The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Collection of Ballads, by Andrew Lang (#6 in our series by Andrew Lang) Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written permission. Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: A Collection of Ballads Author: Andrew Lang Release Date: September, 1997 [EBook #1054] [This file was first posted on August 1, 1997] [Most recently updated: June 25, 2003] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: US-ASCII
Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
Contents:
Sir Patrick Spens
Battle Of Otterbourne
Tam Lin
Thomas
The Rhymer
“Sir Hugh; Or The Jew’s Daughter”
Son
Davie! Son Davie!
The Wife Of Usher’s Well
The
Twa Corbies
The Bonnie Earl Moray
Clerk Saunders
Waly,
Waly
Love Gregor; Or, The Lass Of Lochroyan
The Queen’s
Marie
Kinmont Willie
Jamie Telfer
The Douglas Tragedy
The
Bonny Hind
Young Bicham
The Loving Ballad Of Lord Bateman
The
Bonnie House O’ Airly
Rob Roy
The Battle Of Killie-Crankie
Annan
Water
The Elphin Nourrice
Cospatrick
Johnnie Armstrang
Edom
O’ Gordon
Lady Anne Bothwell’s Lament
Jock O The
Side
Lord Thomas And Fair Annet
Fair Annie
The Dowie
Dens Of Yarrow
Sir Roland
Rose The Red And White Lily
The
Battle Of Harlaw—Evergreen Version
Traditionary Version
Dickie
Macphalion
A Lyke-Wake Dirge
The Laird Of Waristoun
May
Colven
Johnie Faa
Hobbie Noble
The Twa Sisters
Mary
Ambree
Alison Gross
The Heir Of Lynne
Gordon Of Brackley
Edward,
Edward
Young Benjie
Auld Maitland
The Broomfield Hill
Willie’s
Ladye
Robin Hood And The Monk
Robin Hood And The Potter
Robin
Hood And The Butcher
When 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 Märchen, 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—
“I have slain a man to my wounding,
And a young man to
my hurt.”
Instances perpetually occur in the Sagas: Grettir, Egil, Skarphedin, are always singing. In Kidnapped, 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 Danae 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.
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 either case, this class of men developed more regular and ample measures. They evolved the hexameter; the laisse of the Chansons de Geste; 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 mediaeval 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 mediaeval minstrels and jongleurs (who may best be studied in Léon Gautier’s Introduction to his Epopées Françaises) 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.
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 some literary mediaeval romances. But these plots and situations, in Epic and Romance, are themselves the final literary form of märchen, myths and inventions originally popular, 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 genres 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.
Perrault, in 1697, borrowed these from tradition and gave them literary and courtly shape. But Cendrillon or Chaperon Rouge 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.
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 Märchen 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.
In the romantic class, we may take Tamlane. 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, I may add, has precedent in ancient Egypt (in The Two Brothers), and in modern Senegambia. The fairy tax, tithe, or teind, paid to Hell, is illustrated by old trials for witchcraft, in Scotland. {1} Now, in literary forms and romance, as in Ogier le Danois, 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.
Thus, in Tamlane, the whole donnée 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 ballad apparently owes nothing to literary romance.
In Mary Hamilton we have a notable instance of the Historical Ballad. No Marie of Mary Stuart’s suffered death for child murder.
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 (Child, 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.
To this we may reply (1) that we have no example of such a throwing back of a contemporary event, in ballads. (2) There is a version (Child, 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 Sir Patrick Spens has so many widely different variants as Mary Hamilton. 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 Rob Roy and Killiecrankie, in this collection, also the ballads of Loudoun Hill, The Battle of Philiphaugh, and others much earlier than 1719. New styles of popular poetry on contemporary events as Sherriffmuir and Tranent Brae had arisen. (5) The extreme historic inaccuracy of Mary Hamilton 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, to tally with the narrative in Knox’s History.
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 Hardyknute show that literary poets of 1719 had not knowledge or skill enough to mimic the antique manner with any success.
We may, therefore, even in face of Professor Child, regard Mary Hamilton as an old example of popular perversion of history in ballad, not as “one of the very latest,” and also “one of the very best” of Scottish popular ballads.
Rob Roy 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.
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.
No ballad has a stranger history than The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman, 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 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. {2}
Now Lord Bateman is Young Bekie in the Scotch ballads, who becomes Young Beichan, Young Bichem, 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 his Saracen bride sought him in London. (Robert of Gloucester’s Life and Martyrdom of Thomas Becket, Percy Society. See Child’s Introduction, IV., i. 1861, and Motherwell’s Minstrelsy, 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 Cantefable, alternate prose and verse, like Aucassin and Nicolette. Thus the cockney rhyme descends from the twelfth century.
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.
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.
So far the Editor had written, when news came of Professor Child’s regretted 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 Märchen 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.
(Border Minstrelsy.)
The king sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine
o:
“O whare will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this
new ship of mine o?”
O up and spake an eldern-knight,
Sat at the king’s right
knee:
“Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever
saild the sea.”
Our king has written a braid letter,
And seald it with his hand,
And
sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.
“To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway oer the faem;
The
king’s daughter of Noroway,
’Tis thou maun bring her
hame.”
The first word that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud, loud laughed
he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded
his ee.
“O wha is this has done this deed,
And tauld the king
o me,
To send us out, at this time of the year,
To sail upon
the sea?”
“Be it wind, be it weet, be it hall, be it sleet,
Our
ship must sail the faem;
The king’s daughter of Noroway,
’Tis
we must fetch her hame.”
They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,
Wi’ a’
the speed they may;
They hae landed in Noroway,
Upon a Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week
In Noroway but twae,
When
that the lords o Noroway
Began aloud to say:
“Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our king’s goud,
And
a’ our queenis fee.”
“Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars
loud!
Fu’ loud I hear ye lie!
“For I brought as much white monie
As gane my men and
me,
And I brought a half-fou’ o’ gude red goud,
Out
o’er the sea wi’ me.
“Make ready, make ready, my merry-men a’!
Our gude
ship sails the morn.”
“Now ever alake, my master dear,
I
fear a deadly storm!
I saw the new moon, late yestreen,
Wi’ the auld moon in
her arm;
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we’ll
come to harm.”
They hadna sail’d a league, a league,
A league but barely
three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And
gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak, and the top-masts lap,
It was sic a deadly
storm;
And the waves cam o’er the broken ship,
Till
a’ her sides were torn.
“O where will I get a gude sailor,
To take my helm in
hand,
Till I get up to the tall top-mast;
To see if I can
spy land?”
“O here am I, a sailor gude,
To take the helm in hand,
Till
you go up to the tall top-mast
But I fear you’ll ne’er
spy land.”
He hadna gane a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
When
a bout flew out of our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.
“Gae, fetch a web o’ the silken claith,
Another
o’ the twine,
And wap them into our ship’s side,
And
let na the sea come in.”
They fetchd a web o the silken claith,
Another o the twine,
And
they wapped them roun that gude ship’s side
But still the
sea came in.
O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords
To weet their cork-heel’d
shoon!
But lang or a the play was play’d
They wat their
hats aboon,
And mony was the feather-bed
That fluttered on the faem,
And
mony was the gude lord’s son
That never mair cam hame.
The ladyes wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their
hair,
A’ for the sake of their true loves,
For them
they’ll see na mair.
O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,
Wi’ their fans into their
hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the
strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
Wi’ their goud kaims
in their hair,
A’ waiting for their ain dear loves!
For
them they’ll see na mair.
O forty miles off Aberdeen,
’Tis fifty fathoms deep,
And
there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi’ the Scots lords at
his feet.
(Child, vol. vi.)
It fell about the Lammas tide,
When the muir-men win their hay,
The
doughty Douglas bound him to ride
Into England, to drive a prey.
He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,
With them the Lindesays,
light and gay;
But the Jardines wald nor with him ride,
And
they rue it to this day.
And he has burn’d the dales of Tyne,
And part of Bambrough
shire:
And three good towers on Reidswire fells,
He left them
all on fire.
And he march’d up to Newcastle,
And rode it round about:
“O
wha’s the lord of this castle?
Or wha’s the lady o’t
?”
But up spake proud Lord Percy then,
And O but he spake hie!
“I
am the lord of this castle,
My wife’s the lady gaye.”
“If thou’rt the lord of this castle,
Sae weel it
pleases me!
For, ere I cross the Border fells,
The tane of
us sall die.”
He took a lang spear in his hand,
Shod with the metal free,
And
for to meet the Douglas there,
He rode right furiouslie.
But O how pale his lady look’d,
Frae aff the castle wa’,
When
down, before the Scottish spear,
She saw proud Percy fa’.
“Had we twa been upon the green,
And never an eye to see,
I
wad hae had you, flesh and fell;
But your sword sall gae wi’
mee.”
“But gae ye up to Otterbourne,
And wait there dayis three;
And,
if I come not ere three dayis end,
A fause knight ca’ ye
me.”
“The Otterbourne’s a bonnie burn;
’Tis pleasant
there to be;
But there is nought at Otterbourne,
To feed my
men and me.
“The deer rins wild on hill and dale,
The birds fly wild
from tree to tree;
But there is neither bread nor kale,
To
feed my men and me.
“Yet I will stay it Otterbourne,
Where you shall welcome
be;
And, if ye come not at three dayis end,
A fause lord I’ll
ca’ thee.”
“Thither will I come,” proud Percy said,
“By
the might of Our Ladye!”—
“There will I bide
thee,” said the Douglas,
“My troth I plight to thee.”
They lighted high on Otterbourne,
Upon the bent sae brown;
They
lighted high on Otterbourne,
And threw their pallions down.
And he that had a bonnie boy,
Sent out his horse to grass,
And
he that had not a bonnie boy,
His ain servant he was.
But up then spake a little page,
Before the peep of dawn:
“O
waken ye, waken ye, my good lord,
For Percy’s hard at hand.”
“Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud!
Sae loud I hear ye lie;
For
Percy had not men yestreen,
To dight my men and me.
“But I have dream’d a dreary dream,
Beyond the Isle
of Sky;
I saw a dead man win a fight,
And I think that man
was I.”
He belted on his guid braid sword,
And to the field he ran;
But
he forgot the helmet good,
That should have kept his brain.
When Percy wi the Douglas met,
I wat he was fu fain!
They
swakked their swords, till sair they swat,
And the blood ran down
like rain.
But Percy with his good broad sword,
That could so sharply wound,
Has
wounded Douglas on the brow,
Till he fell to the ground.
Then he calld on his little foot-page,
And said—“Run
speedilie,
And fetch my ain dear sister’s son,
Sir Hugh
Montgomery.
“My nephew good,” the Douglas said,
“What
recks the death of ane!
Last night I dreamd a dreary dream,
And
I ken the day’s thy ain.
“My wound is deep; I fain would sleep;
Take thou the vanguard
of the three,
And hide me by the braken bush,
That grows on
yonder lilye lee.
“O bury me by the braken-bush,
Beneath the blooming brier;
Let
never living mortal ken
That ere a kindly Scot lies here.”
He lifted up that noble lord,
Wi the saut tear in his e’e;
He
hid him in the braken bush,
That his merrie men might not see.
The moon was clear, the day drew near,
The spears in flinders
flew,
But mony a gallant Englishman
Ere day the Scotsmen slew.
The Gordons good, in English blood,
They steepd their hose and
shoon;
The Lindesays flew like fire about,
Till all the fray
was done.
The Percy and Montgomery met,
That either of other were fain;
They
swapped swords, and they twa swat,
And aye the blood ran down between.
“Yield thee, now yield thee, Percy,” he said,
“Or
else I vow I’ll lay thee low!”
“To whom must
I yield,” quoth Earl Percy,
“Now that I see it must
be so ?”
“Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun,
Nor yet shalt
thou yield to me;
But yield thee to the braken-bush,
That
grows upon yon lilye lee!”
“I will not yield to a braken-bush,
Nor yet will I yield
to a brier;
But I would yield to Earl Douglas,
Or Sir Hugh
the Montgomery, if he were here.”
As soon as he knew it was Montgomery,
He stuck his sword’s
point in the gronde;
The Montgomery was a courteous knight,
And
quickly took him by the honde.
This deed was done at Otterbourne,
About the breaking of the
day;
Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush,
And the Percy
led captive away.
(Child, Part II., p. 340, Burns’s Version.)
O I forbid you, maidens a’,
That wear gowd on your hair,
To
come or gae by Carterhaugh,
For young Tam Lin is there.
There’s nane that gaes by Carterhaugh
But they leave him
a wad,
Either their rings, or green mantles,
Or else their
maidenhead.
Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And
she has braided her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And
she’s awa’ to Carterhaugh,
As fast as she can hie.
When she came to Carterhaugh
Tam Lin was at the well,
And
there she fand his steed standing,
But away was himsel.
She had na pu’d a double rose,
A rose but only twa,
Till
up then started young Tam Lin,
Says, “Lady, thou’s
pu nae mae.
“Why pu’s thou the rose, Janet,
And why breaks thou
the wand?
Or why comes thou to Carterhaugh
Withoutten my command?”
“Carterhaugh, it is my ain,
My daddie gave it me;
I’ll
come and gang by Carterhaugh,
And ask nae leave at thee.”
* * * * *
Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And
she has snooded her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And
she is to her father’s ha,
As fast as she can hie.
Four and twenty ladies fair
Were playing at the ba,
And
out then cam the fair Janet,
Ance the flower amang them a’.
Four and twenty ladies fair
Were playing at the chess,
And
out then cam the fair Janet,
As green as onie grass.
Out then spak an auld grey knight,
Lay oer the castle wa,
And
says, “Alas, fair Janet, for thee
But we’ll be blamed
a’.”
“Haud your tongue, ye auld-fac’d knight,
Some ill
death may ye die!
Father my bairn on whom I will,
I’ll
father nane on thee.”
Out then spak her father dear,
And he spak meek and mild;
“And
ever alas, sweet Janet,” he says.
“I think thou gaes
wi child.”
“If that I gae wi’ child, father,
Mysel maun bear
the blame;
There’s neer a laird about your ha
Shall
get the bairn’s name.
“If my love were an earthly knight,
As he’s an elfin
grey,
I wad na gie my ain true-love
For nae lord that ye hae.
“The steed that my true-love rides on
Is lighter than
the wind;
Wi siller he is shod before
Wi burning gowd behind.”
Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And
she has snooded her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And
she’s awa’ to Carterhaugh,
As fast as she can hie.
When she cam to Carterhaugh,
Tam Lin was at the well,
And
there she fand his steed standing,
But away was himsel.
She had na pu’d a double rose,
A rose but only twa,
Till
up then started young Tam Lin,
Says, “Lady, thou pu’s
nae mae.
“Why pu’s thou the rose, Janet,
Amang the groves
sae green,
And a’ to kill the bonie babe
That we gat
us between?”
“O tell me, tell me, Tam Lin,” she says,
“For’s
sake that died on tree,
If eer ye was in holy chapel,
Or christendom
did see?”
“Roxbrugh he was my grandfather,
Took me with him to bide,
And
ance it fell upon a day
That wae did me betide.
“And ance it fell upon a day,
A cauld day and a snell,
When
we were frae the hunting come,
That frae my horse I fell;
The
Queen o Fairies she caught me,
In yon green hill to dwell.
“And pleasant is the fairy land,
But, an eerie tale to
tell,
Ay at the end of seven years
We pay a tiend to hell;
I
am sae fair and fu’ o flesh
I’m feared it be mysel.
“But the night is Halloween, lady,
The morn is Hallowday;
Then
win me, win me, an ye will,
For weel I wat ye may.
“Just at the mirk and midnight hour
The fairy folk will
ride,
And they that wad their true love win,
At Miles Cross
they maun bide.”
“But how shall I thee ken, Tam Lin,
Or how my true-love
know,
Amang sae mony unco knights
The like I never saw?”
“O first let pass the black, lady,
And syne let pass the
brown,
But quickly run to the milk-white steed,
Pu ye his
rider down.
“For I’ll ride on the milk-white steed,
And ay nearest
the town;
Because I was an earthly knight
They gie me that
renown.
“My right hand will be gloyd, lady,
My left hand will
be bare,
Cockt up shall my bonnet be,
And kaimd down shall
my hair;
And thae’s the takens I gie thee,
Nae doubt
I will be there.
“They’ll turn me in your arms, lady,
Into an esk
and adder;
But hold me fast, and fear me not,
I am your bairn’s
father.
“They’ll turn me to a bear sae grim,
And then a
lion bold;
But hold me fast, and fear me not,
As ye shall
love your child.
“Again they’ll turn me in your arms
To a red het
gaud of airn;
But hold me fast, and fear me not,
I’ll
do to you nae harm.
“And last they’ll turn me in your arms
Into the
burning gleed;
Then throw me into well water,
O throw me in
wi speed.
“And then I’ll be your ain true-love,
I’ll
turn a naked knight;
Then cover me wi your green mantle,
And
cover me out o sight.”
Gloomy, gloomy was the night,
And eerie was the way,
As
fair Jenny in her green mantle
To Miles Cross she did gae.
About the middle o’ the night
She heard the bridles ring;
This
lady was as glad at that
As any earthly thing.
First she let the black pass by,
And syne she let the brown;
But
quickly she ran to the milk-white steed,
And pu’d the rider
down,
Sae weel she minded whae he did say,
And young Tam Lin did win;
Syne
coverd him wi her green mantle,
As blythe’s a bird in spring.
Out then spak the Queen o Fairies,
Out of a bush o broom:
“Them
that has gotten young Tam Lin
Has gotten a stately groom.”
Out then spak the Queen o Fairies,
And an angry woman was she;
“Shame
betide her ill-far’d face,
And an ill death may she die,
For
she’s taen awa the bonniest knight
In a’ my companie.
“But had I kend, Tam Lin,” she says,
“What
now this night I see,
I wad hae taen out thy twa grey e’en,
And
put in twa een o tree.”
(Child, Part II., p. 317.)
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi’
his ee;
And there he saw a lady bright,
Come riding down by
the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o the velvet
fyne,
At ilka tett of her horse’s mane
Hang fifty siller
bells and nine.
True Thomas he pulld aff his cap,
And louted low down to his
knee:
“All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!
For thy
peer on earth I never did see.”
“O no, O no, Thomas,” she said,
“That name
does not belang to me;
I am but the queen of fair Elfland,
That
am hither come to visit thee.
“Harp and carp, Thomas,” she said,
“Harp and
carp, along wi’ me,
And if ye dare to kiss my lips,
Sure
of your bodie I will be!”
“Betide me weal, betide me woe,
That weird sall never
daunton me;
Syne he has kissed her rosy lips,
All underneath
the Eildon Tree.
“Now, ye maun go wi me,” she said,
“True Thomas,
ye maun go wi me,
And ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro weal
or woe as may chance to be.”
She mounted on her milk-white steed,
She’s taen True Thomas
up behind,
And aye wheneer her bride rung,
The steed flew
swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on—
The steed gaed swifter
than the wind—
Until they reached a desart wide,
And
living land was left behind.
“Light down, light down, now, True Thomas,
And lean your
head upon my knee;
Abide and rest a little space,
And I will
shew you ferlies three.
“O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset with thorns
and briers?
That is the path of righteousness,
Tho after it
but few enquires.
“And see ye not that braid braid road,
That lies across
that lily leven?
That is the path of wickedness,
Tho some
call it the road to heaven.
“And see not ye that bonny road,
That winds about the
fernie brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland,
Where thou
and I this night maun gae.
“But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,
Whatever ye may
hear or see,
For, if you speak word in Elflyn land,
Ye’ll
neer get back to your ain countrie.”
O they rade on, and farther on,
And they waded thro rivers aboon
the knee,
And they saw neither sun nor moon,
But they heard
the roaring of the sea.
It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern light,
And they
waded thro red blude to the knee;
For a’ the blude that’s
shed an earth
Rins thro the springs o that countrie.
Syne they came on to a garden green,
And she pu’d an apple
frae a tree:
“Take this for thy wages, True Thomas,
It
will give the tongue that can never lie.”
“My tongue is mine ain,” True Thomas said,
“A
gudely gift ye wad gie me!
I neither dought to buy nor sell,
At
fair or tryst where I may be.
“I dought neither speak to prince or peer,
Nor ask of
grace from fair ladye:”
“Now hold thy peace,”
the lady said,
“For as I say, so must it be.”
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,
And a pair of shoes
of velvet green,
And till seven years were gane and past
True
Thomas on earth was never seen.
(Child, vol. v.)
Four-and-twenty bonny boys
Were playing at the ba,
And
by it came him sweet Sir Hugh,
And he playd o’er them a’.
He kickd the ba with his right foot
And catchd it wi his knee,
And
throuch-and-thro the Jew’s window
He gard the bonny ba flee.
He’s doen him to the Jew’s castell
And walkd it
round about;
And there he saw the Jew’s daughter,
At
the window looking out.
“Throw down the ba, ye Jew’s daughter,
Throw down
the ba to me!”
“Never a bit,” says the Jew’s
daughter,
“Till up to me come ye.”
“How will I come up? How can I come up?
How can
I come to thee?
For as ye did to my auld father,
The same
ye’ll do to me.”
She’s gane till her father’s garden,
And pu’d
an apple red and green;
’Twas a’ to wyle him sweet
Sir Hugh,
And to entice him in.
She’s led him in through ae dark door,
And sae has she
thro nine;
She’s laid him on a dressing-table,
And stickit
him like a swine.
And first came out the thick, thick blood,
And syne came out
the thin;
And syne came out the bonny heart’s blood;
There
was nae mair within.
She’s rowd him in a cake o lead,
Bade him lie still and
sleep;
She’s thrown him in Our Lady’s draw-well,
Was
fifty fathom deep.
When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And a’ the bairns
came hame,
When every lady gat hame her son,
The Lady Maisry
gat nane.
She’s taen her mantle her about,
Her coffer by the hand,
And
she’s gane out to seek her son,
And wandered o’er the
land.
She’s doen her to the Jew’s castell,
Where a’
were fast asleep:
“Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,
I
pray you to me speak.”
“Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,
Prepare my winding-sheet,
And
at the back o merry Lincoln
The morn I will you meet.”
Now Lady Maisry is gane hame,
Make him a winding-sheet,
And
at the back o merry Lincoln,
The dead corpse did her meet.
And a the bells o merry Lincoln
Without men’s hands were
rung,
And a’ the books o merry Lincoln
Were read without
man’s tongue,
And neer was such a burial
Sin Adam’s
days begun.
(Mackay.)
“What bluid’s that on thy coat lap?
Son Davie!
Son Davie!
What bluid’s that on thy coat lap?
And the
truth come tell to me, O.”
“It is the bluid of my great hawk,
Mother lady, Mother
lady!
It is the bluid of my great hawk,
And the truth I hae
tald to thee, O.”
“Hawk’s bluid was ne’er sae red,
Son Davie!
Son Davie!
Hawk’s bluid was ne’er sae red,
And
the truth come tell to me, O.”
“It is the bluid of my grey hound,
Mother lady!
Mother lady!
It is the bluid of my grey hound,
And it wudna
rin for me, O.”
“Hound’s bluid was ne’er sae red,
Son Davie!
Son Davie!
Hound’s bluid was ne’er sae red,
And
the truth come tell to me, O.”
“It is the bluid o’ my brother John,
Mother lady!
Mother lady!
It is the bluid o’ my brother John,
And
the truth I hae tald to thee, O.”
“What about did the plea begin?
Son Davie! Son Davie!”
“It
began about the cutting o’ a willow wand,
That would never
hae been a tree, O.”
“What death dost thou desire to die?
Son Davie!
Son Davie!
What death dost thou desire to die?
And the truth
come tell to me, O.”
“I’ll set my foot in a bottomless ship,
Mother lady!
mother lady!
I’ll set my foot in a bottomless ship,
And
ye’ll never see mair o’ me, O.”
“What wilt thou leave to thy poor wife?
Son Davie!
Son Davie!”
“Grief and sorrow all her life,
And
she’ll never get mair frae me, O.”
“What wilt thou leave to thy young son?
Son Davie! son
Davie!”
“The weary warld to wander up and down,
And
he’ll never get mair o’ me, O.”
“What wilt thou leave to thy mother dear?
Son Davie!
Son Davie!”
“A fire o’ coals to burn her wi’
hearty cheer,
And she’ll never get mair o’ me, O.”
(Child, vol. iii.)
There lived a wife at Usher’s Well,
And a wealthy wife
was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them
oer the sea,
They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely ane,
When
word came to the carline wife
That her three sons were gane.
They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
Whan
word came to the carlin wife
That her sons she’d never see.
“I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor fashes in the flood,
Till
my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood!”
It fell about the Martinmass,
Whan nights are lang and mirk,
The
carline wife’s three sons came hame,
And their hats were
o the birk.
It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
Nor yet in ony sheugh;
But
at the gates o Paradise
That birk grew fair eneugh.
* * * * *
“Blow up the fire, my maidens!
Bring water from the well;
For
a’ my house shall feast this night,
Since my three sons are
well.”
And she has made to them a bed,
She’s made it large and
wide;
And she’s taen her mantle her about,
Sat down
at the bedside.
* * * * *
Up then crew the red, red cock,
And up and crew the gray;
The
eldest to the youngest said,
“’Tis time we were away.”
The cock he hadna crawd but once,
And clapp’d his wings
at a’,
Whan the youngest to the eldest said,
“Brother,
we must awa.
“The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
The channerin worm
doth chide;
Gin we be mist out o our place,
A sair pain we
maun bide.
“Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
Fareweel to barn and byre!
And
fare ye weel, the bonny lass
That kindles my mother’s fire!”
(Child, vol. i.)
As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The
tane unto the t’other say,
“Where sall we gang and
dine the day?”
“In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain
knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk,
his hound, and his lady fair.
“His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the
wild-fowl hame,
His lady’s ta’en another mate,
So
we may make our dinner sweet.
“Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I’ll
pike out his bonny blue een;
Wi ae lock o his gowden hair
We’ll
theek our nest when it grows bare.
“Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whae
he is gane,
Oer his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind
sall blaw for evermair.”
(Child, vol. vi.)
A.
Ye Highlands, and ye Lawlands
Oh where have you been?
They
have slain the Earl of Murray,
And they layd him on the green.
“Now wae be to thee, Huntly!
And wherefore did you sae?
I
bade you bring him wi you,
But forbade you him to slay.”
He was a braw gallant,
And he rid at the ring;
And the
bonny Earl of Murray,
Oh he might have been a King!
He was a braw gallant,
And he playd at the ba;
And the
bonny Earl of Murray,
Was the flower amang them a’.
He was a braw gallant,
And he playd at the glove;
And the
bonny Earl of Murray,
Oh he was the Queen’s love!
Oh lang will his lady
Look oer the castle Down,
Eer she
see the Earl of Murray
Come sounding thro the town!
Eer she,
etc.
B.
“Open the gates
and let him come in;
He is my brother
Huntly,
he’ll do him nae harm.”
The gates they were opent,
they let him come in,
But fause
traitor Huntly,
he did him great harm.
He’s ben and ben,
and ben to his bed,
And with a
sharp rapier
he stabbed him dead.
The lady came down the stair,
wringing her hands:
“He
has slain the Earl o Murray,
the flower o Scotland.”
But Huntly lap on his horse,
rade to the King:
“Ye’re
welcome hame, Huntly,
and whare hae ye been?
“Where hae ye been?
and how hae ye sped?”
“I’ve
killed the Earl o Murray
dead in his bed.”
“Foul fa you, Huntly!
and why did ye so?
You might
have taen the Earl o Murray,
and saved his life too.”
“Her bread it’s to bake,
her yill is to brew;
My
sister’s a widow,
and sair do I rue.
“Her corn grows ripe,
her meadows grow green,
But
in bonnie Dinnibristle
I darena be seen.”
(Child, vol. iii.)
Clerk Saunders and may Margaret
Walked ower yon garden green;
And
sad and heavy was the love
That fell thir twa between.
“A bed, a bed,” Clerk Saunders said,
“A bed
for you and me!”
“Fye na, fye na,” said may Margaret,
“’Till
anes we married be.
“For in may come my seven bauld brothers,
Wi’ torches
burning bright;
They’ll say,—‘We hae but ae sister,
And
behold she’s wi a knight!’”
“Then take the sword frae my scabbard,
And slowly lift
the pin;
And you may swear, and save your aith.
Ye never let
Clerk Saunders in.
“And take a napkin in your hand,
And tie up baith your
bonny e’en,
And you may swear, and save your aith,
Ye
saw me na since late yestreen.”
It was about the midnight hour,
When they asleep were laid,
When
in and came her seven brothers,
Wi’ torches burning red.
When in and came her seven brothers,
Wi’ torches burning
bright:
They said, “We hae but ae sister,
And behold
her lying with a knight!”
Then out and spake the first o’ them,
“I bear the
sword shall gar him die!”
And out and spake the second o’
them,
“His father has nae mair than he!”
And out and spake the third o’ them,
“I wot that
they are lovers dear!”
And out and spake the fourth o’
them,
“They hae been in love this mony a year!”
Then out and spake the fifth o’ them,
“It were great
sin true love to twain!”
And out and spake the sixth o’
them,
“It were shame to slay a sleeping man!”
Then up and gat the seventh o’ them,
And never a word
spake he;
But he has striped his bright brown brand
Out through
Clerk Saunders’ fair bodye.
Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turned
Into his
arms as asleep she lay;
And sad and silent was the night
That
was atween thir twae.
And they lay still and sleeped sound
Until the day began to
daw;
And kindly to him she did say,
“It is time, true
love, you were awa’.”
But he lay still, and sleeped sound,
Albeit the sun began to
sheen;
She looked atween her and the wa’,
And dull and
drowsie were his e’en.
Then in and came her father dear;
Said,—“Let a’
your mourning be:
I’ll carry the dead corpse to the clay,
And
I’ll come back and comfort thee.”
“Comfort weel your seven sons;
For comforted will I never
be:
I ween ’twas neither knave nor loon
Was in the bower
last night wi’ me.”
The clinking bell gaed through the town,
To carry the dead corse
to the clay;
And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret’s window,
I
wot, an hour before the day.
“Are ye sleeping, Margaret?” he says,
“Or
are ye waking presentlie?
Give me my faith and troth again,
I
wot, true love, I gied to thee.”
“Your faith and troth ye sall never get,
Nor our true
love sall never twin,
Until ye come within my bower,
And kiss
me cheik and chin.”
“My mouth it is full cold, Margaret,
It has the smell,
now, of the ground;
And if I kiss thy comely mouth,
Thy days
of life will not be lang.
“O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight,
I wot the wild
fowls are boding day;
Give me my faith and troth again,
And
let me fare me on my way.”
“Thy faith and troth thou sall na get,
And our true love
sall never twin,
Until ye tell what comes of women,
I wot,
who die in strong traivelling?
“Their beds are made in the heavens high,
Down at the
foot of our good lord’s knee,
Weel set about wi’ gillyflowers;
I
wot, sweet company for to see.
“O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight,
I wot the wild
fowl are boding day;
The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,
And
I, ere now, will be missed away.”
Then she has ta’en a crystal wand,
And she has stroken
her troth thereon;
She has given it him out at the shot-window,
Wi’
mony a sad sigh, and heavy groan.
“I thank ye, Marg’ret, I thank ye, Marg’ret;
And
aye I thank ye heartilie;
Gin ever the dead come for the quick,
Be
sure, Mag’ret, I’ll come for thee.”
It’s hosen and shoon, and gown alone,
She climb’d
the wall, and followed him,
Until she came to the green forest,
And
there she lost the sight o’ him.
“Is there ony room at your head, Saunders?
Is there ony
room at your feet?
Is there ony room at your side, Saunders,
Where
fain, fain I wad sleep?”
“There’s nae room at my head, Marg’ret,
There’s
nae room at my feet;
My bed it is full lowly now,
Amang the
hungry worms I sleep.
“Cauld mould is my covering now,
But and my winding-sheet;
The
dew it falls nae sooner down
Than my resting-place is weet.
“But plait a wand o’ bonnie birk,
And lay it on
my breast;
And shed a tear upon my grave,
And wish my saul
gude rest.
“And fair Marg’ret, and rare Marg’ret,
And
Marg’ret, o’ veritie,
Gin ere ye love another man,
Ne’er
love him as ye did me.”
Then up and crew the milk-white cock,
And up and crew the gray;
Her
lover vanish’d in the air,
And she gaed weeping away.
(Mackay.)
O waly, waly, up the bank,
O waly, waly, down the brae.
And
waly, waly, yon burn side,
Where I and my love wont to gae.
I
leaned my back unto an aik,
An’ thocht it was a trustie tree,
But
first it bow’d and syne it brak,
Sae my true love did lichtly
me.
O waly, waly, but love is bonnie
A little time while it is new,
But
when it’s auld it waxes cauld,
And fades away like morning
dew.
O wherefore should I busk my head,
O wherefore should
I kame my hair,
For my true love has me forsook,
And says
he’ll never love me mair.
Now Arthur’s Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne’er
be pressed by me,
St. Anton’s well shall be my drink,
Since
my true love has forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And
shake the green leaves off the tree!
O gentle Death, when wilt
thou come?
For of my life I am wearie!
’Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw’s
inclemencie,
’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But
my love’s heart’s grown cauld to me.
When we came in
by Glasgow toun
We were a comely sicht to see;
My love was
clad in the black velvet,
And I mysel in cramasie.
But had I wist before I kist
That love had been sae ill to win,
I’d
locked my heart in a case of gold,
And pinned it wi’ a siller
pin.
Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the
nurse’s knee;
And I myself were dead and gane,
And the
green grass growing over me!
(Child, Part III., p. 220.)
“O wha will shoe my fu’ fair foot?
And wha will
glove my hand?
And wha will lace my middle jimp,
Wi’
the new-made London band?
“And wha will kaim my yellow hair,
Wi’ the new made
silver kaim?
And wha will father my young son,
Till Love Gregor
come hame?”
“Your father will shoe your fu’ fair foot,
Your
mother will glove your hand;
Your sister will lace your middle
jimp
Wi’ the new-made London band.
“Your brother will kaim your yellow hair,
Wi’ the
new made silver kaim;
And the king of heaven will father your bairn,
Till
Love Gregor come haim.”
“But I will get a bonny boat,
And I will sail the sea,
For
I maun gang to Love Gregor,
Since he canno come hame to me.”
O she has gotten a bonny boat,
And sailld the sa’t sea
fame;
She langd to see her ain true-love,
Since he could no
come hame.
“O row your boat, my mariners,
And bring me to the land,
For
yonder I see my love’s castle,
Close by the sa’t sea
strand.”
She has ta’en her young son in her arms,
And to the door
she’s gone,
And lang she’s knocked and sair she ca’d,
But
answer got she none.
“O open the door, Love Gregor,” she says,
“O
open, and let me in;
For the wind blaws thro’ my yellow hair,
And
the rain draps o’er my chin.”
“Awa, awa, ye ill woman,
You’r nae come here for
good;
You’r but some witch, or wile warlock,
Or mer-maid
of the flood.”
“I am neither a witch nor a wile warlock,
Nor mer-maid
of the sea,
I am Fair Annie of Rough Royal;
O open the door
to me.”
“Gin ye be Annie of Rough Royal—
And I trust ye
are not she—
Now tell me some of the love-tokens
That
past between you and me.”
“O dinna you mind now, Love Gregor,
When we sat at the
wine,
How we changed the rings frae our fingers?
And I can
show thee thine.
“O yours was good, and good enough,
But ay the best was
mine;
For yours was o’ the good red goud,
But mine o’
the diamonds fine.
“But open the door now, Love Gregor,
O open the door I
pray,
For your young son that is in my arms
Will be dead ere
it be day.”
“Awa, awa, ye ill woman,
For here ye shanno win in;
Gae
drown ye in the raging sea,
Or hang on the gallows-pin.”
When the cock had crawn, and day did dawn,
And the sun began
to peep,
Then up he rose him, Love Gregor,
And sair, sair
did he weep.
“O I dreamd a dream, my mother dear,
The thoughts o’
it gars me greet,
That Fair Annie of Rough Royal
Lay cauld
dead at my feet.”
“Gin it be for Annie of Rough Royal
That ye make a’
this din,
She stood a’ last night at this door,
But
I trow she wan no in.”
“O wae betide ye, ill woman,
An ill dead may ye die!
That
ye woudno open the door to her,
Nor yet woud waken me.”
O he has gone down to yon shore-side,
As fast as he could fare;
He
saw Fair Annie in her boat,
But the wind it tossd her sair.
And “Hey, Annie!” and “How, Annie!
O Annie,
winna ye bide?”
But ay the mair that he cried “Annie,”
The
braider grew the tide.
And “Hey, Annie!” and “How, Annie!
Dear Annie,
speak to me!”
But ay the louder he cried “Annie,”
The
louder roard the sea.
The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough,
And dashd the boat on
shore;
Fair Annie floats on the raging sea,
But her young
son rose no more.
Love Gregor tare his yellow hair,
And made a heavy moan;
Fair
Annie’s corpse lay at his feet,
But his bonny young son was
gone.
O cherry, cherry was her cheek,
And gowden was her hair,
But
clay cold were her rosey lips,
Nae spark of life was there,
And first he’s kissd her cherry cheek,
And neist he’s
kissed her chin;
And saftly pressd her rosey lips,
But there
was nae breath within.
“O wae betide my cruel mother,
And an ill dead may she
die!
For she turnd my true-love frae my door,
When she came
sae far to me.”
(Child, vi., Border Minstrelsy.)
Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane,
Wi ribbons in her hair;
The
king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,
Than ony that were there.
Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane,
Wi ribbons on her breast;
The
king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,
Than he listend to the priest.
Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane,
Wi gloves upon her
hands;
The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,
Than the queen
and a’ her lands.
She hadna been about the king’s court
A month, but barely
one,
Till she was beloved by a’ the king’s court,
And
the king the only man.
She hadna been about the king’s court
A month, but barely
three,
Till frae the king’s court Marie Hamilton,
Marie
Hamilton durst na be.
The king is to the Abbey gane,
To pu the Abbey tree,
To
scale the babe frae Marie’s heart;
But the thing it wadna
be.
O she has rowd it in her apron,
And set it on the sea:
“Gae
sink ye, or swim ye, bonny babe,
Ye’s get na mair o me.”
Word is to the kitchen gane,
And word is to the ha,
And
word is to the noble room,
Amang the ladyes a’,
That
Marie Hamilton’s brought to bed,
And the bonny babe’s
mist and awa.
Scarcely had she lain down again,
And scarcely faen asleep,
When
up then started our gude queen,
Just at her bed-feet,
Saying
“Marie Hamilton, where’s your babe?
For I am sure I
heard it greet.”
“O no, O no, my noble queen!
Think no such thing to be!
’Twas
but a stitch into my side,
And sair it troubles me.”
“Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton,
Get up, and follow me,
For
I am going to Edinburgh town,
A rich wedding for to see.”
O slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly put she on;
And
slowly rode she out the way,
Wi mony a weary groan.
The queen was clad in scarlet,
Her merry maids all in green;
And
every town that they cam to,
They took Marie for the queen.
“Ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen,
Ride hooly now wi’
me!
For never, I am sure, a wearier burd
Rade in your cumpanie.”
But little wist Marie Hamilton,
When she rade on the brown,
That
she was ga’en to Edinburgh town,
And a’ to be put down.
“Why weep ye so, ye burgess-wives,
Why look ye so on me?
O,
I am going to Edinburgh town,
A rich wedding for to see!”
When she gaed up the Tolbooth stairs,
The corks frae her heels
did flee;
And lang or eer she cam down again,
She was condemned
to die.
When she cam to the Netherbow Port,
She laughed loud laughters
three;
But when she cam to the gallows-foot,
The tears blinded
her ee.
“Yestreen the queen had four Maries,
The night she’ll
hae but three;
There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaten,
And
Marie Carmichael, and me.
“O, often have I dressd my queen,
And put gold upon her
hair;
But now I’ve gotten for my reward
The gallows
to be my share.
“Often have I dressd my queen,
And often made her bed:
But
now I’ve gotten for my reward
The gallows-tree to tread.
“I charge ye all, ye mariners,
When ye sail ower the faem,
Let
neither my father nor mother get wit,
But that I’m coming
hame.
“I charge ye all, ye mariners,
That sail upon the sea,
Let
neither my father nor mother get wit,
This dog’s death I’m
to die.
“For if my father and mother got wit,
And my bold brethren
three,
O mickle wad be the gude red blude,
This day wad be
spilt for me!
“O little did my mother ken,
The day she cradled me,
The
lands I was to travel in,
Or the death I was to die!”
(Child, vol. vi.)
O have ye na heard o the fause Sakelde?
O have ye na heard o
the keen Lord Scroop?
How they hae taen bauld Kinmont Willie,
On
Hairibee to hang him up?
Had Willie had but twenty men,
But twenty men as stout as be,
Fause
Sakelde had never the Kinmont taen
Wi eight score in his companie.
They band his legs beneath the steed,
They tied his hands behind
his back;
They guarded him, fivesome on each side,
And they
brought him ower the Liddel-rack.
They led him thro the Liddel-rack.
And also thro the Carlisle
sands;
They brought him to Carlisle castell.
To be at my Lord
Scroope’s commands.
“My hands are tied; but my tongue is free,
And whae will
dare this deed avow?
Or answer by the border law?
Or answer
to the bauld Buccleuch?”
“Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver!
There’s
never a Scot shall set ye free:
Before ye cross my castle-yate,
I
trow ye shall take farewell o me.”
“Fear na ye that, my lord,” quo Willie:
“By
the faith o my body, Lord Scroope,” he said,
“I never
yet lodged in a hostelrie—
But I paid my lawing before I
gaed.”
Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper,
In Branksome Ha where
that he lay,
That Lord Scroope has taen the Kinmont Willie,
Between
the hours of night and day.
He has taen the table wi his hand,
He garrd the red wine spring
on hie;
“Now Christ’s curse on my head,” he said,
“But
avenged of Lord Scroope I’ll be!
“O is my basnet a widow’s curch?
Or my lance a wand
of the willow-tree?
Or my arm a lady’s lilye hand,
That
an English lord should lightly me?
“And have they taen him, Kinmont Willie,
Against the truce
of Border tide?
And forgotten that the bauld Bacleuch
Is keeper
here on the Scottish side?
“And have they een taen him, Kinmont Willie,
Withouten
either dread or fear,
And forgotten that the bauld Bacleuch
Can
back a steed, or shake a spear?
“O were there war between the lands,
As well I wot that
there is none,
I would slight Carlisle castell high,
Tho it
were builded of marble stone.
“I would set that castell in a low,
And sloken it with
English blood;
There’s nevir a man in Cumberland
Should
ken where Carlisle castell stood.
“But since nae war’s between the lands,
And there
is peace, and peace should be;
I’ll neither harm English
lad or lass,
And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!”
He has calld him forty marchmen bauld,
I trow they were of his
ain name,
Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, calld
The Laird of Stobs,
I mean the same.
He has calld him forty marchmen bauld,
Were kinsmen to the bauld
Buccleuch,
With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,
And gleuves
of green, and feathers blue.
There were five and five before them a’,
Wi hunting-horns
and bugles bright;
And five and five came wi Buccleuch,
Like
Warden’s men, arrayed for fight.
And five and five, like a mason-gang,
That carried the ladders
lang and hie;
And five and five, like broken men;
And so they
reached the Woodhouselee.
And as we crossd the Bateable Land,
When to the English side
we held,
The first o men that we met wi,
Whae sould it be
but fause Sakelde!
“Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?”
Quo fause Sakelde;
“come tell to me!”
“We go to hunt an English
stag,
Has trespassed on the Scots countrie.”
“Where be ye gaun, ye marshal-men?”
Quo fause Sakelde;
“come tell me true!”
“We go to catch a rank reiver,
Has
broken faith wi the bauld Buccleuch.”
“Where are ye gaun, ye mason-lads,
Wi a’ your ladders
lang and hie?”
“We gang to herry a corbie’s nest,
That
wons not far frae Woodhouselee.”
“Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?”
Quo fause Sakelde;
“come tell to me?”
Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,
And
the nevir a word o lear had he.
“Why trespass ye on the English side?
Row-footed outlaws,
stand!” quo he;
The neer a word had Dickie to say,
Sae
he thrust the lance thro his fause bodie.
Then on we held for Carlisle toun,
And at Staneshaw-bank the
Eden we crossd;
The water was great and meikle of spait,
But
the nevir a horse nor man we lost.
And when we reachd the Staneshaw-bank,
The wind was rising loud
and hie;
And there the laird garrd leave our steeds,
For fear
that they should stamp and nie.
And when we left the Staneshaw-bank,
The wind began full loud
to blaw;
But ’twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet,
When
we came beneath the castell-wa.
We crept on knees, and held our breath,
Till we placed the ladders
against the wa;
And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell
To mount
she first, before us a’.
He has taen the watchman by the throat,
He flung him down upon
the lead:
“Had there not been peace between our lands,
Upon
the other side thou hadst gaed.
“Now sound out, trumpets!” quo Buccleuch;
“Let’s
waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!”
Then loud the warden’s
trumpet blew
“O whae dare meddle wi me?”
Then speedilie to wark we gaed,
And raised the slogan ane and
a’,
And cut a hole through a sheet of lead,
And so we
wan to the castel-ha.
They thought King James and a’ his men
Had won the house
wi bow and speir;
It was but twenty Scots and ten
That put
a thousand in sic a stear!
Wi coulters, and wi fore-hammers,
We garrd the bars bang merrilie,
Until
we came to the inner prison,
Where Willie o Kinmont he did lie.
And when we came to the lower prison,
Where Willie o Kinmont
he did lie,
“O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,
Upon
the morn that thou’s to die?”
“O I sleep saft, and I wake aft,
It’s lang since
sleeping was fley’d frae me;
Gie my service back to my wyfe
and bairns
And a’ gude fellows that speer for me.”
Then Red Rowan has hente him up,
The starkest man in Teviotdale:
“Abide,
abide now, Red Rowan,
Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.
“Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope!
My gude Lord
Scroope, farewell!” he cried;
“I’ll pay you for
my lodging-maill,
When first we meet on the border-side.”
Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,
We bore him down the
ladder lang;
At every stride Red Rowan made,
I wot the Kinmont’s
airms playd clang!
“O mony a time,” quo Kinmont Willie.
“I have
ridden horse baith wild and wood;
But a rougher beast than Red
Rowan,
I ween my legs have neer bestrode.
“And mony a time,” quo Kinmont Willie,
“I’ve
pricked a horse out oure the furs;
But since the day I backed a
steed
I nevir wore sic cumbrous spurs!”
We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,
When a’ the Carlisle
bells were rung,
And a thousand men, in horse and foot,
Cam
wi the keen Lord Scroope along.
Buccleuch has turned to Eden Water,
Even where it flowd frae
bank to brim,
And he has plunged in wi a’ his band,
And
safely swam them thro the stream.
He turned him on the other side,
And at Lord Scroope his glove
flung he:
“If ye like na my visit in merry England,
In
fair Scotland come visit me!”
All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,
He stood as still as
rock of stane;
He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,
When thro
the water they had gane.
“He is either himsell a devil frae hell,
Or else his mother
a witch maun be;
I wad na have ridden that wan water
For a’
the gowd in Christentie.”
(Child, vol. vi. Early Edition.)
It fell about the Martinmas tyde,
When our Border steeds get
corn and hay
The captain of Bewcastle hath bound him to ryde,
And
he’s ower to Tividale to drive a prey.
The first ae guide that they met wi’,
It was high up Hardhaughswire;
The
second guide that we met wi’,
It was laigh down in Borthwick
water.
“What tidings, what tidings, my trusty guide?”
“Nae
tidings, nae tidings, I hae to thee;
But, gin ye’ll gae to
the fair Dodhead,
Mony a cow’s cauf I’ll let thee see.”
And whan they cam to the fair Dodhead,
Right hastily they clam
the peel;
They loosed the kye out, ane and a’,
And ranshackled
the house right weel.
Now Jamie Telfer’s heart was sair,
The tear aye rowing
in his e’e;
He pled wi’ the captain to hae his gear,
Or
else revenged he wad be.
The captain turned him round and leugh;
Said—“Man,
there’s naething in thy house,
But ae auld sword without
a sheath,
That hardly now wad fell a mouse!”
The sun was na up, but the moon was down,
It was the gryming
o’ a new fa’n snaw,
Jamie Telfer has run three myles
a-foot,
Between the Dodhead and the Stobs’s Ha’
And whan he cam to the fair tower yate,
He shouted loud, and
cried weel hie,
Till out bespak auld Gibby Elliot—
“Wha’s
this that brings the fraye to me?”
“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead,
And
a harried man I think I be!
There’s naething left at the
fair Dodhead,
But a waefu’ wife and bairnies three.
“Gae seek your succour at Branksome Ha’.
For succour
ye’se get nane frae me!
Gae seek your succour where ye paid
black-mail,
For, man! ye ne’er paid money to me.”
Jamie has turned him round about,
I wat the tear blinded his
e’e—
“I’ll ne’er pay mail to Elliot
again,
And the fair Dodhead I’ll never see!
“My hounds may a’ rin masterless,
My hawks may fly
frae tree to tree;
My lord may grip my vassal lands,
For there
again maun I never be.”
He has turned him to the Tiviot side,
E’en as fast as
he could drie,
Till he came to the Coultart Cleugh
And there
he shouted baith loud and hie.
Then up bespak him auld Jock Grieve—
“Wha’s
this that brings the fray to me?”
“It’s I, Jamie
Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead,
A harried man I trow I be.
“There’s naething left in the fair Dodhead,
But
a greeting wife and bairnies three,
And sax poor câ’s
stand in the sta’,
A’ routing loud for their minnie.”
“Alack a wae!” quo’ auld Jock Grieve,
“Alack!
my heart is sair for thee!
For I was married on the elder sister,
And
you on the youngest of a’ the three.”
Then he has ta’en out a bonny black,
Was right weel fed
wi’ corn and hay,
And he’s set Jamie Telfer on his
back,
To the Catslockhill to tak’ the fray.
And whan he cam to the Catslockhill,
He shouted loud and weel
cried he,
Till out and spak him William’s Wat—
“O
wha’s this brings the fraye to me?”
“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead,
A
harried man I think I be!
The captain of Bewcastle has driven my
gear;
For God’s sake rise, and succour me!”
“Alas for wae!” quo’ William’s Wat,
“Alack,
for thee my heart is sair!
I never cam by the fair Dodhead,
That
ever I fand thy basket bare.”
He’s set his twa sons on coal-black steeds,
Himsel’
upon a freckled gray,
And they are on wi, Jamie Telfer,
To
Branksome Ha to tak the fray.
And whan they cam to Branksome Ha’,
They shouted a’
baith loud and hie,
Till up and spak him auld Buccleuch,
Said—“Wha’s
this brings the fray to me?
“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead,
And
a harried man I think I be!
There’s nought left in the fair
Dodhead,
But a greeting wife and bairnies three.”
“Alack for wae!” quoth the gude auld lord,
“And
ever my heart is wae for thee!
But fye gar cry on Willie, my son,
And
see that he come to me speedilie!
“Gar warn the water, braid and wide,
Gar warn it soon
and hastily!
They that winna ride for Telfer’s kye,
Let
them never look in the face o’ me!
“Warn Wat o’ Harden, and his sons,
Wi’ them
will Borthwick water ride;
Warn Gaudilands, and Allanhaugh,
And
Gilmanscleugh, and Commonside.
“Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire,
And warn the Currors
o’ the Lee;
As ye come down the Hermitage Slack,
Warn
doughty Willie o’ Gorrinbery.”
The Scots they rade, the Scots they ran,
Sae starkly and sae
steadilie!
And aye the ower-word o’ the thrang,
Was—“Rise
for Branksome readilie!”
The gear was driven the Frostylee up,
Frae the Frostylee unto
the plain,
Whan Willie has looked his men before,
And saw
the kye right fast driving.
“Wha drives thir kye?” ’gan Willie say,
“To
mak an outspeckle o’ me?”
“It’s I, the
captain o’ Bewcastle, Willie;
I winna layne my name for thee.”
“O will ye let Telfer’s kye gae back,
Or will ye
do aught for regard o’ me?
Or, by the faith o’ my body,”
quo’ Willie Scott,
“I se ware my dame’s cauf’s-skin
on thee!”
“I winna let the kye gae back,
Neither for thy love, nor
yet thy fear,
But I will drive Jamie Telfer’s kye,
In
spite of every Scot that’s here.”
“Set on them, lads!” quo’ Willie than,
“Fye,
lads, set on them cruellie!
For ere they win to the Ritterford,
Mony
a toom saddle there sall be!
But Willie was stricken ower the head,
And through the knapscap
the sword has gane;
And Harden grat for very rage,
Whan Willie
on the ground lay slain.
But he’s ta’en aff his gude steel-cap,
And thrice
he’s waved it in the air—
The Dinlay snaw was ne’er
mair white,
Nor the lyart locks of Harden’s hair.
“Revenge! revenge!” auld Wat ’gan cry;
“Fye,
lads, lay on them cruellie!
We’ll ne’er see Tiviotside
again,
Or Willie’s death revenged shall be.”
O mony a horse ran masterless,
The splintered lances flew on
hie;
But or they wan to the Kershope ford,
The Scots had gotten
the victory.
John o’ Brigham there was slain,
And John o’ Barlow,
as I hear say;
And thirty mae o’ the captain’s men,
Lay
bleeding on the grund that day.
The captain was run thro’ the thick of the thigh—
And
broken was his right leg bane;
If he had lived this hundred year,
He
had never been loved by woman again.
“Hae back thy kye!” the captain said;
“Dear
kye, I trow, to some they be!
For gin I suld live a hundred years,
There
will ne’er fair lady smile on me.”
Then word is gane to the captain’s bride,
Even in the
bower where that she lay,
That her lord was prisoner in enemy’s
land,
Since into Tividale he had led the way.
“I wad lourd have had a winding-sheet,
And helped to put
it ower his head,
Ere he had been disgraced by the Border Scot,
When
he ower Liddel his men did lead!”
There was a wild gallant amang us a’,
His name was Watty
wi’ the Wudspurs,
Cried—“On for his house in
Stanegirthside,
If ony man will ride with us!”
When they cam to the Stanegirthside,
They dang wi’ trees,
and burst the door;
They loosed out a’ the captain’s
kye,
And set them forth our lads before.
There was an auld wife ayont the fire,
A wee bit o’ the
captain’s kin—
“Wha daur loose out the captain’s
kye,
Or answer to him and his men?”
“It’s I, Watty Wudspurs, loose the kye,
I winna
layne my name frae thee!
And I will loose out the captain’s
kye,
In scorn of a’ his men and he.”
When they cam to the fair Dodhead,
They were a wellcum sight
to see!
For instead of his ain ten milk-kye,
Jamie Telfer
has gotten thirty and three.
And he has paid the rescue shot,
Baith wi’ goud, and white
monie;
And at the burial o’ Willie Scott,
I wot was
mony a weeping e’e.
(Child, vol. ii. Early Edition.)
“Rise up, rise up now, Lord Douglas,” she says,
“And
put on your armour so bright;
Let it never be said that a daughter
of thine
Was married to a lord under night.
“Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons,
And put on your
armour so bright,
And take better care of your youngest sister,
For
your eldest’s awa the last night.”—
He’s mounted her on a milk-white steed,
And himself on
a dapple grey,
With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
And
lightly they rode away.
Lord William lookit o’er his left shoulder,
To see what
he could see,
And there be spy’d her seven brethren bold,
Come
riding o’er the lee.
“Light down, light down, Lady Marg’ret,” he said,
“And
hold my steed in your hand,
Until that against your seven brothers
bold,
And your father I make a stand.”—
She held his steed in her milk white hand,
And never shed one
tear,
Until that she saw her seven brethren fa’,
And
her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear.
“O hold your hand, Lord William!” she said,
“For
your strokes they are wondrous sair;
True lovers I can get many
a ane,
But a father I can never get mair.”—
O she’s ta’en out her handkerchief,
It was o’
the holland sae fine,
And aye she dighted her father’s bloody
wounds,
That were redder than the wine.
“O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg’ret,” he said,
“O
whether will ye gang or bide?”
“I’ll gang, I’ll
gang, Lord William,” she said,
“For ye have left me
no other guide.”—
He’s lifted her on a milk-white steed,
And himself on
a dapple grey.
With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
And
slowly they baith rade away.
O they rade on, and on they rade,
And a’ by the light
of the moon,
Until they came to yon wan water,
And there they
lighted down.
They lighted down to tak a drink
Of the spring that ran sae
clear:
And down the stream ran his gude heart’s blood,
And
sair she ’gan to fear.
“Hold up, hold up, Lord William,” she says,
“For
I fear that you are slain!”
“’Tis naething but
the shadow of my scarlet cloak
That shines in the water sae plain.”
O they rade on, and on they rade,
And a’ by the light
of the moon,
Until they cam to his mother’s ha’ door,
And
there they lighted down.
“Get up, get up, lady mother,” he says,
“Get
up, and let me in!—
Get up, get up, lady mother,” he
says,
“For this night my fair ladye I’ve win.
“O mak my bed, lady mother,” he says,
“O mak
it braid and deep!
And lay Lady Marg’ret close at my back,
And
the sounder I will sleep.”—
Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,
Lady Marg’ret
lang ere day—
And all true lovers that go thegither,
May
they have mair luck than they!
Lord William was buried in St. Marie’s kirk,
Lady Margaret
in Marie’s quire;
Out o’ the lady’s grave grew
a bonny red rose,
And out o’ the knight’s a brier.
And they twa met, and they twa plat,
And fain they wad be near;
And
a’ the warld might ken right weel,
They were twa lovers dear.
But by and rade the Black Douglas,
And wow but he was rough!
For
he pull’d up the bonny brier,
An flang’t in St. Marie’s
Loch.
(Child, vol. ii.)
O May she comes, and may she goes,
Down by yon gardens green,
And
there she spied a gallant squire
As squire had ever been.
And may she comes, and may she goes,
Down by yon hollin tree,
And
there she spied a brisk young squire,
And a brisk young squire
was he.
“Give me your green manteel, fair maid,
Give me your maidenhead;
Gif
ye winna gie me your green manteel,
Gi me your maidenhead.”
He has taen her by the milk-white hand,
And softly laid her
down,
And when he’s lifted her up again
Given her a
silver kaim.
“Perhaps there may be bairns, kind sir,
Perhaps there
may be nane;
But if you be a courtier,
You’ll tell to
me your name.”
“I am na courtier, fair maid,
But new come frae the sea;
I
am nae courtier, fair maid,
But when I court’ith thee.
“They call me Jack when I’m abroad,
Sometimes they
call me John;
But when I’m in my father’s bower
Jock
Randal is my name.”
“Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny lad,
Sae loud’s I hear
ye lee!
For I’m Lord Randal’s yae daughter,
He
has nae mair nor me.”
“Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny may,
Sae loud’s I hear
ye lee!
For I’m Lord Randal’s yae yae son,
Just
now come oer the sea.”
She’s putten her hand down by her spare
And out she’s
taen a knife,
And she has putn’t in her heart’s bluid,
And
taen away her life.
And he’s taen up his bonny sister,
With the big tear in
his een,
And he has buried his bonny sister
Amang the hollins
green.
And syne he’s hyed him oer the dale,
His father dear to
see:
“Sing O and O for my bonny hind,
Beneath yon hollin
tree!”
“What needs you care for your bonny hyn?
For it you needna
care;
There’s aught score hyns in yonder park,
And five
score hyns to spare.
“Fourscore of them are siller-shod,
Of thae ye may get
three;”
“But O and O for my bonny hyn,
Beneath
yon hollin tree!”
“What needs you care for your bonny hyn?
For it you needna
care;
Take you the best, gi me the warst,
Since plenty is
to spare.”
“I care na for your hyns, my lord,
I care na for your
fee;
But O and O for my bonny hyn,
Beneath the hollin tree!”
“O were ye at your sister’s bower,
Your sister fair
to see,
Ye’ll think na mair o your bonny hyn
Beneath
the hollin tree.”
(Child, vol. ii.)
In London city was Bicham born,
He longd strange countries for
to see,
But he was taen by a savage Moor,
Who handld him right
cruely.
For thro his shoulder he put a bore,
An thro the bore has pitten
a tree,
And he’s gard him draw the carts o wine,
Where
horse and oxen had wont to be.
He’s casten [him] in a dungeon deep,
Where he coud neither
hear nor see;
He’s shut him up in a prison strong,
An
he’s handld him right cruely.
O this Moor he had but ae daughter,
I wot her name was Shusy
Pye;
She’s doen her to the prison-house,
And she’s
calld young Bicham one word by.
“O hae ye ony lands or rents,
Or citys in your ain country,
Coud
free you out of prison strong,
An coud maintain a lady free?”
O London city is my own,
An other citys twa or three,
Coud
loose me out o prison strong,
An could maintain a lady free.”
O she has bribed her father’s men
Wi meikle goud and white
money,
She’s gotten the key o the prison doors,
And
she has set Young Bicham free.
She’s gi’n him a loaf o good white bread,
But an
a flask o Spanish wine,
An she bad him mind on the ladie’s
love
That sae kindly freed him out o pine.
“Go set your foot on good ship-board,
An haste you back
to your ain country,
An before that seven years has an end,
Come
back again, love, and marry me.”
It was long or seven years had an end
She longd fu sair her
love to see;
She’s set her foot on good ship-board,
An
turnd her back on her ain country.
She’s saild up, so has she down,
Till she came to the
other side;
She’s landed at Young Bicham’s gates,
An
I hop this day she sal be his bride.
“Is this Young Bicham’s gates?” says she.
“Or
is that noble prince within?”
“He’s up the stair
wi his bonny bride,
An monny a lord and lady wi him.”
“O has he taen a bonny bride,
An has he clean forgotten
me?”
An sighing said that gay lady,
“I wish I
were in my ain country!”
She’s pitten her ban in her pocket,
An gin the porter
guineas three;
Says, “Take ye that, ye proud porter,
An
bid the bridegroom speak to me.”
O whan the porter came up the stair,
He’s fa’n low
down upon his knee:
“Won up, won up, ye proud porter,
And
what makes a’ this courtesy?”
“O I’ve been porter at your gates
This mair nor
seven years an three,
But there is a lady at them now
The
like of whom I never did see.
“For on every finger she has a ring,
An on the mid-finger
she has three,
An there’s as meikle goud aboon her brow
As
woud buy an earldom o lan to me.”
Then up it started Young Bicham,
An sware so loud by Our Lady,
“It
can be nane but Shusy Pye
That has come oor the sea to me.”
O quickly ran he down the stair,
O fifteen steps he has made
but three,
He’s tane his bonny love in his arms
An a
wot he kissd her tenderly.
“O hae you tane a bonny bride?
An hae you quite forsaken
me?
An hae ye quite forgotten her
That gae you life an liberty?”
She’s lookit oer her left shoulder
To hide the tears stood
in her ee;
“Now fare thee well, Young Bicham,” she
says,
“I’ll strive to think nae mair on thee.”
“Take back your daughter, madam,” he says,
“An
a double dowry I’ll gie her wi;
For I maun marry my first
true love,
That’s done and suffered so much for me.”
He’s tak his bonny love by the han,
And led her to yon
fountain stane;
He’s changed her name frae Shusy Pye,
An
he’s cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane.
(Child, vol. ii. Cockney copy.)
Lord Bateman was a noble lord,
A noble lord of high degree;
He
shipped himself all aboard of a ship,
Some foreign country for
to see.
He sailed east, he sailed west,
Until he came to famed Turkey,
Where
he was taken and put to prison,
Until his life was quite weary.
All in this prison there grew a tree,
O there it grew so stout
and strong!
Where he was chained all by the middle,
Until
his life was almost gone.
This Turk he had one only daughter,
The fairest my two eyes
eer see;
She steal the keys of her father’s prison,
And
swore Lord Bateman she would let go free.
O she took him to her father’s cellar,
And gave to him
the best of wine;
And every health she drank unto him
Was
“I wish, Lord Bateman, as you was mine.”
“O have you got houses, have you got land,
And does Northumberland
belong to thee?
And what would you give to the fair young lady
As
out of prison would let you go free?”
“O I’ve got houses and I’ve got land,
And
half Northumberland belongs to me;
And I will give it all to the
fair young lady
As out of prison would let me go free.”
“O in seven long years I’ll make a vow
For seven
long years, and keep it strong,
That if you’ll wed no other
woman,
O I will wed no other man.”
O she took him to her father’s harbor,
And gave to him
a ship of fame,
Saying, “Farewell, farewell to you, Lord
Bateman,
I fear I shall never see you again.”
Now seven long years is gone and past,
And fourteen days, well
known to me;
She packed up all her gay clothing,
And swore
Lord Bateman she would go see.
O when she arrived at Lord Bateman’s castle,
How boldly
then she rang the bell!
“Who’s there? who’s there?”
cries the proud young porter,
“O come unto me pray quickly
tell.”
“O is this here Lord Bateman’s castle,
And is his
lordship here within?”
“O yes, O yes,” cries
the proud young porter,
“He’s just now taking his young
bride in.”
“O bid him to send me a slice of bread,
And a bottle of
the very best wine,
And not forgetting the fair young lady
As
did release him when close confine.”
O away and away went this proud young porter,
O away and away
and away went he,
Until he came to Lord Bateman’s chamber,
Where
he went down on his bended knee.
“What news, what news, my proud young porter?
What news,
what news? come tell to me:”
“O there is the fairest
young lady
As ever my two eyes did see.
“She has got rings on every finger,
And on one finger
she has got three;
With as much gay gold about her middle
As
would buy half Northumberlee.
“O she bids you to send her a slice of bread,
And a bottle
of the very best wine,
And not forgetting the fair young lady
As
did release you when close confine.”
Lord Bateman then in passion flew,
And broke his sword in splinters
three,
Saying, “I will give half of my father’s land,
If
so be as Sophia has crossed the sea.”
Then up and spoke this young bride’s mother,
Who never
was heard to speak so free;
Saying, “You’ll not forget
my only daughter,
If so be Sophia has crossed the sea.”
“O it’s true I made a bride of your daughter,
But
she’s neither the better nor the worse for me;
She came to
me with a horse and saddle,
But she may go home in a coach and
three.”
Lord Bateman then prepared another marriage,
With both their
hearts so full of glee,
Saying, “I will roam no more to foreign
countries,
Now that Sophia has crossed the sea.”
(Child, vol. vii. Early Edition.)
It fell on a day, and a bonnie summer day,
When the corn grew
green and yellow,
That there fell out a great dispute
Between
Argyle and Airly.
The Duke o’ Montrose has written to Argyle
To come in
the morning early,
An’ lead in his men, by the back O’
Dunkeld,
To plunder the bonnie house o’ Airly.
The lady look’d o’er her window sae hie,
And O but
she looked weary!
And there she espied the great Argyle
Come
to plunder the bonnie house o’ Airly.
“Come down, come down, Lady Margaret,” he says,
“Come
down and kiss me fairly,
Or before the morning clear daylight,
I’ll
no leave a standing stane in Airly.”
“I wadna kiss thee, great Argyle,
I wadna kiss thee fairly,
I
wadna kiss thee, great Argyle,
Gin you shouldna leave a standing
stane Airly.”
He has ta’en her by the middle sae sma’,
Says, “Lady,
where is your drury?”
“It’s up and down by the
bonnie burn side,
Amang the planting of Airly.”
They sought it up, they sought it down,
They sought it late
and early,
And found it in the bonnie balm-tree,
That shines
on the bowling-green o’ Airly,
He has ta’en her by the left shoulder,
And O but she grat
sairly,
And led her down to yon green bank,
Till he plundered
the bonnie house o’ Airly.
“O it’s I hae seven braw sons,” she says,
“And
the youngest ne’er saw his daddie,
And altho’ I had
as mony mae,
I wad gie them a’ to Charlie.
“But gin my good lord had been at hame,
As this night
he is wi’ Charlie,
There durst na a Campbell in a’
the west
Hae plundered the bonnie house o’ Airly.
(Child, vol. vi. Early Edition.)
Rob Roy from the Highlands cam,
Unto the Lawlan’ border,
To
steal awa a gay ladie
To haud his house in order.
He cam oure
the lock o’ Lynn,
Twenty men his arms did carry;
Himsel
gaed in, an’ fand her out,
Protesting he would many.
“O will ye gae wi’ me,” he says,
“Or
will ye be my honey?
Or will ye be my wedded wife?
For I love
you best of any.”
“I winna gae wi’ you,”
she says,
“Nor will I be your honey,
Nor will I be your
wedded wife;
You love me for my money.”
* * * * *
But he set her on a coal-black steed,
Himsel lap on behind her,
An’
he’s awa to the Highland hills,
Whare her frien’s they
canna find her.
* * * * *
“Rob Roy was my father ca’d,
Macgregor was his name,
ladie;
He led a band o’ heroes bauld,
An’ I am
here the same, ladie.
Be content, be content,
Be content to
stay, ladie,
For thou art my wedded wife
Until thy dying day,
ladie.
“He was a hedge unto his frien’s,
A heckle to his
foes, ladie,
Every one that durst him wrang,
He took him by
the nose, ladie.
I’m as bold, I’m as bold,
I’m
as bold, an more, ladie;
He that daurs dispute my word,
Shall
feel my guid claymore, ladie.”
(Child, vol. vii. Early Edition.)
Clavers and his Highlandmen
Came down upo’ the raw, man,
Who
being stout, gave mony a clout;
The lads began to claw then.
With
sword and terge into their hand,
Wi which they were nae slaw, man,
Wi
mony a fearful heavy sigh,
The lads began to claw then.
O’er bush, o’er bank, o’er ditch, o’er stark,
She
flang amang them a’, man;
The butter-box got many knocks,
Their
riggings paid for a’ then.
They got their paiks, wi sudden
straiks,
Which to their grief they saw, man:
Wi clinkum, clankum
o’er their crowns,
The lads began to fa’ then.
Hur skipt about, hur leapt about,
And flang amang them a’,
man;
The English blades got broken beads,
Their crowns were
cleav’d in twa then.
The durk and door made their last hour,
And
prov’d their final fa’, man;
They thought the devil
had been there,
That play’d them sic a paw then.
The Solemn League and Covenant
Came whigging up the hills, man;
Thought
Highland trews durst not refuse
For to subscribe their bills then.
In
Willie’s name, they thought nag ane
Durst stop their course
at a’, man,
But hur-nane-sell, wi mony a knock,
Cry’d,
“Furich—Whigs awa’,” man.
Sir Evan Du, and his men true,
Came linking up the brink, man;
The
Hogan Dutch they feared such,
They bred a horrid stink then.
The
true Maclean and his fierce men
Came in amang them a’, man;
Nane
durst withstand his heavy hand.
All fled and ran awa’ then.
Oh’ on a ri, Oh’ on a ri,
Why should she
lose King Shames, man?
Oh’ rig in di, Oh’ rig in
di,
She shall break a’ her banes then;
With furichinish,
an’ stay a while,
And speak a word or twa, man,
She’s
gi’ a straike, out o’er the neck,
Before ye win awa’
then.
Oh fy for shame, ye’re three for ane,
Hur-nane-sell’s
won the day, man;
King Shames’ red-coats should be hung up,
Because
they ran awa’ then.
Had bent their brows, like Highland trows,
And
made as lang a stay, man,
They’d sav’d their king,
that sacred thing,
And Willie’d ran awa’ then.
(Child, vol. ii. Early Edition.)
“Annan water’s wading deep,
And my love Annie’s
wondrous bonny;
And I am laith she suld weet her feet,
Because
I love her best of ony.
“Gar saddle me the bonny black,—
Gar saddle sune,
and make him ready:
For I will down the Gatehope-Slack,
And
all to see my bonny ladye.”—
He has loupen on the bonny black,
He stirr’d him wi’
the spur right sairly;
But, or he wan the Gatehope-Slack,
I
think the steed was wae and weary.
He has loupen on the bonny gray,
He rade the right gate and
the ready;
I trow he would neither stint nor stay,
For he
was seeking his bonny ladye.
O he has ridden o’er field and fell,
Through muir and
moss, and mony a mire;
His spurs o’ steel were sair to bide,
And
fra her fore-feet flew the fire.
“Now, bonny grey, now play your part!
Gin ye be the steed
that wins my deary,
Wi’ corn and hay ye’se be fed for
aye,
And never spur sall make you wearie.”
The gray was a mare, and a right good mare;
But when she wan
the Annan water,
She couldna hae ridden a furlong mair,
Had
a thousand merks been wadded at her.
“O boatman, boatman, put off your boat!
Put off your boat
for gowden monie!
I cross the drumly stream the night,
Or
never mair I see my honey.”—
“O I was sworn sae late yestreen,
And not by ae aith,
but by many;
And for a’ the gowd in fair Scotland,
I
dare na take ye through to Annie.”
The side was stey, and the bottom deep,
Frae bank to brae the
water pouring;
And the bonny grey mare did sweat for fear,
For
she heard the water-kelpy roaring.
O he has pou’d aff his dapperpy coat,
The silver buttons
glancèd bonny;
The waistcoat bursted aff his breast,
He
was sae full of melancholy.
He has ta’en the ford at that stream tail;
I wot he swam
both strong and steady;
But the stream was broad, and his strength
did fail,
And he never saw his bonny ladye.
“O wae betide the frush saugh wand!
And wae betide the
bush of brier!
It brake into my true love’s hand,
When
his strength did fail, and his limbs did tire.
“And wae betide ye, Annan water,
This night that ye are
a drumlie river!
For over thee I’ll build a bridge,
That
ye never more true love may sever.”—
(C. K. Sharpe.)
I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,
An’ a cow low down
in yon glen;
Lang, lang will my young son greet,
Or his mither
bid him come ben.
I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,
An’ a cow low down
in yon fauld;
Lang, lang will my young son greet,
Or is mither
take him frae cauld.
Waken, Queen of Elfan,
An hear your Nourrice moan.
O moan
ye for your meat,
Or moan ye for your fee,
Or moan ye for
the ither bounties
That ladies are wont to gie?
I moan na for my meat,
Nor yet for my fee,
But I mourn
for Christened land—
It’s there I fain would be.
O nurse my bairn, Nourice, she says,
Till he stan’ at
your knee,
An’ ye’s win hame to Christen land,
Whar
fain it’s ye wad be.
O keep my bairn, Nourice,
Till he gang by the hauld,
An’
ye’s win hame to your young son,
Ye left in four nights auld.
(Mackay.)
Cospatrick has sent o’er the faem;
Cospatrick brought
his ladye hame;
And fourscore ships have come her wi’,
The
ladye by the green-wood tree.
There were twal’ and twal’ wi’ baken bread,
And
twal’ and twal’ wi’ gowd sae red,
And twal’
and twal’ wi’ bouted flour,
And twal’ and twal’
wi’ the paramour.
Sweet Willy was a widow’s son,
And at her stirrup he did
run;
And she was clad in the finest pall,
But aye she loot
the tears down fall.
“O is your saddle set awrye?
Or rides your steed for you
owre high?
Or are you mourning, in your tide,
That you suld
be Cospatrick’s bride?”
“I am not mourning, at this tide,
That I suld he Cospatrick’s
bride;
But I am sorrowing in my mood,
That I suld leave my
mother good.”
“But, gentle boy, come tell to me,
What is the custom
of thy countrie?”
“The custom thereof, my dame,”
he says,
“Will ill a gentle ladye please.
“Seven king’s daughters has our lord wedded,
And
seven king’s daughters has our lord bedded;
But he’s
cutted their breasts frae their breast-bane,
And sent them mourning
hame again.
“Yet, gin you’re sure that you’re a maid,
Ye
may gae safely to his bed;
But gif o’ that ye be na sure,
Then
hire some damsel o’ your bour.”
The ladye’s called her bour-maiden,
That waiting was unto
her train.
“Five thousand marks I’ll gie to thee,
To
sleep this night with my lord for me.”
When bells were rung, and mass was sayne,
And a’ men unto
bed were gane,
Cospatrick and the bonny maid,
Into ae chamber
they were laid.
“Now speak to me, blankets, and speak to me, bed,
And
speak, thou sheet, enchanted web;
And speak, my sword, that winna
lie,
Is this a true maiden that lies by me?”
“It is not a maid that you hae wedded,
But it is a maid
that you hae bedded;
It is a leal maiden that lies by thee,
But
not the maiden that it should be.”
O wrathfully he left the bed,
And wrathfully his claes on did;
And
he has ta’en him through the ha’,
And on his mother
he did ca’.
“I am the most unhappy man,
That ever was in Christen
land?
I courted a maiden, meik and mild,
And I hae gotten
naething but a woman wi’ child.”
“O stay, my son, into this ha’,
And sport ye wi’
your merry men a’;
And I will to the secret bour,
To
see how it fares wi’ your paramour.”
The carline she was stark and stare,
She aff the hinges dang
the dure.
“O is your bairn to laird or loun,
Or is it
to your father’s groom?”
“O hear me, mother, on my knee,
Till my sad story I tell
to thee:
O we were sisters, sisters seven,
We were the fairest
under heaven.
“It fell on a summer’s afternoon,
When a’
our toilsome work was done,
We coost the kevils us amang,
To
see which suld to the green-wood gang.
“Ohon! alas, for I was youngest,
And aye my weird it was
the strongest!
The kevil it on me did fa’,
Whilk was
the cause of a’ my woe.
“For to the green-wood I maun gae,
To pu’ the red
rose and the slae;
To pu’ the red rose and the thyme,
To
deck my mother’s bour and mine.
“I hadna pu’d a flower but ane,
When by there came
a gallant hinde,
Wi’ high colled hose and laigh colled shoon,
And
he seemed to be some king’s son.
“And be I maid, or be I nae,
He kept me there till the
close o’ day;
And be I maid, or be I nane,
He kept me
there till the day was done.
“He gae me a lock o’ his yellow hair,
And bade me
keep it ever mair;
He gae me a carknet o’ bonny beads,
And
bade me keep it against my needs.
“He gae to me a gay gold ring,
And bade me keep it abune
a’ thing.”
“What did ye wi’ the tokens
rare,
That ye gat frae that gallant there?”
“O bring that coffer unto me,
And a’ the tokens
ye sall see.”
“Now stay, daughter, your bour within,
While
I gae parley wi’ my son.”
O she has ta’en her thro’ the ha’,
And on
her son began to ca’:
“What did ye wi’ the bonny
beads,
I bade ye keep against your needs?
“What did you wi’ the gay gold ring,
I bade you
keep abune a’ thing?”
“I gae them to a ladye
gay,
I met in green-wood on a day.
“But I wad gie a’ my halls and tours,
I had that
ladye within my bours,
But I wad gie my very life,
I had that
ladye to my wife.”
“Now keep, my son, your ha’s and tours;
Ye have
that bright burd in your bours;
And keep, my son, your very life;
Ye
have that ladye to your wife.”
Now, or a month was come and gane,
The ladye bore a bonny son;
And
’twas written on his breast-bane,
“Cospatrick is my
father’s name.”
Some speak of lords, some speak of lairds,
And sic like men
of high degree;
Of a gentleman I sing a sang,
Some time call’d
Laird of Gilnockie.
The king he writes a loving letter,
With his ain hand sae tenderlie,
And
he hath sent it to Johnnie Armstrang,
To come and speak with him
speedilie.
The Elliots and Armstrangs did convene,
They were a gallant
companie:
“We’ll ride and meet our lawful king,
And
bring him safe to Gilnockie.
“Make kinnen {3}
and capon ready, then,
And venison in great plentie;
We’ll
welcome here our royal king;
I hope he’ll dine at Gilnockie!”
They ran their horse on the Langholm howm,
And brake their spears
with meikle main;
The ladies lookit frae their loft windows—
“God
bring our men weel hame again!”
When Johnnie came before the king,
With all his men sae brave
to see,
The king he moved his bonnet to him;
He ween’d
he was a king as well as he.
“May I find grace, my sovereign liege,
Grace for my loyal
men and me?
For my name it is Johnnie Armstrang,
And a subject
of yours, my liege,” said he.
“Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon
may’st thou be!
I granted never a traitor’s life,
And
now I’ll not begin with thee.”
“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a bonnie gift
I’ll gi’e to thee;
Full four-and-twenty milk-white
steeds,
Were all foal’d in ae year to me.
“I’ll gi’e thee all these milk-white steeds,
That
prance and nicher {4}
at a spear;
And as meikle gude Inglish gilt, {5}
As
four of their braid backs dow {6}
bear.”
“Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon
may’st thou be!
I granted never a traitor’s life,
And
now I’ll not begin with thee.”
“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a bonnie gift
I’ll gi’e to thee:
Gude four-and-twenty ganging {7}
mills,
That gang thro’ all the year to me.
“These four-and-twenty mills complete,
Shall gang for
thee thro’ all the year;
And as meikle of gude red wheat,
As
all their happers dow to bear.”
“Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon
may’st thou be!
I granted never a traitor’s life,
And
now I’ll not begin with thee.”
“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a great gift
I’ll gi’e to thee:
Bauld four-and-twenty sisters’
sons
Shall for thee fecht, tho’ all shou’d flee.”
“Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon
may’st thou be!
I granted never a traitor’s life,
And
now I’ll not begin with thee.”
“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a brave gift
I’ll gi’e to thee:
All between here and Newcastle town
Shall
pay their yearly rent to thee.”
“Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon
may’st thou be!
I granted never a traitor’s life,
And
now I’ll not begin with thee.”
“Ye lied, ye lied, now, king,” he says,
“Altho’
a king and prince ye be!
For I’ve loved naething in my life,
I
weel dare say it, but honestie.
“Save a fat horse, and a fair woman,
Twa bonnie dogs to
kill a deer;
But England shou’d have found me meal and mault,
Gif
I had lived this hundred year.
“She shou’d have found me meal and mault,
And beef
and mutton in all plentie;
But never a Scots wife cou’d have
said,
That e’er I skaith’d her a puir flee.
“To seek het water beneath cauld ice,
Surely it is a great
follie:
I have ask’d grace at a graceless face,
But
there is nane for my men and me.
“But had I kenn’d, ere I came frae hame,
How unkind
thou wou’dst been to me,
I wou’d ha’e keepit
the Border side,
In spite of all thy force and thee.
“Wist England’s king that I was ta’en,
Oh,
gin a blythe man he wou’d be!
For ance I slew his sister’s
son,
And on his breast-bane brak a tree.”
John wore a girdle about his middle,
Embroider’d o’er
with burning gold,
Bespangled with the same metal,
Maist beautiful
was to behold.
There hang nine targats {8}
at Johnnie’s hat,
An ilk ane worth three hundred pound:
“What
wants that knave that a king shou’d have,
But the sword of
honour and the crown?
“Oh, where got thee these targats, Johnnie.
That blink
sae brawly {9} aboon
thy brie?”
“I gat them in the field fechting, {10}
Where,
cruel king, thou durst not be.
“Had I my horse and harness gude,
And riding as I wont
to be,
It shou’d have been tauld this hundred year,
The
meeting of my king and me!
“God be with thee, Kirsty, {11}
my brother,
Lang live thou laird of Mangertoun!
Lang may’st
thou live on the Border side,
Ere thou see thy brother ride up
and down!
“And God he with thee, Kirsty, my son,
Where thou sits
on thy nurse’s knee!
But an thou live this hundred year,
Thy
father’s better thou’lt never be.
“Farewell, my bonnie Gilnock hall,
Where on Esk side thou
standest stout!
Gif I had lived but seven years mair,
I wou’d
ha’e gilt thee round about.”
John murder’d was at Carlinrigg,
And all his gallant companie;
But
Scotland’s heart was ne’er sae wae,
To see sae mony
brave men die;
Because they saved their country dear
Frae Englishmen!
Nane were sae bauld
While Johnnie lived on the Border side,
Nane
of them durst come near his hauld.
It fell about the Martinmas,
When the wind blew shrill and cauld,
Said
Edom o’ Gordon to his men,—
“We maun draw to
a hald. {12}
“And whatna hald shall we draw to,
My merry men and me?
We
will gae straight to Towie house,
To see that fair ladye.”
[The ladye stood on her castle wall,
Beheld baith dale and down;
There
she was ’ware of a host of men
Came riding towards the town.
“Oh, see ye not, my merry men all,
Oh, see ye not what
I see?
Methinks I see a host of men;
I marvel who they be.”
She thought it had been her own wed lord.
As he came riding
hame;
It was the traitor, Edom o’ Gordon,
Wha reck’d
nae sin nor shame.]
She had nae sooner buskit hersel’,
And putten on her gown,
Till
Edom o’ Gordon and his men
Were round about the town.
They had nae sooner supper set,
Nae sooner said the grace,
Till
Edom o’ Gordon and his men
Were round about the place.
The ladye ran to her tower head,
As fast as she cou’d
hie,
To see if, by her fair speeches,
She cou’d with
him agree.
As soon as he saw this ladye fair.
And her yetts all lockit
fast,
He fell into a rage of wrath,
And his heart was all
aghast.
“Come down to me, ye ladye gay,
Come down, come down to
me;
This night ye shall lye within my arms,
The morn my bride
shall be.”
“I winna come down, ye false Gordon,
I winna come down
to thee;
I winna forsake my ain dear lord,
That is sae far
frae me.”
“Gi’e up your house, ye ladye fair,
Gi’e up
your house to me;
Or I shall burn yoursel’ therein,
Bot
and your babies three.”
“I winna gi’e up, ye false Gordon,
To nae sic traitor
as thee;
Tho’ you shou’d burn mysel’ therein,
Bot
and my babies three.
[“But fetch to me my pistolette,
And charge to me my gun;
For,
but if I pierce that bluidy butcher,
My babes we will be undone.”
She stiffly stood on her castle wall,
And let the bullets flee;
She
miss’d that bluidy butcher’s heart,
Tho’ she
slew other three.]
“Set fire to the house!” quo’ the false Gordon,
“Since
better may nae be;
And I will burn hersel’ therein,
Bot
and her babies three.”
“Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man,
I paid ye weel
your fee;
Why pull ye out the grund-wa’-stance,
Lets
in the reek {13}
to me?
“And e’en wae worth ye, Jock, my man,
I paid ye
weel your hire;
Why pull ye out my grund-wa’-stane,
To
me lets in the fire?”
“Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye,
Ye paid me weel my fee;
But
now I’m Edom o’ Gordon’s man,
Maun either do
or dee.”
Oh, then out spake her youngest son,
Sat on the nurse’s
knee:
Says—“Mither dear, gi’e o’er this
house,
For the reek it smothers me.”
[“I wou’d gi’e all my gold, my bairn,
Sae
wou’d I all my fee,
For ae blast of the westlin’ wind,
To
blaw the reek frae thee.]
“But I winna gi’e up my house, my dear,
To nae sic
traitor as he;
Come weal, come woe, my jewels fair,
Ye maun
take share with me.”
Oh, then out spake her daughter dear,
She was baith jimp and
small:
“Oh, row me in a pair of sheets,
And tow me o’er
the wall.”
They row’d her in a pair of sheets,
And tow’d her
o’er the wall;
But on the point of Gordon’s spear
She
got a deadly fall.
Oh, bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,
And cherry were her cheeks;
And
clear, clear was her yellow hair,
Whereon the red bluid dreeps.
Then with his spear he turn’d her o’er,
Oh, gin
her face was wan!
He said—“You are the first that e’er
I
wish’d alive again.”
He turn’d her o’er and o’er again,
Oh, gin
her skin was white!
“I might ha’e spared that bonnie
face
To ha’e been some man’s delight.
“Busk and boun, my merry men all,
For ill dooms I do guess;
I
canna look on that bonnie face,
As it lyes on the grass!”
“Wha looks to freits, {14}
my master dear,
Their freits will follow them;
Let it ne’er
be said brave Edom o’ Gordon
Was daunted with a dame.”
[But when the ladye saw the fire
Come flaming o’er her
head,
She wept, and kissed her children twain;
Said—“Bairns,
we been but dead.”
The Gordon then his bugle blew,
And said—“Away,
away!
The house of Towie is all in a flame,
I hald it time
to gae.”]
Oh, then he spied her ain dear lord,
As he came o’er the
lea;
He saw his castle all in a flame,
As far as he could
see.
Then sair, oh sair his mind misgave,
And oh, his heart was wae!
“Put
on, put on, my wighty {15}
men,
As fast as ye can gae.
“Put on, put on, my wighty men,
As fast as ye can drie;
For
he that is hindmost of the thra