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[Illustration: THE ROMANTIC SCOTTISH BALLADS:

THEIR EPOCH AND AUTHORSHIP.

ROBERT CHAMBERS.

1849]




THE ROMANTIC SCOTTISH BALLADS: THEIR EPOCH AND AUTHORSHIP.


Percy's _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, 1765; David Herd's
_Scottish Songs_, 1769; Scott's _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_,
1802; and Jamieson's _Popular Ballads and Songs_, 1806, have been
chiefly the means of making us acquainted with what is believed to be
the ancient traditionary ballad literature of Scotland; and this
literature, from its intrinsic merits, has attained a very great fame.
I advert particularly to what are usually called the Romantic Ballads,
a class of compositions felt to contain striking beauties, almost
peculiar to themselves, and consequently held as implying extraordinary
poetical attributes in former generations of the people of this
country. There have been many speculations about the history of these
poems, all assigning them a considerable antiquity, and generally
assuming that their recital was once the special business of a set of
wandering _conteurs_ or minstrels. So lately as 1858, my admired
friend, Professor Aytoun, in introducing a collection of them, at once
ample and elegant, to the world, expressed his belief that they date at
least from before the Reformation, having only been modified by
successive reciters, so as to modernise the language, and, in some
instances, bring in the ideas of later ages.

There is, however, a sad want of clear evidence regarding the history
of our romantic ballads. We have absolutely no certain knowledge of
them before 1724, when Allan Ramsay printed one called _Sweet William's
Ghost_, in his _Tea-table Miscellany_. There is also this fact staring
us in the face, that, while these poems refer to an ancient state of
society, they bear not the slightest resemblance either to the minstrel
poems of the middle ages, or to the well-known productions of the
Henrysons, the Dunbars, the Douglases, the Montgomeries, who flourished
in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Neither in the poems of
Drummond, and such other specimens of verse--generally wretched--as
existed in the seventeenth century, can we trace any feature of the
composition of these ballads. Can it be that all editors hitherto
have been too facile in accepting them as ancient, though modified
compositions? that they are to a much greater extent modern than has
hitherto been supposed? or wholly so? Though in early life an editor of
them, not less trusting than any of my predecessors, I must own that a
suspicion regarding their age and authorship has at length entered my
mind. In stating it--which I do in a spirit of great deference to
Professor Aytoun and others--I shall lead the reader through the steps
by which I arrived at my present views upon the subject.

In 1719, there appeared, in a folio sheet, at Edinburgh, a heroic poem
styled _Hardyknute_, written in affectedly old spelling, as if it had
been a contemporary description of events connected with the invasion
of Scotland by Haco, king of Norway, in 1263. A corrected copy was soon
after presented in the _Evergreen_ of Allan Ramsay, a collection
professedly of poems written before 1600, but into which we know the
editor admitted a piece written by himself. _Hardyknute_ was afterwards
reprinted in Percy's _Reliques_, still as an ancient composition; yet
it was soon after declared to be the production of a Lady Wardlaw of
Pitreavie, who died so lately as 1727. Although, to modern taste, a
stiff and poor composition, there is a nationality of feeling about it,
and a touch of chivalric spirit, that has maintained for it a certain
degree of popularity. Sir Walter Scott tells us it was the first poem
he ever learned by heart, and he believed it would be the last he
should forget.

It is necessary to present a few brief extracts from this poem. In the
opening, the Scottish king, Alexander III., is represented as receiving
notice of the Norwegian invasion:

    The king of Norse, in summer pride,
      Puffed up with power and micht,
    Landed in fair Scotland, the isle,
      With mony a hardy knicht.
    The tidings to our gude Scots king
      Came as he sat at dine,
    With noble chiefs in brave array,
      Drinking the blude-red wine.
    'To horse, to horse, my royal liege;
      Your faes stand on the strand;
    Full twenty thousand glittering spears
      The king of Norse commands.'
    'Bring me my steed, page, dapple-gray,'
      Our good king rose and cried;
    'A trustier beast in a' the land
      A Scots king never tried.'

Hardyknute, summoned to the king's assistance, leaves his wife and
daughter, 'Fairly fair,' under the care of his youngest son. As to the
former lady--

    ... first she wet her comely cheeks,
      And then her bodice green,
    Her silken cords of twirtle twist,
      Well plet with silver sheen;
    And apron, set with mony a dice
      Of needle-wark sae rare,
    Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess,
      But that of Fairly fair.

In his journey, Hardyknute falls in with a wounded and deserted knight,
to whom he makes an offer of assistance:

    With smileless look and visage wan,
      The wounded knight replied:
    'Kind chieftain, your intent pursue,
      For here I maun abide.

    'To me nae after day nor nicht
      Can e'er be sweet or fair;
    But soon beneath some dropping tree,
      Cauld death shall end my care.'

A field of battle is thus described:

    In thraws of death, with wallowit cheek,
      All panting on the plain,
    The fainting corps[1] of warriors lay,
      Ne'er to arise again;
    Ne'er to return to native land,
      Nae mair, with blithesome sounds,
    To boast the glories of the day,
      And shaw their shining wounds.

    On Norway's coast, the widowed dame
      May wash the rock with tears,
    May lang look o'er the shipless seas,
      Before her mate appears.
    'Cease, Emma, cease to hope in vain;
      Thy lord lies in the clay;
    The valiant Scots nae rievers thole[2]
      To carry life away.'

          [1] A Scotticism, plural of corp, a body.

          [2] Permit no robbers, &c.

I must now summon up, for a comparison with these specimens of the
modern antique in ballad lore, the famous and admired poem of _Sir
Patrick Spence_. It has come to us mainly through two copies--one
comparatively short, published in Percy's _Reliques_, as 'from two
manuscript copies transmitted from Scotland;' the other, containing
more details, in Scott's _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, also
'from two manuscript copies,' but 'collated with several verses recited
by the editor's friend, Robert Hamilton, Esq., advocate.' It is nowhere
pretended that any _ancient_ manuscript of this poem has ever been seen
or heard of. It acknowledgedly has come to us from modern manuscripts,
as it might be taken down from modern reciters; although Percy prints
it in the same quasi antique spelling as that in which _Hardyknute_ had
appeared, where being _quhar_; sea, _se_; come, _cum_; year, _zeir_;
&c. It will be necessary here to reprint the whole ballad, as given
originally by Percy, introducing, however, within brackets the
additional details of Scott's copy:[3]

    The king sits in Dunfermline town,
      Drinking the blude-red wine:
    'O whar will I get a gude sailòr,
      To sail this ship of mine?'

    Up and spak an eldern knight,
      Sat at the king's right knee:
    'Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailòr
      That sails upon the sea.'

    The king has written a braid letter,
      And signed it with his hand,
    And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
      Was walking on the sand.

    ['To Noroway, to Noroway,
      To Noroway o'er the faem;
    The king's daughter of Noroway,
      'Tis thou maun bring her hame.']

    The first line that Sir Patrick read,
      A loud lauch lauched he:
    The next line that Sir Patrick read,
      The tear blinded his ee.

    'O wha is this hae done this deed,
      This ill deed done to me;
    To send me out this time o' the year,
      To sail upon the sea?

    ['Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, 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 had na been a week, a week,
      In Noroway, but twae,
    When that the lords of Noroway
      Began aloud to say:

    'Ye Scottish men spend a' our king's gowd,
      And a' our queenis fee.'
    'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud,
      Fu' loud I hear ye lie.

    'For I hae broucht as much white monie
      As gane[4] my men and me,
    And I broucht a half-fou o' gude red gowd,
      Out ower the sea wi' me.']

    'Mak haste, mak haste, my merry men a',
      Our gude ship sails the morn.'
    'O say na sae, my master dear,[5]
      For I fear a deadly storm.

    'Late, late yestreen, I saw the new moon
      Wi' the auld moon in her arm;
    And I fear, I fear, my master dear,
      That we will come to harm.'

    [They had na sailed 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 topmasts lap,
      It was sic a deadly storm,
    And the waves cam o'er the broken ship,
      Till a' her sides were torn.]

    O our Scots nobles were richt laith
      To weet their cork-heeled shoon;
    But lang ere a' the play was played,
      Their hats they swam aboon.[6]

    [And mony was the feather-bed
      That flattered on the faem;
    And mony was the gude lord's son
      That never mair cam hame.

    The ladies wrang their fingers white,
      The maidens tore their hair,
    A' for the sake of their true loves,
      For them they'll see nae mair.]

    O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
      Wi' their fans into their hand,
    Or ere they see Sir Patrick Spence
      Come sailing to the land.

    O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
      Wi' their gold kames in their hair,
    Waiting for their ain dear lords,
      For they'll see them nae mair.

    Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,[7]
      It's fifty fathom deep;
    And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spence
      Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

          [3] Only omitting the five verses supplied by Mr Hamilton, as
          they appear redundant.

          [4] Serve.

          [5] Variation in Scott:

                  Now ever alak_e_, my master dear.

          [6] Variation in Scott:

                  They wet their hats aboon.

          [7] Variation in Scott:

                  O forty miles off Aberdeen.

Percy, at the close of his copy of _Sir Patrick Spence_, tells us that
'an ingenious friend' of his was of opinion that 'the author of
_Hardyknute_ has borrowed several expressions and sentiments from the
foregoing [ballad], and other old Scottish songs in this collection.'
It does not seem to have ever occurred to the learned editor, or any
friend of his, however 'ingenious,' that perhaps _Sir Patrick Spence_
had no superior antiquity over _Hardyknute_, and that the parity he
remarked in the expressions was simply owing to the two ballads being
the production of one mind. Neither did any such suspicion occur to
Scott. He fully accepted _Sir Patrick Spence_ as a historical
narration, judging it to refer most probably to an otherwise unrecorded
embassy to bring home the Maid of Norway, daughter of King Eric, on the
succession to the Scottish crown opening to her in 1286, by the death
of her grandfather, King Alexander III., although the names of the
ambassadors who did go for that purpose are known to have been
different.[8] The want of any ancient manuscript, the absence of the
least trait of an ancient style of composition, the palpable modernness
of the diction--for example, 'Our ship must sail the faem,' a glaring
specimen of the poetical language of the reign of Queen Anne--and,
still more palpably, of several of the things alluded to, as
cork-heeled shoon, hats, fans, and feather-beds, together with the
inapplicableness of the story to any known event of actual history,
never struck any editor of Scottish poetry, till, at a recent date, Mr
David Laing intimated his suspicions that _Sir Patrick Spence_ and
_Hardyknute_ were the production of the same author.[9] To me it
appears that there could not well be more remarkable traits of an
identity of authorship than what are presented in the extracts given
from _Hardyknute_ and the entire poem of _Sir Patrick_--granting only
that the one poem is a considerable improvement upon the other. Each
poem opens with absolutely the same set of particulars--a Scottish king
sitting--drinking the blude-red wine--and sending off a message to a
subject on a business of importance. Norway is brought into connection
with Scotland in both cases. Sir Patrick's exclamation, 'To Noroway, to
Noroway,' meets with an exact counterpart in the 'To horse, to horse,'
of the courtier in _Hardyknute_. The words of the ill-boding sailor in
_Sir Patrick_, 'Late, late yestreen, I saw the new moon'--a very
peculiar expression, be it remarked--are repeated in _Hardyknute_:

    'Late, late the yestreen I weened in peace,
    To end my lengthened life.'

          [8] There is one insuperable objection to Sir Walter's
          theory, which I am surprised should not have occurred to
          himself, or to some of those who have followed him. In his
          version of the ballad, the design to bring home the daughter
          of the king of Norway is expressed by the king of Scotland
          himself. Now, there was no occasion for Alexander III.
          sending for his infant granddaughter; nor is it conceivable
          that, in his lifetime, such a notion should have occurred or
          been entertained on either his side or that of the child's
          father. It was not till after the death of Alexander had made
          the infant Norwegian princess queen of Scotland--four years
          after that event, indeed--that the _guardians of the
          kingdom_, in concert with Edward I. of England, sent for her
          by Sir David Wemyss of Wemyss and Sir Michael Scott of
          Balwearie, who actually brought her home, but in a dying
          state. For these reasons, on the theory of the ballad
          referring to a real occurrence, it must have been to the
          bringing home of some Norwegian princess to be wedded to a
          king of Scotland that it referred. _But there is no such
          event in Scottish history._

          Professor Aytoun alters a verse of the ballad as follows:

              To Noroway, to Noroway,
              To Noroway o'er the faem;
              The king's daughter _to_ Noroway,
              It's thou maun tak her hame.

          And he omits the verse in which Sir Patrick says:

              The king's daughter of Noroway,
              'Tis we must fetch her hame.

          Thus making the ballad referrible to the expedition in 1281
          for taking Alexander's daughter to be married to the king of
          Norway. But I apprehend such liberties with an old ballad are
          wholly unwarrantable.

          [9] Notes to Johnson's _Scots Musical Museum_, 1839.

The grief of the ladies at the catastrophe in _Sir Patrick Spence_, is
equally the counterpart of that of the typical Norse lady with regard
to the fate of her male friend at Largs. I am inclined, likewise, to
lay some stress on the localities mentioned in _Sir Patrick
Spence_--namely, Dunfermline and Aberdour--these being places in the
immediate neighbourhood of the mansions where Lady Wardlaw spent her
maiden and her matron days. A poet, indeed, often writes about places
which he never saw; but it is natural for him to be most disposed to
write about those with which he is familiar; and some are first
inspired by the historical associations connected with their native
scenes. True, as has been remarked, there is a great improvement upon
_Hardyknute_ in the 'grand old ballad of _Sir Patrick Spence_,'
as Coleridge calls it, yet not more than what is often seen in
compositions of a particular author at different periods of life.
It seems as if the hand which was stiff and somewhat puerile in
_Hardyknute_, had acquired freedom and breadth of style in _Sir Patrick
Spence_. For all of these reasons, I feel assured that _Sir Patrick_ is
a modern ballad, and suspect, or more than suspect, that the author is
Lady Wardlaw.[10]

          [10] Professor Aytoun says: 'It is true that the name [of Sir
          Patrick Spence] ... is not mentioned in history: but I am
          able to state that tradition has preserved it. In the little
          island of Papa Stronsay, one of the Orcadian group, lying
          over against Norway, there is a large grave or tumulus, which
          has been known to the inhabitants from time immemorial as
          "The grave of Sir Patrick Spence." The Scottish ballads were
          not early current in Orkney, a Scandinavian country; to it is
          very unlikely that the poem could have originated the name.'
          I demur to this unlikelihood, and would require some proof to
          convince me that the grave of Sir Patrick Spence in Papa
          Stronsay is not a parallel geographical phenomenon to the
          island of Ellen Douglas in Loch Katrine.

Probably, by this time, the reader will desire to know what is now to
be known regarding Lady Wardlaw. Unfortunately, this is little, for, as
she shrank from the honours of authorship in her lifetime, no one
thought of chronicling anything about her. We learn that she was born
Elizabeth Halket, being the second daughter of Sir Charles Halket of
Pitfirran, Baronet, who was raised to that honour by Charles II., and
took an active part, as a member of the Convention of 1689, in settling
the crown upon William and Mary. Her eldest sister, Janet, marrying Sir
Peter Wedderburn of Gosford, was the progenitress of the subsequent
Halkets, baronets of Pitfirran, her son being Sir Peter Halket, colonel
of the 44th regiment of foot, who died in General Braddock's
unfortunate conflict at Monongahela in 1755. A younger sister married
Sir John Hope Bruce of Kinross, baronet, who died, one of the oldest
lieutenant-generals in the British service, in 1766. Elizabeth, the
authoress of _Hardyknute_, born on the 15th of April 1677, became, in
June 1696, the wife of Sir Henry Wardlaw of Pitreavie (third baronet of
the title), to whom she bore a son, subsequently fourth baronet, and
three daughters.[11]

          [11] Playfair's _Brit. Fam. Antiquity_, viii., 170, lxviii.

The ballad of _Hardyknute_, though printed in a separate brochure by
James Watson in 1719, had been previously talked of or quoted, for the
curiosity of Lord Binning was excited about it, apparently in a
conversation with Sir John Hope Bruce, the brother-in-law of Lady
Wardlaw. Pinkerton received from Lord Hailes, and printed, an extract
from a letter of Sir John to Lord Binning, as follows: 'To perform my
promise, I send you a true copy of the manuscript I found a few weeks
ago in a vault at Dunfermline. It is written on vellum, in a fair
Gothic character, but so much defaced by time as you'll find the tenth
part not legible.' Sir John, we are told by Pinkerton, transcribed in
this letter 'the whole fragment first published, save one or two
stanzas, marking several passages as having perished, from being
illegible in the old manuscript.'[12]

          [12] _Ancient Scottish Poems_, 2 vols. (1786), i. p. cxxvii.

Here is documentary evidence that _Hardyknute_ came out through the
hands of Lady Wardlaw's brother-in-law, with a story about its
discovery as an old manuscript, so transparently fictitious, that one
wonders at people of sense having ever attempted to obtain credence for
it--which consequently forms in itself a presumption as to an
authorship being concealed. Pinkerton rashly assumed that Sir John
Bruce was the author of the poem, and on the strength of that
assumption, introduced his name among the Scottish poets.

The first hint at the real author came out through Percy, who, in his
second edition of the _Reliques_ (1767), gives the following statement:

'There is more than reason to suspect that it [_Hardyknute_] owes most
of its beauties (if not its whole existence) to the pen of a lady
within the present century. The following particulars may be depended
on. Mrs [mistake for Lady] Wardlaw, whose maiden name was Halket ...
pretended she had found this poem, written on shreds of paper, employed
for what is called the bottoms of clues. A suspicion arose that it was
her own composition. Some able judges asserted it to be modern. The
lady did in a manner acknowledge it to be so. Being desired to show an
additional stanza, as a proof of this, she produced the two last,
beginning with "There's nae light, &c.," which were not in the copy
that was first printed. The late Lord President Forbes and Sir Gilbert
Elliot of Minto (late Lord Justice-clerk for Scotland), who had
believed it ancient, contributed to the expense of publishing the first
edition, in folio, 1719. This account was transmitted from Scotland by
Sir David Dalrymple (Lord Hailes),[13] who yet was of opinion that part
of the ballad may be ancient, but retouched and much enlarged by the
lady above mentioned. Indeed, he had been informed that the late
William Thomson, the Scottish musician, who published the _Orpheus
Caledonius_, 1733, declared he had heard fragments of it repeated in
his infancy before Mrs Wardlaw's copy was heard of.'

          [13] It is rather remarkable that Percy was not informed of
          these particulars in 1765; but in 1767--_Sir John Hope Bruce
          having died in the interval_ (June 1766)--they were
          communicated to him. It looks as if the secret had hung on
          the life of this venerable gentleman.

The question as to the authorship of _Hardyknute_ was once more raised
in 1794, when Sir Charles Halket, grandson of Mary, third daughter of
Lady Wardlaw, wrote a letter to Dr Stenhouse of Dunfermline, containing
the following passage: 'The late Mr Hepburn of Keith often declared he
was in the house with Lady Wardlaw when she wrote _Hardyknute_.' He
also gave the following particulars in a manuscript account of his
family, as reported by George Chalmers (_Life of Allan Ramsay_, 1800):
'Miss Elizabeth Menzies, daughter of James Menzies, Esq., of Woodend,
in Perthshire, by Elizabeth, the daughter of Sir Henry Wardlaw [second
baronet], wrote to Sir Charles Halket that her mother, who was
sister-in-law to Lady Wardlaw, told her that Lady Wardlaw was the real
authoress of _Hardyknute_; that Mary, the wife of Charles Wedderburn,
Esq., of Gosford, told Miss Menzies that her mother, Lady Wardlaw,
wrote _Hardyknute_. Sir Charles Halket and Miss Elizabeth Menzies
concur in saying that Lady Wardlaw was a woman of elegant
accomplishments, _who wrote other poems_, and practised drawing, and
cutting paper with her scissors, and _who had much wit and humour_,
with great sweetness of temper.'

In the middle of the last century appeared two editions of a brochure
containing the now well-known ballad of _Gil Morrice_; the date of the
second was 1755. Prefixed to both was an advertisement setting forth
that the preservation of this poem was owing 'to a lady, who favoured
the printers with a copy, as it was carefully collected from the mouths
of old women and nurses;' and 'any reader that can render it more
correct or complete,' was desired to oblige the public with such
improvements. Percy adopted the poem into his collection, with four
additional verses, which meanwhile had been 'produced and handed about
in manuscript,' but which were in a florid style, glaringly incongruous
with the rest of the piece. He at the same time mentioned that there
existed, in his folio manuscript, (supposed) of Elizabeth's time, an
imperfect copy of the same ballad, under the title of _Child Maurice_.

This early ballad of _Child Maurice_, which Mr Jamieson afterwards
printed from Percy's manuscript, gives the same story of a gentleman
killing, under jealousy, a young man, who proved to be a son of his
wife by a former connection. But it is a poor, bald, imperfect
composition, in comparison with _Gil Morrice_. It was evident to Percy
that there had been a '_revisal_' of the earlier poem, attended by
'_considerable improvements_.'

Now, by whom had this improving revisal been effected? Who was the
'lady' that favoured the printers with the copy? I strongly suspect
that the reviser was Lady Wardlaw, and that the poem was communicated
to the printers either by her or by some of her near relations. The
style of many of the verses, and even some of the particular
expressions, remind us strongly of _Sir Patrick Spence_; while
other verses, again, are more in the stiff manner of _Hardyknute_.
The poem opens thus:

    Gil Morrice was an earl's son,
      His name it waxed wide;
    It was na for his great riches,
      Nor yet his mickle pride;
    But it was for a lady gay,
      That lived on Carron side.

    'Whar sall I get a bonny boy,
      That will win hose and shoon;
    That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha',
      And bid his lady come?

    'And ye maun rin my errand, Willie,
      And ye may rin wi' pride,
    When other boys gae on their foot,
      On horseback ye sall ride.'

    'O no! O no! my master dear,
      I dare nae for my life;
    I'll ne gae to the bauld baron's,
      For to tryst forth his wife.'

    'O say na sae, my master dear,
      For I fear a deadly storm.'

What next follows is like _Hardyknute_:

    'But, O my master dear,' he cried,
      In green wood ye're your lane;
    Gie ower sic thoughts, I wad ye reid,
      For fear ye should be tane.'
    'Haste, haste! I say, gae to the ha';
      Bid her come here wi' speed:
    If ye refuse my heigh command,
      I'll gar your body bleed.'

When the boy goes in and pronounces the fatal message before Lord
Barnard:

    Then up and spak the wily nurse,
      The bairn upon her knee:
    'If it be come frae Gil Morrice,
      It's dear welcome to me.'

Compare this with the second verse of _Sir Patrick Spence_:

    O up and spak an eldern knight,
      Sat at the king's right knee, &c.

The messenger replies to the nurse:

    'Ye lied, ye lied, ye filthy nurse,
      Sae loud I heard ye lie,' &c.

Identical with Sir Patrick's answer to the taunt of the Norwegian
lords:

    'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud,
      Fu' loud I hear ye lie.'

When the youth has been slain by Lord Barnard, the lady explains that
he was her son, and exclaims:

    'To me nae after days nor nichts
      Will e'er be saft or kind;
    I'll fill the air wi' heavy sighs,
      And greet till I am blind.'

How nearly is this the same with the doleful complaint of the wounded
knight in _Hardyknute_!

    'To me nae after day nor night
      Can e'er be sweet or fair,' &c.

Lord Barnard pours out his contrition to his wife:

    'With waefu' wae I hear your plaint,
      Sair, sair I rue the deed,
    That e'er this cursed hand of mine
      Had garred his body bleed.'

'Garred his body bleed' is a quaint and singular expression: it occurs
in _Hardyknute_, and nowhere else:

    'To lay thee low as horse's hoof,
      My word I mean to keep:'
    Syne with the first stroke e'er he strake,
      He garred his body bleed.

Passages and phrases of one poem appear in another from various
causes--plagiarism and imitation; and in traditionary lore, it is easy
to understand how a number of phrases might be in general use, as part
of a common stock. But the parallel passages above noted are confined
to a particular group of ballads--they are not to such an extent
_beauties_ as to have been produced by either plagiarism or imitation;
it is submitted that they thus appear by an overwhelmingly superior
likelihood as the result of a common authorship in the various pieces.

Having so traced a probable common authorship, and that modern, from
_Hardyknute_ to _Sir Patrick Spence_, and from these two to the revised
and improved edition of _Gil Morrice_, I was tempted to inquire if
there be not others of the Scottish ballads liable to similar suspicion
as to the antiquity of their origin? May not the conjectured author of
these three have written several of the remainder of that group of
compositions, so remarkable as they likewise are for their high
literary qualities? Now, there is in Percy a number of Scottish ballads
equally noteworthy for their beauty, and for the way in which they came
to the hands of the editor. There is _Edward, Edward_, 'from a
manuscript copy transmitted from Scotland;' the _Jew's Daughter_, 'from
a manuscript copy sent from Scotland;' _Gilderoy_, 'from a written copy
that appears to have received some modern corrections;' likewise,
_Young Waters_, 'from a copy printed not long since at Glasgow, in one
sheet octavo,' for the publication of which the world was 'indebted to
Lady Jean Home, sister to the Earl of Home;' and _Edom o' Gordon_,
which had been put by Sir David Dalrymple to Foulis's press in 1755,
'as it was preserved in the memory of a lady that is now dead'--Percy,
however, having in this case improved the ballad by the addition of a
few stanzas from a fragment in his folio manuscript. Regarding the
_Bonny Earl of Murray_, the editor tells us nothing beyond calling it
'a Scottish song.' Of not one of these seven ballads, as published by
Percy, has it ever been pretended that any ancient manuscript exists,
or that there is any proof of their having had a being before the
eighteenth century, beyond the rude and dissimilar prototypes (shall we
call them?) which, _in two instances_, are found in the folio
manuscript of Percy. No person was cited at first as having been
accustomed to recite or sing them; and they have not been found
familiar to the common people since. Their style is elegant, and free
from coarsenesses, while yet exhibiting a large measure of the ballad
simplicity. In all literary grace, they are as superior to the
generality of the homely traditionary ballads of the rustic population,
as the romances of Scott are superior to a set of chap-books. Indeed,
it might not be very unreasonable to say that these ballads have done
more to create a popularity for Percy's _Reliques_ than all the other
contents of the book. There is a community of character throughout all
these poems, both as to forms of expression and style of thought and
feeling--jealousy in husbands of high rank, maternal tenderness, tragic
despair, are prominent in them, though not in them all. In several,
there is the same kind of obscure and confused reference to known
events in Scottish history, which editors have thought they saw in _Sir
Patrick Spence_.

Let us take a cursory glance at these poems.

_Young Waters_ is a tale of royal jealousy. It is here given entire.

    About Yule, when the wind blew cool,
      And the round tables began,
    A! there is come to our king's court
      Mony a well-favoured man.

    The queen looked ower the castle-wa',
      Beheld baith dale and down,
    And then she saw Young Waters
      Come riding to the town.

    His footmen they did rin before,
      His horsemen rade behind,
    Ane mantel o' the burning gowd
      Did keep him frae the wind.

    Gowden graithed his horse before,
      And siller shod behind;
    The horse Young Waters rade upon
      Was fleeter than the wind.

    But then spak a wily lord,
      Unto the queen said he:
    'O tell me wha's the fairest face
      Rides in the company?'

    'I've seen lord, and I've seen laird,
      And knights of high degree;
    But a fairer face than Young Waters
      Mine een did never see.'

    Out then spak the jealous king,
      And an angry man was he:
    'O if he had been twice as fair,
      You might have excepted me.'

    'You're neither lord nor laird,' she says,
      'But the king that wears the crown;
    There's not a knight in fair Scotland,
      But to thee maun bow down.'

    For a' that she could do or say,
      Appeased he wadna be,
    But for the words which she had said,
      Young Waters he maun dee.

    They hae tane Young Waters, and
      Put fetters to his feet;
    They hae tane Young Waters, and
      Thrown him in dungeon deep.

    Aft hae I ridden through Stirling town,
      In the wind but and the weet,
    But I ne'er rade through Stirling town
      Wi' fetters at my feet.

    Aft hae I ridden through Stirling town,
      In the wind both and the rain,
    But I ne'er rade through Stirling town
      Ne'er to return again.

    They hae tane to the heading-hill
      His young son in his cradle;
    They hae tane to the heading-hill
      His horse both and his saddle.

    They hae tane to the heading-hill
      His lady fair to see;
    And for the words the queen had spoke,
      Young Waters he did dee.

Now, let the parallel passages be here observed. In verse second, the
lady does exactly like the mother of Gil Morrice, of whom it is said:

    The lady sat on the castle-wa',
      Beheld baith dale and down,
    And there she saw Gil Morrice' head
      Come trailing to the town.

Dale and down, let it be observed in passing, are words never used in
Scotland; they are exotic English terms. The mantle of the hero in
verse third recalls that of Gil Morrice, which was 'a' gowd but the
hem'--a specialty, we may say, not likely to have occurred to a male
mind. What the wily lord does in verse fifth is the exact counterpart
of the account of the eldern knight in _Sir Patrick Spence_:

    Up and spak an eldern knight,
      Sat at the king's right knee.

Observe the description of the king's jealous rage in _Young Waters_;
how perfectly the same is that of the baron in _Gil Morrice_:

    Then up and spak the bauld baron,
      An angry man was he * *

    'Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gil Morrice,
      My lady lo'es thee weel,
    The fairest part of my bodie
      Is blacker than thy heel.'

Even in so small a matter as the choice of rhymes, especially where
there is any irregularity, it may be allowable to point out a
parallelism. Is there not such between those in the verse descriptive
of Young Waters's fettering, and those in the closing stanza of _Sir
Patrick Spence_? It belongs to the idiosyncrasy of an author to make
_feet_ rhyme twice over to _deep_. Finally, let us observe how like the
tone as well as words of the last lines of _Young Waters_ to a certain
verse in _Hardyknute_:

    The fainting corps of warriors lay,
      Ne'er to rise again.

Percy surmised that _Young Waters_ related to the fate of the Earl of
Moray, slain by the Earl of Huntly in 1592, not without the concurrence,
as was suspected, of the king, whose jealousy, it has been surmised,
was excited against the young noble by indiscreet expressions of the
queen. To the same subject obviously referred the ballad of the _Bonny
Earl of Murray_, which consists, however, of but six stanzas, the last
of which is very like the second of _Young Waters_:

    O lang will his lady
      Look ower the Castle Downe,
    Ere she see the Earl of Murray
      Come sounding through the town.

_Edom o' Gordon_ is only a modern and improved version of an old ballad
which Percy found in his folio manuscript under the name of _Captain
Adam Carre_. It clearly relates to a frightful act of Adam Gordon of
Auchindown, when he maintained Queen Mary's interest in the north in
1571--the burning of the house of Towie, with the lady and her family
within it. All that can be surmised here is that the revision was the
work of the same pen with the pieces here cited--as witness, for
example, the opening stanzas:

    It fell about the Martinmas,
      When the wind blew shrill and cauld,[14]
    Said Edom o' Gordon to his men:
      'We maun draw till a hauld.

    'And what a hauld shall we draw till,
      My merry men and me?
    We will gae to the house o' Rodes,
      To see that fair ladye.'

    The lady stood on her castle-wa',
      Beheld baith dale and down;
    There she was 'ware of a host of men
      Come riding towards the town.[15]

    'O see ye not, my merry men a',[16]
      O see ye not what I see?' &c.

In the _Jew's Daughter_ there is much in the general style to remind us
of others of this group of ballads; but there are scarcely any parallel
expressions. One may be cited:

    She rowed him in a cake of lead,
      Bade him lie still and sleep,
    She cast him in a deep draw-well,
      Was fifty fadom deep.

          [14] _Young Waters_ opens in the same manner:

                About Yule, when the wind blew cool.

          [15] We have seen the same description in both _Young Waters_
          and the _Bonny Earl of Murray_.

          [16] Compare this with _Sir Patrick Spence_:

                'Mak haste, mak haste, my merry men a'.'

This must remind the reader of _Sir Patrick Spence_:

    Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,
      It's fifty fathom deep.

_Gilderoy_, in the version printed by Percy, is a ballad somewhat
peculiar, in a rich dulcet style, and of very smooth versification, but
is only an improved version of a rude popular ballad in the same
measure, which was printed in several collections long before,[17] and
was probably a street-ditty called forth by the hanging of the real
robber, Patrick Macgregor, commonly called Gilderoy,[18] in 1636. The
concluding verses of the refined version recall the peculiar manner of
the rest of these poems:

          [17] In a _Collection of Old Ballads_, printed for J.
          Roberts, London, 1723; also in Thomson's _Orpheus
          Caledonius_, 1733.

          [18] The appellative, Gilderoy, means the ruddy-complexioned
          lad.

    Gif Gilderoy had done amiss,
      He might hae banished been;
    Ah what sair cruelty is this,
      To hang sic handsome men:
    To hang the flower o' Scottish land,
      Sae sweet and fair a boy;
    Nae lady had sae white a hand
      As thee, my Gilderoy.

    Of Gilderoy sae 'fraid they were,
      They bound him mickle strong;
    Till Edinburgh they led him there,
      And on a gallows hung:
    They hung him high aboon the rest,
      He was sae trim a boy;
    There died the youth whom I lo'ed best,
      My handsome Gilderoy.

    Thus having yielded up his breath,
      I bare his corpse away;
    With tears that trickled for his death,
      I washed his comely clay.
    And sicker in a grave sae deep,
      I laid the dear-lo'ed boy;
    And now for ever maun I weep
      My winsome Gilderoy.

If any one will compare the Percy version of this ballad with the
homely and indecorous ones printed before, he will not be the more
disposed to go back to antiquity and a humble grade of authorship for
what is best in the Scottish ballads.[19]

          [19] Professor Aytoun says of this ballad, that 'it was
          adapted from the original by Sir Alexander Halket--at least,
          such was the general understanding until lately, when it
          became a mania with some literary antiquaries [a glance at
          the opinions of the present writer] to attribute the
          authorship of the great bulk of the Scottish ballads to Sir
          Alexander's sister, Lady Wardlaw, on the single ground that
          she was the composer of _Hardyknute_.' My learned friend is
          here very unlucky, for Lady Wardlaw had no brother, nor does
          any Sir Alexander Halket appear in her family history. This,
          however, is not all. It was a song to the _tune of Gilderoy_
          which was attributed to Sir Alexander Halket (Johnson's
          _Scots Musical Museum_)--namely, the well-known _Ah,
          Chloris_, which turns out to be a composition of Sir Charles
          Sedley, inserted by him in a play entitled the _Mulberry
          Garden_, which was acted in 1668.

_Edward, Edward_, which Percy received from Sir David Dalrymple, and
placed among his oldest pieces, in affectedly old spelling, is a
striking melodramatic composition:

    'Why does your brand sae drap wi' bluid,
                    Edward, Edward?
    Why does your brand sae drap wi' bluid,
        And why sae sad gang ye, O?'
    'O, I hae killed my hawk sae guid,
                    Mother, mother:
    O, I hae killed my hawk sae guid,
        And I had nae mair but he, O.'

    'Your hawk's bluid was never sae reid,
                    Edward, Edward;
    Your hawk's bluid was never sae reid,
        My dear son, I tell ye, O.'
    'O, I hae killed my reid-roan steed,
                    Mother, mother;
    O, I hae killed my reid-roan steed,
        That erst was sae fair and free, O.'

    'Your steed was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
                    Edward, Edward;
    Your steed was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
        Some other dool ye drie, O.'
    'O, I hae killed my father dear,
                    Mother, mother;
    O, I hae killed my father dear,
        Alas, and wae is me, O.'

    'And whaten penance will ye drie for that,
                    Edward, Edward?
    And whaten penance will ye drie for that,
        My dear son, now tell me, O?'
    'I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
                    Mother, mother;
    I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
        And I'll fare over the sea, O.'

            *      *      *

    'And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
                    Edward, Edward?
    And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
        When ye gang over the sea, O?'
    'The warld's room, let them beg through life,
                    Mother, mother;
    The warld's room, let them beg through life,
        For them never mair will I see, O.'

    'And what will ye leave to your ain mother dear,
                    Edward, Edward;
    And what will ye leave to your ain mother dear,
        My dear son, now tell me, O?'
    'The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,
                    Mother, mother;
    The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,
        Sic counsels ye gave me, O.'

It seems unaccountable how any editor of Percy's discernment could ever
have accepted this as old poetry. There is certainly none prior to 1700
which exhibits this kind of diction. Neither did any such poetry at any
time proceed from a rustic uneducated mind.

When we continue our search beyond the bounds of Percy's _Reliques_, we
readily find ballads passing as old, which are not unlike the above,
either in regard to their general beauty, or special strains of thought
and expression. There are five which seem peculiarly liable to
suspicion on both grounds--namely, _Johnie of Bradislee_, _Mary
Hamilton_, the _Gay Gos-hawk_, _Fause Foodrage_, and the _Lass o'
Lochryan_.

In _Johnie o' Bradislee_, the hero is a young unlicensed huntsman, who
goes out to the deer-forest against his mother's advice, and has a
fatal encounter with seven foresters. Observe the description of the
youth:

    His cheeks were like the roses red,
      His neck was like the snaw;
    He was the bonniest gentleman
      My eyes they ever saw.

    His coat was o' the scarlet red,
      His vest was o' the same;
    His stockings were o' the worset lace,
      And buckles tied to the same.

    The shirt that was upon his back
      Was o' the Holland fine;
    The doublet that was over that
      Was o' the Lincoln twine.

    The buttons that were upon his sleeve
      Were o' the gowd sae guid, &c.

This is mercery of the eighteenth, and no earlier century. Both
Gilderoy and Gil Morrice are decked out in a similar fashion; and we
may fairly surmise that it was no man's mind which revelled so
luxuriously in the description of these three specimens of masculine
beauty, or which invested them in such elegant attire. Johnie kills the
seven foresters, but receives a deadly hurt. He then speaks in the
following strain:

    'O is there a bird in a' this bush
      Would sing as I would say,
    Go home and tell my auld mother
      That I hae won the day?

    'Is there ever a bird in a' this bush
      Would sing as I would say,
    Go home and tell my ain true love
      To come and fetch Johnie away?

    'Is there a bird in this hale forest
      Would do as mickle for me,
    As dip its wing in the wan water,
      And straik it ower my ee-bree?'

    The starling flew to his mother's bower-stane,
      It whistled and it sang;
    And aye the owerword o' its tune
      Was, 'Johnie tarries lang.'

The mother says in conclusion:

    'Aft hae I brought to Bradislee
      The less gear and the mair;
    But I ne'er brought to Bradislee
      What grieved my heart sae sair.'

Now, first, is not the literary beauty of the above expressions of the
young huntsman calculated to excite suspicion? It may be asked, is
there anything in the older Scottish poets comparable to them? Second,
how like is the verse regarding the starling to one in _Gil
Morrice_!

    Gil Morrice sat in guid green wood,
      He whistled and he sang;
    'O what mean a' the folk coming?
      My mother tarries lang.'

Then, as to the last verse, how like to one in _Young Waters_!

    Aft hae I ridden through Stirling town,
      In the wind both and the rain,
    But I ne'er rade through Stirling town
      Ne'er to return again.

_Mary Hamilton_ describes the tragic fate of an attendant on Queen
Mary, brought to the gallows for destroying her own infant. The
reflections of the heroine at the last sad moment are expressed in the
same rich strain of sentiment as some of the passages of other ballads
already quoted, and with remarkable parallelisms in terms:

    'O aften hae I dressed my queen,
      And put gowd in her hair;
    But now I've gotten for my reward
      The gallows tree to share.

          *      *      *

    '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.

          *      *      *

    'O little did my mother think
      That day she cradled me,
    What lands I was to travel ower,
      What death I was to die!'

The Scottish ladies sit bewailing the loss of Sir Patrick Spence's
companions, 'wi' the gowd kaims in their hair.' Sir Patrick tells his
friends before starting on his voyage, 'Our ship must sail the faem;'
and in the description of the consequences of his shipwreck, we find
'Mony was the feather-bed that flattered on the faem.' No old poet
would use foam as an equivalent for the sea; but it was just such a
phrase as a poet of the era of Pope would love to use in that sense.
The first of the above verses is evidently a cast from the same mould
of thought as Bradislee's mother's concluding lament, and Young
Waters's last words just quoted. The resemblance is not of that kind
which arises from the use of literary commonplaces or stock phrases:
the expressions have that identity which betrays their common source in
one mind, a mind having a great command of rich and simple pathos.

In the _Gay Gos-hawk_, a gentleman commissions the bird to go on a
mission to his mistress, who is secluded from him among her relations,
and tell her how he dies by long waiting for her; whereupon she returns
an answer by the same messenger, to the effect that she will presently
meet him at Mary's Kirk for the effecting of their nuptials. The
opening of the poem is just a variation of Bradislee's apostrophe to
_his_ bird-messenger:

    'O waly, waly, my gay gos-hawk,
      Gin your feathering be sheen!'
    'And waly, waly, my master dear,
      Gin ye look pale and lean!

    'Oh, have ye tint at tournament
      Your sword, or yet your spear?
    Or mourn ye for the southern lass,
      Whom ye may not win near?'

    'I have not tint at tournament
      My sword, nor yet my spear;
    But sair I mourn for my true love,
      Wi' mony a bitter tear.

    'But weel's me on you, my gay gos-hawk,
      Ye can both speak and flie;
    Ye sall carry a letter to my love,
      Bring an answer back to me.'

_Hardyknute_, _Sir Patrick Spence_, and _Gil Morrice_, all open, it
will be recollected, with the sending away of a message. Here is a
fourth instance, very like one artist's work, truly.

The lover describes his mistress in terms recalling _Bradislee_:

    'The red that is on my true love's cheek
      Is like blood-draps on the snaw;
    The white that is on her breast bare,
      Like the down o' the white sea-maw.'

The bird arrives at the lady's abode:

    And first he sang a low, low note,
      And syne he sang a clear;
    And aye the owerword o' the sang
      Was, 'Your love can no win here.'

_Gil Morrice_ has:

    Aye the owerword o' his sang
      Was, 'My mother tarries lang.'

The lady feigns death, after the device of Juliet:

    Then up and rose her seven brethren,
      And hewed to her a bier;
    They hewed frae the solid aik,
      Laid it ower wi' silver clear.

    Then up and gat her seven sisters,
      And sewed to her a kell;
    And every steek that they put in
      Sewed to a silver bell.

Here we have the same style of luxurious description of which we have
already seen so many examples--so different from the usually bald style
of the real homely ballads of the people. It is, further, very
remarkable that in _Clerk Saunders_ it is seven brothers of the heroine
who come in and detect her lover; and in the _Douglas Tragedy_, when
the pair are eloping, Lord William spies his mistress's

    ... seven brethren bold
      Come riding o'er the lee.

Both of these ballads, indeed, shew a structure and a strain of
description and sentiment justifying the strongest suspicions of their
alleged antiquity, and pointing to the same source as the other pieces
already noticed.

The ballad of _Fause Foodrage_, which Sir Walter Scott printed for the
first time, describes a successful conspiracy by Foodrage and others
against King Honour and his queen. The king being murdered, the queen
is told, that if she brings forth a son, it will be put to death
likewise; so she escapes, and, bringing a male child into the world,
induces the lady of Wise William to take charge of it as her own, while
she herself takes charge of the lady's daughter. The unfortunate queen
then arranges a future conduct for both parties, in language violently
figurative:

    'And ye maun learn my gay gos-hawk,
      Right weel to breast a steed;
    And I sall learn your turtle-dow
      As weel to write and read.

    'And ye maun learn my gay gos-hawk,
      To wield both bow and brand;
    And I sall learn your turtle-dow
      To lay gowd wi' her hand.

    'At kirk and market, when we meet,
      We'll dare make nae avowe,
    But--Dame, how does my gay gos-hawk?
      Madam, how does my dow?'

When the royal youth grows up, Wise William reveals to him his history,
and how his mother is still in confinement in Foodrage's hands. 'The
boy stared wild like a gray gos-hawk' at hearing the strange
intelligence, but soon resolves on a course of action:

    He has set his bent bow to his breast,
      And leapt the castle-wa',
    And soon he has seized on Fause Foodrage,
      Wha loud for help 'gan ca'.

The slaying of Foodrage and marriage of the turtle-dow wind up the
ballad. Now, is not the adoption of the term, 'gay gos-hawk' in this
ballad, calculated to excite a very strong suspicion as to a community
of authorship with the other, in which a gay gos-hawk figures so
prominently? But this is not all. 'The boy stared wild like a gray
gos-hawk,' is nearly identical with a line of _Hardyknute_:

    Norse e'en like gray gos-hawk stared wild.

Scott was roused by this parallelism into suspicion of the authenticity
of the ballad, and only tranquillised by finding a lady of rank who
remembered hearing in her infancy the verses which have here been
quoted. He felt compelled, he tells us, 'to believe that the author of
_Hardyknute_ copied from the old ballad, if the coincidence be not
altogether accidental.' Finally, the young prince's procedure in
storming the castle, is precisely that of Gil Morrice in gaining access
to that of Lord Barnard:

    And when he cam to Barnard's yett,
      He would neither chap nor ca',
    But set his bent bow to his breast,
      And lightly lap the wa'.

It may fairly be said that, in ordinary literature, coincidences like
this are never 'accidental.' It may be observed, much of the narration
in _Fause Foodrage_ is in a stiff and somewhat hard style, recalling
_Hardyknute_. It was probably one of the earlier compositions of its
author.

The _Lass o' Lochryan_ describes the hapless voyage of a maiden mother
in search of her love Gregory. In the particulars of sea-faring and the
description of the vessel, _Sir Patrick Spence_ is strongly recalled.

    She has garred build a bonny ship;
      It's a' covered o'er wi' pearl;
    And at every needle-tack was in't
      There hung a siller bell.

Let the reader revert to the description of the bier prepared for the
seeming dead lady in the _Gay Gos-hawk_.

    She had na sailed a league but twa,
      Or scantly had she three,
    Till she met wi' a rude rover,
      Was sailing on the sea.

The reader will remark in _Sir Patrick_:

    They had na sailed a league, a league,
      A league but barely three, &c.

The rover asks:

    'Now, whether are ye the queen hersel,
      Or ane o' her Maries three,
    Or are ye the Lass o' Lochryan,
      Seeking love Gregory?'[20]

          [20] The above three verses are in the version printed in
          Lawrie and Symington's collection, 1791.

The queen's Maries are also introduced in _Mary Hamilton_, who, indeed,
is represented as one of them:

    Yestreen the queen she had four Maries;
      The night, she has but three;
    There was Mary Seton and Mary Beaton,
      And Mary Carmichael and me.

On arriving at love Gregory's castle, beside the sea, the lady calls:

    'Oh, open the door, love Gregory;
      Oh, open and let me in;
    For the wind blaws through my yellow hair,
      And the rain draps o'er my chin.'

He being in a dead sleep, his mother answers for him, and turns from
the door the forlorn applicant, who then exclaims:

    'Tak down, tak down the mast o' gowd;
      Set up a mast o' tree;
    It disna become a forsaken lady
      To sail sae royallie.

    'Tak down, tak down the sails o' silk;
      Set up the sails o' skin;
    Ill sets the outside to be gay,
      When there's sic grief within.'

Gregory then awakes:

    O quickly, quickly raise he up,
      And fast ran to the strand,
    And there he saw her, fair Annie,
      Was sailing frae the land.

          *      *      *

    The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough,
      And dashed the boat on shore;
    Fair Annie floated on the faem,
      But the babie raise no more.

          *      *      *

    And first he kissed her cherry cheek,
      And syne he kissed her chin;
    And syne he kissed her rosy lips--
      There was nae breath within.

The resemblance of these verses to several of the preceding
ballads,[21] and particularly to _Sir Patrick Spence_, and their
superiority in delicacy of feeling and in diction to all ordinary
ballad poetry, is very striking. It chances that there is here, as in
_Sir Patrick_, one word peculiarly _detective_--namely, strand, as
meaning the shore. In the Scottish language, strand means a rivulet, or
a street-gutter--never the margin of the sea.

          [21] A passage in _Hardyknute_ maybe quoted as bearing a
          marked resemblance to one of the above verses:

              Take aff, take aff his costly jupe,
              Of gold well was it twined, &c.

There is a considerable number of other ballads which are scarcely less
liable to suspicion as modern compositions, and which are all marked
more or less by the peculiarities seen in the above group. Several of
them are based, like the one just noticed, on irregular love, which
they commonly treat with little reproach, and usually with a romantic
tenderness. _Willie and May Margaret_[22] describes a young lover
crossing the Clyde in a flood to see his mistress, and as denied access
by her mother in a feigned voice, after which he is drowned in
recrossing the river; the ballad being thus a kind of counterpart of
the _Lass of Lochryan_. In _Young Huntin_, otherwise called _Earl
Richard_, the hero is killed in his mistress's bower through jealousy,
and we have then a verse of wonderful power--such as no rustic and
unlettered bard ever wrote, or ever will write:

          [22] Called, in Professor Aytoun's collection, _The Mother's
          Malison_; and in Mr Buchan's, _The Drowned Lovers_.

    'O slowly, slowly wanes the night,
      And slowly daws the day:
    There is a dead man in my bower,
      I wish he were away.'

One called _Fair Annie_ relates how a mistress won upon her lover, and
finally gained him as a husband, by patience, under the trial of seeing
a new bride brought home.[23] In the latter, the behaviour of the
patient mistress is thus described:

          [23] A ballad named _Burd Ellen_, resembling _Fair Annie_ in
          the general cast of the story, is a Scottish modification of
          the ballad of _Child Waters_, published by Percy, from his
          folio manuscript, 'with some corrections.' It probably came
          through the same mill as _Gil Morrice_, though with less
          change--a conjecture rendered the more probable, for reasons
          to be seen afterwards, from its having been obtained by Mr
          Jamieson from Mrs Brown of Falkland.

    O she has served the lang tables
      Wi' the white bread and the wine;
    And aye she drank the wan water,
      To keep her colour fine.

The expression, the wan water, occurs in several of this group of
ballads. Thus, in _Johnie of Bradislee_:

    Is there ever a bird in this hale forest
      Will do as mickle for me,
    As dip its wing in the wan water,
      And straik it o'er my ee-bree?

And in the _Douglas Tragedy_:

    O they rade on, and on they rade,
      And a' by the light o' the moon,
    Until they cam to yon wan water,
      And there they lighted down.

See further in _Young Huntin_:

    And they hae ridden along, along,
      All the long summer's tide,
    Until they came to the wan water,
      The deepest place in Clyde.

The circumstance is very suspicious, for we find this phrase in no
other ballads.

In _Clerk Saunders_, the hero is slain in his mistress's bower, by the
rage of one of her seven brothers, whose act is described in precisely
the same terms as the slaughter of _Gil Morrice_ by the bold baron:

    He's ta'en out his trusty brand,
      And straikt it on the strae,
    And through and through Clerk Saunders' side
      He's gart it come and gae.[24]

_Sweet William's Ghost_, a fine superstitious ballad, first published
in Ramsay's _Tea-table Miscellany_, 1724, is important as the earliest
printed of all the Scottish ballads after the admittedly modern
_Hardyknute_:

    There came a ghost to Margaret's door,
      With many a grievous groan;
    And aye he tirled at the pin,
      But answer made she none.

          *      *      *

    'O sweet Margaret! O dear Margaret!
      I pray thee, speak to me;
    Give me my faith and troth, Margaret,
      As I gave it to thee.'

    'Thy faith and troth thou 's never get,
      Nor yet will I thee lend,
    Till that thou come within my bower,
      And kiss my cheek and chin.'[25]

    'If I should come within thy bower,
      I am no earthly man;
    And should I kiss thy rosy lips,
      Thy days will not be lang.

          *      *      *

    'My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard,
      Afar beyond the sea;
    And it is but my spirit, Margaret,
      That's now speaking to thee.'

    She stretched out her lily hand,
      And for to do her best,
    'Ha'e there's your faith and troth, Willie;
      God send your soul good rest.'

    Now she has kilted her robes of green
      A piece below her knee,
    And a' the live-lang winter night,
      The dead corp followed she.

    'Is there any room at your head, Willie,
      Or any room at your feet?
    Or any room at your side, Willie,
      Wherein that I may creep?'

    'There's no room at my head, Margaret;
      There's no room at my feet;
    There's no room at my side, Margaret;
      My coffin's made so meet.'[26]

    Then up and crew the red, red cock,
      And up then crew the gray,
    ''Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margaret,
      That you were going away.'

          *      *      *

          [24]

                Now he has ta'en his trusty brand,
                  And slait it on the strae,
                And through Gil Morrice's fair bodie
                  He garred cauld iron gae.--_Gil Morrice._

          [25]

                And first he kissed her cherry cheek,
                  And syne he kissed her chin;
                And syne he kissed her rosy lips--
                There was nae breath within.--_Lass o' Lochryan._

          To kiss cheek and chin in succession is very peculiar; and it
          is by such peculiar ideas that identity of authorship is
          indicated.

          [26] That is, so exactly measured.

So far, the ballad appears as composed in the style of those already
noticed--a style at once simple and poetical--neither shewing the
rudeness of the common peasant's ballad, nor the formal refinement of
the modern English poet. But next follow two stanzas, which manifestly
have been patched on by some contemporary of Ramsay:

    No more the ghost to Margaret said,
      But with a grievous groan
    Evanished in a cloud of mist,
      And left her all alone, &c.

No such conclusion, perhaps, was needed, for it may be suspected that
the verse here printed _sixth_ is the true _finale_ of the story,
accidentally transferred from its proper place.

There is a slight affinity between the above and a ballad entitled _Tam
Lane_, to which Scott drew special attention in his _Border Minstrelsy_,
by making it a peg for eighty pages of prose dissertation _On the
Fairies of Popular Superstition_. It describes a lover as lost to his
mistress, by being reft away into fairy-land, and as recovered by an
effort of courage and presence of mind on her part. It opens thus:

    O I forbid ye maidens a',
      That wear gowd in your hair,
    To come or gae by Carterhaugh,
      For the young Tam Lane is there.

It may be remarked how often before we have seen maidens described as
wearing gold in their hair. One maiden defies the prohibition:

    Janet has kilted her green kirtle
      A little aboon her knee,
    And she has braided her yellow hair
      A little aboon her bree.

This, it will be observed, is all but the very same description applied
to Margaret in the preceding ballad. The narrative goes on:

    She had na pu'd a red, red rose,
      A rose but barely three,
    Till up and starts a wee, wee man
      At Lady Janet's knee.

Remember Sir Patrick's voyage:

    They had na sailed a league, a league,
      A league but barely three.

Let it also here be noted that the eldern knight in that ballad sits
'at the king's knee,' and the nurse in _Gil Morrice_ is not very
necessarily described as having 'the bairn upon her knee.' Why the knee
on these occasions, if not a habitual idea of one poet?[27]

          [27] In _Childe Maurice_, in Percy's folio manuscript, the
          hero says:

              '... come hither, thou little foot-page,
              That runneth lowly by my knee.'

          The author of _Sir Patrick Spence_, and the other ballads in
          question, might have known this version, and from it caught
          this expression.

The consequences of the visit having been fatal to Lady Janet's health
and peace, she goes back to see her elfin lover, Tam Lane, who
instructs her how to recover him from his bondage to the queen of
fairy-land.

    'The night it is good Halloween,
      When 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 Lane,
      Or how shall I thee knaw,
    Amang so many unearthly knights,
      The like I never saw?'

    'The first company that passes by,
      Say na, and let them gae;
    The next company that passes by,
      Say na, and do right sae;
    The third company that passes by,
      Then I'll be ane o' thae.

    'First let pass the black, Janet,
      And syne let pass the brown;
    But grip ye to the milk-white steed,
      And pu' the rider down.'

Compare the first two of these stanzas with the queries put by the gay
gos-hawk to his master:

    'But how shall I your true love find,
      Or how suld I her know?
    I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spoke,
      An eye that ne'er her saw.'

    'O weel sall ye my true love ken,
      Sae sore as ye her see,' &c.

As to the latter three stanzas, they exhibit a formula of description,
which appears in several of the suspected ballads, consisting of a
series of nearly identical statements, apparently for the sake of
amplitude. For example, the progress of the seeming funeral of the lady
in the _Gay Gos-hawk_:

    At the first kirk of fair Scotland,
      They gart the bells be rung;
    At the second kirk of fair Scotland,
      They gart the mass be sung.

    At the third kirk of fair Scotland,
      They dealt gold for her sake;
    And the fourth kirk of fair Scotland,
      Her true love met them at.

Or the following, in _Sweet Willie and Fair Annie_, which is almost the
same incident and relation of circumstances as the said seeming
funeral; only the lady in this case is dead:

    The firsten bower that he cam till,
      There was right dowie wark;
    Her mother and her sisters three
      Were making to Annie a sark.

    The next bower that he cam till,
      There was right dowie cheer;
    Her father and her seven brethren
      Were making to Annie a bier.

    The lasten bower that he cam till,
      O heavy was his care;
    The waxen lights were burning bright,
      And fair Annie streekit there.

In Scott's version of _Tam Lane_ there are some stanzas of so modern a
cast as to prove that this poem has been at least tampered with. For
example, the account of fairy life:

    'And all our wants are well supplied
      From every rich man's store,
    Who thankless sins the gifts he gets,
      And vainly grasps for more.'

Without regard, however, to such manifest patches, the general
structure and style of expression must be admitted to strongly recall
the other ballads which have been already commented on.

Only a wish to keep this dissertation within moderate bounds forbids me
to analyse a few other ballads, as the _Douglas Tragedy_, _Sweet Willie
and Fair Annie_, _Lady Maiery_, the _Clerk's Two Sons of Owsenford_,
and a Scotch _Heir of Linne_ lately recovered by Mr J. H. Dixon, all of
which, besides others which must rest unnamed, bear traces of the same
authorship with the ballads already brought under notice.

It is now to be remarked of the ballads published by the successors of
Percy, as of those which he published, that there is not a particle of
positive evidence for their having existed before the eighteenth
century. Overlooking the one given by Ramsay in his _Tea-table
Miscellany_, we have neither print nor manuscript of them before the
reign of George III. They are not in the style of old literature. They
contain no references to old literature. As little does old literature
contain any references to them. They wholly escaped the collecting
diligence of Bannatyne. James Watson, who published a collection of
Scottish poetry in 1706-1711, wholly overlooks them. Ramsay, as we see,
caught up only one. Even Herd, in 1769, only gathered a few fragments
of some of these poems. It was reserved for Sir Walter Scott and Robert
Jamieson, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, to obtain copies
of the great bulk of these poems--that is, the ballads over and above
the few published by Percy--from A LADY--a certain 'Mrs Brown of
Falkland,' who seems to have been the wife of the Rev. Andrew Brown,
minister of that parish in Fife--is known to have been the daughter of
Professor Thomas Gordon, of King's College, Aberdeen--and is stated to
have derived her stores of legendary lore from the memory of her aunt,
a Mrs Farquhar, the wife of a small proprietor in Braemar, who had
spent the best part of her life among flocks and herds, but lived
latterly in Aberdeen. At the suggestion of Mr William Tytler, a son of
Mrs Brown wrote down a parcel of the ballads which her aunt had heard
in her youth from the recitation of nurses and old women.[28] Such were
the external circumstances, none of them giving the least support to
the assumed antiquity of the pieces, but rather exciting some suspicion
to the contrary effect.

          [28] _Minstrelsy Scot. Border_, I. cxxvi.

When we come to consider the internal evidence, what do we find? We
find that these poems, in common with those published by Percy, are
composed in a style of romantic beauty and elevation distinguishing
them from all other remains of Scottish traditionary poetry. They are
quite unlike the palpably old historical ballads, such as the _Battle
of Otterbourne_ and the _Raid of the Reidswire_. They are unlike the
Border ballads, such as _Dick o' the Cow_, and _Jock o' the Syde_,
commemorating domestic events of the latter part of the sixteenth
century. They are strikingly unlike the _Burning of Frendraught_, the
_Bonny House o' Airly_, and the _Battle of Bothwell Bridge_,
contemporaneous metrical chronicles of events of the seventeenth
century. Not less different are they from a large mass of ballads,
which have latterly been published by Mr Peter Buchan and others,
involving romantic incidents, it is true, or eccentricities in private
life, but in such rude and homely strains as speak strongly of a
plebeian origin. In the ballads here brought under question, the
characters are usually persons of condition, generally richly dressed,
often well mounted, and of a dignified bearing towards all inferior
people. The page, the nurse, the waiting-woman, the hound, the hawk,
and other animals connected with the pageantry of high life, are
prominently introduced. Yet the characters and incidents are alike
relieved from all clear connection with any particular age: they may be
said to form a world of their own, of no particular era, wherein the
imagination of the reader may revel, as that of the author has done. It
may be allowably said, there is a tone of _breeding_ throughout these
ballads, such as is never found in the productions of rustic genius.
One marked feature--the pathos of deep female affections--the sacrifice
and the suffering which these so often involve--runs through nearly the
whole. References to religion and religious ceremonies and fanes are of
the slightest kind. We hear of bells being rung and mass sung, but only
to indicate a time of day. Had they been old ballads continually
changing in diction and in thought, as passed down from one reciter to
another, they could not have failed to involve some considerable trace
of the intensely earnest religious life of the seventeenth century; but
not the slightest tincture of this enthusiastic feeling appears in
them, a defect the more marked, as they contain abundant allusion to
the superstitions which survived into the succeeding time of religious
indifference, and indeed some of their best _effects_ rest in a
dexterous treatment of these weird ideas. There is but one exception to
what has been observed on the obscurity of the epoch pointed to for the
incidents--the dresses, properties, and decorations, are sometimes of a
modern cast. The writer--if we may be allowed to speculate on a single
writer--seems to have been unable to resist an inclination to indulge
in description of the external furnishings of the heroes and heroines,
or rather, perhaps, has been desirous of making out _effect_ from these
particulars; but the finery of the court of Charles II. is the furthest
point reached in the retrospect--although, I must admit, this is in
general treated with a vagueness that helps much to conceal the want of
learning.

Another point of great importance in the matter of internal evidence,
is the isolatedness of these ballads in respect of English traditionary
literature. The Scottish muse has not always gone hand in hand with the
English in point of time, but she has done so in all other respects.
Any literature we had from the beginning of the seventeenth century
downwards, was always sensibly tinged by what had immediately before
been in vogue in the south. Nor is it easy to see how a people
occupying part of the same island, and speaking essentially the same
language, should have avoided this communion of literary taste; but the
ballads in question are wholly unlike any English ballads. Look over
Percy, Evans, or Mr Collier's suite of _Roxburghe Ballads_, giving
those which were popular in London during the seventeenth century, and
you find not a trace of the style and manner of these Scottish romantic
ballads. Neither, it would appear, had one of them found its way into
popularity in England before the time of Percy; for, had it been
otherwise, he would have found them either in print or in the mouths of
the people.[29]

          [29] Robert Jamieson found in the _Koempe Viser_, a Danish
          collection of ballads published in 1695, one resembling the
          Scottish ballad of _Fair Annie_ (otherwise called _Lady
          Jane_), and on this ground he became convinced that many of
          our traditionary ballads were of prodigious antiquity, though
          they had been intermediately subjected to many alterations.
          Mr Jamieson's belief seems remarkably ill supported, and as
          it has never obtained any adherents among Scottish ballad
          editors, I feel entitled to pass it over with but this slight
          notice.

Upon all of these considerations, I have arrived at the conclusion,
that the high-class romantic ballads of Scotland are not ancient
compositions--are not older than the early part of the eighteenth
century--and are mainly, if not wholly, the production of one mind.

Whose was this mind, is a different question, on which no such
confident decision may for the present be arrived at; but I have no
hesitation in saying that, from the internal resemblances traced on
from _Hardyknute_ through _Sir Patrick Spence_ and _Gil Morrice_ to the
others, there seems to me a great _likelihood_ that the whole were the
composition of the authoress of that poem--namely, Elizabeth Lady
Wardlaw of Pitreavie.

It may be demanded that something should be done to verify, or at least
support, the allegation here made as to the peculiar literary character
of the suspected ballads. This is, of course, a point to be best made
out by a perusal of the entire body of this class of compositions, and
scarcely by any other means. Still, it is a difference so striking,
that even to present one typical ballad of true rustic origin, could
not fail to make a considerable impression on the reader, after he has
read specimens of those which are here attributed to a higher source.
Be it observed, when an uneducated person speaks of knights, lords, and
kings, or of dames and damosels, he reduces all to one homely level. He
indulges in no diplomatic periphrases. It is simply, the king said
this, and the lord said that--this thing was done, and that thing was
done--the catastrophe or _dénouement_ comes by a single stroke. This we
find in the true stall-ballads. A vulgar, prosaic, and drawling
character pervades the whole class, with few exceptions--a fact which
ought to give no surprise, for does not all experience shew, that
literature of any kind, to have effect, requires for its production a
mind of some cultivation, and really good verse flowing from an
uninstructed source is what never was, is not now, and never will be?
With these remarks, I usher in a typical ballad of the common
class--one taken down many years ago from the singing of an old man in
the south of Scotland:

    JAMES HATELIE.

    It fell upon a certain day,
    When the king from home he chanced to be,
    The king's jewels they were stolen all,
    And they laid the blame on James Hatelie.

    And he is into prison cast,
    And I wat he is condemned to _dee_;
    For there was not a man in all the court
    To speak a word for James Hatelie.

    But the king's eldest daughter she loved him well,
    But known her love it might not be;
    And she has stolen the prison keys,
    And gane in and discoursed wi' James Hatelie.

    'Oh, did you steal them, James?' she said;
    'Oh, did not you steal them, come tell to me?
    For I'll make a vow, and I'll keep it true,
    You's never be the worse of me.'

    'I did not steal them,' James he said;
    'And neither was it intended by me,
    For the English they stole them themselves,
    And I wat they've laid the blame on me.'

    Now she has hame to her father gane,
    And bowed her low down on her knee,
    'I ask--I ask--I ask, father,' she said,
    'I ask--I ask a boon of thee;
    I never asked one in my life,
    And one of them you must grant to me.'

    'Ask on, ask on, daughter,' he said;
    'And aye weel answered ye shall be;
    For if it were my whole estate,
    Naysaid, naysaid you shall not be.'

    'I ask none of your gold, father,
    As little of your white monie;
    But all the asken that I do ask,
    It is the life of James Hatelie.'

    'Ask on, ask on, daughter,' he said;
    'And aye weel answered ye shall be;
    For I'll mak a vow, and keep it true--
    James Hatelie shall not hanged be.'

    'Another asken I ask, father;
    Another asken I ask of thee--
    Let Fenwick and Hatelie go to the sword,
    And let them try their veritie.'

    'Ask on, ask on, daughter,' he said;
    'And aye weel answered you shall be;
    For before the morn at twelve o'clock,
    They both at the point of the sword shall be.'

    James Hatelie was eighteen years of age,
    False Fenwick was thirty years and three;
    He lap about, and he strack about,
    And he gave false Fenwick wounds three.

    'Oh, hold your hand, James Hatelie,' he said;
    'And let my breath go out and in;
    Were it not for the spilling of my noble blood
    And the shaming of my noble kin.

    'Oh, hold your hand, James Hatelie,' he said;
    Oh, hold your hand, and let me be;
    For I'm the man that stole the jewels,
    And a shame and disgrace it was to me.'

    Then up bespoke an English lord,
    I wat but he spoke haughtilie:
    'I would rather have lost all my lands,
    Before they had not hanged James Hatelie.'

    Then up bespoke a good Scotch lord,
    I wat a good Scotch lord was he:
    'I would rather have foughten to the knees in blood,
    Than they had hanged James Hatelie.'

    Then up bespoke the king's eldest son:
    'Come in, James Hatelie, and dine with me;
    For I'll make a vow, and I'll keep it true--
    You'se be my captain by land and sea.'

    Then up bespoke the king's eldest daughter:
    'Come in, James Hatelie, and dine with me;
    For I'll make a vow, and I'll keep it true--
    I'll never marrie a man but thee.'

Here is love, and here is innocence in difficulties--two things of high
moral interest; yet how homely is the whole narration; how unlike the
strains of the ballads which have been passed before the reader's view!
And be it observed, the theory as to our ballads is, that they have
been transmitted from old time, undergoing modifications from the
minds of nurses, and other humble reciters, as they came along. If so,
they ought to have presented the same plebeian strain of ideas and
phraseology as _James Hatelie_; but we see they do not: they are, on
the contrary, remarkably poetical, pure, and dignified.

Here I may, once for all, in opposition to Professor Aytoun and others,
express my belief that the ballads in question are for the most part
printed nearly, and, in some instances, entirely, in the condition in
which they were left by the author. In _Edward_, I question if a line
has been corrupted or a word altered. _Sir Patrick Spence_ and
_Gilderoy_ are both so rounded and complete, so free, moreover,
from all vulgar terms, that I feel nearly equally confident about them.
All those which Percy obtained in manuscripts from Scotland, are neat
finished compositions, as much so as any ballad of Tickell or
Shenstone. Those from Mrs Brown's manuscript have also an author's
finish clearly impressed on them. It is a mere assumption that they
have been sent down, with large modifications, from old times. Had it
been true, the ballads would have been full of vulgarisms, as we find
to be the condition of certain of them which Peter Buchan picked up
among the common people, after (shall we say) seventy or eighty years
of traditionary handling. Now, no such depravation appears in the
versions printed by Percy, Scott, and Jamieson.

It may be objected to the arguments founded on the great number of
parallel passages, that these are but the stock phraseology of all
ballad-mongers, and form no just proof of unity of authorship. If this
were true, it might be an objection of some force; but it is not true.
The _formulæ_ in question are to be found hardly at all in any of the
rustic or homely ballads. They are not to be found in any ballads which
there is good reason to believe so old as the early part of the
seventeenth century. They are to be found in no ballads which may even
doubtfully be affiliated to England. All this, of course, can only be
fully ascertained by a careful perusal of some large collection of
ballads. Yet, even in such a case, a few examples may be viewed with
interest, and not unprofitably. Of the plebeian ballads, a specimen has
just been adduced. Let us proceed, then, to exemplify the ballads of
the seventeenth century. First, take _Fair Margaret and Sweet William_,
which Percy brought forward from a stall copy as, apparently, the
ballad quoted in Fletcher's _Knight of the Burning Pestle_; though
subjected to some alteration during the intermediate century and a
half. It is as follows:

    As it fell out on a long summer day,
      Two lovers they sat on a hill;
    They sat together that long summer day,
      And could not take their fill.

    'I see no harm by you, Margaret,
      And you see none by me;
    Before to-morrow at eight o'clock,
      A rich wedding you shall see.'

    Fair Margaret sat in her bouir window,
      Combing her yellow hair;
    There she spied sweit William and his bride,
      As they were a-riding near.

    Then doun she layed her ivorie combe,
      And braided her hair in twain:
    She went alive out of her bouir,
      But never cam alive in't again.

    When day was gone, and nicht was come,
      And all men fast asleip,
    Then came the spirit of fair Margaret,
      And stood at William's feet.

    'Are you awake, sweit William?' she said;
      'Or, sweit William, are you asleip?
    God give you joy of your gay bride-bed,
      And me of my winding-sheet!'

    When day was come, and nicht was gone,
      And all men waked from sleip,
    Sweit William to his lady said:
      'My deir, I have cause to weep.

    'I dreimt a dreim, my dear ladye;
      Such dreims are never good:
    I dreimt my bouir was full of red swine,
      And my bride-bed full of blood.'

    'Such dreims, such dreims, my honoured sir,
      They never do prove good;
    To dreim thy bouir was full of red swine,
      And thy bride-bed full of blood.'

    He called up his merry-men all,
      By one, by two, and by three;
    Saying: 'I'll away to fair Margaret's bouir,
      By the leave of my ladye.'

    And when he came to fair Margaret's bouir,
      He knockit at the ring;
    And who so ready as her seven brethren
      To let sweit William in.

    Then he turned up the covering sheet:
      'Pray, let me see the deid;
    Methinks, she looks all pale and wan;
      She hath lost her cherry red.

    'I'll do more for thee, Margaret,
      Than any of thy kin,
    For I will kiss thy pale wan lips,
      Though a smile I cannot win.'

    With that bespake the seven brethren,
      Making most piteous moan:
    'You may go kiss your jolly brown bride,
      And let our sister alone.'

    'If I do kiss my jolly brown bride,
      I do but what is right;
    I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse,
      By day nor yet by night.

    'Deal on, deal on, my merry-men all;
      Deal on your cake and your wine:
    For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day,
      Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine.'

    Fair Margaret died to-day, to-day,
      Sweit William died to-morrow;
    Fair Margaret died for pure true love,
      Sweit William died for sorrow.

    Margaret was buried in the lower chancel,
      And William in the higher;
    Out of her breast there sprang a rose,
      And out of his a brier.

    They grew till they grew unto the church-top,
      And then they could grow no higher;
    And there they tied in a true lovers' knot,
      Which made all the people admire.

    Then came the clerk of the parish,
      As you the truth shall hear,
    And by misfortune cut them down,
      Or they had now been there.

Here, it will be observed, beyond the expression, 'my merry-men all,'
there is no trace of the phraseology so marked in the group of ballads
under our notice. Take, also, a ballad which, from the occurrences
referred to, may be considered as antecedent to the epoch of
_Hardyknute_, and we shall observe an equal, if not more complete,
absence of the phraseology and manner of this class of ballads. It
relates to a tragic love-story of 1631, as ascertained from the
grave-stone of the heroine in the kirk-yard of Fyvie, Aberdeenshire:

    Lord Fyvie had a trumpeter,
      His name was Andrew Lammie;
    He had the art to gain the heart
      Of Mill-o'-Tifty's Annie.

          *      *      *

    She sighed sore, but said no more,
      Alas, for bonny Annie!
    She durst not own her heart was won
      By the trumpeter of Fyvie.

    At night when they went to their beds,
      All slept full sound but Annie;
    Love so opprest her tender breast,
      Thinking on Andrew Lammie.

    'Love comes in at my bed-side,
      And love lies down beyond me,
    Love has possessed my tender breast,
      And wastes away my body.

    'At Fyvie yetts there grows a flower,
      It grows baith braid and bonny;
    There is a daisy in the midst o' it.
      And it's ca'd by Andrew Lammie.

    'O gin that flower were in my breast,
      For the love I bear the laddie,
    I wad kiss it, and I wad clap it,
      And daut it for Andrew Lammie.

    'The first time I and my love met
      Was in the woods of Fyvie;
    His lovely form and speech so sweet
      Soon gained the heart of Annie.

    'Oh, up and down, in Tifty's den,
      Where the burns run clear and bonny,
    I've often gone to meet my love,
      My bonny Andrew Lammie.

    'He kissed my lips five thousand times,
      And aye he ca'd me bonny;
    And a' the answer he gat frae me,
      Was, "My bonny Andrew Lammie!"'

    But now, alas! her father heard
      That the trumpeter of Fyvie
    Had had the art to gain the heart
      Of Tifty's bonny Annie.

    And he has syne a letter wrote,
      And sent it on to Fyvie,
    To tell his daughter was bewitched
      By his servant, Andrew Lammie.

    When Lord Fyvie this letter read,
      O dear, but he was sorry;
    'The bonniest lass in Fyvie's land
      Is bewitched by Andrew Lammie.'

    Then up the stair his trumpeter
      He called soon and shortly;
    'Pray tell me soon what's this you've done
      To Tifty's bonny Annie?'

    'In wicked art I had no part,
      Nor therein am I canny;
    True love alone the heart has won
      Of Tifty's bonny Annie.

    'Woe betide Mill-o'-Tifty's pride,
      For it has ruined many;
    He'll no hae't said that she should wed
      The trumpeter of Fyvie.'

          *      *      *

    'Love, I maun gang to Edinburgh;
      Love, I maun gang and leave thee.'
    She sighed sore, and said no more,
      But, 'Oh, gin I were wi' ye!'

    'I'll buy to thee a bridal goun;
      My love, I'll buy it bonny!'
    'But I'll be dead, ere ye come back
      To see your bonny Annie.'

    'If you'll be true, and constant too,
      As my name's Andrew Lammie,
    I shall thee wed when I come back,
      Within the kirk of Fyvie.'

    'I will be true, and constant too,
      To thee, my Andrew Lammie;
    But my bridal-bed will ere then be made
      In the green kirk-yard of Fyvie.'

    He hied him hame, and having spieled
      To the house-top of Fyvie,
    He blew his trumpet loud and shrill,
      'Twas heard at Mill-o'-Tifty.

    Her father locked the door at night,
      Laid by the keys fu' canny;
    And when he heard the trumpet sound,
      Said: 'Your cow is lowing, Annie.'

    'My father, dear, I pray forbear,
      And reproach no more your Annie;
    For I'd rather hear that cow to low
      Than hae a' the kine in Fyvie.

    'I would not for your braw new gown,
      And a' your gifts sae many,
    That it were told in Fyvie's land
      How cruel you are to me.'

    Her father struck her wondrous sore,
      As also did her mother;
    Her sisters always did her scorn,
      As also did her brother.

    Her brother struck her wondrous sore,
      With cruel strokes and many;
    He brak her back in the hall-door,
      For loving Andrew Lammie.

    'Alas, my father and mother dear,
      Why are you so cruel to Annie?
    My heart was broken first by love,
      Now you have broken my bodie.

    'Oh, mother dear, make ye my bed,
      And lay my face to Fyvie;
    There will I lie, and thus will die,
      For my love, Andrew Lammie.'

    Her mother she has made her bed,
      And laid her face to Fyvie;
    Her tender heart it soon did break,
      And she ne'er saw Andrew Lammie.

    When Andrew home from Edinburgh came,
      With mickle grief and sorrow:
    'My love has died for me to-day,
      I'll die for her to-morrow.'

    He has gone on to Tifty's den,
      Where the burn runs clear and bonny;
    With tears he viewed the Bridge of Heugh,
      Where he parted last with Annie.

    Then he has sped to the church-yard,
      To the green church-yard of Fyvie;
    With tears he watered his true love's grave,
      And died for Tifty's Annie.

Let me repeat my acknowledgment that, while these extracts occupy more
space than can well be spared, they form an imperfect means of
establishing the negative evidence required in the case. But let the
reader peruse the ballads of Buchan's collection known to relate to
incidents of the seventeenth century, and he will find that they are
all alike free from the favourite expressions of the unknown, or dimly
known ballad-writer in question.

Let it never be objected that, if any one person living in the reigns
of Queen Anne and George I. had composed so many fine poems, he or she
could not have remained till now all but unknown. In the first half of
the present century, there appeared in Scotland a series of fugitive
pieces--songs--which attained a great popularity, without their being
traced to any author. Every reader will remember _The Land of the
Leal_, _Caller Herring_, _The Laird o' Cockpen_, _The Auld House_, and
_He's ower the Hills that I lo'e weel_. It was not till after many
years of fame that these pieces were found to be the production of a
lady of rank, Carolina Baroness Nairn, who had passed through a life of
seventy-nine years without being known as a song-writer to more than
one person. It was the fate of this songstress to live in days when
there was an interest felt in such authorships, insuring that she
should sooner or later become known; but, had she lived a hundred years
earlier, she might have died and left no sign, as I conjecture to have
been the case with the author of this fine group of ballads; and future
Burnses might have pondered over her productions, with endless regret
that the names of their _authors_ were 'buried among the wreck of
things that were.'

If there be any truth or force in this speculation, I shall be
permitted to indulge in the idea that a person lived a hundred years
before Scott, who, with his feeling for Scottish history, and the
features of the past generally, constructed out of these materials a
similar romantic literature. In short, Scotland appears to have had a
Scott a hundred years before the actual person so named. And we may
well believe that if we had not had the first, we either should not
have had the second, or he would have been something considerably
different, for, beyond question, Sir Walter's genius was fed and
nurtured on the ballad literature of his native country. From his _Old
Mortality_ and _Waverley_, back to his _Lady_ _of the Lake and
Marmion_; from these to his _Lay of the Last Minstrel_; from that to
his _Eve of St John_ and _Glenfinlas_; and from these, again, to the
ballads which he collected, mainly the produce (as I surmise) of an
individual precursor, is a series of steps easily traced, and which no
one will dispute. Much significance there is, indeed, in his own
statement, that _Hardyknute_ was the first poem he ever learned, and
the last he should forget. Its author--if my suspicion be correct--was
his literary foster-mother, and we probably owe the direction of his
genius, and all its fascinating results, primarily to her.