{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_1054/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_1054","id":"gutenberg_1054","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1054","summary":null,"tags":["Ballads, Scots -- Scotland -- Texts","Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry"],"text":"Transcribed from the 1910 Chapman and Hall editionby David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n [Picture: Book cover]\n\n\n\n\n\n A COLLECTION OF\n BALLADS\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTION\n AND NOTES\n BY\n ANDREW LANG\n\n * * * * *\n\n LONDON\n CHAPMAN AND HALL, LIMITED\n\n * * * * *\n\n _First Published in 1897_\n _Reprinted 1910_\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n PAGE\nINTRODUCTION ix\nSIR PATRICK SPENS 1\nBATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE 5\nTAM LIN 10\nTHOMAS THE RHYMER 16\n\u201cSIR HUGH; OR THE JEW\u2019S DAUGHTER\u201d 19\nSON DAVIE! SON DAVIE! 22\nTHE WIFE OF USHER\u2019S WELL 24\nTHE TWA CORBIES 26\nTHE BONNIE EARL MORAY 27\nCLERK SAUNDERS 30\nWALY, WALY 35\nLOVE GREGOR; OR, THE LASS OF LOCHROYAN 37\nTHE QUEEN\u2019S MARIE 41\nKINMONT WILLIE 45\nJAMIE TELFER 52\nTHE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY 59\nTHE BONNY HIND 62\nYOUNG BICHAM 65\nTHE LOVING BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN 69\nTHE BONNIE HOUSE O\u2019 AIRLY 73\nROB ROY 75\nTHE BATTLE OF KILLIE-CRANKIE 77\nANNAN WATER 79\nTHE ELPHIN NOURRICE 81\nCOSPATRICK 82\nJOHNNIE ARMSTRANG 87\nEDOM O\u2019 GORDON 92\nLADY ANNE BOTHWELL\u2019S LAMENT 98\nJOCK O THE SIDE 101\nLORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET 107\nFAIR ANNIE 111\nTHE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW 116\nSIR ROLAND 119\nROSE THE RED AND WHITE LILY 123\nTHE BATTLE OF HARLAW\u2014EVERGREEN VERSION 131\nTRADITIONARY VERSION 138\nDICKIE MACPHALION 142\nA LYKE-WAKE DIRGE 143\nTHE LAIRD OF WARISTOUN 145\nMAY COLVEN 147\nJOHNIE FAA 150\nHOBBIE NOBLE 152\nTHE TWA SISTERS 157\nMARY AMBREE 160\nALISON GROSS 165\nTHE HEIR OF LYNNE 167\nGORDON OF BRACKLEY 172\nEDWARD, EDWARD 175\nYOUNG BENJIE 177\nAULD MAITLAND 180\nTHE BROOMFIELD HILL 189\nWILLIE\u2019S LADYE 193\nROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK 196\nROBIN HOOD AND THE POTTER 209\nROBIN HOOD AND THE BUTCHER 221\nNOTES 227\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nWHEN the learned first gave serious attention to popular ballads, from\nthe time of Percy to that of Scott, they laboured under certain\ndisabilities. The Comparative Method was scarcely understood, and was\nlittle practised. Editors were content to study the ballads of their own\ncountryside, or, at most, of Great Britain. Teutonic and Northern\nparallels to our ballads were then adduced, as by Scott and Jamieson. It\nwas later that the ballads of Europe, from the Faroes to Modern Greece,\nwere compared with our own, with European _M\u00e4rchen_, or children\u2019s tales,\nand with the popular songs, dances, and traditions of classical and\nsavage peoples. The results of this more recent comparison may be\nbriefly stated. Poetry begins, as Aristotle says, in improvisation.\nEvery man is his own poet, and, in moments of stronge motion, expresses\nhimself in song. A typical example is the Song of Lamech in Genesis\u2014\n\n \u201cI have slain a man to my wounding,\n And a young man to my hurt.\u201d\n\nInstances perpetually occur in the Sagas: Grettir, Egil, Skarphedin, are\nalways singing. In _Kidnapped_, Mr. Stevenson introduces \u201cThe Song of\nthe Sword of Alan,\u201d a fine example of Celtic practice: words and air are\nbeaten out together, in the heat of victory. In the same way, the women\nsang improvised dirges, like Helen; lullabies, like the lullaby of Dan\u00e6\nin Simonides, and flower songs, as in modern Italy. Every function of\nlife, war, agriculture, the chase, had its appropriate magical and\nmimetic dance and song, as in Finland, among Red Indians, and among\nAustralian blacks. \u201cThe deeds of men\u201d were chanted by heroes, as by\nAchilles; stories were told in alternate verse and prose; girls, like\nHomer\u2019s Nausicaa, accompanied dance and ball play, priests and\nmedicine-men accompanied rites and magical ceremonies by songs.\n\nThese practices are world-wide, and world-old. The thoroughly popular\nsongs, thus evolved, became the rude material of a professional class of\nminstrels, when these arose, as in the heroic age of Greece. A minstrel\nmight be attached to a Court, or a noble; or he might go wandering with\nsong and harp among the people. In either case, this class of men\ndeveloped more regular and ample measures. They evolved the hexameter;\nthe _laisse_ of the _Chansons de Geste_; the strange technicalities of\nScandinavian poetry; the metres of Vedic hymns; the choral odes of\nGreece. The narrative popular chant became in their hands the Epic, or\nthe medi\u00e6val rhymed romance. The metre of improvised verse changed into\nthe artistic lyric. These lyric forms were fixed, in many cases, by the\nart of writing. But poetry did not remain solely in professional and\nliterary hands. The medi\u00e6val minstrels and _jongleurs_ (who may best be\nstudied in L\u00e9on Gautier\u2019s Introduction to his _Epop\u00e9es Fran\u00e7aises_) sang\nin Court and Camp. The poorer, less regular brethren of the art, harped\nand played conjuring tricks, in farm and grange, or at street corners.\nThe foreign newer metres took the place of the old alliterative English\nverse. But unprofessional men and women did not cease to make and sing.\n\nSome writers have decided, among them Mr. Courthope, that our traditional\nballads are degraded popular survivals of literary poetry. The plots and\nsituations of some ballads are, indeed, the same as those of some\nliterary medi\u00e6val romances. But these plots and situations, in Epic and\nRomance, are themselves the final literary form of _m\u00e4rchen_, myths and\ninventions originally _popular_, and still, in certain cases, extant in\npopular form among races which have not yet evolved, or borrowed, the\nampler and more polished and complex _genres_ of literature. Thus, when\na literary romance and a ballad have the same theme, the ballad may be a\npopular degradation of the romance; or, it may be the original popular\nshape of it, still surviving in tradition. A well-known case in prose,\nis that of the French fairy tales.\n\nPerrault, in 1697, borrowed these from tradition and gave them literary\nand courtly shape. But _Cendrillon_ or _Chaperon Rouge_ in the mouth of\na French peasant, is apt to be the old traditional version,\nuncontaminated by the refinements of Perrault, despite Perrault\u2019s immense\nsuccess and circulation. Thus tradition preserves pre-literary forms,\neven though, on occasion, it may borrow from literature. Peasant poets\nhave been authors of ballads, without being, for all that, professional\nminstrels. Many such poems survive in our ballad literature.\n\nThe material of the ballad may be either romantic or historical. The\nformer class is based on one of the primeval invented situations, one of\nthe elements of the _M\u00e4rchen_ in prose. Such tales or myths occur in the\nstories of savages, in the legends of peasants, are interwoven later with\nthe plot in Epic or Romance, and may also inspire ballads. Popular\nsuperstitions, the witch, metamorphosis, the returning ghost, the fairy,\nall of them survivals of the earliest thought, naturally play a great\npart. The Historical ballad, on the other hand, has a basis of\nresounding fact, murder, battle, or fire-raising, but the facts, being\nderived from popular rumour, are immediately corrupted and distorted,\nsometimes out of all knowledge. Good examples are the ballads on\nDarnley\u2019s murder and the youth of James VI.\n\nIn the romantic class, we may take _Tamlane_. Here the idea of fairies\nstealing children is thoroughly popular; they also steal young men as\nlovers, and again, men may win fairy brides, by clinging to them through\nall transformations. A classical example is the seizure of Thetis by\nPeleus, and Child quotes a modern Cretan example. The dipping in milk\nand water, I may add, has precedent in ancient Egypt (in _The Two\nBrothers_), and in modern Senegambia. The fairy tax, tithe, or teind,\npaid to Hell, is illustrated by old trials for witchcraft, in Scotland.\n{0a} Now, in literary forms and romance, as in _Ogier le Danois_,\npersons are carried away by the Fairy King or Queen. But here the\nliterary romance borrows from popular superstition; the ballad has no\nneed to borrow a familiar fact from literary romance. On the whole\nsubject the curious may consult \u201cThe Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns,\nand Fairies,\u201d by the Reverend Robert Kirk of Aberfoyle, himself,\naccording to tradition, a victim of the fairies.\n\nThus, in _Tamlane_, the whole _donn\u00e9e_ is popular. But the current\nversion, that of Scott, is contaminated, as Scott knew, by incongruous\nmodernisms. Burns\u2019s version, from tradition, already localizes the\nevents at Carterhaugh, the junction of Ettrick and Yarrow. But Burns\u2019s\nversion does not make the Earl of Murray father of the hero, nor the Earl\nof March father of the heroine. Roxburgh is the hero\u2019s father in Burns\u2019s\nvariant, which is more plausible, and the modern verses do not occur.\nThis ballad apparently owes nothing to literary romance.\n\nIn _Mary Hamilton_ we have a notable instance of the Historical Ballad.\nNo Marie of Mary Stuart\u2019s suffered death for child murder.\n\nShe had no Marie Hamilton, no Marie Carmichael among her four Maries,\nthough a lady of the latter name was at her court. But early in the\nreign a Frenchwoman of the queen\u2019s was hanged, with her paramour, an\napothecary, for slaying her infant. Knox mentions the fact, which is\nalso recorded in letters from the English ambassador, uncited by Mr.\nChild. Knox adds that there were ballads against the Maries. Now, in\nMarch 1719, a Mary Hamilton, of Scots descent, a maid of honour of\nCatherine of Russia, was hanged for child murder (_Child_, vi. 383). It\nhas therefore been supposed, first by Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe long\nago, later by Professor Child, and then by Mr. Courthope, that our ballad\nis of 1719, or later, and deals with the Russian, not the Scotch,\ntragedy.\n\nTo this we may reply (1) that we have no example of such a throwing back\nof a contemporary event, in ballads. (2) There is a version (_Child_,\nviii. 507) in which Mary Hamilton\u2019s paramour is a \u201cpottinger,\u201d or\napothecary, as in the real old Scotch affair. (3) The number of variants\nof a ballad is likely to be proportionate to its antiquity and wide\ndistribution. Now only _Sir Patrick Spens_ has so many widely different\nvariants as _Mary Hamilton_. These could hardly have been evolved\nbetween 1719 and 1790, when Burns quotes the poem as an old ballad. (4)\nWe have no example of a poem so much in the old ballad manner, for\nperhaps a hundred and fifty years before 1719. The style first degraded\nand then expired: compare _Rob Roy_ and _Killiecrankie_, in this\ncollection, also the ballads of _Loudoun Hill_, _The Battle of\nPhiliphaugh_, and others much earlier than 1719. New styles of popular\npoetry on contemporary events as _Sherriffmuir_ and _Tranent Brae_ had\narisen. (5) The extreme historic inaccuracy of _Mary Hamilton_ is\nparalleled by that of all the ballads on real events. The mention of the\nPottinger is a trace of real history which has no parallel in the Russian\naffair, and there is no room, says Professor Child, for the supposition\nthat it was voluntarily inserted by reciter or copyist, to tally with the\nnarrative in Knox\u2019s History.\n\nOn the other side, we have the name of Mary Hamilton occurring in a\ntragic event of 1719, but then the name does not uniformly appear in the\nvariants of the ballad. The lady is there spoken of generally as Mary\nHamilton, but also as Mary Myle, Lady Maisry, as daughter of the Duke of\nYork (Stuart), as Marie Mild, and so forth. Though she bids sailors\ncarry the tale of her doom, she is not abroad, but in Edinburgh town.\nNothing can be less probable than that a Scots popular ballad-maker in\n1719, telling the tale of a yesterday\u2019s tragedy in Russia, should throw\nthe time back by a hundred and fifty years, should change the scene to\nScotland (the heart of the sorrow would be Mary\u2019s exile), and, above all,\nshould compose a ballad in a style long obsolete. This is not the method\nof the popular poet, and such imitations of the old ballad as\n_Hardyknute_ show that literary poets of 1719 had not knowledge or skill\nenough to mimic the antique manner with any success.\n\nWe may, therefore, even in face of Professor Child, regard _Mary\nHamilton_ as an old example of popular perversion of history in ballad,\nnot as \u201cone of the very latest,\u201d and also \u201cone of the very best\u201d of\nScottish popular ballads.\n\n_Rob Roy_ shows the same power of perversion. It was not Rob Roy but his\nsons, Robin Oig (who shot Maclaren at the plough-tail), and James Mohr\n(alternately the spy, the Jacobite, and the Hanoverian spy once more),\nwho carried off the heiress of Edenbelly. Indeed a kind of added\nepilogue, in a different measure, proves that a poet was aware of the\nfacts, and wished to correct his predecessor.\n\nSuch then are ballads, in relation to legend and history. They are, on\nthe whole, with exceptions, absolutely popular in origin, composed by men\nof the people for the people, and then diffused among and altered by\npopular reciters. In England they soon won their way into printed stall\ncopies, and were grievously handled and moralized by the hack editors.\n\nNo ballad has a stranger history than _The Loving Ballad of Lord\nBateman_, illustrated by the pencils of Cruikshank and Thackeray. Their\nform is a ludicrous cockney perversion, but it retains the essence.\nBateman, a captive of \u201cthis Turk,\u201d is beloved by the Turk\u2019s daughter (a\nstaple incident of old French romance), and by her released. The lady\nafter seven years rejoins Lord Bateman: he has just married a local\nbride, but \u201corders another marriage,\u201d and sends home his bride \u201cin a\ncoach and three.\u201d This incident is stereotyped in the ballads and occurs\nin an example in the Romaic. {0b}\n\nNow Lord Bateman is _Young Bekie_ in the Scotch ballads, who becomes\n_Young Beichan_, _Young Bichem_, and so forth, and has adventures\nidentical with those of Lord Bateman, though the proud porter in the\nScots version is scarcely so prominent and illustrious. As Motherwell\nsaw, Bekie (Beichan, Buchan, Bateman) is really Becket, Gilbert Becket,\nfather of Thomas of Canterbury. Every one has heard how _his_ Saracen\nbride sought him in London. (Robert of Gloucester\u2019s _Life and Martyrdom\nof Thomas Becket_, Percy Society. See Child\u2019s Introduction, IV., i.\n1861, and _Motherwell\u2019s Minstrelsy_, p. xv., 1827.) The legend of the\ndissolved marriage is from the common stock of ballad lore, Motherwell\nfound an example in the state of _Cantefable_, alternate prose and verse,\nlike _Aucassin and Nicolette_. Thus the cockney rhyme descends from the\ntwelfth century.\n\nSuch are a few of the curiosities of the ballad. The examples selected\nare chiefly chosen for their romantic charm, and for the spirit of the\nBorder raids which they record. A few notes are added in an appendix.\nThe text is chosen from among the many variants in Child\u2019s learned but\nstill unfinished collection, and an effort has been made to choose the\ncopies which contain most poetry with most signs of uncontaminated\noriginality. In a few cases Sir Walter Scott\u2019s versions, though\nconfessedly \u201cmade up,\u201d are preferred. Perhaps the editor may be allowed\nto say that he does not merely plough with Professor Child\u2019s heifer, but\nhas made a study of ballads from his boyhood.\n\nThis fact may exempt him, even in the eyes of too patriotic American\ncritics, from \u201cthe common blame of a plagiary.\u201d Indeed, as Professor\nChild has not yet published his general theory of the Ballad, the editor\ndoes not know whether he agrees with the ideas here set forth.\n\nSo far the Editor had written, when news came of Professor Child\u2019s\nregretted death. He had lived to finish, it is said, the vast collection\nof all known traditional Scottish and English Ballads, with all\naccessible variants, a work of great labour and research, and a\ndistinguished honour to American scholarship. We are not told, however,\nthat he had written a general study of the topic, with his conclusions as\nto the evolution and diffusion of the Ballads: as to the influences which\ndirected the selection of certain themes of _M\u00e4rchen_ for poetic\ntreatment, and the processes by which identical ballads were distributed\nthroughout Europe. No one, it is to be feared, is left, in Europe at\nleast, whose knowledge of the subject is so wide and scientific as that\nof Professor Child. It is to be hoped that some pupil of his may\ncomplete the task in his sense, if, indeed, he has left it unfinished.\n\n\n\n\nSIR PATRICK SPENS\n\n\n (_Border Minstrelsy_.)\n\n THE king sits in Dunfermline town,\n Drinking the blude-red wine o:\n \u201cO whare will I get a skeely skipper\n To sail this new ship of mine o?\u201d\n\n O up and spake an eldern-knight,\n Sat at the king\u2019s right knee:\n \u201cSir Patrick Spens is the best sailor\n That ever saild the sea.\u201d\n\n Our king has written a braid letter,\n And seald it with his hand,\n And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,\n Was walking on the strand.\n\n \u201cTo Noroway, to Noroway,\n To Noroway oer the faem;\n The king\u2019s daughter of Noroway,\n \u2019Tis thou maun bring her hame.\u201d\n\n The first word that Sir Patrick read,\n Sae loud, loud laughed he;\n The neist word that Sir Patrick read,\n The tear blinded his ee.\n\n \u201cO wha is this has done this deed,\n And tauld the king o me,\n To send us out, at this time of the year,\n To sail upon the sea?\u201d\n\n \u201cBe it wind, be it weet, be it hall, be it sleet,\n Our ship must sail the faem;\n The king\u2019s daughter of Noroway,\n \u2019Tis we must fetch her hame.\u201d\n\n They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,\n Wi\u2019 a\u2019 the speed they may;\n They hae landed in Noroway,\n Upon a Wodensday.\n\n They hadna been a week, a week\n In Noroway but twae,\n When that the lords o Noroway\n Began aloud to say:\n\n \u201cYe Scottishmen spend a\u2019 our king\u2019s goud,\n And a\u2019 our queenis fee.\u201d\n \u201cYe lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!\n Fu\u2019 loud I hear ye lie!\n\n \u201cFor I brought as much white monie\n As gane my men and me,\n And I brought a half-fou\u2019 o\u2019 gude red goud,\n Out o\u2019er the sea wi\u2019 me.\n\n \u201cMake ready, make ready, my merry-men a\u2019!\n Our gude ship sails the morn.\u201d\n \u201cNow ever alake, my master dear,\n I fear a deadly storm!\n\n I saw the new moon, late yestreen,\n Wi\u2019 the auld moon in her arm;\n And if we gang to sea, master,\n I fear we\u2019ll come to harm.\u201d\n\n They hadna sail\u2019d a league, a league,\n A league but barely three,\n When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,\n And gurly grew the sea.\n\n The ankers brak, and the top-masts lap,\n It was sic a deadly storm;\n And the waves cam o\u2019er the broken ship,\n Till a\u2019 her sides were torn.\n\n \u201cO where will I get a gude sailor,\n To take my helm in hand,\n Till I get up to the tall top-mast;\n To see if I can spy land?\u201d\n\n \u201cO here am I, a sailor gude,\n To take the helm in hand,\n Till you go up to the tall top-mast\n But I fear you\u2019ll ne\u2019er spy land.\u201d\n\n He hadna gane a step, a step,\n A step but barely ane,\n When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,\n And the salt sea it came in.\n\n \u201cGae, fetch a web o\u2019 the silken claith,\n Another o\u2019 the twine,\n And wap them into our ship\u2019s side,\n And let na the sea come in.\u201d\n\n They fetchd a web o the silken claith,\n Another o the twine,\n And they wapped them roun that gude ship\u2019s side\n But still the sea came in.\n\n O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords\n To weet their cork-heel\u2019d shoon!\n But lang or a the play was play\u2019d\n They wat their hats aboon,\n\n And mony was the feather-bed\n That fluttered on the faem,\n And mony was the gude lord\u2019s son\n That never mair cam hame.\n\n The ladyes wrang their fingers white,\n The maidens tore their hair,\n A\u2019 for the sake of their true loves,\n For them they\u2019ll see na mair.\n\n O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,\n Wi\u2019 their fans into their hand,\n Before they see Sir Patrick Spens\n Come sailing to the strand!\n\n And lang, lang may the maidens sit,\n Wi\u2019 their goud kaims in their hair,\n A\u2019 waiting for their ain dear loves!\n For them they\u2019ll see na mair.\n\n O forty miles off Aberdeen,\n \u2019Tis fifty fathoms deep,\n And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,\n Wi\u2019 the Scots lords at his feet.\n\n\n\n\nBATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. vi.)\n\n IT fell about the Lammas tide,\n When the muir-men win their hay,\n The doughty Douglas bound him to ride\n Into England, to drive a prey.\n\n He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,\n With them the Lindesays, light and gay;\n But the Jardines wald nor with him ride,\n And they rue it to this day.\n\n And he has burn\u2019d the dales of Tyne,\n And part of Bambrough shire:\n And three good towers on Reidswire fells,\n He left them all on fire.\n\n And he march\u2019d up to Newcastle,\n And rode it round about:\n \u201cO wha\u2019s the lord of this castle?\n Or wha\u2019s the lady o\u2019t?\u201d\n\n But up spake proud Lord Percy then,\n And O but he spake hie!\n \u201cI am the lord of this castle,\n My wife\u2019s the lady gaye.\u201d\n\n \u201cIf thou\u2019rt the lord of this castle,\n Sae weel it pleases me!\n For, ere I cross the Border fells,\n The tane of us sall die.\u201d\n\n He took a lang spear in his hand,\n Shod with the metal free,\n And for to meet the Douglas there,\n He rode right furiouslie.\n\n But O how pale his lady look\u2019d,\n Frae aff the castle wa\u2019,\n When down, before the Scottish spear,\n She saw proud Percy fa\u2019.\n\n \u201cHad we twa been upon the green,\n And never an eye to see,\n I wad hae had you, flesh and fell;\n But your sword sall gae wi\u2019 mee.\u201d\n\n \u201cBut gae ye up to Otterbourne,\n And wait there dayis three;\n And, if I come not ere three dayis end,\n A fause knight ca\u2019 ye me.\u201d\n\n \u201cThe Otterbourne\u2019s a bonnie burn;\n \u2019Tis pleasant there to be;\n But there is nought at Otterbourne,\n To feed my men and me.\n\n \u201cThe deer rins wild on hill and dale,\n The birds fly wild from tree to tree;\n But there is neither bread nor kale,\n To feed my men and me.\n\n \u201cYet I will stay it Otterbourne,\n Where you shall welcome be;\n And, if ye come not at three dayis end,\n A fause lord I\u2019ll ca\u2019 thee.\u201d\n\n \u201cThither will I come,\u201d proud Percy said,\n \u201cBy the might of Our Ladye!\u201d\u2014\n \u201cThere will I bide thee,\u201d said the Douglas,\n \u201cMy troth I plight to thee.\u201d\n\n They lighted high on Otterbourne,\n Upon the bent sae brown;\n They lighted high on Otterbourne,\n And threw their pallions down.\n\n And he that had a bonnie boy,\n Sent out his horse to grass,\n And he that had not a bonnie boy,\n His ain servant he was.\n\n But up then spake a little page,\n Before the peep of dawn:\n \u201cO waken ye, waken ye, my good lord,\n For Percy\u2019s hard at hand.\u201d\n\n \u201cYe lie, ye lie, ye liar loud!\n Sae loud I hear ye lie;\n For Percy had not men yestreen,\n To dight my men and me.\n\n \u201cBut I have dream\u2019d a dreary dream,\n Beyond the Isle of Sky;\n I saw a dead man win a fight,\n And I think that man was I.\u201d\n\n He belted on his guid braid sword,\n And to the field he ran;\n But he forgot the helmet good,\n That should have kept his brain.\n\n When Percy wi the Douglas met,\n I wat he was fu fain!\n They swakked their swords, till sair they swat,\n And the blood ran down like rain.\n\n But Percy with his good broad sword,\n That could so sharply wound,\n Has wounded Douglas on the brow,\n Till he fell to the ground.\n\n Then he calld on his little foot-page,\n And said\u2014\u201cRun speedilie,\n And fetch my ain dear sister\u2019s son,\n Sir Hugh Montgomery.\n\n \u201cMy nephew good,\u201d the Douglas said,\n \u201cWhat recks the death of ane!\n Last night I dreamd a dreary dream,\n And I ken the day\u2019s thy ain.\n\n \u201cMy wound is deep; I fain would sleep;\n Take thou the vanguard of the three,\n And hide me by the braken bush,\n That grows on yonder lilye lee.\n\n \u201cO bury me by the braken-bush,\n Beneath the blooming brier;\n Let never living mortal ken\n That ere a kindly Scot lies here.\u201d\n\n He lifted up that noble lord,\n Wi the saut tear in his e\u2019e;\n He hid him in the braken bush,\n That his merrie men might not see.\n\n The moon was clear, the day drew near,\n The spears in flinders flew,\n But mony a gallant Englishman\n Ere day the Scotsmen slew.\n\n The Gordons good, in English blood,\n They steepd their hose and shoon;\n The Lindesays flew like fire about,\n Till all the fray was done.\n\n The Percy and Montgomery met,\n That either of other were fain;\n They swapped swords, and they twa swat,\n And aye the blood ran down between.\n\n \u201cYield thee, now yield thee, Percy,\u201d he said,\n \u201cOr else I vow I\u2019ll lay thee low!\u201d\n \u201cTo whom must I yield,\u201d quoth Earl Percy,\n \u201cNow that I see it must be so?\u201d\n\n \u201cThou shalt not yield to lord nor loun,\n Nor yet shalt thou yield to me;\n But yield thee to the braken-bush,\n That grows upon yon lilye lee!\u201d\n\n \u201cI will not yield to a braken-bush,\n Nor yet will I yield to a brier;\n But I would yield to Earl Douglas,\n Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here.\u201d\n\n As soon as he knew it was Montgomery,\n He stuck his sword\u2019s point in the gronde;\n The Montgomery was a courteous knight,\n And quickly took him by the honde.\n\n This deed was done at Otterbourne,\n About the breaking of the day;\n Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush,\n And the Percy led captive away.\n\n\n\n\nTAM LIN\n\n\n (_Child_, Part II., p. 340, Burns\u2019s Version.)\n\n O I FORBID you, maidens a\u2019,\n That wear gowd on your hair,\n To come or gae by Carterhaugh,\n For young Tam Lin is there.\n\n There\u2019s nane that gaes by Carterhaugh\n But they leave him a wad,\n Either their rings, or green mantles,\n Or else their maidenhead.\n\n Janet has kilted her green kirtle\n A little aboon her knee,\n And she has braided her yellow hair\n A little aboon her bree,\n And she\u2019s awa\u2019 to Carterhaugh,\n As fast as she can hie.\n\n When she came to Carterhaugh\n Tam Lin was at the well,\n And there she fand his steed standing,\n But away was himsel.\n\n She had na pu\u2019d a double rose,\n A rose but only twa,\n Till up then started young Tam Lin,\n Says, \u201cLady, thou\u2019s pu nae mae.\n\n \u201cWhy pu\u2019s thou the rose, Janet,\n And why breaks thou the wand?\n Or why comes thou to Carterhaugh\n Withoutten my command?\u201d\n\n \u201cCarterhaugh, it is my ain,\n My daddie gave it me;\n I\u2019ll come and gang by Carterhaugh,\n And ask nae leave at thee.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n Janet has kilted her green kirtle\n A little aboon her knee,\n And she has snooded her yellow hair\n A little aboon her bree,\n And she is to her father\u2019s ha,\n As fast as she can hie.\n\n Four and twenty ladies fair\n Were playing at the ba,\n And out then cam the fair Janet,\n Ance the flower amang them a\u2019.\n\n Four and twenty ladies fair\n Were playing at the chess,\n And out then cam the fair Janet,\n As green as onie grass.\n\n Out then spak an auld grey knight,\n Lay oer the castle wa,\n And says, \u201cAlas, fair Janet, for thee\n But we\u2019ll be blamed a\u2019.\u201d\n\n \u201cHaud your tongue, ye auld-fac\u2019d knight,\n Some ill death may ye die!\n Father my bairn on whom I will,\n I\u2019ll father nane on thee.\u201d\n\n Out then spak her father dear,\n And he spak meek and mild;\n \u201cAnd ever alas, sweet Janet,\u201d he says.\n \u201cI think thou gaes wi child.\u201d\n\n \u201cIf that I gae wi\u2019 child, father,\n Mysel maun bear the blame;\n There\u2019s neer a laird about your ha\n Shall get the bairn\u2019s name.\n\n \u201cIf my love were an earthly knight,\n As he\u2019s an elfin grey,\n I wad na gie my ain true-love\n For nae lord that ye hae.\n\n \u201cThe steed that my true-love rides on\n Is lighter than the wind;\n Wi siller he is shod before\n Wi burning gowd behind.\u201d\n\n Janet has kilted her green kirtle\n A little aboon her knee,\n And she has snooded her yellow hair\n A little aboon her bree,\n And she\u2019s awa\u2019 to Carterhaugh,\n As fast as she can hie.\n\n When she cam to Carterhaugh,\n Tam Lin was at the well,\n And there she fand his steed standing,\n But away was himsel.\n\n She had na pu\u2019d a double rose,\n A rose but only twa,\n Till up then started young Tam Lin,\n Says, \u201cLady, thou pu\u2019s nae mae.\n\n \u201cWhy pu\u2019s thou the rose, Janet,\n Amang the groves sae green,\n And a\u2019 to kill the bonie babe\n That we gat us between?\u201d\n\n \u201cO tell me, tell me, Tam Lin,\u201d she says,\n \u201cFor\u2019s sake that died on tree,\n If eer ye was in holy chapel,\n Or christendom did see?\u201d\n\n \u201cRoxbrugh he was my grandfather,\n Took me with him to bide,\n And ance it fell upon a day\n That wae did me betide.\n\n \u201cAnd ance it fell upon a day,\n A cauld day and a snell,\n When we were frae the hunting come,\n That frae my horse I fell;\n The Queen o Fairies she caught me,\n In yon green hill to dwell.\n\n \u201cAnd pleasant is the fairy land,\n But, an eerie tale to tell,\n Ay at the end of seven years\n We pay a tiend to hell;\n I am sae fair and fu\u2019 o flesh\n I\u2019m feared it be mysel.\n\n \u201cBut the night is Halloween, lady,\n The morn is Hallowday;\n Then win me, win me, an ye will,\n For weel I wat ye may.\n\n \u201cJust at the mirk and midnight hour\n The fairy folk will ride,\n And they that wad their true love win,\n At Miles Cross they maun bide.\u201d\n\n \u201cBut how shall I thee ken, Tam Lin,\n Or how my true-love know,\n Amang sae mony unco knights\n The like I never saw?\u201d\n\n \u201cO first let pass the black, lady,\n And syne let pass the brown,\n But quickly run to the milk-white steed,\n Pu ye his rider down.\n\n \u201cFor I\u2019ll ride on the milk-white steed,\n And ay nearest the town;\n Because I was an earthly knight\n They gie me that renown.\n\n \u201cMy right hand will be gloyd, lady,\n My left hand will be bare,\n Cockt up shall my bonnet be,\n And kaimd down shall my hair;\n And thae\u2019s the takens I gie thee,\n Nae doubt I will be there.\n\n \u201cThey\u2019ll turn me in your arms, lady,\n Into an esk and adder;\n But hold me fast, and fear me not,\n I am your bairn\u2019s father.\n\n \u201cThey\u2019ll turn me to a bear sae grim,\n And then a lion bold;\n But hold me fast, and fear me not,\n As ye shall love your child.\n\n \u201cAgain they\u2019ll turn me in your arms\n To a red het gaud of airn;\n But hold me fast, and fear me not,\n I\u2019ll do to you nae harm.\n\n \u201cAnd last they\u2019ll turn me in your arms\n Into the burning gleed;\n Then throw me into well water,\n O throw me in wi speed.\n\n \u201cAnd then I\u2019ll be your ain true-love,\n I\u2019ll turn a naked knight;\n Then cover me wi your green mantle,\n And cover me out o sight.\u201d\n\n Gloomy, gloomy was the night,\n And eerie was the way,\n As fair Jenny in her green mantle\n To Miles Cross she did gae.\n\n About the middle o\u2019 the night\n She heard the bridles ring;\n This lady was as glad at that\n As any earthly thing.\n\n First she let the black pass by,\n And syne she let the brown;\n But quickly she ran to the milk-white steed,\n And pu\u2019d the rider down,\n\n Sae weel she minded whae he did say,\n And young Tam Lin did win;\n Syne coverd him wi her green mantle,\n As blythe\u2019s a bird in spring.\n\n Out then spak the Queen o Fairies,\n Out of a bush o broom:\n \u201cThem that has gotten young Tam Lin\n Has gotten a stately groom.\u201d\n\n Out then spak the Queen o Fairies,\n And an angry woman was she;\n \u201cShame betide her ill-far\u2019d face,\n And an ill death may she die,\n For she\u2019s taen awa the bonniest knight\n In a\u2019 my companie.\n\n \u201cBut had I kend, Tam Lin,\u201d she says,\n \u201cWhat now this night I see,\n I wad hae taen out thy twa grey e\u2019en,\n And put in twa een o tree.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHOMAS THE RHYMER\n\n\n (_Child_, Part II., p. 317.)\n\n TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;\n A ferlie he spied wi\u2019 his ee;\n And there he saw a lady bright,\n Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.\n\n Her skirt was o the grass-green silk,\n Her mantle o the velvet fyne,\n At ilka tett of her horse\u2019s mane\n Hang fifty siller bells and nine.\n\n True Thomas he pulld aff his cap,\n And louted low down to his knee:\n \u201cAll hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!\n For thy peer on earth I never did see.\u201d\n\n \u201cO no, O no, Thomas,\u201d she said,\n \u201cThat name does not belang to me;\n I am but the queen of fair Elfland,\n That am hither come to visit thee.\n\n \u201cHarp and carp, Thomas,\u201d she said,\n \u201cHarp and carp, along wi\u2019 me,\n And if ye dare to kiss my lips,\n Sure of your bodie I will be!\u201d\n\n \u201cBetide me weal, betide me woe,\n That weird sall never daunton me;\n Syne he has kissed her rosy lips,\n All underneath the Eildon Tree.\n\n \u201cNow, ye maun go wi me,\u201d she said,\n \u201cTrue Thomas, ye maun go wi me,\n And ye maun serve me seven years,\n Thro weal or woe as may chance to be.\u201d\n\n She mounted on her milk-white steed,\n She\u2019s taen True Thomas up behind,\n And aye wheneer her bride rung,\n The steed flew swifter than the wind.\n\n O they rade on, and farther on\u2014\n The steed gaed swifter than the wind\u2014\n Until they reached a desart wide,\n And living land was left behind.\n\n \u201cLight down, light down, now, True Thomas,\n And lean your head upon my knee;\n Abide and rest a little space,\n And I will shew you ferlies three.\n\n \u201cO see ye not yon narrow road,\n So thick beset with thorns and briers?\n That is the path of righteousness,\n Tho after it but few enquires.\n\n \u201cAnd see ye not that braid braid road,\n That lies across that lily leven?\n That is the path of wickedness,\n Tho some call it the road to heaven.\n\n \u201cAnd see not ye that bonny road,\n That winds about the fernie brae?\n That is the road to fair Elfland,\n Where thou and I this night maun gae.\n\n \u201cBut, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,\n Whatever ye may hear or see,\n For, if you speak word in Elflyn land,\n Ye\u2019ll neer get back to your ain countrie.\u201d\n\n O they rade on, and farther on,\n And they waded thro rivers aboon the knee,\n And they saw neither sun nor moon,\n But they heard the roaring of the sea.\n\n It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern light,\n And they waded thro red blude to the knee;\n For a\u2019 the blude that\u2019s shed an earth\n Rins thro the springs o that countrie.\n\n Syne they came on to a garden green,\n And she pu\u2019d an apple frae a tree:\n \u201cTake this for thy wages, True Thomas,\n It will give the tongue that can never lie.\u201d\n\n \u201cMy tongue is mine ain,\u201d True Thomas said,\n \u201cA gudely gift ye wad gie me!\n I neither dought to buy nor sell,\n At fair or tryst where I may be.\n\n \u201cI dought neither speak to prince or peer,\n Nor ask of grace from fair ladye:\u201d\n \u201cNow hold thy peace,\u201d the lady said,\n \u201cFor as I say, so must it be.\u201d\n\n He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,\n And a pair of shoes of velvet green,\n And till seven years were gane and past\n True Thomas on earth was never seen.\n\n\n\n\n\u201cSIR HUGH; OR THE JEW\u2019S DAUGHTER\u201d\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. v.)\n\n FOUR-AND-TWENTY bonny boys\n Were playing at the ba,\n And by it came him sweet Sir Hugh,\n And he playd o\u2019er them a\u2019.\n\n He kickd the ba with his right foot\n And catchd it wi his knee,\n And throuch-and-thro the Jew\u2019s window\n He gard the bonny ba flee.\n\n He\u2019s doen him to the Jew\u2019s castell\n And walkd it round about;\n And there he saw the Jew\u2019s daughter,\n At the window looking out.\n\n \u201cThrow down the ba, ye Jew\u2019s daughter,\n Throw down the ba to me!\u201d\n \u201cNever a bit,\u201d says the Jew\u2019s daughter,\n \u201cTill up to me come ye.\u201d\n\n \u201cHow will I come up? How can I come up?\n How can I come to thee?\n For as ye did to my auld father,\n The same ye\u2019ll do to me.\u201d\n\n She\u2019s gane till her father\u2019s garden,\n And pu\u2019d an apple red and green;\n \u2019Twas a\u2019 to wyle him sweet Sir Hugh,\n And to entice him in.\n\n She\u2019s led him in through ae dark door,\n And sae has she thro nine;\n She\u2019s laid him on a dressing-table,\n And stickit him like a swine.\n\n And first came out the thick, thick blood,\n And syne came out the thin;\n And syne came out the bonny heart\u2019s blood;\n There was nae mair within.\n\n She\u2019s rowd him in a cake o lead,\n Bade him lie still and sleep;\n She\u2019s thrown him in Our Lady\u2019s draw-well,\n Was fifty fathom deep.\n\n When bells were rung, and mass was sung,\n And a\u2019 the bairns came hame,\n When every lady gat hame her son,\n The Lady Maisry gat nane.\n\n She\u2019s taen her mantle her about,\n Her coffer by the hand,\n And she\u2019s gane out to seek her son,\n And wandered o\u2019er the land.\n\n She\u2019s doen her to the Jew\u2019s castell,\n Where a\u2019 were fast asleep:\n \u201cGin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,\n I pray you to me speak.\u201d\n\n \u201cGae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,\n Prepare my winding-sheet,\n And at the back o merry Lincoln\n The morn I will you meet.\u201d\n\n Now Lady Maisry is gane hame,\n Make him a winding-sheet,\n And at the back o merry Lincoln,\n The dead corpse did her meet.\n\n And a the bells o merry Lincoln\n Without men\u2019s hands were rung,\n And a\u2019 the books o merry Lincoln\n Were read without man\u2019s tongue,\n And neer was such a burial\n Sin Adam\u2019s days begun.\n\n\n\n\nSON DAVIE! SON DAVIE!\n\n\n (_Mackay_.)\n\n \u201cWHAT bluid\u2019s that on thy coat lap?\n Son Davie! Son Davie!\n What bluid\u2019s that on thy coat lap?\n And the truth come tell to me, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cIt is the bluid of my great hawk,\n Mother lady, Mother lady!\n It is the bluid of my great hawk,\n And the truth I hae tald to thee, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cHawk\u2019s bluid was ne\u2019er sae red,\n Son Davie! Son Davie!\n Hawk\u2019s bluid was ne\u2019er sae red,\n And the truth come tell to me, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cIt is the bluid of my grey hound,\n Mother lady! Mother lady!\n It is the bluid of my grey hound,\n And it wudna rin for me, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cHound\u2019s bluid was ne\u2019er sae red,\n Son Davie! Son Davie!\n Hound\u2019s bluid was ne\u2019er sae red,\n And the truth come tell to me, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cIt is the bluid o\u2019 my brother John,\n Mother lady! Mother lady!\n It is the bluid o\u2019 my brother John,\n And the truth I hae tald to thee, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cWhat about did the plea begin?\n Son Davie! Son Davie!\u201d\n \u201cIt began about the cutting o\u2019 a willow wand,\n That would never hae been a tree, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cWhat death dost thou desire to die?\n Son Davie! Son Davie!\n What death dost thou desire to die?\n And the truth come tell to me, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll set my foot in a bottomless ship,\n Mother lady! mother lady!\n I\u2019ll set my foot in a bottomless ship,\n And ye\u2019ll never see mair o\u2019 me, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cWhat wilt thou leave to thy poor wife?\n Son Davie! Son Davie!\u201d\n \u201cGrief and sorrow all her life,\n And she\u2019ll never get mair frae me, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cWhat wilt thou leave to thy young son?\n Son Davie! son Davie!\u201d\n \u201cThe weary warld to wander up and down,\n And he\u2019ll never get mair o\u2019 me, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cWhat wilt thou leave to thy mother dear?\n Son Davie! Son Davie!\u201d\n \u201cA fire o\u2019 coals to burn her wi\u2019 hearty cheer,\n And she\u2019ll never get mair o\u2019 me, O.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE WIFE OF USHER\u2019S WELL\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. iii.)\n\n THERE lived a wife at Usher\u2019s Well,\n And a wealthy wife was she;\n She had three stout and stalwart sons,\n And sent them oer the sea,\n\n They hadna been a week from her,\n A week but barely ane,\n When word came to the carline wife\n That her three sons were gane.\n\n They hadna been a week from her,\n A week but barely three,\n Whan word came to the carlin wife\n That her sons she\u2019d never see.\n\n \u201cI wish the wind may never cease,\n Nor fashes in the flood,\n Till my three sons come hame to me,\n In earthly flesh and blood!\u201d\n\n It fell about the Martinmass,\n Whan nights are lang and mirk,\n The carline wife\u2019s three sons came hame,\n And their hats were o the birk.\n\n It neither grew in syke nor ditch,\n Nor yet in ony sheugh;\n But at the gates o Paradise\n That birk grew fair eneugh.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cBlow up the fire, my maidens!\n Bring water from the well;\n For a\u2019 my house shall feast this night,\n Since my three sons are well.\u201d\n\n And she has made to them a bed,\n She\u2019s made it large and wide;\n And she\u2019s taen her mantle her about,\n Sat down at the bedside.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Up then crew the red, red cock,\n And up and crew the gray;\n The eldest to the youngest said,\n \u201c\u2019Tis time we were away.\u201d\n\n The cock he hadna crawd but once,\n And clapp\u2019d his wings at a\u2019,\n Whan the youngest to the eldest said,\n \u201cBrother, we must awa.\n\n \u201cThe cock doth craw, the day doth daw,\n The channerin worm doth chide;\n Gin we be mist out o our place,\n A sair pain we maun bide.\n\n \u201cFare ye weel, my mother dear!\n Fareweel to barn and byre!\n And fare ye weel, the bonny lass\n That kindles my mother\u2019s fire!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE TWA CORBIES\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. i.)\n\n AS I was walking all alane,\n I heard twa corbies making a mane;\n The tane unto the t\u2019other say,\n \u201cWhere sall we gang and dine the day?\u201d\n\n \u201cIn behint yon auld fail dyke,\n I wot there lies a new-slain knight;\n And naebody kens that he lies there\n But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.\n\n \u201cHis hound is to the hunting gane,\n His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,\n His lady\u2019s ta\u2019en another mate,\n So we may make our dinner sweet.\n\n \u201cYe\u2019ll sit on his white hause-bane,\n And I\u2019ll pike out his bonny blue een;\n Wi ae lock o his gowden hair\n We\u2019ll theek our nest when it grows bare.\n\n \u201cMony a one for him makes mane,\n But nane sall ken whae he is gane,\n Oer his white banes, when they are bare,\n The wind sall blaw for evermair.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE BONNIE EARL MORAY\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. vi.)\n\n A.\n\n YE Highlands, and ye Lawlands\n Oh where have you been?\n They have slain the Earl of Murray,\n And they layd him on the green.\n\n \u201cNow wae be to thee, Huntly!\n And wherefore did you sae?\n I bade you bring him wi you,\n But forbade you him to slay.\u201d\n\n He was a braw gallant,\n And he rid at the ring;\n And the bonny Earl of Murray,\n Oh he might have been a King!\n\n He was a braw gallant,\n And he playd at the ba;\n And the bonny Earl of Murray,\n Was the flower amang them a\u2019.\n\n He was a braw gallant,\n And he playd at the glove;\n And the bonny Earl of Murray,\n Oh he was the Queen\u2019s love!\n\n Oh lang will his lady\n Look oer the castle Down,\n Eer she see the Earl of Murray\n Come sounding thro the town!\n Eer she, etc.\n\n B.\n\n \u201cOpen the gates\n and let him come in;\n He is my brother Huntly,\n he\u2019ll do him nae harm.\u201d\n\n The gates they were opent,\n they let him come in,\n But fause traitor Huntly,\n he did him great harm.\n\n He\u2019s ben and ben,\n and ben to his bed,\n And with a sharp rapier\n he stabbed him dead.\n\n The lady came down the stair,\n wringing her hands:\n \u201cHe has slain the Earl o Murray,\n the flower o Scotland.\u201d\n\n But Huntly lap on his horse,\n rade to the King:\n \u201cYe\u2019re welcome hame, Huntly,\n and whare hae ye been?\n\n \u201cWhere hae ye been?\n and how hae ye sped?\u201d\n \u201cI\u2019ve killed the Earl o Murray\n dead in his bed.\u201d\n\n \u201cFoul fa you, Huntly!\n and why did ye so?\n You might have taen the Earl o Murray,\n and saved his life too.\u201d\n\n \u201cHer bread it\u2019s to bake,\n her yill is to brew;\n My sister\u2019s a widow,\n and sair do I rue.\n\n \u201cHer corn grows ripe,\n her meadows grow green,\n But in bonnie Dinnibristle\n I darena be seen.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCLERK SAUNDERS\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. iii.)\n\n CLERK SAUNDERS and may Margaret\n Walked ower yon garden green;\n And sad and heavy was the love\n That fell thir twa between.\n\n \u201cA bed, a bed,\u201d Clerk Saunders said,\n \u201cA bed for you and me!\u201d\n \u201cFye na, fye na,\u201d said may Margaret,\n \u201c\u2019Till anes we married be.\n\n \u201cFor in may come my seven bauld brothers,\n Wi\u2019 torches burning bright;\n They\u2019ll say,\u2014\u2018We hae but ae sister,\n And behold she\u2019s wi a knight!\u2019\u201d\n\n \u201cThen take the sword frae my scabbard,\n And slowly lift the pin;\n And you may swear, and save your aith.\n Ye never let Clerk Saunders in.\n\n \u201cAnd take a napkin in your hand,\n And tie up baith your bonny e\u2019en,\n And you may swear, and save your aith,\n Ye saw me na since late yestreen.\u201d\n\n It was about the midnight hour,\n When they asleep were laid,\n When in and came her seven brothers,\n Wi\u2019 torches burning red.\n\n When in and came her seven brothers,\n Wi\u2019 torches burning bright:\n They said, \u201cWe hae but ae sister,\n And behold her lying with a knight!\u201d\n\n Then out and spake the first o\u2019 them,\n \u201cI bear the sword shall gar him die!\u201d\n And out and spake the second o\u2019 them,\n \u201cHis father has nae mair than he!\u201d\n\n And out and spake the third o\u2019 them,\n \u201cI wot that they are lovers dear!\u201d\n And out and spake the fourth o\u2019 them,\n \u201cThey hae been in love this mony a year!\u201d\n\n Then out and spake the fifth o\u2019 them,\n \u201cIt were great sin true love to twain!\u201d\n And out and spake the sixth o\u2019 them,\n \u201cIt were shame to slay a sleeping man!\u201d\n\n Then up and gat the seventh o\u2019 them,\n And never a word spake he;\n But he has striped his bright brown brand\n Out through Clerk Saunders\u2019 fair bodye.\n\n Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turned\n Into his arms as asleep she lay;\n And sad and silent was the night\n That was atween thir twae.\n\n And they lay still and sleeped sound\n Until the day began to daw;\n And kindly to him she did say,\n \u201cIt is time, true love, you were awa\u2019.\u201d\n\n But he lay still, and sleeped sound,\n Albeit the sun began to sheen;\n She looked atween her and the wa\u2019,\n And dull and drowsie were his e\u2019en.\n\n Then in and came her father dear;\n Said,\u2014\u201cLet a\u2019 your mourning be:\n I\u2019ll carry the dead corpse to the clay,\n And I\u2019ll come back and comfort thee.\u201d\n\n \u201cComfort weel your seven sons;\n For comforted will I never be:\n I ween \u2019twas neither knave nor loon\n Was in the bower last night wi\u2019 me.\u201d\n\n The clinking bell gaed through the town,\n To carry the dead corse to the clay;\n And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret\u2019s window,\n I wot, an hour before the day.\n\n \u201cAre ye sleeping, Margaret?\u201d he says,\n \u201cOr are ye waking presentlie?\n Give me my faith and troth again,\n I wot, true love, I gied to thee.\u201d\n\n \u201cYour faith and troth ye sall never get,\n Nor our true love sall never twin,\n Until ye come within my bower,\n And kiss me cheik and chin.\u201d\n\n \u201cMy mouth it is full cold, Margaret,\n It has the smell, now, of the ground;\n And if I kiss thy comely mouth,\n Thy days of life will not be lang.\n\n \u201cO, cocks are crowing a merry midnight,\n I wot the wild fowls are boding day;\n Give me my faith and troth again,\n And let me fare me on my way.\u201d\n\n \u201cThy faith and troth thou sall na get,\n And our true love sall never twin,\n Until ye tell what comes of women,\n I wot, who die in strong traivelling?\n\n \u201cTheir beds are made in the heavens high,\n Down at the foot of our good lord\u2019s knee,\n Weel set about wi\u2019 gillyflowers;\n I wot, sweet company for to see.\n\n \u201cO, cocks are crowing a merry midnight,\n I wot the wild fowl are boding day;\n The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,\n And I, ere now, will be missed away.\u201d\n\n Then she has ta\u2019en a crystal wand,\n And she has stroken her troth thereon;\n She has given it him out at the shot-window,\n Wi\u2019 mony a sad sigh, and heavy groan.\n\n \u201cI thank ye, Marg\u2019ret, I thank ye, Marg\u2019ret;\n And aye I thank ye heartilie;\n Gin ever the dead come for the quick,\n Be sure, Mag\u2019ret, I\u2019ll come for thee.\u201d\n\n It\u2019s hosen and shoon, and gown alone,\n She climb\u2019d the wall, and followed him,\n Until she came to the green forest,\n And there she lost the sight o\u2019 him.\n\n \u201cIs there ony room at your head, Saunders?\n Is there ony room at your feet?\n Is there ony room at your side, Saunders,\n Where fain, fain I wad sleep?\u201d\n\n \u201cThere\u2019s nae room at my head, Marg\u2019ret,\n There\u2019s nae room at my feet;\n My bed it is full lowly now,\n Amang the hungry worms I sleep.\n\n \u201cCauld mould is my covering now,\n But and my winding-sheet;\n The dew it falls nae sooner down\n Than my resting-place is weet.\n\n \u201cBut plait a wand o\u2019 bonnie birk,\n And lay it on my breast;\n And shed a tear upon my grave,\n And wish my saul gude rest.\n\n \u201cAnd fair Marg\u2019ret, and rare Marg\u2019ret,\n And Marg\u2019ret, o\u2019 veritie,\n Gin ere ye love another man,\n Ne\u2019er love him as ye did me.\u201d\n\n Then up and crew the milk-white cock,\n And up and crew the gray;\n Her lover vanish\u2019d in the air,\n And she gaed weeping away.\n\n\n\n\nWALY, WALY\n\n\n (_Mackay_.)\n\n O WALY, waly, up the bank,\n O waly, waly, down the brae.\n And waly, waly, yon burn side,\n Where I and my love wont to gae.\n I leaned my back unto an aik,\n An\u2019 thocht it was a trustie tree,\n But first it bow\u2019d and syne it brak,\n Sae my true love did lichtly me.\n\n O waly, waly, but love is bonnie\n A little time while it is new,\n But when it\u2019s auld it waxes cauld,\n And fades away like morning dew.\n O wherefore should I busk my head,\n O wherefore should I kame my hair,\n For my true love has me forsook,\n And says he\u2019ll never love me mair.\n\n Now Arthur\u2019s Seat shall be my bed,\n The sheets shall ne\u2019er be pressed by me,\n St. Anton\u2019s well shall be my drink,\n Since my true love has forsaken me.\n Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,\n And shake the green leaves off the tree!\n O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?\n For of my life I am wearie!\n\n \u2019Tis not the frost that freezes fell,\n Nor blawing snaw\u2019s inclemencie,\n \u2019Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,\n But my love\u2019s heart\u2019s grown cauld to me.\n When we came in by Glasgow toun\n We were a comely sicht to see;\n My love was clad in the black velvet,\n And I mysel in cramasie.\n\n But had I wist before I kist\n That love had been sae ill to win,\n I\u2019d locked my heart in a case of gold,\n And pinned it wi\u2019 a siller pin.\n Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,\n And set upon the nurse\u2019s knee;\n And I myself were dead and gane,\n And the green grass growing over me!\n\n\n\n\nLOVE GREGOR; OR, THE LASS OF LOCHROYAN\n\n\n (_Child_, Part III., p. 220.)\n\n \u201cO WHA will shoe my fu\u2019 fair foot?\n And wha will glove my hand?\n And wha will lace my middle jimp,\n Wi\u2019 the new-made London band?\n\n \u201cAnd wha will kaim my yellow hair,\n Wi\u2019 the new made silver kaim?\n And wha will father my young son,\n Till Love Gregor come hame?\u201d\n\n \u201cYour father will shoe your fu\u2019 fair foot,\n Your mother will glove your hand;\n Your sister will lace your middle jimp\n Wi\u2019 the new-made London band.\n\n \u201cYour brother will kaim your yellow hair,\n Wi\u2019 the new made silver kaim;\n And the king of heaven will father your bairn,\n Till Love Gregor come haim.\u201d\n\n \u201cBut I will get a bonny boat,\n And I will sail the sea,\n For I maun gang to Love Gregor,\n Since he canno come hame to me.\u201d\n\n O she has gotten a bonny boat,\n And sailld the sa\u2019t sea fame;\n She langd to see her ain true-love,\n Since he could no come hame.\n\n \u201cO row your boat, my mariners,\n And bring me to the land,\n For yonder I see my love\u2019s castle,\n Close by the sa\u2019t sea strand.\u201d\n\n She has ta\u2019en her young son in her arms,\n And to the door she\u2019s gone,\n And lang she\u2019s knocked and sair she ca\u2019d,\n But answer got she none.\n\n \u201cO open the door, Love Gregor,\u201d she says,\n \u201cO open, and let me in;\n For the wind blaws thro\u2019 my yellow hair,\n And the rain draps o\u2019er my chin.\u201d\n\n \u201cAwa, awa, ye ill woman,\n You\u2019r nae come here for good;\n You\u2019r but some witch, or wile warlock,\n Or mer-maid of the flood.\u201d\n\n \u201cI am neither a witch nor a wile warlock,\n Nor mer-maid of the sea,\n I am Fair Annie of Rough Royal;\n O open the door to me.\u201d\n\n \u201cGin ye be Annie of Rough Royal\u2014\n And I trust ye are not she\u2014\n Now tell me some of the love-tokens\n That past between you and me.\u201d\n\n \u201cO dinna you mind now, Love Gregor,\n When we sat at the wine,\n How we changed the rings frae our fingers?\n And I can show thee thine.\n\n \u201cO yours was good, and good enough,\n But ay the best was mine;\n For yours was o\u2019 the good red goud,\n But mine o\u2019 the diamonds fine.\n\n \u201cBut open the door now, Love Gregor,\n O open the door I pray,\n For your young son that is in my arms\n Will be dead ere it be day.\u201d\n\n \u201cAwa, awa, ye ill woman,\n For here ye shanno win in;\n Gae drown ye in the raging sea,\n Or hang on the gallows-pin.\u201d\n\n When the cock had crawn, and day did dawn,\n And the sun began to peep,\n Then up he rose him, Love Gregor,\n And sair, sair did he weep.\n\n \u201cO I dreamd a dream, my mother dear,\n The thoughts o\u2019 it gars me greet,\n That Fair Annie of Rough Royal\n Lay cauld dead at my feet.\u201d\n\n \u201cGin it be for Annie of Rough Royal\n That ye make a\u2019 this din,\n She stood a\u2019 last night at this door,\n But I trow she wan no in.\u201d\n\n \u201cO wae betide ye, ill woman,\n An ill dead may ye die!\n That ye woudno open the door to her,\n Nor yet woud waken me.\u201d\n\n O he has gone down to yon shore-side,\n As fast as he could fare;\n He saw Fair Annie in her boat,\n But the wind it tossd her sair.\n\n And \u201cHey, Annie!\u201d and \u201cHow, Annie!\n O Annie, winna ye bide?\u201d\n But ay the mair that he cried \u201cAnnie,\u201d\n The braider grew the tide.\n\n And \u201cHey, Annie!\u201d and \u201cHow, Annie!\n Dear Annie, speak to me!\u201d\n But ay the louder he cried \u201cAnnie,\u201d\n The louder roard the sea.\n\n The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough,\n And dashd the boat on shore;\n Fair Annie floats on the raging sea,\n But her young son rose no more.\n\n Love Gregor tare his yellow hair,\n And made a heavy moan;\n Fair Annie\u2019s corpse lay at his feet,\n But his bonny young son was gone.\n\n O cherry, cherry was her cheek,\n And gowden was her hair,\n But clay cold were her rosey lips,\n Nae spark of life was there,\n\n And first he\u2019s kissd her cherry cheek,\n And neist he\u2019s kissed her chin;\n And saftly pressd her rosey lips,\n But there was nae breath within.\n\n \u201cO wae betide my cruel mother,\n And an ill dead may she die!\n For she turnd my true-love frae my door,\n When she came sae far to me.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE QUEEN\u2019S MARIE\n\n\n (_Child_, vi., _Border Minstrelsy_.)\n\n MARIE HAMILTON\u2019S to the kirk gane,\n Wi ribbons in her hair;\n The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,\n Than ony that were there.\n\n Marie Hamilton\u2019s to the kirk gane,\n Wi ribbons on her breast;\n The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,\n Than he listend to the priest.\n\n Marie Hamilton\u2019s to the kirk gane,\n Wi gloves upon her hands;\n The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,\n Than the queen and a\u2019 her lands.\n\n She hadna been about the king\u2019s court\n A month, but barely one,\n Till she was beloved by a\u2019 the king\u2019s court,\n And the king the only man.\n\n She hadna been about the king\u2019s court\n A month, but barely three,\n Till frae the king\u2019s court Marie Hamilton,\n Marie Hamilton durst na be.\n\n The king is to the Abbey gane,\n To pu the Abbey tree,\n To scale the babe frae Marie\u2019s heart;\n But the thing it wadna be.\n\n O she has rowd it in her apron,\n And set it on the sea:\n \u201cGae sink ye, or swim ye, bonny babe,\n Ye\u2019s get na mair o me.\u201d\n\n Word is to the kitchen gane,\n And word is to the ha,\n And word is to the noble room,\n Amang the ladyes a\u2019,\n That Marie Hamilton\u2019s brought to bed,\n And the bonny babe\u2019s mist and awa.\n\n Scarcely had she lain down again,\n And scarcely faen asleep,\n When up then started our gude queen,\n Just at her bed-feet,\n Saying \u201cMarie Hamilton, where\u2019s your babe?\n For I am sure I heard it greet.\u201d\n\n \u201cO no, O no, my noble queen!\n Think no such thing to be!\n \u2019Twas but a stitch into my side,\n And sair it troubles me.\u201d\n\n \u201cGet up, get up, Marie Hamilton,\n Get up, and follow me,\n For I am going to Edinburgh town,\n A rich wedding for to see.\u201d\n\n O slowly, slowly raise she up,\n And slowly put she on;\n And slowly rode she out the way,\n Wi mony a weary groan.\n\n The queen was clad in scarlet,\n Her merry maids all in green;\n And every town that they cam to,\n They took Marie for the queen.\n\n \u201cRide hooly, hooly, gentlemen,\n Ride hooly now wi\u2019 me!\n For never, I am sure, a wearier burd\n Rade in your cumpanie.\u201d\n\n But little wist Marie Hamilton,\n When she rade on the brown,\n That she was ga\u2019en to Edinburgh town,\n And a\u2019 to be put down.\n\n \u201cWhy weep ye so, ye burgess-wives,\n Why look ye so on me?\n O, I am going to Edinburgh town,\n A rich wedding for to see!\u201d\n\n When she gaed up the Tolbooth stairs,\n The corks frae her heels did flee;\n And lang or eer she cam down again,\n She was condemned to die.\n\n When she cam to the Netherbow Port,\n She laughed loud laughters three;\n But when she cam to the gallows-foot,\n The tears blinded her ee.\n\n \u201cYestreen the queen had four Maries,\n The night she\u2019ll hae but three;\n There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaten,\n And Marie Carmichael, and me.\n\n \u201cO, often have I dressd my queen,\n And put gold upon her hair;\n But now I\u2019ve gotten for my reward\n The gallows to be my share.\n\n \u201cOften have I dressd my queen,\n And often made her bed:\n But now I\u2019ve gotten for my reward\n The gallows-tree to tread.\n\n \u201cI charge ye all, ye mariners,\n When ye sail ower the faem,\n Let neither my father nor mother get wit,\n But that I\u2019m coming hame.\n\n \u201cI charge ye all, ye mariners,\n That sail upon the sea,\n Let neither my father nor mother get wit,\n This dog\u2019s death I\u2019m to die.\n\n \u201cFor if my father and mother got wit,\n And my bold brethren three,\n O mickle wad be the gude red blude,\n This day wad be spilt for me!\n\n \u201cO little did my mother ken,\n The day she cradled me,\n The lands I was to travel in,\n Or the death I was to die!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nKINMONT WILLIE\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. vi.)\n\n O HAVE ye na heard o the fause Sakelde?\n O have ye na heard o the keen Lord Scroop?\n How they hae taen bauld Kinmont Willie,\n On Hairibee to hang him up?\n\n Had Willie had but twenty men,\n But twenty men as stout as be,\n Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont taen\n Wi eight score in his companie.\n\n They band his legs beneath the steed,\n They tied his hands behind his back;\n They guarded him, fivesome on each side,\n And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.\n\n They led him thro the Liddel-rack.\n And also thro the Carlisle sands;\n They brought him to Carlisle castell.\n To be at my Lord Scroope\u2019s commands.\n\n \u201cMy hands are tied; but my tongue is free,\n And whae will dare this deed avow?\n Or answer by the border law?\n Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?\u201d\n\n \u201cNow haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver!\n There\u2019s never a Scot shall set ye free:\n Before ye cross my castle-yate,\n I trow ye shall take farewell o me.\u201d\n\n \u201cFear na ye that, my lord,\u201d quo Willie:\n \u201cBy the faith o my body, Lord Scroope,\u201d he said,\n \u201cI never yet lodged in a hostelrie\u2014\n But I paid my lawing before I gaed.\u201d\n\n Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper,\n In Branksome Ha where that he lay,\n That Lord Scroope has taen the Kinmont Willie,\n Between the hours of night and day.\n\n He has taen the table wi his hand,\n He garrd the red wine spring on hie;\n \u201cNow Christ\u2019s curse on my head,\u201d he said,\n \u201cBut avenged of Lord Scroope I\u2019ll be!\n\n \u201cO is my basnet a widow\u2019s curch?\n Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree?\n Or my arm a lady\u2019s lilye hand,\n That an English lord should lightly me?\n\n \u201cAnd have they taen him, Kinmont Willie,\n Against the truce of Border tide?\n And forgotten that the bauld Bacleuch\n Is keeper here on the Scottish side?\n\n \u201cAnd have they een taen him, Kinmont Willie,\n Withouten either dread or fear,\n And forgotten that the bauld Bacleuch\n Can back a steed, or shake a spear?\n\n \u201cO were there war between the lands,\n As well I wot that there is none,\n I would slight Carlisle castell high,\n Tho it were builded of marble stone.\n\n \u201cI would set that castell in a low,\n And sloken it with English blood;\n There\u2019s nevir a man in Cumberland\n Should ken where Carlisle castell stood.\n\n \u201cBut since nae war\u2019s between the lands,\n And there is peace, and peace should be;\n I\u2019ll neither harm English lad or lass,\n And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!\u201d\n\n He has calld him forty marchmen bauld,\n I trow they were of his ain name,\n Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, calld\n The Laird of Stobs, I mean the same.\n\n He has calld him forty marchmen bauld,\n Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch,\n With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,\n And gleuves of green, and feathers blue.\n\n There were five and five before them a\u2019,\n Wi hunting-horns and bugles bright;\n And five and five came wi Buccleuch,\n Like Warden\u2019s men, arrayed for fight.\n\n And five and five, like a mason-gang,\n That carried the ladders lang and hie;\n And five and five, like broken men;\n And so they reached the Woodhouselee.\n\n And as we crossd the Bateable Land,\n When to the English side we held,\n The first o men that we met wi,\n Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde!\n\n \u201cWhere be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?\u201d\n Quo fause Sakelde; \u201ccome tell to me!\u201d\n \u201cWe go to hunt an English stag,\n Has trespassed on the Scots countrie.\u201d\n\n \u201cWhere be ye gaun, ye marshal-men?\u201d\n Quo fause Sakelde; \u201ccome tell me true!\u201d\n \u201cWe go to catch a rank reiver,\n Has broken faith wi the bauld Buccleuch.\u201d\n\n \u201cWhere are ye gaun, ye mason-lads,\n Wi a\u2019 your ladders lang and hie?\u201d\n \u201cWe gang to herry a corbie\u2019s nest,\n That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.\u201d\n\n \u201cWhere be ye gaun, ye broken men?\u201d\n Quo fause Sakelde; \u201ccome tell to me?\u201d\n Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,\n And the nevir a word o lear had he.\n\n \u201cWhy trespass ye on the English side?\n Row-footed outlaws, stand!\u201d quo he;\n The neer a word had Dickie to say,\n Sae he thrust the lance thro his fause bodie.\n\n Then on we held for Carlisle toun,\n And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we crossd;\n The water was great and meikle of spait,\n But the nevir a horse nor man we lost.\n\n And when we reachd the Staneshaw-bank,\n The wind was rising loud and hie;\n And there the laird garrd leave our steeds,\n For fear that they should stamp and nie.\n\n And when we left the Staneshaw-bank,\n The wind began full loud to blaw;\n But \u2019twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet,\n When we came beneath the castell-wa.\n\n We crept on knees, and held our breath,\n Till we placed the ladders against the wa;\n And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell\n To mount she first, before us a\u2019.\n\n He has taen the watchman by the throat,\n He flung him down upon the lead:\n \u201cHad there not been peace between our lands,\n Upon the other side thou hadst gaed.\n\n \u201cNow sound out, trumpets!\u201d quo Buccleuch;\n \u201cLet\u2019s waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!\u201d\n Then loud the warden\u2019s trumpet blew\n \u201cO whae dare meddle wi me?\u201d\n\n Then speedilie to wark we gaed,\n And raised the slogan ane and a\u2019,\n And cut a hole through a sheet of lead,\n And so we wan to the castel-ha.\n\n They thought King James and a\u2019 his men\n Had won the house wi bow and speir;\n It was but twenty Scots and ten\n That put a thousand in sic a stear!\n\n Wi coulters, and wi fore-hammers,\n We garrd the bars bang merrilie,\n Until we came to the inner prison,\n Where Willie o Kinmont he did lie.\n\n And when we came to the lower prison,\n Where Willie o Kinmont he did lie,\n \u201cO sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,\n Upon the morn that thou\u2019s to die?\u201d\n\n \u201cO I sleep saft, and I wake aft,\n It\u2019s lang since sleeping was fley\u2019d frae me;\n Gie my service back to my wyfe and bairns\n And a\u2019 gude fellows that speer for me.\u201d\n\n Then Red Rowan has hente him up,\n The starkest man in Teviotdale:\n \u201cAbide, abide now, Red Rowan,\n Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.\n\n \u201cFarewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope!\n My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!\u201d he cried;\n \u201cI\u2019ll pay you for my lodging-maill,\n When first we meet on the border-side.\u201d\n\n Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,\n We bore him down the ladder lang;\n At every stride Red Rowan made,\n I wot the Kinmont\u2019s airms playd clang!\n\n \u201cO mony a time,\u201d quo Kinmont Willie.\n \u201cI have ridden horse baith wild and wood;\n But a rougher beast than Red Rowan,\n I ween my legs have neer bestrode.\n\n \u201cAnd mony a time,\u201d quo Kinmont Willie,\n \u201cI\u2019ve pricked a horse out oure the furs;\n But since the day I backed a steed\n I nevir wore sic cumbrous spurs!\u201d\n\n We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,\n When a\u2019 the Carlisle bells were rung,\n And a thousand men, in horse and foot,\n Cam wi the keen Lord Scroope along.\n\n Buccleuch has turned to Eden Water,\n Even where it flowd frae bank to brim,\n And he has plunged in wi a\u2019 his band,\n And safely swam them thro the stream.\n\n He turned him on the other side,\n And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he:\n \u201cIf ye like na my visit in merry England,\n In fair Scotland come visit me!\u201d\n\n All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,\n He stood as still as rock of stane;\n He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,\n When thro the water they had gane.\n\n \u201cHe is either himsell a devil frae hell,\n Or else his mother a witch maun be;\n I wad na have ridden that wan water\n For a\u2019 the gowd in Christentie.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nJAMIE TELFER\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. vi. Early Edition.)\n\n IT fell about the Martinmas tyde,\n When our Border steeds get corn and hay\n The captain of Bewcastle hath bound him to ryde,\n And he\u2019s ower to Tividale to drive a prey.\n\n The first ae guide that they met wi\u2019,\n It was high up Hardhaughswire;\n The second guide that we met wi\u2019,\n It was laigh down in Borthwick water.\n\n \u201cWhat tidings, what tidings, my trusty guide?\u201d\n \u201cNae tidings, nae tidings, I hae to thee;\n But, gin ye\u2019ll gae to the fair Dodhead,\n Mony a cow\u2019s cauf I\u2019ll let thee see.\u201d\n\n And whan they cam to the fair Dodhead,\n Right hastily they clam the peel;\n They loosed the kye out, ane and a\u2019,\n And ranshackled the house right weel.\n\n Now Jamie Telfer\u2019s heart was sair,\n The tear aye rowing in his e\u2019e;\n He pled wi\u2019 the captain to hae his gear,\n Or else revenged he wad be.\n\n The captain turned him round and leugh;\n Said\u2014\u201cMan, there\u2019s naething in thy house,\n But ae auld sword without a sheath,\n That hardly now wad fell a mouse!\u201d\n\n The sun was na up, but the moon was down,\n It was the gryming o\u2019 a new fa\u2019n snaw,\n Jamie Telfer has run three myles a-foot,\n Between the Dodhead and the Stobs\u2019s Ha\u2019\n\n And whan he cam to the fair tower yate,\n He shouted loud, and cried weel hie,\n Till out bespak auld Gibby Elliot\u2014\n \u201cWha\u2019s this that brings the fraye to me?\u201d\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s I, Jamie Telfer o\u2019 the fair Dodhead,\n And a harried man I think I be!\n There\u2019s naething left at the fair Dodhead,\n But a waefu\u2019 wife and bairnies three.\n\n \u201cGae seek your succour at Branksome Ha\u2019.\n For succour ye\u2019se get nane frae me!\n Gae seek your succour where ye paid black-mail,\n For, man! ye ne\u2019er paid money to me.\u201d\n\n Jamie has turned him round about,\n I wat the tear blinded his e\u2019e\u2014\n \u201cI\u2019ll ne\u2019er pay mail to Elliot again,\n And the fair Dodhead I\u2019ll never see!\n\n \u201cMy hounds may a\u2019 rin masterless,\n My hawks may fly frae tree to tree;\n My lord may grip my vassal lands,\n For there again maun I never be.\u201d\n\n He has turned him to the Tiviot side,\n E\u2019en as fast as he could drie,\n Till he came to the Coultart Cleugh\n And there he shouted baith loud and hie.\n\n Then up bespak him auld Jock Grieve\u2014\n \u201cWha\u2019s this that brings the fray to me?\u201d\n \u201cIt\u2019s I, Jamie Telfer o\u2019 the fair Dodhead,\n A harried man I trow I be.\n\n \u201cThere\u2019s naething left in the fair Dodhead,\n But a greeting wife and bairnies three,\n And sax poor c\u00e2\u2019s stand in the sta\u2019,\n A\u2019 routing loud for their minnie.\u201d\n\n \u201cAlack a wae!\u201d quo\u2019 auld Jock Grieve,\n \u201cAlack! my heart is sair for thee!\n For I was married on the elder sister,\n And you on the youngest of a\u2019 the three.\u201d\n\n Then he has ta\u2019en out a bonny black,\n Was right weel fed wi\u2019 corn and hay,\n And he\u2019s set Jamie Telfer on his back,\n To the Catslockhill to tak\u2019 the fray.\n\n And whan he cam to the Catslockhill,\n He shouted loud and weel cried he,\n Till out and spak him William\u2019s Wat\u2014\n \u201cO wha\u2019s this brings the fraye to me?\u201d\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s I, Jamie Telfer o\u2019 the fair Dodhead,\n A harried man I think I be!\n The captain of Bewcastle has driven my gear;\n For God\u2019s sake rise, and succour me!\u201d\n\n \u201cAlas for wae!\u201d quo\u2019 William\u2019s Wat,\n \u201cAlack, for thee my heart is sair!\n I never cam by the fair Dodhead,\n That ever I fand thy basket bare.\u201d\n\n He\u2019s set his twa sons on coal-black steeds,\n Himsel\u2019 upon a freckled gray,\n And they are on wi, Jamie Telfer,\n To Branksome Ha to tak the fray.\n\n And whan they cam to Branksome Ha\u2019,\n They shouted a\u2019 baith loud and hie,\n Till up and spak him auld Buccleuch,\n Said\u2014\u201cWha\u2019s this brings the fray to me?\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s I, Jamie Telfer o\u2019 the fair Dodhead,\n And a harried man I think I be!\n There\u2019s nought left in the fair Dodhead,\n But a greeting wife and bairnies three.\u201d\n\n \u201cAlack for wae!\u201d quoth the gude auld lord,\n \u201cAnd ever my heart is wae for thee!\n But fye gar cry on Willie, my son,\n And see that he come to me speedilie!\n\n \u201cGar warn the water, braid and wide,\n Gar warn it soon and hastily!\n They that winna ride for Telfer\u2019s kye,\n Let them never look in the face o\u2019 me!\n\n \u201cWarn Wat o\u2019 Harden, and his sons,\n Wi\u2019 them will Borthwick water ride;\n Warn Gaudilands, and Allanhaugh,\n And Gilmanscleugh, and Commonside.\n\n \u201cRide by the gate at Priesthaughswire,\n And warn the Currors o\u2019 the Lee;\n As ye come down the Hermitage Slack,\n Warn doughty Willie o\u2019 Gorrinbery.\u201d\n\n The Scots they rade, the Scots they ran,\n Sae starkly and sae steadilie!\n And aye the ower-word o\u2019 the thrang,\n Was\u2014\u201cRise for Branksome readilie!\u201d\n\n The gear was driven the Frostylee up,\n Frae the Frostylee unto the plain,\n Whan Willie has looked his men before,\n And saw the kye right fast driving.\n\n \u201cWha drives thir kye?\u201d \u2019gan Willie say,\n \u201cTo mak an outspeckle o\u2019 me?\u201d\n \u201cIt\u2019s I, the captain o\u2019 Bewcastle, Willie;\n I winna layne my name for thee.\u201d\n\n \u201cO will ye let Telfer\u2019s kye gae back,\n Or will ye do aught for regard o\u2019 me?\n Or, by the faith o\u2019 my body,\u201d quo\u2019 Willie Scott,\n \u201cI se ware my dame\u2019s cauf\u2019s-skin on thee!\u201d\n\n \u201cI winna let the kye gae back,\n Neither for thy love, nor yet thy fear,\n But I will drive Jamie Telfer\u2019s kye,\n In spite of every Scot that\u2019s here.\u201d\n\n \u201cSet on them, lads!\u201d quo\u2019 Willie than,\n \u201cFye, lads, set on them cruellie!\n For ere they win to the Ritterford,\n Mony a toom saddle there sall be!\u201d\n\n But Willie was stricken ower the head,\n And through the knapscap the sword has gane;\n And Harden grat for very rage,\n Whan Willie on the ground lay slain.\n\n But he\u2019s ta\u2019en aff his gude steel-cap,\n And thrice he\u2019s waved it in the air\u2014\n The Dinlay snaw was ne\u2019er mair white,\n Nor the lyart locks of Harden\u2019s hair.\n\n \u201cRevenge! revenge!\u201d auld Wat \u2019gan cry;\n \u201cFye, lads, lay on them cruellie!\n We\u2019ll ne\u2019er see Tiviotside again,\n Or Willie\u2019s death revenged shall be.\u201d\n\n O mony a horse ran masterless,\n The splintered lances flew on hie;\n But or they wan to the Kershope ford,\n The Scots had gotten the victory.\n\n John o\u2019 Brigham there was slain,\n And John o\u2019 Barlow, as I hear say;\n And thirty mae o\u2019 the captain\u2019s men,\n Lay bleeding on the grund that day.\n\n The captain was run thro\u2019 the thick of the thigh\u2014\n And broken was his right leg bane;\n If he had lived this hundred year,\n He had never been loved by woman again.\n\n \u201cHae back thy kye!\u201d the captain said;\n \u201cDear kye, I trow, to some they be!\n For gin I suld live a hundred years,\n There will ne\u2019er fair lady smile on me.\u201d\n\n Then word is gane to the captain\u2019s bride,\n Even in the bower where that she lay,\n That her lord was prisoner in enemy\u2019s land,\n Since into Tividale he had led the way.\n\n \u201cI wad lourd have had a winding-sheet,\n And helped to put it ower his head,\n Ere he had been disgraced by the Border Scot,\n When he ower Liddel his men did lead!\u201d\n\n There was a wild gallant amang us a\u2019,\n His name was Watty wi\u2019 the Wudspurs,\n Cried\u2014\u201cOn for his house in Stanegirthside,\n If ony man will ride with us!\u201d\n\n When they cam to the Stanegirthside,\n They dang wi\u2019 trees, and burst the door;\n They loosed out a\u2019 the captain\u2019s kye,\n And set them forth our lads before.\n\n There was an auld wife ayont the fire,\n A wee bit o\u2019 the captain\u2019s kin\u2014\n \u201cWha daur loose out the captain\u2019s kye,\n Or answer to him and his men?\u201d\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s I, Watty Wudspurs, loose the kye,\n I winna layne my name frae thee!\n And I will loose out the captain\u2019s kye,\n In scorn of a\u2019 his men and he.\u201d\n\n When they cam to the fair Dodhead,\n They were a wellcum sight to see!\n For instead of his ain ten milk-kye,\n Jamie Telfer has gotten thirty and three.\n\n And he has paid the rescue shot,\n Baith wi\u2019 goud, and white monie;\n And at the burial o\u2019 Willie Scott,\n I wot was mony a weeping e\u2019e.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. ii. Early Edition.)\n\n \u201cRISE up, rise up now, Lord Douglas,\u201d she says,\n \u201cAnd put on your armour so bright;\n Let it never be said that a daughter of thine\n Was married to a lord under night.\n\n \u201cRise up, rise up, my seven bold sons,\n And put on your armour so bright,\n And take better care of your youngest sister,\n For your eldest\u2019s awa the last night.\u201d\u2014\n\n He\u2019s mounted her on a milk-white steed,\n And himself on a dapple grey,\n With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,\n And lightly they rode away.\n\n Lord William lookit o\u2019er his left shoulder,\n To see what he could see,\n And there be spy\u2019d her seven brethren bold,\n Come riding o\u2019er the lee.\n\n \u201cLight down, light down, Lady Marg\u2019ret,\u201d he said,\n \u201cAnd hold my steed in your hand,\n Until that against your seven brothers bold,\n And your father I make a stand.\u201d\u2014\n\n She held his steed in her milk white hand,\n And never shed one tear,\n Until that she saw her seven brethren fa\u2019,\n And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear.\n\n \u201cO hold your hand, Lord William!\u201d she said,\n \u201cFor your strokes they are wondrous sair;\n True lovers I can get many a ane,\n But a father I can never get mair.\u201d\u2014\n\n O she\u2019s ta\u2019en out her handkerchief,\n It was o\u2019 the holland sae fine,\n And aye she dighted her father\u2019s bloody wounds,\n That were redder than the wine.\n\n \u201cO chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg\u2019ret,\u201d he said,\n \u201cO whether will ye gang or bide?\u201d\n \u201cI\u2019ll gang, I\u2019ll gang, Lord William,\u201d she said,\n \u201cFor ye have left me no other guide.\u201d\u2014\n\n He\u2019s lifted her on a milk-white steed,\n And himself on a dapple grey.\n With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,\n And slowly they baith rade away.\n\n O they rade on, and on they rade,\n And a\u2019 by the light of the moon,\n Until they came to yon wan water,\n And there they lighted down.\n\n They lighted down to tak a drink\n Of the spring that ran sae clear:\n And down the stream ran his gude heart\u2019s blood,\n And sair she \u2019gan to fear.\n\n \u201cHold up, hold up, Lord William,\u201d she says,\n \u201cFor I fear that you are slain!\u201d\n \u201c\u2019Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak\n That shines in the water sae plain.\u201d\n\n O they rade on, and on they rade,\n And a\u2019 by the light of the moon,\n Until they cam to his mother\u2019s ha\u2019 door,\n And there they lighted down.\n\n \u201cGet up, get up, lady mother,\u201d he says,\n \u201cGet up, and let me in!\u2014\n Get up, get up, lady mother,\u201d he says,\n \u201cFor this night my fair ladye I\u2019ve win.\n\n \u201cO mak my bed, lady mother,\u201d he says,\n \u201cO mak it braid and deep!\n And lay Lady Marg\u2019ret close at my back,\n And the sounder I will sleep.\u201d\u2014\n\n Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,\n Lady Marg\u2019ret lang ere day\u2014\n And all true lovers that go thegither,\n May they have mair luck than they!\n\n Lord William was buried in St. Marie\u2019s kirk,\n Lady Margaret in Marie\u2019s quire;\n Out o\u2019 the lady\u2019s grave grew a bonny red rose,\n And out o\u2019 the knight\u2019s a brier.\n\n And they twa met, and they twa plat,\n And fain they wad be near;\n And a\u2019 the warld might ken right weel,\n They were twa lovers dear.\n\n But by and rade the Black Douglas,\n And wow but he was rough!\n For he pull\u2019d up the bonny brier,\n An flang\u2019t in St. Marie\u2019s Loch.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BONNY HIND\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. ii.)\n\n O MAY she comes, and may she goes,\n Down by yon gardens green,\n And there she spied a gallant squire\n As squire had ever been.\n\n And may she comes, and may she goes,\n Down by yon hollin tree,\n And there she spied a brisk young squire,\n And a brisk young squire was he.\n\n \u201cGive me your green manteel, fair maid,\n Give me your maidenhead;\n Gif ye winna gie me your green manteel,\n Gi me your maidenhead.\u201d\n\n He has taen her by the milk-white hand,\n And softly laid her down,\n And when he\u2019s lifted her up again\n Given her a silver kaim.\n\n \u201cPerhaps there may be bairns, kind sir,\n Perhaps there may be nane;\n But if you be a courtier,\n You\u2019ll tell to me your name.\u201d\n\n \u201cI am na courtier, fair maid,\n But new come frae the sea;\n I am nae courtier, fair maid,\n But when I court\u2019ith thee.\n\n \u201cThey call me Jack when I\u2019m abroad,\n Sometimes they call me John;\n But when I\u2019m in my father\u2019s bower\n Jock Randal is my name.\u201d\n\n \u201cYe lee, ye lee, ye bonny lad,\n Sae loud\u2019s I hear ye lee!\n For I\u2019m Lord Randal\u2019s yae daughter,\n He has nae mair nor me.\u201d\n\n \u201cYe lee, ye lee, ye bonny may,\n Sae loud\u2019s I hear ye lee!\n For I\u2019m Lord Randal\u2019s yae yae son,\n Just now come oer the sea.\u201d\n\n She\u2019s putten her hand down by her spare\n And out she\u2019s taen a knife,\n And she has putn\u2019t in her heart\u2019s bluid,\n And taen away her life.\n\n And he\u2019s taen up his bonny sister,\n With the big tear in his een,\n And he has buried his bonny sister\n Amang the hollins green.\n\n And syne he\u2019s hyed him oer the dale,\n His father dear to see:\n \u201cSing O and O for my bonny hind,\n Beneath yon hollin tree!\u201d\n\n \u201cWhat needs you care for your bonny hyn?\n For it you needna care;\n There\u2019s aught score hyns in yonder park,\n And five score hyns to spare.\n\n \u201cFourscore of them are siller-shod,\n Of thae ye may get three;\u201d\n \u201cBut O and O for my bonny hyn,\n Beneath yon hollin tree!\u201d\n\n \u201cWhat needs you care for your bonny hyn?\n For it you needna care;\n Take you the best, gi me the warst,\n Since plenty is to spare.\u201d\n\n \u201cI care na for your hyns, my lord,\n I care na for your fee;\n But O and O for my bonny hyn,\n Beneath the hollin tree!\u201d\n\n \u201cO were ye at your sister\u2019s bower,\n Your sister fair to see,\n Ye\u2019ll think na mair o your bonny hyn\n Beneath the hollin tree.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nYOUNG BICHAM\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. ii.)\n\n IN London city was Bicham born,\n He longd strange countries for to see,\n But he was taen by a savage Moor,\n Who handld him right cruely.\n\n For thro his shoulder he put a bore,\n An thro the bore has pitten a tree,\n And he\u2019s gard him draw the carts o wine,\n Where horse and oxen had wont to be.\n\n He\u2019s casten [him] in a dungeon deep,\n Where he coud neither hear nor see;\n He\u2019s shut him up in a prison strong,\n An he\u2019s handld him right cruely.\n\n O this Moor he had but ae daughter,\n I wot her name was Shusy Pye;\n She\u2019s doen her to the prison-house,\n And she\u2019s calld young Bicham one word by.\n\n \u201cO hae ye ony lands or rents,\n Or citys in your ain country,\n Coud free you out of prison strong,\n An coud maintain a lady free?\u201d\n\n \u201cO London city is my own,\n An other citys twa or three,\n Coud loose me out o prison strong,\n An could maintain a lady free.\u201d\n\n O she has bribed her father\u2019s men\n Wi meikle goud and white money,\n She\u2019s gotten the key o the prison doors,\n And she has set Young Bicham free.\n\n She\u2019s gi\u2019n him a loaf o good white bread,\n But an a flask o Spanish wine,\n An she bad him mind on the ladie\u2019s love\n That sae kindly freed him out o pine.\n\n \u201cGo set your foot on good ship-board,\n An haste you back to your ain country,\n An before that seven years has an end,\n Come back again, love, and marry me.\u201d\n\n It was long or seven years had an end\n She longd fu sair her love to see;\n She\u2019s set her foot on good ship-board,\n An turnd her back on her ain country.\n\n She\u2019s saild up, so has she down,\n Till she came to the other side;\n She\u2019s landed at Young Bicham\u2019s gates,\n An I hop this day she sal be his bride.\n\n \u201cIs this Young Bicham\u2019s gates?\u201d says she.\n \u201cOr is that noble prince within?\u201d\n \u201cHe\u2019s up the stair wi his bonny bride,\n An monny a lord and lady wi him.\u201d\n\n \u201cO has he taen a bonny bride,\n An has he clean forgotten me?\u201d\n An sighing said that gay lady,\n \u201cI wish I were in my ain country!\u201d\n\n She\u2019s pitten her ban in her pocket,\n An gin the porter guineas three;\n Says, \u201cTake ye that, ye proud porter,\n An bid the bridegroom speak to me.\u201d\n\n O whan the porter came up the stair,\n He\u2019s fa\u2019n low down upon his knee:\n \u201cWon up, won up, ye proud porter,\n And what makes a\u2019 this courtesy?\u201d\n\n \u201cO I\u2019ve been porter at your gates\n This mair nor seven years an three,\n But there is a lady at them now\n The like of whom I never did see.\n\n \u201cFor on every finger she has a ring,\n An on the mid-finger she has three,\n An there\u2019s as meikle goud aboon her brow\n As woud buy an earldom o lan to me.\u201d\n\n Then up it started Young Bicham,\n An sware so loud by Our Lady,\n \u201cIt can be nane but Shusy Pye\n That has come oor the sea to me.\u201d\n\n O quickly ran he down the stair,\n O fifteen steps he has made but three,\n He\u2019s tane his bonny love in his arms\n An a wot he kissd her tenderly.\n\n \u201cO hae you tane a bonny bride?\n An hae you quite forsaken me?\n An hae ye quite forgotten her\n That gae you life an liberty?\u201d\n\n She\u2019s lookit oer her left shoulder\n To hide the tears stood in her ee;\n \u201cNow fare thee well, Young Bicham,\u201d she says,\n \u201cI\u2019ll strive to think nae mair on thee.\u201d\n\n \u201cTake back your daughter, madam,\u201d he says,\n \u201cAn a double dowry I\u2019ll gie her wi;\n For I maun marry my first true love,\n That\u2019s done and suffered so much for me.\u201d\n\n He\u2019s tak his bonny love by the han,\n And led her to yon fountain stane;\n He\u2019s changed her name frae Shusy Pye,\n An he\u2019s cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOVING BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. ii. _Cockney copy_.)\n\n LORD BATEMAN was a noble lord,\n A noble lord of high degree;\n He shipped himself all aboard of a ship,\n Some foreign country for to see.\n\n He sailed east, he sailed west,\n Until he came to famed Turkey,\n Where he was taken and put to prison,\n Until his life was quite weary.\n\n All in this prison there grew a tree,\n O there it grew so stout and strong!\n Where he was chained all by the middle,\n Until his life was almost gone.\n\n This Turk he had one only daughter,\n The fairest my two eyes eer see;\n She steal the keys of her father\u2019s prison,\n And swore Lord Bateman she would let go free.\n\n O she took him to her father\u2019s cellar,\n And gave to him the best of wine;\n And every health she drank unto him\n Was \u201cI wish, Lord Bateman, as you was mine.\u201d\n\n \u201cO have you got houses, have you got land,\n And does Northumberland belong to thee?\n And what would you give to the fair young lady\n As out of prison would let you go free?\u201d\n\n \u201cO I\u2019ve got houses and I\u2019ve got land,\n And half Northumberland belongs to me;\n And I will give it all to the fair young lady\n As out of prison would let me go free.\u201d\n\n \u201cO in seven long years I\u2019ll make a vow\n For seven long years, and keep it strong,\n That if you\u2019ll wed no other woman,\n O I will wed no other man.\u201d\n\n O she took him to her father\u2019s harbor,\n And gave to him a ship of fame,\n Saying, \u201cFarewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman,\n I fear I shall never see you again.\u201d\n\n Now seven long years is gone and past,\n And fourteen days, well known to me;\n She packed up all her gay clothing,\n And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.\n\n O when she arrived at Lord Bateman\u2019s castle,\n How boldly then she rang the bell!\n \u201cWho\u2019s there? who\u2019s there?\u201d cries the proud young porter,\n \u201cO come unto me pray quickly tell.\u201d\n\n \u201cO is this here Lord Bateman\u2019s castle,\n And is his lordship here within?\u201d\n \u201cO yes, O yes,\u201d cries the proud young porter,\n \u201cHe\u2019s just now taking his young bride in.\u201d\n\n \u201cO bid him to send me a slice of bread,\n And a bottle of the very best wine,\n And not forgetting the fair young lady\n As did release him when close confine.\u201d\n\n O away and away went this proud young porter,\n O away and away and away went he,\n Until he came to Lord Bateman\u2019s chamber,\n Where he went down on his bended knee.\n\n \u201cWhat news, what news, my proud young porter?\n What news, what news? come tell to me:\u201d\n \u201cO there is the fairest young lady\n As ever my two eyes did see.\n\n \u201cShe has got rings on every finger,\n And on one finger she has got three;\n With as much gay gold about her middle\n As would buy half Northumberlee.\n\n \u201cO she bids you to send her a slice of bread,\n And a bottle of the very best wine,\n And not forgetting the fair young lady\n As did release you when close confine.\u201d\n\n Lord Bateman then in passion flew,\n And broke his sword in splinters three,\n Saying, \u201cI will give half of my father\u2019s land,\n If so be as Sophia has crossed the sea.\u201d\n\n Then up and spoke this young bride\u2019s mother,\n Who never was heard to speak so free;\n Saying, \u201cYou\u2019ll not forget my only daughter,\n If so be Sophia has crossed the sea.\u201d\n\n \u201cO it\u2019s true I made a bride of your daughter,\n But she\u2019s neither the better nor the worse for me;\n She came to me with a horse and saddle,\n But she may go home in a coach and three.\u201d\n\n Lord Bateman then prepared another marriage,\n With both their hearts so full of glee,\n Saying, \u201cI will roam no more to foreign countries,\n Now that Sophia has crossed the sea.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE BONNIE HOUSE O\u2019 AIRLY\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. vii. Early Edition.)\n\n IT fell on a day, and a bonnie summer day,\n When the corn grew green and yellow,\n That there fell out a great dispute\n Between Argyle and Airly.\n\n The Duke o\u2019 Montrose has written to Argyle\n To come in the morning early,\n An\u2019 lead in his men, by the back O\u2019 Dunkeld,\n To plunder the bonnie house o\u2019 Airly.\n\n The lady look\u2019d o\u2019er her window sae hie,\n And O but she looked weary!\n And there she espied the great Argyle\n Come to plunder the bonnie house o\u2019 Airly.\n\n \u201cCome down, come down, Lady Margaret,\u201d he says,\n \u201cCome down and kiss me fairly,\n Or before the morning clear daylight,\n I\u2019ll no leave a standing stane in Airly.\u201d\n\n \u201cI wadna kiss thee, great Argyle,\n I wadna kiss thee fairly,\n I wadna kiss thee, great Argyle,\n Gin you shouldna leave a standing stane Airly.\u201d\n\n He has ta\u2019en her by the middle sae sma\u2019,\n Says, \u201cLady, where is your drury?\u201d\n \u201cIt\u2019s up and down by the bonnie burn side,\n Amang the planting of Airly.\u201d\n\n They sought it up, they sought it down,\n They sought it late and early,\n And found it in the bonnie balm-tree,\n That shines on the bowling-green o\u2019 Airly,\n\n He has ta\u2019en her by the left shoulder,\n And O but she grat sairly,\n And led her down to yon green bank,\n Till he plundered the bonnie house o\u2019 Airly.\n\n \u201cO it\u2019s I hae seven braw sons,\u201d she says,\n \u201cAnd the youngest ne\u2019er saw his daddie,\n And altho\u2019 I had as mony mae,\n I wad gie them a\u2019 to Charlie.\n\n \u201cBut gin my good lord had been at hame,\n As this night he is wi\u2019 Charlie,\n There durst na a Campbell in a\u2019 the west\n Hae plundered the bonnie house o\u2019 Airly.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nROB ROY\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. vi. Early Edition.)\n\n ROB ROY from the Highlands cam,\n Unto the Lawlan\u2019 border,\n To steal awa a gay ladie\n To haud his house in order.\n He cam oure the lock o\u2019 Lynn,\n Twenty men his arms did carry;\n Himsel gaed in, an\u2019 fand her out,\n Protesting he would many.\n\n \u201cO will ye gae wi\u2019 me,\u201d he says,\n \u201cOr will ye be my honey?\n Or will ye be my wedded wife?\n For I love you best of any.\u201d\n \u201cI winna gae wi\u2019 you,\u201d she says,\n \u201cNor will I be your honey,\n Nor will I be your wedded wife;\n You love me for my money.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n But he set her on a coal-black steed,\n Himsel lap on behind her,\n An\u2019 he\u2019s awa to the Highland hills,\n Whare her frien\u2019s they canna find her.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cRob Roy was my father ca\u2019d,\n Macgregor was his name, ladie;\n He led a band o\u2019 heroes bauld,\n An\u2019 I am here the same, ladie.\n Be content, be content,\n Be content to stay, ladie,\n For thou art my wedded wife\n Until thy dying day, ladie.\n\n \u201cHe was a hedge unto his frien\u2019s,\n A heckle to his foes, ladie,\n Every one that durst him wrang,\n He took him by the nose, ladie.\n I\u2019m as bold, I\u2019m as bold,\n I\u2019m as bold, an more, ladie;\n He that daurs dispute my word,\n Shall feel my guid claymore, ladie.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE BATTLE OF KILLIE-CRANKIE\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. vii. Early Edition.)\n\n CLAVERS and his Highlandmen\n Came down upo\u2019 the raw, man,\n Who being stout, gave mony a clout;\n The lads began to claw then.\n With sword and terge into their hand,\n Wi which they were nae slaw, man,\n Wi mony a fearful heavy sigh,\n The lads began to claw then.\n\n O\u2019er bush, o\u2019er bank, o\u2019er ditch, o\u2019er stark,\n She flang amang them a\u2019, man;\n The butter-box got many knocks,\n Their riggings paid for a\u2019 then.\n They got their paiks, wi sudden straiks,\n Which to their grief they saw, man:\n Wi clinkum, clankum o\u2019er their crowns,\n The lads began to fa\u2019 then.\n\n Hur skipt about, hur leapt about,\n And flang amang them a\u2019, man;\n The English blades got broken beads,\n Their crowns were cleav\u2019d in twa then.\n The durk and door made their last hour,\n And prov\u2019d their final fa\u2019, man;\n They thought the devil had been there,\n That play\u2019d them sic a paw then.\n\n The Solemn League and Covenant\n Came whigging up the hills, man;\n Thought Highland trews durst not refuse\n For to subscribe their bills then.\n In Willie\u2019s name, they thought nag ane\n Durst stop their course at a\u2019, man,\n But hur-nane-sell, wi mony a knock,\n Cry\u2019d, \u201cFurich\u2014Whigs awa\u2019,\u201d man.\n\n Sir Evan Du, and his men true,\n Came linking up the brink, man;\n The Hogan Dutch they feared such,\n They bred a horrid stink then.\n The true Maclean and his fierce men\n Came in amang them a\u2019, man;\n Nane durst withstand his heavy hand.\n All fled and ran awa\u2019 then.\n\n _Oh\u2019 on a ri_, _Oh\u2019 on a ri_,\n Why should she lose King Shames, man?\n _Oh\u2019 rig in di_, _Oh\u2019 rig in di_,\n She shall break a\u2019 her banes then;\n With _furichinish_, an\u2019 stay a while,\n And speak a word or twa, man,\n She\u2019s gi\u2019 a straike, out o\u2019er the neck,\n Before ye win awa\u2019 then.\n\n Oh fy for shame, ye\u2019re three for ane,\n Hur-nane-sell\u2019s won the day, man;\n King Shames\u2019 red-coats should be hung up,\n Because they ran awa\u2019 then.\n Had bent their brows, like Highland trows,\n And made as lang a stay, man,\n They\u2019d sav\u2019d their king, that sacred thing,\n And Willie\u2019d ran awa\u2019 then.\n\n\n\n\nANNAN WATER\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. ii. Early Edition.)\n\n \u201cANNAN water\u2019s wading deep,\n And my love Annie\u2019s wondrous bonny;\n And I am laith she suld weet her feet,\n Because I love her best of ony.\n\n \u201cGar saddle me the bonny black,\u2014\n Gar saddle sune, and make him ready:\n For I will down the Gatehope-Slack,\n And all to see my bonny ladye.\u201d\u2014\n\n He has loupen on the bonny black,\n He stirr\u2019d him wi\u2019 the spur right sairly;\n But, or he wan the Gatehope-Slack,\n I think the steed was wae and weary.\n\n He has loupen on the bonny gray,\n He rade the right gate and the ready;\n I trow he would neither stint nor stay,\n For he was seeking his bonny ladye.\n\n O he has ridden o\u2019er field and fell,\n Through muir and moss, and mony a mire;\n His spurs o\u2019 steel were sair to bide,\n And fra her fore-feet flew the fire.\n\n \u201cNow, bonny grey, now play your part!\n Gin ye be the steed that wins my deary,\n Wi\u2019 corn and hay ye\u2019se be fed for aye,\n And never spur sall make you wearie.\u201d\n\n The gray was a mare, and a right good mare;\n But when she wan the Annan water,\n She couldna hae ridden a furlong mair,\n Had a thousand merks been wadded at her.\n\n \u201cO boatman, boatman, put off your boat!\n Put off your boat for gowden monie!\n I cross the drumly stream the night,\n Or never mair I see my honey.\u201d\u2014\n\n \u201cO I was sworn sae late yestreen,\n And not by ae aith, but by many;\n And for a\u2019 the gowd in fair Scotland,\n I dare na take ye through to Annie.\u201d\n\n The side was stey, and the bottom deep,\n Frae bank to brae the water pouring;\n And the bonny grey mare did sweat for fear,\n For she heard the water-kelpy roaring.\n\n O he has pou\u2019d aff his dapperpy coat,\n The silver buttons glanc\u00e8d bonny;\n The waistcoat bursted aff his breast,\n He was sae full of melancholy.\n\n He has ta\u2019en the ford at that stream tail;\n I wot he swam both strong and steady;\n But the stream was broad, and his strength did fail,\n And he never saw his bonny ladye.\n\n \u201cO wae betide the frush saugh wand!\n And wae betide the bush of brier!\n It brake into my true love\u2019s hand,\n When his strength did fail, and his limbs did tire.\n\n \u201cAnd wae betide ye, Annan water,\n This night that ye are a drumlie river!\n For over thee I\u2019ll build a bridge,\n That ye never more true love may sever.\u201d\u2014\n\n\n\n\nTHE ELPHIN NOURRICE\n\n\n (_C. K. Sharpe_.)\n\n I HEARD a cow low, a bonnie cow low,\n An\u2019 a cow low down in yon glen;\n Lang, lang will my young son greet,\n Or his mither bid him come ben.\n\n I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,\n An\u2019 a cow low down in yon fauld;\n Lang, lang will my young son greet,\n Or is mither take him frae cauld.\n\n Waken, Queen of Elfan,\n An hear your Nourrice moan.\n O moan ye for your meat,\n Or moan ye for your fee,\n Or moan ye for the ither bounties\n That ladies are wont to gie?\n\n I moan na for my meat,\n Nor yet for my fee,\n But I mourn for Christened land\u2014\n It\u2019s there I fain would be.\n\n O nurse my bairn, Nourice, she says,\n Till he stan\u2019 at your knee,\n An\u2019 ye\u2019s win hame to Christen land,\n Whar fain it\u2019s ye wad be.\n\n O keep my bairn, Nourice,\n Till he gang by the hauld,\n An\u2019 ye\u2019s win hame to your young son,\n Ye left in four nights auld.\n\n\n\n\nCOSPATRICK\n\n\n (_Mackay_.)\n\n COSPATRICK has sent o\u2019er the faem;\n Cospatrick brought his ladye hame;\n And fourscore ships have come her wi\u2019,\n The ladye by the green-wood tree.\n\n There were twal\u2019 and twal\u2019 wi\u2019 baken bread,\n And twal\u2019 and twal\u2019 wi\u2019 gowd sae red,\n And twal\u2019 and twal\u2019 wi\u2019 bouted flour,\n And twal\u2019 and twal\u2019 wi\u2019 the paramour.\n\n Sweet Willy was a widow\u2019s son,\n And at her stirrup he did run;\n And she was clad in the finest pall,\n But aye she loot the tears down fall.\n\n \u201cO is your saddle set awrye?\n Or rides your steed for you owre high?\n Or are you mourning, in your tide,\n That you suld be Cospatrick\u2019s bride?\u201d\n\n \u201cI am not mourning, at this tide,\n That I suld he Cospatrick\u2019s bride;\n But I am sorrowing in my mood,\n That I suld leave my mother good.\u201d\n\n \u201cBut, gentle boy, come tell to me,\n What is the custom of thy countrie?\u201d\n \u201cThe custom thereof, my dame,\u201d he says,\n \u201cWill ill a gentle ladye please.\n\n \u201cSeven king\u2019s daughters has our lord wedded,\n And seven king\u2019s daughters has our lord bedded;\n But he\u2019s cutted their breasts frae their breast-bane,\n And sent them mourning hame again.\n\n \u201cYet, gin you\u2019re sure that you\u2019re a maid,\n Ye may gae safely to his bed;\n But gif o\u2019 that ye be na sure,\n Then hire some damsel o\u2019 your bour.\u201d\n\n The ladye\u2019s called her bour-maiden,\n That waiting was unto her train.\n \u201cFive thousand marks I\u2019ll gie to thee,\n To sleep this night with my lord for me.\u201d\n\n When bells were rung, and mass was sayne,\n And a\u2019 men unto bed were gane,\n Cospatrick and the bonny maid,\n Into ae chamber they were laid.\n\n \u201cNow speak to me, blankets, and speak to me, bed,\n And speak, thou sheet, enchanted web;\n And speak, my sword, that winna lie,\n Is this a true maiden that lies by me?\u201d\n\n \u201cIt is not a maid that you hae wedded,\n But it is a maid that you hae bedded;\n It is a leal maiden that lies by thee,\n But not the maiden that it should be.\u201d\n\n O wrathfully he left the bed,\n And wrathfully his claes on did;\n And he has ta\u2019en him through the ha\u2019,\n And on his mother he did ca\u2019.\n\n \u201cI am the most unhappy man,\n That ever was in Christen land?\n I courted a maiden, meik and mild,\n And I hae gotten naething but a woman wi\u2019 child.\u201d\n\n \u201cO stay, my son, into this ha\u2019,\n And sport ye wi\u2019 your merry men a\u2019;\n And I will to the secret bour,\n To see how it fares wi\u2019 your paramour.\u201d\n\n The carline she was stark and stare,\n She aff the hinges dang the dure.\n \u201cO is your bairn to laird or loun,\n Or is it to your father\u2019s groom?\u201d\n\n \u201cO hear me, mother, on my knee,\n Till my sad story I tell to thee:\n O we were sisters, sisters seven,\n We were the fairest under heaven.\n\n \u201cIt fell on a summer\u2019s afternoon,\n When a\u2019 our toilsome work was done,\n We coost the kevils us amang,\n To see which suld to the green-wood gang.\n\n \u201cOhon! alas, for I was youngest,\n And aye my weird it was the strongest!\n The kevil it on me did fa\u2019,\n Whilk was the cause of a\u2019 my woe.\n\n \u201cFor to the green-wood I maun gae,\n To pu\u2019 the red rose and the slae;\n To pu\u2019 the red rose and the thyme,\n To deck my mother\u2019s bour and mine.\n\n \u201cI hadna pu\u2019d a flower but ane,\n When by there came a gallant hinde,\n Wi\u2019 high colled hose and laigh colled shoon,\n And he seemed to be some king\u2019s son.\n\n \u201cAnd be I maid, or be I nae,\n He kept me there till the close o\u2019 day;\n And be I maid, or be I nane,\n He kept me there till the day was done.\n\n \u201cHe gae me a lock o\u2019 his yellow hair,\n And bade me keep it ever mair;\n He gae me a carknet o\u2019 bonny beads,\n And bade me keep it against my needs.\n\n \u201cHe gae to me a gay gold ring,\n And bade me keep it abune a\u2019 thing.\u201d\n \u201cWhat did ye wi\u2019 the tokens rare,\n That ye gat frae that gallant there?\u201d\n\n \u201cO bring that coffer unto me,\n And a\u2019 the tokens ye sall see.\u201d\n \u201cNow stay, daughter, your bour within,\n While I gae parley wi\u2019 my son.\u201d\n\n O she has ta\u2019en her thro\u2019 the ha\u2019,\n And on her son began to ca\u2019:\n \u201cWhat did ye wi\u2019 the bonny beads,\n I bade ye keep against your needs?\n\n \u201cWhat did you wi\u2019 the gay gold ring,\n I bade you keep abune a\u2019 thing?\u201d\n \u201cI gae them to a ladye gay,\n I met in green-wood on a day.\n\n \u201cBut I wad gie a\u2019 my halls and tours,\n I had that ladye within my bours,\n But I wad gie my very life,\n I had that ladye to my wife.\u201d\n\n \u201cNow keep, my son, your ha\u2019s and tours;\n Ye have that bright burd in your bours;\n And keep, my son, your very life;\n Ye have that ladye to your wife.\u201d\n\n Now, or a month was come and gane,\n The ladye bore a bonny son;\n And \u2019twas written on his breast-bane,\n \u201cCospatrick is my father\u2019s name.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nJOHNNIE ARMSTRANG\n\n\n SOME speak of lords, some speak of lairds,\n And sic like men of high degree;\n Of a gentleman I sing a sang,\n Some time call\u2019d Laird of Gilnockie.\n\n The king he writes a loving letter,\n With his ain hand sae tenderlie,\n And he hath sent it to Johnnie Armstrang,\n To come and speak with him speedilie.\n\n The Elliots and Armstrangs did convene,\n They were a gallant companie:\n \u201cWe\u2019ll ride and meet our lawful king,\n And bring him safe to Gilnockie.\n\n \u201cMake kinnen {87} and capon ready, then,\n And venison in great plentie;\n We\u2019ll welcome here our royal king;\n I hope he\u2019ll dine at Gilnockie!\u201d\n\n They ran their horse on the Langholm howm,\n And brake their spears with meikle main;\n The ladies lookit frae their loft windows\u2014\n \u201cGod bring our men weel hame again!\u201d\n\n When Johnnie came before the king,\n With all his men sae brave to see,\n The king he moved his bonnet to him;\n He ween\u2019d he was a king as well as he.\n\n \u201cMay I find grace, my sovereign liege,\n Grace for my loyal men and me?\n For my name it is Johnnie Armstrang,\n And a subject of yours, my liege,\u201d said he.\n\n \u201cAway, away, thou traitor strang!\n Out of my sight soon may\u2019st thou be!\n I granted never a traitor\u2019s life,\n And now I\u2019ll not begin with thee.\u201d\n\n \u201cGrant me my life, my liege, my king!\n And a bonnie gift I\u2019ll gi\u2019e to thee;\n Full four-and-twenty milk-white steeds,\n Were all foal\u2019d in ae year to me.\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll gi\u2019e thee all these milk-white steeds,\n That prance and nicher {88a} at a spear;\n And as meikle gude Inglish gilt, {88b}\n As four of their braid backs dow {88c} bear.\u201d\n\n \u201cAway, away, thou traitor strang!\n Out of my sight soon may\u2019st thou be!\n I granted never a traitor\u2019s life,\n And now I\u2019ll not begin with thee.\u201d\n\n \u201cGrant me my life, my liege, my king!\n And a bonnie gift I\u2019ll gi\u2019e to thee:\n Gude four-and-twenty ganging {88d} mills,\n That gang thro\u2019 all the year to me.\n\n \u201cThese four-and-twenty mills complete,\n Shall gang for thee thro\u2019 all the year;\n And as meikle of gude red wheat,\n As all their happers dow to bear.\u201d\n\n \u201cAway, away, thou traitor strang!\n Out of my sight soon may\u2019st thou be!\n I granted never a traitor\u2019s life,\n And now I\u2019ll not begin with thee.\u201d\n\n \u201cGrant me my life, my liege, my king!\n And a great gift I\u2019ll gi\u2019e to thee:\n Bauld four-and-twenty sisters\u2019 sons\n Shall for thee fecht, tho\u2019 all shou\u2019d flee.\u201d\n\n \u201cAway, away, thou traitor strang!\n Out of my sight soon may\u2019st thou be!\n I granted never a traitor\u2019s life,\n And now I\u2019ll not begin with thee.\u201d\n\n \u201cGrant me my life, my liege, my king!\n And a brave gift I\u2019ll gi\u2019e to thee:\n All between here and Newcastle town\n Shall pay their yearly rent to thee.\u201d\n\n \u201cAway, away, thou traitor strang!\n Out of my sight soon may\u2019st thou be!\n I granted never a traitor\u2019s life,\n And now I\u2019ll not begin with thee.\u201d\n\n \u201cYe lied, ye lied, now, king,\u201d he says,\n \u201cAltho\u2019 a king and prince ye be!\n For I\u2019ve loved naething in my life,\n I weel dare say it, but honestie.\n\n \u201cSave a fat horse, and a fair woman,\n Twa bonnie dogs to kill a deer;\n But England shou\u2019d have found me meal and mault,\n Gif I had lived this hundred year.\n\n \u201cShe shou\u2019d have found me meal and mault,\n And beef and mutton in all plentie;\n But never a Scots wife cou\u2019d have said,\n That e\u2019er I skaith\u2019d her a puir flee.\n\n \u201cTo seek het water beneath cauld ice,\n Surely it is a great follie:\n I have ask\u2019d grace at a graceless face,\n But there is nane for my men and me.\n\n \u201cBut had I kenn\u2019d, ere I came frae hame,\n How unkind thou wou\u2019dst been to me,\n I wou\u2019d ha\u2019e keepit the Border side,\n In spite of all thy force and thee.\n\n \u201cWist England\u2019s king that I was ta\u2019en,\n Oh, gin a blythe man he wou\u2019d be!\n For ance I slew his sister\u2019s son,\n And on his breast-bane brak a tree.\u201d\n\n John wore a girdle about his middle,\n Embroider\u2019d o\u2019er with burning gold,\n Bespangled with the same metal,\n Maist beautiful was to behold.\n\n There hang nine targats {90a} at Johnnie\u2019s hat,\n An ilk ane worth three hundred pound:\n \u201cWhat wants that knave that a king shou\u2019d have,\n But the sword of honour and the crown?\n\n \u201cOh, where got thee these targats, Johnnie.\n That blink sae brawly {90b} aboon thy brie?\u201d\n \u201cI gat them in the field fechting, {90c}\n Where, cruel king, thou durst not be.\n\n \u201cHad I my horse and harness gude,\n And riding as I wont to be,\n It shou\u2019d have been tauld this hundred year,\n The meeting of my king and me!\n\n \u201cGod be with thee, Kirsty, {91} my brother,\n Lang live thou laird of Mangertoun!\n Lang may\u2019st thou live on the Border side,\n Ere thou see thy brother ride up and down!\n\n \u201cAnd God he with thee, Kirsty, my son,\n Where thou sits on thy nurse\u2019s knee!\n But an thou live this hundred year,\n Thy father\u2019s better thou\u2019lt never be.\n\n \u201cFarewell, my bonnie Gilnock hall,\n Where on Esk side thou standest stout!\n Gif I had lived but seven years mair,\n I wou\u2019d ha\u2019e gilt thee round about.\u201d\n\n John murder\u2019d was at Carlinrigg,\n And all his gallant companie;\n But Scotland\u2019s heart was ne\u2019er sae wae,\n To see sae mony brave men die;\n\n Because they saved their country dear\n Frae Englishmen! Nane were sae bauld\n While Johnnie lived on the Border side,\n Nane of them durst come near his hauld.\n\n\n\n\nEDOM O\u2019 GORDON\n\n\n IT fell about the Martinmas,\n When the wind blew shrill and cauld,\n Said Edom o\u2019 Gordon to his men,\u2014\n \u201cWe maun draw to a hald. {92}\n\n \u201cAnd whatna hald shall we draw to,\n My merry men and me?\n We will gae straight to Towie house,\n To see that fair ladye.\u201d\n\n [The ladye stood on her castle wall,\n Beheld baith dale and down;\n There she was \u2019ware of a host of men\n Came riding towards the town.\n\n \u201cOh, see ye not, my merry men all,\n Oh, see ye not what I see?\n Methinks I see a host of men;\n I marvel who they be.\u201d\n\n She thought it had been her own wed lord.\n As he came riding hame;\n It was the traitor, Edom o\u2019 Gordon,\n Wha reck\u2019d nae sin nor shame.]\n\n She had nae sooner buskit hersel\u2019,\n And putten on her gown,\n Till Edom o\u2019 Gordon and his men\n Were round about the town.\n\n They had nae sooner supper set,\n Nae sooner said the grace,\n Till Edom o\u2019 Gordon and his men\n Were round about the place.\n\n The ladye ran to her tower head,\n As fast as she cou\u2019d hie,\n To see if, by her fair speeches,\n She cou\u2019d with him agree.\n\n As soon as he saw this ladye fair.\n And her yetts all lockit fast,\n He fell into a rage of wrath,\n And his heart was all aghast.\n\n \u201cCome down to me, ye ladye gay,\n Come down, come down to me;\n This night ye shall lye within my arms,\n The morn my bride shall be.\u201d\n\n \u201cI winna come down, ye false Gordon,\n I winna come down to thee;\n I winna forsake my ain dear lord,\n That is sae far frae me.\u201d\n\n \u201cGi\u2019e up your house, ye ladye fair,\n Gi\u2019e up your house to me;\n Or I shall burn yoursel\u2019 therein,\n Bot and your babies three.\u201d\n\n \u201cI winna gi\u2019e up, ye false Gordon,\n To nae sic traitor as thee;\n Tho\u2019 you shou\u2019d burn mysel\u2019 therein,\n Bot and my babies three.\n\n [\u201cBut fetch to me my pistolette,\n And charge to me my gun;\n For, but if I pierce that bluidy butcher,\n My babes we will be undone.\u201d\n\n She stiffly stood on her castle wall,\n And let the bullets flee;\n She miss\u2019d that bluidy butcher\u2019s heart,\n Tho\u2019 she slew other three.]\n\n \u201cSet fire to the house!\u201d quo\u2019 the false Gordon,\n \u201cSince better may nae be;\n And I will burn hersel\u2019 therein,\n Bot and her babies three.\u201d\n\n \u201cWae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man,\n I paid ye weel your fee;\n Why pull ye out the grund-wa\u2019-stance,\n Lets in the reek {94} to me?\n\n \u201cAnd e\u2019en wae worth ye, Jock, my man,\n I paid ye weel your hire;\n Why pull ye out my grund-wa\u2019-stane,\n To me lets in the fire?\u201d\n\n \u201cYe paid me weel my hire, ladye,\n Ye paid me weel my fee;\n But now I\u2019m Edom o\u2019 Gordon\u2019s man,\n Maun either do or dee.\u201d\n\n Oh, then out spake her youngest son,\n Sat on the nurse\u2019s knee:\n Says\u2014\u201cMither dear, gi\u2019e o\u2019er this house,\n For the reek it smothers me.\u201d\n\n [\u201cI wou\u2019d gi\u2019e all my gold, my bairn,\n Sae wou\u2019d I all my fee,\n For ae blast of the westlin\u2019 wind,\n To blaw the reek frae thee.]\n\n \u201cBut I winna gi\u2019e up my house, my dear,\n To nae sic traitor as he;\n Come weal, come woe, my jewels fair,\n Ye maun take share with me.\u201d\n\n Oh, then out spake her daughter dear,\n She was baith jimp and small:\n \u201cOh, row me in a pair of sheets,\n And tow me o\u2019er the wall.\u201d\n\n They row\u2019d her in a pair of sheets,\n And tow\u2019d her o\u2019er the wall;\n But on the point of Gordon\u2019s spear\n She got a deadly fall.\n\n Oh, bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,\n And cherry were her cheeks;\n And clear, clear was her yellow hair,\n Whereon the red bluid dreeps.\n\n Then with his spear he turn\u2019d her o\u2019er,\n Oh, gin her face was wan!\n He said\u2014\u201cYou are the first that e\u2019er\n I wish\u2019d alive again.\u201d\n\n He turn\u2019d her o\u2019er and o\u2019er again,\n Oh, gin her skin was white!\n \u201cI might ha\u2019e spared that bonnie face\n To ha\u2019e been some man\u2019s delight.\n\n \u201cBusk and boun, my merry men all,\n For ill dooms I do guess;\n I canna look on that bonnie face,\n As it lyes on the grass!\u201d\n\n \u201cWha looks to freits, {95} my master dear,\n Their freits will follow them;\n Let it ne\u2019er be said brave Edom o\u2019 Gordon\n Was daunted with a dame.\u201d\n\n [But when the ladye saw the fire\n Come flaming o\u2019er her head,\n She wept, and kissed her children twain;\n Said\u2014\u201cBairns, we been but dead.\u201d\n\n The Gordon then his bugle blew,\n And said\u2014\u201cAway, away!\n The house of Towie is all in a flame,\n I hald it time to gae.\u201d]\n\n Oh, then he spied her ain dear lord,\n As he came o\u2019er the lea;\n He saw his castle all in a flame,\n As far as he could see.\n\n Then sair, oh sair his mind misgave,\n And oh, his heart was wae!\n \u201cPut on, put on, my wighty {96a} men,\n As fast as ye can gae.\n\n \u201cPut on, put on, my wighty men,\n As fast as ye can drie;\n For he that is hindmost of the thrang\n Shall ne\u2019er get gude of me!\u201d\n\n Then some they rade, and some they ran,\n Full fast out o\u2019er the bent;\n But ere the foremost could win up,\n Baith ladye and babes were brent.\n\n [He wrang his hands, he rent his hair,\n And wept in tearful mood;\n \u201cAh, traitors! for this cruel deed,\n Ye shall weep tears of bluid.\u201d\n\n And after the Gordon he has gane,\n Sae fast as he might drie;\n And soon in the Gordon\u2019s foul heart\u2019s bluid\n He\u2019s wroken {96b} his dear layde.]\n\n And mony were the mudie {97} men\n Lay gasping on the green;\n And mony were the fair ladyes\n Lay lemanless at hame.\n\n And mony were the mudie men\n Lay gasping on the green;\n For of fifty men the Gordon brocht,\n There were but five gaed hame.\n\n And round, and round the walls he went,\n Their ashes for to view;\n At last into the flames he flew,\n And bade the world adieu.\n\n\n\n\nLADY ANNE BOTHWELL\u2019S LAMENT\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. iv. Early Edition.)\n\n BALOW, my boy, ly still and sleep,\n It grieves me sore to hear thee weep,\n If thou\u2019lt be silent, I\u2019ll be glad,\n Thy mourning makes my heart full sad.\n Balow, my boy, thy mother\u2019s joy,\n Thy father bred one great annoy.\n _Balow_, _my boy_, _ly still and sleep_,\n _It grieves me sore to hear thee weep_.\n\n Balow, my darling, sleep a while,\n And when thou wak\u2019st then sweetly smile;\n But smile not as thy father did,\n To cozen maids, nay, God forbid;\n For in thine eye his look I see,\n The tempting look that ruin\u2019d me.\n _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._\n\n When he began to court my love,\n And with his sugar\u2019d words to move,\n His tempting face, and flatt\u2019ring chear,\n In time to me did not appear;\n But now I see that cruel he\n Cares neither for his babe nor me.\n _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._\n\n Fareweel, fareaeel, thou falsest youth\n That ever kist a woman\u2019s mouth.\n Let never any after me\n Submit unto thy courtesy!\n For, if hey do, O! cruel thou\n Wilt her abuse and care not how!\n _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._\n\n I was too cred\u2019lous at the first,\n To yield thee all a maiden durst.\n Thou swore for ever true to prove,\n Thy faith unchang\u2019d, unchang\u2019d thy love;\n But quick as thought the change is wrought,\n Thy love\u2019s no mair, thy promise nought.\n _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._\n\n I wish I were a maid again!\n From young men\u2019s flatt\u2019ry I\u2019d refrain;\n For now unto my grief I find\n They all are perjur\u2019d and unkind;\n Bewitching charms bred all my harms;\u2014\n Witness my babe lies in my arms.\n _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._\n\n I take my fate from bad to worse,\n That I must needs be now a nurse,\n And lull my young son on my lap:\n From me, sweet orphan, take the pap.\n Balow, my child, thy mother mild\n Shall wail as from all bliss exil\u2019d.\n _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._\n\n Balow, my boy, weep not for me,\n Whose greatest grief\u2019s for wronging thee.\n Nor pity her deserved smart,\n Who can blame none but her fond heart;\n For, too soon tursting latest finds\n With fairest tongues are falsest minds.\n _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._\n\n Balow, my boy, thy father\u2019s fled,\n When he the thriftless son has played;\n Of vows and oaths forgetful, he\n Preferr\u2019d the wars to thee and me.\n But now, perhaps, thy curse and mine\n Make him eat acorns with the swine.\n _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._\n\n But curse not him; perhaps now he,\n Stung with remorse, is blessing thee:\n Perhaps at death; for who can tell\n Whether the judge of heaven or hell,\n By some proud foe has struck the blow,\n And laid the dear deceiver low?\n _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._\n\n I wish I were into the bounds\n Where he lies smother\u2019d in his wounds,\n Repeating, as he pants for air,\n My name, whom once he call\u2019d his fair;\n No woman\u2019s yet so fiercely set\n But she\u2019ll forgive, though not forget.\n _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._\n\n If linen lacks, for my love\u2019s sake\n Then quickly to him would I make\n My smock, once for his body meet,\n And wrap him in that winding-sheet.\n Ah me! how happy had I been,\n If he had ne\u2019er been wrapt therein.\n _Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._\n\n Balow, my boy, I\u2019ll weep for thee;\n Too soon, alake, thou\u2019lt weep for me:\n Thy griefs are growing to a sum,\n God grant thee patience when they come;\n Born to sustain thy mother\u2019s shame,\n A hapless fate, a bastard\u2019s name.\n _Balow_, _my boy_, _ly still and sleep_,\n _It grieves me sore to hear thee weep_.\n\n\n\n\nJOCK O THE SIDE\n\n\n (_Child_, Part VI., p. 479.)\n\n NOW Liddisdale has ridden a raid,\n But I wat they had better staid at hame;\n For Mitchell o Winfield he is dead,\n And my son Johnie is prisner tane?\n With my fa ding diddle, la la dew diddle.\n\n For Mangerton house auld Downie is gane,\n Her coats she has kilted up to her knee;\n And down the water wi speed she rins,\n While tears in spaits fa fast frae her eie.\n\n Then up and bespake the lord Mangerton:\n \u201cWhat news, what news, sister Downie, to me?\u201d\n \u201cBad news, bad news, my lord Mangerton;\n Mitchel is killd, and tane they hae my son Johnie.\u201d\n\n \u201cNeer fear, sister Downie,\u201d quo Mangerton;\n \u201cI hae yokes of oxen, four-and-twentie,\n My barns, my byres, and my faulds, a\u2019 weel filld,\n And I\u2019ll part wi them a\u2019 ere Johnie shall die.\n\n \u201cThree men I\u2019ll take to set him free,\n Weel harnessd a\u2019 wi best of steel;\n The English rogues may hear, and drie\n The weight o their braid swords to feel\n\n \u201cThe Laird\u2019s Jock ane, the Laird\u2019s Wat twa,\n O Hobie Noble, thou ane maun be!\n Thy coat is blue, thou has been true,\n Since England banishd thee, to me.\u201d\n\n Now, Hobie was an English man,\n In Bewcastle-dale was bred and born;\n But his misdeeds they were sae great,\n They banished him neer to return.\n\n Lord Mangerton then orders gave,\u2014\n \u201cYour horses the wrang way maun a\u2019 be shod;\n Like gentlemen ye must not seem,\n But look like corn-caugers gawn ae road.\n\n \u201cYour armour gude ye maunna shaw,\n Nor ance appear like men o weir;\n As country lads be all arrayd,\n Wi branks and brecham on ilk mare.\u201d\n\n Sae now a\u2019 their horses are shod the wrang way,\n And Hobie has mounted his grey sae fine,\n Jock his lively bay, Wat\u2019s on his white horse behind,\n And on they rode for the water o Tyne.\n\n At the Cholerford they a\u2019 light down,\n And there, wi the help o the light o the moon,\n A tree they cut, wi fifteen naggs upon each side,\n To climb up the wall of Newcastle toun.\n\n But when they came to Newcastle toun,\n And were alighted at the wa,\n They fand their tree three ells oer laigh,\n They fand their stick baith short aid sma.\n\n Then up and spake the Laird\u2019s ain Jock,\n \u201cThere\u2019s naething for\u2019t; the gates we maun force.\u201d\n But when they cam the gate unto,\n A proud porter withstood baith men and horse.\n\n His neck in twa I wat they hae wrung;\n Wi foot or hand he neer play\u2019d paw;\n His life and his keys at anes they hae taen,\n And cast his body ahind the wa.\n\n Now soon they reached Newcastle jail,\n And to the prisner thus they call:\n \u201cSleips thou, wakes thou, Jock o the Side,\n Or is thou wearied o thy thrall?\u201d\n\n Jock answers thus, wi dolefu tone:\n \u201cAft, aft I wake, I seldom sleip;\n But wha\u2019s this kens my name sae weel,\n And thus to hear my waes does seek?\u201d\n\n Then up and spake the good Laird\u2019s Jock:\n \u201cNeer fear ye now, my billie,\u201d quo he;\n \u201cFor here\u2019s the Laird\u2019s Jock, the Laird\u2019s Wat,\n And Hobie Noble, come to set thee free.\u201d\n\n \u201cOh, had thy tongue, and speak nae mair,\n And o thy talk now let me be!\n For if a\u2019 Liddesdale were here the night,\n The morn\u2019s the day that I maun die.\n\n \u201cFull fifteen stane o Spanish iron,\n They hae laid a\u2019 right sair on me;\n Wi locks and keys I am fast bound\n Into this dungeon mirk and drearie.\u201d\n\n \u201cFear ye no that,\u201d quo the Laird\u2019s Jock;\n \u201cA faint heart neer wan a fair ladie;\n Work thou within, we\u2019ll work without,\n And I\u2019ll be sworn we set thee free.\u201d\n\n The first strong dore that they came at,\n They loosed it without a key;\n The next chaind dore that they cam at,\n They gard it a\u2019 in flinders flee.\n\n The prisner now, upo his back,\n The Laird\u2019s Jock\u2019s gotten up fu hie;\n And down the stair him, irons and a\u2019,\n Wi nae sma speed and joy brings he.\n\n \u201cNow, Jock, I wat,\u201d quo Hobie Noble,\n \u201cPart o the weight ye may lay on me,\u201d\n \u201cI wat weel no,\u201d quo the Laird\u2019s Jock\n \u201cI count him lighter than a flee.\u201d\n\n Sae out at the gates they a\u2019 are gane,\n The prisner\u2019s set on horseback hie;\n And now wi speed they\u2019ve tane the gate;\n While ilk ane jokes fu wantonlie.\n\n \u201cO Jock, sae winsomely\u2019s ye ride,\n Wi baith your feet upo ae side!\n Sae weel\u2019s ye\u2019re harnessd, and sae trig!\n In troth ye sit like ony bride.\u201d\n\n The night, tho wat, they didna mind,\n But hied them on fu mirrilie,\n Until they cam to Cholerford brae,\n Where the water ran like mountains hie.\n\n But when they came to Cholerford,\n There they met with an auld man;\n Says, \u201cHonest man, will the water ride?\n Tell us in haste, if that ye can.\u201d\n\n \u201cI wat weel no,\u201d quo the good auld man;\n \u201cHere I hae livd this threty yeirs and three,\n And I neer yet saw the Tyne sae big,\n Nor rinning ance sae like a sea.\u201d\n\n Then up and spake the Laird\u2019s saft Wat,\n The greatest coward in the company;\n \u201cNow halt, now halt, we needna try\u2019t;\n The day is comd we a\u2019 maun die!\u201d\n\n \u201cPoor faint-hearted thief!\u201d quo the Laird\u2019s Jock,\n \u201cThere\u2019ll nae man die but he that\u2019s fie;\n I\u2019ll lead ye a\u2019 right safely through;\n Lift ye the prisner on ahint me.\u201d\n\n Sae now the water they a\u2019 hae tane,\n By anes and \u2019twas they a\u2019 swam through\n \u201cHere are we a\u2019 safe,\u201d says the Laird\u2019s Jock,\n \u201cAnd, poor faint Wat, what think ye now?\u201d\n\n They scarce the ither side had won,\n When twenty men they saw pursue;\n Frae Newcastle town they had been sent,\n A\u2019 English lads right good and true.\n\n But when the land-sergeant the water saw,\n \u201cIt winna ride, my lads,\u201d quo he;\n Then out he cries, \u201cYe the prisner may take,\n But leave the irons, I pray, to me.\u201d\n\n \u201cI wat weel no,\u201d cryd the Laird\u2019s Jock,\n \u201cI\u2019ll keep them a\u2019; shoon to my mare they\u2019ll be;\n My good grey mare; for I am sure,\n She\u2019s bought them a\u2019 fu dear frae thee.\u201d\n\n Sae now they\u2019re away for Liddisdale,\n Een as fast as they coud them hie;\n The prisner\u2019s brought to his ain fireside,\n And there o\u2019s airns they make him free.\n\n \u201cNow, Jock, my billie,\u201d quo a\u2019 the three,\n \u201cThe day was comd thou was to die;\n But thou\u2019s as weel at thy ain fireside,\n Now sitting, I think, \u2019tween thee and me.\u201d\n\n They hae gard fill up ae punch-bowl,\n And after it they maun hae anither,\n And thus the night they a\u2019 hae spent,\n Just as they had been brither and brither.\n\n\n\n\nLORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET\n\n\n (_Child_, Part III., p. 182.)\n\n LORD THOMAS and Fair Annet\n Sate a\u2019 day on a hill;\n Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,\n They had not talkt their fill.\n\n Lord Thomas said a word in jest,\n Fair Annet took it ill:\n \u201cA, I will nevir wed a wife\n Against my ain friend\u2019s will.\u201d\n\n \u201cGif ye wull nevir wed a wife,\n A wife wull neir wed yee;\u201d\n Sae he is hame to tell his mither,\n And knelt upon his knee.\n\n \u201cO rede, O rede, mither,\u201d he says,\n \u201cA gude rede gie to mee;\n O sall I tak the nut-browne bride,\n And let Faire Annet bee?\u201d\n\n \u201cThe nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear,\n Fair Annet she has gat nane;\n And the little beauty Fair Annet haes\n O it wull soon be gane.\u201d\n\n And he has till his brother gane:\n \u201cNow, brother, rede ye mee;\n A, sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,\n And let Fair Annet bee?\u201d\n\n \u201cThe nut-browne bride has oxen, brother,\n The nut-browne bride has kye;\n I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride,\n And cast Fair Annet bye.\u201d\n\n \u201cHer oxen may dye i\u2019 the house, billie,\n And her kye into the byre;\n And I sall hae nothing to mysell\n Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.\u201d\n\n And he has till his sister gane:\n \u201cNow, sister, rede ye mee;\n O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,\n And set Fair Annet free?\u201d\n\n \u201cI\u2019se rede ye tak Fair Annet, Thomas,\n And let the browne bride alane;\n Lest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace,\n What is this we brought hame!\u201d\n\n \u201cNo, I will tak my mither\u2019s counsel,\n And marrie me owt o hand;\n And I will tak the nut-browne bride,\n Fair Annet may leive the land.\u201d\n\n Up then rose Fair Annet\u2019s father,\n Twa hours or it wer day,\n And he is gane unto the bower\n Wherein Fair Annet lay.\n\n \u201cRise up, rise up, Fair Annet,\u201d he says\n \u201cPut on your silken sheene;\n Let us gae to St. Marie\u2019s Kirke,\n And see that rich weddeen.\u201d\n\n \u201cMy maides, gae to my dressing-roome,\n And dress to me my hair;\n Whaireir yee laid a plait before,\n See yee lay ten times mair.\n\n \u201cMy maids, gae to my dressing-room,\n And dress to me my smock;\n The one half is o the holland fine,\n The other o needle-work.\u201d\n\n The horse Fair Annet rade upon,\n He amblit like the wind;\n Wi siller he was shod before,\n Wi burning gowd behind.\n\n Four and twanty siller bells\n Wer a\u2019 tyed till his mane,\n And yae tift o the norland wind,\n They tinkled ane by ane.\n\n Four and twanty gay gude knichts\n Rade by Fair Annet\u2019s side,\n And four and twanty fair ladies,\n As gin she had bin a bride.\n\n And whan she cam to Marie\u2019s Kirk,\n She sat on Marie\u2019s stean:\n The cleading that Fair Annet had on\n It skinkled in their een.\n\n And whan she cam into the kirk,\n She shimmerd like the sun;\n The belt that was about her waist\n Was a\u2019 wi pearles bedone.\n\n She sat her by the nut-browne bride,\n And her een they wer sae clear,\n Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride,\n When Fair Annet drew near.\n\n He had a rose into his hand,\n He gae it kisses three,\n And reaching by the nut-browne bride,\n Laid it on Fair Annet\u2019s knee.\n\n Up then spak the nut-browne bride,\n She spak wi meikle spite:\n \u201cAnd whair gat ye that rose-water,\n That does mak yee sae white?\u201d\n\n \u201cO I did get the rose-water\n Whair ye wull neir get nane,\n For I did get that very rose-water\n Into my mither\u2019s wame.\u201d\n\n The bride she drew a long bodkin\n Frae out her gay head-gear,\n And strake Fair Annet unto the heart,\n That word spak nevir mair.\n\n Lord Thomas he saw Fair Annet wex pale,\n And marvelit what mote bee;\n But when he saw her dear heart\u2019s blude,\n A\u2019 wood-wroth wexed bee.\n\n He drew his dagger that was sae sharp,\n That was sae sharp and meet,\n And drave it into the nut-browne bride,\n That fell deid at his feit.\n\n \u201cNow stay for me, dear Annet,\u201d he sed,\n \u201cNow stay, my dear,\u201d he cry\u2019d;\n Then strake the dagger untill his heart,\n And fell deid by her side.\n\n Lord Thomas was buried without kirk-wa,\n Fair Annet within the quiere,\n And o the ane thair grew a birk,\n The other a bonny briere.\n\n And ay they grew, and ay they threw,\n As they wad faine be neare;\n And by this ye may ken right weil\n They were twa luvers deare.\n\n\n\n\nFAIR ANNIE\n\n\n (_Child_, Part III., p. 69.)\n\n \u201cIT\u2019S narrow, narrow, make your bed,\n And learn to lie your lane:\n For I\u2019m ga\u2019n oer the sea, Fair Annie,\n A braw bride to bring hame.\n Wi her I will get gowd and gear;\n Wi you I neer got nane.\n\n \u201cBut wha will bake my bridal bread,\n Or brew my bridal ale?\n And wha will welcome my brisk bride,\n That I bring oer the dale?\u201d\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s I will bake your bridal bread,\n And brew your bridal ale,\n And I will welcome your brisk bride,\n That you bring oer the dale.\u201d\n\n \u201cBut she that welcomes my brisk bride\n Maun gang like maiden fair;\n She maun lace on her robe sae jimp,\n And braid her yellow hair.\u201d\n\n \u201cBut how can I gang maiden-like,\n When maiden I am nane?\n Have I not born seven sons to thee,\n And am with child again?\u201d\n\n She\u2019s taen her young son in her arms,\n Another in her hand,\n And she\u2019s up to the highest tower,\n To see him come to land.\n\n \u201cCome up, come up, my eldest son,\n And look oer yon sea-strand,\n And see your father\u2019s new-come bride,\n Before she come to land.\u201d\n\n \u201cCome down, come down, my mother dear,\n Come frae the castle wa!\n I fear, if langer ye stand there,\n Ye\u2019ll let yoursell down fa.\u201d\n\n And she gaed down, and farther down,\n Her love\u2019s ship for to see,\n And the topmast and the mainmast\n Shone like the silver free.\n\n And she\u2019s gane down, and farther down,\n The bride\u2019s ship to behold,\n And the topmast and the mainmast\n They shone just like the gold.\n\n She\u2019s taen her seven sons in her hand,\n I wot she didna fail;\n She met Lord Thomas and his bride,\n As they came oer the dale.\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re welcome to your house, Lord Thomas,\n You\u2019re welcome to your land;\n You\u2019re welcome with your fair ladye,\n That you lead by the hand.\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re welcome to your ha\u2019s, ladye,\n You\u2019re welcome to your bowers;\n Your welcome to your hame, ladye,\n For a\u2019 that\u2019s here is yours.\u201d\n\n \u201cI thank thee, Annie; I thank thee, Annie,\n Sae dearly as I thank thee;\n You\u2019re the likest to my sister Annie,\n That ever I did see.\n\n \u201cThere came a knight out oer the sea,\n And steald my sister away;\n The shame scoup in his company,\n And land where\u2019er he gae!\u201d\n\n She hang ae napkin at the door,\n Another in the ha,\n And a\u2019 to wipe the trickling tears,\n Sae fast as they did fa.\n\n And aye she served the lang tables\n With white bread and with wine,\n And aye she drank the wan water,\n To had her colour fine.\n\n And aye she served the lang tables,\n With white bread and with brown;\n And aye she turned her round about,\n Sae fast the tears fell down.\n\n And he\u2019s taen down the silk napkin,\n Hung on a silver pin,\n And aye he wipes the tear trickling\n A\u2019down her cheek and chin.\n\n And aye he turn\u2019d him round about,\n And smiled amang his men;\n Says, \u201cLike ye best the old ladye,\n Or her that\u2019s new come hame?\u201d\n\n When bells were rung, and mass was sung,\n And a\u2019 men bound to bed,\n Lord Thomas and his new-come bride\n To their chamber they were gaed.\n\n Annie made her bed a little forbye,\n To hear what they might say;\n \u201cAnd ever alas!\u201d Fair Annie cried,\n \u201cThat I should see this day!\n\n \u201cGin my seven sons were seven young rats,\n Running on the castle wa,\n And I were a grey cat mysell,\n I soon would worry them a\u2019.\n\n \u201cGin my young sons were seven young hares,\n Running oer yon lilly lee,\n And I were a grew hound mysell,\n Soon worried they a\u2019 should be.\u201d\n\n And wae and sad Fair Annie sat,\n And drearie was her sang,\n And ever, as she sobbd and grat,\n \u201cWae to the man that did the wrang!\u201d\n\n \u201cMy gown is on,\u201d said the new-come bride,\n \u201cMy shoes are on my feet,\n And I will to Fair Annie\u2019s chamber,\n And see what gars her greet.\n\n \u201cWhat ails ye, what ails ye, Fair Annie,\n That ye make sic a moan?\n Has your wine-barrels cast the girds,\n Or is your white bread gone?\n\n \u201cO wha was\u2019t was your father, Annie,\n Or wha was\u2019t was your mother?\n And had ye ony sister, Annie,\n Or had ye ony brother?\u201d\n\n \u201cThe Earl of Wemyss was my father,\n The Countess of Wemyss my mother;\n And a\u2019 the folk about the house\n To me were sister and brother.\u201d\n\n \u201cIf the Earl of Wemyss was your father,\n I wot sae was he mine;\n And it shall not be for lack o gowd\n That ye your love sall fyne.\n\n \u201cFor I have seven ships o mine ain,\n A\u2019 loaded to the brim,\n And I will gie them a\u2019 to thee\n Wi four to thine eldest son:\n But thanks to a\u2019 the powers in heaven\n That I gae maiden hame!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW\n\n\n (_Child_, Part III. Early Edition.)\n\n LATE at e\u2019en, drinking the wine,\n And ere they paid the lawing,\n They set a combat them between,\n To fight it in the dawing.\n\n \u201cOh, stay at hame, my noble lord,\n Oh, stay at hame, my marrow!\n My cruel brother will you betray\n On the dowie houms of Yarrow.\u201d\n\n \u201cOh, fare ye weel, my ladye gaye!\n Oh, fare ye weel, my Sarah!\n For I maun gae, though I ne\u2019er return,\n Frae the dowie banks of Yarrow.\u201d\n\n She kiss\u2019d his cheek, she kaim\u2019d his hair,\n As oft she had done before, O;\n She belted him with his noble brand,\n And he\u2019s away to Yarrow.\n\n As he gaed up the Tennies bank,\n I wot he gaed wi\u2019 sorrow,\n Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm\u2019d men,\n On the dowie houms of Yarrow.\n\n \u201cOh, come ye here to part your land,\n The bonnie Forest thorough?\n Or come ye here to wield your brand,\n On the dowie houms of Yarrow?\u201d\n\n \u201cI come not here to part my land,\n And neither to beg nor borrow;\n I come to wield my noble brand,\n On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.\n\n \u201cIf I see all, ye\u2019re nine to ane;\n An that\u2019s an unequal marrow:\n Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand,\n On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.\u201d\n\n Four has he hurt, and five has slain,\n On the bloody braes of Yarrow;\n Till that stubborn knight came him behind,\n And ran his body thorough.\n\n \u201cGae hame, gae hame, good-brother John,\n And tell your sister Sarah,\n To come and lift her leafu\u2019 lord;\n He\u2019s sleepin\u2019 sound on Yarrow.\u201d\n\n \u201cYestreen I dream\u2019d a dolefu\u2019 dream;\n I fear there will be sorrow!\n I dream\u2019d I pu\u2019d the heather green,\n Wi\u2019 my true love, on Yarrow.\n\n \u201cO gentle wind, that bloweth south,\n From where my love repaireth,\n Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,\n And tell me how he fareth!\n\n \u201cBut in the glen strive armed men;\n They\u2019ve wrought me dole and sorrow;\n They\u2019ve slain\u2014the comeliest knight they\u2019ve slain\u2014\n He bleeding lies on Yarrow.\u201d\n\n As she sped down yon high, high hill,\n She gaed wi\u2019 dole and sorrow,\n And in the den spied ten slain men,\n On the dowie banks of Yarrow.\n\n She kiss\u2019d his cheek, she kaim\u2019d his hair,\n She search\u2019d his wounds all thorough,\n She kiss\u2019d them, till her lips grew red,\n On the dowie houms of Yarrow.\n\n \u201cNow, haud your tongue, my daughter dear!\n For a\u2019 this breeds but sorrow;\n I\u2019ll wed ye to a better lord\n Than him ye lost on Yarrow.\u201d\n\n \u201cOh, haud your tongue, my father dear!\n Ye mind me but of sorrow:\n A fairer rose did never bloom\n Than now lies cropp\u2019d on Yarrow.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nSIR ROLAND\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. i. Early Edition.)\n\n WHAN he cam to his ain luve\u2019s bouir\n He tirled at the pin,\n And sae ready was his fair fause luve\n To rise and let him in.\n\n \u201cO welcome, welcome, Sir Roland,\u201d she says,\n \u201cThrice welcome thou art to me;\n For this night thou wilt feast in my secret bouir,\n And to-morrow we\u2019ll wedded be.\u201d\n\n \u201cThis night is hallow-eve,\u201d he said,\n \u201cAnd to-morrow is hallow-day;\n And I dreamed a drearie dream yestreen,\n That has made my heart fu\u2019 wae.\n\n \u201cI dreamed a drearie dream yestreen,\n And I wish it may cum to gude:\n I dreamed that ye slew my best grew hound,\n And gied me his lappered blude.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cUnbuckle your belt, Sir Roland,\u201d she said,\n And set you safely down.\u201d\n \u201cO your chamber is very dark, fair maid,\n And the night is wondrous lown.\u201d\n\n \u201cYes, dark, dark is my secret bouir,\n And lown the midnight may be;\n For there is none waking in a\u2019 this tower\n But thou, my true love, and me.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n She has mounted on her true love\u2019s steed,\n By the ae light o\u2019 the moon;\n She has whipped him and spurred him,\n And roundly she rade frae the toun.\n\n She hadna ridden a mile o\u2019 gate,\n Never a mile but ane,\n When she was aware of a tall young man,\n Slow riding o\u2019er the plain,\n\n She turned her to the right about,\n Then to the left turn\u2019d she;\n But aye, \u2019tween her and the wan moonlight,\n That tall knight did she see.\n\n And he was riding burd alane,\n On a horse as black as jet,\n But tho\u2019 she followed him fast and fell,\n No nearer could she get.\n\n \u201cO stop! O stop! young man,\u201d she said;\n \u201cFor I in dule am dight;\n O stop, and win a fair lady\u2019s luve,\n If you be a leal true knight.\u201d\n\n But nothing did the tall knight say,\n And nothing did he blin;\n Still slowly ride he on before\n And fast she rade behind.\n\n She whipped her steed, she spurred her steed,\n Till his breast was all a foam;\n But nearer unto that tall young knight,\n By Our Ladye she could not come.\n\n \u201cO if you be a gay young knight,\n As well I trow you be,\n Pull tight your bridle reins, and stay\n Till I come up to thee.\u201d\n\n But nothing did that tall knight say,\n And no whit did he blin,\n Until he reached a broad river\u2019s side\n And there he drew his rein.\n\n \u201cO is this water deep?\u201d he said,\n \u201cAs it is wondrous dun?\n Or is it sic as a saikless maid,\n And a leal true knight may swim?\u201d\n\n \u201cThe water it is deep,\u201d she said,\n \u201cAs it is wondrous dun;\n But it is sic as a saikless maid,\n And a leal true knight may swim.\u201d\n\n The knight spurred on his tall black steed;\n The lady spurred on her brown;\n And fast they rade unto the flood,\n And fast they baith swam down.\n\n \u201cThe water weets my tae,\u201d she said;\n \u201cThe water weets my knee,\n And hold up my bridle reins, sir knight,\n For the sake of Our Ladye.\u201d\n\n \u201cIf I would help thee now,\u201d he said,\n \u201cIt were a deadly sin,\n For I\u2019ve sworn neir to trust a fair may\u2019s word,\n Till the water weets her chin.\u201d\n\n \u201cOh, the water weets my waist,\u201d she said,\n \u201cSae does it weet my skin,\n And my aching heart rins round about,\n The burn maks sic a din.\n\n \u201cThe water is waxing deeper still,\n Sae does it wax mair wide;\n And aye the farther that we ride on,\n Farther off is the other side.\n\n \u201cO help me now, thou false, false knight,\n Have pity on my youth,\n For now the water jawes owre my head,\n And it gurgles in my mouth.\u201d\n\n The knight turned right and round about,\n All in the middle stream;\n And he stretched out his head to that lady,\n But loudly she did scream.\n\n \u201cO this is hallow-morn,\u201d he said,\n \u201cAnd it is your bridal-day,\n But sad would be that gay wedding,\n If bridegroom and bride were away.\n\n \u201cAnd ride on, ride on, proud Margaret!\n Till the water comes o\u2019er your bree,\n For the bride maun ride deep, and deeper yet,\n Wha rides this ford wi\u2019 me.\n\n \u201cTurn round, turn round, proud Margaret!\n Turn ye round, and look on me,\n Thou hast killed a true knight under trust,\n And his ghost now links on with thee.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nROSE THE RED AND WHITE LILY\n\n\n (_Child_, Part IV.)\n\n O ROSE the Red and White Lilly,\n Their mother dear was dead,\n And their father married an ill woman,\n Wishd them twa little guede.\n\n Yet she had twa as fu fair sons\n As eer brake manis bread,\n And the tane of them loed her White Lilly,\n And the tither lood Rose the Red.\n\n O, biggit ha they a bigly bowr,\n And strawn it oer wi san,\n And there was mair mirth i the ladies\u2019 bowr\n Than in a\u2019 their father\u2019s lan.\n\n But out it spake their step-mother,\n Wha stood a little foreby:\n \u201cI hope to live and play the prank\n Sal gar your loud sang ly.\u201d\n\n She\u2019s calld upon her eldest son:\n \u201cCome here, my son, to me;\n It fears me sair, my eldest son,\n That ye maun sail the sea.\u201d\n\n \u201cGin it fear you sair, my mither dear,\n Your bidding I maun dee;\n But be never war to Rose the Red\n Than ye ha been to me.\u201d\n\n \u201cO had your tongue, my eldest son,\n For sma sal be her part;\n You\u2019ll nae get a kiss o her comely mouth\n Gin your very fair heart should break.\u201d\n\n She\u2019s calld upon her youngest son:\n \u201cCome here, my son, to me;\n It fears me sair, my youngest son,\n That ye maun sail the sea.\u201d\n\n \u201cGin it fear you sair, my mither dear,\n Your bidding I maun dee;\n But be never war to White Lilly\n Than ye ha been to me.\u201d\n\n \u201cO haud your tongue, my youngest son,\n For sma sall be her part;\n You\u2019ll neer get a kiss o her comely mouth\n Tho your very fair heart should break.\u201d\n\n When Rose the Red and White Lilly\n Saw their twa loves were gane,\n Then stopped ha they their loud, loud sang,\n And tane up the still moarnin;\n And their step-mother stood listnin by,\n To hear the ladies\u2019 mean.\n\n Then out it spake her, White Lily;\n \u201cMy sister, we\u2019ll be gane;\n Why shou\u2019d we stay in Barnsdale,\n To waste our youth in pain?\u201d\n\n Then cutted ha they their green cloathing,\n A little below their knee;\n And sae ha they their yallow hair,\n A little aboon there bree;\n And they\u2019ve doen them to haely chapel\n Was christened by Our Ladye.\n\n There ha they changed their ain twa names,\n Sae far frae ony town;\n And the tane o them hight Sweet Willy,\n And the tither o them Roge the Roun.\n\n Between this twa a vow was made,\n An they sware it to fulfil;\n That at three blasts o a buglehorn,\n She\u2019d come her sister till.\n\n Now Sweet Willy\u2019s gane to the kingis court,\n Her true-love for to see,\n And Roge the Roun to good green wood,\n Brown Robin\u2019s man to be.\n\n As it fell out upon a day,\n They a did put the stane;\n Full seven foot ayont them a\n She gard the puttin-stane gang.\n\n She leand her back against an oak,\n And gae a loud Ohone!\n Then out it spake him Brown Robin,\n \u201cBut that\u2019s a woman\u2019s moan!\u201d\n\n \u201cOh, ken ye by my red rose lip?\n Or by my yallow hair;\n Or ken ye by my milk-white breast?\n For ye never saw it bare?\u201d\n\n \u201cI ken no by your red rose lip,\n Nor by your yallow hair;\n Nor ken I by your milk-white breast,\n For I never saw it bare;\n But, come to your bowr whaever sae likes,\n Will find a ladye there.\u201d\n\n \u201cOh, gin ye come to my bowr within,\n Thro fraud, deceit, or guile,\n Wi this same bran that\u2019s in my han\n I swear I will thee kill.\u201d\n\n \u201cBut I will come thy bowr within,\n An spear nae leave,\u201d quoth he;\n \u201cAn this same bran that\u2019s i my ban,\n I sall ware back on the.\u201d\n\n About the tenth hour of the night,\n The ladie\u2019s bowr door was broken,\n An eer the first hour of the day\n The bonny knave bairn was gotten.\n\n When days were gane and months were run,\n The ladye took travailing,\n And sair she cry\u2019d for a bow\u2019r-woman,\n For to wait her upon.\n\n Then out it spake him, Brown Robin:\n \u201cNow what needs a\u2019 this din?\n For what coud any woman do\n But I coud do the same?\u201d\n\n \u201cTwas never my mither\u2019s fashion,\u201d she says,\n \u201cNor sall it ever be mine,\n That belted knights shoud eer remain\n Where ladies dreed their pine.\n\n \u201cBut ye take up that bugle-horn,\n An blaw a blast for me;\n I ha a brother i the kingis court\n Will come me quickly ti.\u201d\n\n \u201cO gin ye ha a brither on earth\n That ye love better nor me,\n Ye blaw the horn yoursel,\u201d he says,\n \u201cFor ae blast I winna gie.\u201d\n\n She\u2019s set the horn till her mouth,\n And she\u2019s blawn three blasts sae shrill;\n Sweet Willy heard i the kingis court,\n And came her quickly till.\n\n Then up it started Brown Robin,\n An an angry man was he:\n \u201cThere comes nae man this bowr within\n But first must fight wi me.\u201d\n\n O they hae fought that bowr within\n Till the sun was gaing down,\n Till drops o blude frae Rose the Red\n Cam trailing to the groun.\n\n She leand her back against the wa,\n Says, \u201cRobin, let a\u2019 be;\n For it is a lady born and bred\n That\u2019s foughten sae well wi thee.\u201d\n\n O seven foot he lap a back;\n Says, \u201cAlas, and wae is me!\n I never wisht in a\u2019 my life,\n A woman\u2019s blude to see;\n An ae for the sake of ae fair maid\n Whose name was White Lilly.\u201d\n\n Then out it spake her White Lilly,\n An a hearty laugh laugh she:\n \u201cShe\u2019s lived wi you this year an mair,\n Tho ye kenntna it was she.\u201d\n\n Now word has gane thro a\u2019 the lan,\n Before a month was done,\n That Brown Robin\u2019s man, in good green wood,\n Had born a bonny young son.\n\n The word has gane to the kingis court,\n An to the king himsel;\n \u201cNow, by my fay,\u201d the king could say,\n \u201cThe like was never heard tell!\u201d\n\n Then out it spake him Bold Arthur,\n An a hearty laugh laugh he:\n \u201cI trow some may has playd the loun,\n And fled her ain country.\u201d\n\n \u201cBring me my steed,\u201d then cry\u2019d the king,\n \u201cMy bow and arrows keen;\n I\u2019ll ride mysel to good green wood,\n An see what\u2019s to be seen.\u201d\n\n \u201cAn\u2019t please your grace,\u201d said Bold Arthur,\n \u201cMy liege, I\u2019ll gang you wi,\n An try to fin a little foot-page,\n That\u2019s strayd awa frae me.\u201d\n\n O they\u2019ve hunted i the good green wood\n The buck but an the rae,\n An they drew near Brown Robin\u2019s bowr,\n About the close of day.\n\n Then out it spake the king in hast,\n Says, \u201cArthur look an see\n Gin that be no your little foot-page\n That leans against yon tree.\u201d\n\n Then Arthur took his bugle-horn,\n An blew a blast sae shrill;\n Sweet Willy started at the sound,\n An ran him quickly till.\n\n \u201cO wanted ye your meat, Willy?\n Or wanted ye your fee?\n Or gat ye ever an angry word,\n That ye ran awa frae me?\u201d\n\n \u201cI wanted nought, my master dear;\n To me ye ay was good;\n I came but to see my ae brother,\n That wons in this green wood.\u201d\n\n Then out it spake the king again,\n Says, \u201cBonny boy, tell to me,\n Wha lives into yon bigly bowr,\n Stands by yon green oak tree?\u201d\n\n \u201cOh, pardon me,\u201d says Sweet Willie,\n \u201cMy liege, I dare no tell;\n An I pray you go no near that bowr,\n For fear they do you fell.\u201d\n\n \u201cOh, haud your tongue, my bonny boy,\n For I winna be said nay;\n But I will gang that bowr within,\n Betide me weal or wae.\u201d\n\n They\u2019ve lighted off their milk-white steeds,\n An saftly enterd in,\n And there they saw her White Lilly,\n Nursing her bonny young son.\n\n \u201cNow, by the rood,\u201d the king coud say,\n \u201cThis is a comely sight;\n I trow, instead of a forrester\u2019s man,\n This is a lady bright!\u201d\n\n Then out it spake her, Rose the Red,\n An fell low down on her knee:\n \u201cOh, pardon us, my gracious liege,\n An our story I\u2019ll tell thee.\n\n \u201cOur father was a wealthy lord,\n That wond in Barnsdale;\n But we had a wicked step-mother,\n That wrought us meickle bale.\n\n \u201cYet she had twa as fu fair sons\n As ever the sun did see,\n An the tane of them lood my sister dear,\n An the tother said he lood me.\u201d\n\n Then out it spake him Bold Arthur,\n As by the king he stood:\n \u201cNow, by the faith o my body,\n This shoud be Rose the Red!\u201d\n\n Then in it came him Brown Robin,\n Frae hunting O the deer;\n But whan he saw the king was there,\n He started back for fear.\n\n The king has taen him by the hand,\n An bide him naithing dread;\n Says, \u201cYe maun leave the good greenwood,\n Come to the court wi speed.\u201d\n\n Then up he took White Lilly\u2019s son,\n An set him on his knee;\n Says\u2014\u201cGin ye live to wield a bran,\n My bowman ye sall bee.\u201d\n\n The king he sent for robes of green,\n An girdles o shinning gold;\n He gart the ladies be arrayd\n Most comely to behold.\n\n They\u2019ve done them unto Mary kirk,\n An there gat fair wedding,\n An fan the news spread oer the lan,\n For joy the bells did ring.\n\n Then out it spake her Rose the Red,\n An a hearty laugh laugh she:\n \u201cI wonder what would our step-dame say,\n Gin she his sight did see!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE BATTLE OF HARLAW\nEVERGREEN VERSION\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. vii. Early Edition, Appendix.)\n\n FRAE Dunidier as I cam throuch,\n Doun by the hill of Banochie,\n Allangst the lands of Garioch.\n Grit pitie was to heir and se\n The noys and dulesum hermonie,\n That evir that dreiry day did daw!\n Cryand the corynoch on hie,\n Alas! alas! for the Harlaw.\n\n I marvlit what the matter meant;\n All folks were in a fiery fariy:\n I wist nocht wha was fae or freind,\n Yet quietly I did me carrie.\n But sen the days of auld King Hairy,\n Sic slauchter was not hard nor sene,\n And thair I had nae tyme to tairy,\n For bissiness in Aberdene.\n\n Thus as I walkit on the way,\n To Inverury as I went,\n I met a man, and bad him stay,\n Requeisting him to mak me quaint\n Of the beginning and the event\n That happenit thair at the Harlaw;\n Then he entreited me to tak tent,\n And he the truth sould to me schaw.\n\n Grit Donald of the Ysles did claim\n Unto the lands of Ross sum richt,\n And to the governour he came,\n Them for to haif, gif that he micht,\n Wha saw his interest was but slicht,\n And thairfore answerit with disdain.\n He hastit hame baith day and nicht,\n And sent nae bodward back again.\n\n But Donald richt impatient\n Of that answer Duke Robert gaif,\n He vow\u2019d to God Omniyotent,\n All the hale lands of Ross to half,\n Or ells be graithed in his graif:\n He wald not quat his richt for nocht,\n Nor be abusit like a slaif;\n That bargin sould be deirly bocht.\n\n Then haistylie he did command\n That all his weir-men should convene;\n Ilk an well harnisit frae hand,\n To melt and heir what he did mein.\n He waxit wrath and vowit tein;\n Sweirand he wald surpryse the North,\n Subdew the brugh of Aberdene,\n Mearns, Angus, and all Fyfe to Forth.\n\n Thus with the weir-men of the yles,\n Wha war ay at his bidding bown,\n With money maid, with forss and wyls,\n Richt far and neir, baith up and doun,\n Throw mount and muir, frae town to town,\n Allangst the lands of Ross he roars,\n And all obey\u2019d at his bandown,\n Evin frae the North to Suthren shoars.\n\n Then all the countrie men did yield;\n For nae resistans durst they mak,\n Nor offer batill in the feild,\n Be forss of arms to beir him bak.\n Syne they resolvit all and spak,\n That best it was for thair behoif,\n They sould him for thair chiftain tak,\n Believing weil he did them luve.\n\n Then he a proclamation maid,\n All men to meet at Inverness,\n Throw Murray land to mak a raid,\n Frae Arthursyre unto Spey-ness.\n And further mair, he sent express,\n To schaw his collours and ensenzie,\n To all and sindry, mair and less,\n Throchout the bounds of Byne and Enzie.\n\n And then throw fair Strathbogie land\n His purpose was for to pursew,\n And whatsoevir durst gainstand,\n That race they should full sairly rew.\n Then he bad all his men be trew,\n And him defend by forss and slicht,\n And promist them rewardis anew,\n And mak them men of mekle micht.\n\n Without resistans, as he said,\n Throw all these parts he stoutly past,\n Where sum war wae, and sum war glaid,\n But Garioch was all agast.\n Throw all these feilds be sped him fast,\n For sic a sicht was never sene;\n And then, forsuith, he langd at last\n To se the bruch of Aberdene.\n\n To hinder this prowd enterprise,\n The stout and michty Erl of Marr\n With all his men in arms did ryse,\n Even frae Curgarf to Craigyvar:\n And down the syde of Don richt far,\n Angus and Mearns did all convene\n To fecht, or Donald came sae nar\n The ryall bruch of Aberdene.\n\n And thus the martial Erle of Marr\n Marcht with his men in richt array;\n Befoir his enemis was aware,\n His banner bauldly did display.\n For weil enewch they kent the way,\n And all their semblance well they saw:\n Without all dangir or delay,\n Come haistily to the Harlaw.\n\n With him the braif Lord Ogilvy,\n Of Angus sheriff principall,\n The constable of gude Dund\u00e8,\n The vanguard led before them all.\n Suppose in number they war small,\n Thay first richt bauldlie did pursew,\n And maid thair faes befor them fall,\n Wha then that race did sairly rew.\n\n And then the worthy Lord Salton,\n The strong undoubted Laird of Drum,\n The stalwart Laird of Lawristone,\n With ilk thair forces all and sum.\n Panmuir with all his men, did cum,\n The provost of braif Aberdene,\n With trumpets and with tuick of drum,\n Came schortly in thair armour schene.\n\n These with the Earle of Marr came on,\n In the reir-ward richt orderlie,\n Thair enemies to sett upon;\n In awfull manner hardilie,\n Togither vowit to live and die,\n Since they had marchit mony mylis,\n For to suppress the tyrannie\n Of douted Donald of the Ysles.\n\n But he, in number ten to ane,\n Right subtil\u00e8 alang did ryde,\n With Malcomtosch, and fell Maclean,\n With all thair power at thair syde;\n Presumeand on their strenth and pryde,\n Without all feir or ony aw,\n Richt bauldie battil did abyde,\n Hard by the town of fair Harlaw.\n\n The armies met, the trumpet sounds,\n The dandring drums alloud did touk,\n Baith armies byding on the bounds,\n Till ane of them the feild sould bruik.\n Nae help was thairfor, nane wald jouk,\n Ferss was the fecht on ilka syde,\n And on the ground lay mony a bouk\n Of them that thair did battil byd.\n\n With doutsum victorie they dealt,\n The bludy battil lastit lang;\n Each man fits nibours forss thair felt,\n The weakest aft-tymes gat the wrang:\n Thair was nae mowis thair them amang,\n Naithing was hard but heavy knocks,\n That eccho mad a dulefull sang,\n Thairto resounding frae the rocks.\n\n But Donalds men at last gaif back,\n For they war all out of array:\n The Earl of Marris men throw them brak,\n Pursewing shairply in thair way,\n Thair enemys to tak or slay,\n Be dynt of forss to gar them yield;\n Wha war richt blyth to win away,\n And sae for feirdness tint the feild.\n\n Then Donald fled, and that full fast,\n To mountains hich for all his micht;\n For he and his war all agast,\n And ran till they war out of sicht;\n And sae of Ross he lost his richt,\n Thocht mony men with hem he brocht;\n Towards the yles fled day and nicht,\n And all he wan was deirlie bocht.\n\n This is (quod he) the richt report\n Of all that I did heir and knaw;\n Thocht my discourse be sumthing schort,\n Tak this to be a richt suthe saw:\n Contrairie God and the kings law,\n Thair was spilt mekle Christian blude,\n Into the battil of Harlaw:\n This is the sum, sae I conclude.\n\n But yet a bonnie while abide,\n And I sall mak thee cleirly ken\n What slaughter was on ilkay syde,\n Of Lowland and of Highland men,\n Wha for thair awin haif evir bene;\n These lazie lowns micht weil be spared,\n Chased like deers into their dens,\n And gat their wages for reward.\n\n Malcomtosh, of the clan heid-cheif,\n Macklean with his grit hauchty heid,\n With all thair succour and relief,\n War dulefully dung to the deid;\n And now we are freid of thair feid,\n They will not lang to cum again;\n Thousands with them, without remeid,\n On Donald\u2019s syd, that day war slain.\n\n And on the uther syde war lost,\n Into the feild that dismal day,\n Chief men of worth, of mekle cost,\n To be lamentit sair for ay.\n The Lord Saltoun of Rothemay,\n A man of micht and mekle main;\n Grit dolour was for his decay,\n That sae unhappylie was slain.\n\n Of the best men amang them was\n The gracious gude Lord Ogilvy,\n The sheriff-principal of Angus,\n Renownit for truth and equitie,\n For faith and magnanimitie;\n He had few fallows in the field,\n Yet fell by fatall destinie,\n For he naeways wad grant to yield.\n\n Sir James Scrimgeor of Duddap, knicht,\n Grit constabill of fair Dund\u00e8,\n Unto the dulefull deith was dicht;\n The kingis cheif bannerman was he,\n A valiant man of chevalrie,\n Whose predecessors wan that place\n At Spey, with gude King William frie\n \u2019Gainst Murray, and Macduncan\u2019s race.\n\n Gude Sir Allexander Irving,\n The much renowit laird of Drum,\n Nane in his days was bettir sene\n When they war semblit all and sum.\n To praise him we sould not be dumm,\n For valour, witt, and worthyness;\n To end his days he ther did cum\n Whose ransom is remeidyless.\n\n And thair the knicht of Lawriston\n Was slain into his armour schene,\n And gude Sir Robert Davidson,\n Wha provost was of Aberdene:\n The knicht of Panmure, as was sene,\n A mortall man in armour bricht,\n Sir Thomas Murray, stout and kene,\n Left to the warld thair last gude nicht.\n\n Thair was not sen King Keneths days\n Sic strange intestine crewel stryf\n In Scotland sene, as ilk man says,\n Whare mony liklie lost thair lyfe;\n Whilk maid divorce twene man and wyfe,\n And mony childrene fatherless,\n Whilk in this realme has bene full ryfe:\n Lord help these lands, our wrangs redress.\n\n In July, on Saint James his even,\n That four and twenty dismall day,\n Twelve hundred, ten score and eleven\n Of theirs sen Chryst, the suthe to say,\n Men will remember, as they may,\n When thus the ventie they knaw,\n And mony a ane may murn for ay,\n The brim battil of the Harlaw.\n\n\n\n\nTRADITIONARY VERSION\n\n\n (_Child_, Part VI.)\n\n AS I came in by Dunidier,\n An doun by Netherha,\n There was fifty thousand Hielanmen\n A marching to Harlaw.\n (Chorus) Wi a dree dree dradie drumtie dree.\n\n As I cam on, an farther on,\n An doun an by Balquhain,\n Oh there I met Sir James the Rose,\n Wi him Sir John the Gryme.\n\n \u201cO cam ye frae the Hielans, man?\n And cam ye a\u2019 the wey?\n Saw ye Macdonell an his men,\n As they cam frae the Skee?\u201d\n\n \u201cYes, me cam frae ta Hielans, man,\n An me cam a ta wey,\n An she saw Macdonell an his men,\n As they cam frae ta Skee.\u201d\n\n \u201cOh, was ye near Macdonell\u2019s men?\n Did ye their numbers see?\n Come, tell to me, John Hielanman,\n What micht their numbers be?\u201d\n\n \u201cYes, me was near, an near eneuch,\n An me their numbers saw;\n There was fifty thousand Hielanmen\n A marching to Harlaw.\u201d\n\n \u201cGin that be true,\u201d says James the Rose,\n \u201cWe\u2019ll no come meikle speed;\n We\u2019ll cry upo our merry men,\n And lichtly mount our steed.\u201d\n\n \u201cOh no, oh no!\u201d quo\u2019 John the Gryme,\n \u201cThat thing maun never be;\n The gallant Grymes were never bate,\n We\u2019ll try what we can dee.\u201d\n\n As I cam on, an farther on,\n An doun an by Harlaw,\n They fell fu close on ilka side;\n Sic fun ye never saw.\n\n They fell fu close on ilka side,\n Sic fun ye never saw;\n For Hielan swords gied clash for clash,\n At the battle o Harlaw.\n\n The Hielanmen, wi their lang swords,\n They laid on us fu sair,\n An they drave back our merry men\n Three acres breadth an mair.\n\n Brave Forb\u00ebs to his brither did say,\n \u201cNoo brither, dinna ye see?\n They beat us back on ilka side,\n An we\u2019se be forced to flee.\u201d\n\n \u201cOh no, oh no, my brither dear,\n That thing maun never be;\n Tak ye your good sword in your hand,\n An come your wa\u2019s wi me.\u201d\n\n \u201cOh no, oh no, my brither dear,\n The clans they are ower strang,\n An they drive back our merry men,\n Wi swords baith sharp an lang.\u201d\n\n Brave Forb\u00ebs drew his men aside,\n Said, \u201cTak your rest a while,\n Until I to Drumminnor send,\n To fess my coat o mail.\u201d\n\n The servan he did ride,\n An his horse it did na fail,\n For in twa hours an a quarter\n He brocht the coat o mail.\n\n Then back to back the brithers twa\n Gaed in amo the thrang,\n An they hewed doun the Hielanmen,\n Wi swords baith sharp an lang.\n\n Macdonell he was young an stout,\n Had on his coat o mail,\n And he has gane oot throw them a\u2019\n To try his han himsell.\n\n The first ae straik that Forb\u00ebs strack,\n He garrt Macdonell reel;\n An the neist ae straik that Forb\u00ebs strack,\n The great Macdonell fell.\n\n And siccan a lierachie,\n I\u2019m sure ye never sawe\n As wis amo the Hielanmen,\n When they saw Macdonell fa.\n\n An whan they saw that he was deid,\n They turnd and ran awa,\n An they buried him in Legget\u2019s Den,\n A large mile frae Harlaw.\n\n They rade, they ran, an some did gang,\n They were o sma record;\n But Forb\u00ebs and his merry men,\n They slew them a\u2019 the road.\n\n On Monanday, at mornin,\n The battle it began,\n On Saturday at gloamin\u2019,\n Ye\u2019d scarce kent wha had wan.\n\n An sic a weary buryin,\n I\u2019m sure ye never saw,\n As wis the Sunday after that,\n On the muirs aneath Harlaw.\n\n Gin anybody speer at ye\n For them ye took awa,\n Ye may tell their wives and bairnies,\n They\u2019re sleepin at Harlaw.\n\n\n\n\nDICKIE MACPHALION\n\n\n (_Sharpe\u2019s Ballad Book_, No. XIV.)\n\n I WENT to the mill, but the miller was gone,\n I sat me down, and cried ochone!\n To think on the days that are past and gone,\n Of Dickie Macphalion that\u2019s slain.\n Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo,\n To think on the days that are past and gone,\n Of Dickie Macphalion that\u2019s slain.\n\n I sold my rock, I sold my reel,\n And sae hae I my spinning wheel,\n And a\u2019 to buy a cap of steel\n For Dickie Macphalion that\u2019s slain!\n Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo,\n And a\u2019 to buy a cap of steel\n For Dickie Macphalion that\u2019s slain.\n\n\n\n\nA LYKE-WAKE DIRGE\n\n\n (_Border Minstrelsy_, vol. ii., p. 357.)\n\n THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte,\n _Every nighte and alle_,\n Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte,\n _And Christe receive thye saule_.\n\n When thou from hence away art paste,\n _Every nighte and alle_,\n To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste;\n _And Christe receive thye saule_.\n\n If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,\n _Every nighte and alle_,\n Sit thee down and put them on;\n _And Christe receive thye saule_.\n\n If hosen and shoon thou ne\u2019er gavest nane,\n _Every nighte and alle_,\n The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane;\n _And Christe receive thye saule_.\n\n From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe,\n _Every nighte and alle_,\n To Brigg o\u2019 Dread thou comest at laste,\n _And Christe receive thye saule_.\n\n From Brigg o\u2019 Dread when thou mayst passe,\n _Every nighte and alle_,\n To Purgatory fire thou comest at last,\n _And Christe receive thye saule_.\n\n If ever thou gavest meat or drink,\n _Every nighte and alle_,\n The fire sall never make thee shrinke;\n _And Christe receive thye saule_.\n\n If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane,\n _Every nighte and alle_,\n The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;\n _And Christe receive thye saule_.\n\n This ae nighte, this ae nighte,\n _Every nighte and alle_,\n Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte,\n _And Christe receive thye saule_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAIRD OF WARISTOUN\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. iii. Early Edition.)\n\n DOWN by yon garden green,\n Sae merrily as she gaes;\n She has twa weel-made feet,\n And she trips upon her taes.\n\n She has twa weel-made feet;\n Far better is her hand;\n She\u2019s as jimp in the middle\n As ony willow wand.\n\n \u201cGif ye will do my bidding,\n At my bidding for to be,\n It\u2019s I will make you lady\n Of a\u2019 the lands you see.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n He spak a word in jest;\n Her answer was na good;\n He threw a plate at her face,\n Made it a\u2019 gush out o\u2019 blood.\n\n She wasna frae her chamber\n A step but barely three,\n When up and at her richt hand\n There stood Man\u2019s Enemy.\n\n \u201cGif ye will do my bidding,\n At my bidding for to be,\n I\u2019ll learn you a wile,\n Avenged for to be.\u201d\n\n The foul thief knotted the tether;\n She lifted his head on hie;\n The nourice drew the knot\n That gar\u2019d lord Waristoun die.\n\n Then word is gane to Leith,\n Also to Edinburgh town\n That the lady had kill\u2019d the laird,\n The laird o\u2019 Waristoun.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Tak aff, tak aff my hood\n But lat my petticoat be;\n Pat my mantle o\u2019er my head;\n For the fire I downa see.\n\n Now, a\u2019 ye gentle maids,\n Tak warning now by me,\n And never marry ane\n But wha pleases your e\u2019e.\n\n \u201cFor he married me for love,\n But I married him for fee;\n And sae brak out the feud\n That gar\u2019d my dearie die.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nMAY COLVEN\n\n\n (_Child_, Part I., p. 56.)\n\n FALSE Sir John a wooing came\n To a maid of beauty fair;\n May Colven was this lady\u2019s name,\n Her father\u2019s only heir.\n\n He wood her butt, he wood her ben,\n He wood her in the ha,\n Until he got this lady\u2019s consent\n To mount and ride awa.\n\n He went down to her father\u2019s bower,\n Where all the steeds did stand,\n And he\u2019s taken one of the best steeds\n That was in her father\u2019s land.\n\n He\u2019s got on and she\u2019s got on,\n As fast as they could flee,\n Until they came to a lonesome part,\n A rock by the side of the sea.\n\n \u201cLoup off the steed,\u201d says false Sir John,\n \u201cYour bridal bed you see;\n For I have drowned seven young ladies,\n The eighth one you shall be.\n\n \u201cCast off, cast off, my May Colven,\n All and your silken gown,\n For it\u2019s oer good and oer costly\n To rot in the salt sea foam.\n\n \u201cCast off, cast off, my May Colven,\n All and your embroiderd shoen,\n For oer good and oer costly\n To rot in the salt sea foam.\u201d\n\n \u201cO turn you about, O false Sir John,\n And look to the leaf of the tree,\n For it never became a gentleman\n A naked woman to see.\u201d\n\n He turned himself straight round about,\n To look to the leaf of the tree,\n So swift as May Colven was\n To throw him in the sea.\n\n \u201cO help, O help, my May Colven,\n O help, or else I\u2019ll drown;\n I\u2019ll take you home to your father\u2019s bower,\n And set you down safe and sound.\u201d\n\n \u201cNo help, no help, O false Sir John,\n No help, nor pity thee;\n Tho\u2019 seven kings\u2019 daughters you have drownd,\n But the eighth shall not be me.\u201d\n\n So she went on her father\u2019s steed,\n As swift as she could flee,\n And she came home to her father\u2019s bower\n Before it was break of day.\n\n Up then and spoke the pretty parrot:\n \u201cMay Colven, where have you been?\n What has become of false Sir John,\n That woo\u2019d you so late the streen?\n\n \u201cHe woo\u2019d you butt, he woo\u2019d you ben,\n He woo\u2019d you in the ha,\n Until he got your own consent\n For to mount and gang awa.\u201d\n\n \u201cO hold your tongue, my pretty parrot,\n Lay not the blame upon me;\n Your cup shall be of the flowered gold,\n Your cage of the root of the tree.\u201d\n\n Up then spake the king himself,\n In the bed-chamber where he lay:\n \u201cWhat ails the pretty parrot,\n That prattles so long or day?\u201d\n\n \u201cThere came a cat to my cage door,\n It almost a worried me,\n And I was calling on May Colven\n To take the cat from me.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nJOHNIE FAA\n\n\n (_Child_, vol. iv. Early Edition.)\n\n THE gypsies came to our good lord\u2019s gate\n And wow but they sang sweetly!\n They sang sae sweet and sae very complete\n That down came the fair lady.\n\n And she came tripping doun the stair,\n And a\u2019 her maids before her;\n As soon as they saw her weel-far\u2019d face,\n They coost the glamer o\u2019er her.\n\n \u201cO come with me,\u201d says Johnie Faw,\n \u201cO come with me, my dearie;\n For I vow and I swear by the hilt of my sword,\n That your lord shall nae mair come near ye.\u201d\n\n Then she gied them the beer and the wine,\n And they gied her the ginger;\n But she gied them a far better thing,\n The goud ring aff her finger.\n\n \u201cGae take frae me this yay mantle,\n And bring to me a plaidie;\n For if kith and kin, and a\u2019 had sworn,\n I\u2019ll follow the gypsy laddie.\n\n \u201cYestreen I lay in a weel-made bed,\n Wi\u2019 my good lord beside me;\n But this night I\u2019ll lye in a tenant\u2019s barn,\n Whatever shall betide me!\u201d\n\n \u201cCome to your bed,\u201d says Johnie Faw,\n \u201cOh, come to your bed, my dearie:\n For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword,\n Your lord shall nae mair come near ye.\u201d\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll go to bed to my Johnie Faw,\n I\u2019ll go to bed to my dearie;\n For I vow and I swear by the fan in my hand,\n My lord shall nae mair come near me.\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll mak a hap to my Johnie Faw,\n I\u2019ll mak a hap to my dearie;\n And he\u2019s get a\u2019 the coat gaes round,\n And my lord shall nae mair come near me.\u201d\n\n And when our lord came hame at e\u2019en,\n And spier\u2019d for his fair lady,\n The tane she cry\u2019d, and the other reply\u2019d,\n \u201cShe\u2019s awa\u2019 wi\u2019 the gypsy laddie!\u201d\n\n \u201cGae saddle to me the black black steed,\n Gae saddle and make him ready;\n Before that I either eat or sleep,\n I\u2019ll gae seek my fair lady.\u201d\n\n And we were fifteen weel-made men,\n Altho\u2019 we were na bonny;\n And we were a\u2019 put down but ane,\n For a fair young wanton lady.\n\n\n\n\nHOBBIE NOBLE\n\n\n (_Child_, vi. Early Edition.)\n\n FOUL fa\u2019 the breast first treason bred in!\n That Liddesdale may safely say:\n For in it there was baith meat and drink,\n And corn unto our geldings gay.\n\n We were stout-hearted men and true,\n As England it did often say;\n But now we may turn our backs and fly,\n Since brave Noble is seld away.\n\n Now Hobie he was an English man,\n And born into Bewcastle dale;\n But his misdeeds they were sae great,\n They banish\u2019d him to Liddisdale.\n\n At Kershope foot the tryst was set,\n Kershope of the lilye lee;\n And there was traitour Sim o\u2019 the Mains,\n With him a private companie.\n\n Then Hobie has graith\u2019d his body weel,\n I wat it was wi\u2019 baith good iron and steel;\n And he has pull\u2019d out his fringed grey,\n And there, brave Noble, he rade him weel.\n\n Then Hobie is down the water gane,\n E\u2019en as fast as he may drie;\n Tho\u2019 they shoud a\u2019 brusten and broken their hearts,\n Frae that tryst Noble he would na be.\n\n \u201cWeel may ye be, my feiries five!\n And aye, what is your wills wi\u2019 me?\u201d\n Then they cry\u2019d a\u2019 wi\u2019 ae consent,\n \u201cThou\u2019rt welcome here, brave Noble, to me.\n\n \u201cWilt thou with us in England ride,\n And thy safe warrand we will be?\n If we get a horse worth a hundred punds,\n Upon his back that thou shalt be.\u201d\n\n \u201cI dare not with you into England ride;\n The Land-sergeant has me at feid:\n I know not what evil may betide,\n For Peter of Whitfield, his brother, is dead.\n\n \u201cAnd Anton Shiel he loves not me,\n For I gat twa drifts o his sheep;\n The great Earl of Whitfield loves me not,\n For nae gear frae me he e\u2019er could keep.\n\n \u201cBut will ye stay till the day gae down,\n Until the night come o\u2019er the grund,\n And I\u2019ll be a guide worth ony twa,\n That may in Liddesdale be fund?\n\n \u201cTho\u2019 dark the night as pitch and tar,\n I\u2019ll guide ye o\u2019er yon hills fu\u2019 hie;\n And bring ye a\u2019 in safety back,\n If ye\u2019ll be true and follow me.\u201d\n\n He\u2019s guided them o\u2019er moss and muir,\n O\u2019er hill and houp, and mony a down;\n Til they came to the Foulbogshiel,\n And there, brave Noble, he lighted down.\n\n But word is gane to the Land-sergeant,\n In Askirton where that he lay\u2014\n \u201cThe deer that ye hae hunted lang,\n Is seen into the Waste this day.\u201d\n\n \u201cThen Hobbie Noble is that deer!\n I wat he carries the style fu\u2019 hie;\n Aft has he beat your slough-hounds back,\n And set yourselves at little lee.\n\n \u201cGar warn the bows of Hartlie-burn;\n See they shaft their arrows on the wa\u2019!\n Warn Willeva and Spear Edom,\n And see the morn they meet me a\u2019.\n\n \u201cGar meet me on the Rodric-haugh,\n And see it be by break o\u2019 day;\n And we will on to Conscowthart-Green,\n For there, I think, we\u2019ll get our prey.\u201d\n\n Then Hobbie Noble has dream\u2019d a dream,\n In the Foulbogshiel, where that he lay;\n He thought his horse was neath him shot,\n And he himself got hard away.\n\n The cocks could crow, the day could dawn,\n And I wot so even down fell the rain;\n If Hobbie had no waken\u2019d at that time,\n In the Foulbogshiel he had been tane or slain.\n\n \u201cGet up, get up, my feiries five!\n For I wot here makes a fu\u2019 ill day;\n Yet the warst cloak of this companie,\n I hope, shall cross the Waste this day.\u201d\n\n Now Hobie thought the gates were clear;\n But, ever alas! it was not sae:\n They were beset wi\u2019 cruel men and keen,\n That away brave Hobbie could not gae.\n\n \u201cYet follow me, my feiries five,\n And see of me ye keep good ray;\n And the worst cloak o\u2019 this companie\n I hope shall cross the Waste this day.\u201d\n\n There was heaps of men now Hobbie before,\n And other heaps was him behind,\n That had he wight as Wallace was,\n Away brave Noble he could not win.\n\n Then Hobie he had but a laddies sword;\n But he did more than a laddies deed;\n In the midst of Conscouthart-Green,\n He brake it oer Jersawigham\u2019s head.\n\n Now they have tane brave Hobie Noble,\n Wi\u2019 his ain bowstring they band him sae;\n And I wat heart was ne\u2019er sae sair,\n As when his ain five band him on the brae.\n\n They have tane him on for West Carlisle;\n They ask\u2019d him if he knew the why?\n Whate\u2019er he thought, yet little he said;\n He knew the way as well as they.\n\n They hae ta\u2019en him up the Ricker gate;\n The wives they cast their windows wide;\n And every wife to anither can say,\n \u201cThat\u2019s the man loos\u2019d Jock o\u2019 the Side!\u201d\n\n \u201cFye on ye, women! why ca\u2019 ye me man?\n For it\u2019s nae man that I\u2019m used like;\n I am but like a forfoughen hound,\n Has been fighting in a dirty syke.\u201d\n\n Then they hae tane him up thro\u2019 Carlisle town,\n And set him by the chimney fire;\n They gave brave Noble a wheat loaf to eat,\n And that was little his desire.\n\n Then they gave him a wheat loaf to eat,\n And after that a can o beer;\n Then they cried a\u2019 with ae consent,\n \u201cEat, brave Noble, and make gude cheer!\n\n \u201cConfess my lord\u2019s horse, Hobie,\u201d they said,\n \u201cAnd the morn in Carlisle thou\u2019s no die;\u201d\n \u201cHow shall I confess them,\u201d Hobie says,\n \u201cFor I never saw them with mine eye?\u201d\n\n Then Hobie has sworn a fu\u2019 great aith,\n By the day that he was gotten and born,\n He never had ony thing o\u2019 my lord\u2019s,\n That either eat him grass or corn.\n\n \u201cNow fare thee weel, sweet Mangerton!\n For I think again I\u2019ll ne\u2019er thee see:\n I wad betray nae lad alive,\n For a\u2019 the goud in Christentie.\n\n \u201cAnd fare thee weel, sweet Liddesdale!\n Baith the hie land and the law;\n Keep ye weel frae traitor Mains!\n For goud and gear he\u2019ll sell ye a\u2019.\n\n \u201cYet wad I rather be ca\u2019d Hobie Noble,\n In Carlisle where he suffers for his faut,\n Before I\u2019d be ca\u2019d traitor Mains,\n That eats and drinks of the meal and maut.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE TWA SISTERS\n\n\n (_Sharpe\u2019s Ballad Book_, No. X., p. 30.)\n\n THERE liv\u2019d twa sisters in a bower,\n Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.\n There liv\u2019d twa sisters in a bower,\n Stirling for aye:\n The youngest o\u2019 them, O, she was a flower!\n Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.\n\n There came a squire frae the west,\n Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.\n There cam a squire frae the west,\n Stirling for aye:\n He lo\u2019ed them baith, but the youngest best,\n Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.\n\n He gied the eldest a gay gold ring,\n Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.\n He gied the eldest a gay gold ring,\n Stirling for aye:\n But he lo\u2019ed the youngest aboon a\u2019 thing,\n Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.\n\n \u201cOh sister, sister, will ye go to the sea?\n Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.\n Oh sister, sister, will ye go to the sea?\n Stirling for aye:\n Our father\u2019s ships sail bonnilie,\n Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.\u201d\n\n The youngest sat down upon a stane,\n Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.\n The youngest sat down upon a stane,\n Stirling for aye:\n The eldest shot the youngest in,\n Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.\n\n \u201cOh sister, sister, lend me your hand,\n Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.\n Oh, sister, sister, lend me your hand,\n Stirling for aye:\n And you shall hae my gouden fan,\n Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.\n\n \u201cOh, sister, sister, save my life,\n Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.\n Oh sister, sister, save my life,\n Stirling for aye:\n And ye shall be the squire\u2019s wife,\n Bonny Sweet Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.\u201d\n\n First she sank, and then she swam,\n Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.\n First she sank, and then she swam,\n Stirling for aye:\n Until she cam to Tweed mill dam,\n Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.\n\n The millar\u2019s daughter was baking bread,\n Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.\n The millar\u2019s daughter was baking bread,\n Stirling for aye:\n She went for water, as she had need,\n Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.\n\n \u201cOh father, father, in our mill dam,\n Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch,\n Oh father, father, in our mill dam,\n Stirling for aye:\n There\u2019s either a lady, or a milk-white swan,\n Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.\u201d\n\n They could nae see her fingers small,\n Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.\n They could nae see her fingers small,\n Stirling for aye:\n Wi\u2019 diamond rings they were cover\u2019d all,\n Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.\n\n They could nae see her yellow hair,\n Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.\n They could nae see her yellow hair,\n Stirling for aye:\n Sae mony knots and platts war there,\n Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.\n\n Bye there cam a fiddler fair,\n Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.\n Bye there cam a fiddler fair,\n Stirling for aye:\n And he\u2019s ta\u2019en three tails o\u2019 her yellow hair,\n Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.\n\n\n\n\nMARY AMBREE\n\n\n (_Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, vol. ii. p. 230.)\n\n WHEN captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte,\n Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt,\n They mustred their souldiers by two and by three,\n And the formost in battle was Mary Ambree.\n\n When [the] brave sergeant-major was slaine in her sight,\n Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight,\n Because he was slaine most treacherouslie\n Then vowd to revenge him Mary Ambree.\n\n She clothed herselfe from the top to the toe\n In buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe;\n A faire shirt of male then slipped on shee:\n Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?\n\n A helmett of proofe shee strait did provide,\n A stronge arminge-sword shee girt by her side,\n On her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee:\n Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?\n\n Then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand,\n Bidding all such, as wold, [to] bee of her band;\n To wayte on her person came thousand and three:\n Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?\n\n \u201cMy soldiers,\u201d she saith, \u201csoe valliant and bold,\n Nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde;\n Still formost in battell myselfe will I bee:\u201d\n Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?\n\n Then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they did say,\n \u201cSoe well thou becomest this gallant array,\n Thy harte and thy weapons so well do agree,\n No mayden was ever like Mary Ambree.\u201d\n\n She cheared her souldiers, that foughten for life,\n With ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife,\n With brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free;\n Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?\n\n \u201cBefore I will see the worst of you all\n To come into danger of death or of thrall,\n This hand and this life I will venture so free:\u201d\n Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?\n\n Shee ledd upp her souldiers in battaile array,\n Gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye;\n Seven howers in skirmish continued shee:\n Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?\n\n She filled the skyes with the smoke of her shott,\n And her enemyes bodyes with bulletts so hott;\n For one of her own men a score killed shee:\n Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?\n\n And when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent,\n Away all her pellets and powder had sent,\n Straight with her keen weapon she slasht him in three:\n Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?\n\n Being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre,\n At length she was forced to make a retyre;\n Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee:\n Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?\n\n Her foes they besett her on everye side,\n As thinking close siege shee cold never abide;\n To beate down the walles they all did decree:\n But stoutlye deffyd them brave Mary Ambree.\n\n Then tooke shee her sword and her targett in hand,\n And mounting the walls all undaunted did stand,\n There daring their captaines to match any three:\n O what a brave captaine was Mary Ambree!\n\n \u201cNow saye, English captaine, what woldest thou give\n To ransome thy selfe, which else must not live?\n Come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee:\u201d\n Then smiled sweetlye brave Mary Ambree.\n\n \u201cYe captaines couragious, of valour so bold,\n Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?\u201d\n \u201cA knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free,\n Who shortlye with us a prisoner must bee.\u201d\n\n \u201cNo captaine of England; behold in your sight\n Two brests in my bosome, and therefore no knight:\n Noe knight, sirs, of England, nor captaine you see,\n But a poor simple mayden called Mary Ambree.\u201d\n\n \u201cBut art thou a woman, as thou dost declare,\n Whose valor hath proved so undaunted in warre?\n If England doth yield such brave maydens as thee,\n Full well mey they conquer, faire Mary Ambree.\u201d\n\n The Prince of Great Parma heard of her renowne,\n Who long had advanced for England\u2019s fair crowne;\n Hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee,\n And offered rich presents to Mary Ambree.\n\n But this virtuous mayden despised them all:\n \u201c\u2019Ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall;\n A maiden of England, sir, never will bee\n The wench of a monarcke,\u201d quoth Mary Ambree.\n\n Then to her owne country shee back did returne,\n Still holding the foes of rare England in scorne!\n Therfore English captaines of every degree\n Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree.\n\n\n\n\nALISON GROSS\n\n\n O ALISON GROSS, that lives in yon tow\u2019r,\n The ugliest witch in the north countrie,\n She trysted me ae day up till her bow\u2019r,\n And mony fair speeches she made to me.\n\n She straik\u2019d my head, and she kaim\u2019d my hair,\n And she set me down saftly on her knee;\n Says\u2014\u201cIf ye will be my leman sae true,\n Sae mony braw things as I will you gi\u2019e.\u201d\n\n She shaw\u2019d me a mantle of red scarlet,\n With gowden flowers and fringes fine;\n Says\u2014\u201cIf ye will be my leman sae true,\n This goodly gift it shall be thine.\u201d\n\n \u201cAwa, awa, ye ugly witch,\n Hand far awa, and let me be;\n I never will be your leman sae true,\n And I wish I were out of your company.\u201d\n\n She neist brocht a sark of the saftest silk,\n Weel wrought with pearls about the band;\n Says\u2014\u201cIf ye will be my ain true love,\n This goodly gift ye shall command.\u201d\n\n She show\u2019d me a cup of the good red gowd,\n Weel set with jewels sae fair to see;\n Says\u2014\u201cIf ye will be my leman sae true,\n This goodly gift I will you gi\u2019e.\u201d\n\n \u201cAwa, awa, ye ugly witch,\n Haud far awa, and let me be;\n For I wadna ance kiss your ugly mouth,\n For all the gifts that ye cou\u2019d gi\u2019e.\u201d\n\n She\u2019s turn\u2019d her richt and round about,\n And thrice she blew on a grass-green horn;\n And she sware by the moon and the stars aboon,\n That she\u2019d gar me rue the day I was born.\n\n Then out has she ta\u2019en a silver wand,\n And she turn\u2019d her three times round and round;\n She mutter\u2019d sic words, that my strength it fail\u2019d,\n And I fell down senseless on the ground.\n\n She turn\u2019d me into an ugly worm,\n And gar\u2019d me toddle about the tree;\n And aye on ilka Saturday night,\n Auld Alison Gross she came to me,\n\n With silver basin, and silver kame,\n To kame my headie upon her knee;\n But rather than kiss her ugly mouth,\n I\u2019d ha\u2019e toddled for ever about the tree.\n\n But as it fell out on last Hallow-e\u2019en,\n When the seely court was ridin\u2019 by,\n The queen lighted down on a gowan bank,\n Near by the tree where I wont to lye.\n\n She took me up in her milk-white hand,\n And she straik\u2019d me three times o\u2019er her knee;\n She chang\u2019d me again to my ain proper shape,\n And nae mair do I toddle about the tree.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HEIR OF LYNNE\n\n\n OF all the lords in faire Scotland\n A song I will begin:\n Amongst them all dwelled a lord\n Which was the unthrifty Lord of Lynne.\n\n His father and mother were dead him froe,\n And so was the head of all his kinne;\n He did neither cease nor blinne\n To the cards and dice that he did run.\n\n To drinke the wine that was so cleere!\n With every man he would make merry.\n And then bespake him John of the Scales,\n Unto the heire of Lynne say\u2019d hee,\n\n Sayes \u201chow dost thou, Lord of Lynne,\n Doest either want gold or fee?\n Wilt thou not sell thy land so brode\n To such a good fellow as me?\n\n \u201cFor . . . I . . . \u201d he said,\n \u201cMy land, take it unto thee;\n I draw you to record, my lords all;\u201d\n With that he cast him a Gods pennie.\n\n He told him the gold upon the bord,\n It wanted never a bare penny.\n \u201cThat gold is thine, the land is mine,\n The heire of Lynne I will bee.\u201d\n\n \u201cHeeres gold enough,\u201d saithe the heire of Lynne,\n \u201cBoth for me and my company.\u201d\n He drunke the wine that was so cleere,\n And with every man he made merry.\n\n Within three quarters of a yeare\n His gold and fee it waxed thinne,\n His merry men were from him gone,\n And left himselfe all alone.\n\n He had never a penny left in his purse,\n Never a penny but three,\n And one was brasse and another was lead\n And another was white mony.\n\n \u201cNow well-a-day!\u201d said the heire of Lynne,\n \u201cNow well-a-day, and woe is mee!\n For when I was the Lord of Lynne,\n I neither wanted gold nor fee;\n\n \u201cFor I have sold my lands so broad,\n And have not left me one penny!\n I must go now and take some read\n Unto Edenborrow and beg my bread.\u201d\n\n He had not beene in Edenborrow\n Nor three quarters of a yeare,\n But some did give him and some said nay,\n And some bid \u201cto the deele gang yee!\n\n \u201cFor if we should hang some land selfeer,\n The first we would begin with thee.\u201d\n \u201cNow well-a-day!\u201d said the heire of Lynne,\n \u201cNow well-a-day, and woe is mee!\n\n \u201cFor now I have sold my lands so broad\n That merry man is irke with mee;\n But when that I was the Lord of Lynne\n Then on my land I lived merrily;\n\n \u201cAnd now I have sold my land so broade\n That I have not left me one pennye!\n God be with my father!\u201d he said,\n \u201cOn his land he lived merrily.\u201d\n\n Still in a study there as he stood,\n He unbethought him of a bill,\n He unbethought him of a bill\n Which his father had left with him.\n\n Bade him he should never on it looke\n Till he was in extreame neede,\n \u201cAnd by my faith,\u201d said the heire of Lynne,\n \u201cThen now I had never more neede.\u201d\n\n He tooke the bill and looked it on,\n Good comfort that he found there;\n It told him of a castle wall\n Where there stood three chests in feare:\n\n Two were full of the beaten gold,\n The third was full of white money.\n He turned then downe his bags of bread\n And filled them full of gold so red.\n\n Then he did never cease nor blinne\n Till John of the Scales house he did winne.\n When that he came John of the Scales,\n Up at the speere he looked then;\n\n There sate three lords upon a rowe,\n And John o\u2019 the Scales sate at the bord\u2019s head,\n And John o\u2019 the Scales sate at the bord\u2019s head\n Because he was the lord of Lynne.\n\n And then bespake the heire of Lynne\n To John o\u2019 the Scales wife thus sayd hee,\n Sayd \u201cDame, wilt thou not trust me one shott\n That I may sit downe in this company?\u201d\n\n \u201cNow Christ\u2019s curse on my head,\u201d she said,\n \u201cIf I do trust thee one pennye,\u201d\n Then bespake a good fellowe,\n Which sate by John o\u2019 the Scales his knee,\n\n Said \u201chave thou here, thou heire of Lynne,\n Forty-pence I will lend thee,\u2014\n Some time a good fellow thou hast beene\n And other forty if it need bee.\u201d\n\n They drunken wine that was so cleere,\n And every man they made merry,\n And then bespake him John o\u2019 the Scales\n Unto the Lord of Lynne said hee;\n\n Said \u201chow doest thou heire of Lynne,\n Since I did buy thy lands of thee?\n I will sell it to thee twenty better cheepe,\n Nor ever did I buy it of thee.\u201d\n\n \u201cI draw you to recorde, lords all:\u201d\n With that he cast him god\u2019s penny;\n Then he tooke to his bags of bread,\n And they were full of the gold so red.\n\n He told him the gold then over the borde\n It wanted never a broad pennye;\n \u201cThat gold is thine, the land is mine,\n And the heire of Lynne againe I will bee.\u201d\n\n \u201cNow well-a-day!\u201d said John o\u2019 the Scales\u2019 wife,\n \u201cWell-a-day, and woe is me!\n Yesterday I was the lady of Lynne,\n And now I am but John o\u2019 the Scales wife!\u201d\n\n Says \u201chave thou here, thou good fellow,\n Forty pence thou did lend me;\n Forty pence thou did lend me,\n And forty I will give thee,\n I\u2019ll make thee keeper of my forrest,\n Both of the wild deere and the tame.\u201d\n\n But then bespake the heire of Lynne,\n These were the words and thus spake hee,\n \u201cChrist\u2019s curse light upon my crowne\n If ere my land stand in any jeopardye!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nGORDON OF BRACKLEY\n\n\n DOWN Deeside cam Inveraye\n Whistlin\u2019 and playing,\n An\u2019 called loud at Brackley gate\n Ere the day dawning\u2014\n \u201cCome, Gordon of Brackley.\n Proud Gordon, come down,\n There\u2019s a sword at your threshold\n Mair sharp than your own.\u201d\n\n \u201cArise now, gay Gordon,\u201d\n His lady \u2019gan cry,\n \u201cLook, here is bold Inveraye\n Driving your kye.\u201d\n \u201cHow can I go, lady,\n An\u2019 win them again,\n When I have but ae sword,\n And Inveraye ten?\u201d\n\n \u201cArise up, my maidens,\n Wi\u2019 roke and wi\u2019 fan,\n How blest had I been\n Had I married a man!\n Arise up, my maidens,\n Tak\u2019 spear and tak\u2019 sword,\n Go milk the ewes, Gordon,\n An\u2019 I will be lord.\u201d\n\n The Gordon sprung up\n Wi\u2019 his helm on his head,\n Laid his hand on his sword,\n An\u2019 his thigh on his steed,\n An\u2019 he stooped low, and said,\n As he kissed his young dame,\n \u201cThere\u2019s a Gordon rides out\n That will never ride hame.\u201d\n\n There rode with fierce Inveraye\n Thirty and three,\n But wi\u2019 Brackley were nane\n But his brother and he;\n Twa gallanter Gordons\n Did never blade draw,\n But against three-and-thirty\n Wae\u2019s me! what are twa?\n\n Wi\u2019 sword and wi\u2019 dagger\n They rushed on him rude;\n The twa gallant Gordons\n Lie bathed in their blude.\n Frae the springs o\u2019 the Dee\n To the mouth o\u2019 the Tay,\n The Gordons mourn for him,\n And curse Inveraye.\n\n \u201cO were ye at Brackley?\n An\u2019 what saw ye there?\n Was his young widow weeping\n An\u2019 tearing her hair?\u201d\n \u201cI looked in at Brackley,\n I looked in, and oh!\n There was mirth, there was feasting,\n But naething o\u2019 woe.\n\n \u201cAs a rose bloomed the lady,\n An\u2019 blithe as a bride,\n As a bridegroom bold Inveraye\n Smiled by her side.\n Oh! she feasted him there\n As she ne\u2019er feasted lord,\n While the blood of her husband\n Was moist on his sword.\n\n \u201cIn her chamber she kept him\n Till morning grew gray,\n Thro\u2019 the dark woods of Brackley\n She shewed him the way.\n \u2018Yon wild hill,\u2019 she said,\n \u2018Where the sun\u2019s shining on,\n Is the hill of Glentanner,\u2014\n One kiss, and begone!\u2019\u201d\n\n There\u2019s grief in the cottage,\n There\u2019s grief in the ha\u2019,\n For the gude, gallant Gordon\n That\u2019s dead an\u2019 awa\u2019.\n To the bush comes the bud,\n An\u2019 the flower to the plain,\n But the gude and the brave\n They come never again.\n\n\n\n\nEDWARD, EDWARD\n\n\n \u201cWHY does your brand sae drop wi\u2019 blude,\n Edward, Edward?\n Why does your brand sae drop wi\u2019 blude\n And why sae sad gang ye, O?\u201d\n \u201cO I hae killed my hawk sae gude,\n Mither, mither;\n O I hae killed my hawk sae gude,\n And I hae nae mair but he, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cYour hawk\u2019s blude was never sae red,\n Edward, Edward;\n Your hawk\u2019s blude was never sae red,\n My dear son, I tell thee, O.\u201d\n \u201cO I hae killed my red-roan steed,\n Mither, mither;\n O I hae killed my red-roan steed,\n That was sae fair and free, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cYour steed was auld, and ye\u2019ve plenty mair,\n Edward, Edward;\n Your steed was auld, and ye\u2019ve plenty mair;\n Some ither dule ye dree, O.\u201d\n \u201cO I hae killed my father dear,\n Mither, mither;\n O I hae killed my father dear,\n Alas, and wae is me, O!\u201d\n\n \u201cAnd whatten penance will ye dree for that,\n Edward, Edward?\n Whatten penance will ye dree for that?\n My dear son, now tell me, O.\u201d\n \u201cI\u2019ll set my feet in yonder boat,\n Mither, mither;\n I\u2019ll set my feet in yonder boat,\n And I\u2019ll fare over the sea, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cAnd what will ye do wi\u2019 your tow\u2019rs and your ha\u2019,\n Edward, Edward?\n And what will ye do wi\u2019 your tow\u2019rs and your ha\u2019,\n That were sae fair to see, O?\u201d\n \u201cI\u2019ll let them stand till they doun fa\u2019,\n Mither, mither;\n I\u2019ll let them stand till they doun fa\u2019,\n For here never mair maun I be, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cAnd what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,\n Edward, Edward?\n And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,\n When ye gang ower the sea, O?\u201d\n \u201cThe warld\u2019s room: let them beg through life,\n Mither, mither;\n The warld\u2019s room: let them beg through life;\n For them never mair will I see, O.\u201d\n\n \u201cAnd what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,\n Edward, Edward?\n And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,\n My dear son, now tell me, O?\u201d\n \u201cThe curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,\n Mither, mither;\n The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear:\n Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nYOUNG BENJIE\n\n\n OF all the maids of fair Scotland,\n The fairest was Marjorie;\n And young Benjie was her ae true love,\n And a dear true love was he.\n\n And wow but they were lovers dear,\n And lov\u2019d full constantlie;\n But aye the mair when they fell out,\n The sairer was their plea.\n\n And they ha\u2019e quarrell\u2019d on a day,\n Till Marjorie\u2019s heart grew wae;\n And she said she\u2019d chuse another luve,\n And let young Benjie gae.\n\n And he was stout and proud-hearted,\n And thought o\u2019t bitterlie;\n And he\u2019s gane by the wan moonlight,\n To meet his Marjorie.\n\n \u201cOh, open, open, my true love,\n Oh, open and let me in!\u201d\n \u201cI darena open, young Benjie,\n My three brothers are within.\u201d\n\n \u201cYe lee, ye lee, ye bonnie burd,\n Sae loud\u2019s I hear ye lee;\n As I came by the Louden banks,\n They bade gude e\u2019en to me.\n\n \u201cBut fare ye weel, my ae fause love,\n That I have lov\u2019d sae lang!\n It sets ye chuse another love,\n And let young Benjie gang.\u201d\n\n Then Marjorie turn\u2019d her round about,\n The tear blinding her e\u2019e;\n \u201cI darena, darena let thee in,\n But I\u2019ll come down to thee.\u201d\n\n Then salt she smil\u2019d, and said to him\u2014\n \u201cOh, what ill ha\u2019e I done?\u201d\n He took her in his arms twa,\n And threw her o\u2019er the linn.\n\n The stream was strong, the maid was stout,\n And laith, laith to be dang;\n But ere she wan the Louden banks,\n Her fair colour was wan.\n\n Then up bespake her eldest brother\u2014\n \u201cOh, see na ye what I see?\u201d\n And out then spake her second brother\u2014\n \u201cIt is our sister Marjorie!\u201d\n\n Out then spake her eldest brother\u2014\n \u201cOh, how shall we her ken?\u201d\n And out then spake her youngest brother\u2014\n \u201cThere\u2019s a honey mark on her chin.\u201d\n\n Then they\u2019ve ta\u2019en the comely corpse,\n And laid it on the ground;\n Saying\u2014\u201cWha has kill\u2019d our ae sister?\n And how can he be found?\n\n \u201cThe night it is her low lykewake,\n The morn her burial day;\n And we maun watch at mirk midnight,\n And hear what she will say.\u201d\n\n With doors ajar, and candles light,\n And torches burning clear,\n The streekit corpse, till still midnight,\n They waked, but naething hear.\n\n About the middle of the night\n The cocks began to craw;\n And at the dead hour of the night,\n The corpse began to thraw.\n\n \u201cOh, wha has done thee wrang, sister,\n Or dared the deadly sin?\n Wha was sae stout, and fear\u2019d nae dout,\n As throw ye o\u2019er the linn?\u201d\n\n \u201cYoung Benjie was the first ae man\n I laid my love upon;\n He was sae stout and proud-hearted,\n He threw me o\u2019er the linn.\u201d\n\n \u201cShall we young Benjie head, sister?\n Shall we young Benjie hang?\n Or shall we pike out his twa gray een,\n And punish him ere he gang?\u201d\n\n \u201cYe maunna Benjie head, brothers,\n Ye maunna Benjie hang;\n But ye maun pike out his twa gray een.\n And punish him ere he gang.\n\n \u201cTie a green gravat round his neck,\n And lead him out and in,\n And the best ae servant about your house\n To wait young Benjie on.\n\n \u201cAnd aye at every seven years\u2019 end,\n Ye\u2019ll take him to the linn;\n For that\u2019s the penance he maun dree,\n To scug his deadly sin.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nAULD MAITLAND\n\n\n THERE lived a king in southern land,\n King Edward hight his name;\n Unwordily he wore the crown,\n Till fifty years were gane.\n\n He had a sister\u2019s son o\u2019s ain,\n Was large of blood and bane;\n And afterward, when he came up,\n Young Edward hight his name.\n\n One day he came before the king,\n And kneel\u2019d low on his knee:\n \u201cA boon, a boon, my good uncle,\n I crave to ask of thee!\n\n \u201cAt our lang wars, in fair Scotland,\n I fain ha\u2019e wish\u2019d to be,\n If fifteen hundred waled wight men\n You\u2019ll grant to ride with me.\u201d\n\n \u201cThou shall ha\u2019e thae, thou shall ha\u2019e mae;\n I say it sickerlie;\n And I myself, an auld gray man,\n Array\u2019d your host shall see.\u201d\n\n King Edward rade, King Edward ran\u2014\n I wish him dool and pyne!\n Till he had fifteen hundred men\n Assembled on the Tyne.\n\n And thrice as many at Berwicke\n Were all for battle bound,\n [Who, marching forth with false Dunbar,\n A ready welcome found.]\n\n They lighted on the banks of Tweed,\n And blew their coals sae het,\n And fired the Merse and Teviotdale,\n All in an evening late.\n\n As they fared up o\u2019er Lammermoor,\n They burn\u2019d baith up and down,\n Until they came to a darksome house,\n Some call it Leader-Town.\n\n \u201cWha hauds this house?\u201d young Edward cried,\n \u201cOr wha gi\u2019est o\u2019er to me?\u201d\n A gray-hair\u2019d knight set up his head,\n And crackit right crousely:\n\n \u201cOf Scotland\u2019s king I haud my house;\n He pays me meat and fee;\n And I will keep my gude auld house,\n While my house will keep me.\u201d\n\n They laid their sowies to the wall,\n With mony a heavy peal;\n But he threw o\u2019er to them agen\n Baith pitch and tar barrel.\n\n With springalds, stanes, and gads of airn,\n Amang them fast he threw;\n Till mony of the Englishmen\n About the wall he slew.\n\n Full fifteen days that braid host lay,\n Sieging Auld Maitland keen;\n Syne they ha\u2019e left him, hail and feir,\n Within his strength of stane.\n\n Then fifteen barks, all gaily good,\n Met them upon a day,\n Which they did lade with as much spoil\n As they you\u2019d bear away.\n\n \u201cEngland\u2019s our ain by heritage;\n And what can us withstand,\n Now we ha\u2019e conquer\u2019d fair Scotland,\n With buckler, bow, and brand?\u201d\n\n Then they are on to the land of France,\n Where auld king Edward lay,\n Burning baith castle, tower, and town,\n That he met in his way.\n\n Until he came unto that town,\n Which some call Billop-Grace:\n There were Auld Maitland\u2019s sons, all three,\n Learning at school, alas!\n\n The eldest to the youngest said,\n \u201cOh, see ye what I see?\n If all be true yon standard says,\n We\u2019re fatherless all three.\n\n \u201cFor Scotland\u2019s conquer\u2019d up and down;\n Landmen we\u2019ll never be!\n Now, will you go, my brethren two,\n And try some jeopardy?\u201d\n\n Then they ha\u2019e saddled twa black horse,\n Twa black horse and a gray;\n And they are on to king Edward\u2019s host,\n Before the dawn of day.\n\n When they arrived before the host,\n They hover\u2019d on the lay:\n \u201cWilt thou lend me our king\u2019s standard,\n To bear a little way?\u201d\n\n \u201cWhere wast thou bred? where wast thou born?\n Where, or in what countrie?\u201d\n \u201cIn north of England I was born;\u201d\n (It needed him to lee.)\n\n \u201cA knight me gat, a ladye bore,\n I am a squire of high renown;\n I well may bear\u2019t to any king\n That ever yet wore crown.\u201d\n\n \u201cHe ne\u2019er came of an Englishman,\n Had sic an e\u2019e or bree;\n But thou art the likest Auld Maitland,\n That ever I did see.\n\n \u201cBut sic a gloom on ae browhead,\n Grant I ne\u2019er see again!\n For mony of our men he slew,\n And mony put to pain.\u201d\n\n When Maitland heard his father\u2019s name,\n An angry man was he;\n Then, lifting up a gilt dagger,\n Hung low down by his knee,\n\n He stabb\u2019d the knight the standard bore,\n He stabb\u2019d him cruellie;\n Then caught the standard by the neuk,\n And fast away rode he.\n\n \u201cNow, is\u2019t na time, brothers,\u201d he cried,\n \u201cNow, is\u2019t na time to flee?\u201d\n \u201cAy, by my sooth!\u201d they baith replied,\n \u201cWe\u2019ll bear you companye.\u201d\n\n The youngest turn\u2019d him in a path,\n And drew a burnish\u2019d brand,\n And fifteen of the foremost slew,\n Till back the lave did stand.\n\n He spurr\u2019d the gray into the path,\n Till baith his sides they bled:\n \u201cGray! thou maun carry me away,\n Or my life lies in wad!\u201d\n\n The captain lookit o\u2019er the wall,\n About the break of day;\n There he beheld the three Scots lads\n Pursued along the way.\n\n \u201cPull up portcullize! down draw-brig!\n My nephews are at hand;\n And they shall lodge with me to-night,\n In spite of all England.\u201d\n\n Whene\u2019er they came within the yate,\n They thrust their horse them frae,\n And took three lang spears in their hands,\n Saying\u2014\u201cHere shall come nae me!\u201d\n\n And they shot out, and they shot in,\n Till it was fairly day;\n When mony of the Englishmen\n About the draw-brig lay.\n\n Then they ha\u2019e yoked the carts and wains,\n To ca\u2019 their dead away,\n And shot auld dykes abune the lave,\n In gutters where they lay.\n\n The king, at his pavilion door,\n Was heard aloud to say:\n \u201cLast night, three of the lads of France\n My standard stole away.\n\n \u201cWith a fause tale, disguised they came,\n And with a fauser trayne;\n And to regain my gaye standard,\n These men where all down slayne.\u201d\n\n \u201cIt ill befits,\u201d the youngest said,\n \u201cA crown\u00e8d king to lee;\n But, or that I taste meat and drink,\n Reprov\u00e8d shall he be.\u201d\n\n He went before king Edward straight,\n And kneel\u2019d low on his knee:\n \u201cI wou\u2019d ha\u2019e leave, my lord,\u201d he said,\n \u201cTo speak a word with thee.\u201d\n\n The king he turn\u2019d him round about,\n And wistna what to say:\n Quo\u2019 he, \u201cMan, thou\u2019s ha\u2019e leave to speak,\n Though thou should speak all day.\u201d\n\n \u201cYe said that three young lads of France\n Your standard stole away,\n With a fause tale and fauser trayne,\n And mony men did slay;\n\n \u201cBut we are nane the lads of France,\n Nor e\u2019er pretend to be:\n We are three lads of fair Scotland,\u2014\n Auld Maitland\u2019s sons are we.\n\n \u201cNor is there men in all your host\n Daur fight us three to three.\u201d\n \u201cNow, by my sooth,\u201d young Edward said,\n \u201cWeel fitted ye shall be!\n\n \u201cPiercy shall with the eldest fight,\n And Ethert Lunn with thee;\n William of Lancaster the third,\n And bring your fourth to me!\n\n \u201cRemember, Piercy, aft the Scot\n Has cower\u2019d beneath thy hand;\n For every drap of Maitland blood,\n I\u2019ll gi\u2019e a rig of land.\u201d\n\n He clanked Piercy o\u2019er the head\n A deep wound and a sair,\n Till the best blood of his body\n Came running down his hair.\n\n \u201cNow, I\u2019ve slayne ane; slay ye the twa;\n And that\u2019s gude companye;\n And if the twa shou\u2019d slay ye baith,\n Ye\u2019se get nae help frae me.\u201d\n\n But Ethert Lunn, a baited bear,\n Had many battles seen;\n He set the youngest wonder sair,\n Till the eldest he grew keen.\n\n \u201cI am nae king, nor nae sic thing:\n My word it shanna stand!\n For Ethert shall a buffet bide,\n Come he beneath my brand.\u201d\n\n He clankit Ethert o\u2019er the head\n A deep wound and a sair,\n Till the best blood in his body\n Came running o\u2019er his hair.\n\n \u201cNow, I\u2019ve slayne twa; slay ye the ane;\n Isna that gude companye?\n And though the ane shou\u2019d slay ye baith.\n Ye\u2019se get nae help of me.\u201d\n\n The twa-some they ha\u2019e slayne the ane,\n They maul\u2019d him cruellie;\n Then hung him over the draw-brig,\n That all the host might see.\n\n They rade their horse, they ran their horse,\n Then hover\u2019d on the lee:\n \u201cWe be three lads of fair Scotland,\n That fain wou\u2019d fighting see.\u201d\n\n This boasting when young Edward heard,\n An angry man was he:\n \u201cI\u2019ll take yon lad, I\u2019ll bind yon lad,\n And bring him bound to thee!\n\n \u201cNow, God forbid,\u201d king Edward said,\n \u201cThat ever thou shou\u2019d try!\n Three worthy leaders we ha\u2019e lost,\n And thou the forth wou\u2019d lie.\n\n \u201cIf thou shou\u2019dst hang on yon draw-brig,\n Blythe wou\u2019d I never be.\u201d\n But, with the poll-axe in his hand,\n Upon the brig sprang be.\n\n The first stroke that young Edward ga\u2019e,\n He struck with might and main;\n He clove the Maitland\u2019s helmet stout,\n And bit right nigh the brain.\n\n When Maitland saw his ain blood fall,\n An angry man was he;\n He let his weapon frae him fall,\n And at his throat did flee.\n\n And thrice about he did him swing,\n Till on the ground he light,\n Where he has halden young Edward,\n Tho\u2019 he was great in might.\n\n \u201cNow let him up,\u201d king Edward cried,\n \u201cAnd let him come to me;\n And for the deed that thou hast done,\n Thou shalt ha\u2019e earldomes three!\u201d\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s ne\u2019er be said in France, nor e\u2019er\n In Scotland, when I\u2019m hame,\n That Edward once lay under me,\n And e\u2019er gat up again!\u201d\n\n He pierced him through and through the heart,\n He maul\u2019d him cruellie;\n Then hung him o\u2019er the draw-brig,\n Beside the other three.\n\n \u201cNow take frae me that feather-bed,\n Make me a bed of strae!\n I wish I hadna lived this day,\n To make my heart sae wae.\n\n \u201cIf I were ance at London Tow\u2019r,\n Where I was wont to be,\n I never mair shou\u2019d gang frae hame,\n Till borne on a bier-tree.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE BROOMFIELD HILL\n\n\n THERE was a knight and lady bright\n Set trysts amo the broom,\n The one to come at morning eav,\n The other at afternoon.\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll wager a wager wi\u2019 you,\u201d he said,\n \u201cAn hundred marks and ten,\n That ye shall not go to Broomfield Hills,\n Return a maiden again.\u201d\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll wager a wager wi\u2019 you,\u201d she said,\n \u201cA hundred pounds and ten,\n That I will gang to Broomfield Hills,\n A maiden return again.\u201d\n\n The lady stands in her bower door,\n And thus she made her mane:\n \u201cOh, shall I gang to Broomfield Hills,\n Or shall I stay at hame?\n\n \u201cIf I do gang to Broomfield Hills\n A maid I\u2019ll not return;\n But if I stay from Broomfield Hills,\n I\u2019ll be a maid mis-sworn.\u201d\n\n Then out it speaks an auld witch wife,\n Sat in the bower aboon:\n \u201cO ye shall gang to Broomfield Hills,\n Ye shall not stay at hame.\n\n \u201cBut when ye gang to Broomfield Hills,\n Walk nine times round and round;\n Down below a bonny burn bank,\n Ye\u2019ll find your love sleeping sound.\n\n \u201cYe\u2019ll pu the bloom frae off the broom,\n Strew\u2019t at his head and feet,\n And aye the thicker that ye do strew,\n The sounder he will sleep.\n\n \u201cThe broach that is on your napkin,\n Put it on his breast bane,\n To let him know, when he does wake,\n That\u2019s true love\u2019s come and gane.\n\n \u201cThe rings that are on your fingers,\n Lay them down on a stane,\n To let him know, when he does wake,\n That\u2019s true love\u2019s come and gane.\n\n \u201cAnd when he hae your work all done,\n Ye\u2019ll gang to a bush o\u2019 broom,\n And then you\u2019ll hear what he will say,\n When he sees ye are gane.\u201d\n\n When she came to Broomfield Hills,\n She walked it nine times round,\n And down below yon burn bank,\n She found him sleeping sound.\n\n She pu\u2019d the bloom frae off the broom,\n Strew\u2019d it at \u2019s head and feet,\n And aye the thicker that she strewd,\n The sounder he did sleep.\n\n The broach that was on her napkin,\n She put it on his breast-bane,\n To let him know, when he did wake,\n His love was come and gane.\n\n The rings that were on her fingers,\n She laid upon a stane,\n To let him know, when he did wake,\n His love was come and gane.\n\n Now when she had her work all dune,\n She went to a bush o\u2019 broom,\n That she might hear what he did say,\n When he saw that she was gane.\n\n \u201cO where were ye my guid grey hound,\n That I paid for sae dear,\n Ye didna waken me frae my sleep\n When my true love was sae near?\u201d\n\n \u201cI scraped wi\u2019 my foot, master,\n Till a\u2019 my collars rang,\n But still the mair that I did scrape,\n Waken woud ye nane.\u201d\n\n \u201cWhere were ye, my bony brown steed,\n That I paid for sae dear,\n That ye woudna waken me out o\u2019 my sleep\n When my love was sae near?\u201d\n\n \u201cI patted wi my foot, master,\n Till a\u2019 my bridles rang,\n But the mair that I did patt,\n Waken woud ye nane.\u201d\n\n \u201cO where were ye, my gay goss-hawk\n That I paid for sae dear,\n That ye woudna waken me out o\u2019 my sleep\n When ye saw my love near?\u201d\n\n \u201cI flapped wi my wings, master,\n Till a\u2019 my bells they rang,\n But still, the mair that I did flap,\n Waken woud ye nane.\u201d\n\n \u201cO where were ye, my merry young men\n That I pay meat and fee,\n That ye woudna waken me out o\u2019 my sleep\n When my love ye did see?\u201d\n\n \u201cYe\u2019ll sleep mair on the night, master,\n And wake mair on the day;\n Gae sooner down to Broomfield Hills\n When ye\u2019ve sic pranks to play.\n\n \u201cIf I had seen any arm\u00e8d men\n Come riding over the hill\u2014\n But I saw but a fair lady\n Come quietly you until.\u201d\n\n \u201cO wae mat worth yow, my young men,\n That I pay meat and fee,\n That ye woudna waken me frae sleep\n When ye my love did see?\n\n \u201cO had I waked when she was nigh,\n And o her got my will,\n I shoudna cared upon the morn\n The sma birds o her were fill.\u201d\n\n When she went out, right bitter she wept,\n But singing came she hame;\n Says, \u201cI hae been at Broomfield Hills,\n And maid returned again.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nWILLIE\u2019S LADYE\n\n\n WILLIE has ta\u2019en him o\u2019er the faem,\n He\u2019s wooed a wife, and brought her hame;\n He\u2019s wooed her for her yellow hair,\n But his mother wrought her meikle care;\n\n And meikle dolour gar\u2019d her dree,\n For lighter she can never be;\n But in her bow\u2019r she sits with pain,\n And Willie mourns o\u2019er her in vain.\n\n And to his mother he has gane,\n That vile rank witch, of vilest kind!\n He says\u2014\u201cMy lady has a cup,\n With gowd and silver set about;\n This gudely gift shall be your ain,\n And let her be lighter of her bairn.\u201d\n\n \u201cOf her bairn she\u2019s never be lighter,\n Nor in her bow\u2019r to shine the brighter\n But she shall die, and turn to clay,\n And you shall wed another may.\u201d\n\n \u201cAnother may I\u2019ll never wed,\n Another may I\u2019ll never bring hame.\u201d\n But, sighing, said that weary wight\u2014\n \u201cI wish my life were at an end.\u201d\n\n \u201cYet gae ye to your mother again,\n That vile rank witch, of vilest kind\n And say, your ladye has a steed,\n The like of him\u2019s no in the land of Leed.\n\n \u201cFor he is silver shod before,\n And he is gowden shod behind;\n At every tuft of that horse mane\n There\u2019s a golden chess, and a bell to ring.\n This gudely gift shall be her ain,\n And let me be lighter of my bairn.\u201d\n\n \u201cOf her young bairn she\u2019s ne\u2019er be lighter,\n Nor in her bow\u2019r to shine the brighter;\n But she shall die, and turn to clay,\n And ye shall wed another may.\u201d\n\n \u201cAnother may I\u2019ll never wed,\n Another may I\u2019ll never bring hame.\u201d\n But, sighing, said that weary wight\u2014\n \u201cI wish my life were at an end!\u201d\n\n \u201cYet gae ye to your mother again,\n That vile rank witch, of rankest kind!\n And say, your ladye has a girdle,\n It\u2019s all red gowd to the middle;\n\n \u201cAnd aye, at ilka siller hem,\n Hang fifty siller bells and ten;\n This gudely gift shall be her ain,\n And let me be lighter of my bairn.\u201d\n\n \u201cOf her young bairn she\u2019s ne\u2019er be lighter,\n Nor in your bow\u2019r to shine the brighter;\n For she shall die, and turn to clay,\n And thou shall wed another may.\u201d\n\n \u201cAnother may I\u2019ll never wed,\n Another may I\u2019ll never bring hame.\u201d\n But, sighing, said that weary wight\u2014\n \u201cI wish my days were at an end!\u201d\n\n Then out and spak the Billy Blind,\n He spak aye in good time [his mind]:\u2014\n \u201cYet gae ye to the market place,\n And there do buy a loaf of wace;\n Do shape it bairn and bairnly like,\n And in it two glassen een you\u2019ll put.\n\n \u201cOh, wha has loosed the nine witch-knots\n That were amang that ladye\u2019s locks?\n And wha\u2019s ta\u2019en out the kames of care,\n That were amang that ladye\u2019s hair?\n\n \u201cAnd wha has ta\u2019en down that bush of woodbine\n That hung between her bow\u2019r and mine?\n And wha has kill\u2019d the master kid\n That ran beneath that ladye\u2019s bed?\n And wha has loosed her left foot shee,\n And let that ladye lighter be?\u201d\n\n Syne, Willie\u2019s loosed the nine witch-knots\n That were amang that ladye\u2019s locks;\n And Willie\u2019s ta\u2019en out the kames of care\n That were into that ladye\u2019s hair;\n And he\u2019s ta\u2019en down the bush of woodbine,\n Hung atween her bow\u2019r and the witch carline.\n\n And he has killed the master kid\n That ran beneath that ladye\u2019s bed;\n And he has loosed her left foot shee,\n And latten that ladye lighter be;\n And now he has gotten a bonnie son,\n And meikle grace be him upon.\n\n\n\n\nROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK\n\n\n IN somer when the shawes be sheyne,\n And leves be large and longe,\n Hit is full mery in feyre foreste\n To here the foulys song.\n\n To se the dere draw to the dale,\n And leve the hilles hee,\n And shadow hem in the leves grene,\n Vndur the grene-wode tre.\n\n Hit befell on Whitsontide,\n Erly in a may mornyng,\n The son vp fayre can shyne,\n And the briddis mery can syng.\n\n \u201cThis is a mery mornyng,\u201d seid Litulle Johne,\n \u201cBe hym that dyed on tre;\n A more mery man than I am one\n Lyves not in Cristiant\u00e9.\u201d\n\n \u201cPluk vp thi hert, my dere mayster,\u201d\n Litulle Johne can sey,\n \u201cAnd thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme\n In a mornynge of may.\u201d\n\n \u201cZe on thynge greves me,\u201d seid Robyne,\n \u201cAnd does my hert mych woo,\n That I may not so solem day\n To mas nor matyns goo.\n\n \u201cHit is a fourtnet and more,\u201d seyd hee,\n \u201cSyn I my Sauyour see;\n To day will I to Notyngham,\u201d seid Robyn,\n \u201cWith the myght of mylde Mary.\u201d\n\n Then spake Moche the mylner sune,\n Euer more wel hym betyde,\n \u201cTake xii thi wyght zemen\n Well weppynd be thei side.\n Such on wolde thi selfe slon\n That xii dar not abyde.\u201d\n\n \u201cOff alle my mery men,\u201d seid Robyne,\n \u201cBe my feithe I wil non haue;\n But Litulle Johne shall beyre my bow\n Til that me list to drawe.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cThou shalle beyre thin own,\u201d seid Litulle Jon,\n \u201cMaister, and I wil beyre myne,\n And we wille shete a peny,\u201d seid Litulle Jon,\n \u201cVnder the grene wode lyne.\u201d\n\n \u201cI wil not shete a peny,\u201d seyde Robyn Hode,\n \u201cIn feith, Litulle Johne, with thee,\n But euer for on as thou shetes,\u201d seid Robyn,\n \u201cIn feith I holde the thre.\u201d\n\n Thus shet thei forthe, these zemen too,\n Bothe at buske and brome,\n Til Litulle Johne wan of his maister\n V s. to hose and shone.\n\n A ferly strife fel them betwene,\n As they went bi the way;\n Litull Johne seid he had won v shyllyngs,\n And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.\n\n With that Robyn Hode lyed Litul Jone,\n And smote him with his honde;\n Litul John waxed wroth therwith,\n And pulled out his bright bronde.\n\n \u201cWere thou not my maister,\u201d seid Litulle Johne,\n \u201cThou shuldis by hit ful sore;\n Get the a man where thou wilt, Robyn,\n For thou getes me no more.\u201d\n\n Then Robyn goes to Notyngham,\n Hymselfe mornynge allone,\n And Litulle Johne to mery Scherewode,\n The pathes he knowe alkone.\n\n Whan Robyn came to Notyngham,\n Sertenly withoutene layne,\n He prayed to God and myld Mary\n To brynge hym out saue agayne.\n\n He gos into seynt Mary chirche,\n And knelyd downe before the rode;\n Alle that euer were the churche within\n Beheld wel Robyne Hode.\n\n Beside hym stode a gret-hedid munke,\n I pray to God woo he be;\n Full sone he knew gode Robyn\n As sone as he hym se.\n\n Out at the durre he ran\n Ful sone and anon;\n Alle the zatis of Notyngham\n He made to be sparred euerychone.\n\n \u201cRise vp,\u201d he seid, \u201cthou prowde schereff,\n Buske the and make the bowne;\n I haue spyed the kynges felone,\n For sothe he is in this towne.\n\n \u201cI haue spyed the false felone,\n As he stondes at his masse;\n Hit is longe of the,\u201d seide the munke,\n \u201cAnd euer he fro vs passe.\n\n \u201cThis traytur[s] name is Robyn Hode;\n Vnder the grene wode lynde,\n He robbyt me onys of a C pound,\n Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde.\u201d\n\n Vp then rose this prowd schereff,\n And zade towarde hym zare;\n Many was the modur son\n To the kyrk with him can fare.\n\n In at the durres thei throly thrast\n With staves ful gode ilkone,\n \u201cAlas, alas,\u201d seid Robin Hode,\n \u201cNow mysse I Litulle Johne.\u201d\n\n But Robyne toke out a too-hond sworde\n That hangit down be his kne;\n Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust,\n Thidurward wold he.\n\n Thryes thorow at them he ran,\n Then for sothe as I yow say,\n And woundyt many a modur sone,\n And xii he slew that day.\n\n Hys sworde vpon the schireff hed\n Sertanly he brake in too;\n \u201cThe smyth that the made,\u201d seid Robyn,\n \u201cI pray God wyrke him woo.\n\n \u201cFor now am I weppynlesse,\u201d seid Robyne,\n \u201cAlasse, agayn my wylle;\n But if I may fle these traytors fro,\n I wot thei wil me kylle.\u201d\n\n Robyns men to the churche ran\n Throout hem euerilkon;\n Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede,\n And lay still as any stone.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Non of theym were in her mynde\n But only Litulle Jon.\n\n \u201cLet be your dule,\u201d seid Litulle Jon,\n \u201cFor his luf that dyed on tre;\n Ze that shulde be duzty men,\n Hit is gret shame to se.\n\n \u201cOure maister has bene hard bystode,\n And zet scapyd away;\n Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone,\n And herkyn what I shal say.\n\n \u201cHe has seruyd our lady many a day,\n And zet wil securly;\n Therefore I trust in her specialy\n No wycked deth shal he dye.\n\n \u201cTherfor be glad,\u201d seid Litul Johne,\n \u201cAnd let this mournyng be,\n And I shall be the munkes gyde,\n With the myght of mylde Mary.\n\n \u201cAnd I mete hym,\u201d seid Litull Johne,\n \u201cWe will go but we too\n . . . . . . .\n . . . . . . .\n\n \u201cLoke that ze kepe wel our tristil tre\n Vnder the levys smale,\n And spare non of this venyson\n That gose in thys vale.\u201d\n\n Forthe thei went these zemen too,\n Litul Johne and Moche onfere,\n And lokid on Moche emys hows\n The hyeway lay fulle nere.\n\n Litul John stode at a window in the mornynge,\n And lokid forth at a stage;\n He was war wher the munke came ridynge,\n And with him a litul page.\n\n \u201cBe my feith,\u201d said Litul Johne to Moche,\n \u201cI can the tel tithyngus gode;\n I se wher the munk comys rydyng,\n I know hym be his wyde hode.\u201d\n\n Thei went into the way these zemen bothe\n As curtes men and hende,\n Thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke,\n As thei hade bene his frende.\n\n \u201cFro whens come ze,\u201d seid Litul Johne,\n \u201cTel vs tithyngus, I yow pray,\n Off a false owtlay [called Robyn Hode],\n Was takyn zisturday.\n\n \u201cHe robbyt me and my felowes bothe\n Of xx marke in serten;\n If that false owtlay be takyn,\n For sothe we wolde be fayne.\u201d\n\n \u201cSo did he me,\u201d seid the munke,\n \u201cOf a C pound and more;\n I layde furst hande hym apon,\n Ze may thonke me therefore.\u201d\n\n \u201cI pray God thanke yow,\u201d seid Litulle Johne,\n \u201cAnd we wil when we may;\n We wil go with yow, with your leve,\n And brynge yow on your way.\n\n \u201cFor Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow,\n I telle yow in certen;\n If thei wist ze rode this way,\n In feith ze shulde be slayn.\u201d\n\n As thei went talkyng be the way,\n The munke an Litulle Johne,\n Johne toke the munkes horse be the hede\n Ful sone and anone.\n\n Johne toke the munkes horse be the hed,\n For sothe as I yow say,\n So did Muche the litulle page,\n For he shulde not stirre away.\n\n Be the golett of the hode\n Johne pulled the munke downe;\n Johne was nothynge of hym agast,\n He lete hym falle on his crowne.\n\n Litulle Johne was sore agrevyd,\n And drew out his swerde in hye;\n The munke saw he shulde be ded,\n Lowd mercy can he crye.\n\n \u201cHe was my maister,\u201d said Litulle Johne,\n \u201cThat thou hase browzt in bale;\n Shalle thou neuer cum at our kynge\n For to telle hym tale.\u201d\n\n John smote of the munkes hed,\n No longer wolde he dwelle;\n So did Moche the litulle page,\n For ferd lest he wold tell.\n\n Ther thei beryed hem both\n In nouther mosse nor lynge,\n And Litulle Johne and Muche infere\n Bare the letturs to oure kyng.\n\n * * * * *\n\n He kneled down vpon\u2014his kne,\n \u201cGod zow sane, my lege lorde,\n Jesus yow saue and se.\n\n \u201cGod yow saue, my lege kyng,\u201d\n To speke Johne was fulle bolde;\n He gaf hym tbe letturs in his hond,\n The kyng did hit unfold.\n\n The kyng red the letturs anon,\n And seid, \u201cso met I the,\n Ther was neuer zoman in mery Inglond\n I longut so sore to see.\n\n \u201cWher is the munke that these shuld haue browzt?\u201d\n Oure kynge gan say;\n \u201cBe my trouthe,\u201d seid Litull Jone,\n \u201cHe dyed aftur the way.\u201d\n\n The kyng gaf Moche and Litul Jon\n xx pound in sertan,\n And made theim zemen of the crowne,\n And bade theim go agayn.\n\n He gaf Johne the seel in hand,\n The scheref for to bere,\n To brynge Robyn hym to,\n And no man do hym dere.\n\n Johne toke his leve at cure kyng,\n The sothe as I yow say;\n The next way to Notyngham\n To take he zede the way.\n\n When Johne came to Notyngham\n The zatis were sparred ychone;\n Johne callid vp the porter,\n He answerid sone anon.\n\n \u201cWhat is the cause,\u201d seid Litul John,\n \u201cThou sparris the zates so fast?\u201d\n \u201cBecause of Robyn Hode,\u201d seid [the] porter,\n \u201cIn depe prison is cast.\n\n \u201cJohne, and Moche, and Wylle Scathlok,\n For sothe as I yow say,\n Thir slew oure men vpon oure wallis,\n And sawtene vs euery day.\u201d\n\n Litulle Johne spyrred aftur the schereff,\n And sone he hym fonde;\n He oppyned the kyngus priv\u00e8 seelle,\n And gaf hyn in his honde.\n\n When the schereft saw the kyngus seelle,\n He did of his hode anon;\n \u201cWher is the munke that bare the letturs?\u201d\n He said to Litulle Johne.\n\n \u201cHe is so fayn of hym,\u201d seid Litulle Johne,\n \u201cFor sothe as I yow sey,\n He has made hym abot of Westmynster,\n A lorde of that abbay.\u201d\n\n The scheref made John gode chere,\n And gaf hym wine of the best;\n At nyzt thei went to her bedde,\n And euery man to his rest.\n\n When the scheref was on-slepe\n Dronken of wine and ale,\n Litul Johne and Moche for sothe\n Toke the way vnto the jale.\n\n Litul Johne callid vp the jayler,\n And bade him ryse anon;\n He seid Robyn Hode had brokyn preson,\n And out of hit was gon.\n\n The portere rose anon sertan,\n As sone as he herd John calle;\n Litul Johne was redy with a swerd,\n And bare hym to the walle.\n\n \u201cNow will I be porter,\u201d seid Litul Johne,\n \u201cAnd take the keyes in honde;\u201d\n He toke the way to Robyn Hode,\n And sone he hym vnbonde.\n\n He gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond,\n His hed with for to kepe,\n And ther as the walle was lowyst\n Anon down can thei lepe.\n\n Be that the cok began to crow,\n The day began to sprynge,\n The scheref fond the jaylier ded,\n The comyn belle made he rynge.\n\n He made a crye thoroowt al the tow[n],\n Whedur he be zoman or knave,\n That cowthe brynge hyrn Robyn Hode,\n His warisone he shuld haue.\n\n \u201cFor I dar neuer,\u201d said the scheref,\n \u201cCum before oure kynge,\n For if I do, I wot serten,\n For sothe he wil me henge.\u201d\n\n The scheref made to seke Notyngham,\n Bothe be strete and stye,\n And Robyn was in mery Scherwode\n As lizt as lef on lynde.\n\n Then bespake gode Litulle Johne,\n To Robyn Hode can he say,\n \u201cI haue done the a gode turne for an euylle,\n Quyte me whan thou may.\n\n \u201cI haue done the a gode turne,\u201d said Litulle Johne,\n \u201cFor sothe as I you saie;\n I haue brouzt the vnder grene wode lyne;\n Fare wel, and haue gode day.\u201d\n\n \u201cNay, be my trouthe,\u201d seid Robyn Hode,\n \u201cSo shalle hit neuer be;\n I make the maister,\u201d seid Robyn Hode,\n \u201cOff alle my men and me.\u201d\n\n \u201cNay, be my trouthe,\u201d seid Litulle Johne,\n \u201cSo shall hit neuer be,\n But lat me be a felow,\u201d seid Litulle Johne,\n \u201cNon odur kepe I\u2019ll be.\u201d\n\n Thus Johne gate Robyn Hode out of prisone,\n Sertan withoutyn layne;\n When his men saw hym hol and sounde,\n For sothe they were ful fayne.\n\n They filled in wyne, and made him glad,\n Vnder the levys smale,\n And zete pastes of venysone,\n That gode was with ale.\n\n Than worde came to oure kynge,\n How Robyn Hode was gone,\n And how the scheref of Notyngham\n Durst neuer loke hyme vpone.\n\n Then bespake oure cumly kynge,\n In an angur hye,\n \u201cLitulle Johne hase begyled the schereff,\n In faith so hase he me.\n\n \u201cLitulle Johne has begyled vs bothe,\n And that fulle wel I se,\n Or ellis the schereff of Notyngham\n Hye hongut shuld he be.\n\n \u201cI made hem zemen of the crowne,\n And gaf hem fee with my hond,\n I gaf hem grithe,\u201d seid oure kyng,\n \u201cThorowout alle mery Inglond.\n\n \u201cI gaf hem grithe,\u201d then seide oure kyng,\n \u201cI say, so mot I the,\n For sothe soche a zeman as he is on\n In alle Ingland ar not thre.\n\n \u201cHe is trew to his maister,\u201d seide oure kynge,\n \u201cI say, be swete seynt Johne;\n He louys bettur Robyn Hode,\n Then he dose vs ychone.\n\n \u201cRobyne Hode is euer bond to him,\n Bothe in strete and stalle;\n Speke no more of this matter,\u201d seid oure kynge,\n \u201cBut John has begyled vs alle.\u201d\n\n Thus endys the talkyng of the munke\n And Robyne Hode i-wysse;\n God, that is euer a crowned kyng,\n Bryng vs alle to his blisse.\n\n\n\n\nROBIN HOOD AND THE POTTER\n\n\n IN schomer, when the leves spryng,\n The bloschems on every bowe,\n So merey doyt the berdys syng\n Yn wodys merey now.\n\n Herkens, god yemen,\n Comley, corteysse, and god,\n On of the best that yever bar bou,\n Hes name was Roben Hode.\n\n Roben Hood was the yemans name,\n That was boyt corteys and fre;\n For the loffe of owr ladey,\n All wemen werschep he.\n\n Bot as the god yemen stod on a day,\n Among hes mery man\u00e8y,\n He was war of a prowd potter,\n Cam dryfyng owyr the ley.\n\n \u201cYonder comet a prod potter,\u201d seyde Roben,\n \u201cThat long hayt hantyd this wey;\n He was never so corteys a man\n On peney of pawage to pay.\u201d\n\n \u201cY met hem bot at Wentbreg,\u201d seyde Lytyll John,\n \u201cAnd therfor yeffell mot he the,\n Seche thre strokes he me gafe,\n Yet they cleffe by my seydys.\n\n \u201cY ley forty shillings,\u201d seyde Lytyll John,\n \u201cTo pay het thes same day,\n Ther ys nat a man arnong hus all\n A wed schall make hem ley.\u201d\n\n \u201cHer ys forty shillings,\u201d seyde Roben,\n \u201cMor, and thow dar say,\n That y schall make that prowde potter,\n A wed to me schall he ley.\u201d\n\n Ther thes money they leyde,\n They toke bot a yeman to kepe;\n Roben befor the potter he breyde,\n And bad hem stond stell.\n\n Handys apon hes horse he leyde,\n And bad the potter stonde foll stell;\n The potter schorteley to hem seyde,\n \u201cFelow, what ys they well?\u201d\n\n \u201cAll thes thre yer, and mor, potter,\u201d he seyde,\n \u201cThow hast hantyd thes wey,\n Yet wer tow never so cortys a man\n One peney of pauage to pay.\u201d\n\n \u201cWhat ys they name,\u201d seyde the potter,\n \u201cFor pauage thow ask of me?\u201d\n \u201cRoben Hod ys mey name,\n A wed schall thow leffe me.\u201d\n\n \u201cWell well y non leffe,\u201d seyde the potter,\n \u201cNor pavag well y non pay;\n Away they honde fro mey horse,\n Y well the tene eyls, be me fay.\u201d\n\n The potter to hes cart he went,\n He was not to seke;\n A god to-hande staffe therowt he hent,\n Befor Roben he lepe.\n\n Roben howt with a swerd bent,\n A bokeler en hes honde [therto];\n The potter to Roben he went,\n And seyde, \u201cFelow, let mey horse go.\u201d\n\n Togeder then went thes two yemen,\n Het was a god seyt to se;\n Therof low Robyn hes men,\n Ther they stod onder a tre.\n\n Leytell John to hes felowhes seyde,\n \u201cYend potter welle steffeley stonde:\u201d\n The potter, with an acward stroke,\n Smot the bokeler owt of hes honde;\n\n And ar Roben meyt get hem agen\n Hes bokeler at hes fette,\n The potter yn the neke hem toke,\n To the gronde sone he yede.\n\n That saw Roben hes men,\n As they stode ender a bow;\n \u201cLet us helpe owr master,\u201d seyed Lytell John,\n \u201cYonder potter els well hem sclo.\u201d\n\n Thes yemen went with a breyde,\n To ther master they cam.\n Leytell John to hes master seyde,\n \u201cHe haet the wager won?\n\n \u201cSchall y haff yowr forty shillings,\u201d seyde Lytel John,\n \u201cOr ye, master, schall haffe myne?\u201d\n \u201cYeff they wer a hundred,\u201d seyde Roben,\n \u201cY feythe, they ben all theyne.\u201d\n\n \u201cHet ys fol leytell cortesey,\u201d seyde the potter,\n \u201cAs y haffe harde weyse men saye,\n Yeff a por yeman com drywyng ower the wey,\n To let hem of hes gorney.\u201d\n\n \u201cBe mey trowet, thow seys soyt,\u201d seyde Roben,\n \u201cThow seys god yemenrey;\n And thow dreyffe forthe yevery day,\n Thow schalt never be let for me.\n\n \u201cY well prey the, god potter,\n A felischepe well thow haffe?\n Geffe me they clothyng, and thow schalt hafe myne;\n Y well go to Notynggam.\u201d\n\n \u201cY grant therto,\u201d seyde the potter,\n \u201cThow schalt feynde me a felow gode;\n But thow can sell mey pottes well,\n Come ayen as thow yode.\u201d\n\n \u201cNay, be mey trowt,\u201d seyde Roben,\n \u201cAnd then y bescro mey hede\n Yeffe y bryng eney pottes ayen,\n And eney weyffe well hem chepe.\u201d\n\n Than spake Leytell John,\n And all hes felowhes heynd,\n \u201cMaster, be well war of the screffe of Notynggam,\n For he ys leytell howr frende.\u201d\n\n \u201cHeyt war howte,\u201d seyde Roben,\n \u201cFelowhes, let me alone;\n Thorow the helpe of howr ladey,\n To Notynggam well y gon.\u201d\n\n Robyn went to Notynggam,\n Thes pottes for to sell;\n The potter abode with Robens men,\n Ther he fered not eylle.\n\n Tho Roben droffe on hes wey,\n So merey ower the londe:\n Heres mor and affter ys to saye,\n The best ys beheynde.\n\n [THE SECOND FIT.]\n\n WHEN Roben cam to Netynggam,\n The soyt yef y scholde saye,\n He set op hes horse anon,\n And gaffe hem hotys and haye.\n\n Yn the medys of the towne,\n Ther he schowed hes war;\n \u201cPottys! pottys!\u201d he gan crey foll sone,\n \u201cHaffe hansell for the mar.\u201d\n\n Foll effen agenest the screffeys gate\n Schowed he hes chaffar;\n Weyffes and wedowes abowt hem drow,\n And chepyd fast of hes war.\n\n Yet, \u201cPottys, gret chepe!\u201d creyed Robyn,\n \u201cY loffe yeffell thes to stonde;\u201d\n And all that saw hem sell,\n Seyde he had be no potter long.\n\n The pottys that wer werthe pens feyffe,\n He sold tham for pens thre;\n Preveley seyde man and weyffe,\n \u201cYwnder potter schall never the.\u201d\n\n Thos Roben solde foll fast,\n Tell he had pottys bot feyffe;\n On he hem toke of his car,\n And sende hem to the screffeys weyffe.\n\n Therof sche was foll fayne,\n \u201cGramarsey, sir,\u201d than seyde sche;\n \u201cWhen ye com to thes contre ayen,\n Y schall bey of they pottys, so mot y the.\u201d\n\n \u201cYe schall haffe of the best,\u201d seyde Roben,\n And swar be the treneyt\u00e8;\n Foll corteysley she gan hem call,\n \u201cCom deyne with the screfe and me.\u201d\n\n \u201cGodamarsey,\u201d seyde Roben,\n \u201cYowr bedyng schalle be doyn;\u201d\n A mayden yn the pottys gan ber,\n Roben and the screffe weyffe folowed anon.\n\n Whan Roben ynto the hall cam,\n The screffe sone he met;\n The potter cowed of corteysey,\n And sone the screffe he gret.\n\n \u201cLoketh what thes potter hayt geffe yow and me;\n Feyffe pottys smalle and grete!\u201d\n \u201cHe ys fol wellcom,\u201d seyd the screffe,\n \u201cLet os was, and go to mete.\u201d\n\n As they sat at her methe,\n With a nobell cher,\n Two of the screffes men gan speke\n Off a gret wag\u00e8r,\n\n Was made the thother daye,\n Off a schotyng was god and feyne,\n Off forty shillings, the soyt to saye,\n Who scholde thes wager wen.\n\n Styll than sat thes prowde po,\n Thos than thowt he;\n \u201cAs y am a trow Cerstyn man,\n Thes schotyng well y se.\u201d\n\n Whan they had fared of the best,\n With bred and ale and weyne,\n To the bottys they made them prest,\n With bowes and boltys full feyne.\n\n The screffes men schot foll fast,\n As archares that weren godde;\n Ther cam non ner ney the marke\n Bey halfe a god archares bowe.\n\n Stell then stod the prowde potter,\n Thos than seyde he;\n \u201cAnd y had a bow, be the rode,\n On schot scholde yow se.\u201d\n\n \u201cThow schall haffe a bow,\u201d seyde the screffe,\n \u201cThe best that thow well cheys of thre;\n Thou semyst a stalward and a stronge,\n Asay schall thow be.\u201d\n\n The screffe commandyd a yeman that stod hem bey\n Affter bowhes to wende;\n The best bow that the yeman browthe\n Roben set on a stryng.\n\n \u201cNow schall y wet and thow be god,\n And polle het op to they ner;\u201d\n \u201cSo god me helpe,\u201d seyde the prowde potter,\n \u201cThys ys bot rygzt weke ger.\u201d\n\n To a quequer Roben went,\n A god bolt owthe he toke;\n So ney on to the marke he went,\n He fayled not a fothe.\n\n All they schot abowthe agen,\n The screffes men and he;\n Off the marke he welde not fayle,\n He cleffed the preke on thre.\n\n The screffes men thowt gret schame,\n The potter the mastry wan;\n The screffe lowe and made god game,\n And seyde, \u201cPotter, thow art a man;\n Thow art worthey to ber a bowe,\n Yn what plas that thow gang.\u201d\n\n \u201cYn mey cart y haffe a bowe,\n Forsoyt,\u201d he seyde, \u201cand that a godde;\n Yn mey cart ys the bow\n That I had of Robyn Hode.\u201d\n\n \u201cKnowest thow Robyn Hode?\u201d seyde the screffe,\n \u201cPotter, y prey the tell thou me;\u201d\n \u201cA hundred torne y haffe schot with hem,\n Under hes tortyll tree.\u201d\n\n \u201cY had lever nar a hundred ponde,\u201d seyde the screffe,\n And swar be the trenit\u00e8,\n [\u201cY had lever nar a hundred ponde,\u201d he seyde,]\n \u201cThat the fals owtelawe stod be me.\n\n \u201cAnd ye well do afftyr mey red,\u201d seyde the potter,\n \u201cAnd boldeley go with me,\n And to morow, or we het bred,\n Roben Hode wel we se.\u201d\n\n \u201cY well queyt the,\u201d kod the screffe,\n And swer be god of meythe;\n Schetyng thay left, and hom they went,\n Her scoper was redey deythe.\n\n Upon the morow, when het was day,\n He boskyd hem forthe to reyde;\n The potter hes carte forthe gan ray,\n And wolde not [be] leffe beheynde.\n\n He toke leffe of the screffys wyffe,\n And thankyd her of all thyng:\n \u201cDam, for mey loffe, and ye well thys wer,\n Y geffe yow her a golde ryng.\u201d\n\n \u201cGramarsey,\u201d seyde the weyffe,\n \u201cSir, god eylde het the;\u201d\n The screffes hart was never so leythe,\n The feyr forest to se.\n\n And when he cam ynto the foreyst,\n Yonder the leffes grene,\n Berdys ther sange on bowhes prest,\n Het was gret joy to sene.\n\n \u201cHer het ys mercy to be,\u201d seyde Roben,\n \u201cFor a man that had hawt to spende;\n Be mey horne we schall awet\n Yeff Roben Hode be ner hande.\u201d\n\n Roben set hes horne to hes mowthe,\n And blow a blast that was full god,\n That herde hes men that ther stode,\n Fer downe yn the wodde;\n \u201cI her mey master,\u201d seyde Leytell John;\n They ran as thay wer wode.\n\n Whan thay to thar master cam,\n Leytell John wold not spar;\n \u201cMaster, how haffe yow far yn Notynggam?\n How haffe yow solde yowr war?\u201d\n\n \u201cYe, be mey trowthe, Leytyll John,\n Loke thow take no car;\n Y haffe browt the screffe of Notynggam,\n For all howr chaffar.\u201d\n\n \u201cHe ys foll wellcom,\u201d seyde Lytyll John,\n \u201cThes tydyng ys foll godde;\u201d\n The screffe had lever nar a hundred ponde\n [He had never sene Roben Hode.]\n\n \u201cHad I west that beforen,\n At Notynggam when we wer,\n Thow scholde not com yn feyr forest\n Of all thes thowsande eyr.\u201d\n\n \u201cThat wot y well,\u201d seyde Roben,\n \u201cY thanke god that ye be her;\n Therfor schall ye leffe yowr horse with hos,\n And all your hother ger.\u201d\n\n \u201cThat fend I godys forbode,\u201d kod the screffe,\n \u201cSo to lese mey godde;\u201d\n \u201cHether ye cam on horse foll hey,\n And hom schall ye go on fote;\n And gret well they weyffe at home,\n The woman ys foll godde.\n\n \u201cY schall her sende a wheyt palffrey,\n Het hambellet as the weynde;\n Ner for the loffe of yowr weyffe,\n Off mor sorow scholde yow seyng.\u201d\n\n Thes parted Robyn Hode and the screffe,\n To Notynggam he toke the waye;\n Hes weyffe feyr welcomed hem hom,\n And to hem gan sche saye:\n\n \u201cSeyr, how haffe yow fared yn grene foreyst?\n Haffe ye browt Roben hom?\u201d\n \u201cDam, the deyell spede him, bothe bodey and bon,\n Y haffe hade a foll grete skorne.\n\n \u201cOf all the god that y haffe lade to grene wod,\n He hayt take het fro me,\n All bot this feyr palffrey,\n That he hayt sende to the.\u201d\n\n With that sche toke op a lowde lawhyng,\n And swhar be hem that deyed on tre,\n \u201cNow haffe yow payed for all the pottys\n That Roben gaffe to me.\n\n \u201cNow ye be corn hom to Notynggam,\n Ye schall haffe god ynowe;\u201d\n Now speke we of Roben Hode,\n And of the pottyr onder the grene bowhe.\n\n \u201cPotter, what was they pottys worthe\n To Notynggam that y ledde with me?\u201d\n \u201cThey wer worth two nobellys,\u201d seyd he,\n \u201cSo mot y treyffe or the;\n So cowde y had for tham,\n And y had ther be.\u201d\n\n \u201cThow schalt hafe ten ponde,\u201d seyde Roben,\n \u201cOf money feyr and fre;\n And yever whan thou comest to grene wod,\n Wellcom, potter to me.\u201d\n\n Thes partyd Robyn, the screffe, and the potter,\n Ondernethe the grene-wod tre;\n God haffe mersey on Robyn Hodys solle,\n And saffe all god yemanrey!\n\n\n\n\nROBIN HOOD AND THE BUTCHER\n\n\n COME, all you brave gallants, and listen awhile,\n _With hey down_, _down_, _an a down_,\n That are in the bowers within;\n For of Robin Hood, that archer good,\n A song I intend for to sing.\n\n Upon a time it chanc\u00e8d so,\n Bold Robin in forrest did \u2019spy\n A jolly butcher, with a bonny fine mare,\n With his flesh to the market did hye.\n\n \u201cGood morrow, good fellow,\u201d said jolly Robin,\n \u201cWhat food hast [thou]? tell unto me;\n Thy trade to me tell, and where thou dost dwell,\n For I like well thy company.\u201d\n\n The butcher he answer\u2019d jolly Robin,\n \u201cNo matter where I dwell;\n For a butcher I am, and to Nottingham\n I am going, my flesh to sell.\u201d\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s [the] price of thy flesh?\u201d said jolly Robin,\n \u201cCome, tell it soon unto me;\n And the price of thy mare, be she never so dear,\n For a butcher fain would I be.\u201d\n\n \u201cThe price of my flesh,\u201d the butcher repli\u2019d,\n \u201cI soon will tell unto thee;\n With my bonny mare, and they are not too dear,\n Four mark thou must give unto me.\u201d\n\n \u201cFour mark I will give thee,\u201d saith jolly Robin,\n \u201cFour mark it shall be thy fee;\n The mony come count, and let me mount,\n For a butcher I fain would be.\u201d\n\n Now Robin he is to Nottingham gone,\n His butchers trade to begin;\n With good intent to the sheriff he went,\n And there he took up his inn.\n\n When other butchers did open their meat,\n Bold Robin he then begun;\n But how for to sell he knew not well,\n For a butcher he was but young.\n\n When other butchers no meat could sell,\n Robin got both gold and fee;\n For he sold more meat for one peny\n Then others could do for three.\n\n But when he sold his meat so fast,\n No butcher by him could thrive;\n For he sold more meat for one peny\n Than others could do for five.\n\n Which made the butchers of Nottingham\n To study as they did stand,\n Saying, \u201cSurely he \u2018is\u2019 some prodigal,\n That hath sold his fathers land.\u201d\n\n The butchers stepped to jolly Robin,\n Acquainted with him for to be;\n \u201cCome, brother,\u201d one said, \u201cwe be all of one trade,\n Come, will you go dine with me?\u201d\n\n \u201cAccurst of his heart,\u201d said jolly Robin,\n \u201cThat a butcher doth deny;\n I will go with you, my brethren true,\n As fast as I can hie.\u201d\n\n But when to the sheriffs house they came,\n To dinner they hied apace,\n And Robin Hood he the man must be\n Before them all to say grace.\n\n \u201cPray God bless us all,\u201d said jolly Robin,\n \u201cAnd our meat within this place;\n A cup of sack so good will nourish our blood,\n And so do I end my grace.\u201d\n\n \u201cCome fill us more wine,\u201d said jolly Robin,\n \u201cLet us be merry while we do stay;\n For wine and good cheer, be it never so dear,\n I vow I the reck\u2019ning will pay.\n\n \u201cCome, \u2018brothers,\u2019 be merry,\u201d said jolly Robin,\n \u201cLet us drink, and never give ore;\n For the shot I will pay, ere I go my way,\n If it cost me five pounds and more.\u201d\n\n \u201cThis is a mad blade,\u201d the butchers then said;\n Saies the sheriff, \u201cHe is some prodig\u00e0l,\n That some land has sold for silver and gold,\n And now he doth mean to spend all.\n\n \u201cHast thou any horn beasts,\u201d the sheriff repli\u2019d,\n \u201cGood fellow, to sell unto me?\u201d\n \u201cYes, that I have, good master sheriff,\n I have hundreds two or three;\n\n \u201cAnd a hundred aker of good free land,\n If you please it to see:\n And Ile make you as good assurance of it,\n As ever my father made me.\u201d\n\n The sheriff he saddled his good palfr\u00e8y,\n And, with three hundred pound in gold,\n Away he went with bold Robin Hood,\n His horned beasts to behold.\n\n Away then the sheriff and Robin did ride,\n To the forrest of merry Sherwood;\n Then the sheriff did say, \u201cGod bless us this day\n From a man they call Robin Hood!\u201d\n\n But when a little farther they came,\n Bold Robin he chanc\u00e8d to spy\n A hundred head of good red deer,\n Come tripping the sheriff full nigh.\n\n \u201cHow like you my horn\u2019d beasts, good master sheriff?\n They be fat and fair for to see;\u201d\n \u201cI tell thee, good fellow, I would I were gone,\n For I like not thy company.\u201d\n\n Then Robin set his horn to his mouth,\n And blew but blasts three;\n Then quickly anon there came Little John,\n And all his company.\n\n \u201cWhat is your will, master?\u201d then said Little John,\n \u201cGood master come tell unto me;\u201d\n \u201cI have brought hither the sheriff of Nottingham\n This day to dine with thee.\u201d\n\n \u201cHe is welcome to me,\u201d then said Little John,\n \u201cI hope he will honestly pay;\n I know he has gold, if it be but well told,\n Will serve us to drink a whole day.\u201d\n\n Then Robin took his mantle from his back,\n And laid it upon the ground:\n And out of the sheriffs portmantle\n He told three hundred pound.\n\n Then Robin he brought him thorow the wood,\n And set him on his dapple gray;\n \u201cO have me commanded to your wife at home;\u201d\n So Robin went laughing away.\n\n\n\n\nNOTES\n\n\nSIR PATRICK SPENS.\u2014p. 1\n\n\nMR. CHILD finds the first published version of \u201cthe grand old ballad of\nSir Patrick Spens,\u201d as Coleridge calls it, in Bishop Percy\u2019s _Reliques_.\nHere the name is \u201cSpence,\u201d and the middle rhyme\u2014\n\n \u201cHaf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,\u201d\n\nis not of early date. The \u201cCork-heeled Shoon,\u201d too, cannot be early, but\nballads are subject, in oral tradition, to such modern interpolations.\nThe verse about the ladies waiting vainly is anticipated in a popular\nsong of the fourteenth century, on a defeat of the _noblesse_ in\nFlanders\u2014\n\n \u201cTheir ladies them may abide in bower and hall well long!\u201d\n\nIf there be historical foundation for the ballad, it is probably a\nblending of the voyage of Margaret, daughter of Alexander III., to wed\nEric, King of Norway, in 1281 (some of her escort were drowned on their\nway home), with the rather mysterious death, or disappearance, of\nMargaret\u2019s daughter, \u201cThe Maid of Norway,\u201d on her voyage to marry the son\nof Edward I., in 1290. A woman, who alleged that she was the Maid of\nNorway, was later burned at the stake. The great number and variety of\nversions sufficiently indicate the antiquity of this ballad, wherein\nexact history is not to be expected.\n\n\n\nTHE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN.\u2014p. 5\n\n\nFrom _The Border Minstrelsy_, Sir Walter Scott\u2019s latest edition of 1833:\nthe copy in the edition of 1802 is less complete. The gentle and joyous\npassage of arms here recorded, took place in August 1388. We have an\nadmirable account of Otterburn fight from Froissart, who revels in a\ngallant encounter, fairly fought out hand to hand, with no intervention\nof archery or artillery, and for no wretched practical purpose. In such\na combat the Scots, never renowned for success at long bowls, and led by\na Douglas, were likely to prove victorious, even against long odds, and\nwhen taken by surprise.\n\nChoosing an advantage in the discordant days of Richard II., the Scots\nmustered a very large force near Jedburgh, merely to break lances on\nEnglish ground, and take loot. Learning that, as they advanced by the\nCarlisle route, the English intended to invade Scotland by Berwick and\nthe east coast, the Scots sent three or four hundred men-at-arms, with a\nfew thousand mounted archers and pikemen, who should harry Northumberland\nto the walls of Newcastle. These were led by James, Earl of Douglas,\nMarch, and Murray. In a fight at Newcastle, Douglas took Harry Percy\u2019s\npennon, which Hotspur vowed to recover. The retreat began, but the Scots\nwaited at Otterburn, partly to besiege the castle, partly to abide\nHotspur\u2019s challenge. He made his attack at moonlight, with overwhelming\nodds, but was hampered by a marsh, and incommoded by a flank attach of\nthe Scots. Then it came to who would pound longest, with axe and sword.\nDouglas cut his way through the English, axe in hand, and was overthrown,\nbut his men protected his body. The Sinclairs and Lindsay raised his\nbanner, with his cry; March and Dunbar came up; Hotspur was taken by\nMontgomery, and the English were routed with heavy loss. Douglas was\nburied in Melrose Abbey; very many years later the English defiled his\ngrave, but were punished at Ancram Moor. There is an English poem on the\nfight of \u201cabout 1550\u201d; it has many analogies with our Scottish version,\nand, doubtless, ours descends from a ballad almost contemporary. The\nballad was a great favourite of Scott\u2019s. In a severe illness, thinking\nof Lockhart, not yet his son-in-law, he quoted\u2014\n\n \u201cMy wound is deep, I fain would sleep,\n Take thou the vanguard of the three.\u201d\n\nMr. Child thinks the command to\n\n \u201cyield to the bracken-bush\u201d\n\nunmartial. This does not seem a strong objection, in Froissart\u2019s time.\nIt is explained in an oral fragment\u2014\n\n \u201cFor there lies aneth yon bracken-bush\n Wha aft has conquered mair than thee.\u201d\n\nMr. Child also thinks that the \u201cdreamy dream\u201d may be copied from Hume of\nGodscroft. It is at least as probable that Godscroft borrowed from the\nballad which he cites. The embroidered gauntlet of the Percy is in the\npossession of Douglas of Cavers to this day.\n\n\n\nTAM LIN, OR TAMLANE.\u2014p. 10\n\n\nBurns\u2019s version, in Johnson\u2019s _Museum_ (1792). Scott\u2019s version is made\nup of this copy, Riddell\u2019s, Herd\u2019s, and oral recitations, and contains\nfeeble literary interpolations, not, of course, by Sir Walter. _The\nComplaint of Scotland_ (1549) mentions the \u201cTale of the Young Tamlene\u201d as\nthen popular. It is needless here to enter into the subject of\nFairyland, and captures of mortals by Fairies: the Editor has said his\nsay in his edition of Kirk\u2019s _Secret Commonwealth_. The Nereids, in\nModern Greece, practise fairy cantrips, and the same beliefs exist in\nSamoa and New Caledonia. The metamorphoses are found in the _Odyssey_,\nBook iv., in the winning of Thetis, the _Nereid_, _or Fairy Bride_, by\nPeleus, in a modern Cretan fairy tale, and so on. There is a similar\nincident in _Penda Baloa_, a Senegambian ballad (_Contes Populaires de la\nS\u00e9n\u00e9gambie_, Berenger Ferand, Paris, 1885). The dipping of Tamlane has\nprecedents in _Old Deccan Days_, in a Hottentot tale by Bleek, and in\n_Les Deux Fr\u00e8res_, the Egyptian story, translated by Maspero (the Editor\nhas already given these parallels in a note to _Border Ballads_, by\nGraham R. Thomson). Mr. Child also cites Mannhardt, \u201cWald und\nFeldkulte,\u201d ii. 64\u201370. Carterhaugh, the scene of the ballad, is at the\njunction of Ettrick and Yarrow, between Bowhill and Philiphaugh.\n\n\n\nTHOMAS RYMER.\u2014p. 16\n\n\nFrom _The Border Minstrelsy_; the original was derived from a lady living\nnear Erceldoune (Earlston), and from Mrs. Brown\u2019s MSS. That Thomas of\nErceldoune had some popular fame as a rhymer and soothsayer as early as\n1320\u20131350, seems to be established. As late as the Forty Five, nay, even\nas late as the expected Napoleonic invasion, sayings attributed to Thomas\nwere repeated with some measure of belief. A real Thomas Rymer of\nErceldoune witnessed an undated deed of Peter de Haga, early in the\nthirteenth century. The de Hagas, or Haigs of Bemersyde, were the\nsubjects of the prophecy attributed to Thomas,\n\n \u201cBetide, betide, whate\u2019er betide,\n There will aye be a Haig in Bemersyde,\u201d\n\nand a Haig still owns that ancient _ch\u00e2teau_ on the Tweed, which has a\nsingular set of traditions. Learmont is usually given as the Erceldoune\nfamily name; a branch of the family owned Dairsie in Fifeshire, and were\na kind of hereditary provosts of St. Andrews. If Thomas did predict the\ndeath of Alexander III., or rather report it by dint of clairvoyance, he\nmust have lived till 1285. The date of the poem on the Fairy Queen,\nattributed to Thomas, is uncertain, the story itself is a variant of\n\u201cOgier the Dane.\u201d The scene is Huntly Bank, under Eildon Hill, and was\npart of the lands acquired, at fantastic prices, by Sir Walter Scott.\nHis passion for land was really part of his passion for collecting\nantiquities. The theory of Fairyland here (as in many other Scottish\nlegends and witch trials) is borrowed from the Pre-Christian Hades, and\nthe Fairy Queen is a late refraction from Persephone. Not to eat, in the\nrealm of the dead, is a regular precept of savage belief, all the world\nover. Mr. Robert Kirk\u2019s _Secret Commonwealth of Elves_, _Fauns_, _and\nFairies_ may be consulted, or the Editor\u2019s _Perrault_, p. xxxv. (Oxford,\n1888). Of the later legends about Thomas, Scott gives plenty, in _The\nBorder Minstrelsy_. The long ancient romantic poem on the subject is\nprobably the source of the ballad, though a local ballad may have\npreceded the long poem. Scott named the glen through which the Bogle\nBurn flows to Chiefswood, \u201cThe Rhymer\u2019s Glen.\u201d\n\n\n\nSIR HUGH.\u2014p. 19\n\n\nThe date of the Martyrdom of Hugh is attributed by Matthew Paris to 1225.\nChaucer puts a version in the mouth of his Prioress. No doubt the story\nmust have been a mere excuse for Jew-baiting. In America the Jew becomes\n\u201cThe Duke\u201d in a version picked up by Mr. Newells, from the recitation of\na street boy in New York. The daughter of a Jew is not more likely than\nthe daughter of a duke to have been concerned in the cruel and\nblasphemous imitation of the horrors attributed by Horace to the witch\nCanidia. But some such survivals of pagan sorcery did exist in the\nMiddle Ages, under the influence of \u201cSatanism.\u201d\n\n\n\nSON DAVIE.\u2014p. 22\n\n\nMotherwell\u2019s version. One of many ballads on fratricide, instigated by\nthe mother: or inquired into by her, as the case may be. \u201cEdward\u201d is\nanother example of this gloomy situation.\n\n\n\nTHE WIFE OF USHER\u2019S WELL.\u2014p. 24\n\n\nHere\n\n \u201cThe cock doth craw, the day doth daw,\u201d\n\nhaving a middle rhyme, can scarcely be of extreme antiquity. Probably,\nin the original poem, the dead return to rebuke the extreme grief of the\nMother, but the poem is perhaps really more affecting in the absence of a\ndidactic motive. Scott obtained it from an old woman in West Lothian.\nProbably the reading \u201cfashes,\u201d (troubles), \u201cin the flood\u201d is correct, not\n\u201cfishes,\u201d or \u201cfreshes.\u201d The mother desires that the sea may never cease\nto be troubled till her sons return (verse 4, line 2). The peculiar doom\nof women dead in child-bearing occurs even in Aztec mythology.\n\n\n\nTHE TWA CORBIES.\u2014p. 26\n\n\nFrom the third volume of _Border Minstrelsy_, derived by Charles\nKirkpatrick Sharpe from a traditional version. The English version,\n\u201cThree Ravens,\u201d was published in _Melismata_, by T. Ravensworth (1611).\nIn Scots, the lady \u201chas ta\u2019en another mate\u201d his hawk and hound have\ndeserted the dead knight. In the English song, the hounds watch by him,\nthe hawks keep off carrion birds, as for the lady\u2014\n\n \u201cShe buried him before the prime,\n She was dead herselfe ere evensong time.\u201d\n\nProbably the English is the earlier version.\n\n\n\nTHE BONNIE EARL OF MURRAY.\u2014p. 27\n\n\nHuntly had a commission to apprehend the Earl, who was in the disgrace of\nJames VI. Huntly, as an ally of Bothwell, asked him to surrender at\nDonibristle, in Fife; he would not yield to his private enemy, the house\nwas burned, and Murray was slain, Huntly gashing his face. \u201cYou have\nspoiled a better face than your own,\u201d said the dying Earl (1592). James\nMelville mentions contemporary ballads on the murder. Ramsay published\nthe ballad in his _Tea Table Miscellany_, and it is often sung to this\nday.\n\n\n\nCLERK SAUNDERS.\u2014p. 30\n\n\nFirst known as published in _Border Minstrelsy_ (1802). The apparition\nof the lover is borrowed from \u201cSweet Willie\u2019s Ghost.\u201d The evasions\npractised by the lady, and the austerities vowed by her have many Norse,\nFrench, and Spanish parallels in folk-poetry. Scott\u2019s version is \u201cmade\nup\u201d from several sources, but is, in any case, verse most satisfactory as\npoetry.\n\n\n\nWALY, WALY.\u2014p. 35\n\n\nFrom Ramsay\u2019s _Tea Table Miscellany_, a curiously composite gathering of\nverses. There is a verse, obviously a variant, in a sixteenth century\nsong, cited by Leyden. St. Anthon\u2019s Well is on a hill slope of Arthur\u2019s\nSeat, near Holyrood. Here Jeanie Deans trysted with her sister\u2019s\nseducer, in _The Heart of Midlothian_. The Cairn of Nichol Mushat, the\nwife-murderer, is not far off. The ruins of Anthony\u2019s Chapel are still\nextant.\n\n\n\nLOVE GREGOR.\u2014p. 37\n\n\nThere are French and Romaic variants of this ballad. \u201cLochroyal,\u201d where\nthe ballad is localized, is in Wigtownshire, but the localization varies.\nThe \u201ctokens\u201d are as old as the Return of Odysseus, in the _Odyssey_: his\ntoken is the singular construction of his bridal bed, attached by him to\na living tree-trunk. A similar legend occurs in Chinese. See Gerland\u2019s\n_Alt-Giechische M\u00e4rchen_.\n\n\n\nTHE QUEEN\u2019S MARIE\u2014MARY HAMILTON.\u2014p. 41\n\n\nA made-up copy from Scott\u2019s edition of 1833. This ballad has caused a\ngreat deal of controversy. Queen Mary had no Mary Hamilton among her\nFour Maries. No Marie was executed for child-murder. But we know, from\nKnox, that ballads were recited against the Maries, and that one of the\nMary\u2019s chamberwomen was hanged, with her lover, a pottinger, or\napothecary, for getting rid of her infant. These last facts were\ncertainly quite basis enough for a ballad, the ballad echoing, not\nhistory, but rumour, and rumour adapted to the popular taste. Thus the\nballad might have passed unchallenged, as a survival, more or less\nmodified in time, of Queen Mary\u2019s period. But in 1719 a Mary Hamilton, a\nMaid of Honour, of Scottish descent, was executed in Russia, for\ninfanticide. Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe conceived that this affair was\nthe origin of the ballad, and is followed by Mr. Child.\n\nWe reply (1) The ballad has almost the largest number of variants on\nrecord. This is a proof of antiquity. Variants so many, differing in\nall sorts of points, could not have arisen between 1719, and the age of\nBurns, who quotes the poem.\n\n(2) This is especially improbable, because, in 1719, the old vein of\nballad poetry had run dry, popular song had chosen other forms, and no\nliterary imitator could have written Mary Hamilton in 1719.\n\n(3) There is no example of a popular ballad in which a contemporary\nevent, interesting just because it is contemporary, is thrown back into a\nremote age.\n\n(4) The name, Mary Hamilton, is often _not_ given to the heroine in\nvariants of the ballad. She is of several names and ranks in the\nvariants.\n\n(5) As Mr. Child himself remarked, the \u201cpottinger\u201d of the real story of\nQueen Mary\u2019s time occurs in one variant. There was no \u201cpottinger\u201d in the\nRussian affair.\n\nAll these arguments, to which others might be added, seem fatal to the\nlate date and modern origin of the ballad, and Mr. Child\u2019s own faith in\nthe hypothesis was shaken, if not overthrown.\n\n\n\nKINMONT WILLIE.\u2014p. 45\n\n\nFrom _The Border Minstrelsy_. The account in Satchells has either been\nbased on the ballad, or the ballad is based on Satchells. After a\nmeeting, on the Border of Salkeld of Corby, and Scott of Haining, Kinmont\nWillie was seized by the English as he rode home from the tryst. Being\n\u201cwanted,\u201d he was lodged in Carlisle Castle, and this was a breach of the\nday\u2019s truce. Buccleugh, as warder, tried to obtain Willie\u2019s release by\npeaceful means. These failing, Buccleugh did what the ballad reports,\nApril 13, 1596. Harden and Goudilands were with Buccleugh, being his\nneighbours near Branxholme. Dicky of Dryhope, with others, Armstrongs,\nwas also true to the call of duty. A few verses in the ballad are\nclearly by _aut Gualterus aut diabolus_, and none the worse for that.\nSalkeld, of course, was not really slain; and, if the men were \u201cleft for\ndead,\u201d probably they were not long in that debatable condition. In the\nrising of 1745 Prince Charlie\u2019s men forded Eden as boldly as Buccleuch,\nthe Prince saving a drowning Highlander with his own hand.\n\n\n\nJAMIE TELFER.\u2014p. 52\n\n\nScott, for once, was wrong in his localities. The Dodhead of the poem is\n_not_ that near Singlee, in Ettrick, but a place of the same name, near\nSkelfhill, on the southern side of Teviot, within three miles of Stobs,\nwhere Telfer vainly seeks help from Elliot. The other Dodhead is at a\ngreat distance from Stobs, up Borthwick Water, over the tableland, past\nClearburn Loch and Buccleugh, and so down Ettrick, past Tushielaw. The\nCatslockhill is not that on Yarrow, near Ladhope, but another near\nBranxholme, whence it is no far cry to Branxholme Hall. Borthwick Water,\nGoudilands (below Branxholme), Commonside (a little farther up Teviot),\nAllanhaugh, and the other places of the Scotts, were all easily \u201cwarned.\u201d\nThere are traces of a modern hand in this excellent ballad. The\ntopography is here corrected from MS. notes in a first edition of the\n_Minstrelsy_, in the library of Mr. Charles Grieve at Branxholme\u2019 Park, a\nscion of \u201cauld Jock Grieve\u201d of the Coultart Cleugh. Names linger long in\npleasant Teviotdale.\n\n\n\nTHE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY.\u2014p. 59\n\n\nThe ballad has Norse analogues, but is here localized on the Douglas\nBurn, a tributary of Yarrow on the left bank. The St. Mary\u2019s Kirk would\nbe that now ruinous, on St. Mary\u2019s Loch, the chapel burned by the Lady of\nBranxholme when she\n\n \u201cgathered a band\n Of the best that would ride at her command,\u201d\n\nin the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_. The ancient keep of Blackhouse on\nDouglas Burn may have been the home of the heroine, if we are to\nlocalize.\n\n\n\nTHE BONNY HIND.\u2014p. 62\n\n\nHerd got this tragic ballad from a milkmaid, in 1771. Mr. Child quotes a\nverse parallel, preserved in Faroe, and in the Icelandic. There is a\nsimilar incident in the cycle of Kullervo, in the Finnish _Kalevala_.\nScott says that similar tragedies are common in Scotch popular poetry;\nsuch cases are \u201cLizzie Wan,\u201d and \u201cThe King\u2019s Dochter, Lady Jean.\u201d A\nsorrow nearly as bitter occurs in the French \u201cMilk White Dove\u201d: a brother\nkills his sister, metamorphosed into a white deer. \u201cThe Bridge of Death\u201d\n(French) seems to hint at something of the same kind; or rather the\nEditor finds that he has arbitrarily read \u201cThe Bonny Hind\u201d into \u201cLe Pont\ndes Morts,\u201d in Puymaigre\u2019s _Chants Populaires du Pays Messin_, p. 60.\n(_Ballads and Lyrics of Old France_, p. 63)\n\n\n\nYOUNG BEICHAN, OR YOUNG BICHAM.\u2014p. 65\n\n\nThis is the original of the Cockney _Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman_,\nillustrated by Cruikshank, and by Thackeray. There is a vast number of\nvariants, evidence to the antiquity of the story. The earliest known\ntrace is in the familiar legend of the Saracen lady, who sought and found\nher lover, Gilbert Becket, father of Thomas \u00e0 Becket, in London (see\npreface to _Life of Becket_, or Beket), Percy Society, 1845. The date\nmay be _circ._ 1300. The kind of story, the loving daughter of the cruel\ncaptor, is as old as Medea and Jason, and her search for her lover comes\nin such _M\u00e4rchen_ as \u201cThe Black Bull o\u2019 Norraway.\u201d No story is more\nwidely diffused (see _A Far Travelled Tale_, in the Editor\u2019s _Custom and\nMyth_). The appearance of the \u201cTrue Love,\u201d just at her lover\u2019s wedding,\nis common in the _M\u00e4rchen_ of the world, and occurs in a Romaic ballad,\nas well as in many from Northern Europe. The \u201clocal colour\u201d\u2014the Moor or\nSaracen\u2014is derived from Crusading times, perhaps. Motherwell found the\nballad recited with intervals of prose narrative, as in _Aucassin and\nNicolette_. The notes to Cruikshank\u2019s _Loving Ballad_ are, obviously, by\nThackeray.\n\n\n\nTHE BONNY HOUSE O\u2019 AIRLY.\u2014p. 73\n\n\nLord Airly\u2019s houses were destroyed by Argyll, representing the\nCovenanters, and also in pursuance of a private feud, in 1639, or 1640.\nThere are erroneous versions of this ballad, in which Lochiel appears,\nand the date is, apparently, transferred to 1745. Montrose, in his early\nCovenanting days, was not actually concerned in the burning of the Bonnie\nHouse, which he, when a Royalist, revenged on the possessions of \u201cgleyed\nArgyll.\u201d The reference to \u201cCharlie\u201d is out of keeping; no one, perhaps,\never called Charles I. by that affectionate name. Lady Ogilvie had not\nthe large family attributed to her: her son, Lord Ogilvie, escaped from\nprison in the Castle of St. Andrews, after Philiphaugh. A Lord Ogilvie\nwas out in 1745; and, later, had a regiment in the French Service. Few\nfamilies have a record so consistently loyal.\n\n\n\nROB ROY.\u2014p. 75\n\n\nThe abductors of the widowed young heiress of Edenhelly were Rob\u2019s sons,\nRobin Oig, who went through a form of marriage with the girl, and James\nMohr, a good soldier, but a double-dyed spy and scoundrel. Robin Oig was\nhanged in 1753. James Mohr, a detected traitor to Prince Charles, died\nmiserably in Paris, in 1754. Readers of Mr. Stevenson\u2019s _Catriona_ know\nJames well; information as to his villanies is extant in Additional MSS.\n(British Museum). This is probably the latest ballad in the collection.\nIt occurs in several variants, some of which, copied out by Burns, derive\nthence a certain accidental interest. In Mr. Stevenson\u2019s _Catriona_, the\nheroine of that name takes a thoroughly Highland view of the abduction.\nRobin Oig, in any case, was \u201cnane the waur o\u2019 a hanging,\u201d for he shot a\nMaclaren at the plough-tail, before the Forty-Five. The trial of these\nsons of Alpen was published shortly after Scott\u2019s _Rob Roy_.\n\n\n\nKILLIECRANKIE.\u2014p. 77\n\n\nFought on July 27, 1689. _Not_ on the haugh near the modern road by the\nrailway, but higher up the hill, in the grounds of Urrard House. Two\nshelter trenches, whence Dundee\u2019s men charged, are still visible, high on\nthe hillside above Urrand. There is said, by Mr. Child, to have been a\ncontemporary broadside of the ballad, which is an example of the\nevolution of popular ballads from the old traditional model. There is\nanother song, by, or attributed to, Burns, and of remarkable spirit and\nvigour.\n\n\n\nANNAN WATER.\u2014p. 79\n\n\nFrom _The Border Minstrelsy_ Scott says that these are the original words\nof the tune of \u201cAllan Water,\u201d and that he has added two verses from a\nvariant with a fortunate conclusion. \u201cAllan Water\u201d is a common river\nname; the stream so called joins Teviot above Branxholme. Annan is the\nlarge stream that flows into the Solway Frith. The Gate-slack, in\nAnnandale, fixes the locality.\n\n\n\nTHE ELPHIN NOURRICE.\u2014p. 81\n\n\nThis curious poem is taken from the reprint of Charles Kirkpatrick\nSharpe\u2019s tiny _Ballad Book_, itself now almost _introuvable_. It does\nnot, to the Editor\u2019s knowledge, occur elsewhere, but is probably\nauthentic. The view of the Faery Queen is more pleasing and sympathetic\nthan usual. Why mortal women were desired as nurses (except to attend on\nstolen mortal children, kept to \u201cpay the Kane to hell\u201d) is not obvious.\nIrish beliefs are precisely similar; in England they are of frequent\noccurrence.\n\n\n\nJOHNNIE ARMSTRANG.\u2014p. 87\n\n\nArmstrang of Gilnockie was a brother of the laird of Mangertoun. He had\na kind of Robin Hood reputation on the Scottish Border, as one who only\nrobbed the English. Pitscottie\u2019s account of his slaying by James V.\n(1529) reads as if the ballad were his authority, and an air for the\nsubject is mentioned in the _Complaint of Scotland_. In Sir Herbert\nMaxwell\u2019s _History of Dumfries and Galloway_ is an excellent account of\nthe historical facts of the case.\n\n\n\nEDOM O\u2019 GORDON.\u2014p. 92\n\n\nFounded on an event in the wars between Kingsmen and Queensmen, in the\nminority of James VI., while Queen Mary was imprisoned in England.\n\u201cEdom\u201d was Adam Gordon of Auchindown, brother of Huntley, and a Queen\u2019s\nman. He, by his retainer, Car, or Ker, burned Towie House, a seat of the\nForbes\u2019s. Ker recurs in the long and more or less literary ballad of\n_The Battle of Balrinnes_. In variants the localities are much altered,\nand, in one version, the scene is transferred to Ayrshire, and Loudoun\nCastle. All the ballads of fire-raising, a very usual practice, have\npoints in common, and transference was easy.\n\n\n\nLADY ANNE BOTHWELL\u2019S LAMENT.\u2014p. 98\n\n\nTradition has confused the heroine of this piece with the wife of\nBothwelhaugh, who slew the Regent Murray. That his motive was not mere\npolitical assassination, but to avenge the ill-treatment and death of his\nwife, seems to be disproved by Maidment. The affair, however, is still\nobscure. This deserted Lady Anne of the ballad was, in fact, not the\nwife of Bothwelhaugh, but the daughter of the Bishop of Orkney; her lover\nis said to have been her cousin, Alexander Erskine, son of the Earl of\nMar. Part of the poem (Mr. Child points out) occurs in Broome\u2019s play,\n_The Northern Lass_ (1632). Though a popular favourite, the piece is\nclearly of literary origin, and has been severely \u201cedited\u201d by a literary\nhand. This version is Allan Ramsay\u2019s.\n\n\n\nJOCK O\u2019 THE SIDE.\u2014p. 101\n\n\nA Liddesdale chant. Jock flourished about 1550\u20131570, and is commemorated\nas a receiver by Sir Richard Maitland in a poem often quoted. The\nanalogies of this ballad with that of \u201cKinmont Willie\u201d are very close.\nThe reference to a punch-bowl sounds modern, and the tale is much less\nplausible than that of \u201cKinmont Willie,\u201d which, however, bears a few\nobvious marks of Sir Walter\u2019s own hand. A sceptical editor must choose\nbetween two theories: either Scott of Satchells founded his account of\nthe affair of \u201cKinmont Willie\u201d on a pre-existing ballad of that name, or\nthe ballad printed by Scott is based on the prose narrative of Scott of\nSatchells. The former hypothesis, everything considered, is the more\nprobable.\n\n\n\nLORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET.\u2014p. 107\n\n\nPublished in Percy\u2019s _Reliques_, from a Scotch manuscript, \u201cwith some\ncorrections.\u201d The situation, with various differences in detail and\nconclusion, is popular in Norse and Romaic ballads, and also in many\n_M\u00e4rchen_ of the type of _The Black Bull of Norraway_.\n\n\n\nFAIR ANNIE.\u2014p. 111\n\n\nFrom _The Border Minstrelsy_. There are Danish, Swedish, Dutch, and\nGerman versions, and the theme enters artistic poetry as early as Marie\nde France (_Le Lai del Freisne_). In Scotch the Earl of Wemyss is a\nrecent importation: the earldom dates from 1633. Of course this process\nof attaching a legend or _M\u00e4rchen_ to a well-known name, or place, is one\nof the most common in mythological evolution, and by itself invalidates\nthe theory which would explain myths by a philological analysis of the\nproper names in the tale. These may not be, and probably are not, the\noriginal names.\n\n\n\nTHE DOWNIE DENS OF YARROW.\u2014p. 116\n\n\nFrom _The Border Minstrelsy_. Scott thought that the hero was Walter\nScott, third son of Thirlestane, slain by Scott of Tushielaw. The\n\u201cmonument\u201d (a standing stone near Yarrow) is really of a very early,\nrather Post-Roman date, and refers to no feud of Thirlestane, Oakwood,\nKirkhope, or Tushielaw. The stone is not far from Yarrow Krik, near a\nplace called Warrior\u2019s Rest. Hamilton of Bangour\u2019s version is beautiful\nand well known. Quite recently a very early interment of a corpse, in\nthe curved position, was discovered not far from the standing stone with\nthe inscription. Ballad, stone, and interment may all be distinct and\nseparate.\n\n\n\nSIR ROLAND.\u2014p. 119\n\n\nFrom Motherwell\u2019s _Minstrelsy_. The authenticity of the ballad is\ndubious, but, if a forgery, it is a very skilled one for the early\nnineteenth century. Poets like Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Rossetti, and Mrs.\nMarriot Watson have imitated the genuine popular ballad, but never so\nclosely as the author of \u201cSir Roland.\u201d\n\n\n\nROSE THE RED AND WHITE LILY.\u2014p. 123\n\n\nFrom the Jamieson-Brown MS., originally written out by Mrs. Brown in\n1783: Sir Waiter made changes in _The Border Minstrelsy_. The ballad is\nclearly a composite affair. Robert Chambers regarded Mrs. Brown as the\nMrs. Harris of ballad lore, but Mr. Norval Clyne\u2019s reply was absolutely\ncrushing and satisfactory.\n\n\n\nTHE BATTLE OF HARLAW.\u2014p. 131\n\n\nFought on July 24, 1411. This fight broke the Highland force in\nScotland. The first version is, of course, literary, perhaps a\ncomposition of 1550, or even earlier. The second version is traditional,\nand was procured by Aytoun from Lady John Scott, herself the author of\nsome beautiful songs. But the best ballad on the Red Harlaw is that\nplaced by Scott in the mouth of Elspeth, in _The Antiquary_. This,\nindeed, is beyond all rivalry the most splendid modern imitation of the\nancient popular Muse.\n\n\n\nDICKIE MACPHALION.\u2014p. 142\n\n\nA great favourite of Scott\u2019s, who heard it sung at Miss Edgeworth\u2019s,\nduring his tour in Ireland (1825). One verse recurs in a Jacobite chant,\nprobably of 1745\u20131760, but the bibliography of Jacobite songs is\nespecially obscure.\n\n\n\nA LYKE-WAKE DIRGE.\u2014p. 143\n\n\nFrom the _Border Minstrelsy_. The ideas are mainly pre-Christian; the\nBrig o\u2019 Dread occurs in Islamite and Iroquois belief, and in almost all\nmythologies the souls have to cross a River. Music for this dirge is\ngiven in Mr. Harold Boulton\u2019s and Miss Macleod\u2019s _Songs of the North_.\n\n\n\nTHE LAIRD OF WARISTOUN.\u2014p. 145\n\n\nThis version was taken down by Sir Walter Scott from his mother\u2019s\nrecitation, for Jamieson\u2019s book of ballads. Jamieson later quarrelled\nbitterly with Sir Walter, as letters at Abbotsford prove. A variant is\ngiven by Kinloch, and a longer, less poetical, but more historically\naccurate version is given by Buchan. The House of Waristoun is, or\nlately was, a melancholy place hanging above a narrow lake, in the\nnorthern suburbs of Edinburgh, near the Water of Leith. Kincaid was the\nname of the Laird; according to Chambers, the more famous lairds of\nCovenanting times were Johnstons. Kincaid is said to have treated his\nwife cruelly, wherefore she, or her nurse, engaged one Robert Weir, an\nold servant of her father (Livingstone of Dunipace), to strangle the\nunhappy man in his own bedroom (July 2, 1600). The lady was beheaded,\nthe nurse was burned, and, later, Weir was also executed. The line\n\n \u201cI wish that ye may sink for sin\u201d\n\noccurs in an earlier ballad on Edinburgh Castle\u2014\n\n \u201cAnd that all for the black dinner\n Earl Douglas got therein.\u201d\n\n\n\nMAY COLVEN.\u2014p. 147\n\n\nFrom Herd\u2019s MS. Versions occur in Polish, German, Magyar, Portuguese,\nScandinavian, and in French. The ballad is here localised on the Carrick\ncoast, near Girvan. The lady is called a Kennedy of Culzean. Prof.\nBugge regards this widely diffused ballad as based on the Apocryphal\nlegend of Judith and Holofernes. If so, the legend is _diablement chang\u00e9\nen route_. More probably the origin is a _M\u00e4rchen_ of a kind of\n_Rakshasa_ fatal to women. Mr. Child has collected a vast mass of\nerudition on the subject, and by no means acquiesces in Prof. Bugge\u2019s\ningenious hypothesis.\n\n\n\nJOHNIE FAA.\u2014p. 150\n\n\nFrom Pinkerton\u2019s Scottish Ballads. The event narrated is a legend of the\nhouse of Cassilis (Kennedy), but is wholly unhistorical. \u201cSir John Faa,\u201d\nin the fable, is aided by Gypsies, but, apparently, is not one of the\nEarls of Egypt, on whom Mr. Crockett\u2019s novel, _The Raiders_, may be\nconsulted. The ballad was first printed, as far as is known, in Ramsay\u2019s\n_Tea Table Miscellany_.\n\n\n\nHOBBIE NOBLE.\u2014p. 152\n\n\nThe hero recurs in _Jock o\u2019 the Side_, and Jock o\u2019 the Mains is an\nhistorical character, that is, finds mention in authentic records, as\nScott points out. The Armstrongs were deported in great numbers, as \u201can\nill colony,\u201d to Ulster, by James I. Sir Herbert Maxwell\u2019s _History of\nDumfries and Galloway_ may be consulted for these and similar reivers.\n\n\n\nTHE TWA SISTERS.\u2014p. 157\n\n\nA version of \u201cBinnorie.\u201d The ballad here ends abruptly; doubtless the\nfiddler made fiddle-strings of the lady\u2019s hair, and a fiddle of her\nbreast-bone, while the instrument probably revealed the cruelty of the\nsister. Other extant versions are composite or interpolated, so this\nfragment (Sharpe\u2019s) has been preferred in this place.\n\n\n\nMARY AMBREE.\u2014p. 160\n\n\nTaken by Percy from a piece in the Pepys Collection. The girl warrior is\na favourite figure in popular romance. Often she slays a treacherous\nlover, as in _Billy Taylor_. Nothing is known of Mary Ambree as an\nhistorical personage; she may be as legendary as fair maiden Lilias, of\nLiliarid\u2019s Edge, who \u201cfought upon her stumps.\u201d In that case the local\nname is demonstrably earlier than the mythical Lilias, who fought with\nsuch tenacity.\n\n\n\nALISON GROSS.\u2014p. 165\n\n\nJamieson gave this ballad from a manuscript, altering the spelling in\nconformity with Scots orthography. Mr. Child prints the manuscript; here\nJamieson\u2019s more familiar spelling is retained. The idea of the romance\noccurs in a Romaic _M\u00e4rchen_, but, in place of the Queen of Faery, a more\nbeautiful girl than the sorceress (Nereid in Romaic), restores the youth\nto his true shape. Mr. Child regarded the tale as \u201cone of the numerous\nwild growths\u201d from _Beauty and the Beast_. It would be more correct to\nsay that _Beauty and the Beast_ is a late, courtly, French adaptation and\namplification of the original popular \u201cwild growth\u201d which first appears\n(in literary form) as _Cupid and Psyche_, in Apuleius. Except for the\nmetamorphosis, however, there is little analogy in this case. The\nfriendly act of the Fairy Queen is without parallel in British Folklore,\nbut Mr. Child points out that the Nereid Queen, in Greece, is still as\nkind as Thetis of old, not a sepulchral siren, the shadow of the pagan\n\u201cFairy Queen Proserpina,\u201d as Campion calls her.\n\n\n\nTHE HEIR OF LYNNE.\u2014p. 167\n\n\nFrom Percy\u2019s Folio Manuscript. There is a cognate Greek epigram\u2014\n\n \u03a7\u03c1\u03c5\u03c3\u1f78\u03bd \u1f00\u03bd\u1f74\u03c1 \u03b5\u1f57\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd \u1f14\u03bb\u03b9\u03c0\u03b5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03cc\u03c7\u03bf\u03bd \u03b1\u1f50\u03c4\u1f70\u03c1 \u1f41 \u03c7\u03c1\u03c5\u03c3\u03cc\u03bd\n \u1f4d\u03bd \u03bb\u03af\u03c0\u03b5\u03bd, \u03bf\u1f50\u03c7 \u03b5\u1f51\u03c1\u03ce\u03bd, \u1f25\u03c6\u03b5\u03bd \u03c4\u03bf\u03bd \u03b5\u1f57\u03c1\u03b5 \u03b2\u03c1\u03cc\u03c7\u03bf\u03bd.\n\n\n\nGORDON OF BRACKLEY.\u2014p. 172\n\n\nThis, though probably not the most authentic, is decidedly the most\npleasing version; it is from Mackay\u2019s collection, perhaps from his pen.\n\n\n\nEDWARD.\u2014p. 175\n\n\nPercy got this piece from Lord Hailes, with pseudo-antiquated spelling.\nMr. Swinburne has published a parallel ballad \u201cFrom the Finnish.\u201d There\nare a number of parallel ballads on Cruel Brothers, and Cruel Sisters,\nsuch as _Son Davie_, which may be compared. Fratricides and unconscious\nincests were motives dear to popular poetry.\n\n\n\nYOUNG BENJIE.\u2014p. 177\n\n\nFrom the _Border Minstrelsy_. That corpses _might_ begin to \u201cthraw,\u201d if\ncarelessly watched, was a prevalent superstition. Scott gives an\nexample: the following may be added, as less well known. The watchers\nhad left the corpse alone, and were dining in the adjoining room, when a\nterrible noise was heard in the chamber of death. None dared enter; the\nminister was sent for, and passed into the room. He emerged, asked for a\npair of tongs, and returned, bearing in the tongs _a bloody glove_, and\nthe noise ceased. He always declined to say what he had witnessed.\nMinisters were exorcists in the last century, and the father of James\nThomson, the poet, died suddenly in an interview with a guest, in a\nhaunted house. The house was pulled down, as being uninhabitable.\n\n\n\nAULD MAITLAND.\u2014p. 180\n\n\nFrom _The Border Minstrelsy_. This ballad is inserted, not for its\nmerit, still less for its authenticity, but for the problem of its\npuzzling history. Scott certainly got it from the mother of the Ettrick\nShepherd, in 1801. The Shepherd\u2019s father had been a grown-up man in\n1745, and his mother was also of a great age, and unlikely to be able to\nlearn a new-forged ballad by heart. The Shepherd himself (then a most\nunsophisticated person) said, in a letter of June 30, 1801, that he was\n\u201csurprized to hear this song is suspected by some to be a modern forgery;\nthe contrary will be best proved by most of the old people, here about,\nhaving a great part of it by heart.\u201d The two last lines of verse seven\nwere, confessedly, added by Hogg, to fill a _lacuna_. They are\nespecially modern in style. Now thus to fill up sham _lacun\u00e6_ in sham\nballads of his own, with lines manifestly modern, was a favourite trick\nof Surtees of Mainsforth. He used the device in \u201cBarthram\u2019s Dirge,\u201d\nwhich entirely took in Sir Walter, and was guilty of many other\n_supercheries_, especially of the \u201cFray of Suport Mill.\u201d Could the\nunlettered Shepherd, fond of hoaxes as he was, have invented this\nstratagem, sixteen years before he joined the _Blackwood_ set? And is it\nconceivable that his old mother, entering into the joke, would commit her\nson\u2019s fraudulent verses to memory, and recite them to Sir Walter as\ngenuine tradition? She said to Scott, that the ballad \u201cnever was printed\ni\u2019 the world, for my brothers and me learned it and many mae frae auld\nAndrew Moore, and he learned it frae auld Baby Mettlin\u201d (Maitland?) \u201cwha\nwas housekeeper to the first laird o\u2019 Tushilaw.\u201d (On Ettrick, near\nThirlestane. She doubtless meant the first of the Andersons of\nTushielaw, who succeeded the old lairds, the Scotts.) \u201cShe was said to\nhae been another or a guid ane, and there are many queer stories about\nhersel\u2019, but O, she had been a grand singer o\u2019 auld songs an\u2019 ballads.\u201d\n(Hogg\u2019s _Domestic Manners of Sir Walter Scott_, p. 61, 1834.)\n\n\u201cMaitland upon auld beird gray\u201d is mentioned by Gawain Douglas, in his\n_Palice of Honour_, which the Shepherd can hardly have read, and Scott\nidentified this Maitland with the ancestor of Lethington; his date was\n1250\u20131296. On the whole, even the astute Shepherd, in his early days of\nauthorship, could hardly have laid a plot so insidious, and the question\nof the authenticity and origin of the ballad (obvious interpolations\napart) remains a mystery. Who could have forged it? It is, as an\nexercise in imitation, far beyond _Hardyknute_, and at least on a level\nwith _Sir Roland_. The possibility of such forgeries is now very slight\nindeed, but vitiates early collections.\n\nIf we suspect Leyden, who alone had the necessary knowledge of\nantiquities, we are still met by the improbability of old Mrs. Hogg being\nengaged in the hoax. Moreover, Leyden was probably too keen an antiquary\nto take part in one of the deceptions which Ritson wished to punish so\nseverely. Mr. Child expresses his strong and natural suspicions of the\nauthenticity of the ballad, and Hogg is, certainly, a dubious source. He\ntook in Jeffrey with the song of \u201cDonald Macgillavray,\u201d and instantly\nboasted of his triumph. He could not have kept his secret, after the\ndeath of Scott. These considerations must not be neglected, however\nsuspicious \u201cAuld, Maitland\u201d may appear.\n\n\n\nTHE BROOMFIELD HILL.\u2014p. 189\n\n\nFrom Buchan\u2019s _Ballads of the North of Scotland_. There are Elizabethan\nreferences to the poem, and a twelfth century romance turns on the main\nidea of sleep magically induced. The lover therein is more fortunate\nthan the hero of the ballad, and, finally, overcomes the spell. The idea\nrecurs in the Norse poetry.\n\n\n\nWILLIE\u2019S LADYE.\u2014p. 193\n\n\nScott took this ballad from Mrs. Brown\u2019s celebrated Manuscript. The kind\nof spell indicated was practised by Hera upon Alcmena, before the birth\nof Heracles. Analogous is the spell by binding witch-knots, practised by\nSimaetha on her lover, in the second Idyll of Theocritus. Montaigne has\nsome curious remarks on these enchantments, explaining their power by\nwhat is now called \u201csuggestion.\u201d There is a Danish parallel to \u201cWillie\u2019s\nLadye,\u201d translated by Jamieson.\n\n\n\nROBIN HOOD BALLADS.\u2014p. 196\n\n\nThere is plentiful \u201clearning\u201d about Robin Hood, but no real knowledge.\nHe is first mentioned in literature, as the subject of \u201crhymes,\u201d in\n_Piers Plowman_ (_circ._ 1377). As a topic of ballads he must be much\nolder than that date. In 1439 his name was a synonym for a bandit.\nWyntoun, the Scots chronicler, dates the outlaw in the time of Edward I.\nMajor, the Scots philosopher and master of John Knox, makes a guess\n(taken up by Scott in _Ivanhoe_) as the period of Richard I. Kuhn seeks\nto show that Hood is a survival of Woden, or of his _Wooden_, \u201cwooden\nhorse\u201d or hobby horse. The Robin Hood play was parallel with the May\ngames, which, as Mr. Frazer shows in his _Golden Bough_, were really\nsurvivals of a world-wide religious practice. But Robin Hood need not be\nconfused with the legendary May King. Mr. Child judiciously rejects\nthese mythological conjectures, based, as they are, on far-fetched\netymologies and analogies. Robin is an idealized bandit, reiver, or\nKlepht, as in modern Romaic ballads, and his adventures are precisely\nsuch as popular fancy everywhere attaches to such popular heroes. An\nhistorical Robin there may have been, but _premit nox alta_.\n\n\n\nROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK.\u2014p. 196\n\n\nThis copy follows in Mr. Child\u2019s early edition, \u201cfrom the second edition\nof Ritson\u2019s _Robin Hood_, as collated by Sir Frederic Madden.\u201d It is\nconjectured to be \u201cpossibly as old as the reign of Edward II.\u201d That the\nmurder of a monk should be pardoned in the facile way described is\nmanifestly improbable. Even in the lawless Galloway of 1508, McGhie of\nPhumpton was fined six merks for \u201cthrowing William Schankis, monk, from\nhis horse.\u201d (History of Dumfries and Galloway, by Sir Herbert Maxwell,\np. 155.)\n\n\n\nROBIN HOOD AND THE POTTER.\u2014p. 209\n\n\nPublished by Ritson, from a Cambridge MS., probably of the reign of Henry\nVII.\n\n\n\nROBIN HOOD AND THE BUTCHER.\u2014p. 221\n\n\nPublished by Ritson, from a Black Letter copy in the collection of\nAnthony Wood, the Oxford antiquary.\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n\n{0a} See Pitcairn, Case of Alison Pearson, 1586.\n\n{0b} Translated in _Ballads and Lyrics of Old France_.\u2014A. L.\n\n{87} \u201cKinnen,\u201d rabbits.\n\n{88a} \u201cNicher,\u201d neigh.\n\n{88b} \u201cGilt,\u201d gold.\n\n{88c} \u201cDow,\u201d are able to.\n\n{88d} \u201cGanging,\u201d going.\n\n{90a} \u201cTargats\u201d, tassels.\n\n{90b} \u201cBlink sae brawly,\u201d glance so bravely.\n\n{90c} \u201cFechting,\u201d fighting.\n\n{91} \u201cKirsty,\u201d Christopher.\n\n{92} \u201cHald,\u201d hold.\n\n{94} \u201cReek,\u201d smoke.\n\n{95} \u201cFreits,\u201d omens.\n\n{96a} \u201cWighty,\u201d valiant.\n\n{96b} \u201cWroken,\u201d revenged.\n\n{97} \u201cMudie,\u201d bold.","title":"A Collection of Ballads","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":48673}