{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_68204/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_68204","id":"gutenberg_68204","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68204","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Danish poetry -- Translations into English","English poetry"],"text":"BALLADS\n                            FROM THE DANISH\n\n                                  AND\n\n                            ORIGINAL VERSES\n\n\n\n\n                                BALLADS\n                            FROM THE DANISH\n\n                                  AND\n\n                            ORIGINAL VERSES\n\n                                  BY\n\n                          E. M. SMITH-DAMPIER\n\n                       LONDON :: ANDREW MELROSE\n                     3 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN\n                                 1910\n\n\n                              PRINTED BY\n                    HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,\n                         LONDON AND AYLESBURY.\n\n\n                                TO THE\n                         MEMORY OF MY PARENTS\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nBALLADS FROM THE DANISH\n\n                                                                    PAGE\n\nKING OLAF AND THE TROLLS                                               3\n\nSIR KARL\u2019S LYKEWAKE                                                    7\n\nTHE AVENGING SWORD                                                    10\n\nTHE AVENGING DAUGHTERS                                                14\n\nYOUNG DANNEVED AND BOY TRUST                                          17\n\nTHE KNAVISH MERMAN                                                    21\n\nTHE WOOD-RAVEN                                                        24\n\nAN OWER-TRUE TALE                                                     28\n\nTHE WOOING OF RANIL JONSON                                            31\n\nLOVEL AND JOHN                                                        34\n\nRIME OF THE DEAD LOVER                                                38\n\n\nORIGINAL VERSES\n\nTHE KING\u2019S HUNTING                                                    45\n\nBALLAD OF SIR HERLUIN                                                 54\n\nBOTHWELL\u2019S SOOTHSAYING                                                58\n\nTHE RIDING OF THE SHEE (A BALLAD OF PRINCE CHARLIE)                   65\n\nBALLAD OF LONDON TOWN (A SONG OF THE \u2019FORTY-FIVE)                     68\n\nBALLAD OF THE TRAITOR\u2019S HEAD (1746)                                   70\n\n\n\n\nBALLADS FROM THE DANISH\n\nNOTE\n\n_In the translations the metre of\nthe original has in all cases been\nscrupulously followed._\n\n\n\n\nKING OLAF AND THE TROLLS\n\n\n    He set his sail for Norroway,\n      Saint Olaf our good king;\n    For Hornelummer he shaped his course\n      To see what luck would bring.\n(Red as the ruddy gold, the sun sets over Trondhjem.)\n\n    Up and spake the steersman bold,\n      Stood by the lading-gear:\n    \u201cAt Hornelummer is no good haven,\n      So grim a troll dwells there:\n\n    \u201cEyes he hath like a burning brand;\n      With his mouth he well can roar;\n    His nails stand out, like the horns of a buck,\n      A good ell\u2019s length and more;\n\n    \u201cA beard he hath like a horse\u2019s mane,\n      Hangs downward to his knee;\n    A long and loathly tail he hath;\n      His claws they are ill to see.\u201d\n\n    Up and spake Saint Olaf the king,\n      As the ship swung to and fro:\n    \u201cCast off the ropes in the name of God,\n      And let the vessel go!\u201d\n\n    So soft she sank, so light she rose,\n      O\u2019er the billows she went a-striding;\n    And fast she made for Hornelummer,\n      Where the ugly troll was biding.\n\n    Out he stalked from his hold i\u2019 the hill,\n      By the rocky rifts a-going,\n    And there he saw Saint Olaf the king\n      In his vessel swiftly rowing.\n\n    \u201cNow who comes here, so overbold,\n      My magic to defy it?\n    Harken, thou with the ruddy beard!\n      Full sore thou shalt abye it!\n\n    \u201cNow nor never by this my coast\n      Dares any ship to linger!\n    I could drag thee into the rifts o\u2019 the rocks\n      With the touch of my smallest finger!\u201d\n\n    \u201cHear now, Ara, thou ancient imp,\n      Nor anger thyself at all!\n    Seize thou the ship as it liketh thee,\n      And see what will befall.\u201d\n\n    He took the ship by stem and stern,\n      To work her dule and dree,\n    When lo! he sank down into the stone,\n      That held him by the knee.\n\n    \u201cHere stand I, sunken in the stone,\n      To go no more a-roving!\n    At wrestling or at hand-play hard\n      Thy strength I\u2019d fain be proving.\u201d\n\n    \u201cNow tarry thou there, thou wilful wight,\n      All under my powerful charm--\n    Tarry thou there till Doomsday dread,\n      And work no Christian harm.\u201d\n\n    Out came running his evil mate,\n      And stretched her neck so grim;\n    Saint Olaf spake one little word,\n      Bade her stand still by him.\n\n    Up and spake the little trolls\n      Who sat i\u2019 the hill down under--\n    They asked where the mother-troll might be,\n      With mickle woe and wonder.\n\n    \u201cPerchance this is the Red-beard\u2019s work\n      Who hath harried our race so long!\n    But come we forth with our brands of iron,\n      To work him wrong for wrong.\u201d\n\n    Up and spake our goodly king--\n      He held it a game so merry:\n    \u201cStone to stone, and rock to rock,\n      Together ye all shall tarry!\u201d\n\n    Out they sailed from Hornelummer,\n      Well-pleased with the fair adventure;\n    The hill he blocked with a mighty stone,\n      That none therein might enter.\n\n    Thanks, thanks to Olaf our gallant king!\n      He wrought a goodly charm!\n    Now men may sail by Hornelummer,\n      And take no hurt nor harm.\n\nRed as the ruddy gold, the sun sets over Trondhjem.\n\n\n\n\nSIR KARL\u2019S LYKEWAKE\n\n\nIt was young Sir Karel,\n  His mother\u2019s rede did pray\nIf he should to the convent ride,\n  And bear his love away.\n(The roses and the lilies all a-blowing.)\n\n\u201cLo, on a bier thou\u2019lt lay thee down,\n  A corse so white and wan--\nAnd never a one shall ask of thee\n  If thou art a living man.\u201d\n\nLate, so late at even,\n  Sore sickness on him fell;\nAll in the early morning\n  They tolled for him the bell.\n\nThey took him, young Sir Karel,\n  And streeked him for a corpse;\nAnd all to bear the tidings round,\n  His page has taken horse.\n\nUpon his bier they bore him\n  To the convent door so wide--\nThe Prioress came to meet them\n  With mickle pomp and pride.\n\nForth then went his little page,\n  Was clad in the scarlet red--\nHe bade the maidens come to watch--\n  \u201cFor young Sir Karl is dead.\u201d\n\nIt was little Kirsten\n  Who asked her mother dear:\n\u201cMother, may I to the watching wend\n  Over the young knight\u2019s bier?\u201d\n\n\u201cPut thou on thy scarlet cloak,\n  And deck thy head with gold;\nBut be thou ware of young Sir Karl,\n  His wiles are manifold!\u201d\n\nShe went in where the black bier stood\n  Betwixt the tapers tall;\nShe could not see their burning flames\n  So fast her tears did fall.\n\nRight soothly for his soul she prayed,\n  All sitting at his head;\n\u201cAlas! thou wast my liefest love\n  In the days ere thou wast dead!\u201d\n\nShe laid her face against his feet,\n  All on the linen white--\n\u201cOh, in the days ere thou wast dead\n  Thou wast my heart\u2019s delight!\u201d\n\nRight softly then to her he spake:\n  \u201cNay, cease thy bitter crying!\nFor lo! \u2019tis all for love of thee\n  That on this bier I\u2019m lying.\n\n\u201cMy steed stands in the cloister-garth\n  A-tarrying all for thee,\nIf thou now, little Kirsten,\n  Wilt fare afar with me.\u201d\n\nIt was young Sir Karel\n  Rose up in his shroud so white--\nAnd as they went from the convent-door\n  She bade them a gay good-night.\n\nThe nuns they all sat silent,\n  Each reading on her book;\nThey thought it was God\u2019s good angel\n  The beauteous maid that took.\n\nThe nuns they all sat silent--\n  Each to herself said she:\n\u201cGod grant that His good angel\n  May speedily come for me!\u201d\n\nThe roses and the lilies all a-blowing.\n\n\n\n\nTHE AVENGING SWORD\n\n\nSir Peter he rode to the castle stout,\nThe King o\u2019 the Danes he stood without.\n(Forward, hurrah! ride forward.)\n\n\u201cWelcome hither, my comrade good!\nHast thou avenged thy father\u2019s blood?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I have been so southerly\nUntil the sun sank down to me.\n\n\u201cAnd I have been so westerly\nUntil the sun set close to me.\n\n\u201cAnd I have been so northerly\nUntil the sun was frore to see.\n\n\u201cAnd I have been so easterly\nUntil the day was fair to see.\n\n\u201cBut never could I find the wight\nMy father\u2019s death could rede me right.\u201d\n\n\u201cSay, what gift wilt give the wight\nThy father\u2019s death can rede thee right?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf silver he shall have his fill,\nAnd of good red gold whate\u2019er he will.\u201d\n\nHe smiled, the king, his words to heed--\n\u201cHere stand I, that did the deed!\n\n\u201cBy God in heaven, I tell thee true!\nNone but I thy father slew.\u201d\n\nSir Peter smote himself on the breast--\n\u201cHeart, be still, nor break thy rest!\n\n\u201cHeart, be still, bide patiently!\nSure and swift shall my vengeance be!\u201d\n\nAlone Sir Peter stayed\nTo speak with his good blade.\n\n\u201cHarken, sword so good!\nWilt steep thyself in blood?\n\n\u201cGood brown brand, wilt fight for me?\nNo brother have I in the world but thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cSay, how can I fight for thee?\nMy good hilt lies in pieces three.\u201d\n\nStraight to the smith he wended\nTo have the fault amended.\n\nHe gave him iron, he gave him steel\nOf proof and price, the hurt to heal.\n\n\u201cGood brown brand, wilt fight for me?\nNo brother have I in the world but thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cDeal thou thy strokes so lustily\nAs I\u2019ll be sharp and swift for thee.\n\n\u201cBe thou in thy blows so bold\nAs strongly to my hilt I\u2019ll hold.\u201d\n\nSir Peter went to the hall\nWhere the knights were drinking all.\n\nTo prove his sword he was so fain,\nEight of the champions there lay slain.\n\nHe struck so strong, he hewed so hard,\nNeither wife nor maid he spared.\n\nBehind the arras there he thrust--\nThe king and his sons they bit the dust.\n\nUp spake the babe, in cradle lay:\n\u201cA red revenge dost thou wreak to-day!\n\n\u201cA red revenge for that sire o\u2019 thine!--\nGod give me a day for avenging mine!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd have I avenged him, sire o\u2019 mine?\nThou shalt have no day for avenging thine.\u201d\n\nHe seized the babe amain,\nAnd hewed it straight in twain.\n\n\u201cCease, good sword, thy thirst to slake!\nBide thou still, for God his sake!\u201d\n\nWearily whispered the sword and still--\n\u201cFain of thy blood I\u2019d have my fill!\n\n\u201cHadst thou not named my name, I vow\nI would have slain thee, here and now!\u201d\n\nForward, hurrah! ride forward.\n\n\n\n\nTHE AVENGING DAUGHTERS\n\n\nElder to younger said\n(For him who first loved me),\n\u201cSister, wilt thou not wed?\u201d\n(She dwells beneath the greenwood tree.)\n\n\u201cNone will I wed while I draw breath\nTill I have avenged our father\u2019s death.\u201d\n\n\u201cThou speak\u2019st an idle word,\nWe have neither mail nor sword.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere are rich franklins dwelling hard by--\nMail will they lend us, and swords to try.\u201d\n\nEach maiden bound a sword by her side,\nFeatly fared they forth to ride.\n\nWhen they rode to Rosy-Bower\nThey met Sir Erland the self-same hour.\n\n\u201cBridegrooms are ye both, ye two,\nOr else ye are riding forth to woo.\u201d\n\n\u201cBridegrooms are we not, we two,\nBut we are riding forth to woo.\u201d\n\n\u201cI rede ye ride where dwell in a bower\nTwo fatherless maidens, with gold for dower.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf they have store of pelf\nWhy seek\u2019st them not thyself?\u201d\n\n\u201cI would flee them rather,\nFor I have slain their father,\n\n\u201cAnd I have slain their brother,\nAnd I have beguiled their mother.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd hast thou slain father and brother,\nThou liest concerning our mother.\u201d\n\nSo child-like out the swords they drew--\nSo man-like did they hack and hew.\n\nThey hewed Sir Erland all so small\nAs the linden leaves that flutter and fall,\n\nSore did the maidens weep for woe\nWhen to shrive them they must go.\n\nAll they got for the deed of dread\nWas Fridays three on water and bread!\n\nFor him who first loved me:\nShe dwells beneath the greenwood tree.\n\n\n\n\nYOUNG DANNEVED AND BOY TRUST\n\n\nWhat shall I do in Denmark?\nMy corselet sore doth gall--\nThe Danish knights make mock o\u2019 me,\nFor I am young and small.\n(Ne\u2019er shall I speak good Danish!)\n\nFirm he sat in the saddle;\nHis spurs were sharp and long.\nAt Lundy kirk in Skaane\nThere heard he even-song.\n\nUp and spake Sir Peter,\nThat was his parish priest:\n\u201cWelcome to thee, young Danneved!\nTo-day shalt be my guest.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor meat I will not tarry,\nNor will I wait for wine,\nUntil I come to Berneskov,\nTo talk with mother mine.\u201d\n\n\u201cHarken now, young Danneved,\nAnd give thou heed to me!\nA troop of thy deadly foemen\nAre lying in wait for thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cFirst I trust my goodly sword,\nAnd next my steed so tall,\nAnd then I trust my Danish men--\nBut myself the most of all.\u201d\n\n\u201cFirst trustest thou thy goodly sword,\nAnd next thy steed so tall--\nThen trustest thou thy Danish men\nWill fail thee first of all.\u201d\n\nIt was gallant Danneved\nRode forth i\u2019 the gloaming grey--\nAnd there he saw his foemen,\nThree lances\u2019 length away.\n\nThere he saw his foemen,\nThree lances\u2019 length away--\nThen took they leave, his mein\u00e9,\nTo flee from him that day.\n\nLeave took all his mein\u00e9\nTo turn and flee away,\nAll save the lad so little,\nWho straight did up and say:\n\n\u201cLo! thy bread I\u2019ve eaten,\nAnd I have worn thy weed;\nAnd I will stand by thee to-day\nTo help thee in thy need.\n\n\u201cI thy sword have sharpened,\nAnd I have stalled thy steed;\nAnd I will stand by thee to-day\nTo help thee in thy need.\u201d\n\nThey drew their ranks together\nAll by the greenwood bower--\nFive there fought a couple\nWith mickle strength and stour.\n\nThey drew their ranks together\nUnder the greenwood tree--\nFive there fought a couple--\nA fearful fight to see.\n\nIt was gallant Danneved,\nHis sword sheathed at his side--\n\u201cCome thou hither, little boy Trust,\n\u2019Tis time for us to ride.\u201d\n\nIt was gallant Danneved\nRode to his castle fair;\nHis mother came to meet him\nIn velvet wrapped and vair.\n\n\u201cStand up, now, lady mother,\nAnd pour for us the wine!\nFor I will give him, little boy Trust,\nThe hand of sister mine.\u201d\n\nNe\u2019er shall I speak good Danish!\n\n\n\n\nTHE KNAVISH MERMAN\n\n\nGay was the dance in the kirkyard fair.\n(Well aday!)\nThere danced maidens with flowing hair.\n(Methinks \u2019tis hard to ride away.)\n\nThere danced knights with shining sword--\n\u201cNone of them all is worth a word!\u201d\n\nProud was the Princess, thus did she say,\nThat heard the merman under water that lay.\n\nUp stood the merman; thus spake he:\n\u201cPerchance the king\u2019s daughter will wed with me.\u201d\n\nHe shaped him garments all glimmering;\nHe called him Sir Alfast, son of a king.\n\nHe shaped him a steed, so black and bold;\nHe rode like a knight in a saddle of gold.\n\nHe tied his steed where the shade was mirk;\nWithershins went he round the kirk.\n\nInto the kirk he went, so gay,\nAnd all the holy images they turned their heads away.\n\nUp spake the priest by the altar that stood--\n\u201cWho may he be, this knight so good?\u201d\n\nThe Princess smiled \u2019neath her veil so fine--\n\u201cWould to God that the knight were mine!\u201d\n\n\u201cListen, proud Princess, and love thou me--\nA crown of gold I\u2019ll give to thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cOver three kingdoms my father was king,\nBut he never gave me so fair a thing.\u201d\n\nHe wrapped her in his cloak of blue--\nOut of the kirk they went, they two.\n\nThey met upon the wold\nThe steed with saddle of gold.\n\nWhen they rode o\u2019er the lea,\nHe became a troll, so foul to see.\n\nWhen they rode down to the water\u2019s brim,\nHe became a troll, so fierce and grim.\n\n\u201cSir Alfast, thou art christened man--\nWhat wilt thou with this water wan?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo knight am I, nor christened man--\nMy home is in this water wan.\u201d\n\nWhen they reached the midmost Sound,\nFifty fathom they sank to ground.\n\nLong heard the fishers with dread and dree\nHow the king\u2019s daughter sobbed under the sea!\n\nWell aday!\nMethinks \u2019tis hard to ride away.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WOOD-RAVEN\n\n\nThe raven flies at even\n  That flies not in the light,\nAnd he must take the black fortune\n  That may not take the white.\n(At even flies the raven.)\n\nIt was little Elva\n  Fared forth from the castle high;\nShe saw the wild wood-raven\n  That flew across the sky.\n\n\u201cFly down, thou wild wood-raven,\n  And speak a word with me;\nAll my secret sorrow\n  That I will tell to thee.\n\n\u201cMy father gave me the son of a king\n  To plight me heart and hand--\nShe sent him, my cruel step-mother,\n  Afar to a foreign land.\n\n\u201cShe sent him, my cruel step-mother,\n  Forth under spell and ban;\nShe bade me love her brother foul,\n  Was liker a troll than a man.\u201d\n\n\u201cSay now, little Elva,\n  What wilt thou give to me\nAll to the land of thy lover\n  If I shall carry thee?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll give to thee the silver white,\n  But and the ruddy gold--\nBe kind, thou wild wood-raven!\n  Thy spells are manifold.\u201d\n\n\u201cA fairer gift than silver!\n  A goodlier gift than gold!\nThe first-born son that thou shalt bear\n  Him will I have and hold.\u201d\n\nAll in the swarthy raven\u2019s claw\n  Her snow-white hand she laid;\nShe promised him her first-born son\n  By the faith of a Christian maid.\n\nHe took her, little Elva,\n  Set her his wings between--\nWith mickle toil and pain he flew\n  Across the sea so green.\n\nIt was the wild wood-raven\n  Upon the tower stood still;\n\u201cBe glad now, little Elva!\n  Thou shalt have all thy will!\u201d\n\nForth came bold Sir Nilus\n  With gold rings on his hand;\n\u201cWelcome now, little Elva,\n  All to this foreign land!\n\n\u201cThanks to thee, wild wood-raven!\n  Fly o\u2019er the land amain,\nAnd when a year is past and gone\n  Then come thou here again.\u201d\n\nHe went, the wild wood-raven,\n  Flew o\u2019er the land amain,\nAnd when a year was past and gone\n  He came to them again.\n\nIt was the wild wood-raven,\n  Upon the tower perched he--\n\u201cHast thou forgotten, Elva,\n  The gift thou shalt give to me?\u201d\n\n\u201cNow wrap him in the linen white,\n  The little babe I bore!\nTake him, thou wild wood-raven--\n  His mother he\u2019ll see no more.\u201d\n\nHe\u2019s pierced him in the lily breast,\n  And drunk the hot heart\u2019s blood--\nThen rose the raven as fair a knight\n  As e\u2019er in the country stood.\n\nAt even flies the raven.\n\n\n\n\nAN OWER-TRUE TALE\n\n\nSo merry the knights were sitting\n  Around the queen\u2019s own board--\nMany a laugh was among them,\n  And many a waggish word.\n(Under the lindens, there will I bide.)\n\nNo word of the kirk was spoken,\n  And never a word of the cloister,\nBut many a word of the ladies\n  Who had fair maids to foster.\n\n\u201cI will have a maiden\n  Who can both broider and sew;\nI will not have a maiden\n  Goes gadding to and fro.\n\n\u201cI will have a maiden\n  Who well can spread the board;\nI will not have a maiden\n  Too ready with her word.\u201d\n\nSilent sat all the maidens,\n  And never spoke a word;\nAll save the youngest maiden,\n  Stood at the queen\u2019s own board.\n\n\u201cIf I so old were waxen\n  That my maiden days were over,\nSo help me God in Heaven!\n  Thou shouldst not be my lover.\n\n\u201cI must bide in my bower ...\n  I can both broider and sew--\nThou wouldst mount thy gallant steed,\n  Go gadding to and fro.\n\n\u201cI must bide in my bower ...\n  Right well can I spread my board--\nThou in the Thing wouldst be standing,\n  And wasting full many a word.\n\n\u201cI must bide in my bower,\n  A-guiding my household gear--\nThou wouldst be sitting \u2019mid lords and knights,\n  Nor holding thy tongue for fear.\u201d\n\nUp he stood, Sir Peter,\n  So ready with his tongue--\n\u201cLo! I have found the self-same maid\n  That I had sought so long!\u201d\n\nMerry were all the maidens\n  That goodly game to see;\nThe queen she gave the maid away,\n  Sir Peter\u2019s bride to be!\n\nUnder the lindens, there will I bide.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WOOING OF RANIL JONSON\n\n\nRanil bade saddle his steed so free--\n\u201cThe wealthy Margrave I\u2019ll go see,\nTho\u2019 I am severed both from friends and kinsmen.\u201d\n\nSir Ranil rode into the courtyard fair,\nThere stood the Margrave, wrapped all in vair.\n(Lo! I am severed both from friends and kinsmen.)\n\n\u201cThere standest thou, Margrave, in furs so fine!\nGive me now Kirsten, true love o\u2019 mine,\nFor sorely am I severed from friends and kinsmen.\u201d\n\nUp spake her mother, who loved her so dear--\n\u201cNever a sweetheart shalt thou have here,\nSince thou art severed both from friends and kinsmen.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf ye refuse me my heart\u2019s desire\nAll that ye have I will burn with fire,\nSince I am severed both from friends and kinsmen.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll that I have wilt thou burn with fire?\nThen ride thou away with thy heart\u2019s desire,\nTho\u2019 thou art severed both from friends and kinsmen.\u201d\n\nThey wrapped her in a cloak of red,\nAnd lifted her on to Ranil\u2019s steed,\nTho\u2019 he was severed both from friends and kinsmen.\n\nNought for their bridal bower they found\nBut the wood and the wild and the low green ground--\nSo sorely was he severed from friends and kinsmen.\n\n\u201cIf King Eric thou hadst not slain,\nIn the fair castles we might have lain--\nNow we are severed both from friends and kinsmen.\u201d\n\nHe struck her on the brow so fair--\n\u201cOne should order one\u2019s words when guests are there,\nNow we are severed both from friends and kinsmen.\u201d\n\nHe struck her on the cheek so red--\n\u201cI never wished King Eric dead,\nAltho\u2019 I am severed both from friends and kinsmen.\n\n\u201cForests have ears, and fields have eyes--\nWe must wander, my maid, as the wild swan flies,\nNow we are severed both from friends and kinsmen.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nLOVEL AND JOHN\n\n\nLo now, I bid you, my merry men all,\n        Put your armour on,[A]\nBind on your helms of the burning gold,\n        And follow Sir John!\n\nSir Peter rides home from the Thing so fleet,\n        (Put your armour on),\nLittle Kirstin comes forth her father to greet--\n        And ask after John.\n\n\u201cWelcome, dear father, home from the Thing!\n        (Put your armour on)\nSay now, what tidings hast thou to bring?\u201d\n        What news of Sir John?\n\n\u201cThis is the news that I bring to thee--\n        (Put your armour on),\nThat young Sir Lovel thy bridegroom shall be,\n        And not Sir John.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf young Sir Lovel my bridegroom shall be\n        (Put your armour on),\nSorrow and care he shall have with me.\u201d\n        Oh fickle Sir John!\n\nSir Lovel he rides to his bridal bright;\n        (Put your armour on)--\nSir John has saddled his war-horse white--\n        \u201cI go too,\u201d says John.\n\nSir John he rode to the blithe brid\u00e0le\n        (Put your armour on)\nHigh on his horse, in his coat of mail.\n        \u201cI\u2019m coming,\u201d said John.\n\nThe bride she busked her, so runs the rime\n        (Put your armour on),\nAs the bells were ringing a merry chime--\n        \u201cI\u2019m ready,\u201d said John.\n\nDown to the kirk-door came the bride,\n        (Put your armour on)--\nAnd bold Sir John was close at her side--\n        \u201cI\u2019m first,\u201d said John.\n\nHe lifted her up on his war-horse white\n        (Put your armour on)--\n\u201cI wish Sir Lovel a gay good-night!\u201d\n        All from Sir John.\n\nWhen dawn is red, and the small birds sing\n        (Put your armour on),\nSir Lovel has ridden to seek the king.\n        \u201cI go too,\u201d says John.\n\n\u201cMy liege, my liege, an thou wilt hear\n        (Put your armour on),\nI\u2019ve a tale of wrong for thy gracious ear!\u201d\n        \u201c\u2019Tis of me,\u201d said John.\n\n\u201cYest\u2019re\u2019en it was my bridal gay\n        (Put your armour on),\nBut another knight bore the bride away.\u201d\n        \u201c\u2019Twas I,\u201d said John.\n\n\u201cSince to ye both the maid is so dear\n        (Put your armour on),\nLo! for her love ye shall break a spear.\u201d\n        \u201cI shall win,\u201d said John.\n\nThe first course that they rode together\n        (Put your armour on),\nSir Lovel he broke his stirrup-leather.\n        \u201cHold up,\u201d said John.\n\nBut when they ran the second course\n        (Put your armour on),\nDead fell Sir Lovel, hurled from his horse--\n        \u201cLie there!\u201d said John.\n\nThe bride clapped her hands to see the show\n        (Put your armour on)--\n\u201cHa! ha! for the wolf and the carrion-crow!\u201d\n        So he won, Sir John.\n\nBind on your helms of the burning gold,\n        And follow Sir John!\n\n[A] _Lit._ Be ye well boun\n\n\n\n\nRIME OF THE DEAD LOVER\n\n\nThree maidens sat in a bower,\n  Two broidered with gold--\nThe third she wept her lover\n  Under darksome mould.\n(For she loved the knight so truly.)\n\nIt was the knight Sir Aager\n  Rode in his own countrie;\nHe loved the lady Elsa,\n  So fair was she.\n\nHe wooed the lady Elsa\n  With gifts and gold--\nOn Monday thereafter\n  Lay he i\u2019 the mould.\n\nShe wrung her hands, fair Elsa,\n  With wellaway--\nThat heard the knight Sir Aager\n  Low where he lay.\n\nUp stood the knight Sir Aager,\n  His coffin took amain,\nAnd forth he fared to his true-love\u2019s bower\n  With mickle pain.\n\nThere knocked he with his coffin--\n  No sword had he--\n\u201cStand up, thou Lady Elsa!\n  Open to me!\u201d\n\nThen spake the lady Elsa,\n  With tears spake she:\n\u201cCanst thou name our Saviour\n  I\u2019ll open to thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cStand up, thou lady Elsa!\n  Open thy door!\nFor I can name our Saviour\n  As I could before.\u201d\n\nUp stood she, lady Elsa,\n  With drearihead--\nStraight opened she her bower door,\n  Let in the dead.\n\nShe took her golden comb\n  To comb his hair--\nFor every lock she ordered\n  Down fell a tear.\n\n\u201cHear, thou knight Sir Aager,\n  Liefest love o\u2019 mine!\nHow is it under darksome earth\n  In grave of thine?\u201d\n\n\u201cSo is it in the darksome earth\n  In my low bed,\nAs up in holy heaven,\n  Where all are glad.\u201d\n\n\u201cHear, thou knight Sir Aager,\n  Liefest love and dear!\nDown with thee in darksome earth\n  Fain would I fare.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo is it in the darksome earth\n  Down where I dwell,\nAs it is grim and ghastly\n  In blackest hell.\n\n\u201cFor every tear thou weepest\n  In woeful mood,\nInto my coffin falls a drop\n  Of thy heart\u2019s blood.\n\n\u201cUp above mine head\n  The green grass grows;\nDown beside my feet\n  The wild worm goes.\n\n\u201cWhen thy mood is merry,\n  For each word said,\nOut of my grave there springeth up\n  Roses red.\n\n\u201cI hear the red cock crowing\n  I\u2019 the mirk so grey,\nAnd all the doors are opening--\n  I must away.\n\n\u201cI hear the black cock crowing\n  In the farm-stead--\nAnd I must to the kirkyard\n  With all the dead.\u201d\n\nUp stood the knight Sir Aager,\n  His coffin took again:\nHe went his way to the kirkyard\n  With mickle pain.\n\nUp she rose, proud Elsa,\n  Sad was her mood--\nShe followed him, her own true love,\n  To the dark wood.\n\nWhen through the wood they wended\n  To kirkyard fair,\nWan it grew and faded,\n  His goodly golden hair.\n\n\u201cBehold thou up in heaven\n  The stars so bright!\nThere mayst thou see so soothly\n  How goes the night.\u201d\n\nShe saw them up in heaven,\n  The stars so fair;\nDown in the earth the dead man sank\n  Ere she was \u2019ware.\n\nHome went the lady Elsa,\n  With care so cold--\nOn Monday thereafter\n  Lay she i\u2019 the mould.\n\nFor she loved the knight so truly.\n\n\n\n\nORIGINAL VERSES\n\n\n\n\nTHE KING\u2019S HUNTING\n\n\nThe king has busked him forth to ride\n  All on his steed so brown--\nHe\u2019s halted him by the standing stone\n  To see the sun sink down.\n\nAnd is it the moan of the mourning pine\n  Doth in his ear complain?\nThe wizened bough of the lean thorn-tree\n  That clutches his bridle-rein?\n\nHe looks, and knows the grisly witch\n  That wears the grey wolf-skin--\n\u201cRuth, ruth, oh king, on the deadly wrong\n  That\u2019s wrought thy realm within!\n\n\u201cThou hast taken a wife of alien life\n  From far beyond the sea;\nAnd she\u2019s brought in a foreign faith\n  To flout thy gods and thee.\n\n\u201cThe kirk-bell rings, the pale priest sings,\n  By thorpe and tower and town--\nThe black rood stands with arms spread wide\n  Where of old the blood ran down.\n\n\u201cThe carven stone stands drear and lone--\n  And the old gods in their pain\nRave high and wail in the winter gale\n  And sob in the running rain.\n\n\u201cHarken and hear--for I crouched this eve\n  Where thistle and dock grow tall,\nAnd I saw her steal from the postern-gate\n  And creep by the palace-wall.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s off and away to the lonely kirk\n  To keep a curs\u00e8d tryst;\nShe\u2019s taken thy son, to be bound for aye\n  A slave to the wan White Christ.\u201d\n\nThe king he rides by holt and heath,\n  The witch goes on before,\nBy the carven stone on the moorland lone\n  Where the blood ran down of yore.\n\nOh, wan was the glint of the misty moon\n  In the brimming burn, and shrill\nThe wind it wailed in the lean thorn-trees\n  That crouch upon the hill.\n\n\u201cThe font is dight, the taper bright,\n  I hear the sound of prayer--\nLest I be banned with bell and book\n  I dare not enter there.\u201d\n\nAll lily-white the fair queen stood--\n  In strode the angry king--\n\u201cThy God is thine, but my son is mine,\n  And I will not have this thing!\u201d\n\nWhite as a lily-flower, the queen\n  Fell down upon her knee--\n\u201cHave pity, have pity, thou cruel king,\n  On the souls of mine and me!\u201d\n\nThe pale priest stood before the rood,\n  His look was proud and grim--\n\u201cStand back, unshriven! the King of Heaven\n  Doth claim the babe for Him!\u201d\n\nMost like the wail of a winter gale\n  The grisly witch laughed loud--\n\u201cThe christening-robes are white enow\n  To serve as a goodly shroud!\u201d\n\nShe\u2019s witched his arm, she\u2019s witched his heart,\n  She\u2019s witched his blade so true,\nShe\u2019s cast the glamour o\u2019er his eyes,\n  The deadly deed to do.\n\nThe king, he drew his trusty brand,\n  And clove him to the chin--\n\u201cShort shrift at least is thine, proud priest,\n  Thy God His grace to win!\u201d\n\nAlas! alas! for the bloody chrism\n  The king\u2019s son got that day!\nFor the queen fell down at the self-same stroke\n  Nor turned not where she lay.\n\nHe\u2019s seized his young son in his arms,\n  And busked his steed to flee;\nLike a crooked shadow the grisly witch\n  Runs ever beside his knee.\n\nWith laughter shrill she\u2019s by him still\n  While the misty moon grows dim--\nEre he can cross the running burn\n  She\u2019s reft the babe from him.\n\nWhere the priests of eld high worship held\n  The witch-wife laughs alone;\n\u201cThe babe she bore shall learn my lore,\n  And dance by the carven stone!\u201d\n\nThe tapers\u2019 light is quenched in night--\n  Hushed is the holy bell--\nThe pale priest\u2019s blood is on the rood--\n  The old gods have their will.\n\n  *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow on a day when years are gone\n  The knights they rise apace--\nFor the sound of the horn in the dim red morn\n  Has called them to the chase.\n\nThe gaunt grey wolf-hounds growl and grin,\n  And the king is at their head--\nHis face is white in the breaking light\n  As the face of one new-dead;\n\nHis voice is hollow as one that cries\n  In a dreary vault of stone;\nAnd, on thin lips, his smile is grim,\nFor the trampled branches sound to him\n  Like the cracking of bare-bleached bone.\n\nHo, holla-ho! the game\u2019s afoot!\n  He breaks for the open moor!\nBut hearts grow chill, as the pack cries shrill,\n  That ne\u2019er felt fear before.\n\nThe horses sweat, they plunge and fret,\n  Tho\u2019 the spur with blood drop fast--\nEach man looks on his fellow\u2019s face,\n  And sees it all aghast--\n\nAghast and pale, he knows not why--\n  But the king\u2019s is red with wrath--\n\u201cHow now, my masters! Shake like babes\n  To follow the grey wolfs path?\u201d\n\nAnd none spake word but the eldest lord:\n  \u201cGod shield us from the chase!\nFor the quarry crossed me as he ran,\nAnd the eyes I saw were the eyes of a man,\n  Tho\u2019 they looked from a grey wolfs face.\u201d\n\nLoud laughed the king; \u201cA fitting tale\n  For doting age to tell!\nWho lists turn back, but I follow the track\n  Tho\u2019 it lead to the fires of hell.\u201d\n\nThe king doth force his restless horse\n  Till like the deer he bounds,\nLike a flying breath, o\u2019er the windy heath\n  Behind the calling hounds.\n\nThe knightly train spur on amain\n  As fast as they may flee--\nAnd two are down by the broken bank,\n  And one by the fallen tree.\n\nTheir shadows run in the wan low sun,\n  Like ghosts they flit beside--\nAnd one is down where the snow lies late,\n  And two where the marsh is wide.\n\n\u201cStay, stay, oh king! of all thy train\n  Alone I am left to follow!\u201d\nBut the wind beat back the labouring breath\n  That rattled hoarse and hollow.\n\nIn the fearful flight each gallant knight\n  Lies cold, a broken corse;\nBy two, by one, the hounds drop dead;\nBut the king checks not, nor turns his head,\n  Nor curbs his foaming horse.\n\nAmong the lines of the sombre pines\n  He rides o\u2019er moss and mire;\nAnd lo! their boughs as a brooding smoke,\n  Their stems as a burning fire!\n\nAnd had the red sun scorched his sight\n  Ere he entered the lonely wood?\nFor he saw in the air but a shifting glare\n  Like a floating pool of blood.\n\nAnd was it but the sighing bough\n  That whispered in his ear\nA boding thought, an evil breath?--\n  Till he could not tell for fear\nWhether a fiend spake in his soul,\n  Or a voice spake in his ear.\n\nIn the heart of the wood, a darksome den\n  Where the lightning-blasted tree\nGleamed in the gloom like whitened bones,\n  He saw the quarry flee,\n\nWith lolling tongue and foaming jaws,\n  With faint and faltering pace,\nAnd eyes like the eyes of a soul in pain,\n  Tho\u2019 they looked from a grey wolf\u2019s face.\n\nLo! with the crash of a falling tree,\n  The gallant steed drops dead!\nBut he loosed his foot from the stirrup-iron,\n  And fast and far he fled.\n\nThro\u2019 grey twilight, thro\u2019 falling night\n  Rang the tireless steps and fleet,\nAnd the throb of his heart kept feverish time\n  To the falling of his feet.\n\nOh, thick and tall by the lone kirk-wall\n  Grew thistle and broom and bent;\nThe holy bell lay where it fell,\n  And the walls were riven and rent.\n\nLike a fair white shroud on the altar-stone\n  Lay the late-lingering snow,\nAnd in the window towards the east\n  The waning moon hung low.\n\nNow, when the beast had reached the kirk,\n  It moaned like one in pain,\nAnd swerved, but the hunter cried behind,\n  And drove it on again.\n\nBut when it came to the altar-stone,\n  It started, and leapt, and fell--\nAnd the shout of the king as he gripped its throat\n  Mixed with its dying yell.\n\nAnd lo! some evil ban was loosed\n  By the power of the holy place--\nAnd the glazing eyes with ghastly gleam\n  Glared from a dead man\u2019s face!\n\nBlack as a pall did darkness fall\n  As the moon hid in a cloud--\nAnd still lay the king by that nameless thing,\n  Nor knew that he cried aloud,\n\nTill the white face glimmered thro\u2019 the gloom\n  As the moon stole out again;\nWhen he dashed from his eyes the reeking blood\n  And stared upon the slain.\n\nAnd who may tell, save those of hell,\n  Of the horror cold and grim\nThat he felt, who saw in that mirk midnight\n  His own face look at him?\n\nHis own dead face, with the haunting eyes\n  Of the wife his youth had won?\nWoe, woe! in the were-wolf\u2019s grisly guise,\n  Oh king, thou hast slain thy son!\n\n\n\n\nBALLAD OF SIR HERLUIN\n\n\nThis is the rime of Sir Herluin,\n  A knight both true and tried,\nWho rode from the fray at close of day\n  With a spear-thrust in his side.\n\n\u201cThe Bread and Wine of the Feast Divine\n  Are all the food I crave:\nAnd in all the land, six feet of sand,\n  To serve me for a grave.\n\n\u201cHow oft, how blithe along the moor,\n  I\u2019ve rid to the bugle\u2019s sound!\nBut to-night \u2019tis I am the hunted deer\n  And Death the hateful hound,\n\n\u201cThat followeth ever, pace by pace--\n  And Satan the hunter fell\nThat drives me down to the yawning grave,\n  And the burning flames of hell.\u201d\n\nOh, he rode on, and on he rode\n  By heather and pine and birk,\nBy moss and moor, till he lighted down\n  All at the lonely kirk.\n\nHe stopped nor stayed where the dead were laid\n  In purple and in pall,\nBut he sought a mound at the wall\u2019s far bound,\n  Where thistle and dock grew tall.\n\nHe hid his brow amid the grass,\n  And the words he spake were three:\n\u201cOh, sweet Marg\u2019ret, oh, dear Marg\u2019ret,\n  Wake, wake, and speak to me!\u201d\n\n\u2019Twas when the waning moon rose up,\n  And night waxed chill and cold,\nThat he heard a murmur from the grave\n  And a low voice from the mould.\n\nMost like the moan of a mourning wind\n  That voice did speak and say:\n\u201cI had thought to lie in the kindly earth\n  Asleep till Judgment Day,\n\n\u201cWith heart so still, and clos\u00e8d eyne,\n  And hands across my breast--\nThere\u2019s never a voice in the world but thine\n  Could call me from my rest.\u201d\n\n\u2019Twas at the hour before the dawn,\n  When hushed was every sound,\nThat the dead corpse stirred within the grave,\n  And rose up out o\u2019 the ground--\n\nRose up, and stood in the wan moonlight\n  All in her winding-sheet--\nSir Herluin, he hid his face,\n  And lay still at her feet.\n\n\u201cOh Herluin! oh Herluin!\n  Didst hold my heart in fee--\nAnd the grave\u2019s not deep nor wide enough\n  To sunder me and thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cMargaret, oh Margaret!\n  Can love be strong as death?\u201d\n\u201cLove breaks not with the broken heart,\n  Nor flies with the fleeting breath.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, love! The pain I cost thee\n  Was a bitter pain and fell;\nAnd, but thou canst forgive it me,\n  \u2019Twill hale my soul to hell.\u201d\n\nShe kissed him where his brow was marked\n  With the bitter brand of dole--\n\u201cHerluin, oh Herluin!\n  God\u2019s peace upon thy soul!\n\n\u201cNow lay thee down, oh Herluin,\n  And sleep i\u2019 the kindly mould--\nHe rests full well whose heart is still,\n  Whose burning brow is cold.\n\n\u201cAnd sleep thou sound, oh Herluin,\n  Amid the song o\u2019 the stream!\nFor I have heard a secret word\n  From an angel, in a dream.\n\n\u201cAnd I swear to thee by the ring of gold,\n  And I swear by cross and pall,\nAnd I swear to thee by my broken heart,\n  That love is lord of all.\u201d\n\nThis is the rime of Sir Herluin,\n  Who sleeps where he lay and died--\nWith a whin at his head, and a whin at his feet,\nAnd the lean sand for a winding-sheet,\n  And a mourning pine beside.\n\n\n\n\nBOTHWELL\u2019S SOOTHSAYING\n\n\nOh, the goodwives they go out and in,\n  And gossip beside the well;\nBut the witless wife, she fares alone,\n  With never a tale to tell.\n\nOh, the goodwives go to the holy kirk,\n  And bow their knees to pray;\nBut the witless wife, she steeks her door,\n  And keeps no holy-day.\n\nOh, the lasses and lads run up and down,\n  Their gleeful games to tread,\nAnd they fleer and flout at the witless wife\n  That goes with a shaking head.\n\nBut when she turns on them, lasses and lads,\n  They take to their heels and flee,\nFor they fear the curse of the witless wife\n  And the look of her blinking e\u2019e.\n\nWhen the owlet shrill called from the hill,\n  And night was dark and deep,\nOne came and knocked at her cottage door\n  And roused her from her sleep.\n\n\u201cOh, the clink I hear of a gallant\u2019s gear,\n  And the tread of steel\u00e8d shoon!\nAnd he that knocks at my door so late\n  Is neither knave nor loon!\u201d\n\n\u201cCome forth, come forth, thou witless wife,\n  And earn a goodly wage!\nThere\u2019s a rune to read, and a spell to speed,\n  In the hold of Hermitage!\u201d\n\n\u201cNow nay, now nay, thou black Bothw\u00e8ll!\n  I dare not for deadly sin!\nThere\u2019s a heavy spell on that cursed cell\n  That none may enter in.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, the walls are rent, and the roof is riven,\n  And gone is the sealing stone;\nAnd the night is deep, and all men sleep,\n  Save thou and I alone.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s an echo aloof in the riven roof\n  Of grisly grammarye!\nAnd one that doth sleep where the dust lies deep\n  That brooks not a mortal\u2019s eye!\u201d\n\nBlack, black, I ween, grew Bothwell\u2019s mien;\n  \u201cIf thou dost not my will\nThine ending shall be a nine-days\u2019 tale\n  To the crowd on the Castle Hill!\n\n\u201cFaggot and fire, a goodly pyre,\n  Shall pay the witch her fee!\nThe leaping lowe shall send a glow\n  To the ships far out at sea!\u201d\n\nThe witch-wife goes with shaking head--\n  Black Bothwell goes before--\nTo the secret cell where a heavy spell\n  Was laid by a lord of yore.\n\nNo light was there in earth or air,\n  No light in all the land,\nSave the red torch, like an evil eye,\n  That glimmered in his hand.\n\nWhen the owlet shrill called from the hill,\n  And all men were asleep,\nSlow did they fare by the broken stair,\n  And down to the dungeon deep.\n\nThere was nought to see in the doleful vault\n  Save the mould and the mildew green--\nBut the hair stood up on Bothwell\u2019s head\n  As he and the witch went in.\n\nOh, deep and still was the secret cell--\n  There was never a sound to hear\nSave the echo aloof in the riven roof--\n  But his knees were loosed for fear.\n\nOh, thrice she bent, and thrice she bowed,\n  As she muttered the secret spell--\nThe grisly lore they learned of yore\n  That loosens the fiends of hell.\n\nShe rose on her feet, and she stood upright,\n  And high she reared her head;\nOh, her face was wan to look upon\n  As the face of one that\u2019s dead.\n\nAnd like the dead, in the torchlight red,\n  Her eyes were bleared and dim,\nAnd her lips were still, yet ghostly shrill\n  The voice came forth from them.\n\nLike an echo aloof in the riven roof\n  The eldritch voice made moan--\n\u201cAlas for my sleep in the dust so deep!\n  Alas for the sealing stone!\u201d\n\n\u201cNow heed, now hark, thou spirit dark,\n  And look thou tell me true.\nSay, is it meet, for a lady sweet,\n  A philtre fine to brew?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo philtre fine she needs o\u2019 mine\n  To turn her heart to thee--\nThou hast set the spell on her thysel\n  With the glint o\u2019 thy bold black e\u2019e!\u201d\n\n\u201cDost see her dight in bridal white,\n  In satin of shimmering fold?\nDoes she go like a queen, amid the sheen\n  Of gems, and the red, red gold?\u201d\n\n\u201cI see her dight in lily-white,\n  But not for the bridal-day--\nAnd the red round the neck of that shimmer sark\n  Is not of the gold so gay!\n\n\u201cOh, pay the fee that\u2019s due to me,\n  The precious price of sin,\nThat I may dig a grave, a grave,\n  And lay me down therein!\u201d\n\n\u201cNow hark, now heed! if thou indeed\n  Dost bend her to my will,\nThou shalt ask what fee thou wilt of me\n  And take it to thy fill.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, a fearful fee I ask of thee,\n  And a bitter from thy bride--\nFor pay she must in her people\u2019s trust\n  In pomp and place and pride.\n\n\u201cThe hue so fair of bonnie brown hair--\n  The glint of gladsome e\u2019e--\nAnd lightsome step, and pride of youth,\n  She must pay for the love of thee!\n\n\u201cAnd as for thee, thou shalt know my fee\n  And curse me, in that day\nWhen thou stretchest thine arms o\u2019er the wan water\n  To the land that\u2019s far away.\u201d\n\nHis laughter rang in the riven roof--\n  \u201cI shall not pale nor pine!\nEach dog, they say, must have its day,\n  And shall I not have mine?\u201d\n\nHe\u2019s up and out of the doleful vault,\n  In the misty dawn so dim\nThat glimmers pale on his coat of mail--\n  And the witch steals after him.\n\nOh, her look is cowed, and her back is bowed,\n  And tottering is her tread--\nAnd she\u2019s but a witless wife again\n  That goes with a shaking head.\n\nThe queen sits wan in Jethart town\n  Beside her Maries three--\n\u201cAlas! for the wish I dare not name\n  Betwixt my heart and me!\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a merry bird in the garden green\n  That lilts the livelong day;\nAnd aye the ower-word of his song\n  Is the name I must not say!\n\n\u201cOh, pride of youth, and high heart\u2019s truth,\n  Were all too light a fee,\nAnd the bitter tears of years on years,\n  To win his heart to me!\u201d\n\nThe queen has mounted her palfry white,\n  And called her trusty page--\nAnd she\u2019s away o\u2019er moss and moor\n  To the hold of Hermitage!\n\nNOTE.--The vault referred to in this ballad is that beneath\nthe castle of Hermitage in which the \u201cWicked Lord Soulis\u201d\npractised his sorceries--the custody of which, at his execution,\nhe committed to Redcap, his familiar demon. By the time (some\nthree centuries later) that Bothwell, as Warden of the Marches,\ntook up residence at Hermitage, I have ventured to suppose\nthat the vault (always looked on with horror) might have\nbecome ruinous.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RIDING OF THE SHEE[B]\n\nA BALLAD OF PRINCE CHARLIE\n\n_September 1745_\n\n\nThey\u2019ve stabled their steeds where the heather grows high\n  And the deer has ranging-room;\nThe prince has laid him down to rest\n  All under a bush of broom.\n\nThere was a breeze in the whispering fern,\n  And a star that danced in the stream,\nWhen the Men of Peace came riding by\n  Betwixt a dream and a dream.\n\nIn mantle of green, on coal-black steed,\n  They passed, and he saw them plain;\nOut of the mist or ever he wist,\n  And into the mist again.\n\n(\u2019Twixt Beltane fire and Hallow-e\u2019en\n  Men that have sight may\nThe hosts who pass, nor stir the grass--\n  The riding of the Shee.)\n\n\u201cIn the fields where never the dawn grows old\n  There\u2019s a place of refuge still\nFrom the weary strife of death and life,\n  The strife of good and ill.\n\n\u201cAnd this you shall have for a golden crown,\n  And this for a place of pride--\nThe star that shines where the sun goes down,\n  The peace where the hills spread wide.\n\n\u201cYou shall have, for the clamour of men, the call\n  Of the free wind in your ears;\nYou shall have the stainless well-water\n  For the burning of salt, salt tears.\n\n\u201cOur saying for you is sooth and sad--\n  For the troth wherein you trust,\nYea, the shining sword, and the plighted word,\n  Are ashes, and dross, and dust.\n\n\u201cAnd this you shall have if you will not heed--\n  A road with never an end,\nA bitter smart, and a broken heart,\n  And Death for your kindest friend.\n\n\u201cThis you shall have as a sorrow in sleep--\n  A sigh that shall never be still--\nThe song of the burn in Scotland\u2019s fern,\n  The cry of the horn on the hill.\n\n\u201cThis shall be yours as a waking woe\n  That shall tear your heart in twain--\nThe faith forlorn, and the losing love\n  Of those that have hoped in vain.\u201d\n\nThe prince he started in his sleep,\n  And spoke like one in mirth:\n\u201cOh, dearer to me than fairy dreams\n  The chances and cheer of earth!\n\n\u201cThis I will have--the fate of a man,\n  With my sword to be my friend,\nAnd burning life, and love, and strife,\n  And Death to make an end.\u201d\n\nThere was a cloud o\u2019er the waning moon,\n  And never a stir in the grass,\nWhen the Men of Peace rode over the hill,\n  And passed as the shadows pass.\n\n\u201cOut of the mist whenever we list,\n  And into the mist once more!\nOh, it\u2019s hand to hilt, and the doomed to die,\n  As ever it was of yore!\n\n\u201cOh, the Rose will soon be sere and sad\n  Beneath the winter rain!\nNot all the blood in broad Scotl\u00e0nd\n  Can make it bloom again.\u201d\n\n[B] Gaelic DUIONE SIDHE (shee) = fairy-folk.\n\n\n\n\nBALLAD OF LONDON TOWN\n\nA SONG OF THE FORTY-FIVE\n\n\nOh, London is a bonnie town\n  Whose streets are paved with gold;\nAnd out o\u2019 the North my friends came forth\n  That gift to have and hold.\n\nThere was one who rode before us a\u2019\n  From Perth to Preston town,\nWi\u2019 winsome word and shining sword,\n  To gain a golden crown.\n\nOh, his head was high, and his gallant brow\n  Was blithe as a merry morn--\nBut a\u2019 we won for his father\u2019s son\n  Was a crown o\u2019 piercing thorn.\n\nThe Chief led forth his Hielandmen\n  Wi\u2019 pipes a\u2019 sounding shrill--\nAnd the gift he got was the grisly axe,\n  Red-wet on Tower Hill.\n\nOh, I came forth fra\u2019 the naked North\n  Wi\u2019 lord and loon and laird--\nAnd a\u2019 the gold they gave to me\n  Was the straw in Newgate yard.\n\nThe sun comes glinting thro\u2019 the reek\n  And gilds my galling chain;\nOh, our lives are sold for fairy-gold,\n  And glamour is a\u2019 our gain!\n\nOh, I\u2019d give my heart fra\u2019 out of my breast,\n  Or the fell fra\u2019 my flesh, to see\nOne little star of a\u2019 the stars\n  That shine on mine own countrie!\n\nThe wheels they groan on the paving stone--\n  And I dream that their dreary din\nIs the song o\u2019 the burn afar in the fern,\n  Or the wind that wails in the whin.\n\nOh, the rat to his hole, and the bird to his nest,\n  And the deer to the hills so free!--\nBut I that drew sword at my king\u2019s own word\n  Must hang on a gallows-tree!\n\n\n\n\nBALLAD OF THE TRAITOR\u2019S HEAD\n\n(1746)\n\n\nWasted and wan, under sun and star,\nStares the head of the traitor on Temple Bar.\n\nSere are his sunken cheeks, and grim\nIs the leering laugh on the lips of him.\n\nThe lights are out; the silent street\nEchoes to the watchman\u2019s feet.\n\nHo, cold comrade! sure the time\nPasses slow till morning-chime.\n\nThere are none but we that watch so late,\nI in my garret, thou on thy gate.\n\nHast forgot the trick of speech?\nLet\u2019s hold converse, each with each--\n\nFor I see you, methinks, awake and aware,\nNow the wind from the north blows thro\u2019 your hair.\n\n_Oh, he fares so far ere he blows on me,\nHe can bring no word from mine own countrie._\n\nLithe now and listen, and tell me true,\nWhat are the world and its ways to you?\n\nDo you not grudge when the men pass by?\n_I shudder to think that such was I!_\n\n_They fleer and they flout as they gaze on me--_\n_The traitor that died on the gallows-tree!_\n\nWhat is it to you when the ladies pass?\nYou\u2019d an eye, methinks, for a pretty lass.\n\n_What are they now to me, handsome and kind?_\n_Red rose-leaves blowing down the wind._\n\n_They shudder and shrink when they gaze on me--_\n_The traitor that died on the gallows-tree!_\n\nWhat do you hear in the running rain?\n_Ten thousand tears all shed in vain._\n\nWhat do you read in the misty moon?\n_Loss of love, and sorrows\u2019 swoon._\n\nWhat is your dream in the driving dust?\n_Of bodies that bleach and swords that rust._\n\nWhat do you feel when the hailstones rattle?\n_Spent shot, and the brunt of battle._\n\nOh, what do you say when the sun sinks down\nBehind the spires of London town?\n\n_The last red gleam, as he fails forlorn,_\n_Is the drooping fag of a cause outworn._\n\nWhat do you see when the stars shine bright,\nSerried and still, in the vast o\u2019 the night,\n\nAbove the wind as he wandereth?\n_The souls of the brave that have done with death!_\n\n_Lords and ladies, fair and fine,_\n_None of you see with these eyes of mine!_\n\n_Prince and peer and potentate,_\n_Never a man of you keeps my state!_\n\n_Mockers that mock and cowards that crawl,_\n_I have the laugh of you, one and all!_\n\n_For fear and fraud, and lies and lust,_\n_I doffed them all with the doleful dust,_\n\n_And Death must bonnet his head to me--_\n_The traitor that died on the gallows-tree!_\n\n\n_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._","title":"Ballads from the Danish and Original Verses","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":8631}