then spake her second brother—<br /> + “It is our sister Marjorie!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Out then spake her eldest brother—<br /> + “Oh, how shall we her ken?”<br /> +And out then spake her youngest brother—<br /> + “There’s a honey mark on her +chin.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then they’ve ta’en the comely +corpse,<br /> + And laid it on the ground;<br /> +Saying—“Wha has kill’d our ae sister?<br /> + And how can he be found?</p> +<p class="poetry">“The night it is her low lykewake,<br /> + The morn her burial day;<br /> +And we maun watch at mirk midnight,<br /> + And hear what she will say.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +179</span>With doors ajar, and candles light,<br /> + And torches burning clear,<br /> +The streekit corpse, till still midnight,<br /> + They waked, but naething hear.</p> +<p class="poetry">About the middle of the night<br /> + The cocks began to craw;<br /> +And at the dead hour of the night,<br /> + The corpse began to thraw.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, wha has done thee wrang, sister,<br +/> + Or dared the deadly sin?<br /> +Wha was sae stout, and fear’d nae dout,<br /> + As throw ye o’er the linn?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Young Benjie was the first ae man<br /> + I laid my love upon;<br /> +He was sae stout and proud-hearted,<br /> + He threw me o’er the linn.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Shall we young Benjie head, sister?<br +/> + Shall we young Benjie hang?<br /> +Or shall we pike out his twa gray een,<br /> + And punish him ere he gang?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye maunna Benjie head, brothers,<br /> + Ye maunna Benjie hang;<br /> +But ye maun pike out his twa gray een.<br /> + And punish him ere he gang.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Tie a green gravat round his neck,<br /> + And lead him out and in,<br /> +And the best ae servant about your house<br /> + To wait young Benjie on.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And aye at every seven years’ +end,<br /> + Ye’ll take him to the linn;<br /> +For that’s the penance he maun dree,<br /> + To scug his deadly sin.”</p> +<h2><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>AULD +MAITLAND</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> lived a king +in southern land,<br /> + King Edward hight his name;<br /> +Unwordily he wore the crown,<br /> + Till fifty years were gane.</p> +<p class="poetry">He had a sister’s son o’s ain,<br +/> + Was large of blood and bane;<br /> +And afterward, when he came up,<br /> + Young Edward hight his name.</p> +<p class="poetry">One day he came before the king,<br /> + And kneel’d low on his knee:<br /> +“A boon, a boon, my good uncle,<br /> + I crave to ask of thee!</p> +<p class="poetry">“At our lang wars, in fair Scotland,<br +/> + I fain ha’e wish’d to be,<br /> +If fifteen hundred waled wight men<br /> + You’ll grant to ride with me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Thou shall ha’e thae, thou shall +ha’e mae;<br /> + I say it sickerlie;<br /> +And I myself, an auld gray man,<br /> + Array’d your host shall see.”</p> +<p class="poetry">King Edward rade, King Edward ran—<br /> + I wish him dool and pyne!<br /> +Till he had fifteen hundred men<br /> + Assembled on the Tyne.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +181</span>And thrice as many at Berwicke<br /> + Were all for battle bound,<br /> +[Who, marching forth with false Dunbar,<br /> + A ready welcome found.]</p> +<p class="poetry">They lighted on the banks of Tweed,<br /> + And blew their coals sae het,<br /> +And fired the Merse and Teviotdale,<br /> + All in an evening late.</p> +<p class="poetry">As they fared up o’er Lammermoor,<br /> + They burn’d baith up and down,<br /> +Until they came to a darksome house,<br /> + Some call it Leader-Town.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Wha hauds this house?” young +Edward cried,<br /> + “Or wha gi’est o’er to +me?”<br /> +A gray-hair’d knight set up his head,<br /> + And crackit right crousely:</p> +<p class="poetry">“Of Scotland’s king I haud my +house;<br /> + He pays me meat and fee;<br /> +And I will keep my gude auld house,<br /> + While my house will keep me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">They laid their sowies to the wall,<br /> + With mony a heavy peal;<br /> +But he threw o’er to them agen<br /> + Baith pitch and tar barrel.</p> +<p class="poetry">With springalds, stanes, and gads of airn,<br +/> + Amang them fast he threw;<br /> +Till mony of the Englishmen<br /> + About the wall he slew.</p> +<p class="poetry">Full fifteen days that braid host lay,<br /> + Sieging Auld Maitland keen;<br /> +Syne they ha’e left him, hail and feir,<br /> + Within his strength of stane.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +182</span>Then fifteen barks, all gaily good,<br /> + Met them upon a day,<br /> +Which they did lade with as much spoil<br /> + As they you’d bear away.</p> +<p class="poetry">“England’s our ain by heritage;<br +/> + And what can us withstand,<br /> +Now we ha’e conquer’d fair Scotland,<br /> + With buckler, bow, and brand?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then they are on to the land of France,<br /> + Where auld king Edward lay,<br /> +Burning baith castle, tower, and town,<br /> + That he met in his way.</p> +<p class="poetry">Until he came unto that town,<br /> + Which some call Billop-Grace:<br /> +There were Auld Maitland’s sons, all three,<br /> + Learning at school, alas!</p> +<p class="poetry">The eldest to the youngest said,<br /> + “Oh, see ye what I see?<br /> +If all be true yon standard says,<br /> + We’re fatherless all three.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For Scotland’s conquer’d up +and down;<br /> + Landmen we’ll never be!<br /> +Now, will you go, my brethren two,<br /> + And try some jeopardy?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then they ha’e saddled twa black +horse,<br /> + Twa black horse and a gray;<br /> +And they are on to king Edward’s host,<br /> + Before the dawn of day.</p> +<p class="poetry">When they arrived before the host,<br /> + They hover’d on the lay:<br /> +“Wilt thou lend me our king’s standard,<br /> + To bear a little way?”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +183</span>“Where wast thou bred? where wast thou born?<br +/> + Where, or in what countrie?”<br /> +“In north of England I was born;”<br /> + (It needed him to lee.)</p> +<p class="poetry">“A knight me gat, a ladye bore,<br /> + I am a squire of high renown;<br /> +I well may bear’t to any king<br /> + That ever yet wore crown.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“He ne’er came of an Englishman,<br +/> + Had sic an e’e or bree;<br /> +But thou art the likest Auld Maitland,<br /> + That ever I did see.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But sic a gloom on ae browhead,<br /> + Grant I ne’er see again!<br /> +For mony of our men he slew,<br /> + And mony put to pain.”</p> +<p class="poetry">When Maitland heard his father’s name,<br +/> + An angry man was he;<br /> +Then, lifting up a gilt dagger,<br /> + Hung low down by his knee,</p> +<p class="poetry">He stabb’d the knight the standard +bore,<br /> + He stabb’d him cruellie;<br /> +Then caught the standard by the neuk,<br /> + And fast away rode he.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now, is’t na time, +brothers,” he cried,<br /> + “Now, is’t na time to flee?”<br /> +“Ay, by my sooth!” they baith replied,<br /> + “We’ll bear you companye.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The youngest turn’d him in a path,<br /> + And drew a burnish’d brand,<br /> +And fifteen of the foremost slew,<br /> + Till back the lave did stand.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +184</span>He spurr’d the gray into the path,<br /> + Till baith his sides they bled:<br /> +“Gray! thou maun carry me away,<br /> + Or my life lies in wad!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The captain lookit o’er the wall,<br /> + About the break of day;<br /> +There he beheld the three Scots lads<br /> + Pursued along the way.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Pull up portcullize! down draw-brig!<br +/> + My nephews are at hand;<br /> +And they shall lodge with me to-night,<br /> + In spite of all England.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Whene’er they came within the yate,<br /> + They thrust their horse them frae,<br /> +And took three lang spears in their hands,<br /> + Saying—“Here shall come nae +me!”</p> +<p class="poetry">And they shot out, and they shot in,<br /> + Till it was fairly day;<br /> +When mony of the Englishmen<br /> + About the draw-brig lay.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then they ha’e yoked the carts and +wains,<br /> + To ca’ their dead away,<br /> +And shot auld dykes abune the lave,<br /> + In gutters where they lay.</p> +<p class="poetry">The king, at his pavilion door,<br /> + Was heard aloud to say:<br /> +“Last night, three of the lads of France<br /> + My standard stole away.</p> +<p class="poetry">“With a fause tale, disguised they +came,<br /> + And with a fauser trayne;<br /> +And to regain my gaye standard,<br /> + These men where all down slayne.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +185</span>“It ill befits,” the youngest said,<br /> + “A crownèd king to lee;<br /> +But, or that I taste meat and drink,<br /> + Reprovèd shall he be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He went before king Edward straight,<br /> + And kneel’d low on his knee:<br /> +“I wou’d ha’e leave, my lord,” he +said,<br /> + “To speak a word with thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The king he turn’d him round about,<br /> + And wistna what to say:<br /> +Quo’ he, “Man, thou’s ha’e leave to +speak,<br /> + Though thou should speak all day.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye said that three young lads of +France<br /> + Your standard stole away,<br /> +With a fause tale and fauser trayne,<br /> + And mony men did slay;</p> +<p class="poetry">“But we are nane the lads of France,<br +/> + Nor e’er pretend to be:<br /> +We are three lads of fair Scotland,—<br /> + Auld Maitland’s sons are we.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Nor is there men in all your host<br /> + Daur fight us three to three.”<br /> +“Now, by my sooth,” young Edward said,<br /> + “Weel fitted ye shall be!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Piercy shall with the eldest fight,<br +/> + And Ethert Lunn with thee;<br /> +William of Lancaster the third,<br /> + And bring your fourth to me!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Remember, Piercy, aft the Scot<br /> + Has cower’d beneath thy hand;<br /> +For every drap of Maitland blood,<br /> + I’ll gi’e a rig of land.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +186</span>He clanked Piercy o’er the head<br /> + A deep wound and a sair,<br /> +Till the best blood of his body<br /> + Came running down his hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now, I’ve slayne ane; slay ye the +twa;<br /> + And that’s gude companye;<br /> +And if the twa shou’d slay ye baith,<br /> + Ye’se get nae help frae me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But Ethert Lunn, a baited bear,<br /> + Had many battles seen;<br /> +He set the youngest wonder sair,<br /> + Till the eldest he grew keen.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I am nae king, nor nae sic thing:<br /> + My word it shanna stand!<br /> +For Ethert shall a buffet bide,<br /> + Come he beneath my brand.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He clankit Ethert o’er the head<br /> + A deep wound and a sair,<br /> +Till the best blood in his body<br /> + Came running o’er his hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now, I’ve slayne twa; slay ye the +ane;<br /> + Isna that gude companye?<br /> +And though the ane shou’d slay ye baith.<br /> + Ye’se get nae help of me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The twa-some they ha’e slayne the ane,<br +/> + They maul’d him cruellie;<br /> +Then hung him over the draw-brig,<br /> + That all the host might see.</p> +<p class="poetry">They rade their horse, they ran their horse,<br +/> + Then hover’d on the lee:<br /> +“We be three lads of fair Scotland,<br /> + That fain wou’d fighting see.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +187</span>This boasting when young Edward heard,<br /> + An angry man was he:<br /> +“I’ll take yon lad, I’ll bind yon lad,<br /> + And bring him bound to thee!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now, God forbid,” king Edward +said,<br /> + “That ever thou shou’d try!<br /> +Three worthy leaders we ha’e lost,<br /> + And thou the forth wou’d lie.</p> +<p class="poetry">“If thou shou’dst hang on yon +draw-brig,<br /> + Blythe wou’d I never be.”<br /> +But, with the poll-axe in his hand,<br /> + Upon the brig sprang be.</p> +<p class="poetry">The first stroke that young Edward +ga’e,<br /> + He struck with might and main;<br /> +He clove the Maitland’s helmet stout,<br /> + And bit right nigh the brain.</p> +<p class="poetry">When Maitland saw his ain blood fall,<br /> + An angry man was he;<br /> +He let his weapon frae him fall,<br /> + And at his throat did flee.</p> +<p class="poetry">And thrice about he did him swing,<br /> + Till on the ground he light,<br /> +Where he has halden young Edward,<br /> + Tho’ he was great in might.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now let him up,” king Edward +cried,<br /> + “And let him come to me;<br /> +And for the deed that thou hast done,<br /> + Thou shalt ha’e earldomes three!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It’s ne’er be said in +France, nor e’er<br /> + In Scotland, when I’m hame,<br /> +That Edward once lay under me,<br /> + And e’er gat up again!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +188</span>He pierced him through and through the heart,<br /> + He maul’d him cruellie;<br /> +Then hung him o’er the draw-brig,<br /> + Beside the other three.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now take frae me that feather-bed,<br /> + Make me a bed of strae!<br /> +I wish I hadna lived this day,<br /> + To make my heart sae wae.</p> +<p class="poetry">“If I were ance at London Tow’r,<br +/> + Where I was wont to be,<br /> +I never mair shou’d gang frae hame,<br /> + Till borne on a bier-tree.”</p> +<h2><a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>THE +BROOMFIELD HILL</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a knight +and lady bright<br /> + Set trysts amo the broom,<br /> +The one to come at morning eav,<br /> + The other at afternoon.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’ll wager a wager wi’ +you,” he said,<br /> + “An hundred marks and ten,<br /> +That ye shall not go to Broomfield Hills,<br /> + Return a maiden again.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’ll wager a wager wi’ +you,” she said,<br /> + “A hundred pounds and ten,<br /> +That I will gang to Broomfield Hills,<br /> + A maiden return again.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The lady stands in her bower door,<br /> + And thus she made her mane:<br /> +“Oh, shall I gang to Broomfield Hills,<br /> + Or shall I stay at hame?</p> +<p class="poetry">“If I do gang to Broomfield Hills<br /> + A maid I’ll not return;<br /> +But if I stay from Broomfield Hills,<br /> + I’ll be a maid mis-sworn.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then out it speaks an auld witch wife,<br /> + Sat in the bower aboon:<br /> +“O ye shall gang to Broomfield Hills,<br /> + Ye shall not stay at hame.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span>“But when ye gang to Broomfield Hills,<br /> + Walk nine times round and round;<br /> +Down below a bonny burn bank,<br /> + Ye’ll find your love sleeping sound.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye’ll pu the bloom frae off the +broom,<br /> + Strew’t at his head and feet,<br /> +And aye the thicker that ye do strew,<br /> + The sounder he will sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The broach that is on your napkin,<br /> + Put it on his breast bane,<br /> +To let him know, when he does wake,<br /> + That’s true love’s come and gane.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The rings that are on your fingers,<br +/> + Lay them down on a stane,<br /> +To let him know, when he does wake,<br /> + That’s true love’s come and gane.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And when he hae your work all done,<br +/> + Ye’ll gang to a bush o’ broom,<br /> +And then you’ll hear what he will say,<br /> + When he sees ye are gane.”</p> +<p class="poetry">When she came to Broomfield Hills,<br /> + She walked it nine times round,<br /> +And down below yon burn bank,<br /> + She found him sleeping sound.</p> +<p class="poetry">She pu’d the bloom frae off the broom,<br +/> + Strew’d it at ’s head and feet,<br /> +And aye the thicker that she strewd,<br /> + The sounder he did sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">The broach that was on her napkin,<br /> + She put it on his breast-bane,<br /> +To let him know, when he did wake,<br /> + His love was come and gane.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +191</span>The rings that were on her fingers,<br /> + She laid upon a stane,<br /> +To let him know, when he did wake,<br /> + His love was come and gane.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now when she had her work all dune,<br /> + She went to a bush o’ broom,<br /> +That she might hear what he did say,<br /> + When he saw that she was gane.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O where were ye my guid grey hound,<br +/> + That I paid for sae dear,<br /> +Ye didna waken me frae my sleep<br /> + When my true love was sae near?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I scraped wi’ my foot, master,<br +/> + Till a’ my collars rang,<br /> +But still the mair that I did scrape,<br /> + Waken woud ye nane.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Where were ye, my bony brown steed,<br +/> + That I paid for sae dear,<br /> +That ye woudna waken me out o’ my sleep<br /> + When my love was sae near?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I patted wi my foot, master,<br /> + Till a’ my bridles rang,<br /> +But the mair that I did patt,<br /> + Waken woud ye nane.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O where were ye, my gay goss-hawk<br /> + That I paid for sae dear,<br /> +That ye woudna waken me out o’ my sleep<br /> + When ye saw my love near?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I flapped wi my wings, master,<br /> + Till a’ my bells they rang,<br /> +But still, the mair that I did flap,<br /> + Waken woud ye nane.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +192</span>“O where were ye, my merry young men<br /> + That I pay meat and fee,<br /> +That ye woudna waken me out o’ my sleep<br /> + When my love ye did see?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye’ll sleep mair on the night, +master,<br /> + And wake mair on the day;<br /> +Gae sooner down to Broomfield Hills<br /> + When ye’ve sic pranks to play.</p> +<p class="poetry">“If I had seen any armèd men<br /> + Come riding over the hill—<br /> +But I saw but a fair lady<br /> + Come quietly you until.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O wae mat worth yow, my young men,<br /> + That I pay meat and fee,<br /> +That ye woudna waken me frae sleep<br /> + When ye my love did see?</p> +<p class="poetry">“O had I waked when she was nigh,<br /> + And o her got my will,<br /> +I shoudna cared upon the morn<br /> + The sma birds o her were fill.”</p> +<p class="poetry">When she went out, right bitter she wept,<br /> + But singing came she hame;<br /> +Says, “I hae been at Broomfield Hills,<br /> + And maid returned again.”</p> +<h2><a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +193</span>WILLIE’S LADYE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Willie</span> has +ta’en him o’er the faem,<br /> +He’s wooed a wife, and brought her hame;<br /> +He’s wooed her for her yellow hair,<br /> +But his mother wrought her meikle care;</p> +<p class="poetry">And meikle dolour gar’d her dree,<br /> +For lighter she can never be;<br /> +But in her bow’r she sits with pain,<br /> +And Willie mourns o’er her in vain.</p> +<p class="poetry">And to his mother he has gane,<br /> +That vile rank witch, of vilest kind!<br /> +He says—“My lady has a cup,<br /> +With gowd and silver set about;<br /> +This gudely gift shall be your ain,<br /> +And let her be lighter of her bairn.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Of her bairn she’s never be +lighter,<br /> +Nor in her bow’r to shine the brighter<br /> +But she shall die, and turn to clay,<br /> +And you shall wed another may.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Another may I’ll never wed,<br /> +Another may I’ll never bring hame.”<br /> +But, sighing, said that weary wight—<br /> +“I wish my life were at an end.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yet gae ye to your mother again,<br /> +That vile rank witch, of vilest kind<br /> +And say, your ladye has a steed,<br /> +The like of him’s no in the land of Leed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +194</span>“For he is silver shod before,<br /> +And he is gowden shod behind;<br /> +At every tuft of that horse mane<br /> +There’s a golden chess, and a bell to ring.<br /> +This gudely gift shall be her ain,<br /> +And let me be lighter of my bairn.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Of her young bairn she’s +ne’er be lighter,<br /> +Nor in her bow’r to shine the brighter;<br /> +But she shall die, and turn to clay,<br /> +And ye shall wed another may.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Another may I’ll never wed,<br /> +Another may I’ll never bring hame.”<br /> +But, sighing, said that weary wight—<br /> +“I wish my life were at an end!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yet gae ye to your mother again,<br /> +That vile rank witch, of rankest kind!<br /> +And say, your ladye has a girdle,<br /> +It’s all red gowd to the middle;</p> +<p class="poetry">“And aye, at ilka siller hem,<br /> +Hang fifty siller bells and ten;<br /> +This gudely gift shall be her ain,<br /> +And let me be lighter of my bairn.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Of her young bairn she’s +ne’er be lighter,<br /> +Nor in your bow’r to shine the brighter;<br /> +For she shall die, and turn to clay,<br /> +And thou shall wed another may.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Another may I’ll never wed,<br /> +Another may I’ll never bring hame.”<br /> +But, sighing, said that weary wight—<br /> +“I wish my days were at an end!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span>Then out and spak the Billy Blind,<br /> +He spak aye in good time [his mind]:—<br /> +“Yet gae ye to the market place,<br /> +And there do buy a loaf of wace;<br /> +Do shape it bairn and bairnly like,<br /> +And in it two glassen een you’ll put.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, wha has loosed the nine +witch-knots<br /> +That were amang that ladye’s locks?<br /> +And wha’s ta’en out the kames of care,<br /> +That were amang that ladye’s hair?</p> +<p class="poetry">“And wha has ta’en down that bush +of woodbine<br /> +That hung between her bow’r and mine?<br /> +And wha has kill’d the master kid<br /> +That ran beneath that ladye’s bed?<br /> +And wha has loosed her left foot shee,<br /> +And let that ladye lighter be?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Syne, Willie’s loosed the nine +witch-knots<br /> +That were amang that ladye’s locks;<br /> +And Willie’s ta’en out the kames of care<br /> +That were into that ladye’s hair;<br /> +And he’s ta’en down the bush of woodbine,<br /> +Hung atween her bow’r and the witch carline.</p> +<p class="poetry">And he has killed the master kid<br /> +That ran beneath that ladye’s bed;<br /> +And he has loosed her left foot shee,<br /> +And latten that ladye lighter be;<br /> +And now he has gotten a bonnie son,<br /> +And meikle grace be him upon.</p> +<h2><a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +196</span>ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> somer when the +shawes be sheyne,<br /> + And leves be large and longe,<br /> +Hit is full mery in feyre foreste<br /> + To here the foulys song.</p> +<p class="poetry">To se the dere draw to the dale,<br /> + And leve the hilles hee,<br /> +And shadow hem in the leves grene,<br /> + Vndur the grene-wode tre.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hit befell on Whitsontide,<br /> + Erly in a may mornyng,<br /> +The son vp fayre can shyne,<br /> + And the briddis mery can syng.</p> +<p class="poetry">“This is a mery mornyng,” seid +Litulle Johne,<br /> + “Be hym that dyed on tre;<br /> +A more mery man than I am one<br /> + Lyves not in Cristianté.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Pluk vp thi hert, my dere +mayster,”<br /> + Litulle Johne can sey,<br /> +“And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme<br /> + In a mornynge of may.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ze on thynge greves me,” seid +Robyne,<br /> + “And does my hert mych woo,<br /> +That I may not so solem day<br /> + To mas nor matyns goo.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +197</span>“Hit is a fourtnet and more,” seyd hee,<br +/> + “Syn I my Sauyour see;<br /> +To day will I to Notyngham,” seid Robyn,<br /> + “With the myght of mylde Mary.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then spake Moche the mylner sune,<br /> + Euer more wel hym betyde,<br /> +“Take xii thi wyght zemen<br /> + Well weppynd be thei side.<br /> +Such on wolde thi selfe slon<br /> + That xii dar not abyde.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Off alle my mery men,” seid +Robyne,<br /> + “Be my feithe I wil non haue;<br /> +But Litulle Johne shall beyre my bow<br /> + Til that me list to drawe.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">“Thou shalle beyre thin own,” seid +Litulle Jon,<br /> + “Maister, and I wil beyre myne,<br /> +And we wille shete a peny,” seid Litulle Jon,<br /> + “Vnder the grene wode lyne.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I wil not shete a peny,” seyde +Robyn Hode,<br /> + “In feith, Litulle Johne, with thee,<br /> +But euer for on as thou shetes,” seid Robyn,<br /> + “In feith I holde the thre.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus shet thei forthe, these zemen too,<br /> + Bothe at buske and brome,<br /> +Til Litulle Johne wan of his maister<br /> + V s. to hose and shone.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +198</span>A ferly strife fel them betwene,<br /> + As they went bi the way;<br /> +Litull Johne seid he had won v shyllyngs,<br /> + And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.</p> +<p class="poetry">With that Robyn Hode lyed Litul Jone,<br /> + And smote him with his honde;<br /> +Litul John waxed wroth therwith,<br /> + And pulled out his bright bronde.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Were thou not my maister,” seid +Litulle Johne,<br /> + “Thou shuldis by hit ful sore;<br /> +Get the a man where thou wilt, Robyn,<br /> + For thou getes me no more.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Robyn goes to Notyngham,<br /> + Hymselfe mornynge allone,<br /> +And Litulle Johne to mery Scherewode,<br /> + The pathes he knowe alkone.</p> +<p class="poetry">Whan Robyn came to Notyngham,<br /> + Sertenly withoutene layne,<br /> +He prayed to God and myld Mary<br /> + To brynge hym out saue agayne.</p> +<p class="poetry">He gos into seynt Mary chirche,<br /> + And knelyd downe before the rode;<br /> +Alle that euer were the churche within<br /> + Beheld wel Robyne Hode.</p> +<p class="poetry">Beside hym stode a gret-hedid munke,<br /> + I pray to God woo he be;<br /> +Full sone he knew gode Robyn<br /> + As sone as he hym se.</p> +<p class="poetry">Out at the durre he ran<br /> + Ful sone and anon;<br /> +Alle the zatis of Notyngham<br /> + He made to be sparred euerychone.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +199</span>“Rise vp,” he seid, “thou prowde +schereff,<br /> + Buske the and make the bowne;<br /> +I haue spyed the kynges felone,<br /> + For sothe he is in this towne.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I haue spyed the false felone,<br /> + As he stondes at his masse;<br /> +Hit is longe of the,” seide the munke,<br /> + “And euer he fro vs passe.</p> +<p class="poetry">“This traytur[s] name is Robyn Hode;<br +/> + Vnder the grene wode lynde,<br /> +He robbyt me onys of a C pound,<br /> + Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Vp then rose this prowd schereff,<br /> + And zade towarde hym zare;<br /> +Many was the modur son<br /> + To the kyrk with him can fare.</p> +<p class="poetry">In at the durres thei throly thrast<br /> + With staves ful gode ilkone,<br /> +“Alas, alas,” seid Robin Hode,<br /> + “Now mysse I Litulle Johne.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But Robyne toke out a too-hond sworde<br /> + That hangit down be his kne;<br /> +Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust,<br /> + Thidurward wold he.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thryes thorow at them he ran,<br /> + Then for sothe as I yow say,<br /> +And woundyt many a modur sone,<br /> + And xii he slew that day.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +200</span>Hys sworde vpon the schireff hed<br /> + Sertanly he brake in too;<br /> +“The smyth that the made,” seid Robyn,<br /> + “I pray God wyrke him woo.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For now am I weppynlesse,” seid +Robyne,<br /> + “Alasse, agayn my wylle;<br /> +But if I may fle these traytors fro,<br /> + I wot thei wil me kylle.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Robyns men to the churche ran<br /> + Throout hem euerilkon;<br /> +Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede,<br /> + And lay still as any stone.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Non of theym were in her mynde<br /> + But only Litulle Jon.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Let be your dule,” seid Litulle +Jon,<br /> + “For his luf that dyed on tre;<br /> +Ze that shulde be duzty men,<br /> + Hit is gret shame to se.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oure maister has bene hard bystode,<br +/> + And zet scapyd away;<br /> +Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone,<br /> + And herkyn what I shal say.</p> +<p class="poetry">“He has seruyd our lady many a day,<br /> + And zet wil securly;<br /> +Therefore I trust in her specialy<br /> + No wycked deth shal he dye.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Therfor be glad,” seid Litul +Johne,<br /> + “And let this mournyng be,<br /> +And I shall be the munkes gyde,<br /> + With the myght of mylde Mary.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +201</span>“And I mete hym,” seid Litull Johne,<br /> + “We will go but we too<br /> +. . . . . . .<br /> + . . . . . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">“Loke that ze kepe wel our tristil tre<br +/> + Vnder the levys smale,<br /> +And spare non of this venyson<br /> + That gose in thys vale.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Forthe thei went these zemen too,<br /> + Litul Johne and Moche onfere,<br /> +And lokid on Moche emys hows<br /> + The hyeway lay fulle nere.</p> +<p class="poetry">Litul John stode at a window in the +mornynge,<br /> + And lokid forth at a stage;<br /> +He was war wher the munke came ridynge,<br /> + And with him a litul page.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Be my feith,” said Litul Johne to +Moche,<br /> + “I can the tel tithyngus gode;<br /> +I se wher the munk comys rydyng,<br /> + I know hym be his wyde hode.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Thei went into the way these zemen bothe<br /> + As curtes men and hende,<br /> +Thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke,<br /> + As thei hade bene his frende.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Fro whens come ze,” seid Litul +Johne,<br /> + “Tel vs tithyngus, I yow pray,<br /> +Off a false owtlay [called Robyn Hode],<br /> + Was takyn zisturday.</p> +<p class="poetry">“He robbyt me and my felowes bothe<br /> + Of xx marke in serten;<br /> +If that false owtlay be takyn,<br /> + For sothe we wolde be fayne.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +202</span>“So did he me,” seid the munke,<br /> + “Of a C pound and more;<br /> +I layde furst hande hym apon,<br /> + Ze may thonke me therefore.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I pray God thanke yow,” seid +Litulle Johne,<br /> + “And we wil when we may;<br /> +We wil go with yow, with your leve,<br /> + And brynge yow on your way.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For Robyn Hode hase many a wilde +felow,<br /> + I telle yow in certen;<br /> +If thei wist ze rode this way,<br /> + In feith ze shulde be slayn.”</p> +<p class="poetry">As thei went talkyng be the way,<br /> + The munke an Litulle Johne,<br /> +Johne toke the munkes horse be the hede<br /> + Ful sone and anone.</p> +<p class="poetry">Johne toke the munkes horse be the hed,<br /> + For sothe as I yow say,<br /> +So did Muche the litulle page,<br /> + For he shulde not stirre away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Be the golett of the hode<br /> + Johne pulled the munke downe;<br /> +Johne was nothynge of hym agast,<br /> + He lete hym falle on his crowne.</p> +<p class="poetry">Litulle Johne was sore agrevyd,<br /> + And drew out his swerde in hye;<br /> +The munke saw he shulde be ded,<br /> + Lowd mercy can he crye.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +203</span>“He was my maister,” said Litulle Johne,<br +/> + “That thou hase browzt in bale;<br /> +Shalle thou neuer cum at our kynge<br /> + For to telle hym tale.”</p> +<p class="poetry">John smote of the munkes hed,<br /> + No longer wolde he dwelle;<br /> +So did Moche the litulle page,<br /> + For ferd lest he wold tell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ther thei beryed hem both<br /> + In nouther mosse nor lynge,<br /> +And Litulle Johne and Muche infere<br /> + Bare the letturs to oure kyng.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">He kneled down vpon—his kne,<br /> + “God zow sane, my lege lorde,<br /> +Jesus yow saue and se.</p> +<p class="poetry">“God yow saue, my lege kyng,”<br /> + To speke Johne was fulle bolde;<br /> +He gaf hym tbe letturs in his hond,<br /> + The kyng did hit unfold.</p> +<p class="poetry">The kyng red the letturs anon,<br /> + And seid, “so met I the,<br /> +Ther was neuer zoman in mery Inglond<br /> + I longut so sore to see.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Wher is the munke that these shuld haue +browzt?”<br /> + Oure kynge gan say;<br /> +“Be my trouthe,” seid Litull Jone,<br /> + “He dyed aftur the way.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The kyng gaf Moche and Litul Jon<br /> + xx pound in sertan,<br /> +And made theim zemen of the crowne,<br /> + And bade theim go agayn.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +204</span>He gaf Johne the seel in hand,<br /> + The scheref for to bere,<br /> +To brynge Robyn hym to,<br /> + And no man do hym dere.</p> +<p class="poetry">Johne toke his leve at cure kyng,<br /> + The sothe as I yow say;<br /> +The next way to Notyngham<br /> + To take he zede the way.</p> +<p class="poetry">When Johne came to Notyngham<br /> + The zatis were sparred ychone;<br /> +Johne callid vp the porter,<br /> + He answerid sone anon.</p> +<p class="poetry">“What is the cause,” seid Litul +John,<br /> + “Thou sparris the zates so fast?”<br /> +“Because of Robyn Hode,” seid [the] porter,<br /> + “In depe prison is cast.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Johne, and Moche, and Wylle Scathlok,<br +/> + For sothe as I yow say,<br /> +Thir slew oure men vpon oure wallis,<br /> + And sawtene vs euery day.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Litulle Johne spyrred aftur the schereff,<br /> + And sone he hym fonde;<br /> +He oppyned the kyngus privè seelle,<br /> + And gaf hyn in his honde.</p> +<p class="poetry">When the schereft saw the kyngus seelle,<br /> + He did of his hode anon;<br /> +“Wher is the munke that bare the letturs?”<br /> + He said to Litulle Johne.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +205</span>“He is so fayn of hym,” seid Litulle +Johne,<br /> + “For sothe as I yow sey,<br /> +He has made hym abot of Westmynster,<br /> + A lorde of that abbay.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The scheref made John gode chere,<br /> + And gaf hym wine of the best;<br /> +At nyzt thei went to her bedde,<br /> + And euery man to his rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">When the scheref was on-slepe<br /> + Dronken of wine and ale,<br /> +Litul Johne and Moche for sothe<br /> + Toke the way vnto the jale.</p> +<p class="poetry">Litul Johne callid vp the jayler,<br /> + And bade him ryse anon;<br /> +He seid Robyn Hode had brokyn preson,<br /> + And out of hit was gon.</p> +<p class="poetry">The portere rose anon sertan,<br /> + As sone as he herd John calle;<br /> +Litul Johne was redy with a swerd,<br /> + And bare hym to the walle.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now will I be porter,” seid Litul +Johne,<br /> + “And take the keyes in honde;”<br /> +He toke the way to Robyn Hode,<br /> + And sone he hym vnbonde.</p> +<p class="poetry">He gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond,<br /> + His hed with for to kepe,<br /> +And ther as the walle was lowyst<br /> + Anon down can thei lepe.</p> +<p class="poetry">Be that the cok began to crow,<br /> + The day began to sprynge,<br /> +The scheref fond the jaylier ded,<br /> + The comyn belle made he rynge.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +206</span>He made a crye thoroowt al the tow[n],<br /> + Whedur he be zoman or knave,<br /> +That cowthe brynge hyrn Robyn Hode,<br /> + His warisone he shuld haue.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For I dar neuer,” said the +scheref,<br /> + “Cum before oure kynge,<br /> +For if I do, I wot serten,<br /> + For sothe he wil me henge.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The scheref made to seke Notyngham,<br /> + Bothe be strete and stye,<br /> +And Robyn was in mery Scherwode<br /> + As lizt as lef on lynde.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then bespake gode Litulle Johne,<br /> + To Robyn Hode can he say,<br /> +“I haue done the a gode turne for an euylle,<br /> + Quyte me whan thou may.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I haue done the a gode turne,” +said Litulle Johne,<br /> + “For sothe as I you saie;<br /> +I haue brouzt the vnder grene wode lyne;<br /> + Fare wel, and haue gode day.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Nay, be my trouthe,” seid Robyn +Hode,<br /> + “So shalle hit neuer be;<br /> +I make the maister,” seid Robyn Hode,<br /> + “Off alle my men and me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Nay, be my trouthe,” seid Litulle +Johne,<br /> + “So shall hit neuer be,<br /> +But lat me be a felow,” seid Litulle Johne,<br /> + “Non odur kepe I’ll be.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +207</span>Thus Johne gate Robyn Hode out of prisone,<br /> + Sertan withoutyn layne;<br /> +When his men saw hym hol and sounde,<br /> + For sothe they were ful fayne.</p> +<p class="poetry">They filled in wyne, and made him glad,<br /> + Vnder the levys smale,<br /> +And zete pastes of venysone,<br /> + That gode was with ale.</p> +<p class="poetry">Than worde came to oure kynge,<br /> + How Robyn Hode was gone,<br /> +And how the scheref of Notyngham<br /> + Durst neuer loke hyme vpone.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then bespake oure cumly kynge,<br /> + In an angur hye,<br /> +“Litulle Johne hase begyled the schereff,<br /> + In faith so hase he me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Litulle Johne has begyled vs bothe,<br +/> + And that fulle wel I se,<br /> +Or ellis the schereff of Notyngham<br /> + Hye hongut shuld he be.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I made hem zemen of the crowne,<br /> + And gaf hem fee with my hond,<br /> +I gaf hem grithe,” seid oure kyng,<br /> + “Thorowout alle mery Inglond.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I gaf hem grithe,” then seide oure +kyng,<br /> + “I say, so mot I the,<br /> +For sothe soche a zeman as he is on<br /> + In alle Ingland ar not thre.</p> +<p class="poetry">“He is trew to his maister,” seide +oure kynge,<br /> + “I say, be swete seynt Johne;<br /> +<a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 208</span>He louys +bettur Robyn Hode,<br /> + Then he dose vs ychone.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Robyne Hode is euer bond to him,<br /> + Bothe in strete and stalle;<br /> +Speke no more of this matter,” seid oure kynge,<br /> + “But John has begyled vs alle.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus endys the talkyng of the munke<br /> + And Robyne Hode i-wysse;<br /> +God, that is euer a crowned kyng,<br /> + Bryng vs alle to his blisse.</p> +<h2><a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +209</span>ROBIN HOOD AND THE POTTER</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> schomer, when the +leves spryng,<br /> + The bloschems on every bowe,<br /> +So merey doyt the berdys syng<br /> + Yn wodys merey now.</p> +<p class="poetry">Herkens, god yemen,<br /> + Comley, corteysse, and god,<br /> +On of the best that yever bar bou,<br /> + Hes name was Roben Hode.</p> +<p class="poetry">Roben Hood was the yemans name,<br /> + That was boyt corteys and fre;<br /> +For the loffe of owr ladey,<br /> + All wemen werschep he.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bot as the god yemen stod on a day,<br /> + Among hes mery manèy,<br /> +He was war of a prowd potter,<br /> + Cam dryfyng owyr the ley.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yonder comet a prod potter,” seyde +Roben,<br /> + “That long hayt hantyd this wey;<br /> +He was never so corteys a man<br /> + On peney of pawage to pay.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Y met hem bot at Wentbreg,” seyde +Lytyll John,<br /> + “And therfor yeffell mot he the,<br /> +Seche thre strokes he me gafe,<br /> + Yet they cleffe by my seydys.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +210</span>“Y ley forty shillings,” seyde Lytyll +John,<br /> + “To pay het thes same day,<br /> +Ther ys nat a man arnong hus all<br /> + A wed schall make hem ley.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Her ys forty shillings,” seyde +Roben,<br /> + “Mor, and thow dar say,<br /> +That y schall make that prowde potter,<br /> + A wed to me schall he ley.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Ther thes money they leyde,<br /> + They toke bot a yeman to kepe;<br /> +Roben befor the potter he breyde,<br /> + And bad hem stond stell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Handys apon hes horse he leyde,<br /> + And bad the potter stonde foll stell;<br /> +The potter schorteley to hem seyde,<br /> + “Felow, what ys they well?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“All thes thre yer, and mor, +potter,” he seyde,<br /> + “Thow hast hantyd thes wey,<br /> +Yet wer tow never so cortys a man<br /> + One peney of pauage to pay.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“What ys they name,” seyde the +potter,<br /> + “For pauage thow ask of me?”<br /> +“Roben Hod ys mey name,<br /> + A wed schall thow leffe me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Well well y non leffe,” seyde the +potter,<br /> + “Nor pavag well y non pay;<br /> +Away they honde fro mey horse,<br /> + Y well the tene eyls, be me fay.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The potter to hes cart he went,<br /> + He was not to seke;<br /> +A god to-hande staffe therowt he hent,<br /> + Befor Roben he lepe.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +211</span>Roben howt with a swerd bent,<br /> + A bokeler en hes honde [therto];<br /> +The potter to Roben he went,<br /> + And seyde, “Felow, let mey horse +go.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Togeder then went thes two yemen,<br /> + Het was a god seyt to se;<br /> +Therof low Robyn hes men,<br /> + Ther they stod onder a tre.</p> +<p class="poetry">Leytell John to hes felowhes seyde,<br /> + “Yend potter welle steffeley stonde:”<br +/> +The potter, with an acward stroke,<br /> + Smot the bokeler owt of hes honde;</p> +<p class="poetry">And ar Roben meyt get hem agen<br /> + Hes bokeler at hes fette,<br /> +The potter yn the neke hem toke,<br /> + To the gronde sone he yede.</p> +<p class="poetry">That saw Roben hes men,<br /> + As they stode ender a bow;<br /> +“Let us helpe owr master,” seyed Lytell John,<br /> + “Yonder potter els well hem sclo.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Thes yemen went with a breyde,<br /> + To ther master they cam.<br /> +Leytell John to hes master seyde,<br /> + “He haet the wager won?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Schall y haff yowr forty +shillings,” seyde Lytel John,<br /> + “Or ye, master, schall haffe myne?”<br +/> +“Yeff they wer a hundred,” seyde Roben,<br /> + “Y feythe, they ben all theyne.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +212</span>“Het ys fol leytell cortesey,” seyde the +potter,<br /> + “As y haffe harde weyse men saye,<br /> +Yeff a por yeman com drywyng ower the wey,<br /> + To let hem of hes gorney.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Be mey trowet, thow seys soyt,” +seyde Roben,<br /> + “Thow seys god yemenrey;<br /> +And thow dreyffe forthe yevery day,<br /> + Thow schalt never be let for me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Y well prey the, god potter,<br /> + A felischepe well thow haffe?<br /> +Geffe me they clothyng, and thow schalt hafe myne;<br /> + Y well go to Notynggam.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Y grant therto,” seyde the +potter,<br /> + “Thow schalt feynde me a felow gode;<br /> +But thow can sell mey pottes well,<br /> + Come ayen as thow yode.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Nay, be mey trowt,” seyde +Roben,<br /> + “And then y bescro mey hede<br /> +Yeffe y bryng eney pottes ayen,<br /> + And eney weyffe well hem chepe.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Than spake Leytell John,<br /> + And all hes felowhes heynd,<br /> +“Master, be well war of the screffe of Notynggam,<br /> + For he ys leytell howr frende.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Heyt war howte,” seyde Roben,<br +/> + “Felowhes, let me alone;<br /> +Thorow the helpe of howr ladey,<br /> + To Notynggam well y gon.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +213</span>Robyn went to Notynggam,<br /> + Thes pottes for to sell;<br /> +The potter abode with Robens men,<br /> + Ther he fered not eylle.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tho Roben droffe on hes wey,<br /> + So merey ower the londe:<br /> +Heres mor and affter ys to saye,<br /> + The best ys beheynde.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">[THE SECOND +FIT.]</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> Roben cam to +Netynggam,<br /> + The soyt yef y scholde saye,<br /> +He set op hes horse anon,<br /> + And gaffe hem hotys and haye.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yn the medys of the towne,<br /> + Ther he schowed hes war;<br /> +“Pottys! pottys!” he gan crey foll sone,<br /> + “Haffe hansell for the mar.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Foll effen agenest the screffeys gate<br /> + Schowed he hes chaffar;<br /> +Weyffes and wedowes abowt hem drow,<br /> + And chepyd fast of hes war.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet, “Pottys, gret chepe!” creyed +Robyn,<br /> + “Y loffe yeffell thes to stonde;”<br /> +And all that saw hem sell,<br /> + Seyde he had be no potter long.</p> +<p class="poetry">The pottys that wer werthe pens feyffe,<br /> + He sold tham for pens thre;<br /> +Preveley seyde man and weyffe,<br /> + “Ywnder potter schall never the.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +214</span>Thos Roben solde foll fast,<br /> + Tell he had pottys bot feyffe;<br /> +On he hem toke of his car,<br /> + And sende hem to the screffeys weyffe.</p> +<p class="poetry">Therof sche was foll fayne,<br /> + “Gramarsey, sir,” than seyde sche;<br /> +“When ye com to thes contre ayen,<br /> + Y schall bey of they pottys, so mot y +the.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye schall haffe of the best,” +seyde Roben,<br /> + And swar be the treneytè;<br /> +Foll corteysley she gan hem call,<br /> + “Com deyne with the screfe and me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Godamarsey,” seyde Roben,<br /> + “Yowr bedyng schalle be doyn;”<br /> +A mayden yn the pottys gan ber,<br /> + Roben and the screffe weyffe folowed anon.</p> +<p class="poetry">Whan Roben ynto the hall cam,<br /> + The screffe sone he met;<br /> +The potter cowed of corteysey,<br /> + And sone the screffe he gret.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Loketh what thes potter hayt geffe yow +and me;<br /> + Feyffe pottys smalle and grete!”<br /> +“He ys fol wellcom,” seyd the screffe,<br /> + “Let os was, and go to mete.”</p> +<p class="poetry">As they sat at her methe,<br /> + With a nobell cher,<br /> +Two of the screffes men gan speke<br /> + Off a gret wagèr,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +215</span>Was made the thother daye,<br /> + Off a schotyng was god and feyne,<br /> +Off forty shillings, the soyt to saye,<br /> + Who scholde thes wager wen.</p> +<p class="poetry">Styll than sat thes prowde po,<br /> + Thos than thowt he;<br /> +“As y am a trow Cerstyn man,<br /> + Thes schotyng well y se.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Whan they had fared of the best,<br /> + With bred and ale and weyne,<br /> +To the bottys they made them prest,<br /> + With bowes and boltys full feyne.</p> +<p class="poetry">The screffes men schot foll fast,<br /> + As archares that weren godde;<br /> +Ther cam non ner ney the marke<br /> + Bey halfe a god archares bowe.</p> +<p class="poetry">Stell then stod the prowde potter,<br /> + Thos than seyde he;<br /> +“And y had a bow, be the rode,<br /> + On schot scholde yow se.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Thow schall haffe a bow,” seyde +the screffe,<br /> + “The best that thow well cheys of thre;<br /> +Thou semyst a stalward and a stronge,<br /> + Asay schall thow be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The screffe commandyd a yeman that stod hem +bey<br /> + Affter bowhes to wende;<br /> +The best bow that the yeman browthe<br /> + Roben set on a stryng.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +216</span>“Now schall y wet and thow be god,<br /> + And polle het op to they ner;”<br /> +“So god me helpe,” seyde the prowde potter,<br /> + “Thys ys bot rygzt weke ger.”</p> +<p class="poetry">To a quequer Roben went,<br /> + A god bolt owthe he toke;<br /> +So ney on to the marke he went,<br /> + He fayled not a fothe.</p> +<p class="poetry">All they schot abowthe agen,<br /> + The screffes men and he;<br /> +Off the marke he welde not fayle,<br /> + He cleffed the preke on thre.</p> +<p class="poetry">The screffes men thowt gret schame,<br /> + The potter the mastry wan;<br /> +The screffe lowe and made god game,<br /> + And seyde, “Potter, thow art a man;<br /> +Thow art worthey to ber a bowe,<br /> + Yn what plas that thow gang.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yn mey cart y haffe a bowe,<br /> + Forsoyt,” he seyde, “and that a +godde;<br /> +Yn mey cart ys the bow<br /> + That I had of Robyn Hode.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Knowest thow Robyn Hode?” seyde +the screffe,<br /> + “Potter, y prey the tell thou me;”<br /> +“A hundred torne y haffe schot with hem,<br /> + Under hes tortyll tree.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Y had lever nar a hundred ponde,” +seyde the screffe,<br /> + And swar be the trenitè,<br /> +[“Y had lever nar a hundred ponde,” he seyde,]<br /> + “That the fals owtelawe stod be me.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +217</span>“And ye well do afftyr mey red,” seyde the +potter,<br /> + “And boldeley go with me,<br /> +And to morow, or we het bred,<br /> + Roben Hode wel we se.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Y well queyt the,” kod the +screffe,<br /> + And swer be god of meythe;<br /> +Schetyng thay left, and hom they went,<br /> + Her scoper was redey deythe.</p> +<p class="poetry">Upon the morow, when het was day,<br /> + He boskyd hem forthe to reyde;<br /> +The potter hes carte forthe gan ray,<br /> + And wolde not [be] leffe beheynde.</p> +<p class="poetry">He toke leffe of the screffys wyffe,<br /> + And thankyd her of all thyng:<br /> +“Dam, for mey loffe, and ye well thys wer,<br /> + Y geffe yow her a golde ryng.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gramarsey,” seyde the weyffe,<br +/> + “Sir, god eylde het the;”<br /> +The screffes hart was never so leythe,<br /> + The feyr forest to se.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when he cam ynto the foreyst,<br /> + Yonder the leffes grene,<br /> +Berdys ther sange on bowhes prest,<br /> + Het was gret joy to sene.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Her het ys mercy to be,” seyde +Roben,<br /> + “For a man that had hawt to spende;<br /> +Be mey horne we schall awet<br /> + Yeff Roben Hode be ner hande.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +218</span>Roben set hes horne to hes mowthe,<br /> + And blow a blast that was full god,<br /> +That herde hes men that ther stode,<br /> + Fer downe yn the wodde;<br /> +“I her mey master,” seyde Leytell John;<br /> + They ran as thay wer wode.</p> +<p class="poetry">Whan thay to thar master cam,<br /> + Leytell John wold not spar;<br /> +“Master, how haffe yow far yn Notynggam?<br /> + How haffe yow solde yowr war?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye, be mey trowthe, Leytyll John,<br /> + Loke thow take no car;<br /> +Y haffe browt the screffe of Notynggam,<br /> + For all howr chaffar.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“He ys foll wellcom,” seyde Lytyll +John,<br /> + “Thes tydyng ys foll godde;”<br /> +The screffe had lever nar a hundred ponde<br /> + [He had never sene Roben Hode.]</p> +<p class="poetry">“Had I west that beforen,<br /> + At Notynggam when we wer,<br /> +Thow scholde not com yn feyr forest<br /> + Of all thes thowsande eyr.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“That wot y well,” seyde Roben,<br +/> + “Y thanke god that ye be her;<br /> +Therfor schall ye leffe yowr horse with hos,<br /> + And all your hother ger.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“That fend I godys forbode,” kod +the screffe,<br /> + “So to lese mey godde;”<br /> +“Hether ye cam on horse foll hey,<br /> + And hom schall ye go on fote;<br /> +<a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 219</span>And gret +well they weyffe at home,<br /> + The woman ys foll godde.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Y schall her sende a wheyt palffrey,<br +/> + Het hambellet as the weynde;<br /> +Ner for the loffe of yowr weyffe,<br /> + Off mor sorow scholde yow seyng.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Thes parted Robyn Hode and the screffe,<br /> + To Notynggam he toke the waye;<br /> +Hes weyffe feyr welcomed hem hom,<br /> + And to hem gan sche saye:</p> +<p class="poetry">“Seyr, how haffe yow fared yn grene +foreyst?<br /> + Haffe ye browt Roben hom?”<br /> +“Dam, the deyell spede him, bothe bodey and bon,<br /> + Y haffe hade a foll grete skorne.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Of all the god that y haffe lade to +grene wod,<br /> + He hayt take het fro me,<br /> +All bot this feyr palffrey,<br /> + That he hayt sende to the.”</p> +<p class="poetry">With that sche toke op a lowde lawhyng,<br /> + And swhar be hem that deyed on tre,<br /> +“Now haffe yow payed for all the pottys<br /> + That Roben gaffe to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now ye be corn hom to Notynggam,<br /> + Ye schall haffe god ynowe;”<br /> +Now speke we of Roben Hode,<br /> + And of the pottyr onder the grene bowhe.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Potter, what was they pottys worthe<br +/> + To Notynggam that y ledde with me?”<br /> +<a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +220</span>“They wer worth two nobellys,” seyd he,<br +/> + “So mot y treyffe or the;<br /> +So cowde y had for tham,<br /> + And y had ther be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Thow schalt hafe ten ponde,” seyde +Roben,<br /> + “Of money feyr and fre;<br /> +And yever whan thou comest to grene wod,<br /> + Wellcom, potter to me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Thes partyd Robyn, the screffe, and the +potter,<br /> + Ondernethe the grene-wod tre;<br /> +God haffe mersey on Robyn Hodys solle,<br /> + And saffe all god yemanrey!</p> +<h2><a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +221</span>ROBIN HOOD AND THE BUTCHER</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Come</span>, all you brave +gallants, and listen awhile,<br /> + <i>With hey +down</i>, <i>down</i>, <i>an a down</i>,<br /> + That are in the bowers within;<br /> +For of Robin Hood, that archer good,<br /> + A song I intend for to sing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Upon a time it chancèd so,<br /> + Bold Robin in forrest did ’spy<br /> +A jolly butcher, with a bonny fine mare,<br /> + With his flesh to the market did hye.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Good morrow, good fellow,” said +jolly Robin,<br /> + “What food hast [thou]? tell unto me;<br /> +Thy trade to me tell, and where thou dost dwell,<br /> + For I like well thy company.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The butcher he answer’d jolly Robin,<br +/> + “No matter where I dwell;<br /> +For a butcher I am, and to Nottingham<br /> + I am going, my flesh to sell.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“What’s [the] price of thy +flesh?” said jolly Robin,<br /> + “Come, tell it soon unto me;<br /> +And the price of thy mare, be she never so dear,<br /> + For a butcher fain would I be.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +222</span>“The price of my flesh,” the butcher +repli’d,<br /> + “I soon will tell unto thee;<br /> +With my bonny mare, and they are not too dear,<br /> + Four mark thou must give unto me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Four mark I will give thee,” saith +jolly Robin,<br /> + “Four mark it shall be thy fee;<br /> +The mony come count, and let me mount,<br /> + For a butcher I fain would be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Robin he is to Nottingham gone,<br /> + His butchers trade to begin;<br /> +With good intent to the sheriff he went,<br /> + And there he took up his inn.</p> +<p class="poetry">When other butchers did open their meat,<br /> + Bold Robin he then begun;<br /> +But how for to sell he knew not well,<br /> + For a butcher he was but young.</p> +<p class="poetry">When other butchers no meat could sell,<br /> + Robin got both gold and fee;<br /> +For he sold more meat for one peny<br /> + Then others could do for three.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when he sold his meat so fast,<br /> + No butcher by him could thrive;<br /> +For he sold more meat for one peny<br /> + Than others could do for five.</p> +<p class="poetry">Which made the butchers of Nottingham<br /> + To study as they did stand,<br /> +Saying, “Surely he ‘is’ some prodigal,<br /> + That hath sold his fathers land.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +223</span>The butchers stepped to jolly Robin,<br /> + Acquainted with him for to be;<br /> +“Come, brother,” one said, “we be all of one +trade,<br /> + Come, will you go dine with me?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Accurst of his heart,” said jolly +Robin,<br /> + “That a butcher doth deny;<br /> +I will go with you, my brethren true,<br /> + As fast as I can hie.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But when to the sheriffs house they came,<br /> + To dinner they hied apace,<br /> +And Robin Hood he the man must be<br /> + Before them all to say grace.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Pray God bless us all,” said jolly +Robin,<br /> + “And our meat within this place;<br /> +A cup of sack so good will nourish our blood,<br /> + And so do I end my grace.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Come fill us more wine,” said +jolly Robin,<br /> + “Let us be merry while we do stay;<br /> +For wine and good cheer, be it never so dear,<br /> + I vow I the reck’ning will pay.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Come, ‘brothers,’ be +merry,” said jolly Robin,<br /> + “Let us drink, and never give ore;<br /> +For the shot I will pay, ere I go my way,<br /> + If it cost me five pounds and more.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“This is a mad blade,” the butchers +then said;<br /> + Saies the sheriff, “He is some +prodigàl,<br /> +That some land has sold for silver and gold,<br /> + And now he doth mean to spend all.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +224</span>“Hast thou any horn beasts,” the sheriff +repli’d,<br /> + “Good fellow, to sell unto me?”<br /> +“Yes, that I have, good master sheriff,<br /> + I have hundreds two or three;</p> +<p class="poetry">“And a hundred aker of good free land,<br +/> + If you please it to see:<br /> +And Ile make you as good assurance of it,<br /> + As ever my father made me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The sheriff he saddled his good +palfrèy,<br /> + And, with three hundred pound in gold,<br /> +Away he went with bold Robin Hood,<br /> + His horned beasts to behold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Away then the sheriff and Robin did ride,<br /> + To the forrest of merry Sherwood;<br /> +Then the sheriff did say, “God bless us this day<br /> + From a man they call Robin Hood!”</p> +<p class="poetry">But when a little farther they came,<br /> + Bold Robin he chancèd to spy<br /> +A hundred head of good red deer,<br /> + Come tripping the sheriff full nigh.</p> +<p class="poetry">“How like you my horn’d beasts, +good master sheriff?<br /> + They be fat and fair for to see;”<br /> +“I tell thee, good fellow, I would I were gone,<br /> + For I like not thy company.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Robin set his horn to his mouth,<br /> + And blew but blasts three;<br /> +Then quickly anon there came Little John,<br /> + And all his company.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +225</span>“What is your will, master?” then said +Little John,<br /> + “Good master come tell unto me;”<br /> +“I have brought hither the sheriff of Nottingham<br /> + This day to dine with thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“He is welcome to me,” then said +Little John,<br /> + “I hope he will honestly pay;<br /> +I know he has gold, if it be but well told,<br /> + Will serve us to drink a whole day.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Robin took his mantle from his back,<br /> + And laid it upon the ground:<br /> +And out of the sheriffs portmantle<br /> + He told three hundred pound.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Robin he brought him thorow the wood,<br +/> + And set him on his dapple gray;<br /> +“O have me commanded to your wife at home;”<br /> + So Robin went laughing away.</p> +<h2><a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +227</span>NOTES</h2> +<h3><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +229</span><span class="smcap">Sir Patrick Spens</span>.—p. +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page1">1</a></span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Child</span> finds the first published +version of “the grand old ballad of Sir Patrick +Spens,” as Coleridge calls it, in Bishop Percy’s +<i>Reliques</i>. Here the name is “Spence,” and +the middle rhyme—</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“Haf owre, haf +owre to Aberdour,”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>is not of early date. The “Cork-heeled +Shoon,” too, cannot be early, but ballads are subject, in +oral tradition, to such modern interpolations. The verse +about the ladies waiting vainly is anticipated in a popular song +of the fourteenth century, on a defeat of the <i>noblesse</i> in +Flanders—</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“Their ladies +them may abide in bower and hall well long!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>If there be historical foundation for the ballad, it is +probably a blending of the voyage of Margaret, daughter of +Alexander III., to wed Eric, King of Norway, in 1281 (some of her +escort were drowned on their way home), with the rather +mysterious death, or disappearance, of Margaret’s daughter, +“The Maid of Norway,” on her voyage to marry the son +of Edward I., in 1290. A woman, who alleged that she was +the Maid of Norway, was later burned at the stake. The +great number and variety of versions sufficiently indicate the +antiquity of this ballad, wherein exact history is not to be +expected.</p> +<h3><a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +230</span><span class="smcap">The Battle of +Otterburn</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page5">5</a></span></h3> +<p>From <i>The Border Minstrelsy</i>, Sir Walter Scott’s +latest edition of 1833: the copy in the edition of 1802 is less +complete. The gentle and joyous passage of arms here +recorded, took place in August 1388. We have an admirable +account of Otterburn fight from Froissart, who revels in a +gallant encounter, fairly fought out hand to hand, with no +intervention of archery or artillery, and for no wretched +practical purpose. In such a combat the Scots, never +renowned for success at long bowls, and led by a Douglas, were +likely to prove victorious, even against long odds, and when +taken by surprise.</p> +<p>Choosing an advantage in the discordant days of Richard II., +the Scots mustered a very large force near Jedburgh, merely to +break lances on English ground, and take loot. Learning +that, as they advanced by the Carlisle route, the English +intended to invade Scotland by Berwick and the east coast, the +Scots sent three or four hundred men-at-arms, with a few thousand +mounted archers and pikemen, who should harry Northumberland to +the walls of Newcastle. These were led by James, Earl of +Douglas, March, and Murray. In a fight at Newcastle, +Douglas took Harry Percy’s pennon, which Hotspur vowed to +recover. The retreat began, but the Scots waited at +Otterburn, partly to besiege the castle, partly to abide +Hotspur’s challenge. He made his attack at moonlight, +with overwhelming odds, but was hampered by a marsh, and +incommoded by a flank attach of the Scots. Then it came to +who would pound longest, with axe and sword. Douglas cut +his way through the English, axe in hand, and was overthrown, but +his men protected his body. The Sinclairs and Lindsay +raised his banner, with his cry; March and Dunbar came up; +Hotspur was taken by Montgomery, and the English were routed with +heavy loss. Douglas was buried in Melrose Abbey; very many +years later the English defiled his grave, but were punished at +Ancram Moor. There is an English poem on the fight of +“about 1550”; it has many analogies with our Scottish +version, and, doubtless, ours descends from a ballad almost +contemporary. The ballad was a great favourite of +Scott’s. In a severe <a name="page231"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 231</span>illness, thinking of Lockhart, not +yet his son-in-law, he quoted—</p> +<blockquote><p>“My wound is deep, I fain would sleep,<br /> +Take thou the vanguard of the three.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Mr. Child thinks the command to</p> +<blockquote><p>“yield to the bracken-bush”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>unmartial. This does not seem a strong objection, in +Froissart’s time. It is explained in an oral +fragment—</p> +<blockquote><p>“For there lies aneth yon bracken-bush<br /> +Wha aft has conquered mair than thee.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Mr. Child also thinks that the “dreamy dream” may +be copied from Hume of Godscroft. It is at least as +probable that Godscroft borrowed from the ballad which he +cites. The embroidered gauntlet of the Percy is in the +possession of Douglas of Cavers to this day.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Tam Lin</span>, <span class="smcap">or +Tamlane</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page10">10</a></span></h3> +<p>Burns’s version, in Johnson’s <i>Museum</i> +(1792). Scott’s version is made up of this copy, +Riddell’s, Herd’s, and oral recitations, and contains +feeble literary interpolations, not, of course, by Sir +Walter. <i>The Complaint of Scotland</i> (1549) mentions +the “Tale of the Young Tamlene” as then +popular. It is needless here to enter into the subject of +Fairyland, and captures of mortals by Fairies: the Editor has +said his say in his edition of Kirk’s <i>Secret +Commonwealth</i>. The Nereids, in Modern Greece, practise +fairy cantrips, and the same beliefs exist in Samoa and New +Caledonia. The metamorphoses are found in the +<i>Odyssey</i>, Book iv., in the winning of Thetis, the +<i>Nereid</i>, <i>or Fairy Bride</i>, by Peleus, in a modern +Cretan fairy tale, and so on. There is a similar incident +in <i>Penda Baloa</i>, a Senegambian ballad (<i>Contes Populaires +de la Sénégambie</i>, Berenger Ferand, Paris, +1885). The dipping of Tamlane has precedents in <i>Old +Deccan Days</i>, in a Hottentot tale by Bleek, and in <i>Les Deux +Frères</i>, the Egyptian story, translated by Maspero (the +Editor has already given these parallels in a note to <i>Border +Ballads</i>, by Graham R. Thomson). Mr. Child also cites +Mannhardt, “Wald und Feldkulte,” ii. +64–70. <a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +232</span>Carterhaugh, the scene of the ballad, is at the +junction of Ettrick and Yarrow, between Bowhill and +Philiphaugh.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Thomas Rymer</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page16">16</a></span></h3> +<p>From <i>The Border Minstrelsy</i>; the original was derived +from a lady living near Erceldoune (Earlston), and from Mrs. +Brown’s MSS. That Thomas of Erceldoune had some +popular fame as a rhymer and soothsayer as early as +1320–1350, seems to be established. As late as the +Forty Five, nay, even as late as the expected Napoleonic +invasion, sayings attributed to Thomas were repeated with some +measure of belief. A real Thomas Rymer of Erceldoune +witnessed an undated deed of Peter de Haga, early in the +thirteenth century. The de Hagas, or Haigs of Bemersyde, +were the subjects of the prophecy attributed to Thomas,</p> +<blockquote><p>“Betide, betide, whate’er betide,<br +/> +There will aye be a Haig in Bemersyde,”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>and a Haig still owns that ancient <i>château</i> on the +Tweed, which has a singular set of traditions. Learmont is +usually given as the Erceldoune family name; a branch of the +family owned Dairsie in Fifeshire, and were a kind of hereditary +provosts of St. Andrews. If Thomas did predict the death of +Alexander III., or rather report it by dint of clairvoyance, he +must have lived till 1285. The date of the poem on the +Fairy Queen, attributed to Thomas, is uncertain, the story itself +is a variant of “Ogier the Dane.” The scene is +Huntly Bank, under Eildon Hill, and was part of the lands +acquired, at fantastic prices, by Sir Walter Scott. His +passion for land was really part of his passion for collecting +antiquities. The theory of Fairyland here (as in many other +Scottish legends and witch trials) is borrowed from the +Pre-Christian Hades, and the Fairy Queen is a late refraction +from Persephone. Not to eat, in the realm of the dead, is a +regular precept of savage belief, all the world over. Mr. +Robert Kirk’s <i>Secret Commonwealth of Elves</i>, +<i>Fauns</i>, <i>and Fairies</i> may be consulted, or the +Editor’s <i>Perrault</i>, p. xxxv. (Oxford, 1888). Of +the later legends about Thomas, Scott gives plenty, in <i>The +Border Minstrelsy</i>. The <a name="page233"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 233</span>long ancient romantic poem on the +subject is probably the source of the ballad, though a local +ballad may have preceded the long poem. Scott named the +glen through which the Bogle Burn flows to Chiefswood, “The +Rhymer’s Glen.”</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Sir Hugh</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page19">19</a></span></h3> +<p>The date of the Martyrdom of Hugh is attributed by Matthew +Paris to 1225. Chaucer puts a version in the mouth of his +Prioress. No doubt the story must have been a mere excuse +for Jew-baiting. In America the Jew becomes “The +Duke” in a version picked up by Mr. Newells, from the +recitation of a street boy in New York. The daughter of a +Jew is not more likely than the daughter of a duke to have been +concerned in the cruel and blasphemous imitation of the horrors +attributed by Horace to the witch Canidia. But some such +survivals of pagan sorcery did exist in the Middle Ages, under +the influence of “Satanism.”</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Son Davie</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page22">22</a></span></h3> +<p>Motherwell’s version. One of many ballads on +fratricide, instigated by the mother: or inquired into by her, as +the case may be. “Edward” is another example of +this gloomy situation.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Wife of Usher’s +Well</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></h3> +<p>Here</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“The cock doth +craw, the day doth daw,”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>having a middle rhyme, can scarcely be of extreme +antiquity. Probably, in the original poem, the dead return +to rebuke the extreme grief of the Mother, but the poem is +perhaps really more affecting in the absence of a didactic +motive. Scott obtained it from an old woman in West +Lothian. Probably the reading “fashes,” +(troubles), “in the flood” is correct, not +“fishes,” or “freshes.” The mother +desires that the sea may never cease to be troubled till her sons +return (verse 4, line 2). The peculiar doom of women dead +in child-bearing occurs even in Aztec mythology.</p> +<h3><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +234</span><span class="smcap">The Twa Corbies</span>.—p. +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page26">26</a></span></h3> +<p>From the third volume of <i>Border Minstrelsy</i>, derived by +Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe from a traditional version. The +English version, “Three Ravens,” was published in +<i>Melismata</i>, by T. Ravensworth (1611). In Scots, the +lady “has ta’en another mate” his hawk and +hound have deserted the dead knight. In the English song, +the hounds watch by him, the hawks keep off carrion birds, as for +the lady—</p> +<blockquote><p>“She buried him before the prime,<br /> +She was dead herselfe ere evensong time.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Probably the English is the earlier version.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Bonnie Earl of +Murray</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></h3> +<p>Huntly had a commission to apprehend the Earl, who was in the +disgrace of James VI. Huntly, as an ally of Bothwell, asked +him to surrender at Donibristle, in Fife; he would not yield to +his private enemy, the house was burned, and Murray was slain, +Huntly gashing his face. “You have spoiled a better +face than your own,” said the dying Earl (1592). +James Melville mentions contemporary ballads on the murder. +Ramsay published the ballad in his <i>Tea Table Miscellany</i>, +and it is often sung to this day.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Clerk Saunders</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page30">30</a></span></h3> +<p>First known as published in <i>Border Minstrelsy</i> +(1802). The apparition of the lover is borrowed from +“Sweet Willie’s Ghost.” The evasions +practised by the lady, and the austerities vowed by her have many +Norse, French, and Spanish parallels in folk-poetry. +Scott’s version is “made up” from several +sources, but is, in any case, verse most satisfactory as +poetry.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Waly</span>, <span +class="smcap">Waly</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page35">35</a></span></h3> +<p>From Ramsay’s <i>Tea Table Miscellany</i>, a curiously +composite gathering of verses. There is a verse, obviously +a variant, in a sixteenth century song, cited by <a +name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +235</span>Leyden. St. Anthon’s Well is on a hill +slope of Arthur’s Seat, near Holyrood. Here Jeanie +Deans trysted with her sister’s seducer, in <i>The Heart of +Midlothian</i>. The Cairn of Nichol Mushat, the +wife-murderer, is not far off. The ruins of Anthony’s +Chapel are still extant.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Love Gregor</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page37">37</a></span></h3> +<p>There are French and Romaic variants of this ballad. +“Lochroyal,” where the ballad is localized, is in +Wigtownshire, but the localization varies. The +“tokens” are as old as the Return of Odysseus, in the +<i>Odyssey</i>: his token is the singular construction of his +bridal bed, attached by him to a living tree-trunk. A +similar legend occurs in Chinese. See Gerland’s +<i>Alt-Giechische Märchen</i>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Queen’s +Marie</span>—<span class="smcap">Mary +Hamilton</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></h3> +<p>A made-up copy from Scott’s edition of 1833. This +ballad has caused a great deal of controversy. Queen Mary +had no Mary Hamilton among her Four Maries. No Marie was +executed for child-murder. But we know, from Knox, that +ballads were recited against the Maries, and that one of the +Mary’s chamberwomen was hanged, with her lover, a +pottinger, or apothecary, for getting rid of her infant. +These last facts were certainly quite basis enough for a ballad, +the ballad echoing, not history, but rumour, and rumour adapted +to the popular taste. Thus the ballad might have passed +unchallenged, as a survival, more or less modified in time, of +Queen Mary’s period. But in 1719 a Mary Hamilton, a +Maid of Honour, of Scottish descent, was executed in Russia, for +infanticide. Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe conceived that this +affair was the origin of the ballad, and is followed by Mr. +Child.</p> +<p>We reply (1) The ballad has almost the largest number of +variants on record. This is a proof of antiquity. +Variants so many, differing in all sorts of points, could not +have arisen between 1719, and the age of Burns, who quotes the +poem.</p> +<p>(2) This is especially improbable, because, in 1719, the +old vein of ballad poetry had run dry, popular song <a +name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 236</span>had chosen +other forms, and no literary imitator could have written Mary +Hamilton in 1719.</p> +<p>(3) There is no example of a popular ballad in which a +contemporary event, interesting just because it is contemporary, +is thrown back into a remote age.</p> +<p>(4) The name, Mary Hamilton, is often <i>not</i> given +to the heroine in variants of the ballad. She is of several +names and ranks in the variants.</p> +<p>(5) As Mr. Child himself remarked, the +“pottinger” of the real story of Queen Mary’s +time occurs in one variant. There was no +“pottinger” in the Russian affair.</p> +<p>All these arguments, to which others might be added, seem +fatal to the late date and modern origin of the ballad, and Mr. +Child’s own faith in the hypothesis was shaken, if not +overthrown.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Kinmont Willie</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page45">45</a></span></h3> +<p>From <i>The Border Minstrelsy</i>. The account in +Satchells has either been based on the ballad, or the ballad is +based on Satchells. After a meeting, on the Border of +Salkeld of Corby, and Scott of Haining, Kinmont Willie was seized +by the English as he rode home from the tryst. Being +“wanted,” he was lodged in Carlisle Castle, and this +was a breach of the day’s truce. Buccleugh, as +warder, tried to obtain Willie’s release by peaceful +means. These failing, Buccleugh did what the ballad +reports, April 13, 1596. Harden and Goudilands were with +Buccleugh, being his neighbours near Branxholme. Dicky of +Dryhope, with others, Armstrongs, was also true to the call of +duty. A few verses in the ballad are clearly by <i>aut +Gualterus aut diabolus</i>, and none the worse for that. +Salkeld, of course, was not really slain; and, if the men were +“left for dead,” probably they were not long in that +debatable condition. In the rising of 1745 Prince +Charlie’s men forded Eden as boldly as Buccleuch, the +Prince saving a drowning Highlander with his own hand.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Jamie Telfer</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page52">52</a></span></h3> +<p>Scott, for once, was wrong in his localities. The +Dodhead of the poem is <i>not</i> that near Singlee, in <a +name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 237</span>Ettrick, +but a place of the same name, near Skelfhill, on the southern +side of Teviot, within three miles of Stobs, where Telfer vainly +seeks help from Elliot. The other Dodhead is at a great +distance from Stobs, up Borthwick Water, over the tableland, past +Clearburn Loch and Buccleugh, and so down Ettrick, past +Tushielaw. The Catslockhill is not that on Yarrow, near +Ladhope, but another near Branxholme, whence it is no far cry to +Branxholme Hall. Borthwick Water, Goudilands (below +Branxholme), Commonside (a little farther up Teviot), Allanhaugh, +and the other places of the Scotts, were all easily +“warned.” There are traces of a modern hand in +this excellent ballad. The topography is here corrected +from MS. notes in a first edition of the <i>Minstrelsy</i>, in +the library of Mr. Charles Grieve at Branxholme’ Park, a +scion of “auld Jock Grieve” of the Coultart +Cleugh. Names linger long in pleasant Teviotdale.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Douglas Tragedy</span>.—p. +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page59">59</a></span></h3> +<p>The ballad has Norse analogues, but is here localized on the +Douglas Burn, a tributary of Yarrow on the left bank. The +St. Mary’s Kirk would be that now ruinous, on St. +Mary’s Loch, the chapel burned by the Lady of Branxholme +when she</p> + +<blockquote><p> “gathered +a band<br /> +Of the best that would ride at her command,”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>in the <i>Lay of the Last Minstrel</i>. The ancient keep +of Blackhouse on Douglas Burn may have been the home of the +heroine, if we are to localize.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Bonny Hind</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page62">62</a></span></h3> +<p>Herd got this tragic ballad from a milkmaid, in 1771. +Mr. Child quotes a verse parallel, preserved in Faroe, and in the +Icelandic. There is a similar incident in the cycle of +Kullervo, in the Finnish <i>Kalevala</i>. Scott says that +similar tragedies are common in Scotch popular poetry; such cases +are “Lizzie Wan,” and “The King’s +Dochter, Lady Jean.” A sorrow nearly as bitter occurs +in the French “Milk White Dove”: a brother kills his +sister, metamorphosed into a white deer. “The Bridge +<a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 238</span>of +Death” (French) seems to hint at something of the same +kind; or rather the Editor finds that he has arbitrarily read +“The Bonny Hind” into “Le Pont des +Morts,” in Puymaigre’s <i>Chants Populaires du Pays +Messin</i>, p. 60. (<i>Ballads and Lyrics of Old +France</i>, p. 63)</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Young Beichan</span>, <span +class="smcap">or Young Bicham</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page65">65</a></span></h3> +<p>This is the original of the Cockney <i>Loving Ballad of Lord +Bateman</i>, illustrated by Cruikshank, and by Thackeray. +There is a vast number of variants, evidence to the antiquity of +the story. The earliest known trace is in the familiar +legend of the Saracen lady, who sought and found her lover, +Gilbert Becket, father of Thomas à Becket, in London (see +preface to <i>Life of Becket</i>, or Beket), Percy Society, +1845. The date may be <i>circ.</i> 1300. The kind of +story, the loving daughter of the cruel captor, is as old as +Medea and Jason, and her search for her lover comes in such +<i>Märchen</i> as “The Black Bull o’ +Norraway.” No story is more widely diffused (see <i>A +Far Travelled Tale</i>, in the Editor’s <i>Custom and +Myth</i>). The appearance of the “True Love,” +just at her lover’s wedding, is common in the +<i>Märchen</i> of the world, and occurs in a Romaic ballad, +as well as in many from Northern Europe. The “local +colour”—the Moor or Saracen—is derived from +Crusading times, perhaps. Motherwell found the ballad +recited with intervals of prose narrative, as in <i>Aucassin and +Nicolette</i>. The notes to Cruikshank’s <i>Loving +Ballad</i> are, obviously, by Thackeray.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Bonny House o’ +Airly</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page73">73</a></span></h3> +<p>Lord Airly’s houses were destroyed by Argyll, +representing the Covenanters, and also in pursuance of a private +feud, in 1639, or 1640. There are erroneous versions of +this ballad, in which Lochiel appears, and the date is, +apparently, transferred to 1745. Montrose, in his early +Covenanting days, was not actually concerned in the burning of +the Bonnie House, which he, when a Royalist, revenged on the +possessions of “gleyed Argyll.” The reference +to “Charlie” is out of keeping; no one, perhaps, ever +called Charles I. <a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +239</span>by that affectionate name. Lady Ogilvie had not +the large family attributed to her: her son, Lord Ogilvie, +escaped from prison in the Castle of St. Andrews, after +Philiphaugh. A Lord Ogilvie was out in 1745; and, later, +had a regiment in the French Service. Few families have a +record so consistently loyal.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Rob Roy</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page75">75</a></span></h3> +<p>The abductors of the widowed young heiress of Edenhelly were +Rob’s sons, Robin Oig, who went through a form of marriage +with the girl, and James Mohr, a good soldier, but a double-dyed +spy and scoundrel. Robin Oig was hanged in 1753. +James Mohr, a detected traitor to Prince Charles, died miserably +in Paris, in 1754. Readers of Mr. Stevenson’s +<i>Catriona</i> know James well; information as to his villanies +is extant in Additional MSS. (British Museum). This is +probably the latest ballad in the collection. It occurs in +several variants, some of which, copied out by Burns, derive +thence a certain accidental interest. In Mr. +Stevenson’s <i>Catriona</i>, the heroine of that name takes +a thoroughly Highland view of the abduction. Robin Oig, in +any case, was “nane the waur o’ a hanging,” for +he shot a Maclaren at the plough-tail, before the +Forty-Five. The trial of these sons of Alpen was published +shortly after Scott’s <i>Rob Roy</i>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Killiecrankie</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page77">77</a></span></h3> +<p>Fought on July 27, 1689. <i>Not</i> on the haugh near +the modern road by the railway, but higher up the hill, in the +grounds of Urrard House. Two shelter trenches, whence +Dundee’s men charged, are still visible, high on the +hillside above Urrand. There is said, by Mr. Child, to have +been a contemporary broadside of the ballad, which is an example +of the evolution of popular ballads from the old traditional +model. There is another song, by, or attributed to, Burns, +and of remarkable spirit and vigour.</p> +<h3><a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +240</span><span class="smcap">Annan Water</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page79">79</a></span></h3> +<p>From <i>The Border Minstrelsy</i> Scott says that these are +the original words of the tune of “Allan Water,” and +that he has added two verses from a variant with a fortunate +conclusion. “Allan Water” is a common river +name; the stream so called joins Teviot above Branxholme. +Annan is the large stream that flows into the Solway Frith. +The Gate-slack, in Annandale, fixes the locality.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Elphin Nourrice</span>.—p. +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page81">81</a></span></h3> +<p>This curious poem is taken from the reprint of Charles +Kirkpatrick Sharpe’s tiny <i>Ballad Book</i>, itself now +almost <i>introuvable</i>. It does not, to the +Editor’s knowledge, occur elsewhere, but is probably +authentic. The view of the Faery Queen is more pleasing and +sympathetic than usual. Why mortal women were desired as +nurses (except to attend on stolen mortal children, kept to +“pay the Kane to hell”) is not obvious. Irish +beliefs are precisely similar; in England they are of frequent +occurrence.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Johnnie Armstrang</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page87">87</a></span></h3> +<p>Armstrang of Gilnockie was a brother of the laird of +Mangertoun. He had a kind of Robin Hood reputation on the +Scottish Border, as one who only robbed the English. +Pitscottie’s account of his slaying by James V. (1529) +reads as if the ballad were his authority, and an air for the +subject is mentioned in the <i>Complaint of Scotland</i>. +In Sir Herbert Maxwell’s <i>History of Dumfries and +Galloway</i> is an excellent account of the historical facts of +the case.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Edom o’ Gordon</span>.—p. +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page92">92</a></span></h3> +<p>Founded on an event in the wars between Kingsmen and +Queensmen, in the minority of James VI., while Queen Mary was +imprisoned in England. “Edom” was Adam Gordon +of Auchindown, brother of Huntley, and a Queen’s man. +He, by his retainer, Car, or Ker, <a name="page241"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 241</span>burned Towie House, a seat of the +Forbes’s. Ker recurs in the long and more or less +literary ballad of <i>The Battle of Balrinnes</i>. In +variants the localities are much altered, and, in one version, +the scene is transferred to Ayrshire, and Loudoun Castle. +All the ballads of fire-raising, a very usual practice, have +points in common, and transference was easy.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Lady Anne Bothwell’s +Lament</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page98">98</a></span></h3> +<p>Tradition has confused the heroine of this piece with the wife +of Bothwelhaugh, who slew the Regent Murray. That his +motive was not mere political assassination, but to avenge the +ill-treatment and death of his wife, seems to be disproved by +Maidment. The affair, however, is still obscure. This +deserted Lady Anne of the ballad was, in fact, not the wife of +Bothwelhaugh, but the daughter of the Bishop of Orkney; her lover +is said to have been her cousin, Alexander Erskine, son of the +Earl of Mar. Part of the poem (Mr. Child points out) occurs +in Broome’s play, <i>The Northern Lass</i> (1632). +Though a popular favourite, the piece is clearly of literary +origin, and has been severely “edited” by a literary +hand. This version is Allan Ramsay’s.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Jock o’ The Side</span>.—p. +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page101">101</a></span></h3> +<p>A Liddesdale chant. Jock flourished about +1550–1570, and is commemorated as a receiver by Sir Richard +Maitland in a poem often quoted. The analogies of this +ballad with that of “Kinmont Willie” are very +close. The reference to a punch-bowl sounds modern, and the +tale is much less plausible than that of “Kinmont +Willie,” which, however, bears a few obvious marks of Sir +Walter’s own hand. A sceptical editor must choose +between two theories: either Scott of Satchells founded his +account of the affair of “Kinmont Willie” on a +pre-existing ballad of that name, or the ballad printed by Scott +is based on the prose narrative of Scott of Satchells. The +former hypothesis, everything considered, is the more +probable.</p> +<h3><a name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +242</span><span class="smcap">Lord Thomas and Fair +Annet</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page107">107</a></span></h3> +<p>Published in Percy’s <i>Reliques</i>, from a Scotch +manuscript, “with some corrections.” The +situation, with various differences in detail and conclusion, is +popular in Norse and Romaic ballads, and also in many +<i>Märchen</i> of the type of <i>The Black Bull of +Norraway</i>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Fair Annie</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page111">111</a></span></h3> +<p>From <i>The Border Minstrelsy</i>. There are Danish, +Swedish, Dutch, and German versions, and the theme enters +artistic poetry as early as Marie de France (<i>Le Lai del +Freisne</i>). In Scotch the Earl of Wemyss is a recent +importation: the earldom dates from 1633. Of course this +process of attaching a legend or <i>Märchen</i> to a +well-known name, or place, is one of the most common in +mythological evolution, and by itself invalidates the theory +which would explain myths by a philological analysis of the +proper names in the tale. These may not be, and probably +are not, the original names.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Downie Dens of +Yarrow</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page116">116</a></span></h3> +<p>From <i>The Border Minstrelsy</i>. Scott thought that +the hero was Walter Scott, third son of Thirlestane, slain by +Scott of Tushielaw. The “monument” (a standing +stone near Yarrow) is really of a very early, rather Post-Roman +date, and refers to no feud of Thirlestane, Oakwood, Kirkhope, or +Tushielaw. The stone is not far from Yarrow Krik, near a +place called Warrior’s Rest. Hamilton of +Bangour’s version is beautiful and well known. Quite +recently a very early interment of a corpse, in the curved +position, was discovered not far from the standing stone with the +inscription. Ballad, stone, and interment may all be +distinct and separate.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Sir Roland</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page119">119</a></span></h3> +<p>From Motherwell’s <i>Minstrelsy</i>. The +authenticity of the ballad is dubious, but, if a forgery, it is a +very <a name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +243</span>skilled one for the early nineteenth century. +Poets like Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Rossetti, and Mrs. Marriot Watson +have imitated the genuine popular ballad, but never so closely as +the author of “Sir Roland.”</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Rose the Red and White +Lily</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page123">123</a></span></h3> +<p>From the Jamieson-Brown MS., originally written out by Mrs. +Brown in 1783: Sir Waiter made changes in <i>The Border +Minstrelsy</i>. The ballad is clearly a composite +affair. Robert Chambers regarded Mrs. Brown as the Mrs. +Harris of ballad lore, but Mr. Norval Clyne’s reply was +absolutely crushing and satisfactory.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Battle of Harlaw</span>.—p. +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page131">131</a></span></h3> +<p>Fought on July 24, 1411. This fight broke the Highland +force in Scotland. The first version is, of course, +literary, perhaps a composition of 1550, or even earlier. +The second version is traditional, and was procured by Aytoun +from Lady John Scott, herself the author of some beautiful +songs. But the best ballad on the Red Harlaw is that placed +by Scott in the mouth of Elspeth, in <i>The Antiquary</i>. +This, indeed, is beyond all rivalry the most splendid modern +imitation of the ancient popular Muse.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Dickie Macphalion</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page142">142</a></span></h3> +<p>A great favourite of Scott’s, who heard it sung at Miss +Edgeworth’s, during his tour in Ireland (1825). One +verse recurs in a Jacobite chant, probably of 1745–1760, +but the bibliography of Jacobite songs is especially obscure.</p> +<h3>A <span class="smcap">Lyke-Wake Dirge</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page143">143</a></span></h3> +<p>From the <i>Border Minstrelsy</i>. The ideas are mainly +pre-Christian; the Brig o’ Dread occurs in Islamite and +Iroquois belief, and in almost all mythologies the souls have to +cross a River. Music for this dirge is given in Mr. Harold +Boulton’s and Miss Macleod’s <i>Songs of the +North</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +244</span><span class="smcap">The Laird of +Waristoun</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page145">145</a></span></h3> +<p>This version was taken down by Sir Walter Scott from his +mother’s recitation, for Jamieson’s book of +ballads. Jamieson later quarrelled bitterly with Sir +Walter, as letters at Abbotsford prove. A variant is given +by Kinloch, and a longer, less poetical, but more historically +accurate version is given by Buchan. The House of Waristoun +is, or lately was, a melancholy place hanging above a narrow +lake, in the northern suburbs of Edinburgh, near the Water of +Leith. Kincaid was the name of the Laird; according to +Chambers, the more famous lairds of Covenanting times were +Johnstons. Kincaid is said to have treated his wife +cruelly, wherefore she, or her nurse, engaged one Robert Weir, an +old servant of her father (Livingstone of Dunipace), to strangle +the unhappy man in his own bedroom (July 2, 1600). The lady +was beheaded, the nurse was burned, and, later, Weir was also +executed. The line</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“I wish that ye +may sink for sin”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>occurs in an earlier ballad on Edinburgh Castle—</p> +<blockquote><p>“And that all for the black dinner<br /> +Earl Douglas got therein.”</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><span class="smcap">May Colven</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page147">147</a></span></h3> +<p>From Herd’s MS. Versions occur in Polish, German, +Magyar, Portuguese, Scandinavian, and in French. The ballad +is here localised on the Carrick coast, near Girvan. The +lady is called a Kennedy of Culzean. Prof. Bugge regards +this widely diffused ballad as based on the Apocryphal legend of +Judith and Holofernes. If so, the legend is <i>diablement +changé en route</i>. More probably the origin is a +<i>Märchen</i> of a kind of <i>Rakshasa</i> fatal to +women. Mr. Child has collected a vast mass of erudition on +the subject, and by no means acquiesces in Prof. Bugge’s +ingenious hypothesis.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Johnie Faa</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page150">150</a></span></h3> +<p>From Pinkerton’s Scottish Ballads. The event +narrated is a legend of the house of Cassilis (Kennedy), <a +name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 245</span>but is +wholly unhistorical. “Sir John Faa,” in the +fable, is aided by Gypsies, but, apparently, is not one of the +Earls of Egypt, on whom Mr. Crockett’s novel, <i>The +Raiders</i>, may be consulted. The ballad was first +printed, as far as is known, in Ramsay’s <i>Tea Table +Miscellany</i>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Hobbie Noble</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page152">152</a></span></h3> +<p>The hero recurs in <i>Jock o’ the Side</i>, and Jock +o’ the Mains is an historical character, that is, finds +mention in authentic records, as Scott points out. The +Armstrongs were deported in great numbers, as “an ill +colony,” to Ulster, by James I. Sir Herbert +Maxwell’s <i>History of Dumfries and Galloway</i> may be +consulted for these and similar reivers.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Twa Sisters</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page157">157</a></span></h3> +<p>A version of “Binnorie.” The ballad here +ends abruptly; doubtless the fiddler made fiddle-strings of the +lady’s hair, and a fiddle of her breast-bone, while the +instrument probably revealed the cruelty of the sister. +Other extant versions are composite or interpolated, so this +fragment (Sharpe’s) has been preferred in this place.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Mary Ambree</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page160">160</a></span></h3> +<p>Taken by Percy from a piece in the Pepys Collection. The +girl warrior is a favourite figure in popular romance. +Often she slays a treacherous lover, as in <i>Billy +Taylor</i>. Nothing is known of Mary Ambree as an +historical personage; she may be as legendary as fair maiden +Lilias, of Liliarid’s Edge, who “fought upon her +stumps.” In that case the local name is demonstrably +earlier than the mythical Lilias, who fought with such +tenacity.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Alison Gross</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page165">165</a></span></h3> +<p>Jamieson gave this ballad from a manuscript, altering the +spelling in conformity with Scots orthography. Mr. Child +prints the manuscript; here Jamieson’s more <a +name="page246"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 246</span>familiar +spelling is retained. The idea of the romance occurs in a +Romaic <i>Märchen</i>, but, in place of the Queen of Faery, +a more beautiful girl than the sorceress (Nereid in Romaic), +restores the youth to his true shape. Mr. Child regarded +the tale as “one of the numerous wild growths” from +<i>Beauty and the Beast</i>. It would be more correct to +say that <i>Beauty and the Beast</i> is a late, courtly, French +adaptation and amplification of the original popular “wild +growth” which first appears (in literary form) as <i>Cupid +and Psyche</i>, in Apuleius. Except for the metamorphosis, +however, there is little analogy in this case. The friendly +act of the Fairy Queen is without parallel in British Folklore, +but Mr. Child points out that the Nereid Queen, in Greece, is +still as kind as Thetis of old, not a sepulchral siren, the +shadow of the pagan “Fairy Queen Proserpina,” as +Campion calls her.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Heir of Lynne</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page167">167</a></span></h3> +<p>From Percy’s Folio Manuscript. There is a cognate +Greek epigram—</p> +<blockquote><p>Χρυσὸν +ἀνὴρ εὗρων +ἔλιπε +βρόχον +αὐτὰρ ὁ +χρυσόν<br /> +Ὅν λίπεν, +οὐχ εὑρών, +ἥφεν τον +εὗρε +βρόχον.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><span class="smcap">Gordon of Brackley</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page172">172</a></span></h3> +<p>This, though probably not the most authentic, is decidedly the +most pleasing version; it is from Mackay’s collection, +perhaps from his pen.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Edward</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page175">175</a></span></h3> +<p>Percy got this piece from Lord Hailes, with pseudo-antiquated +spelling. Mr. Swinburne has published a parallel ballad +“From the Finnish.” There are a number of +parallel ballads on Cruel Brothers, and Cruel Sisters, such as +<i>Son Davie</i>, which may be compared. Fratricides and +unconscious incests were motives dear to popular poetry.</p> +<h3><a name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +247</span><span class="smcap">Young Benjie</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page177">177</a></span></h3> +<p>From the <i>Border Minstrelsy</i>. That corpses +<i>might</i> begin to “thraw,” if carelessly watched, +was a prevalent superstition. Scott gives an example: the +following may be added, as less well known. The watchers +had left the corpse alone, and were dining in the adjoining room, +when a terrible noise was heard in the chamber of death. +None dared enter; the minister was sent for, and passed into the +room. He emerged, asked for a pair of tongs, and returned, +bearing in the tongs <i>a bloody glove</i>, and the noise +ceased. He always declined to say what he had +witnessed. Ministers were exorcists in the last century, +and the father of James Thomson, the poet, died suddenly in an +interview with a guest, in a haunted house. The house was +pulled down, as being uninhabitable.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Auld Maitland</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page180">180</a></span></h3> +<p>From <i>The Border Minstrelsy</i>. This ballad is +inserted, not for its merit, still less for its authenticity, but +for the problem of its puzzling history. Scott certainly +got it from the mother of the Ettrick Shepherd, in 1801. +The Shepherd’s father had been a grown-up man in 1745, and +his mother was also of a great age, and unlikely to be able to +learn a new-forged ballad by heart. The Shepherd himself +(then a most unsophisticated person) said, in a letter of June +30, 1801, that he was “surprized to hear this song is +suspected by some to be a modern forgery; the contrary will be +best proved by most of the old people, here about, having a great +part of it by heart.” The two last lines of verse +seven were, confessedly, added by Hogg, to fill a +<i>lacuna</i>. They are especially modern in style. +Now thus to fill up sham <i>lacunæ</i> in sham ballads of +his own, with lines manifestly modern, was a favourite trick of +Surtees of Mainsforth. He used the device in +“Barthram’s Dirge,” which entirely took in Sir +Walter, and was guilty of many other <i>supercheries</i>, +especially of the “Fray of Suport Mill.” Could +the unlettered Shepherd, fond of hoaxes as he was, have invented +this stratagem, sixteen years before he joined the +<i>Blackwood</i> set? And is it conceivable that his old +mother, entering into the joke, would <a name="page248"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 248</span>commit her son’s fraudulent +verses to memory, and recite them to Sir Walter as genuine +tradition? She said to Scott, that the ballad “never +was printed i’ the world, for my brothers and me learned it +and many mae frae auld Andrew Moore, and he learned it frae auld +Baby Mettlin” (Maitland?) “wha was housekeeper to the +first laird o’ Tushilaw.” (On Ettrick, near +Thirlestane. She doubtless meant the first of the Andersons +of Tushielaw, who succeeded the old lairds, the Scotts.) +“She was said to hae been another or a guid ane, and there +are many queer stories about hersel’, but O, she had been a +grand singer o’ auld songs an’ ballads.” +(Hogg’s <i>Domestic Manners of Sir Walter Scott</i>, p. 61, +1834.)</p> +<p>“Maitland upon auld beird gray” is mentioned by +Gawain Douglas, in his <i>Palice of Honour</i>, which the +Shepherd can hardly have read, and Scott identified this Maitland +with the ancestor of Lethington; his date was +1250–1296. On the whole, even the astute Shepherd, in +his early days of authorship, could hardly have laid a plot so +insidious, and the question of the authenticity and origin of the +ballad (obvious interpolations apart) remains a mystery. +Who could have forged it? It is, as an exercise in +imitation, far beyond <i>Hardyknute</i>, and at least on a level +with <i>Sir Roland</i>. The possibility of such forgeries +is now very slight indeed, but vitiates early collections.</p> +<p>If we suspect Leyden, who alone had the necessary knowledge of +antiquities, we are still met by the improbability of old Mrs. +Hogg being engaged in the hoax. Moreover, Leyden was +probably too keen an antiquary to take part in one of the +deceptions which Ritson wished to punish so severely. Mr. +Child expresses his strong and natural suspicions of the +authenticity of the ballad, and Hogg is, certainly, a dubious +source. He took in Jeffrey with the song of “Donald +Macgillavray,” and instantly boasted of his triumph. +He could not have kept his secret, after the death of +Scott. These considerations must not be neglected, however +suspicious “Auld, Maitland” may appear.</p> +<h3><a name="page249"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +249</span><span class="smcap">The Broomfield +Hill</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page189">189</a></span></h3> +<p>From Buchan’s <i>Ballads of the North of +Scotland</i>. There are Elizabethan references to the poem, +and a twelfth century romance turns on the main idea of sleep +magically induced. The lover therein is more fortunate than +the hero of the ballad, and, finally, overcomes the spell. +The idea recurs in the Norse poetry.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Willie’s Ladye</span>.—p. +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page193">193</a></span></h3> +<p>Scott took this ballad from Mrs. Brown’s celebrated +Manuscript. The kind of spell indicated was practised by +Hera upon Alcmena, before the birth of Heracles. Analogous +is the spell by binding witch-knots, practised by Simaetha on her +lover, in the second Idyll of Theocritus. Montaigne has +some curious remarks on these enchantments, explaining their +power by what is now called “suggestion.” There +is a Danish parallel to “Willie’s Ladye,” +translated by Jamieson.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Robin Hood Ballads</span>.—p. <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page196">196</a></span></h3> +<p>There is plentiful “learning” about Robin Hood, +but no real knowledge. He is first mentioned in literature, +as the subject of “rhymes,” in <i>Piers Plowman</i> +(<i>circ.</i> 1377). As a topic of ballads he must be much +older than that date. In 1439 his name was a synonym for a +bandit. Wyntoun, the Scots chronicler, dates the outlaw in +the time of Edward I. Major, the Scots philosopher and +master of John Knox, makes a guess (taken up by Scott in +<i>Ivanhoe</i>) as the period of Richard I. Kuhn seeks to +show that Hood is a survival of Woden, or of his <i>Wooden</i>, +“wooden horse” or hobby horse. The Robin Hood +play was parallel with the May games, which, as Mr. Frazer shows +in his <i>Golden Bough</i>, were really survivals of a world-wide +religious practice. But Robin Hood need not be confused +with the legendary May King. Mr. Child judiciously rejects +these mythological conjectures, based, as they are, on +far-fetched etymologies and analogies. Robin is an +idealized bandit, reiver, or Klepht, as in modern Romaic ballads, +and his adventures are precisely such as popular fancy everywhere +<a name="page250"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 250</span>attaches +to such popular heroes. An historical Robin there may have +been, but <i>premit nox alta</i>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Robin Hood and the Monk</span>.—p. +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page196">196</a></span></h3> +<p>This copy follows in Mr. Child’s early edition, +“from the second edition of Ritson’s <i>Robin +Hood</i>, as collated by Sir Frederic Madden.” It is +conjectured to be “possibly as old as the reign of Edward +II.” That the murder of a monk should be pardoned in +the facile way described is manifestly improbable. Even in +the lawless Galloway of 1508, McGhie of Phumpton was fined six +merks for “throwing William Schankis, monk, from his +horse.” (History of Dumfries and Galloway, by Sir +Herbert Maxwell, p. 155.)</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Robin Hood and the +Potter</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page209">209</a></span></h3> +<p>Published by Ritson, from a Cambridge MS., probably of the +reign of Henry VII.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Robin Hood and the +Butcher</span>.—p. <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page221">221</a></span></h3> +<p>Published by Ritson, from a Black Letter copy in the +collection of Anthony Wood, the Oxford antiquary.</p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnote0a"></a><a href="#citation0a" +class="footnote">[0a]</a> See Pitcairn, Case of Alison +Pearson, 1586.</p> +<p><a name="footnote0b"></a><a href="#citation0b" +class="footnote">[0b]</a> Translated in <i>Ballads and +Lyrics of Old France</i>.—A. L.</p> +<p><a name="footnote87"></a><a href="#citation87" +class="footnote">[87]</a> “Kinnen,” +rabbits.</p> +<p><a name="footnote88a"></a><a href="#citation88a" +class="footnote">[88a]</a> “Nicher,” neigh.</p> +<p><a name="footnote88b"></a><a href="#citation88b" +class="footnote">[88b]</a> “Gilt,” gold.</p> +<p><a name="footnote88c"></a><a href="#citation88c" +class="footnote">[88c]</a> “Dow,” are able +to.</p> +<p><a name="footnote88d"></a><a href="#citation88d" +class="footnote">[88d]</a> “Ganging,” +going.</p> +<p><a name="footnote90a"></a><a href="#citation90a" +class="footnote">[90a]</a> “Targats”, +tassels.</p> +<p><a name="footnote90b"></a><a href="#citation90b" +class="footnote">[90b]</a> “Blink sae brawly,” +glance so bravely.</p> +<p><a name="footnote90c"></a><a href="#citation90c" +class="footnote">[90c]</a> “Fechting,” +fighting.</p> +<p><a name="footnote91"></a><a href="#citation91" +class="footnote">[91]</a> “Kirsty,” +Christopher.</p> +<p><a name="footnote92"></a><a href="#citation92" +class="footnote">[92]</a> “Hald,” hold.</p> +<p><a name="footnote94"></a><a href="#citation94" +class="footnote">[94]</a> “Reek,” smoke.</p> +<p><a name="footnote95"></a><a href="#citation95" +class="footnote">[95]</a> “Freits,” omens.</p> +<p><a name="footnote96a"></a><a href="#citation96a" +class="footnote">[96a]</a> “Wighty,” +valiant.</p> +<p><a name="footnote96b"></a><a href="#citation96b" +class="footnote">[96b]</a> “Wroken,” +revenged.</p> +<p><a name="footnote97"></a><a href="#citation97" +class="footnote">[97]</a> “Mudie,” bold.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A COLLECTION OF BALLADS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1054-h.htm or 1054-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/5/1054 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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