{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_7935/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_7935","id":"gutenberg_7935","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7935","summary":null,"tags":["Ballads, English -- England -- Texts","Ballads, Scots -- Scotland -- Texts","Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Category: Teaching & Education"],"text":"Produced by Tiffany Vergon, Dave Maddock and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBALLAD BOOK\n\nEDITED BY KATHARINE LEE BATES,\n\nWELLESLEY COLLEGE.\n\n\n\n    \"The plaintive numbers flow\n  For old, unhappy, far-off things,\n     And battles long ago.\"\n\n  --WILLIAM WORDSWORTH\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nProbably no teacher of English literature in our schools or colleges\nwould gainsay the statement that the chief aim of such instruction is\nto awaken in the student a genuine love and enthusiasm for the higher\nforms of prose, and more especially for poetry. For love is the surest\nguarantee of extended and independent study, and we teachers are the\nfirst to admit that the class-room is but the vestibule to\neducation. So in beginning the critical study of English poetry it\nseems reasonable to use as a starting-point the early ballads,\nbelonging as they do to the youth of our literature, to the youth of\nour English race, and hence appealing with especial power to the youth\nof the human heart. Every man of letters who still retains the\nboy-element in his nature--and most men, Sir Philip Sidney tells us,\nare \"children in the best things, till they be cradled in their\ngraves\"--has a tenderness for these rough, frank, spirited old poems,\nwhile the actual boy in years, or the actual girl, rarely fails to\nrespond to their charm. What Shakespeare knew, and Scott loved, and\nBossetti echoes, can hardly be beneath the admiration of high school\nand university students. Rugged language, broken metres, absurd plots,\ndubious morals, are impotent to destroy the vital beauty that\nunderlies all these. There is a philosophical propriety, too, in\nbeginning poetic study with ballad lore, for the ballad is the germ of\nall poem varieties.\n\nThis volume attempts to present such a selection from the old ballads\nas shall represent them fairly in their three main classes,--those\nderived from superstition, whether fairy-lore, witch-lore, ghost-lore,\nor demon-lore; those derived from tradition, Scotch and English; and\nthose derived from romance and from domestic life in general. The\nScottish ballads, because of their far superior poetic value, are\nfound here in greater number than the English. The notes state in each\ncase what version has been followed. The notes aim, moreover, to give\nsuch facts of historical or bibliographical importance as may attach\nto each ballad, with any indispensable explanation of outworn or\ndialectic phrases, although here much is left to the mother-wit of the\nstudent.\n\nIt is hoped that this selection may meet a definite need in connection\nwith classes not so fortunate as to have access to a ballad library,\nand that even where such access is procurable, it may prove a friendly\ncompanion in the private study and the recitation-room.\n\nKATHARINE LEE BATES.\n\nWELLESLEY COLLEGE,\nMarch, 1904.\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nBALLADS OF SUPERSTITION.\n  THE WEE WEE MAN\n  TAMLANE\n  TRUE THOMAS\n  THE ELFIN KNIGHT\n  LADY ISOBEL AND THE ELF-KNIGHT\n  TOM THUMBE\n  KEMPION\n  ALISON GROSS\n  THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL\n  A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE\n  PROUD LADY MARGARET\n  THE TWA SISTERS O' BINNORIE\n  THE DEMON LOVER\n  RIDDLES WISELY EXPOUNDED\n\nBALLADS OF TRADITION.\n  SIR PATRICK SPENS\n  THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURNE\n  THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT\n  EDOM O' GORDON\n  KINMONT WILLIE\n  KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY\n  ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE WIDOW'S THREE SONS\n  ROBIN HOOD AND ALLIN A DALE\n  ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND BURIAL\n\nROMANTIC AND DOMESTIC BALLADS.\n  ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN\n  LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET\n  THE BANKS O' YARROW\n  THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY\n  FINE FLOWERS I' THE VALLEY\n  THE GAY GOSS-HAWK\n  YOUNG REDIN\n  WILLIE AND MAY MARGARET\n  YOUNG BEICHAN\n  GILDEROY\n  BONNY BARBARA ALLAN\n  THE GARDENER\n  ETIN THE FORESTER\n  LAMKIN\n  HUGH OF LINCOLN\n  FAIR ANNIE\n  THE LAIRD O' DRUM\n  LIZIE LINDSAY\n  KATHARINE JANFARIE\n  GLENLOGIE\n  GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR\n  THE LAWLANDS O' HOLLAND\n  THE TWA CORBIES\n  HELEN OF KIRCONNELL\n  WALY WALY\n  LORD RONALD\n  EDWARD, EDWARD\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nThe development of poetry, the articulate life of man, is hidden in\nthat mist which overhangs the morning of history. Yet the indications\nare that this art of arts had its origin, as far back as the days of\nsavagery, in the ideal element of life rather than the utilitarian.\nThere came a time, undoubtedly, when the mnemonic value of verse was\nrecognized in the transmission of laws and records and the hard-won\nwealth of experience.  Our own Anglo-Saxon ancestors, whose rhyme, it\nwill be remembered, was initial rhyme, or alliteration, have\nbequeathed to our modern speech many such devices for \"the knitting up\nof the memory,\" largely legal or popular phrases, as _bed and board_,\n_to have and to hold_, _to give and to grant_, _time and tide_, _wind\nand wave_, _gold and gear_; or proverbs, as, for example: _When bale\nis highest, boon is nighest_, better known to the present age under\nthe still alliterative form: _The darkest hour's before the dawn_.\nBut if we may trust the signs of poetic evolution in barbarous tribes\nto-day, if we may draw inferences from the sacred character attached\nto the Muses in the myths of all races, with the old Norsemen, for\ninstance, Sag\u00e2 being the daughter of Odin, we may rest a reasonable\nconfidence upon the theory that poetry, the world over, finds its\nfirst utterance at the bidding of the religious instinct and in\nconnection with religious rites.\n\nYet the wild-eyed warriors, keeping time by a rude triumphal chant to\nthe dance about the watch-fire, were mentally as children, with keen\nsenses and eager imagination, but feeble reason, with fresh and\nvigorous emotions, but without elaborate language for these emotions.\nSwaying and shouting in rhythmic consent, they came slowly to the use\nof ordered words and, even then, could but have repeated the same\nphrases over and over. The burden--sometimes senseless to our modern\nunderstanding--to be found in the present form of many of our ballads\nmay be the survival of a survival from those primitive iterations. The\n\"Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw\" of _The Elfin Knight_ is not, in this\ninstance, inappropriate to the theme, yet we can almost hear shrilling\nthrough it a far cry from days when men called directly upon the\npowers of nature. Such refrains as \"Binnorie, O Binnorie,\" \"Jennifer\ngentle an' rosemaree,\" \"Down, a down, a down, a down,\" have ancient\nsecrets in them, had we ears to hear.\n\nOne of the vexed questions of criticism regarding these refrains is\nwhether they were rendered in alternation with the narrative verses or\nas a continuous under-song.  Early observers of Indian dances have\nnoted that, while one leaping savage after another improvised a simple\nstrain or two, the whole dancing company kept up a guttural cadence of\n\"Heh, heh, heh!\" or \"Aw, aw, aw!\"  which served the office of musical\naccompaniment. This choral iteration of rhythmic syllables, still\nhinted in the refrain, but only hinted, is believed to be the original\nelement of poetry.\n\nIn course of time, however, was evolved the individual singer. In the\nearlier stages of society, song was undoubtedly a common gift, and\nevery normal member of the community bore his part in the recital of\nthe heroic deeds that ordinarily formed the subject of these primeval\nlays. Were it the praise of a god, of a feasting champion, or of a\nslain comrade, the natural utterance was narrative. Later on, the more\nfluent and inventive improvisers came to the front, and finally the\nprofessional bard appeared. Somewhere in the process, too, the burden\nmay have shifted its part from under-song to alternating chorus, thus\nallowing the soloist opportunity for rest and recollection.\n\nEnglish ballads, as we have them in print to-day, took form in a far\nlater and more sophisticated period than those just suggested; yet\neven thus our ballads stand nearest of anything in our literature to\nthe primitive poetry that was born out of the social life of the\ncommunity rather than made by the solitary thought of the artist. Even\nso comparatively small a group as that comprehended within this volume\nshows how truly the ballad is the parent stock of all other poetic\nvarieties. In the ballad of plain narrative, as _The Hunting of the\nCheviot,_ the epic is hinted. We go a step further in _A Lytell Geste\nof Robyn Hode,_--too long for insertion in this collection, but\npeculiarly interesting from the antiquarian point of view, having been\nprinted, in part, as early as 1489,--and find at least a rough\nfoundation for a genuine hero-lay, the _Lytell Geste_ being made up of\na number of ballads rudely woven into one. A poem like this, though\nhardly \"an epic in miniature,\"--a phrase which has been proposed as\nthe definition of a ballad,--is truly an epic in germ, lacking the\nfinish of a miniature, but holding the promise of a seed. Where the\nnarrative is highly colored by emotion, as in _Helen of Kirconnell_ or\n_Waly Waly,_ the ballad merges into the lyric. It is difficult here to\ndraw the line of distinction. _A Lyke-Wake Dirge_ is almost purely\nlyric in quality, while _The Lawlands o' Holland, Gilderoy, The Twa\nCorbies, Bonny Barbara Allan,_ have each a pronounced lyric element.\nFrom the ballad of dialogue we look forward to the drama, not only\nfrom the ballad of pure dialogue, as _Lord Ronald,_ or _Edward,\nEdward,_ or that sweet old English folk-song, too long for insertion\nhere, _The Not-Browne Mayd,_ but more remotely from the ballad of\nmingled dialogue and narrative, as _The Gardener or Fine Flowers i'\nthe Valley._\n\nThe beginnings of English balladry are far out of sight.  From the\ndate when the race first had deeds to praise and words with which to\npraise them, it is all but certain that ballads were in the air. But\neven the mediteval ballads are lost to us. It was the written\nliterature, the work of clerks, fixed upon the parchment, that\nsurvived, while the songs of the people, passing from lip to lip down\nthe generations, continually reshaped themselves to the changing\ntimes. But they were never hushed. While Chaucer, his genius fed by\nNorman and Italian streams, was making the fourteenth century reecho\nwith that laughter which \"comes never to an end\" of the Canterbury\nstory-tellers; while Langland, even his Teutonic spirit swayed by\nFrench example, was brooding the gloomy _Vision of Piers the\nPlowman,_--gloom with a star at its centre; while those \"courtly\nmakers,\" Wyatt and Surrey, were smoothing English song, which in the\nhands of Skelton had become so\n\n  \"Tatter'd and jagged,\n   Rudely raine-beaten,\n   Rusty and moth-eaten,\"\n\ninto the exquisite lyrical measures of Italy; while the mysteries and\nmiracle-plays, also of Continental impulse, were striving to do God\nservice by impressing the Scripture stories upon their rustic\naudiences,--the ballads were being sung and told from Scottish loch to\nEnglish lowland, in hamlet and in hall. Heartily enjoyed in the\nbaronial castle, scandalously well known in the monastery, they were\ndearest to the peasants.\n\n  \"Lewd peple loven tales olde;\n   Swiche thinges can they wel report and holde.\"\n\nThe versions in which we possess such ballads to-day are comparatively\nmodern. Few can be dated further back than the reign of Elizabeth; the\nlanguage of some is that of the eighteenth century. But the number and\nvariety of these versions--the ballad of _Lord Ronald,_ for instance,\nbeing given in fifteen forms by Professor Child in his monumental\nedition of _The English and Scottish Popular Ballads;_ where \"Lord\nRonald, my son,\" appears variously as \"Lord Randal, my son,\" \"Lord\nDonald, my son,\" \"King Henrie, my son,\" \"Lairde Rowlande, my son,\"\n\"Billy, my son,\" \"Tiranti, my son,\" \"my own pretty boy,\" \"my bonnie\nwee croodlin dow,\" \"my little wee croudlin doo,\" \"Willie doo, Willie\ndoo,\" \"my wee wee croodlin doo doo\"--are sure evidence of oral\ntransmission, and oral transmission is in itself evidence of\nantiquity. Many of our ballads, moreover,--nearly a third of the\npresent collection, as the notes will show,--are akin to ancient\nballads of Continental Europe, or of Asia, or both, which set forth\nthe outlines of the same stories in something the same way.\n\nIt should be stated that there is another theory altogether as to the\norigin of ballads. Instead of regarding them as a slow, shadowed,\nnatural growth, finally fossilized in print, from the rhythmic cries\nof a barbaric dance-circle in its festal hour, there is a weighty\nschool of critics who hold them to be the mere rag-tag camp-followers\nof mediaeval romance. See, for instance, the clownish ballad of _Tom\nThumbe,_ with its confused Arthurian echoes. Some of the events\nrecorded in our ballads, moreover, are placed by definite local\ntradition at a comparatively recent date, as _Otterburne, Edom o'\nGordon, Kinmont Willie._ What becomes, then, of their claims to long\ndescent? If these do not fall, it is because they are based less on\nthe general theme and course of the story, matters that seem to\nnecessitate an individual composer, than on the so-called communal\nelements of refrain, iteration, stock stanzas, stock epithets, stock\nnumbers, stock situations, the frank objectivity of the point of view,\nthe sudden glimpses into a pagan world.\n\nIn the lands of the schoolhouse, the newspaper, and the public\nlibrary, the conditions of ballad-production are past and gone. Yet\nthere are still a few isolated communities in Europe where genuine\nfolk-songs of spontaneous composition may be heard by the eavesdropper\nand jotted down with a surreptitious pencil; for the rustics shrink\nfrom the curiosity of the learned and are silent in the presence of\nstrangers. The most precious contribution to our literature from such\na, source is _The Bard of the Dimbovitza_, an English translation of\nfolk-songs and ballads peculiar to a certain district of Roumania.\nThey were gathered by a native gentlewoman from among the peasants on\nher father's estate. \"She was forced,\" writes Carmen Sylva, Queen of\nRoumania, one of the two translators, \"to affect a desire to learn\nspinning, that she might join the girls at their spinning parties, and\nso overhear their songs more easily; she hid in the tall maize to hear\nthe reapers crooning them, ... she listened for them by death-beds, by\ncradles, at the dance, and in the tavern, with inexhaustible\npatience.... Most of them are improvisations. They usually begin and\nend with a refrain.\"\n\nThe Celtic revival, too, is discovering not only the love of song,\nbut, to some extent, the power of improvisation in the more remote\ncorners of the British Isles. Instances of popular balladry in the\nwest of Ireland are givrn by Lady Gregory in her _Poets and Dreamers._\n\nThe Roumanians still have their lute-players; old people in Galway\nstill remember the last of their wandering folk-bards; but the Ettrick\nShepherd, a century ago, had to call upon imagination for the picture\nof\n\n  \"Each Caledonian minstrel true,\n   Dressed in his plaid and bonnet blue,\n   With harp across his shoulders slung,\n   And music murmuring round his tongue.\"\n\nFearless children of nature these strolling poets were, even as the\nsongs they sang.\n\n  \"Little recked they, our bards of old,\n   Of autumn's showers, or winter's cold.\n   Sound slept they on the 'nighted hill,\n   Lulled by the winds, or bubbling rill,\n   Curtained within the winter cloud,\n   The heath their couch, the sky their shroud;\n   Yet theirs the strains that touch the heart,--\n   Bold, rapid, wild, and void of art.\"\n\nThe value and hence the dignity of the minstrel's profession declined\nwith the progress of the printing-press in popular favor, and the\ncharacter of the gleemen suffered in consequence. This was more marked\nin England than in Scotland. Indeed, the question has been raised as\nto whether there ever existed a class of Englishmen who were both\nballad-singers and ballad-makers.  This was one of the points at issue\nbetween those eminent antiquarians, Bishop Percy and Mr. Ritson, in\nthe eighteenth century. Dr. Percy had defined the English minstrels as\nan \"order of men in the middle ages, who subsisted by the arts of\npoetry and music, and sung to the harp the verses which they\nthemselves composed.\"  The inflammable Joseph Ritson, whose love of an\nhonest ballad goes far to excuse him for his lack of gentle demeanor\ntoward the unfaithful editor of the _Reliques,_ pounced down so\nfiercely upon this definition, contending that, however applicable to\nIcelandic skalds or Norman trouveres or Proven\u00e7al troubadours, it was\naltogether too flattering for the vagabond fiddlers of England,\nroughly trolling over to tavern audiences the ballads borrowed from\ntheir betters, that the dismayed bishop altered his last clause to\nread, \"verses composed by themselves or others.\"\n\nSir Walter Scott sums up this famous quarrel with his characteristic\ngood-humor. \"The debate,\" he says, \"resembles the apologue of the gold\nand silver shield. Dr.  Percy looked on the minstrel in the palmy and\nexalted state to which, no doubt, many were elevated by their talents,\nlike those who possess excellence in the fine arts in the present day;\nand Ritson considered the reverse of the medal, when the poor and\nwandering gleeman was glad to purchase his bread by singing his\nballads at the ale-house, wearing a fantastic habit, and latterly\nsinking into a mere crowder upon an untuned fiddle, accompanying his\nrude strains with a ruder ditty, the helpless associate of drunken\nrevellers, and marvellously afraid of the constable and parish\nbeadle.\"\n\nThere is proof enough that, by the reign of Elizabeth, the printer was\nelbowing the minstrel out into the gutter.  In Scotland the strolling\nbard was still not without honor, but in the sister country we find\nhim denounced by ordinance together with \"rogues, vagabonds, and\nsturdy beggars.\" The London stalls were fed by Grub-street authors\nwith penny ballads--trash for the greater part--printed in\nblack-letter on broadsides. Many of these doggerel productions were\ncollected into small miscellanies, known as _Garlands,_ in the reign\nof James I.; but few of the genuine old folk-songs found a refuge in\nprint. Yet they still lived on in corners of England and Scotland,\nwhere \"the spinsters and the knitters in the sun\" crooned over\nhalf-remembered lays to peasant children playing at their feet.\n\nIn 1723 a collection of English ballads, made up largely, though not\nentirely, of stall-copies, was issued by an anonymous editor, not a\nlittle ashamed of himself because of his interest in so unworthy a\nsubject; for although Dryden and Addison had played the man and given\nkindly entertainment--the one in his _Miscellany Poems,_ the other in\n_The Spectator_--to a few ballad-gypsies, yet poetry in general, that\nmost \"flat, stale, and unprofitable\" poetry of the early and middle\neighteenth century, disdained all fellowship with the unkempt,\nwandering tribe.\n\nIn the latter half of that century, however, occurred the great event\nin the history of our ballad literature.  A country clergyman of a\nliterary turn of mind, resident in the north of England, being on a\nvisit to his \"worthy friend, Humphrey Pitt, Esq., then living at\nShiffnal in Shropshire,\" had the glorious good luck to hit upon an old\nfolio manuscript of ballads and romances.  \"I saw it,\" writes Percy,\n\"lying dirty on the floor under a Bureau in ye Parlour; being used by\nthe Maids to light the fire.\"\n\n\"A scrubby, shabby paper book\" it may have been, with some leaves torn\nhalf away and others lacking altogether, but it was a genuine ballad\nmanuscript, in handwriting of about the year 1650, and Percy,\nrealizing that the worthy Mr. Pitt was feeding his parlor fire with\nvery precious fuel, begged the tattered volume of his host and bore it\nproudly home, where with presumptuous pen he revised and embellished\nand otherwise, all innocently, maltreated the noble old ballads until\nhe deemed, although with grave misgivings, that they would not too\nviolently shock the polite taste of the eighteenth century.  The\neighteenth century, wearied to death of its own politeness, worn out\nby the heartless elegance of Pope and the insipid sentimentality of\nPrior, gave these fresh, simple melodies an unexpected welcome, even\nin the face of the reigning king of letters, Dr. Johnson, who forbade\nthem to come to court. But good poems are not slain by bad critics,\nand the old ballads, despite the burly doctor's displeasure, took\nhenceforth a recognized place in English literature. Herd's delightful\ncollection of Scottish songs and ballads, wherein are gathered so many\nof those magical refrains, the rough ore of Burns' fine gold,--\"Green\ngrow the rashes O,\" \"Should auld acquaintance be forgot,\" \"For the\nsake o' somebody,\"--soon followed, and Ritson, while ever slashing\naway at poor Percy, often for his minstrel theories, more often for\nhis ballad emendations, and most often for his holding back the\noriginal folio manuscript from publication, appeared himself as a\ncollector and antiquarian of admirable quality. Meanwhile Walter\nScott, still in his schoolboy days, had chanced upon a copy of the\n_Reliques_, and had fallen in love with ballads at first sight. All\nthe morning long he lay reading the book beneath a huge platanus-tree\nin his aunt's garden. \"The summer day sped onward so fast,\" he says,\n\"that notwithstanding the sharp appetite of thirteen, I forgot the\nhour of dinner, was sought for with anxiety, and was found still\nentranced in my intellectual banquet. To read and to remember was in\nthis instance the same thing, and henceforth I overwhelmed my\nschool-fellows and all who would hearken to me, with tragical\nrecitations from the ballads of Bishop Percy. The first time, too, I\ncould scrape a few shillings together, which were not common\noccurrences with me, I bought unto myself a copy of these beloved\nvolumes, nor do I believe I ever read a book half so frequently, or\nwith half the enthusiasm.\"\n\nThe later fruits of that schoolboy passion were garnered in Scott's\noriginal ballads, metrical romances, and no less romantic novels, all\nso picturesque with feudal lights and shadows, so pure with chivalric\nsentiment; but an earlier result was _The Minstrelsy of the Scottish\nBorder,_ a collection of folk-songs gleaned in vacation excursions\nfrom pipers and shepherds and old peasant women of the border\ndistricts, and containing, with other ballads, full forty-three\npreviously unknown to print, among them some of our very best. Other\npoet collectors--Motherwell and Aytoun--followed where Scott had led,\nScott having been himself preceded by Allan Ramsay, who so early as\n1724 had included several old ballads, freely retouched, in his\n_Evergreen and Tea-Table Miscellany._ Nor were there lacking others,\npoets in ear and heart if not in pen, who went up and down the\ncountry-side, seeking to gather into books the old heroic lays that\nwere already on the point of perishing from the memories of the\npeople. Meanwhile Ritson's shrill cry for the publication of the\noriginal Percy manuscript was taken up in varying keys again and\nagain, until in our own generation the echoes on our own side of the\nwater grew so persistent that with no small difficulty the\nmuch-desired end was actually attained. The owners of the folio having\nbeen brought to yield their slow consent, our richest treasure of Old\nEnglish song, for so perilously long a period exposed to all the\nhazards that beset a single manuscript, is safe in print at last and\nopen to the inspection of us all. The late Professor Child of Harvard,\nour first American authority on ballad-lore, and Dr. Furnivall of\nLondon, would each yield the other the honor of this achievement for\nwhich no ballad-lover can speak too many thanks.\n\nA list of our principal ballad collections may be found of practical\nconvenience, as well as of literary interest. Passing by the\n_Miscellanies,_ Percy, as becomes one of the gallant lineage to which\nhe set up a somewhat doubtful claim, leads the van.\n\nPercy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. 1765.\n\nHerd's Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, Heroic Ballads, etc.  1769.\n\nRitson's Ancient Popular Poetry. 1791.\n\nRitson's Ancient Songs and Ballads. 1792.\n\nRitson's Robin Hood. 1795.\n\nScott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. 1802-1803.\n\nJamieson's Popular Ballads and Songs. 1806.\n\nFinlay's Scottish Historical and Romantic Ballads. 1808.\n\nSharpe's Ballad Book. 1824.\n\nMaidment's North Countrie Garland. 1824.\n\nKinloch's Ancient Scottish Ballads. 1827.\n\nMotherwell's Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern. 1827.\n\nBuchan's Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland.  1828.\n\nChambers' Scottish Ballads. 1829.\n\nWhitelaw's Book of Scottish Ballads. 1845.\n\nChild's English and Scottish Ballads. 1857-1858.\n\nAytoun's Ballads of Scotland. 1858.\n\nMaidment's Scottish Ballads and Songs. 1868.\n\nBishop Percy's Folio Manuscript. 1868.\n\nChild's English and Scottish Popular Ballads (issued in parts).\n1882-98.\n\n\n\nA WORD WITH THE TEACHER.\n\n\nThe methods of ballad-work in the class-room must of course vary with\nthe amount of time at disposal, the extent of library privilege, and\nthe attainment of the students.  Where the requisite books are at\nhand, it may be found a profitable exercise to commit a ballad to each\nmember of the class, who shall hunt down the various English versions,\nand, as far as his power reaches, the foreign equivalents. But\nspecific topical study can be put to advantage on the ballads\nthemselves, the fifty collected here furnishing abundant data for\ndiscussion and illustration in regard to such subjects as the\nfollowing:--\n\n                    / Teutonic.\n  Ballad Language  |  Dialectic.\n                    \\ Idiomatic.\n\n                    /                    / Description.\n                   /  Ballad Stanza     |  Peculiar Fitness.\n                  |                      \\ Variations.\n                  |\n  Ballad Music    |                      / Metre.\n                  |   Irregularities in |  Accent.\n                  |                      \\ Rhyme.\n                   \\  Significance of\n                    \\   Irregularities.\n\n                    / Introduction.\n                   /  Dramatic Element.\n  Ballad Structure |  Involution of Plot.\n                   \\  Proportion of Element.\n                    \\ Conclusion.\n\n\n                              / Government.\n  Early English and Scottish |  Family.\n    Life as reflected in the |  Employments.\n    Ballads                  |  Pastimes.\n                              \\ Manners.\n\n  Early English and Scottish  / Aspirations.\n    Character as reflected   |  Principles.\n    in the Ballads            \\ Tastes.\n\n  Democracy in the Ballads.\n\n  Nature in the Ballads.\n\n  Color in the Ballads.\n\n  History and Science in the Ballads.\n\n  Manhood in the Ballads.\n\n  Womanhood in the Ballads.\n\n  Childhood in the Ballads.\n\n  Standards of Morality in the Ballads.\n\n  Religion in the Ballads / Pagan Element.\n                          \\ Christian Element. / Catholic.\n                                               \\ Protestant.\n  Figures of Speech / Enumeration\n    in the Ballads |  General Character.\n                    \\ Proportion.\n\n                     / Epithets.\n                    /  Numbers.\n  Stock Material   |   Refrains.\n    of the Ballads |   Similes.\n                   |   Metaphors.\n                    \\  Stanzas.\n                     \\ Situations.\n\n  Humor of the Ballads. / In what consisting.\n                        \\ At what directed.\n\n  Pathos of the Ballads. / By what elicited.\n                         \\ How expressed.\n\n                          / In Form.\n  Beauty of the Ballads. |  In Matter.\n                          \\ In Spirit.\n\nA more delicate, difficult, and valuable variety of study may be put\nupon the ballads, taken one by one, with the aim of impression upon a\nclass the very simplicity of strength and sweetness in this wild\nminstrelsy. The mere recitation or reading of the ballad, with such\nunacademic and living comment as shall help the imagination of the\nhearer to leap into a vivid realization of the swiftly shifted scenes,\nthe sympathy to follow with eager comprehension the crowded, changing\npassions, the whole nature to thrill with the warm pulse of the rough\nold poem, is perhaps the surest way to drive the ballad home, trusting\nit to work within the student toward that spirit--development which is\nmore truly the end of education than mental storage. For these\nprimitive folk-songs which have done so much to educate the poetic\nsense in the fine peasantry of Scotland,--that peasantry which has\nproduced an Ettrick Shepherd and an Ayrshire Ploughman,--are\nassuredly,\n\n  \"Thanks to the human heart by which we live,\"\n\namong the best educators that can be brought into our schoolrooms.\n\n\n\nBALLADS OF SUPERSTITION.\n\n\nTHE WEE WEE MAN.\n\nAs I was wa'king all alane,\n  Between a water and a wa',\nThere I spy'd a wee wee man,\n  And he was the least that e'er I saw.\n\nHis legs were scant a shathmont's length,\n  And sma' and limber was his thie,\nBetween his e'en there was a span,\n  And between his shoulders there was three.\n\n'He took up a meikle stane,\n  And he flang't as far as I could see;\nThough I had been a Wallace wight,\n  I couldna liften't to my knee.\n\n\"O wee wee man, but thou be strang!\n  O tell me where thy dwelling be?\"\n\"My dwelling's down at yon bonny bower;\n  O will you go with me and see?\"\n\nOn we lap, and awa' we rade,\n  Till we cam' to yon bonny green;\nWe lighted down for to bait our horse,\n  And out there cam' a lady sheen.\n\nFour and twenty at her back,\n  And they were a' clad out in green,\nThough the King o' Scotland had been there,\n  The warst o' them might hae been his Queen.\n\nOn we lap, and awa' we rade,\n  Till we cam' to yon bonny ha',\nWhere the roof was o' the beaten gowd,\n  And the floor was o' the crystal a'.\n\nWhen we cam' to the stair foot,\n  Ladies were dancing, jimp and sma';\nBut in the twinkling of an e'e,\n  My wee wee man was clean awa'.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTAMLANE.\n\n\"O I forbid ye, maidens a',\n  That bind in snood your hair,\nTo come or gae by Carterhaugh,\n  For young Tamlane is there.\"\n\nFair Janet sat within her bower,\n  Sewing her silken seam,\nAnd fain would be at Carterhaugh,\n  Amang the leaves sae green.\n\nShe let the seam fa' to her foot,\n  The needle to her tae,\nAnd she's awa' to Carterhaugh,\n  As quickly as she may.\n\nShe's prink'd hersell, and preen'd hersell,\n  By the ae light o' the moon,\nAnd she's awa to Carterhaugh,\n  As fast as she could gang.\n\nShe hadna pu'd a red red rose,\n  A rose but barely three,\nWhen up and starts the young Tamlane,\n  Says, \"Lady, let a-be!\n\n\"What gars ye pu' the rose, Janet?\n  What gars ye break the tree?\nOr why come ye to Carterhaugh,\n  Without the leave o' me?\"\n\n\"O I will pu' the flowers,\" she said,\n  \"And I will break the tree;\nAnd I will come to Carterhaugh,\n  And ask na leave of thee.\"\n\nBut when she cam' to her father's ha',\n  She looked sae wan and pale,\nThey thought the lady had gotten a fright,\n  Or with sickness sair did ail.\n\nJanet has kilted her green kirtle\n  A little aboon her knee,\nAnd she has snooded her yellow hair\n  A little aboon her bree,\nAnd she's awa to Carterhaugh,\n  As fast as she can hie.\n\nShe hadna pu'd a rose, a rose,\n  A rose but barely twae,\nWhen up there started young Tamlane,\n  Says, \"Lady, thou pu's nae mae.\"\n\n\"Now ye maun tell the truth,\" she said,\n  A word ye maunna lie;\nO, were ye ever in haly chapel,\n  Or sained in Christentie?\"\n\n\"The truth I'll tell to thee, Janet,\n  A word I winna lie;\nI was ta'en to the good church-door,\n  And sained as well as thee.\n\n\"Randolph, Earl Murray, was my sire,\n  Dunbar, Earl March, was thine;\nWe loved when we were children small,\n  Which yet you well may mind.\n\n\"When I was a boy just turned of nine,\n  My uncle sent for me,\nTo hunt, and hawk, and ride with him,\n  And keep him companie.\n\n\"There came a wind out of the north,\n  A sharp wind and a snell,\nAnd a dead sleep came over me,\n  And frae my horse I fell;\nThe Queen of Fairies she was there,\n  And took me to hersell.\n\n\"And we, that live in Fairy-land,\n  Nae sickness know nor pain;\nI quit my body when I will,\n  And take to it again.\n\n\"I quit my body when I please,\n  Or unto it repair;\nWe can inhabit at our ease\n  In either earth or air.\n\n\"Our shapes and size we can convert\n  To either large or small;\nAn old nut-shell's the same to us\n  As is the lofty hall.\n\n\"We sleep in rose-buds soft and sweet,\n  We revel in the stream;\nWe wanton lightly on the wind,\n  Or glide on a sunbeam.\n\n\"And never would I tire, Janet,\n  In fairy-land to dwell;\nBut aye, at every seven years,\n  They pay the teind to hell;\nAnd I'm sae fat and fair of flesh,\n  I fear 'twill be mysell!\n\n\"The morn at e'en is Hallowe'en;\n  Our fairy court will ride,\nThrough England and through Scotland baith,\n  And through the warld sae wide,\nAnd if that ye wad borrow me,\n  At Miles Cross ye maun bide.\n\n\"And ye maun gae to the Miles Cross,\n  Between twelve hours and one,\nTak' haly water in your hand,\n  And cast a compass roun'.\"\n\n\"But how shall I thee ken, Tamlane,\n  And how shall I thee knaw,\nAmang the throng o' fairy folk,\n  The like I never saw?\"\n\n\"The first court that comes alang,\n  Ye'll let them a' pass by;\nThe neist court that comes alang\n  Salute them reverently.\n\n\"The third court that comes alang\n  Is clad in robes o' green,\nAnd it's the head court of them a',\n  And in it rides the Queen.\n\n\"And I upon a milk-white steed,\n  Wi' a gold star in my croun;\nBecause I am a christen'd knight\n  They give me that renoun.\n\n'First let pass the black, Janet,\n  And syne let pass the broun,\nBut grip ye to the milk-white steed,\n  And pu' the rider doun.\n\n\"My right hand will be glov'd, Janet,\n  My left hand will be bare,\nAnd thae's the tokens I gie thee;\n  Nae doubt I will be there.\n\n\"Ye'll seize upon me with a spring,\n  And to the ground I'll fa',\nAnd then you'll hear an elrish cry\n  That Tamlane is awa'.\n\n\"They'll turn me in your arms, Janet,\n  An adder and a snake;\nBut haud me fast, let me not pass,\n  Gin ye would be my maik.\n\n\"They'll turn me in your arms, Janet,\n  An adder and an aske;\nThey'll turn me in your arms, Janet,\n  A bale that burns fast.\n\n\"They'll shape me in your arms, Janet,\n  A dove, but and a swan:\nAnd last they'll shape me in your arms\n  A mother-naked man:\nCast your green mantle over me--\n  And sae shall I be wan!\"\n\nGloomy, gloomy was the night,\n  And eerie was the way,\nAs fair Janet, in her green mantle,\n  To Miles Cross she did gae.\n\nAbout the dead hour o' the night\n  She heard the bridles ring,\nAnd Janet was as glad o' that\n  As ony earthly thing.\n\nThere's haly water in her hand,\n  She casts a compass round;\nAnd straight she sees a fairy band\n  Come riding o'er the mound.\n\nAnd first gaed by the black, black steed,\n  And then gaed by the broun;\nBut fast she gript the milk-white steed,\n  And pu'd the rider doun.\n\nShe pu'd him frae the milk-white steed,\n  And loot the bridle fa';\nAnd up there raise an elrish cry;\n  \"He's won amang us a'!\"\n\nThey shaped him in fair Janet's arms\n  An aske, but and an adder;\nShe held him fast in every shape,\n  To be her ain true lover.\n\nThey shaped him in her arms at last\n  A mother-naked man,\nShe cuist her mantle over him,\n  And sae her true love wan.\n\nUp then spake the Queen o' Fairies,\n  Out of a bush o' broom:\n\"She that has borrowed young Tamlane,\n  Has gotten a stately groom!\"\n\nUp then spake the Queen o' Fairies,\n  Out of a bush of rye:\n\"She's ta'en away the bonniest knight\n  In a' my companie!\n\n\"But had I kenned, Tamlane,\" she says,\n  \"A lady wad borrow thee,\nI wad hae ta'en out thy twa gray e'en,\n  Put in twa e'en o' tree!\n\n\"Had I but kenned, Tamlane,\" she says,\n  \"Before ye came frae hame,\nI wad hae ta'en out your heart of flesh,\n  Put in a heart o' stane!\n\n\"Had I but had the wit yestreen\n  That I hae coft this day,\nI'd hae paid my teind seven times to hell,\n  Ere you'd been won away!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTRUE THOMAS.\n\nTrue Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;\n  A ferlie he spied with his e'e;\nAnd there he saw a ladye bright,\n  Come riding down by the Eildon tree.\n\nHer skirt was o' the grass-green silk,\n  Her mantle o' the velvet fine,\nAt ilka tett of her horse's mane,\n  Hung fifty siller bells and nine.\n\nTrue Thomas he pu'd aff his cap,\n  And louted low down to his knee;\n\"All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!\n  For thy peer on earth I never did see.\"\n\n\"O no, O no, Thomas,\" she said,\n  \"That name does not belang to me;\nI'm but the Queen of fair Elfland,\n  That hither am come to visit thee!\n\n\"Harp and carp, Thomas,\" she said,\n  \"Harp and carp alang wi' me;\nAnd if ye daur to kiss my lips,\n  Sure of your bodie I shall be!\"\n\n\"Betide me weal, betide me woe,\n  That weird shall never daunton me!\"\nSyne he has kissed her rosy lips,\n  All underneath the Eildon tree.\n\n\"Now ye maun go wi' me,\" she said,\n  \"True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me;\nAnd ye maun serve me seven years,\n  Through weal or woe as may chance to be.\"\n\nShe's mounted on her milk-white steed,\n  She's ta'en True Thomas up behind;\nAnd aye, whene'er her bridle rang,\n  The steed gaed swifter than the wind.\n\nO they rade on, and further on,\n  The steed gaed swifter than the wind;\nUntil they reached a desert wide,\n  And living land was left behind.\n\n\"Light down, light down now, Thomas,\" she said,\n  \"And lean your head upon my knee;\nLight down, and rest a little space,\n  And I will show you ferlies three.\n\n\"O see ye na that braid braid road,\n  That stretches o'er the lily leven?\nThat is the path of wickedness,\n  Though some call it the road to heaven.\n\n\"And see ye na yon narrow road,\n  Sae thick beset wi' thorns and briers?\nThat is the path of righteousness,\n  Though after it but few enquires.\n\n\"And see ye na yon bonny road,\n  That winds about the ferny brae?\nThat is the way to fair Elfland,\n  Where you and I this night maun gae.\n\n\"But, Thomas, ye maun hauld your tongue,\n  Whatever you may hear or see;\nFor if ye speak word in Elfin land,\n  Ye'll ne'er win back to your ain countrie!\"\n\nO they rade on, and further on,\n  And they waded through rivers aboon the knee,\nAnd they saw neither sun nor moon,\n  But they heard the roaring of a sea.\n\nIt was mirk mirk night, there was nae stern-light,\n  And they waded through red blude to the knee;\nFor a' the blude that's shed on earth,\n  Kins through the springs o' that countrie.\n\nSyne they came to a garden green,\n  And she pu'd an apple frae a tree--\n\"Take this for thy wages, True Thomas;\n  It will give thee the tongue that can never lie!\"\n\n\"My tongue is my ain!\" True Thomas he said,\n  \"A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!\nI neither douglit to buy nor sell,\n  At fair or tryste where I may be.\n\n\"I dought neither speak to prince nor peer,\n  Nor ask for grace from fair ladye!\"\n\"Now hauld thy tongue, Thomas!\" she said\n  \"For as I say, so must it be.\"\n\nHe has gotten a coat of the even claith,\n  And a pair o' shoon of the velvet green;\nAnd till seven years were come and gane,\n  True Thomas on earth was never seen.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE ELFIN KNIGHT.\n\nThe Elfin knight stands on yon hill;\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nBlawing his horn baith loud and shrill,\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"If I had the horn that I hear blawn,\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nAnd the bonnie knight that blaws the horn!\"\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\nShe had na sooner thae words said;\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nThan the Elfin knight cam' to her side:\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"Thou art too young a maid,\" quoth he,\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\n\"Married wi' me you ill wad be.\"\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"I hae a sister younger than me;\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nAnd she was married yesterday.\"\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"Married to me ye shall be nane;\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nTill ye mak' me a sark without a seam;\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"And ye maun shape it, knifeless, sheerless,\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nAnd ye maun sew it, needle-threedless;\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"And ye maun wash it within a well,\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nWhaur dew never wat, nor rain ever fell,\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"And ye maun dry it upon a thorn,\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nThat never budded sin' Adam was born.\"\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"O gin that kindness I do for thee;\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nThere's something ye maun do for me.\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"I hae an acre o' gude lea-land,\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nBetween the saut sea and the strand;\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"Ye'll plough it wi' your blawing horn,\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nAnd ye will sow it wi' pepper corn,\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"And ye maun harrow't wi' a single tyne,\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nAnd shear it wi' a sheep's shank bane;\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"And bigg a cart o' lime and stane,\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nAnd Robin Redbreast maun trail it hame,\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"And ye maun barn it in a mouse-hole,\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nAnd ye maun thresh it in your shoe sole;\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"And ye maun winnow it wi' your loof,\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nAnd ye maun sack it in your glove;\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"And ye maun dry it, but candle or coal,\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nAnd ye maun grind it, but quern or mill;\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n\"When ye hae done, and finish'd your wark,\n  (Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw,)\nThen come to me, and ye'se get your sark!\"\n  (And the wind has blawn my plaid awa'.)\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nLADY ISOBEL AND THE ELF-KNIGHT.\n\nThere cam' a bird out o' a bush,\n  On water for to dine,\nAn' sighing sair, says the king's daughter,\n  \"O wae's this heart o' mine!\"\n\nHe's taen a harp into his hand,\n  He's harped them all asleep,\nExcept it was the king's daughter,\n  Who ae wink couldna get.\n\nHe's luppen on his berry-brown steed,\n  Taen 'er on behind himsell,\nThen baith rede down to that water\n  That they ca' Wearie's Well.\n\n\"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,\n  Nae harm shall thee befall;\nAft times hae I water'd my steed\n  Wi' the water o' Wearie's Well.\"\n\nThe first step that she stepped in,\n  She stepped to the knee;\nAnd sighing sair, says this lady fair,\n  \"This water's nae for me.\"\n\n\"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,\n  Nae harm shall thee befall;\nAft times hae I water'd my steed\n  Wi' the water o' Wearie's Well.\"\n\nThe neist step that she stepped in,\n  She stepped to the middle;\n\"O,\" sighend says this lady fair,\n  \"I've wat my gowden girdle.\"\n\n\"Wide in, wide in, my lady fair,\n  Nae harm shall thee befall;\nAft times hae I water'd my steed\n  Wi' the water o' Wearie's Well.\"\n\nThe neist step that she stepped in,\n  She stepped to the chin;\n\"O,\" sighend says this lady fair,\n  \"I'll wade nae farer in.\"\n\n\"Seven king's-daughters I've drownd here,\n  In the water o' Wearie's Well,\nAnd I'll mak' you the eight o' them,\n  And ring the common bell.\"\n\n\"Sin' I am standing here,\" she says,\n  \"This dowie death to die,\nAe kiss o' your comely mouth\n  I'm sure wad comfort me.\"\n\nHe's louted him o'er his saddle bow,\n  To kiss her cheek and chin;\nShe's taen him in her arms twa,\n  An' thrown him headlong in.\n\n\"Sin' seven king's-daughters ye've drownd here,\n  In the water o' Wearie's Well,\nI'll mak' you bridegroom to them a',\n  An' ring the bell mysell.\"\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nTOM THUMBE.\n\nIn Arthurs court Tom Thumbe did live,\n  A man of mickle might,\nThe best of all the table round,\n  And eke a doughty knight:\n\nHis stature but an inch in height,\n  Or quarter of a span;\nThen thinke you not this little knight,\n  Was prov'd a valiant man?\n\nHis father was a plow-man plaine,\n  His mother milkt the cow,\nBut yet the way to get a sonne\n  This couple knew not how,\n\nUntill such time this good old man\n  To learned Merlin goes,\nAnd there to him his deepe desires\n  In secret manner showes,\n\nHow in his heart he wisht to have\n  A childe, in time to come,\nTo be his heire, though it might be\n  No bigger than his Thumbe.\n\nOf which old Merlin thus foretold,\n  That he his wish should have,\nAnd so this sonne of stature small\n  The charmer to him gave.\n\nNo blood nor bones in him should be,\n  In shape and being such,\nThat men should heare him speake, but not\n  His wandring shadow touch:\n\nBut all unseene to goe or come\n  Whereas it pleasd him still;\nAnd thus King Arthurs Dwarfe was born,\n  To fit his fathers will:\n\nAnd in foure minutes grew so fast,\n  That he became so tall\nAs was the plowmans thumbe in height,\n  And so they did him call\n\nTom Thumbe, the which the Fayry-Queene\n  There gave him to his name,\nWho, with her traine of Goblins grim,\n  Unto his christning came.\n\nWhereas she cloath'd him richly brave,\n  In garments fine and faire,\nWhich lasted him for many yeares\n  In seemely sort to weare.\n\nHis hat made of an oaken leafe,\n  His shirt a spiders web,\nBoth light and soft for those his limbes\n  That were so smally bred;\n\nHis hose and doublet thistle downe,\n  Togeather weav'd full fine;\nHis stockins of an apple greene,\n  Made of the outward rine;\n\nHis garters were two little haires,\n  Pull'd from his mothers eye,\nHis bootes and shooes a mouses skin,\n  There tand most curiously.\n\nThus, like a lustie gallant, he\n  Adventured forth to goe,\nWith other children in the streets\n  His pretty trickes to show.\n\nWhere he for counters, pinns, and points,\n  And cherry stones did play,\nTill he amongst those gamesters young\n  Had loste his stocke away,\n\nYet could he soone renew the same,\n  When as most nimbly he\nWould dive into their cherry-baggs,\n  And there partaker be,\n\nUnseene or felt by any one,\n  Untill a scholler shut\nThis nimble youth into a boxe,\n  Wherein his pins he put.\n\nOf whom to be reveng'd, he tooke\n  (In mirth and pleasant game)\nBlack pots, and glasses, which he hung\n  Upon a bright sunne-beam.\n\nThe other boyes to doe the like,\n  In pieces broke them quite;\nFor which they were most soundly whipt,\n  Whereat he laught outright.\n\nAnd so Tom Thumbe restrained was\n  From these his sports and play,\nAnd by his mother after that\n  Compel'd at home to stay.\n\nWhereas about a Christmas time,\n  His father a hog had kil'd,\nAnd Tom would see the puddings made,\n  For fear they should be spil'd.\n\nHe sate upon the pudding-boule,\n  The candle for to hold;\nOf which there is unto this day\n  A pretty pastime told:\n\nFor Tom fell in, and could not be\n  For ever after found,\nFor in the blood and batter he\n  Was strangely lost and drownd.\n\nWhere searching long, but all in vaine,\n  His mother after that\nInto a pudding thrust her sonne,\n  Instead of minced fat.\n\nWhich pudding of the largest size\n  Into the kettle throwne,\nMade all the rest to fly thereout,\n  As with a whirle-wind blowne.\n\nFor so it tumbled up and downe,\n  Within the liquor there,\nAs if the devill had been boiled;\n  Such was his mothers feare,\n\nThat up she took the pudding strait.\n  And gave it at the door\nUnto a tinker, which from thence\n  In his blacke budget bore.\n\nFrom which Tom Thumbe got loose at last\n  And home return'd againe:\nWhere he from following dangers long\n  In safety did remaine.\n\nNow after this, in sowing time,\n  His father would him have\nInto the field to drive his plow,\n  And thereupon him gave\n\nA whip made of a barly straw\n  To drive the cattle on:\nWhere, in a furrow'd land new sowne,\n  Poore Tom was lost and gon.\n\nNow by a raven of great strength\n  Away he thence was borne,\nAnd carried in the carrions beake\n  Even like a graine of corne,\n\nUnto a giants castle top,\n  In which he let him fall,\nWhere soone the giant swallowed up\n  His body, cloathes and all.\n\nBut in his stomach did Tom Thumbe\n  So great a rumbling make,\nThat neither day nor night he could\n  The smallest quiet take,\n\nUntill the giant had him spewd\n  Three miles into the sea,\nWhereas a fish soone tooke him up\n  And bore him thence away.\n\nWhich lusty fish was after caught\n  And to king Arthur sent,\nWhere Tom was found, and made his dwarfe,\n  Whereas his dayes he spent\n\nLong time in lively jollity,\n  Belov'd of all the court,\nAnd none like Tom was then esteem'd\n  Among the noble sort.\n\nAmongst his deedes of courtship done,\n  His highnesse did command,\nThat he should dance a galliard brave\n  Upon his queenes left hand.\n\nThe which he did, and for the same\n  The king his signet gave,\nWhich Tom about his middle wore\n  Long time a girdle brave.\n\nNow after this the king would not\n  Abroad for pleasure goe,\nBut still Tom Thumbe must ride with him,\n  Plac'd on his saddle-bow.\n\nWhere on a time when as it rain'd,\n  Tom Thumbe most nimbly crept\nIn at a button hole, where he\n  Within his bosome slept.\n\nAnd being neere his highnesse heart,\n  He crav'd a wealthy boone,\nA liberall gift, the which the king\n  Commanded to be done,\n\nFor to relieve his fathers wants,\n  And mothers, being old;\nWhich was so much of silver coin\n  As well his armes could hold.\n\nAnd so away goes lusty Tom,\n  With three pence on his backe,\nA heavy burthen, which might make\n  His wearied limbes to cracke.\n\nSo travelling two dayes and nights,\n  With labour and great paine,\nHe came into the house whereas\n  His parents did remaine;\n\nWhich was but halfe a mile in space\n  From good king Arthurs court,\nThe which in eight and forty houres\n  He went in weary sort.\n\nBut comming to his fathers doore,\n  He there such entrance had\nAs made his parents both rejoice,\n  And he thereat was glad.\n\nHis mother in her apron tooke\n  Her gentle sonne in haste,\nAnd by the fier side, within\n  A walnut shell, him plac'd:\n\nWhereas they feasted him three dayes\n  Upon a hazell nut,\nWhereon he rioted so long\n  He them to charges put;\n\nAnd thereupon grew wonderous sicke,\n  Through eating too much meate,\nWhich was sufficient for a month\n  For this great man to eate.\n\nBut now his businesse call'd him foorth,\n  King Arthurs court to see,\nWhereas no longer from the same\n  He could a stranger be.\n\nBut yet a few small April drops,\n  Which settled in the way,\nHis long and weary journey forth\n  Did hinder and so stay.\n\nUntil his carefull father tooke\n  A hollow straw in sport,\nAnd with one blast blew this his sonne\n  Into king Arthurs court.\n\nNow he with tilts and turnaments\n  Was entertained so,\nThat all the best of Arthurs knights\n  Did him much pleasure show.\n\nAs good Sir Lancelot of the Lake,\n  Sir Tristram, and sir Guy;\nYet none compar'd with brave Tom Thum,\n  In knightly chivalry.\n\nIn honor of which noble day,\n  And for his ladies sake,\nA challenge in king Arthurs court\n  Tom Thumbe did bravely make.\n\nGainst whom these noble knights did run,\n  Sir Chinon and the rest,\nYet still Tom Thumbe with matchles might\n  Did beare away the best.\n\nHe likewise cleft the smallest haire\n  From his faire ladies head,\nNot hurting her whose even hand\n  Him lasting honors bred.\n\nSuch were his deeds and noble acts\n  In Arthurs court there showne,\nAs like in all the world beside\n  Was hardly seene or knowne.\n\nNow at these sports he toyld himselfe\n  That he a sicknesse tooke,\nThrough which all manly exercise\n  He carelesly forsooke.\n\nWhere lying on his bed sore sicke,\n  King Arthurs doctor came,\nWith cunning skill, by physicks art,\n  To ease and cure the same.\n\nHis body being so slender small,\n  This cunning doctor tooke\nA fine prospective glasse, with which\n  He did in secret looke\n\nInto his sickened body downe,\n  And therein saw that Death\nStood ready in his wasted guts\n  To sease his vitall breath.\n\nHis armes and leggs consum'd as small\n  As was a spiders web,\nThrough which his dying houre grew on,\n  For all his limbes grew dead.\n\nHis face no bigger than an ants,\n  Which hardly could be seene:\nThe losse of which renowned knight\n  Much griev'd the king and queene.\n\nAnd so with peace and quietnesse\n  He left this earth below;\nAnd up into the Fayry Land\n  His ghost did fading goe.\n\nWhereas the Fayry Queene receiv'd\n  With heavy mourning cheere,\nThe body of this valiant knight\n  Whom she esteem'd so deere.\n\nFor with her dancing nymphes in greene,\n  She fetcht him from his bed,\nWith musicke and sweet melody\n  So soone as life was fled:\n\nFor whom king Arthur and his knights\n  Full forty daies did mourne;\nAnd, in remembrance of his name\n  That was so strangely borne,\n\nHe built a tomb of marble gray,\n  And yeare by yeare did come\nTo celebrate the mournefull day,\n  And buriall of Tom Thum.\n\nWhose fame still lives in England here,\n  Amongst the countrey sort;\nOf whom our wives and children small\n  Tell tales of pleasant sport.\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nKEMPION.\n\nHer mither died when she was young,\n  Which gave her cause to make great moan;\nHer father married the warse woman\n  That ever lived in Christendom.\n\nShe served her well wi' foot and hand,\n  In everything that, she could dee;\nBut her stepmither hated her warse and warse,\n  And a powerful wicked witch was she.\n\n\"Come hither, come hither, ye cannot choose;\n  And lay your head low on my knee;\nThe heaviest weird I will you read\n  That ever was read to gay ladye.\n\n\"Mickle dolour sail ye dree\n  When o'er the saut seas maun ye swim;\nAnd far mair dolour sail ye dree\n  When up to Estmere Crags ye climb.\n\n\"I weird ye be a fiery snake;\n  And borrowed sall ye never be,\nTill Kempion, the kingis son,\n  Come to the crag and thrice kiss thee.\nUntil the warld comes to an end,\n  Borrowed sall ye never be!\"\n\nO mickle dolour did she dree,\n  And aye the saut seas o'er she swam;\nAnd far mair dolour did she dree\n  On Estmere Crags, when up she clamb.\n\nAnd aye she cried on Kempion,\n  Gin he would but come to her han':--\nNow word has gane to Kempion,\n  That siccan a beast was in the lan'.\n\n\"Now by my sooth,\" said Kempion,\n  \"This fiery beast I'll gang and see.\"\n\"An' by my sooth,\" said Segramour,\n  \"My ae brither, I'll gang wi' thee.\"\n\nThey twa hae biggit a bonny boat,\n  And they hae set her to the sea;\nBut a mile afore they reach'd the shore,\n  Around them 'gan the red fire flee.\n\nThe worm leapt out, the worm leapt down,\n  She plaited nine times round stock and stane;\nAnd aye as the boat cam' to the beach,\n  O she hae strickit it aff again.\n\n\"Min' how you steer, my brither dear:\n  Keep further aff!\" said Segramour;\n\"She'll drown us deep in the saut, saut sea,\n  Or burn us sair, if we come on shore.\"\n\nSyne Kempion has bent an arblast bow,\n  And aimed an arrow at her head;\nAnd swore, if she didna quit the shore,\n  Wi' that same shaft to shoot her dead.\n\n\"Out o' my stythe I winna rise,\n  Nor quit my den for the fear o' thee,\nTill Kempion, the kingis son,\n  Come to the crag an' thrice kiss me.\"\n\nHe's louted him o'er the Estmere Crag,\n  And he has gi'en that beast a kiss:\nIn she swang, and again she cam',\n  And aye her speech was a wicked hiss.\n\n\"Out o' my stythe I winna rise,\n  An' not for a' thy bow nor thee,\nTill Kempion, the kingis son,\n  Come to the crag an' thrice kiss me.\"\n\nHe's louted him o'er the Estmere Crag,\n  And he has gi'en her kisses twa;\nIn she swang, and again she cam',\n  The fieriest beast that ever you saw.\n\n\"Out o' my stythe I winna rise,\n  Nor quit my den for the fear o' thee,\nTill Kempion, the kingis son,\n  Come to the crag an' thrice kiss me.\"\n\nHe's louted him o'er the lofty crag,\n  And he has gi'en her kisses three;\nIn she swang, a loathly worm;\n  An' out she stepped, a fair ladye.\n\nNae cleeding had this lady fair,\n  To keep her body frae the cold;\nBut Kempion took his mantle aff,\n  And around his ain true love did fold.\n\n\"An' by my sooth,\" says Kempion,\n  \"My ain true love!--for this is she,--\nThey surely had a heart o' stane,\n  Could put thee to this misery.\n\n\"O was it wer-wolf in the wood,\n  Or was it mermaid in the sea,\nOr wicked man, or wile woman,\n  My ain true love, that mis-shaped thee?\"\n\n\"It was na wer-wolf in the wood,\n  Nor was it mermaid in the sea;\nBut it was my wicked stepmither,\n  And wae and weary may she be!\"\n\n\"O a heavier weird light her upon\n  Than ever fell on wile woman!\nHer hair sall grow rough, an' her teeth grow lang,\n  An' aye upon four feet maun she gang.\"\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nALISON GROSS.\n\nO Alison Gross, that lives in yon tower,\n  The ugliest witch in the north countrie,\nHas trysted me ae day up till her bower,\n  And mony fair speech she made to me.\n\nShe straiked my head, and she kaim'd my hair,\n  And she set me down saftly on her knee;\nSays, \"Gin ye will be my lemman sae true,\n  Sae mony braw things as I wad you gie.\"\n\nShe shaw'd me a mantle o' red scarlet,\n  Wi' gowden flowers and fringes fine;\nSays, \"Gin ye will be my lemman sae true,\n  This gudely gift it sall be thine.\"\n\n\"Awa', awa', ye ugly witch!\n  Haud far awa', and lat me be;\nI never will be your lemman sae true,\n  And I wish I were out o' your companie.\"\n\nShe neist brocht a sark o' the saftest silk,\n  Weel wrought wi' pearls about the band;\nSays, \"Gin ye will be my ain true-love,\n  This gudely gift ye sall command.\"\n\nShe shaw'd me a cup o' the gude red gowd,\n  Weel set wi' jewels sae fair to see;\nSays, \"Gin ye will be my lemman sae true,\n  This gudely gift I will you gie.\"\n\n\"Awa', awa', ye ugly witch!\n  Haud far awa', and lat me be;\nFor I wadna ance kiss your ugly mouth\n  For a' the gifts that you could gie.\"\n\nShe's turn'd her richt and round about,\n  And thrice she blew on a grass-green horn;\nAnd she sware by the moon, and the stars\n  That she'd gar me rue the day I was born.\n\nThen out she has ta'en a silver wand,\n  And she's turn'd her three times round and round;\nShe's muttered sic words, that my strength it fail'd,\n  And I fell down senseless on the ground.\n\nShe's turned me into an ugly worm,\n  And gar'd me toddle about the tree;\nAnd ay, on ilka Saturday's night,\n  Auld Alison Gross, she cam' to me,\n\nWi' silver basin, and silver kaim,\n  To kaim my headie upon her knee;\nBut or I had kiss'd her ugly mouth,\n  I'd rather hae toddled about the tree.\n\nBut as it fell out on last Hallowe'en,\n  When the Seely Court was ridin' by,\nThe Queen lighted down on a gowan bank,\n  Nae far frae the tree where I wont to lye.\n\nShe took me up in her milk-white hand,\n  And she straiked me three times o'er her knee;\nShe changed me again to my ain proper shape,\n  And I nae mair maun toddle about the tree.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL.\n\nThere lived a wife at Usher's Well,\n  And a wealthy wife was she;\nShe had three stout and stalwart sons,\n  And sent them o'er the sea.\n\nThey hadna been a week from her,\n  A week but barely ane,\nWhen word cam' to the carline wife,\n  That her three sons were gane.\n\nThey hadna been a week from her,\n  A week but barely three,\nWhen word cam' to the carline wife,\n  That her sons she'd never see.\n\n\"I wish the wind may never cease,\n  Nor fashes in the flood,\nTill my three sons come hame to me,\n  In earthly flesh and blood!\"\n\nIt fell about the Martinmas,\n  When nights are lang and mirk,\nThe carline wife's three sons cam' hame,\n  And their hats were o' the birk.\n\nIt neither grew in syke nor ditch,\n  Nor yet in ony sheugh;\nBut at the gates o' Paradise,\n  That birk grew fair eneugh.\n\n\"Blow up the fire, now, maidens mine,\n  Bring water from the well!\nFor a' my house shall feast this night,\n  Sin' my three sons are well.\"\n\nAnd she has made to them a bed,\n  She's made it large and wide;\nAnd she's happed her mantle them about,\n  Sat down at the bed-side.\n\nUp then crew the red red cock,\n  And up and crew the gray;\nThe eldest to the youngest said,\n  \"'Tis time we were away.\"\n\n\"The cock doth, craw, the day doth daw,\n  The channerin' worm doth chide;\nGin we be miss'd out o' our place,\n  A sair pain we maun bide.\"\n\n\"Lie still, lie still a little wee while,\n  Lie still but if we may;\nGin my mother should miss us when she wakes,\n  She'll go mad ere it be day.\"\n\nO it's they've ta'en up their mother's mantle,\n  And they've hangd it on the pin:\n\"O lang may ye hing, my mother's mantle,\n  Ere ye hap us again!\n\n'Fare-ye-weel, my mother dear!\n  Fareweel to barn and byre!\nAnd fare-ye-weel, the bonny lass,\n  That kindles my mother's fire.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nA LYKE-WAKE DIRGE.\n\nThis ae nighte, this ae nighte,\n  Everie nighte and alle,\nFire, and sleete, and candle-lighte,\n  And Christe receive thye saule.\n\nWhen thou from hence away art paste,\n  Everie nighte and alle,\nTo Whinny-muir thou comest at laste,\n  And Christe receive thye saule.\n\nIf ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,\n  Everie nighte and alle,\nSit thee down and put them on,\n  And Christe receive thye saule.\n\nIf hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane,\n  Everie nighte and alle,\nThe whinnes shall pricke thee to the bare bane,\n  And Christe receive thye saule.\n\nFrom Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe,\n  Everie nighte and alle,\nTo Brigg o' Dread thou comest at last,\n  And Christe receive thye saule.\n\nFrom Brigg o' Dread when thou mayst passe,\n  Everie nighte and alle,\nTo Purgatory Fire thou comest at last,\n  And Christe receive thye saule.\n\nIf ever thou gavest meate or drinke,\n  Everie nighte and alle,\nThe fire shall never make thee shrinke,\n  And Christe receive thye saule.\n\nIf meate or drinke thou ne'er gav'st nane,\n  Everie nighte and alle,\nThe fire will burne thee to the bare bane,\n  And Christe receive thye saule.\n\nThis ae nighte, this ae nighte,\n  Everie nighte and alle,\nFire, and sleete, and candle-lighte,\n  And Christe receive thye saule.\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nPROUD LADY MARGARET.\n\n'Twas on a night, an evening bright,\n  When the dew began to fa',\nLady Margaret was walkin' up and doun,\n  Looking ower the castle wa'.\n\nShe lookit east, she lookit west,\n  To see what she could spy,\nWhen a gallant knight cam' in her sight,\n  And to the gate drew nigh.\n\n\"God mak' you safe and free, fair maid,\n  God mak' you safe and free!\"\n\"O sae fa' you, ye stranger knight,\n  What is your will wi' me?\"\n\n\"It's I am come to this castle,\n  To seek the love o' thee;\nAnd if ye grant me not your love\n  All for your sake I'll die.\"\n\n\"If ye should die for me, young man,\n  There's few for ye will maen;\nFor mony a better has died for me,\n  Whose graves are growing green.\"\n\n\"O winna ye pity me, fair maid,\n  O winna ye pity me?\nHae pity for a courteous knight,\n  Whose love is laid on thee.\"\n\n\"Ye say ye are a courteous knight,\n  But I misdoubt ye sair;\nI think ye're but a miller lad,\n  By the white clothes ye wear.\n\n\"But ye maun read my riddle,\" she said,\n  \"And answer me questions three;\nAnd but ye read them richt,\" she said,\n  \"Gae stretch ye out and die.\n\n\"What is the fairest flower, tell me,\n  That grows on muir or dale?\nAnd what is the bird, the bonnie bird,\n  Sings next the nightingale?\nAnd what is the finest thing,\" she says,\n  \"That king or queen can wale?\"\n\n\"The primrose is the fairest flower,\n  That springs on muir or dale;\n\nThe mavis is the sweetest bird\n  Next to the nightingale;\nAnd yellow gowd's the finest thing,\n  That king or queen can wale.\"\n\n\"But what is the little coin,\" she said,\n  \"Wad buy my castle boun'?\nAnd what's the little boat,\" she said,\n  \"Can sail the warld all roun'?\"\n\n\"O hey, how mony small pennies\n  Mak' thrice three thousand poun'?\nO hey, how mony small fishes\n  Swim a' the saut sea roun'?\"\n\n\"I think ye are my match,\" she said,\n  \"My match, an' something mair;\nYe are the first ere got the grant\n  Of love frae my father's heir.\n\n\"My father was lord o' nine castles,\n  My mither lady o' three;\nMy father was lord o' nine castles,\n  And there's nane to heir but me,\nUnless it be Willie, my ae brither,\n  But he's far ayont the sea.\"\n\n\"If your father's lord o' nine castles,\n  Your mither lady o' three;\nIt's I am Willie, your ae brither,\n  Was far ayont the sea.\"\n\n\"If ye be my brither Willie,\" she said,\n  \"As I doubt sair ye be,\nThis nicht I'll neither eat nor drink,\n  But gae alang wi' thee.\"\n\n\"Ye've owre ill-washen feet, Margaret,\n  And owre ill-washen hands,\nAnd owre coarse robes on your body,\n  Alang wi' me to gang.\n\n\"The worms they are my bedfellows,\n  And the cauld clay my sheet,\nAnd the higher that the wind does blaw,\n  The sounder do I sleep.\n\n\"My body's buried in Dunfermline,\n  Sae far ayont the sea:\nBut day nor night nae rest can I get,\n  A' for the pride of thee.\n\n\"Leave aff your pride, Margaret,\" he says;\n  \"Use it not ony mair,\nOr, when ye come where I hae been,\n  Ye will repent it sair.\n\n\"Cast aff, cast aff, sister,\" he says,\n  \"The gowd band frae your croun;\nFor if ye gang where I hae been,\n  Ye'll wear it laigher doun.\n\n\"When ye are in the gude kirk set,\n  The gowd pins in your hair,\nYe tak' mair delight in your feckless dress,\n  Than in your mornin' prayer.\n\n\"And when ye walk in the kirkyard,\n  And in your dress are seen,\nThere is nae lady that spies your face,\n  But wishes your grave were green.\n\n\"Ye're straight and tall, handsome withal,\n  But your pride owergangs your wit;\nIf ye do not your ways refrain,\n  In Pirie's chair ye'll sit.\n\n\"In Pirie's chair ye'll sit, I say,\n  The lowest seat in hell;\nIf ye do not amend your ways,\n  It's there that ye maun dwell!\"\n\nWi' that he vanished frae her sight,\n  In the twinking of an eye;\nAnd naething mair the lady saw\n  But the gloomy clouds and sky.\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nTHE TWA SISTERS O' BINNORIE.\n\nThere were twa sisters lived in a bower;\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nThe youngest o' them, O she was a flower,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nThere cam' a squire frae the west,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nHe lo'ed them baith, but the youngest best,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nHe courted the eldest wi' glove and ring,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nBut he lo'ed the youngest abune a' thing,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nThe eldest she was vexed sair,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nAnd sore envied her sister fair,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nThe eldest said to the youngest ane,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\n\"Will ye see our father's ships come in?\"\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nShe's ta'en her by the lily hand;\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nAnd led her down to the river strand,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nThe youngest stood upon a stane;\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nThe eldest cam' and pushed her in,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\n\"O sister, sister, reach your hand,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nAnd ye shall be heir of half my land,\"\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\n\"O sister, I'll not reach my hand,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nAnd I'll be the heir of all your land;\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\n\"Shame fa' the hand that I should take,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nIt has twined me and my world's make;\"\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\n\"O sister, sister, reach your glove,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nAnd sweet William shall be your love;\"\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\n\"Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nAnd sweet William shall be mair my love,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\n\"Your cherry cheeks, and your yellow hair,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nHad gar'd me gang maiden ever mair,\"\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nSometimes she sank, and sometimes she swam,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nUntil she cam' to the miller's dam;\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nThe miller's daughter was baking bread,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nAnd gaed for water as she had need,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\n\"O father, father, draw your dam!\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nFor there is a lady or milk-white swan,\"\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nThe miller hasted and drew his dam,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nAnd there he found a drown'd woman,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nYe couldna see her yellow hair,\n  Birmorie, O Binnorie;\nFor gowd and pearls that were sae rare;\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nYe couldna see her middle sma',\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nHer gowden girdle was sae braw,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nYe couldna see her lilie feet,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nHer gowden fringes were sae deep,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\n\"Sair will they be, whae'er they be,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nThe hearts that live to weep for thee!\"\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nThere cam' a harper passing by,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nThe sweet pale face he chanced to spy,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nAnd when he looked that lady on,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nHe sighed and made a heavy moan,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nHe has ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nAnd wi' them strung his harp sae rare,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nHe brought the harp to her father's hall;\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nAnd there was the court assembled all;\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nHe set the harp upon a stane,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie;\nAnd it began to play alane,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nAnd sune the harp sang loud and clear,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie!\n\"Farewell, my father and mither dear!\"\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nAnd neist when the harp began to sing,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie!\n'Twas \"Farewell, sweetheart!\" said the string,\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\nAnd then as plain as plain could be,\n  Binnorie, O Binnorie!\n\"There sits my sister wha drowned me!\"\n  By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nTHE DEMON LOVER.\n\n\"O, where hae ye been, my lang-lost love,\n  This lang seven years an' more?\"\n\"O, I'm come to seek my former vows\n  Ye granted me before.\"\n\n\"O, haud your tongue o' your former vows,\n  For they'll breed bitter strife;\nO, haud your tongue o' your former vows,\n  For I am become a wife.\"\n\nHe turned him right an' round about,\n  And the tear blinded his e'e;\n\"I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground\n  If it hadna been for thee.\n\n\"I might hae had a king's daughter\n  Far, far ayont the sea,\nI might hae had a king's daughter,\n  Had it nae been for love o' thee.\"\n\n\"If ye might hae had a king's daughter,\n  Yoursel' ye hae to blame;\nYe might hae taken the king's daughter,\n  For ye kenn'd that I was nane.\"\n\n\"O fause be the vows o' womankind,\n  But fair is their fause bodie;\nI wad never hae trodden on Irish ground\n  Had it nae been for love o' thee.\"\n\n\"If I was to leave my husband dear,\n  And my twa babes also,\nO where is it ye would tak' me to,\n  If I with thee should go?\"\n\n\"I hae seven ships upon the sea,\n  The eighth brouct me to land,\nWi' four-and-twenty bold mariners,\n  And music of ilka hand.\"\n\nShe has taken up her twa little babes,\n  Kiss'd them baith cheek and chin;\n\"O fare ye weel, my ain twa babes,\n  For I'll never see you again.\"\n\nShe set her foot upon the ship,\n  No mariners could she behold;\nBut the sails were o' the taffetie,\n  And the masts o' the beaten gold.\n\n\"O how do you love the ship?\" he said,\n  \"O how do you love the sea?\nAnd how do you love the bold mariners\n  That wait upon thee and me?\"\n\n\"O I do love the ship,\" she said,\n  \"And I do love the sea;\nBut wae to the dim mariners\n  That naewhere I can see!\"\n\nThey hadna sailed a league, a league,\n  A league but barely three,\nWhen dismal grew his countenance,\n  And drumly grew his e'e.\n\nThe masts that were like the beaten gold,\n  Bent not on the heaving seas;\nThe sails that were o' the taffetie\n  Fill'd not in the east land breeze.\n\nThey hadna sailed a league, a league,\n  A league but barely three,\nUntil she espied his cloven hoof,\n  And she wept right bitterlie.\n\n\"O haud your tongue o' your weeping,\" he says:\n  \"O' your weeping now let me be;\nI will show you how the lilies grow\n  On the banks of Italy.\"\n\n\"O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,\n  That the sun shines sweetly on?\"\n\"O yon are the hills o' heaven,\" he said\n  \"Where you will never won.\"\n\n\"O what'n a mountain's yon,\" she said,\n  \"Sae dreary wi' frost an' snow?\"\n\"O yon is the mountain o' hell,\" he cried,\n  \"Where you and I maun go!\"\n\nAnd aye when she turn'd her round about,\n  Aye taller he seemed for to be;\nUntil that the tops o' that gallant ship\n  Nae taller were than he.\n\nHe strack the tapmast wi' his hand,\n  The foremast wi' his knee;\nAnd he brak that gallant ship in twain,\n  And sank her i' the sea.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nRIDDLES WISELY EXPOUNDED.\n\nThere was a knicht riding frae the east,\n  _Jennifer gentle an' rosemaree_.\nWho had been wooing at monie a place,\n  _As the dew flies ower the mulberry tree_.\n\nHe cam' unto a widow's door,\nAnd speird whare her three dochters were.\n\nThe auldest ane's to a washing gane,\nThe second's to a baking gane.\n\nThe youngest ane's to a wedding gane,\nAnd it will be nicht or she be hame.\n\nHe sat him doun upon a stane,\nTill thir three lasses cam' tripping hame.\n\nThe auldest ane she let him in,\nAnd pin'd the door wi' a siller pin.\n\nThe second ane she made his bed,\nAnd laid saft pillows unto his head.\n\nThe youngest ane was bauld and bricht,\nAnd she tarried for words wi' this unco knicht.\n\n\"Gin ye will answer me questions ten,\nThe morn ye sall be made my ain.\n\n\"O what is heigher nor the tree?\nAnd what is deeper nor the sea?\n\n\"Or what is heavier nor the lead?\nAnd what is better nor the breid?\n\n\"O what is whiter nor the milk?\nOr what is safter nor the silk?\n\n\"Or what is sharper nor a thorn?\nOr what is louder nor a horn?\n\n\"Or what is greener nor the grass?\nOr what is waur nor a woman was?\"\n\n\"O heaven is higher nor the tree,\nAnd hell is deeper nor the sea.\n\n\"O sin is heavier nor the lead,\nThe blessing's better nor the breid.\n\n\"The snaw is whiter nor the milk,\nAnd the down is safter nor the silk.\n\n\"Hunger is sharper nor a thorn,\nAnd shame is louder nor a horn.\n\n\"The pies are greener nor the grass,\nAnd Clootie's waur nor a woman was.\"\n\nAs sune as she the fiend did name,\n  _Jennifer gentle an' rosemaree_,\nHe flew awa in a blazing flame,\n  _As the dew files ower the mulberry tree_.\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\nBALLADS  OF TRADITION.\n\n\nSIR PATRICK SPENS.\n\nThe King sits in Dunfermline toun,\n  Drinking the blude-red wine;\n\"O whaur shall I get a skeely skipper,\n  To sail this gude ship of mine?\"\n\nThen up an' spake an eldern knight,\n  Sat at the King's right knee;\n\"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor\n  That ever sailed the sea.\"\n\nThe King has written a braid letter,\n  And seal'd it wi' his hand,\nAnd sent it to Sir Patrick Spens\n  Was walking on the sand.\n\n\"To Noroway, to Noroway,\n  To Noroway o'er the faem;\nThe King's daughter to Noroway,\n  It's thou maun tak' her hame.\"\n\nThe first line that Sir Patrick read,\n  A loud laugh laughed he,\nThe neist line that Sir Patrick read,\n  The tear blinded his e'e.\n\n\"O wha is this hae dune this deed,\n  And tauld the King o' me,\nTo send us out at this time o' the year\n  To sail upon the sea?\n\n\"Be it wind or weet, be it hail or sleet,\n  Our ship maun sail the faem,\nThe King's daughter to Noroway,\n  'Tis we maun tak' her hame.\"\n\nThey hoisted their sails on Monday morn,\n  Wi' a' the speed they may;\nAnd they hae landed in Noroway\n  Upon the Wodensday.\n\nThey hadna been a week, a week,\n  In Noroway but twae,\nWhen that the lords o' Noroway\n  Began aloud to say--\n\n\"Ye Scotsmen spend a' our King's gowd,\n  And a' our Queenis fee.\"\n\"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud,\n  Sae loud's I hear ye lie!\n\n\"For I brouct as mickle white monie,\n  As gane my men and me,\nAnd a half-fou o' the gude red gold,\n  Out owre the sea wi' me.\n\n\"Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a',\n  Our gude ship sails the morn.\"\n\"Now ever alack, my master dear,\n  I fear a deadly storm.\n\n\"I saw the new moon late yestreen,\n  Wi' the auld moon in her arm;\nAnd I fear, I fear, my master dear,\n  That we sall come to harm!\"\n\nThey hadna sail'd a league, a league,\n  A league but barely three,\nWhen the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,\n  And gurly grew the sea.\n\nThe ropes they brak, and the top-masts lap,\n  It was sic a deadly storm;\nAnd the waves cam' o'er the broken ship,\n  Till a' her sides were torn.\n\n\"O whaur will I get a gude sailor\n  Will tak' the helm in hand,\nUntil I win to the tall top-mast,\n  And see if I spy the land?\"\n\n\"It's here am I, a sailor gude,\n  Will tak' the helm in hand,\nTill ye win to the tall top-mast,\n  But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land.\"\n\nHe hadna gane a step, a step,\n  A step but barely ane,\nWhen a bolt flew out of the gude ship's side,\n  And the saut sea it cam' in.\n\n\"Gae, fetch a web of the silken claith,\n  Anither o' the twine,\nAnd wap them into the gude ship's side,\n  And let na the sea come in.\"\n\nThey fetched a web o' the silken claith,\n  Anither o' the twine,\nAnd they wapp'd them into that gude ship's side,\n  But aye the sea cam' in.\n\nO laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords\n  To weet their cock-heeled shoon,\nBut lang ere a' the play was o'er\n  They wat their hats abune.\n\nO laith, laith were our gude Scots lords\n  To weet their milk-white hands,\nBut lang ere a' the play was played\n  They wat their gouden bands.\n\nO lang, lang may the ladies sit,\n  Wi' their fans into their hand,\nOr ever they see Sir Patrick Spens\n  Come sailing to the land.\n\nO lang, lang may the maidens sit,\n  Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair,\nA' waiting for their ain dear loves,\n  For them they'll see nae mair.\n\nHalf owre, half owre to Aberdour,\n  It's fifty fathom deep,\nAnd there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,\n  Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE BATTLE OF OTTERBURNE.\n\nIt fell about the Lammas tide,\n  When muirmen win their hay,\nThat the doughty Earl of Douglas rade\n  Into England to fetch a prey.\n\nAnd he has ta'en the Lindsays light,\n  With them the Gordons gay;\nBut the Jardines wad not with him ride,\n  And they rue it to this day.\n\nThen they hae harried the dales o' Tyne,\n  And half o' Bambrough-shire,\nAnd the Otter-dale they burned it haill,\n  And set it a' on fire.\n\nThen he cam' up to New Castel,\n  And rade it round about:\n\"O who is the lord of this castel,\n  Or who is the lady o't?\"\n\nBut up and spake Lord Percy then,\n  And O but he spake hie:\n\"It's I am the lord of this castel,\n  My wife is the lady gay.\"\n\n\"If thou'rt the lord of this castel,\n  Sae weel it pleases me!\nFor ere I cross the Border fell,\n  The tane of us shall dee.\"--\n\nHe took a lang spear in his hand,\n  Shod with the metal free;\nAnd forth to meet the Douglas then,\n  He rade richt furiouslie.\n\nBut O how pale his lady looked\n  Frae aff the castle wa',\nAs doun before the Scottish spear\n  She saw proud Percy fa'!\n\n\"Had we twa been upon the green,\n  And never an eye to see,\nI wad hae had you, flesh and fell,\n  But your sword shall gae wi' me.\"\n\n\"Now gae up to the Otterburne,\n  And bide there dayis three,\nAnd gin I come not ere they end,\n  A fause knight ca' ye me!\"\n\n\"The Otterburne is a bonnie burn,\n  'Tis pleasant there to be;\nBut there is nought at Otterburne\n  To feed my men and me.\n\n\"The deer rins wild on hill and dale,\n  The birds fly wild frae tree to tree;\nBut there is neither bread nor kale,\n  To fend my men and me.\n\n\"Yet I will stay at the Otterburne,\n  Where you shall welcome be;\nAnd, if ye come not at three dayis end,\n  A fause lord I'll ca' thee.\"\n\n\"Thither will I come,\" Earl Percy said,\n  By the might of our Ladye!\"\n\"There will I bide thee,\" said the Douglas,\n  \"My troth I plight to thee!\"\n\nThey lichted high on Otterburne,\n  Upon the bent sae broun;\nThey lichted high on Otterburne,\n  And pitched their pallions doun.\n\nAnd he that had a bonnie boy,\n  He sent his horse to grass;\nAnd he that had not a bonnie boy,\n  His ain servant he was.\n\nThen up and spake a little boy,\n  Was near of Douglas' kin--\n\"Methinks I see an English host\n  Come branking us upon!\n\n\"Nine wargangs beiring braid and wide,\n  Seven banners beiring high;\nIt wad do any living gude,\n  To see their colours fly!\"\n\n\"If this be true, my little boy,\n  That thou tells unto me,\nThe brawest bower o' the Otterburne\n  Sall be thy morning fee.\n\n\"But I hae dreamed a dreary dream,\n  Ayont the Isle o' Skye,--\nI saw a deid man win a fight,\n  And I think that man was I.\"\n\nHe belted on his gude braid-sword,\n  And to the field he ran;\nBut he forgot the hewmont strong,\n  That should have kept his brain.\n\nWhen Percy wi' the Douglas met,\n  I wot he was fu' fain:\nThey swakkit swords, and they twa swat,\n  Till the blude ran down like rain.\n\nBut Percy wi' his gude braid-sword,\n  That could sae sharply wound,\nHas wounded Douglas on the brow,\n  That he fell to the ground.\n\nAnd then he called his little foot-page,\n  And said--\"Run speedilie,\nAnd fetch my ae dear sister's son,\n  Sir Hugh Montgomerie.\n\n\"My nephew gude!\" the Douglas said,\n  \"What recks the death of ane?\nLast night I dreamed a dreary dream,\n  And ken the day's thy ain!\n\n\"My wound is deep; I fain wad sleep!\n  Tak' thou the vanguard o' the three,\nAnd bury me by the bracken bush,\n  That grows on yonder lily lea.\n\n\"O bury me by the bracken bush,\n  Beneath the blumin' brier;\nLet never living mortal ken\n  That a kindly Scot lies here!\"\n\nHe lifted up that noble lord,\n  Wi' the saut tear in his e'e;\nAnd he hid him by the bracken bush,\n  That his merry men might not see.\n\nThe moon was clear, the day drew near,\n  The spears in flinders flew;\nAnd many a gallant Englishman\n  Ere day the Scotsmen slew.\n\nThe Gordons gay, in English blude\n  They wat their hose and shoon;\nThe Lindsays flew like fire about,\n  Till a' the fray was dune.\n\nThe Percy and Montgomery met,\n  That either of other was fain;\nThey swakkit swords, and sair they swat,\n  And the blude ran down between.\n\n\"Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy!\" he said,\n  Or else I will lay thee low!\"\n\"To whom maun I yield,\" Earl Percy said,\n  \"Since I see that it maun be so?\"\n\n\"Thou shalt not yield to lord or loun,\n  Nor yet shalt thou yield to me;\nBut yield thee to the bracken-bush\n  That grows on yonder lily lea!\"\n\nThis deed was done at the Otterburne\n  About the breaking o' the day;\nEarl Douglas was buried at the bracken bush,\n  And the Percy led captive away.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT.\n\nTHE FIRST FIT.\n\nThe Pers\u00e8 owt off Northombarlande,\n  And a vowe to God mayd he,\nThat he wold hunte in the mountayns\n  Off Chyviat within days thre,\nIn the mauger of dought\u00e8 Dogles,\n  And all that ever with him be.\n\nThe fattiste hartes in all Cheviat\n  He sayd he wold kill, and cary them away:\n\"Be my feth,\" sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn,\n  \"I wyll let that hontyng, yf that I may.\"\n\nThen the Pers\u00e8 owt of Banborowe cam,\n  With him a myghtye meany;\nWith fifteen hondrith archares bold;\n  The wear chosen owt of shyars thre.\n\nThis begane on a monday at morn,\n  In Cheviat the hillys so he;\nThe chyld may rue that ys un-born,\n  It was the mor pitt\u00e8.\n\nThe dryvars thorowe the wood\u00e8s went,\n  For to reas the dear;\nBomen byckarte uppone the bent\n  With ther browd aras cleare.\n\nThen the wyld thorowe the wood\u00e8s went,\n  On every syd\u00e8 shear;\nGrea-hondes thorowe the grevis glent,\n  For to kyll thear dear.\n\nThe begane in Chyviat the hyls above,\n  Yerly on a monnynday;\nBe that it drewe to the oware off none,\n  A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.\n\nThe blewe a mort uppone the bent,\n  The semblyd on sydis shear;\nTo the quyrry then the Pers\u00e8 went\n  To se the bryttlynge off the deare.\n\nHe sayd, \"It was the Duglas promys\n  This day to meet me hear;\nBut I wyste he wold faylle, verament:\"\n  A gret oth the Pers\u00e8 swear.\n\nAt the laste a squyar of Northombelonde\n  Lokyde at his hand full ny;\nHe was war ath the doughetie Doglas comynge,\n  With him a myght\u00e8 meany;\n\nBoth with spear, byll, and brande;\n  Yt was a myghti sight to se;\nHardyar men both off hart nar hande\n  Wear not in Christiant\u00e8.\n\nThe wear twenty hondrith spear-men good,\n  Withowt\u00e8 any fayle;\nThe wear borne along be the watter a Twyde,\n  Yth bowndes of Tividale.\n\n\"Leave off the brytlyng of the dear,\" he sayde,\n  \"And to your bowys lock ye tayk good heed;\nFor never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne\n  Had ye never so mickle need.\"\n\nThe dougheti Dogglas on a stede\n  He rode aft his men beforne;\nHis armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;\n  A bolder barne was never born.\n\n\"Tell me what men ye ar,\" he says,\n  \"Or whos men that ye be:\nWho gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays,\nIn the spyt of me?\"\n\nThe first mane that ever him an answear mayd,\n  Yt was the good lord Pers\u00e8:\nWe wyll not tell the what men we ar,\" he says,\n  \"Nor whos men that we be;\nBut we wyll hount hear in this chays,\n  In the spyt of thyne and of the.\n\n\"The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat\n  We have kyld, and cast to carry them a-way:\n\"Be my troth,\" sayd the dought\u00e8 Dogglas agayn,\n  \"Ther-for the ton of us shall de this day.\"\n\nThen sayd the dought\u00e8 Doglas\n  Unto the lord Pers\u00e8:\n\"To kyll all thes giltles men,\n  Alas, it were great pitte!\n\n\"But, Pers\u00e8, thowe art a lord of lande,\n  I am a yerle callyd within my contr\u00e8;\nLet all our men uppone a parti stande,\n  And do the battell off the and of me.\"\n\n\"Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne,\" sayd the lord Pers\u00e8,\n  \"Whosoever ther-to says nay;\nBe my troth, dought\u00e8 Doglas,\" he says,\n  \"Thow shalt never se that day.\n\n\"Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France,\n  Nor for no man of a woman born,\nBut, and fortune be my chance,\n  I dar met him, on man for on.\"\n\nThen bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde,\n  Richard Wytharynton was him nam;\n\"It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde,\" he says,\n  \"To kyng Herry the fourth for sham.\n\n\"I wat youe byn great lordes twaw,\n  I am a poor squyar of lande;\nI wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde,\n  And stande myselffe, and looke on,\nBut whyll I may my weppone welde,\n  I wyll not ffayll both hart and hande.\"\n\nThat day, that day, that dredfull day!\n  The first fit here I fynde;\nAnd youe wyll here any mor a' the hountyng a'\n    the Chyviat,\nYet ys ther mor behynd.\n\n\nTHE SECOND FIT.\n\nThe Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent,\n  Ther hartes were good yenoughe;\nThe first off arros that the shote off,\n  Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.\n\nYet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent,\n  A captayne good yenoughe,\nAnd that was sene verament,\n  For he wrought hom both woo and wouche.\n\nThe Dogglas pertyd his ost in thre,\n  Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde,\nWith suar speares off myghtt\u00e8 tre,\n  The cum in on every syde:\n\nThrughe our Yngglishe archery\n  Gave many a wounde full wyde;\nMany a doughete the garde to dy,\n  Which ganyde them no pryde.\n\nThe Yngglyshe men let thear bowys be,\n  And pulde owt brandes that wer bright;\nIt was a hevy syght to se\n  Bryght swordes on basnites lyght.\n\nThrorowe ryche male and myneyeple,\n  Many sterne the stroke downe streght;\nMany a freyke, that was full fre,\n  Ther undar foot dyd lyght.\n\nAt last the Duglas and the Pers\u00e8 met,\n  Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;\nThe swapte togethar tyll the both swat,\n  With swordes that wear of fyn myll\u00e0n,\n\nThes worth\u00e8 freckys for to fyght,\n  Ther-to the wear full fayne,\nTyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente,\n  As ever dyd heal or rayne.\n\n\"Holde the, Pers\u00e8,\" sayd the Doglas,\n  \"And i' feth I shall the brynge\nWher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis\n  Of Jamy our Scottish kynge.\n\n\"Thoue shalte have thy ranson fre,\n  I hight the hear this thinge,\nFor the manfullyste man yet art thowe,\n  That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" sayd the lord Pers\u00e8,\n  \"I tolde it the beforne,\nThat I wolde never yeldyde be\n  To no man of woman born.\"\n\nWith that ther cam an arrowe hastely\n  Forthe off a myghtte wane;\nHit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas\n  In at the brest bane.\n\nThoroue lyvar and longs bathe\n  The sharp arrowe ys gane,\nThat never after in all his lyffe-days,\n  He spayke mo wordes but ane:\nThat was, \"Fyghte ye, my merry men, whyllys ye may,\n  For my lyff-days ben gan.\"\n\nThe Pers\u00e8 leanyde on his brande,\n  And sawe the Duglas de;\nHe tooke the dede man be the hande,\n  And sayd, \"Wo ys me for the!\n\n\"To have savyde thy lyffe I wolde have pertyde with\n  My landes for years thre,\nFor a better man, of hart nare of hande,\n  Was not in all the north contr\u00e8.\"\n\nOff all that se a Skottishe knyght,\n  Was callyd Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry;\nHe sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght,\n  He spendyd a spear, a trust! tre:--\n\nHe rod uppon a corsiare\n  Throughe a hondrith archery:\nHe never styntyde, nar never blane,\n  Tyll he cam to the good lord Pers\u00e8.\n\nHe set uppone the lord Pers\u00e8\n  A dynte that was full soare;\nWith a suar spear of a myghtt\u00e8 tre\n  Clean thorow the body he the Pers\u00e8 bore,\n\nA' the tother syde that a man myght se\n  A large cloth yard and mare:\nTowe bettar captayns wear nat in Christiant\u00e8,\n  Then that day slain wear ther.\n\nAn archar off Northomberlonde\n  Say slean was the lord Pers\u00e8;\nHe bar a bende-bowe in his hande,\n  Was made off trusti tre.\n\nAn arow, that a cloth yarde was lang,\n  To th' hard stele halyde he;\nA dynt that was both sad and soar,\n  He sat on Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry.\n\nThe dynt yt was both sad and sar,\n  That he on Mongonberry sete;\nThe swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar,\n  With his hart-blood the wear wete.\n\nTher was never a freake wone foot wolde fle,\n  But still in stour dyd stand,\nHeawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre,\n  With many a balful brande.\n\nThis battell begane in Chyviat\n  An owar befor the none,\nAnd when even-song bell was rang,\n  The battell was nat half done.\n\nThe tooke on ethar hand\n  Be the lyght off the mone;\nMany hade no strenght for to stande,\n  In Chyviat the hillys aboun.\n\nOf fifteen hondrith archars of Yonglonde\n  Went away but fifti and thre;\nOf twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde,\nBut even five and fifti:\n\nBut all wear slayne Cheviat within;\n  The hade no strengthe to stand on hie;\nThe chylde may rue that ys unborne,\n  It was the mor pitt\u00e8.\n\nThear was slayne with the lord Pers\u00e8\n  Sir John of Agerstone,\nSir Rogar the hinde Hartly,\n  Sir Wyllyam the bolde Hearone.\n\nSir Jorg the worth\u00e8 Lovele,\n  A knyght of great renowen,\nSir Raff the ryche Rugb\u00e8,\n  With dyntes wear beaten dowene.\n\nFor Wetharryngton my harte was wo,\n  That ever he slayne shulde be;\nFor when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,\n  Yet he knyled and fought on hys kne.\n\nTher was slayne with the dougheti Douglas,\n  Sir Hewe the Mongonbyrry,\nSir Davye Lwdale, that worth\u00e8 was,\n  His sistars son was he:\n\nHis Charls a Murr\u00e8 in that place,\n  That never a foot wolde fle;\nSir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was,\n  With the Duglas dyd he dey.\n\nSo on the morrowe the mayde them byears\n  Off birch and hasell so gray;\nMany wedous with wepyng tears\n  Cam to fach ther makys away.\n\nTivydale may carpe off care,\n  Northombarlond may mayk grat mon,\nFor towe such captayns as slayne wear thear,\n  On the march perti shall never be non.\n\nWord ys commen to Eddenburrowe,\n  To Jamy the Skottishe kyng,\nThat dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Merches,\n  He lay slean Chyviot with-in.\n\nHis handdes dyd he weal and wryng,\n He sayd, \"Alas, and woe ys me!\n\"Such an othar captayn Skotland within,\"\n He sayd, \"y-feth shall never be.\"\n\nWorde ys commyn to lovly Londone,\n  Till the fourth Harry our kyng,\nThat lord Pers\u00e8, lyffe-tennante of the Merchis,\n  He lay slayne Chyviat within.\n\n\"God have merci on his soil,\" sayd kyng Harry,\n  \"Good lord, yf thy will it be!\nI have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde,\" he sayd,\n  \"As good as ever was hee:\nBut Pers\u00e8, and I brook my lyffe,\n  Thy deth well quyte shall be.\"\n\nAs our noble kyng mayd his a-vowe,\n  Lyke a noble prince of renowen,\nFor the deth of the lord Pers\u00e8\n  He dyde the battell of Hombyll-down:\n\nWher syx and thritt\u00e8 Skottishe knyghtes\n  On a day wear beaten down;\nGlendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght,\n  Over castill, towar, and town.\n\nThis was the Hontynge off the Cheviat;\n  That tear begane this spurn:\nOld men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe,\n  Call it the Battell of Otterburn.\n\nAt Otterburn began this spurne\n  Uppon a monnynday:\nTher was the dougght\u00e8 Doglas slean,\n  The Pers\u00e8 never went away.\n\nTher was never a tym on the March partes\n  Sen the Doglas and the Pers\u00e8 met,\nBut yt was marvele, and the redde blude ronne not,\n  As the reane doys in the stret.\n\nJhesue Christ our balys bete,\n  And to the blys us brynge!\nThus was the Hountynge of the Chevyat:\n  God send us all good endyng.\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nEDOM O' GORDON.\n\nIt fell about the Martinmas,\n  When the wind blew shrill and cauld,\nSaid Edom o' Gordon to his men,\n  \"We maun draw to a hauld.\n\n\"And whatna hauld sall we draw to,\n  My merry men and me?\nWe will gae to the house o' the Rodes,\n  To see that fair ladie.\"\n\nThe ladie stude on her castle wa',\n  Beheld baith dale and down,\nThere she was ware of a host of men\n  Were riding towards the town.\n\n\"O see ye not, my merry men a',\n  O see ye not what I see?\nMethinks I see a host of men--\n  I marvel what they be.\"\n\nShe ween'd it had been ner ain dear lord\n  As he cam' riding hame;\nIt was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon,\n  Wha recked nor sin nor shame.\n\nShe had nae suner buskit hersell,\n  Nor putten on her goun,\nTill Edom o' Gordon and his men\n  Were round about the toun.\n\nThey had nae suner supper set,\n  Nor suner said the grace,\nTill Edom o' Gordon and his men\n  Were light about the place.\n\nThe ladie ran to her tower head,\n  As fast as she could hie,\nTo see if, by her fair speeches,\n  She could with him agree.\n\n\"Come doun to me, ye ladye gay,\n  Come doun, come doun to me;\nThis nicht sall ye lie within my arms,\n  The morn my bride sall be.\"\n\n\"I winna come doun, ye fause Gordon,\n  I winna come doun to thee;\nI winna forsake my ain dear lord,\n  That is sae far frae me.\"\n\n\"Gie owre your house, ye ladie fair,\n  Gie owre your house to me;\nOr I sail burn yoursell therein,\n  But and your babies three.\"\n\n\"I winna gie owre, ye false Gordon,\n  To nae sic traitor as thee;\nAnd if ye burn my ain dear babes,\n  My lord sall mak' ye dree!\n\n\"But reach my pistol, Glaud, my man,\n  And charge ye weel my gun;\nFor, but an I pierce that bludy butcher,\n  We a' sall be undone.\"\n\nShe stude upon the castle wa',\n  And let twa bullets flee;\nShe miss'd that bludy butcher's heart,\n  And only razed his knee.\n\n\"Set fire to the house!\" quo' the false Gordon,\n  All wude wi' dule and ire;\n\"False ladie! ye sail rue that shot,\n  As ye burn in the fire.\"\n\n\"Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man!\n  I paid ye weel your fee;\nWhy pu' ye out the grund-wa-stane,\n  Lets in the reek to me?\n\n\"And e'en wae worth ye, Jock, my man!\n  I paid ye weel your hire;\nWhy pu' ye out my grund-wa-stane,\n  To me lets in the fire?\"\n\n\"Ye paid me weel my hire, lady,\n  Ye paid me weel my fee;\nBut now I'm Edom o' Gordon's man,\n  Maun either do or die.\"\n\nO then bespake her youngest son,\n  Sat on the nourice' knee;\nSays, \"Mither dear, gie owre this house,\n  For the reek it smothers me.\"\n\n\"I wad gie a' my gowd, my bairn,\n  Sae wad I a' my fee,\nFor ae blast o' the westlin' wind,\n  To blaw the reek frae thee!\"\n\nO then bespake her daughter dear--\n  She was baith jimp and sma'--\n\"O row me in a pair o' sheets,\n  And tow me owre the wa'.\"\n\nThey rowed her in a pair o' sheets,\n  And towed her owre the wa';\nBut on the point o' Gordon's spear\n  She gat a deadly fa'.\n\nO bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,\n  And cherry were her cheeks;\nAnd clear, clear was her yellow hair,\n  Whereon the red blude dreeps.\n\nThen wi' his spear he turned her owre,\n  O gin her face was wan!\nHe said, \"You are the first that e'er\n  I wish'd alive again.\"\n\nHe turned her owre and owre again,\n  O gin her skin was white!\n\"I might hae spared that bonnie face,\n  To hae been some man's delight.\n\n\"Busk and boun, my merry men a',\n  For ill dooms I do guess;\nI canna look on that bonnie face,\n  As it lies on the grass!\"\n\n\"Wha looks to freits, my master deir,\n  It's freits will follow them;\nLet it ne'er be said that Edom o' Gordon\n  Was dauntit by a dame.\"\n\nBut when the lady saw the fire\n  Come flaming owre her head,\nShe wept, and kiss'd her children twain,\n  Says, \"Bairns, we been but dead.\"\n\nThe Gordon then his bugle blew,\n  And said, \"Awa', awa';\nThe house o' the Rodes is a' in a flame,\n  I hold it time to ga'.\"\n\nO then bespied her ain dear lord,\n  As he came owre the lee;\nHe saw his castle all in a lowe,\n  Sae far as he could see.\n\n\"Put on, put on, my wichty men,\n  As fast as ye can dri'e;\nFor he that is hindmost of the thrang,\n  Shall ne'er get gude o' me!\"\n\nThen some they rade, and some they ran,\n  Fu' fast out-owre the bent;\nBut ere the foremost could win up,\n  Baith lady and babes were brent.\n\nHe wrang his hands, he rent his hair,\n  And wept in teenfu' mood;\n\"Ah, traitors! for this cruel deed,\n  Ye shall weep tears of blude.\"\n\nAnd after the Gordon he has gane,\n  Sae fast as he might dri'e,\nAnd soon i' the Gordon's foul heart's blude,\n  He's wroken his fair ladie.\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nKINMONT WILLIE.\n\nO have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde?\n  O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope?\nHow they hae ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie,\n  On Haribee to hang him up?\n\nHad Willie had but twenty men,\n  But twenty men as stout as he,\nFause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en,\n  Wi' eight score in his companie.\n\nThey band his legs beneath the steed,\n  They tied his hands behind his back;\nThey guarded him, fivesome on each side,\n  And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.\n\nThey led him thro' the Liddel-rack,\n  And also thro' the Carlisle sands;\nThey brought him on to Carlisle castle,\n  To be at my Lord Scroope's commands.\n\n\"My hands are tied, but my tongue is free,\n  And wha will dare this deed avow?\nOr answer by the Border law?\n  Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?\"\n\n\"Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver!\n  There's never a Scot shall set thee free:\nBefore ye cross my castle yate\n  I trow ye shall take farewell o' me.\"\n\n\"Fear ye na that, my lord,\" quo' Willie:\n  \"By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroope,\" he said,\n\"I never yet lodged in a hostelrie,\n  But I paid my lawing before I gaed.\"\n\nNow word is gane to the bauld keeper,\n  In Branksome Ha', where that he lay,\nThat Lord Scroope has ta'en the Kinmont Willie,\n  Between the hours of night and day.\n\nHe has ta'en the table wi' his hand,\n  He garr'd the red wine spring on hie,\n\"Now a curse upon my head,\" he said,\n  \"But aveng\u00e8d of Lord Scroope I'll be!\n\n\"O is my basnet a widow's curch?\n  Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree?\nOr my arm a lady's lily hand,\n  That an English lord should lightly me?\n\n\"And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,\n  Against the truce of Border tide,\nAnd forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch\n  Is Keeper here on the Scottish side?\n\n\"And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,\n  Withouten either dread or fear,\nAnd forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch\n  Can back a steed, or shake a spear?\n\n\"O were there war between the lands,\n  As well I wot that there is nane,\nI would slight Carlisle castle high,\n  Though it were builded of marble stane.\n\n\"I would set that castle in a low,\n  And sloken it with English blood!\nThere's never a man in Cumberland\n  Should ken where Carlisle castle stood.\n\n\"But since nae war's between the lands,\n  And there is peace, and peace should be,\nI'll neither harm English lad or lass,\n  And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!\"\n\nHe has called him forty Marchmen bauld,\n  I trow they were of his ain name,\nExcept Sir Gilbert Elliot, called\n  The Laird of Stobs, I mean the same.\n\nHe has called him forty Marchmen bauld,\n  Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch;\nWith spur on heel, and splent on spauld,\n  And gluves of green, and feathers blue.\n\nThere were five and five before them a',\n  Wi' hunting horns and bugles bright:\nAnd five and five cam' wi' Buccleuch,\n  Like warden's men, arrayed for fight.\n\nAnd five and five, like masons gang,\n  That carried the ladders lang and hie;\nAnd five and five like broken men;\n  And so they reached the Woodhouselee.\n\nAnd as we crossed the 'Bateable Land,\n  When to the English side we held,\nThe first o' men that we met wi',\n  Wha sould it be but fause Sakelde?\n\n\"Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?\"\n  Quo' fause Sakelde; \"come tell to me!\"\n\"We go to hunt an English stag,\n  Has trespassed on the Scots countrie.\"\n\n\"Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?\"\n  Quo' fause Sakelde; \"come tell me true!\"\n\"We go to catch a rank reiver,\n  Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch.\"\n\n\"Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads,\n  Wi' a' your ladders lang and hie?\"\n\"We gang to herry a corbie's nest,\n  That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.\"\n\n\"Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?\"\n  Quo' fause Sakelde; \"come tell to me!\"\nNow Dickie of Dryhope led that band,\n  And the nevir a word of lear had he.\n\n\"Why trespass ye on the English side?\n  Row-footed outlaws, stand!\" quo' he;\nThe nevir a word had Dickie to say,\n  Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie.\n\nThen on we held for Carlisle toun,\n  And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we crossed,\nThe water was great and meikle of spait,\n  But the never a horse nor man we lost.\n\nAnd when we reached the Staneshaw-bank,\n  The wind was rising loud and hie;\nAnd there the Laird garr'd leave our steeds,\n  For fear that they should stamp and neigh.\n\nAnd when we left the Staneshaw-bank,\n  The wind began full loud to blaw;\nBut 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet,\n  When we cam' beneath the castle wa'.\n\nWe crept on knees, and held our breath,\n  Till we placed the ladders agin the wa';\nAnd sae ready was Buccleuch himsell\n  To mount the first before us a'.\n\nHe has ta'en the watchman by the throat,\n  He flung him down upon the lead:\n\"Had there not been peace between our lands,\n  Upon the other side thou hadst gaed!\n\n\"Now sound out, trumpets!\" quo' Buccleuch;\n  \"Let's waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!\"\nThen loud the warden's trumpet blew--\n  O wha, dare meddle wi' me?\n\nThen speedilie to wark we gaed,\n  And raised the slogan ane and a',\nAnd cut a hole through a sheet of lead,\n  And so we wan to the castle ha'.\n\nThey thought King James and a' his men\n  Had won the house wi' bow and spear;\nIt was but twenty Scots and ten,\n  That put a thousand in sic a stear!\n\nWi' coulters, and wi' forehammers,\n  We garr'd the bars bang merrilie,\nUntil we cam' to the inner prison,\n  Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie.\n\nAnd when we cam' to the lower prison,\n  Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie,--\n\"O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,\n  Upon the morn that thou's to die?\"\n\n\"O I sleep saft, and I wake aft;\n  It's lang since sleeping was fley'd frae me;\nGie my service back to my wife and bairns,\n  And a' gude fellows that spier for me.\"\n\nThen Red Rowan has hente him up,\n  The starkest man in Teviotdale,--\n\"Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,\n  Till of my Lord Scroope I tak' farewell.\n\n\"Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope!\n  My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!\" he cried:\n\"I'll pay you for my lodging maill,\n  When first we meet on the Border side.\"\n\nThen shoulder high, with shout and cry,\n  We bore him doun the ladder lang;\nAt every stride Red Rowan made,\n  I wot the Kinmont's aims played clang\n\n\"O mony a time,\" quo' Kinmont Willie,\n  \"I have ridden horse baith wild and wood;\nBut a rougher beast than Red Rowan\n  I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode.\n\n\"And mony a time,\" quo' Kinmont Willie,\n  I've pricked a horse out oure the furs;\nBut since the day I backed a steed,\n  I never wore sic cumbrous spurs.\"\n\nWe scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,\n  When a' the Carlisle bells were rung,\nAnd a thousand men on horse and foot\n  Cam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along.\n\nBuccleuch has turned to Eden Water,\n  Even where it flowed frae bank to brim,\nAnd he has plunged in wi' a' his band,\n  And safely swam them through the stream.\n\nHe turned him on the other side,\n  And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he:\n\"If ye like na my visit in merry England,\n  In fair Scotland come visit me!\"\n\nAll sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,\n  He stood as still as rock of stane;\nHe scarcely dared to trew his eyes,\n  When through the water they had gane.\n\n\"He is either himsell a devil frae hell,\n  Or else his mither a witch maun be;\nI wadna hae ridden that wan water\n  For a' the gowd in Christentie.\"\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nKING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTEBBURY.\n\nAn ancient story Ile tell you anon\nOf a notable prince, that was called King John;\nHe ruled over England with maine and with might,\nFor he did great wrong, and mainteined little right.\n\nAnd Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,\nConcerning the Abbot of Canterburye;\nHow for his housekeeping and high renowne,\nThey rode poste for him to fair London towne.\n\nA hundred men, for the king did hear say,\nThe abbot kept in his house every day;\nAnd fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,\nIn velvet coates waited the abbot about.\n\n\"How now, father abbot? I heare it of thee,\nThou keepest a farre better house than mee;\nAnd for thy housekeeping and high renowne,\nI feare thou work'st treason against my crown.\"\n\n\"My liege,\" quo' the abbot, \"I would it were knowne,\nI never spend nothing but what is my owne;\nAnd I trust your grace will doe me no deere,\nFor spending of my owne true-gotten geere.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, father abbot, thy faulte it is highe,\nAnd now for the same thou needest must dye;\nAnd except thou canst answer me questions three,\nThy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.\n\n\"And first,\" quo' the king, \"when I'm in this stead,\nWith my crown of golde so faire on my head,\nAmong all my liegemen so noble of birthe,\nThou must tell to one penny what I am worthe.\n\n\"Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,\nHow soon I may ride the whole world about;\nAnd at the third question thou must not shrink,\nBut tell me here truly, what I do think?\"\n\n\"O, these are deep questions for my shallow witt,\nNor I cannot answer your grace as yet:\nBut if you will give me but three weekes space,\nI'll do my endeavor to answer your grace.\"\n\n\"Now three weekes space to thee will I give,\nAnd that is the longest thou hast to live;\nFor unless thou answer my questions three,\nThy life and thy lands are forfeit to mee.\"\n\nAway rode the abbot all sad at this word;\nAnd he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;\nBut never a doctor there was so wise,\nThat could with his learning an answer devise.\n\nThen home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold,\nAnd he mett his shepheard a going to fold:\n\"How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;\nWhat newes do you bring us from good king John?\"\n\n\"Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give;\nThat I have but three days more to live;\nFor if I do not answer him questions three,\nMy head will be smitten from my bodie.\n\n\"The first is to tell him, there in that stead,\nWith his crowne of golde so fair on his head,\nAmong all his liege men so noble of birth,\nTo within one penny of what he is worth.\n\n\"The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,\nHow soone he may ride this whole world about;\nAnd at the third question I must not shrinke,\nBut tell him there trulye what he does thinke.\"\n\n\"Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,\nThat a fool he may learne a wise man witt?\nLend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,\nAnd Ile ride to London to answers your quarrel.\n\n\"Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,\nI am like your lordship, as ever may bee;\nAnd if you will but lend me your gowne,\nThere is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.\"\n\n\"Now horses and serving men thou shalt have,\nWith sumptuous array most gallant and brave;\nWith crosier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,\nFit to appear 'fore our fader the pope.\"\n\n\"Now welcome, sire abbot,\" the king he did say,\n\"'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day;\nFor and if thou canst answer my questions three,\nThy life and thy living both saved shall bee.\n\n\"And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,\nWith my crown of golde so faire on my head,\nAmong all my liege men so noble of birthe,\nTell me to one penny what I am worth.\"\n\n\"For thirty pence our Savior was sold\nAmonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told;\nAnd twenty-nine is the worth of thee,\nFor I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee.\"\n\nThe king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,\n\"I did not think I had been worth so littel!\n--Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,\nHow soone I may ride this whole world about.\"\n\n\"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,\nUntil the next morning he riseth againe;\nAnd then your grace need not make any doubt,\nBut in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.\"\n\nThe king lie laughed, and swore \"by St. Jone,\nI did not think it could be gone so soone!\n--Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,\nBut tell me here truly what I do thinke.\"\n\n\"Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:\nYou thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury;\nBut I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,\nThat am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.\"\n\nThe king he laughed, and swore \"by the masse,\nIle make thee lord abbot this day in his place!\"\n\"Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede;\nFor alacke I can neither write ne reade.\"\n\n\"Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,\nFor this merry jest thou hast shown unto mee;\nAnd tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,\nThou hast brought him a pardon from good king John.\"\n\n       *       *       *        *        *\n\n\nROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE WIDOW'S THREE SONS.\n\nThere are twelve months in all the year,\nAs I hear many say,\nBut the merriest month in all the year\nIs the merry month of May.\n\nNow Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone,\n_With a link a down and a day,_\nAnd there he met a silly old woman,\nWas weeping on the way.\n\n\"What news? what news, thou silly old woman?\n  What news hast thou for me?\"\nSaid she, \"There's my three sons in Nottingham town\n  To-day condemned to die.\"\n\n\"O, have they parishes burnt?\" he said,\n  \"Or have they ministers slain?\nOr have they robbed any virgin?\n  Or other men's wives have ta'en?\"\n\n\"They have no parishes burnt, good sir,\n  Nor yet have ministers slain,\nNor have they robbed any virgin,\n  Nor other men's wives have ta'en.\"\n\n\"O, what have they done?\" said Robin Hood,\n  \"I pray thee tell to me.\"\n\"It's for slaying of the king's fallow-deer,\n  Bearing their long bows with thee.\"\n\n\"Dost thou not mind, old woman,\" he said,\n  \"How thou madest me sup and dine?\nBy the truth of my body,\" quoth bold Robin Hood,\n  \"You could not tell it in better time.\"\n\nNow Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone,\n  _With a link a down and a day_,\nAnd there he met with a silly old palmer,\n  Was walking along the highway.\n\n\"What news? what news, thou silly old man?\n  What news, I do thee pray?\"\nSaid he, \"Three squires in Nottingham town\n  Are condemned to die this day.\"\n\n\"Come change thy apparel with me, old man,\n  Come change thy apparel for mine;\nHere is forty shillings in good silv\u00e8r,\n  Go drink it in beer or wine.\"\n\n\"O, thine apparel is good,\" he said,\n  \"And mine is ragged and torn;\nWherever you go, wherever you ride,\n  Laugh ne'er an old man to scorn.\"\n\n\"Come change thy apparel with me, old churl,\n  Come change thy apparel with mine;\nHere are twenty pieces of good broad gold,\n  Go feast thy brethren with wine.\"\n\nThen he put on the old man's hat,\n  It stood full high on the crown:\n\"The first bold bargain that I come at,\n  It shall make thee come down.\"\n\nThen he put on the old man's cloak,\n  Was patched black, blew, and red;\nHe thought it no shame all the day long,\n  To wear the bags of bread.\n\nThen he put on the old man's breeks,\n  Was patched from leg to side:\n\"By the truth of my body,\" bold Robin can say,\n  \"This man loved little pride.\"\n\nThen he put on the old man's hose,\n  Were patched from knee to wrist:\n\"By the truth of my body,\" said bold Robin Hood,\n  \"I'd laugh if I had any list.\"\n\nThen he put on the old man's shoes,\n  Were patched both beneath and aboon;\nThen Robin Hood swore a solemn oath,\n  \"It's good habit that makes a man.\"\n\nNow Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone,\n  _With a link a down and a down,_\nAnd there he met with the proud sheriff,\n  Was walking along the town.\n\n\"O Christ you save, O sheriff!\" he said;\n  \"O Christ you save and see!\nAnd what will you give to a silly old man\n  To-day will your hangman be?\"\n\n\"Some suits, some suits,\" the sheriff he said,\n  \"Some suits I'll give to thee;\nSome suits, some suits, and pence thirteen,\n  To-day's a hangman's fee.\"\n\nThen Robin he turns him round about,\n  And jumps from stock to stone:\n\"By the truth of my body,\" the sheriff he said,\n  \"That's well jumpt, thou nimble old man.\"\n\n\"I was ne'er a hangman in all my life,\n  Nor yet intends to trade;\nBut curst be he,\" said bold Robin,\n  \"That first a hangman was made!\n\n\"I've a bag for meal, and a bag for malt,\n  And a bag for barley and corn;\nA bag for bread, and a bag for beef,\n  And a bag for my little small horn.\n\n\"I have a horn in my pocket,\n  I got it from Robin Hood,\nAnd still when I set it to my mouth,\n  For thee it blows little good.\"\n\n\"O, wind thy horn, thou proud fellow,\n  Of thee I have no doubt.\nI wish that thou give stich a blast,\n  Till both thy eyes fall out.\"\n\nThe first loud blast that he did blow,\n  He blew both loud and shrill;\nA hundred and fifty of Robin Hood's men\n  Came riding over the hill.\n\nThe next loud blast that he did give,\n  He blew both loud and amain,\nAnd quickly sixty of Robin Hood's men\n  Came shining over the plain.\n\n\"O, who are these,\" the sheriff he said,\n  \"Come tripping over the lee?\"\n\"They're my attendants,\" brave Robin did say;\n  \"They'll pay a visit to thee.\"\n\nThey took the gallows from the slack,\n  They set it in the glen,\nThey hanged the proud sheriff on that,\n  Released their own three men.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nROBIN HOOD AND ALLIN A DALE.\n\nCome listen to me, you gallants so free,\n  All you that love mirth for to hear,\nAnd I will tell you of a bold outlaw,\n  That lived in Nottinghamshire.\n\nAs Robin Hood in the forest stood,\n  All under the green-wood tree,\nThere he was aware of a brave young man,\n  As fine as fine might be.\n\nThe youngster was cloathed in scarlet red,\n  In scarlet fine and gay;\nAnd he did frisk it over the plain,\n  And chanted a roundelay.\n\nAs Robin Hood next morning stood,\n  Amongst the leaves so gay,\nThere did he espy the same young man\n  Come drooping along the way.\n\nThe scarlet he wore the day before,\n  It was clean cast away;\nAnd at every step he fetcht a sigh,\n  \"Alack and a well a day!\"\n\nThen stepped forth brave Little John,\n  And Midge the miller's son,\nWhich made the young man bend his bow,\n  When as he see them come.\n\n\"Stand off, stand off,\" the young man said,\n  \"What is your will with me?\"\n\"You must come before our master straight,\n  Under yon green-wood tree.\"\n\nAnd when he came bold Robin before,\n  Robin askt him courteously,\n\"O hast thou any money to spare\n  For my merry men and me?\"\n\n\"I have no money,\" the young man said,\n  \"But five shillings and a ring;\nAnd that I have kept this seven long years,\n  To have it at my wedding.\n\n\"Yesterday I should have married a maid,\n  But she is now from me tane,\nAnd chosen to be an old knight's delight,\n  Whereby my poor heart is slain.\"\n\n\"What is thy name?\" then said Robin Hood,\n  \"Come tell me, without any fail:\"\n\"By the faith of my body,\" then said the young man,\n  \"My name it is Allin a Dale.\"\n\n\"What wilt thou give me,\" said Robin Hood,\n  \"In ready gold or fee,\nTo help thee to thy true love again,\n  And deliver her unto thee?\"\n\n\"I have no money,\" then quoth the young man,\n  \"No ready gold nor fee,\nBut I will swear upon a book\n  Thy true servant for to be.\"\n\n\"How many miles is it to thy true love?\n  Come tell me without any guile:\"\n\"By the faith of my body,\" then said the young man,\n  \"It is but five little mile.\"\n\nThen Robin he hasted over the plain,\n  He did neither stint nor lin,\nUntil he came unto the church,\n  Where Allin should keep his wedding.\n\n\"What hast thou here?\" the bishop he said,\n  \"I prithee now tell unto me:\"\n\"I am a bold harper,\" quoth Robin Hood,\n  \"And the best in the north country.\"\n\n\"O welcome, O welcome,\" the bishop he said,\n  \"That musick best pleaseth me;\"\n\"You shall have no musick,\" quoth Robin Hood,\n  \"Till the bride and the bridegroom I see.\"\n\nWith that came in a wealthy knight,\n  Which was both grave and old,\nAnd after him a finikin lass,\n  Did shine like the glistering gold.\n\n\"This is not a fit match,\" quoth bold Robin Hood,\n  \"That you do seem to make here;\nFor since we are come into the church,\n  The bride shall chuse her own dear.\"\n\nThen Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth,\n  And blew blasts two or three;\nWhen four and twenty bowmen bold\n  Came leaping over the lee.\n\nAnd when they came into the church-yard,\n  Marching all on a row,\nThe first man was Allin a Dale,\n  To give bold Robin his bow.\n\n\"This is thy true love,\" Robin he said,\n  \"Young Allin, as I hear say;\nAnd you shall be married at this same time,\n  Before we depart away.\"\n\n\"That shall not be,\" the bishop he said,\n  \"For thy word shall not stand;\nThey shall be three times askt in the church,\n  As the law is of our land.\"\n\nRobin Hood pulld off the bishop's coat,\n  And put it upon Little John;\n\"By the faith of my body,\" then Robin said,\n  \"This cloath does make thee a man.\"\n\nWhen Little John went into the quire,\n  The people began for to laugh;\nHe askt them seven times in the church,\n  Lest three times should not be enough.\n\n\"Who gives me this maid?\" then said Little John;\n  Quoth Robin Hood, \"That do I,\nAnd he that takes her from Allin, a Dale\n  Full dearly he shall her buy.\"\n\nAnd thus having ende of this merry wedding,\n  The bride lookt like a queen,\nAnd so they returned to the merry green-wood,\n  Amongst the leaves so green.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nROBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND BURIAL.\n\nWhen Robin Hood and Little John,\n  _Down a down, a down, a down,_\n  Went o'er yon bank of broom,\nSaid Robin Hood to Little John,\n  \"We have shot for many a pound:\"\n  _Hey down, a down, a down._\n\n\"But I am not able to shoot one shot more,\n  My arrows will not flee;\nBut I have a cousin lives down below,\n  Please God, she will bleed me.\"\n\nNow Robin is to fair Kirkley gone,\n  As fast as he can win;\nBut before he came there, as we do hear,\n  He was taken very ill.\n\nAnd when that he came to fair Kirkley-hall,\n  He knocked all at the ring,\nBut none was so ready as his cousin herself\n  For to let bold Robin in.\n\n\"Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin,\" she said,\n  \"And drink some beer with me?\"\n\"No, I will neither eat nor drink,\n  Till I am blooded by thee.\"\n\n\"Well, I have a room, cousin Robin,\" she said,\n  \"Which you did never see,\nAnd if you please to walk therein,\n  You blooded by me shall be.\"\n\nShe took him by the lily-white hand,\n  And led him to a private room,\nAnd there she blooded bold Robin Hood,\n  Whilst one drop of blood would run.\n\nShe blooded him in the vein of the arm,\n  And locked him up in the room;\nThere did he bleed all the livelong day,\n  Untilt the next day at noon.\n\nHe then bethought him of a casement door,\n  Thinking for to be gone;\nHe was so weak he could not leap,\n  Nor he could not get down.\n\nHe then bethought him of his bugle-horn,\n  Which hung low down to his knee;\nHe set his horn unto his mouth,\n  And blew out weak blasts three.\n\nThen Little John, when hearing him,\n  As he sat under the tree,\n\"I fear my master is near dead,\n  He blows so wearily.\"\n\nThen Little John to fair Kirkley is gone,\n  As fast as he can dri'e;\nBut when he came to Kirkley-hall,\n  He broke locks two or three:\n\nUntilt he came bold Robin to,\n  Then he fell on his knee:\n\"A boon, a boon,\" cries Little John,\n  \"Master, I beg of thee.\"\n\n\"What is that boon,\" quoth Robin Hood,\n  \"Little John, thou begs of me?\"\n\"It is to burn fair Kirkley-hall,\n  And all their nunnery.\"\n\n\"Now nay, now nay,\" quoth Robin Hood,\n  \"That boon I'll not grant thee;\nI never hurt woman in all my life,\n  Nor man in woman's company.\n\n\"I never hurt fair maid in all my time,\n  Nor at my end shall it be;\nBut give me my bent bow in my hand,\n  And a broad arrow I'll let flee;\nAnd where this arrow is taken up,\n  There shall my grave digg'd be.\n\n\"Lay me a green sod under my head,\n  And another at my feet;\nAnd lay my bent bow by my side,\n  Which was my music sweet;\nAnd make my grave of gravel and green,\n  Which is most right and meet.\n\n\"Let me have length and breadth enough,\n  With under my head a green sod;\nThat they may say, when I am dead,\n  Here lies bold Robin Hood.\"\n\nThese words they readily promised him,\n  Which did bold Robin please;\nAnd there they buried bold Robin Hood,\n  Near to the fair Kirkleys.\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nROMANTIC AND DOMESTIC BALLADS.\n\n\nANNIE OF LOCHROYAN.\n\n\"O wha will shoe my bonny feet?\n  Or wha will glove my hand?\nOr wha will lace my middle jimp,\n  Wi' a new-made London band?\n\n\"And wha will kame my yellow hair,\n  Wi' a new-made siller kame?\nAnd wha will be my bairn's father,\n  Till love Gregory come haine?\"\n\n\"Your father'll shoe your bonny feet,\n  Your mother glove your hand;\nYour sister lace your middle jimp,\n  Wi' a new-made London band;\n\n\"Mysel' will kame your yellow hair\n  Wi' a new-made siller kame;\nAnd the Lord will be the bairn's father\n  Till Gregory come hame.\"\n\n\"O gin I had a bonny ship,\n  And men to sail wi' me,\nIt's I wad gang to my true lore,\n  Sin' he winna come to me!\"\n\nHer father's gi'en her a bonny ship,\n  And sent her to the strand;\nShe's ta'en her young son in her arms,\n  And turn'd her back to land.\n\nShe hadna been on the sea sailing,\n  About a month or more,\nTill landed has she her bonny ship,\n  Near to her true love's door.\n\nThe night was dark, an' the wind was cauld,\n  And her love was fast asleep,\nAnd the bairn that was in her twa arms,\n  Fu' sair began to greet.\n\nLang stood she at her true love's door\n  And lang tirl'd at the pin;\nAt length up gat his fause mother,\n  Says, \"Wha's that wad be in?\"\n\n\"O it is Annie of Lochroyan,\n  Your love, come o'er the sea,\nBut and your young son in her arms,\n  Sae open the door to me.\"\n\n\"Awa, awa, ye ill woman,\n  Ye're nae come here for gude;\nYe're but a witch, or a vile warlock,\n  Or mermaiden o' the flood!\"\n\n\"I'm nae a witch, nor vile warlock,\n  Nor mermaiden,\" said she;\n\"But I am Annie of Lochroyan;\n  O open the door to me!\"\n\n\"O gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan,\n  As I trow not you be,\nNow tell me some o' the love-tokens\n  That pass'd 'tween thee and me.\"\n\n\"O dinna ye mind, love Gregory,\n  When we sate at the wine,\nHow we chang'd the napkins frae our necks,\n  It's no sae lang sinsyne?\n\n\"And yours was gude, and gude eneugh,\n  But nae sae gude as mine;\nFor yours was o' the cambrick clear,\n  But mine o' the silk sae fine.\n\n\"And dinna ye mind, love Gregory,\n  As we twa sate at dine,\nHow we chang'd the rings frae our fingers,\n  And I can show thee thine?\n\n\"And yours was gude, and gude eneugh,\n  Yet nae sae gude as mine;\nFor yours was o' the gude red gold,\n  But mine o' the diamonds fine.\n\n\"Sae open the door, love Gregory,\n  And open it wi' speed;\nOr your young son, that is in my arms,\n  For cauld will soon be dead!\"\n\n\"Awa, awa, ye ill woman,\n  Gae frae my door for shame;\nFor I hae gotten anither fair love,\n  Sae ye may hie ye hame!\"\n\n\"O hae ye gotten anither fair love,\n  For a' the oaths ye sware?\nThen fare ye weel, fause Gregory,\n  For me ye'se never see mair!\"\n\nO hooly, hooly gaed she back,\n  As the day began to peep;\nShe set her foot on gude ship board,\n  And sair, sair did she weep.\n\n\"Tak down, tak down that mast o' gowd,\n  Set up the mast o' tree;\nIll sets it a forsaken lady\n  To sail sae gallantlie!\"\n\nLove Gregory started frae his sleep,\n  And to his mother did say;\n\"I dream'd a dream this night, mither,\n  That maks my heart right wae.\n\n\"I dream'd that Annie of Lochroyan,\n  The flower of a' her kin,\nWas standing mournin' at iny door,\n  But nane wad let her in.\"\n\n\"Gin it be for Annie of Lochroyan,\n  That ye mak a' this din;\nShe stood a' last night at your door,\n  But I trow she wan na in!\"\n\n\"O wae betide ye, ill woman!\n  An ill deid may ye die,\nThat wadna open the door to her,\n  Nor yet wad waken me!\"\n\nO quickly, quickly raise he up,\n  And fast ran to the strand;\nAnd then he saw her, fair Annie,\n  Was sailing frae the land.\n\nAnd it's \"Hey Annie!\" and \"How Annie!\n  O Annie, winna ye bide?\"\nBut aye the mair that he cried \"Annie!\"\n  The faster ran the tide.\n\nAnd it's \"Hey Annie!\" and \"How Annie!\n  O Annie, speak to me!\"\nBut aye the louder that he cried \"Annie!\"\n  The higher raise the sea.\n\nThe wind grew loud, and the sea grew rough,\n  And the ship was rent in twain;\nAnd soon he saw her, fair Annie,\n  Come floating through the faem.\n\nHe saw his young son in her arms,\n  Baith toss'd abune the tide;\nHe wrang his hands, and fast he ran,\n  And plunged in the sea sae wide.\n\nHe catch'd her by the yellow hair,\n  And drew her to the strand;\nBut cauld and stiff was every limb,\n  Afore he reach'd the land.\n\nO first he kiss'd her cherry cheek,\n  And syne he kiss'd her chin,\nAnd sair he kiss'd her bonny lips,\n  But there was nae breath within.\n\nAnd he has mourn'd o'er fair Annie,\n  Till the sun was ganging down,\nSyne wi' a sigh his heart it brast,\n  And his soul to heaven has flown.\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nLORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET.\n\nLord Thomas and fair Annet\n  Sat a' day on a hill,\nWhen night was come, and the sun was set,\n  They had na talk'd their fill.\n\nLord Thomas said a word in jest,\n  Fair Annet took it ill;\n\"O I will never wed a wife,\n  Against my ain friends' will\"\n\n\"Gif ye will never wed a wife,\n  A wife will ne'er wed ye.\"\nSae he is hame to tell his mither,\n  And kneel'd upon his knee.\n\n\"O rede, O rede, mither,\" he says,\n  \"A gude rede gie to me;\nO sall I tak' the nut-brown bride,\n  And let fair Annet be?\"\n\n\"The nut-brown bride has gowd and gear,\n  Fair Annet she's gat nane,\nAnd the little beauty fair Annet has,\n  O it will soon be gane.\"\n\nAnd he has to his brither gane;\n  \"Now, brither, rede ye me,\nO sall I marry the nut-brown bride,\n  And let fair Annet be?\"\n\n\"The nut-brown bride has owsen, brither,\n  The nut-brown bride has kye;\nI wad hae you marry the nut-brown bride,\n  And cast fair Annet by.\"\n\n\"Her owsen may dee in the house, billie,\n  And her kye into the byre,\nAnd I sall hae naething to mysel,\n  But a fat fadge by the fire.\"\n\nAnd he has to his sister gane;\n  \"Now, sister, rede to me;\nO sall I marry the nut-brown bride,\n  And set fair Annet free?\"\n\n\"I'se rede ye tak' fair Annet, Thomas,\n  And let the brown bride alane,\nLest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace,\n  What is this we brought hame?\"\n\n\"No! I will tak' my mither's counsel,\n  And marry me out o' hand;\nAnd I will tak' the nut-brown bride,\n  Fair Annet may leave the land.\"\n\nUp then rose fair Annet's father,\n  Twa hours or it were day,\nAnd he has gane into the bower,\n  Wherein fair Annet lay.\n\n\"Rise up, rise up, fair Annet,\" he says,\n  \"Put on your silken sheen,\nLet us gae to Saint Marie's kirk,\n  And see that rich weddin'.\"\n\n\"My maids, gae to my dressing-room\n  And dress to me my hair,\nWhere'er ye laid a plait before,\n  See ye lay ten times mair.\n\n\"My maids, gae to my dressing-room\n  And dress to me my smock,\nThe ae half is o' the holland fine,\n  The ither o' needle-work.\"\n\nThe horse fair Annet rade upon,\n  He amblit like the wind,\nWi' siller he was shod before,\n  Wi' burning gowd behind.\n\nFour-and-twenty siller bells,\n  Were a' tied to his mane,\nWi' ae tift o' the norlan' wind,\n  They tinkled ane by ane.\n\nFour-and-twenty gay gude knights,\n  Rade by fair Annet's side,\nAnd four-and-twenty fair ladies,\n  As gin she had been a bride.\n\nAnd when she cam' to Marie's kirk,\n  She sat on Marie's stane;\nThe cleiding that fair Annet had on,\n  It skinkled in their e'en.\n\nAnd when she cam' into the kirk,\n  She skimmer'd like the sun;\nThe belt that was about her waist,\n  Was a' wi' pearls bedone.\n\nShe sat her by the nut-brown bride,\n  And her e'en they were sae clear,\nLord Thomas he clean forgot the bride,\n  When fair Annet drew near.\n\nHe had a rose into his hand,\n  He gave it kisses three,\nAnd reaching by the nut-brown bride,\n  Laid it on Annet's knee.\n\nUp then spak' the nut-brown bride,\n  She spak' wi' meikle spite;\n\"Where gat ye that rose-water, Annet,\n  That does mak' ye sae white?\"\n\n\"O I did get the rose-water,\n  Where ye'll get never nane,\nFor I did get that rose-water,\n  Before that I was born.\n\n\"Where I did get that rose-water,\n  Ye'll never get the like;\nFor ye've been washed in Dunnie's well,\n  And dried on Dunnie's dyke.\n\n\"Tak' up and wear your rose, Thomas,\n  And wear't wi' meikle care;\nFor the woman sall never bear a son\n  That will mak' my heart sae sair.\"\n\nWhen night was come, and day was gane,\n  And a' men boune to bed,\nLord Thomas and the nut-brown bride\n  In their chamber were laid.\n\nThey were na weel lyen down,\n  And scarcely fa'en asleep,\nWhen up and stands she, fair Annet,\n  Just at Lord Thomas' feet.\n\n\"Weel bruik ye o' your nut-brown bride,\n  Between ye and the wa';\nAnd sae will I o' my winding-sheet,\n  That suits me best of a'.\n\n\"Weel bruik ye o' your nut-brown bride,\n  Between ye and the stock;\nAnd sae will I o' my black, black kist,\n  That has neither key nor lock!\"\n\nLord Thomas rase, put on his claes,\n  Drew till him hose and shoon;\nAnd he is to fair Annet's bower,\n  By the lee light o' the moon.\n\nThe firsten bower that he cam' till,\n  There was right dowie wark;\nHer mither and her three sisters,\n  Were making fair Annet a sark.\n\nThe nexten bower that he cam' till\n  There was right dowie cheer;\nHer father and her seven brethren,\n  Were making fair Annet a bier.\n\nThe lasten bower that he cam' till,\n  O heavy was his care,\nThe deid candles were burning bright,\n  Fair Annet was streekit there.\n\n\"O I will kiss your cheek, Annet,\n  And I will kiss your chin;\nAnd I will kiss your clay-cauld lip,\n  But I'll ne'er kiss woman again.\n\n\"This day ye deal at Annet's wake,\n  The bread but and the wine;\nBefore the morn at twal' o'clock,\n  They'll deal the same at mine.\"\n\nThe tane was buried in Marie's kirk,\n  The tither in Marie's quire,\nAnd out o' the tane there grew a birk,\n  And out o' the tither a brier.\n\nAnd ay they grew, and ay they drew,\n  Until they twa did meet,\nAnd every ane that pass'd them by,\n  Said, \"Thae's been lovers sweet!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE BANKS O' YARROW.\n\nLate at e'en, drinking the wine,\n  And ere they paid the lawing,\nThey set a combat them between,\n  To fight it in the dawing.\n\n\"What though ye be my sister's lord,\n  We'll cross our swords to-morrow.\"\n\"What though my wife your sister be,\n  I'll meet ye then on Yarrow.\"\n\n\"O stay at hame, my ain gude lord!\n  O stay, my ain dear marrow!\nMy cruel brither will you betray\n  On the dowie banks o' Yarrow.\"\n\n\"O fare ye weel, my lady dear!\n  And put aside your sorrow;\nFor if I gae, I'll sune return\n  Frae the bonny banks o' Yarrow.\"\n\nShe kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair,\n  As oft she'd dune before, O;\nShe belted him wi' his gude brand,\n  And he's awa' to Yarrow.\n\nWhen he gaed up the Tennies bank,\n  As he gaed mony a morrow,\nNine armed men lay in a den,\n  On the dowie braes o' Yarrow.\n\n\"O come ye here to hunt or hawk\n  The bonny Forest thorough?\nOr come ye here to wield your brand\n  Upon the banks o' Yarrow?\"\n\n\"I come not here to hunt or hawk,\n  As oft I've dune before, O,\nBut I come here to wield my brand\n  Upon the banks o' Yarrow.\n\n\"If ye attack me nine to ane,\n  Then may God send ye sorrow!--\nYet will I fight while stand I may,\n  On the bonny banks o' Yarrow.\"\n\nTwo has he hurt, and three has slain,\n  On the bloody braes o' Yarrow;\nBut the stubborn knight crept in behind,\n  And pierced his body thorough.\n\n\"Gae hame, gae hame, you brither John,\n  And tell your sister sorrow,--\nTo come and lift her leafu' lord\n  On the dowie banks o' Yarrow.\"\n\nHer brither John gaed ower yon hill,\n  As oft he'd dune before, O;\nThere he met his sister dear,\n  Cam' rinnin' fast to Yarrow.\n\n\"I dreamt a dream last night,\" she says,\n  \"I wish it binna sorrow;\nI dreamt I pu'd the heather green\n  Wi' my true love on Yarrow.\"\n\n\"I'll read your dream, sister,\" he says,\n  \"I'll read it into sorrow;\nYe're bidden go take up your love,\n  He's sleeping sound on Yarrow.\"\n\nShe's torn the ribbons frae her head\n  That were baith braid and narrow;\nShe's kilted up her lang claithing,\n  And she's awa' to Yarrow.\n\nShe's ta'en him in her arms twa,\n  And gien him kisses thorough;\nShe sought to bind his mony wounds,\n  But he lay dead on Yarrow.\n\n\"O haud your tongue,\" her father says\n  \"And let be a' your sorrow;\nI'll wed you to a better lord\n  Than him ye lost on Yarrow.\"\n\n\"O haud your tongue, father,\" she says,\n  \"Far warse ye mak' my sorrow;\nA better lord could never be\n  Than him that lies on Yarrow.\"\n\nShe kissed his lips, she kaim'd his hair.\n  As oft she'd dune before, O;\nAnd there wi' grief her heart did break\n  Upon the banks o' Yarrow.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY\n\n\"Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas,\" she says,\n  \"And put on your armour so bright;\nLord William will hae Lady Margret awa\n  Before that it be light.\"\n\n\"Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons,\n  And put on your armour so bright,\nAnd take better care of your youngest sister,\n  For your eldest's awa the last night.\"\n\nHe's mounted her on a milk-white steed,\n  And himself on a dapple gray,\nWith a bugelet horn hung down by his side,\n  And lightly they rode away.\n\nLord William lookit o'er his left shoulder,\n  To see what he could see,\nAnd there he spy'd her seven brethren bold,\n  Come riding over the lee.\n\n\"Light down, light down, Lady Margret,\" he said,\n  \"And hold my steed in your hand,\nUntil that against your seven brethren bold,\n  And your father, I mak' a stand.\"\n\nShe held his steed in her milk-white hand,\n  And never shed one tear,\nUntil that she saw her seven brethren fa',\n  And her father hard fighting, who lov'd her so dear.\n\n\"O hold your hand, Lord William!\" she said,\n  \"For your strokes they are wondrous sair;\nTrue lovers I can get many a ane,\n  But a father I can never get mair.\"\n\nO she's ta'en out her handkerchief,\n  It was o' the holland sae fine,\nAnd aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds,\n  That were redder than the wine.\n\n\"O chuse, O chuse, Lady Margret,\" he said,\n  \"O whether will ye gang or bide?\"\n\"I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William,\" she said,\n  \"For ye have left me nae other guide.\"\n\nHe's lifted her on a milk-white steed,\n  And himself on a dapple gray,\nWith a bugelet horn hung down by his side,\n  And slowly they baith rade away.\n\nO they rade on, and on they rade,\n  And a' by the light of the moon,\nUntil they came to yon wan water,\n  And there they lighted down.\n\nThey lighted down to tak' a drink\n  Of the spring that ran sae clear,\nAnd down the stream ran his gude heart's blood,\n  And sair she gan to fear.\n\n\"Hold up, hold up, Lord William,\" she says,\n  \"For I fear that you are slain;\"\n\"'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak,\n  That shines in the water sae plain.\"\n\nO they rade on, and on they rade,\n  And a' by the light of the moon,\nUntil they cam' to his mother's ha' door,\n  And there they lighted down.\n\n\"Get up, get up, lady mother,\" he says,\n  \"Get up, and let me in!\nGet up, get up, lady mother,\" he says,\n  \"For this night my fair lady I've win.\n\n\"O mak' my bed, lady mother,\" he says,\n  \"O mak' it braid and deep,\nAnd lay Lady Margret close at my back,\n  And the sounder I will sleep.\"\n\nLord William was dead lang ere midnight,\n  Lady Margret lang ere day,\nAnd all true lovers that go thegither,\n  May they have mair luck than they!\n\nLord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk,\n  Lady Margret in Mary's quire;\nOut o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose,\n  And out o' the knight's a briar.\n\nAnd they twa met, and they twa plat,\n  And fain they wad be near;\nAnd a' the warld might ken right weel\n  They were twa lovers dear.\n\nBut by and rade the Black Douglas,\n  And wow but he was rough!\nFor he pull'd up the bonny briar,\n  And flang't in St. Mary's Loch.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nFINE FLOWERS I' THE VALLEY.\n\nThere were three sisters in a ha',\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nThere came three lords amang them a',\n  (The red, green, and the yellow.)\n\nThe first o' them was clad in red,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\n\"O lady, will ye be my bride?\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\nThe second o' them was clad in green,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\n\"O lady, will ye be my queen?\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\nThe third o' them was clad in yellow,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\n\"O lady, will ye be my marrow?\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n\"O ye maun ask my father dear,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nLikewise the mother that did me bear;\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n\"And ye maun ask my sister Ann,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nAnd not forget my brother John;\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n\"O I have ask'd thy father dear,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nLikewise the mother that did thee bear;\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n\"And I have ask'd your sister Ann,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nBut I forgot your brother John;\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\nNow when the wedding day was come,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nThe knight would take his bonny bride home,\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\nAnd mony a lord, and mony a knight,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nCam' to behold that lady bright,\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\nThere was nae man that did her see,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nBut wished himsell bridegroom to be,\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\nHer father led her down the stair,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nAnd her sisters twain they kiss'd her there;\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\nHer mother led her through the close,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nHer brother John set her on her horse;\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n\"You are high, and I am low,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nGive me a kiss before you go,\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\nShe was touting down to kiss him sweet,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nWhen wi' his knife he wounded her deep,\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\nShe hadna ridden through half the town,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nUntil her heart's blood stained her gown,\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n\"Ride saftly on,\" said the best young man,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\n\"I think our bride looks pale and wan!\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n\"O lead me over into yon stile,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nThat I may stop and breathe awhile,\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n\"O lead me over into yon stair,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nFor there I'll lie and bleed nae mair,\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n\"O what will you leave to your father dear?\"\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\n\"The siller-shod steed that brought me here,\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n\"What will you leave to your mother dear?\"\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\n\"My wedding shift which I do wear,\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n\"But she must wash it very clean,\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\nFor my heart's blood sticks in every seam.\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n\"What will you leave to your sister Ann?\"\n  (Pine flowers i' the valley;)\n\"My silken gown that stands its lane,\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n\"And what will you leave to your brother John?\"\n  (Fine flowers i' the valley;)\n\"The gates o' hell to let him in,\"\n  (Wi' the red, green, and the yellow.)\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE GAY GOSS-HAWK.\n\n\"O well is me, my gay goss-hawk,\n  That ye can speak and flee;\nFor ye shall carry a love-letter\n  To my true-love frae me.\n\n\"O how shall I your true-love find,\n  Or how should I her knaw?\nI bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,\nAn eye that ne'er her saw.\"\n\n\"O well shall you my true-love ken,\n  Sae soon as her ye see,\nFor of a' the flowers o' fair England,\n  The fairest flower is she.\n\n\"And when ye come to her castle,\n  Light on the bush of ash,\nAnd sit ye there, and sing our loves,\n  As she comes frae the mass.\n\n\"And when she goes into the house,\n  Light ye upon the whin;\nAnd sit ye there, and sing our loves,\n  As she gaes out and in.\"\n\nLord William has written a love-letter,\n  Put in under the wing sae grey;\nAnd the bird is awa' to southern land,\n  As fast as he could gae.\n\nAnd when he flew to that castle,\n  He lighted on the ash,\nAnd there he sat, and sang their loves,\n  As she came frae the mass.\n\nAnd when she went into the house,\n  He flew unto the whin;\nAnd there he sat, and sang their loves,\n  As she gaed out and in.\n\n\"Feast on, feast on, my maidens a',\n  The wine flows you amang,\nTill I gae to the west-window,\n  And hear a birdie's sang.\"\n\nShe's gane into the west-window,\n  And fainly aye it drew,\nAnd soon into her white silk lap\n  The bird the letter threw.\n\n\"Ye're bidden send your love a send,\n  For he has sent you three;\nAnd tell him where he can see you,\n  Or for your love he'll die.\"\n\n\"I send him the rings from my white fingers,\n  The garlands aff my hair,\nI send him the heart that's in my breast,\n  What would my love hae mair?\nAnd at the fourth kirk in fair Scotland,\n  Ye'll bid him meet me there.\"\n\nShe's gane until her father dear,\n  As fast as she could hie,\n\"An asking, an asking, my father dear,\n  An asking grant ye me!\nThat if I die in merry England,\n  In Scotland you'll bury me.\n\n\"At the first kirk o' fair Scotland,\n  Ye'll cause the bells be rung;\nAt the neist kirk o' fair Scotland\n  Ye'll cause the mass be sung.\n\n\"At the third kirk o' fair Scotland,\n  Ye'll deal the gowd for me;\nAt the fourth kirk o' fair Scotland,\n  It's there you'll bury me.\"\n\nShe has ta'en her to her bigly bower,\n  As fast as she could hie;\nAnd she has drapped down like deid,\n  Beside her mother's knee;\nThen out and spak' an auld witch-wife,\n  By the fire-side sate she.\n\nSays,--\"Drap the het lead on her cheek,\n  And drap it on her chin,\nAnd drap it on her rose-red lips,\n  And she will speak again;\nO meikle will a maiden do,\n  To her true love to win!\"\n\nThey drapt the het lead on her cheek,\n  They drapt it on her chin,\nThey drapt it on her rose-red lips,\n  But breath was nane within.\n\nThen up arose her seven brothers,\n  And made for her a bier;\nThe boards were of the cedar wood,\n  The plates o' silver clear.\n\nAnd up arose her seven sisters,\n  And made for her a sark;\nThe claith of it was satin fine,\n  The steeking silken wark.\n\nThe first Scots kirk that they cam' to,\n  They gar'd the bells be rung;\nThe neist Scots kirk that they cam' to,\n  They gar'd the mass be sung.\n\nThe third Scots kirk that they cam' to,\n  They dealt the gowd for her;\nThe fourth Scots kirk that they cam' to,\n  Her true-love met them there.\n\n\"Set down, set down the bier,\" he quoth,\n  Till I look on the dead;\nThe last time that I saw her face,\n  Her cheeks were rosy red.\"\n\nHe rent the sheet upon her face,\n  A little abune the chin;\nAnd fast he saw her colour come,\n  And sweet she smiled on him.\n\n\"O give me a chive of your bread, my love,\n  And ae drap o' your wine;\nFor I have fasted for your sake,\n  These weary lang days nine!\n\n\"Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brothers;\n  Gae hame an' blaw your horn!\nI trow ye wad hae gi'en me the skaith,\n  But I've gi'ed you the scorn.\n\n\"I cam' not here to fair Scotland,\n  To lie amang the dead;\nBut I cam' here to fair Scotland,\n  Wi' my ain true-love to wed.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nYOUNG REDIN.\n\nFair Catherine from her bower-window\n  Looked over heath and wood;\nShe heard a smit o' bridle-reins,\n  And the sound did her heart good.\n\n\"Welcome, young Redin, welcome!\n  And welcome again, my dear!\nLight down, light down from your horse,\" she\n  \"It's long since you were here.\"\n\n\"O gude morrow, lady, gude morrow, lady;\n  God mak' you safe and free!\nI'm come to tak' my last fareweel,\n  And pay my last visit to thee.\n\n\"I mustna light, and I canna light,\n  I winna stay at a';\nFor a fairer lady than ten of thee\n  Is waiting at Castleswa'.\"\n\n\"O if your love be changed, my dear,\n  Since better may not be,\nYet, ne'ertheless, for auld lang syne,\n  Bide this ae night wi' me.\"\n\nShe birl'd him wi' the ale and wine,\n  As they sat down to sup;\nA living man he laid him down,\n  But I wot he ne'er rose up.\n\n\"Now lie ye there, young Redin,\" she says,\n  \"O lie ye there till morn,--\nThough a fairer lady than ten of me\n  Is waiting till you come home!\n\n\"O lang, lang is the winter night,\n  Till day begins to daw;\nThere is a dead man in my bower,\n  And I would he were awa'.\"\n\nShe cried upon her bower-maiden,\n  Aye ready at her ca':\n\"There is a knight into my bower,\n  'Tis time he were awa'.\"\n\nThey've booted him and spurred him,\n  As he was wont to ride,\nA hunting-horn tied round his waist,\n  A sharp sword by his side;\nAnd they've flung him into the wan water,\n  The deepest pool in Clyde.\n\nThen up bespake a little bird\n  That sate upon the tree,\n\"Gae hame, gae hame, ye fause lady,\n  And pay your maid her fee.\"\n\n\"Come down, come down, my pretty bird,\n  That sits upon the tree;\nI have a cage of beaten gold,\n  I'll gie it unto thee.\"\n\n\"Gae hame, gae hame, ye fause lady;\n  I winna come down to thee;\nFor as ye have done to young Redin,\n  Ye'd do the like to me.\"\n\nO there came seeking young Redin\n  Mony a lord and knight,\nAnd there came seeking young Redin\n  Mony a lady bright.\n\nThey've called on Lady Catherine,\n  But she sware by oak and thorn\nThat she saw him not, young Redin,\n  Since yesterday at morn.\n\nThe lady turned her round about,\n  Wi' mickle mournfu' din:\n\"It fears me sair o' Clyde water\n  That he is drowned therein.\"\n\nThen up spake young Redin's mither,\n  The while she made her mane:\n\"My son kenn'd a' the fords o' Clyde,\n  He'd ride them ane by ane.\"\n\n\"Gar douk, gar douk!\" his father he cried,\n  \"Gar douk for gold and fee!\nO wha will douk for young Redin's sake,\n  And wha will douk for me?\"\n\nThey hae douked in at ae weil-head,\n  And out again at the ither:\n\"We'll douk nae mair for young Redin,\n  Although he were our brither.\"\n\nThen out it spake a little bird\n  That sate upon the spray:\n\"What gars ye seek him, young Redin,\n  Sae early in the day?\n\n\"Leave aff your douking on the day,\n  And douk at dark o' night;\nAboon the pool young Redin lies in,\n  The candles they'll burn bright.\"\n\nThey left aff their douking on the day,\n  They hae douked at dark o' night;\nAboon the pool where young Redin lay,\n  The candles they burned bright.\n\nThe deepest pool in a' the stream\n  They found young Redin in;\nWi' a great stone tied across his breast\n  To keep his body down.\n\nThen up and spake the little bird,\n  Says, \"What needs a' this din?\nIt was Lady Catherine took his life,\n  And hided him in the linn.\"\n\nShe sware her by the sun and moon,\n  She sware by grass and corn,\nShe hadna seen him, young Redin,\n  Since Monanday at morn.\n\n\"It's surely been my bower-woman,--\n  O ill may her betide!\nI ne'er wad hae slain my young Redin,\n  And thrown him in the Clyde.\"\n\nNow they hae cut baith fern and thorn,\n  The bower-woman to brin;\nAnd they hae made a big balefire,\n  And put this maiden in;\nBut the fire it took na on her cheek,\n  It took na on her chin.\n\nOut they hae ta'en the bower-woman,\n  And put her mistress in;\nThe flame took fast upon her cheek,\n  Took fast upon her chin,\nTook fast upon her fair bodie,\n  Because of her deadly sin.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nWILLIE AND MAY MARGARET.\n\nWillie stands in his stable,\n  A-clapping of his steed;\nAnd over his white fingers\n  His nose began to bleed.\n\n\"Gie corn to my horse, mither;\n  Gie meat unto my man;\nFor I maun gang to Margaret's bower,\n  Before the night comes on.\"\n\n\"O stay at home, my son Willie!\n  The wind blaws cold and stour;\nThe night will be baith mirk and late,\n  Before ye reach her bower.\"\n\n\"O tho' the night were ever sae dark,\n  O the wind blew never sae cauld,\nI will be in May Margaret's bower\n  Before twa hours be tauld.\"\n\n\"O bide this night wi' me, Willie,\n  O bide this night wi' me!\nThe bestan fowl in a' the roost\n  At your supper, my son, shall be.\"\n\n\"A' your fowls, and a' your roosts,\n  I value not a pin;\nI only care for May Margaret;\n  And ere night to her bower I'll win.\"\n\n\"O an ye gang to May Margaret\n  Sae sair against my will,\nIn the deepest pot o' Clyde's water\n  My malison ye's feel!\"\n\nHe mounted on his coal-black steed,\n  And fast he rade awa';\nBut ere he came to Clyde's water\n  Fu' loud the wind did blaw.\n\nAs he rade over yon hie hie hill,\n  And doun yon dowie den,\nThere was a roar in Clyde's water\n  Wad feared a hundred men.\n\nBut Willie has swam through Clyde's water,\n  Though it was wide and deep;\nAnd he came to May Margaret's door\n  When a' were fast asleep.\n\nO he's gane round and round about,\n  And tirled at the pin,\nBut doors were steeked and windows barred,\n  And nane to let him in.\n\n\"O open the door to me, Margaret!\n  O open and let me in!\nFor my boots are fu' o' Clyde's water,\n  And frozen to the brim.\"\n\n\"I daurna open the door to you,\n  I daurna let you in;\nFor my mither she is fast asleep,\n  And I maun mak' nae din.\"\n\n\"O gin ye winna open the door,\n  Nor be sae kind to me,\nNow tell me o' some out-chamber,\n  Where I this night may be.\"\n\n\"Ye canna win in this night, Willie,\n  Nor here ye canna be;\nFor I've nae chambers out nor in,\n  Nae ane but barely three.\n\n\"The tane is fu' to the roof wi' corn,\n  The tither is fu' wi' hay;\nThe third is fu' o' merry young men,\n  They winna remove till day.\"\n\n\"O fare ye weel, then, May Margaret,\n  Sin' better it mauna be.\nI have won my mither's malison,\n  Coming this night to thee.\"\n\nHe's mounted on his coal-black steed,\n  O but his heart was wae!\nBut e'er he came to Clyde's water,\n  'Twas half-way up the brae.\n\nWhen down he rade to the river-flood,\n  'Twas fast flowing ower the brim;\nThe rushing that was in Clyde's water\n  Took Willie's rod frae him.\n\nHe leaned him ower his saddle-bow\n  To catch his rod again;\nThe rushing that was in Clyde's water\n  Took Willie's hat frae him.\n\nHe leaned him ower his saddle-bow\n  To catch his hat by force;\nThe rushing that was in Clyde's water\n  Took Willie frae his horse.\n\nO I canna turn my horse's head;\n  I canna strive to sowm;\nI've gotten my mither's malison,\n  And it's here that I maun drown!\"\n\nThe very hour this young man sank\n  Into the pot sae deep,\nUp wakened his love, May Margaret,\n  Out of her heavy sleep.\n\n\"Come hither, come hither, my minnie dear,\n  Come hither read my dream;\nI dreamed my love Willie was at our gates,\n  And nane wad let him in.\"\n\n\"Lie still, lie still, dear Margaret,\n  Lie still and tak' your rest;\nYour lover Willie was at the gates,\n  'Tis but two quarters past.\"\n\nNimbly, nimbly rase she up,\n  And quickly put she on;\nWhile ever against her window\n  The louder blew the win'.\n\nOut she ran into the night,\n  And down the dowie den;\nThe strength that was in Clyde's water\n  Wad drown five hundred men.\n\nShe stepped in to her ankle,\n  She stepped free and bold;\n\"Ohone, alas!\" said that ladye,\n  \"This water is wondrous cold.\"\n\nThe second step that she waded,\n  She waded to the knee;\nSays she, \"I'd fain wade farther in,\n  If I my love could see.\"\n\nThe neistan step that she waded,\n  She waded to the chin;\n'Twas a whirlin' pot o' Clyde's water\n  She got sweet Willie in.\n\n\"O ye've had a cruel mither, Willie!\n  And I have had anither;\nBut we shall sleep in Clyde's water\n  Like sister and like brither.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nYOUNG BEICHAN.\n\nIn London was young Beichan born,\n  He longed strange countries for to see,\nBut he was ta'en by a savage Moor,\n  Who handled him right cruellie.\n\nFor he viewed the fashions of that land,\n  Their way of worship viewed he,\nBut to Mahound or Termagant\n  Would Beichan never bend a knee.\n\nSo in every shoulder they've putten a bore,\n  In every bore they've putten a tree,\nAnd they have made him trail the wine\n  And spices on his fair bodie.\n\nThey've casten him in a dungeon deep,\n  Where he could neither hear nor see,\nFor seven years they've kept him there,\n  Till he for hunger's like to dee.\n\nThis Moor he had but ae daughter,\n  Her name was called Susie Pye,\nAnd every day as she took the air,\n  Near Beichan's prison she passed by.\n\nAnd so it fell upon a day,\n  About the middle time of Spring,\nAs she was passing by that way,\n  She heard young Beichan sadly sing.\n\nAll night long no rest she got,\n  Young Beichan's song for thinking on;\nShe's stown the keys from her father's head,\n  And to the prison strang is gone.\n\nAnd she has opened the prison doors,\n  I wot she opened two or three,\nEre she could come young Beichan at,\n  He was locked up so curiouslie.\n\nBut when she cam' young Beichan till,\n  Sore wondered he that may to see;\nHe took her for some fair captive:\n  \"Fair lady, I pray, of what countrie?\"\n\n\"O have ye any lands,\" she said,\n  \"Or castles in your own countrie,\nThat ye could give to a lady fair,\n  From prison strang to set you free?\"\n\n\"Near London town I have a hall,\n  And other castles two or three;\nI'll give them all to the lady fair\n  That out of prison will set me free.\"\n\n\"Give me the truth of your right hand,\n  The truth of it give unto me,\nThat for seven years ye'll no lady wed,\n  Unless it be alang with me.\"\n\n\"I'll give thee the truth of my right hand,\n  The truth of it I'll freely gie,\nThat for seven years I'll stay unwed,\n  For the kindness thou dost show to me.\"\n\nAnd she has brib'd the proud warder,\n  Wi' mickle gold and white monie,\nShe's gotten the keys of the prison strang,\n  And she has set young Beichan free.\n\nShe's gi'en him to eat the good spice-cake,\n  She's gi'en him to drink the blude-red wine,\nShe's bidden him sometimes think on her,\n  That sae kindly freed him out o' pine.\n\nAnd she has broken her finger-ring,\n  And to Beichan half of it gave she:\n\"Keep it, to mind you in foreign land\n  Of the lady's love that set you free.\n\n\"And set your foot on good ship-board,\n  And haste ye back to your ain countrie,\nAnd before that seven years have an end,\n  Come back again, love, and marry me.\"\n\nBut lang ere seven years had an end,\n  She longed full sore her love to see,\nSo she's set her foot on good ship-board,\n  And turned her back on her ain countrie.\n\nShe sail\u00e8d east, she sail\u00e8d west,\n  Till to fair England's shore she came,\nWhere a bonny shepherd she espied,\n  Was feeding his sheep upon the plain.\n\n\"What news, what news, thou bonny shepherd?\n  What news hast thou to tell to me?\"\n\"Such news I hear, ladie,\" he says,\n  \"The like was never in this countrie.\n\n\"There is a wedding in yonder hall,\n  And ever the bells ring merrilie;\nIt is Lord Beichan's wedding-day\n  Wi' a lady fair o' high degree.\"\n\nShe's putten her hand into her pocket,\n  Gi'en him the gold and white monie;\n\"Hay, take ye that, my bonny boy,\n  All for the news thou tell'st to me.\"\n\nWhen she came to young Beichan's gate,\n  She tirl\u00e8d saftly at the pin;\nSo ready was the proud porter\n  To open and let this lady in.\n\n\"Is this young Beichan's hall,\" she said,\n  \"Or is that noble lord within?\"\n\"Yea, he's in the hall among them all,\n  And this is the day o' his weddin.\"\n\n\"And has he wed anither love?\n  And has he clean forgotten me?\"\nAnd sighin said that ladie gay,\n  \"I wish I were in my ain countrie.\"\n\nAnd she has ta'en her gay gold ring\n  That with her love she brake sae free;\nSays, \"Gie him that, ye proud porter,\n  And bid the bridegroom speak wi' me.\"\n\nWhen the porter came his lord before,\n  He kneeled down low upon his knee:\n\"What aileth thee, my proud porter,\n  Thou art so full of courtesie?\"\n\n\"I've been porter at your gates,\n  It's now for thirty years and three;\nBut the lovely lady that stands thereat,\n  The like o' her did I never see.\n\n\"For on every finger she has a ring,\n  And on her mid-finger she has three,\nAnd meikle gold aboon her brow.\n  Sae fair a may did I never see.\"\n\nIt's out then spak the bride's mother,\n  And an angry woman, I wot, was she:\n\"Ye might have excepted our bonny bride,\n  And twa or three of our companie.\"\n\n\"O hold your tongue, thou bride's mother,\n  Of all your folly let me be;\nShe's ten times fairer nor the bride,\n  And all that's in your companie.\n\n\"And this golden ring that's broken in twa,\n  This half o' a golden ring sends she:\n'Ye'll carry that to Lord Beichan,' she says,\n  'And bid him come an' speak wi' me.'\n\n\"She begs one sheave of your white bread,\n  But and a cup of your red wine,\nAnd to remember the lady's love\n  That last relieved you out of pine.\"\n\n\"O well-a-day!\" said Beichan then,\n  \"That I so soon have married me!\nFor it can be none but Susie Pye,\n  That for my love has sailed the sea.\"\n\nAnd quickly hied he down the stair;\n  Of fifteen steps he made but three;\nHe's ta'en his bonny love in his arms\n  And kist and kist her tenderlie.\n\n\"O hae ye ta'en anither bride?\n  And hae ye clean forgotten me?\nAnd hae ye quite forgotten her\n  That gave you life and libertie?\"\n\nShe lookit o'er her left shoulder,\n  To hide the tears stood in her ee:\n\"Now fare thee well, young Beichan,\" she says,\n  \"I'll try to think no more on thee.\"\n\n\"O never, never, Susie Pye,\n  For surely this can never be,\nNor ever shall I wed but her\n  That's done and dreed so much for me.\"\n\nThen out and spak the forenoon bride:\n  \"My lord, your love it changeth soon.\nThis morning I was made your bride,\n  And another chose ere it be noon.\"\n\n\"O hold thy tongue, thou forenoon bride,\n  Ye're ne'er a whit the worse for me,\nAnd whan ye return to your ain land,\n  A double dower I'll send with thee.\"\n\nHe's ta'en Susie Pye by the milkwhite hand,\n  And led her thro' the halls sae hie,\nAnd aye as he kist her red-rose lips,\n  \"Ye're dearly welcome, jewel, to me.\"\n\nHe's ta'en her by the milkwhite hand,\n  And led her to yon fountain-stane;\nHe's changed her name from Susie Pye,\n  And call'd her his bonny love, Lady Jane.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nGILDEROY.\n\nGilderoy was a bonnie boy,\n  Had roses till his shoon,\nHis stockings were of silken soy,\n  Wi' garters hanging doun:\nIt was, I ween, a comely sight,\n  To see sae trim a boy;\nHe was my joy and heart's delight,\n  My winsome Gilderoy.\n\nO sic twa charming e'en he had,\n  A breath as sweet as rose,\nHe never ware a Highland plaid,\n  But costly silken clothes;\nHe gained the love of ladies gay,\n  Nane e'er to him was coy;\nAh, wae is me! I mourn this day\n  For my dear Gilderoy.\n\nMy Gilderoy and I were born\n  Baith in one toun together,\nWe scant were seven years beforn\n  We 'gan to luve each ither;\nOur daddies and our mammies they\n  Were fill'd wi' meikle joy,\nTo think upon the bridal day\n  Of me and Gilderoy.\n\nFor Gilderoy, that luve of mine,\n  Gude faith, I freely bought\nA wedding sark of Holland fine,\n  Wi' dainty ruffles wrought;\nAnd he gied me a wedding-ring,\n  Which I received wi' joy;\nNae lad nor lassie e'er could sing\n  Like me and Gilderoy.\n\nWi' meikle joy we spent our prime,\n  Till we were baith sixteen,\nAnd aft we passed the langsam time\n  Amang the leaves sae green;\nAft on the banks we'd sit us there,\n  And sweetly kiss and toy;\nWi' garlands gay wad deck my hair\n  My handsome Gilderoy.\n\nO that he still had been content\n  Wi' me to lead his life!\nBut ah, his manfu' heart was bent\n  To stir in feats of strife.\nAnd he in many a venturous deed\n  His courage bold wad try;\nAnd now this gars my heart to bleed\n  For my dear Gilderoy.\n\nAnd when of me his leave he took,\n  The tears they wat mine e'e;\nI gied him sic a parting look:\n  \"My benison gang wi' thee!\nGod speed thee weel, my ain dear heart,\n  For gane is all my joy;\nMy heart is rent sith we maun part,\n  My handsome Gilderoy.\"\n\nThe Queen of Scots possess\u00e8d nought\n  That my luve let me want;\nFor cow and ewe he to me brought,\n  And e'en when they were scant:\nAll these did honestly possess,\n  He never did annoy\nWho never failed to pay their cess\n  To my luve Gilderoy.\n\nMy Gilderoy, baith far and near,\n  Was fear'd in every toun,\nAnd bauldly bare awa' the gear\n  Of many a lawland loun:\nFor man to man durst meet him nane,\n  He was sae brave a boy;\nAt length with numbers he was ta'en,\n  My winsome Gilderoy.\n\nWae worth the loun that made the laws,\n  To hang a man for gear;\nTo reive of life for sic a cause,\n  As stealing horse or mare!\nHad not these laws been made sae strick,\n  I ne'er had lost my joy,\nWi' sorrow ne'er had wat my cheek,\n  For my dear Gilderoy.\n\nGif Gilderoy had done amiss,\n  He might have banished been.\nAh, what sair cruelty is this,\n  To hang sic handsome men!\nTo hang the flower o' Scottish land,\n  Sae sweet and fair a boy!\nNae lady had so white a hand\n  As thee, my Gilderoy.\n\nOf Gilderoy sae 'fraid they were,\n  They bound him meikle strong,\nTo Edinburgh they took him there,\n  And on a gallows hung:\nThey hung him high aboon the rest,\n  He was sae trim a boy;\nThere died the youth whom I lo'ed best,\n  My handsome Gilderoy.\n\nSune as he yielded up his breath,\n  I bare his corpse away,\nWi' tears that trickled for his death,\n  I wash'd his comely clay;\nAnd sicker in a grave sae deep\n  I laid the dear-lo'ed boy;\nAnd now forever I maun weep\n  My winsome Gilderoy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nBONNY BARBARA ALLAN.\n\nIt was in and about the Martinmas time,\n  When the green leaves were a falling,\nThat Sir John Graeme, in the West Country,\n  Fell in love with Barbara Allan.\n\nHe sent his men down through the town,\n  To the place where she was dwelling:\n\"O haste and come to my master dear,\n  Gin ye be Barbara Allan.\"\n\nO hooly, hooly rose she up,\n  To the place where he was lying,\nAnd when she drew the curtain by,\n  \"Young man, I think you're dying.\"\n\n\"O it's I'm sick, and very, very sick,\n  And it's a' for Barbara Allan;\"\n\"O the better for me ye's never be,\n  Tho your heart's blood were a spilling.\n\n\"O dinna ye mind, young man,\" said she,\n  \"When ye was in the tavern a drinking,\nThat ye made the healths gae round and round,\n  And slighted Barbara Allan?\"\n\nHe turned his face unto the wall,\n  And death was with him dealing;\n\"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,\n  And be kind to Barbara Allan.\"\n\nAnd slowly, slowly raise she up,\n  And slowly, slowly left him,\nAnd sighing said, she could not stay,\n  Since death of life had reft him.\n\nShe had not gane a mile but twa,\n  When she heard the dead-bell ringing,\nAnd every jow that the dead-bell gied,\n  It cry'd, Woe to Barbara Allan!\n\n\"O mother, mother, make my bed!\n  O make it saft and narrow!\nSince my love died for me to-day,\n  I'll die for him to-morrow.\"\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nTHE GARDENER.\n\nThe gard'ner stands in his bower door,\n  Wi' a primrose in his hand,\nAnd by there cam' a leal maiden,\n  As jimp as a willow wand.\n\n\"O ladie, can ye fancy me,\n  For to be my bride?\nYe'se get a' the flowers in my garden,\n  To be to you a weed.\n\n\"The lily white sail be your smock;\n  It becomes your bodie best;\nYour head sail be buskt wi' gilly-flower,\n  Wi' the primrose in your breast.\n\n\"Your goun sall be the sweet-william;\n  Your coat the camovine;\nYour apron o' the sallads neat,\n  That taste baith sweet and fine.\n\n\"Your hose sall be the brade kail-blade,\n  That is baith brade and lang;\nNarrow, narrow at the cute,\n  And brade, brade at the brawn.\n\n\"Your gloves sail be the marigold,\n  All glittering to your hand,\nWeel spread owre wi' the blue blaewort,\n  That grows amang corn-land.\"\n\n\"O fare ye well, young man,\" she says,\n  \"Fareweil, and I bid adieu;\nIf you can fancy me,\" she says,\n  \"I canna fancy you.\n\n\"Sin' ye've provided a weed for me\n  Amang the simmer flowers,\nIt's I'se provide anither for you,\n  Amang the winter-showers:\n\n\"The new fawn snaw to be your smock;\n  It becomes your bodie best;\nYour head sall be wrapt wi' the eastern wind,\n  And the cauld rain on your breast.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nETIN THE FORESTER.\n\nLady Margaret sits in her bower door,\n  Sewing her silken seam;\nShe heard a note in Elmond's wood,\n  And wished she there had been.\n\nShe loot the seam fa' frae her side,\n  And the needle to her tae,\nAnd she is aff to Elmond's wood\n  As fast as she could gae.\n\nShe hadna pu'd a nut, a nut,\n  Nor broken a branch but ane,\nTill by there cam' a young hynd chiel,\n  Says, \"Lady, lat alane.\n\n\"O why pu' ye the nut, the nut,\n  Or why brake ye the tree?\nFor I am forester o' this wood:\n  Ye should spier leave at me.\"\n\n\"I'll spier leave at na living man,\n  Nor yet will I at thee;\nMy father is king o'er a' this realm,\n  This wood belangs to me.\"\n\n\"You're welcome to the wood, Marg'ret,\n  You're welcome here to me;\nA fairer bower than e'er you saw.\n  I'll bigg this night for thee.\"\n\nHe has bigged a bower beside the thorn,\n  He has fenced it up wi' stane,\nAnd there within the Elmond wood,\n  They twa has dwelt their lane.\n\nHe kept her in the Elmond wood,\n  For twelve lang years and mair;\nAnd seven fair sons to Hynd Etin,\n  Did that gay lady bear.\n\nIt fell out ance upon a day,\n  To the hunting he has gane;\nAnd he has ta'en his eldest son,\n  To gang alang wi' him.\n\nWhen they were in the gay greenwood,\n  They heard the mavis sing;\nWhen they were up aboon the brae,\n  They heard the kirk bells ring.\n\n\"O I wad ask ye something, father,\n  An' ye wadna angry be!\"\n\"Say on, say on, my bonny boy,\n  Ye'se nae be quarrell'd by me.\"\n\n\"My mither's cheeks are aft-times weet,\n  It's seldom they are dry;\nWhat is't that gars my mither greet,\n  And sob sae bitterlie?\"\n\n\"Nae wonder she suld greet, my boy,\n  Nae wonder she suld pine,\nFor it is twelve lang years and mair,\n  She's seen nor kith nor kin,\nAnd it is twelve lang years and mair,\n  Since to the kirk she's been.\n\n\"Your mither was an Earl's daughter,\n  And cam' o' high degree,\nAnd she might hae wedded the first in the land,\n  Had she nae been stown by me.\n\n\"For I was but her father's page,\n  And served him on my knee;\nAnd yet my love was great for her,\n  And sae was hers for me.\"\n\n\"I'll shoot the laverock i' the lift,\n  The buntin on the tree,\nAnd bring them to my mither hames\n  See if she'll merrier be.\"\n\nIt fell upon anither day,\n  This forester thought lang;\nAnd he is to the hunting gane\n  The forest leaves amang.\n\nWi' bow and arrow by his side,\n  He took his path alane;\nAnd left his seven young children\n  To bide wi' their mither at hame.\n\n\"O I wad ask ye something, mither,\n  An ye wadna angry be.\"\n\"Ask on, ask on, my eldest son;\n  Ask ony thing at me.\"\n\n\"Your cheeks are aft-times weet, mither;\n  You're greetin', as I can see.\"\n\"Nae wonder, nae wonder, my little son,\n  Nae wonder though I should dee!\n\n\"For I was ance an Earl's daughter,\n  Of noble birth and fame;\nAnd now I'm the mither o' seven sons\n  Wha ne'er gat christendame.\"\n\nHe's ta'en his mither by the hand,\n  His six brithers also,\nAnd they are on through Elmond-wood\n  As fast as they could go.\n\nThey wistna weel wha they were gaen,\n  And weary were their feet;\nThey wistna weel wha they were gaen,\n  Till they stopped at her father's gate.\n\n\"I hae nae money in my pocket,\n  But jewel-rings I hae three;\nI'll gie them to you, my little son,\n  And ye'll enter there for me.\n\n\"Ye'll gie the first to the proud porter,\n  And he will lat you in;\nYe'll gie the next to the butler-boy,\n  And he will show you ben.\n\n\"Ye'll gie the third to the minstrel\n  That's harping in the ha',\nAnd he'll play gude luck to the bonny boy\n  That comes frae the greenwood shaw.\"\n\nHe gied the first to the proud porter,\n  And he opened and lat him in;\nHe gied the next to the butler-boy,\n  And he has shown him ben;\n\nHe gied the third to the minstrel\n  Was harping in the ha',\nAnd he played gude luck to the bonny boy\n  That cam' frae the greenwood shaw.\n\nNow when he cam' before the Earl,\n  He louted on his knee;\nThe Earl he turned him round about,\n  And the saut tear blint his e'e.\n\n\"Win up, win up, thou bonny boy,\n  Gang frae my companie;\nYe look sae like my dear daughter,\n  My heart will burst in three!\"\n\n\"If I look like your dear daughter,\n  A wonder it is nane;\nIf I look like your dear daughter,\n  I am her eldest son.\"\n\n\"O tell me soon, ye little wee boy,\n  Where may my Margaret be?\"\n\"She's e'en now standing at your gates.\n  And my six brithers her wi'.\"\n\n\"O where are a' my porter-boys\n  That I pay meat and fee,\nTo open my gates baith braid and wide,\n  And let her come in to me?\"\n\nWhen she cam' in before the Earl,\n  She fell doun low on her knee:\n\"Win up, win up, my daughter dear;\n  This day ye'se dine wi' me.\"\n\n\"Ae bit I canna eat, father,\n  Ae drop I canna drink,\nTill I see Etin, my husband dear;\n  Sae lang for him I think!\"\n\n\"O where are a' my rangers bold\n  That I pay meat and fee,\nTo search the forest far and wide,\n  And bring Hynd Etin to me?\"\n\nOut it speaks the little wee boy:\n  \"Na, na, this maunna be;\nWithout ye grant a free pardon,\n  I hope ye'll na him see!\"\n\n\"O here I grant a free pardon,\n  Well sealed wi' my ain han';\nAnd mak' ye search for Hynd Etin,\n  As sune as ever ye can.\"\n\nThey searched the country braid and wide,\n  The forest far and near,\nAnd they found him into Elmond-wood,\n  Tearing his yellow hair.\n\n\"Win up, win up now, Hynd Etin,\n  Win up and boun' wi' me;\nFor we are come frae the castle,\n  And the Earl wad fain you see.\"\n\n\"O lat him tak' my head,\" he says,\n  \"Or hang me on a tree;\nFor sin' I've lost my dear lady,\n  My life's nae worth to me!\"\n\n\"Your head will na be touched, Etin,\n  Nor sall you hang on tree;\nYour lady's in her father's court,\n  And all he wants is thee.\"\n\nWhen he cam' in before the Earl,\n  He louted on his knee:\n\"Win up, win up now, Hynd Etin;\n  This day ye'se dine wi' me.\"\n\nAs they were at their dinner set,\n  The boy he asked a boon:\n\"I wold we were in haly kirk,\nTo get our christendoun.\n\n\"For we hae lived in gude greenwood\n  These twelve lang years and ane;\nBut a' this time since e'er I mind\n  Was never a kirk within.\"\n\n\"Your asking's na sae great, my boy,\n  But granted it sall be:\nThis day to haly kirk sall ye gang,\n  And your mither sall gang you wi'.\"\n\nWhen she cam' to the haly kirk,\n  She at the door did stan';\nShe was sae sunken doun wi' shame,\n  She couldna come farther ben.\n\nThen out it spak' the haly priest,\n  Wi' a kindly word spak' he:\n\"Come ben, come ben, my lily-flower,\n  And bring your babes to me.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nLAMKIN.\n\nIt's Lamkin was a mason good\n  As ever built wi' stane;\nHe built Lord Wearie's castle,\n  But payment gat he nane.\n\n\"O pay me, Lord Wearie,\n  Come, pay me my fee:\"\n\"I canna pay you, Lamkin,\n  For I maun gang o'er the sea.\"\n\n\"O pay me now, Lord Wearie,\n  Come, pay me out o' hand:\"\n\"I canna pay you, Lamkin,\n  Unless I sell my land.\"\n\n\"O gin ye winna pay me,\n  I here sall mak' a vow,\nBefore that ye come hame again,\n  Ye sall hae cause to rue.\"\n\nLord Wearie got a bonny ship,\n  To sail the saut sea faem;\nBade his lady weel the castle keep,\n  Ay till he should come hame.\n\nBut the nourice was a fause limmer\n  As e'er hung on a tree;\nShe laid a plot wi' Lamkin,\n  Whan her lord was o'er the sea.\n\nShe laid a plot wi' Lamkin,\n  When the servants were awa',\nLoot him in at a little shot-window,\n  And brought him to the ha'.\n\n\"O where's a' the men o' this house,\n  That ca' me Lamkin?\"\n\"They're at the barn-well thrashing;\n  'Twill be lang ere they come in.\"\n\n\"And where's the women o' this house,\n  That ca' me Lamkin?\"\n\"They're at the far well washing;\n  'Twill be lang ere they come in.\"\n\n\"And where's the bairns o' this house,\n  That ca' me Lamkin?\"\n\"They're at the school reading;\n  'Twill be night or they come hame.\"\n\n\"O where's the lady o' this house,\n  That ca's me Lamkin?\"\n\"She's up in her bower sewing,\n  But we soon can bring her down.\"\n\nThen Lamkin's tane a sharp knife,\n  That hang down by his gaire,\nAnd he has gi'en the bonny babe\n  A deep wound and a sair.\n\nThen Lamkin he rocked,\n  And the fause nourice she sang,\nTill frae ilka bore o' the cradle\n  The red blood out sprang.\n\nThen out it spak' the lady,\n  As she stood on the stair:\n\"What ails my bairn, nourice,\n  That he's greeting sae sair?\n\n\"O still my bairn, nourice,\n  O still him wi' the pap!\"\n\"He winna still, lady,\n  For this nor for that.\"\n\n\"O still my bairn, nourice,\n  O still him wi' the wand!\"\n\"He winna still, lady,\n  For a' his father's land.\"\n\n\"O still my bairn, nourice,\n  O still him wi' the bell!\"\n\"He winna still, lady,\n  Till you come down yoursel.\"\n\nO the firsten step she steppit,\n  She steppit on a stane;\nBut the neisten step she steppit,\n  She met him Lamkin.\n\n\"O mercy, mercy, Lamkin,\n  Hae mercy upon me!\nThough you've ta'en my young son's life,\n  Ye may let mysel be.\"\n\n\"O sall I kill her, nourice,\n  Or sall I lat her be?\"\n\"O kill her, kill her, Lamkin,\n  For she ne'er was good to me.\"\n\n\"O scour the bason, nourice,\n  And mak' it fair and clean,\nFor to keep this lady's heart's blood,\n  For she's come o' noble kin.\"\n\n\"There need nae bason, Lamkin,\n  Lat it run through the floor;\nWhat better is the heart's blood\n  O' the rich than o' the poor?\"\n\nBut ere three months were at an end,\n  Lord Wearie cam' again;\nBut dowie, dowie was his heart\n  When first he cam' hame.\n\n\"O wha's blood is this,\" he says,\n  \"That lies in the chamer?\"\n\"It is your lady's heart's blood;\n  'Tis as clear as the lamer.\"\n\n\"And wha's blood is this,\" he says,\n  \"That lies in my ha'?\"\n\"It is your young son's heart's blood;\n  'Tis the clearest ava.\"\n\nO sweetly sang the black-bird\n  That sat upon the tree;\nBut sairer grat Lamkin,\n  When he was condemnd to die.\n\nAnd bonny sang the mavis,\n  Out o' the thorny brake;\nBut sairer grat the nourice,\n  When she was tied to the stake.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nHUGH OF LINCOLN.\n\nFour and twenty bonny boys\n  Were playing at the ba',\nAnd up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh,\n  The flower amang them a'.\n\nHe kicked the ba' there wi' his foot,\n  And keppit it wi' his knee,\nTill even in at the Jew's window\n  He gart the bonny ba' flee.\n\n\"Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid,\n  Cast out that ba' o' mine.\"\n\"Never a bit,\" says the Jew's daughter,\n  \"Till ye come up an' dine.\n\n\"Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,\n  Come up and get the ba'.\"\n\"I winna come, I mayna come,\n  Without my bonny boys a'.\"\n\nShe's ta'en her to the Jew's garden,\n  Where the grass grew lang and green,\nShe's pu'd an apple red and white,\n  To wyle the bonny boy in.\n\nShe's wyled him in through ae chamber,\n  She's wyled him in through twa,\nShe's wyled him into the third chamber,\n  And that was the warst o' a'.\n\nShe's tied the little boy, hands and feet,\n  She's pierced him wi' a knife,\nShe's caught his heart's blood in a golden cup,\n  And twinn'd him o' his life.\n\nShe row'd him in a cake o' lead,\n  Bade him lie still and sleep,\nShe cast him into a deep draw-well,\n  Was fifty fathom deep.\n\nWhen bells were rung, and mass was sung,\n  And every bairn went hame,\nThen ilka lady had her young son,\n  But Lady Helen had nane.\n\nShe's row'd her mantle her about,\n  And sair, sair 'gan she weep;\nAnd she ran unto the Jew's house,\n  When they were all asleep.\n\n\"My bonny Sir Hugh, my pretty Sir Hugh,\n  I pray thee to me speak!\"\n\"Lady Helen, come to the deep draw-well\n  Gin ye your son wad seek.\"\n\nLady Helen ran to the deep draw-well,\n  And knelt upon her knee:\n\"My bonny Sir Hugh, an ye be here,\n  I pray thee speak to me!\"\n\n\"The lead is wondrous heavy, mither,\n  The well is wondrous deep;\nA keen penknife sticks in my heart,\n  It is hard for me to speak.\n\n\"Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,\n  Fetch me my winding-sheet;\nAnd at the back o' merry Lincoln,\n  It's there we twa sall meet.\"\n\nNow Lady Helen she's gane hame,\n  Made him a winding-sheet;\nAnd at the back o' merry Lincoln,\n  The dead corpse did her meet.\n\nAnd a' the bells o' merry Lincoln\n  Without men's hands were rung;\nAnd a' the books o' merry Lincoln\n  Were read without men's tongue:\nNever was such a burial\n  Sin' Adam's days begun.\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nFAIR ANNIE.\n\nLearn to mak' your bed, Annie,\n  And learn to lie your lane;\nFor I am going ayont the sea,\n  A braw bride to bring hame.\n\n\"Wi' her I'll get baith gowd and gear,\n  Wi' thee I ne'er gat nane;\nI got thee as a waif woman,\n  I'll leave thee as the same.\n\n\"But wha will bake my bridal bread,\n  And brew my bridal ale,\nAnd wha will welcome my bright bride,\nThat I bring owre the dale?\"\n\n\"It's I will bake your bridal bread,\n  And brew your bridal ale;\nAnd I will welcome your bright bride,\n  When she comes owre the dale.\"\n\nHe set his foot into the stirrup,\n  His hand upon the mane;\nSays, \"It will be a year and a day,\n  Ere ye see me again.\"\n\nFair Annie stood in her bower door,\n  And looked out o'er the lan',\nAnd there she saw her ain gude lord\n  Leading his bride by the han'.\n\nShe's drest her sons i' the scarlet red,\n  Hersel i' the dainty green;\nAnd tho' her cheek look'd pale and wan,\n  She weel might hae been a queen.\n\nShe called upon her eldest son;\n  \"Look yonder what ye see,\nFor yonder comes your father dear,\n  Your stepmither him wi'.\n\n\"Ye're welcome hame, my ain gude lord,\n  To your halls but and your bowers;\nYe're welcome hame, my ain gude lord,\n  To your castles and your towers;\nSae is your bright bride you beside,\n  She's fairer than the flowers!\"\n\n\"I thank ye, I thank ye, fair maiden,\n  That speaks sae courteouslie;\nIf I be lang about this house,\n  Rewarded ye sall be.\n\n\"O what'n a maiden's that,\" she says,\n  \"That welcomes you and me?\nShe is sae like my sister Annie,\n  Was stown i' the bower frae me.\"\n\nO she has served the lang tables,\n  Wi' the white bread and the wine;\nBut ay she drank the wan water,\n  To keep her colour fine.\n\nAnd as she gaed by the first table,\n  She leugh amang them a';\nBut ere she reach'd the second table,\n  She loot the tears doun fa'.\n\nShe's ta'en a napkin lang and white,\n  And hung it on a pin;\nAnd it was a' to dry her e'en,\n  As she ga'ed out and in.\n\nWhen bells were rung, and mass was sung,\n  And a' men boun to bed,\nThe bride but and the bonny bridegroom,\n  In ae chamber were laid.\n\nShe's ta'en her harp intill her hand,\n  To harp this twa asleep;\nAnd ay as she harped and as she sang,\n  Full sairly did she weep.\n\n\"O seven full fair sons hae I born,\n  To the gude lord o' this place;\nAnd O that they were seven young hares,\n  And them to rin a race,\nAnd I mysel a gude greyhound,\n  And I wad gie them chase!\n\n\"O seven full fair sons hae I born\n  To the gude lord o' this ha';\nAnd O that they were seven rattons\n  To rin frae wa' to wa',\nAnd I mysel a gude grey cat,\n  And I wad worry them a'!\"\n\n\"My goun is on,\" said the new-come bride,\n  \"My shoon are on my feet;\nAnd I will to fair Annie's chamber,\n  And see what gars her greet.\n\n\"O wha was't was your father, Annie,\n  And wha was't was your mither?\nAnd had ye ony sister, Annie,\n  Or had ye ony brither?\"\n\n\"The Earl o' Richmond was my father,\n  His lady was my mither,\nAnd a' the bairns beside mysel,\n  Was a sister and a brither.\"\n\n\"O weel befa' your sang, Annie,\n  I wat ye hae sung in time;\nGin the Earl o' Richmond was your father,\n  I wat sae was he mine.\n\n\"O keep your lord, my sister dear,\n  Ye never were wranged by me;\nI had but ae kiss o' his merry mouth,\n  As we cam' owre the sea.\n\nThere were five ships o' gude red gold\n  Cam' owre the seas wi' me,\nIt's twa o' them will tak' me home,\n  And three I'll leave wi' thee.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE LAIRD O' DRUM.\n\nThe Laird o' Drum is a-hunting gane,\n  All in a morning early,\nAnd he has spied a weel-faur'd May,\n  A-shearing at her barley.\n\n\"My bonny May, my weel-faur'd May,\n  O will ye fancy me, O?\nWilt gae and be the Leddy o' Drum,\n  And let your shearing a-be, O?\"\n\n\"It's I winna fancy you, kind sir,\n  Nor let my shearing a-be, O;\nFor I'm ower low to be Leddy Drum,\n  And your light love I'll never be, O.\"\n\n\"Gin ye'll cast aff that goun o' gray,\n  Put on the silk for me, O,\nI'll mak' a vow, and keep it true,\n  A light love you'll never be, O.\"\n\n\"My father lie is a shepherd mean,\n  Keeps sheep on yonder hill, O,\nAnd ye may gae and speer at him,\n  For I am at his will, O.\"\n\nDrum is to her father gane,\n  Keeping his sheep on yon hill, O:\n\"I am come to marry your ae daughter,\n  If ye'll gie me your good-will, O.\"\n\n\"My dochter can naether read nor write,\n  She ne'er was brocht up at scheel, O;\nBut weel can she milk baith cow and ewe,\n  And mak' a kebbuck weel, O.\n\n\"She'll shake your barn, and win your corn,\n  And gang to kiln and mill, O;\nShe'll saddle your steed in time o' need,\n  And draw aff your boots hersell, O.\"\n\n\"I'll learn your lassie to read and write,\n  And I'll put her to the scheel, O;\nShe shall neither need to saddle my steed,\n  Nor draw aff my boots hersell, O.\n\n\"But wha will bake my bridal bread,\n  Or brew my bridal ale, O;\nAnd wha will welcome my bonnie bride\n  Is mair than I can tell, O.\"\n\nFour-and-twenty gentlemen\n  Gaed in at the yetts of Drum, O:\nBut no a man has lifted his hat,\n  When the Leddy o' Drum cam' in, O.\n\n\"Peggy Coutts is a very bonny bride,\n  And Drum is big and gawsy;\nBut he might hae chosen a higher match\n  Than ony shepherd's lassie!\"\n\nThen up bespak his brither John,\n  Says, \"Ye've done us meikle wrang, O;\nYe've married ane far below our degree,\nA mock to a' our kin, O.\"\n\n\"Now haud your tongue, my brither John;\n  What needs it thee offend, O?\nI've married a wife to work and win,\n  And ye've married ane to spend, O.\n\n\"The first time that I married a wife,\n  She was far abune my degree, O;\nShe wadna hae walked thro' the yetts o' Drum,\n  But the pearlin' abune her bree, O,\nAnd I durstna gang in the room where she was,\n  But my hat below my knee, O!\"\n\nHe has ta'en her by the milk-white hand,\n  And led her in himsell, O;\nAnd in through ha's and in through bowers,--\n  \"And ye're welcome, Leddy Drum, O.\"\n\nWhen they had eaten and well drunken,\n  And a' men boun for bed, O,\nThe Laird of Drum and his Leddy fair,\n  In ae bed they were laid, O.\n\n\"Gin ye had been o' high renown,\n  As ye're o' low degree, O,\nWe might hae baith gane doun the street\n  Amang gude companie, O.\"\n\n\"I tauld ye weel ere we were wed,\n  Ye were far abune my degree, O;\nBut now I'm married, in your bed laid,\n  And just as gude as ye, O.\n\n\"For an I were dead, and ye were dead,\n  And baith in ae grave had lain, O;\nEre seven years were come and gane,\n  They'd no ken your dust frae mine, O.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nLIZIE LINDSAY.\n\n\"Will ye gae to the Hielands, Lizie Lindsay,\n  Will ye gae to the Hielands wi' me?\nWill ye gae to the Hielands, Lizie Lindsay,\n  And dine on fresh curds and green whey?\"\n\nThen out it spak' Lizie's mither,\n  An' a gude auld leddy was she:\n\"Gin ye say sic a word to my daughter,\n  I'll gar ye be hangit hie!\"\n\n\"Keep weel your daughter for me, madam;\n  Keep weel your daughter for me.\nI care as leetle for your daughter\n  As ye can care for me!\"\n\nThen out spak' Lizie's ain maiden,\n  An' a bonnie young lassie was she;\n\"Now gin I were heir to a kingdom,\n  Awa' wi' young Donald I'd be.\"\n\n\"O say ye sae to me, Nelly?\n  And does my Nelly say sae?\nMaun I leave my father and mither,\n  Awa' wi' young Donald to gae?\"\n\nAnd Lizie's ta'en till her her stockings,\n  And Lizie's taen till her her shoon,\nAnd kilted up her green claithing,\n  And awa' wi' young Donald she's gane.\n\nThe road it was lang and was weary;\n  The braes they were ill for to climb;\nBonnie Lizie was weary wi' travelling,\n  A fit further couldna she win.\n\n\"O are we near hame yet, dear Donald?\n  O are we near hame yet, I pray?\"\n\"We're naething near hame, bonnie Lizie,\n  Nor yet the half o' the way.\"\n\nSair, O sair was she sighing,\n  And the saut tear blindit her e'e:\n\"Gin this be the pleasures o' luving,\n  They never will do wi' me!\"\n\n\"Now haud your tongue, bonnie Lizie;\n  Ye never sall rue for me;\nGie me but your luve for my ain luve,\n  It is a' that your tocher will be.\n\n\"O haud your tongue, bonnie Lizie,\n  Altho' that the gait seem lang;\nAnd you's hae the wale o' gude living\n  When to Kincaussie we gang.\n\n\"My father he is an auld shepherd,\n  My mither she is an auld dey;\nAnd we'll sleep on a bed o' green rashes,\n  And dine on fresh curds and green whey.\"\n\nThey cam' to a hamely puir cottage;\n  The auld woman 'gan for to say:\n\"O ye're welcome hame, Sir Donald,\n  It's yoursell has been lang away.\"\n\n\"Ye mustna ca' me Sir Donald,\n  But ca' me young Donald your son;\nFor I hae a bonnie young leddy\n  Behind me, that's coming alang.\n\n\"Come in, come in, bonnie Lizie,\n  Come hither, come hither,\" said he;\n\"Altho' that our cottage be leetle,\n  I hope we'll the better agree.\n\n\"O mak' us a supper, dear mither,\n  And mak' it o' curds and green whey;\nAnd mak' us a bed o' green rashes,\n  And cover it o'er wi' fresh hay.\"\n\nShe's made them a bed o' green rashes,\n  And covered it o'er wi' fresh hay.\nBonnie Lizie was weary wi' travelling,\n  And lay till 'twas lang o' the day.\n\n\"The sun looks in o'er the hill-head,\n  An' the laverock is liltin' sae gay;\nGet up, get up, bonnie Lizie,\n  Ye've lain till it's lang o' the day.\n\n\"Ye might hae been out at the shealin',\n  Instead o' sae lang to lie;\nAnd up and helping my mither\n  To milk her gaits and her kye.\"\n\nThen sadly spak' out Lizie Lindsay,\n  She spak' it wi' mony a sigh:\n\"The leddies o' Edinbro' city\n  They milk neither gaits nor kye.\"\n\n\"Rise up, rise up, bonnie Lizie,\n  Rise up and mak' yoursel' fine;\nFor we maun be at Kincaussie,\n  Before that the clock strikes nine.\"\n\nBut when they cam' to Kincaussie,\n  The porter he loudly doth say,\n\"O ye're welcome hame, Sir Donald;\n  It's yoursell has been lang away!\"\n\nIt's doun then cam' his auld mither,\n  Wi' a' the keys in her han';\nSaying, \"Tak' ye these, bonnie Lizie,\n  For a' is at your comman'.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nKATHARINE JANFARIE.\n\nThere was a may, and a weel-faur'd may.\n  Lived high up in yon glen:\nHer name was Katharine Janfarie,\n  She was courted by mony men.\n\nDoun cam' the Laird o' Lamington,\n  Doun frae the South Countrie;\nAnd he is for this bonny lass,\n  Her bridegroom for to be.\n\nHe asked na her father, he asked na her mither,\n  He asked na ane o' her kin;\nBut he whispered the bonny lassie hersel',\n  And did her favor win.\n\nDoun cam' an English gentleman,\n  Doun frae the English border;\nAnd he is for this bonnie lass,\n  To keep his house in order.\n\nHe asked her father, he asked her mither,\n  And a' the lave o' her kin;\nBut he never asked the lassie hersel'\n  Till on her wedding-e'en.\n\nBut she has wrote a lang letter,\n  And sealed it wi' her han';\nAnd sent it away to Lamington,\n  To gar him understan'.\n\nThe first line o' the letter he read,\n  He was baith fain and glad;\nBut or he has read the letter o'er,\n  He's turned baith wan and sad.\n\nThen he has sent a messenger,\n  To rin through a' his land;\nAnd four and twenty armed men\n  Were sune at his command.\n\nBut he has left his merry men all,\n  Left them on the lee;\nAnd he's awa' to the wedding-house,\n  To see what he could see.\n\nThey all rase up to honor him,\n  For he was of high renown;\nThey all rase up to welcome him,\n  And bade him to sit down.\n\nO meikle was the gude red wine\n  In silver cups did flow;\nBut aye she drank to Lamington,\n  And fain with him wad go.\n\n\"O come ye here to fight, young lord?\n  Or come ye here to play?\nOr come ye here to drink gude wine\n  Upon the wedding-day?\"\n\n\"I come na here to fight,\" he said,\n  \"I come na here to play;\nI'll but lead a dance wi' the bonny bride,\n  And mount and go my way.\"\n\nHe's caught her by the milk-white hand,\n  And by the grass-green sleeve;\nHe's mounted her hie behind himsel',\n  At her kinsfolk spier'd na leave.\n\nIt's up, it's up the Couden bank,\n  It's doun the Couden brae;\nAnd aye they made the trumpet soun,\n  \"It's a' fair play!\"\n\nNow a' ye lords and gentlemen\n  That be of England born,\nCome ye na doun to Scotland thus,\n  For fear ye get the scorn!\n\nThey'll feed ye up wi' flattering words,\n  And play ye foul play;\nThey'll dress you frogs instead of fish\n  Upon your wedding-day!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nGLENLOGIE.\n\nThreescore o' nobles rade to the king's ha',\nBut bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a';\nWi' his milk-white steed and his bonny black e'e,\n\"Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for me!\"\n\n\"O haud your tongue, dochter, ye'll get better than he.\"\n\"O say na sae, mither, for that canna be;\nThough Drumlie is richer, and greater than he,\nYet if I maun lo'e him, I'll certainly dee.\n\n\"Where will I get a bonny boy, to win hose and shoon,\nWill gae to Glenlogie, and come again soon?\"\n\"O here am I, a bonny boy, to win hose and shoon,\nWill gae to Glenlogie, and come again soon.\"\n\nWhen he gaed to Glenlogie, 'twas \"Wash and go dine,\"\n'Twas \"Wash ye, my pretty boy, wash and go dine.\"\n\"O 'twas ne'er my father's fashion, and it ne'er shall be mine,\nTo gar a lady's errand wait till I dine.\n\n\"But there is, Glenlogie, a letter for thee.\"\nThe first line he read, a low smile ga'e he;\nThe next line he read, the tear blindit his e'e;\nBut the last line he read, he gart the table flee.\n\n\"Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown;\nGar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae the town;\"\nBut lang ere the horse was brought round to the green,\nO bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane.\n\nWhen he cam' to Glenfeldy's door, sma' mirth was there;\nBonnie Jean's mother was tearing her hair;\n\"Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye're welcome,\" said she\n\"Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie to see.\"\n\nPale and wan was she, when Glenlogie gaed ben,\nBut red rosy grew she whene'er he sat down;\nShe turned awa' her head, but the smile was in her e'e;\n\"O binna feared, mither, I'll maybe no dee.\"\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nGET UP AND BAR THE DOOR\n\nIt fell about the Martinmas time,\n  And a gay time it was than,\nThat our gudewife had puddings to mak'\n  And she boil'd them in the pan.\n\nThe wind blew cauld frae east and north,\n  And blew intil the floor;\nQuoth our gudeman to our gudewife,\n  \"Get up and bar the door.\"\n\n\"My hand is in my hussyskep,\n  Gudeman, as ye may see;\nAn it shou'dna be barr'd this hunder year,\n  It's ne'er be barr'd by me.\"\n\nThey made a paction 'tween them twa,\n  They made it firm and sure,\nThat the first word whaever spak,\n  Should rise and bar the door.\n\nThan by there came twa gentlemen,\n  At twelve o'clock at night,\nWhan they can see na ither house,\n  And at the door they light.\n\n\"Now whether is this a rich man's house,\n  Or whether is it a poor?\"\nBut ne'er a word wad ane o' them speak,\n  For barring of the door.\n\nAnd first they ate the white puddings,\n  And syne they ate the black:\nMuckle thought the gudewife to hersell,\n  Yet ne'er a word she spak.\n\nThen ane unto the ither said,\n  \"Here, man, tak ye my knife;\nDo ye tak aff the auld man's beard,\n  And I'll kiss the gudewife.\"\n\n\"But there's na water in the house,\n  And what shall we do than?\"\n\"What ails ye at the pudding bree\n  That boils into the pan?\"\n\nO up then started our gudeman,\n  An angry man was he;\n\"Will ye kiss my wife before my een,\n  And scaud me wi' pudding bree?\"\n\nO up then started our gudewife,\n  Gied three skips on the floor;\n\"Gudeman, ye've spak the foremost word;\n  Get up and bar the door.\"\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nTHE LAWLANDS O' HOLLAND.\n\n\"The luve that I hae chosen,\n  I'll therewith be content;\nThe saut sea sail be frozen\n  Before that I repent.\nRepent it sall I never\n  Until the day I dee;\nBut the Lawlands o' Holland\n  Hae twinned my luve and me.\n\n\"My luve he built a bonny ship,\n  And set her to the main,\nWi' twenty-four brave mariners\n  To sail her out and hame.\nBut the weary wind began to rise,\n  The sea began to rout,\nAnd my luve and his bonny ship\n  Turned withershins about.\n\n\"There sall nae mantle cross my back,\n  No kaim gae in my hair,\nSall neither coal nor candle-light\n  Shine in my bower mair;\nNor sall I choose anither luve\n  Until the day I dee,\nSin' the Lawlands o' Holland\n  Hae twinned my luve and me.\"\n\n\"Noo haud your tongue, my daughter dear,\n  Be still, and bide content;\nThere are mair lads in Galloway;\n  Ye needna sair lament.\"\n\"O there is nane in Galloway,\n  There's nane at a' for me.\nI never lo'ed a lad but ane,\n  And he's drowned i' the sea.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE TWA CORBIES.\n\nAs I was walking all alane,\nI heard twa corbies making a maen;\nThe tane into the t'ither did say,\n\"Whaur shall we gang and dine the day?\"\n\n\"O doun beside yon auld fail dyke,\nI wot there lies a new-slain knight;\nNae living kens that he lies there,\nBut his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair,\n\n\"His hound is to the hunting gane,\nHis hawk to fetch the wildfowl hame,\nHis lady's ta'en another mate,\nSae we may mak' our dinner sweet.\n\n\"O we'll sit on his white hause bane,\nAnd I'll pyke out his bonny blue e'en,\nWi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,\nWe'll theek our nest when it blaws bare.\n\n\"Mony a ane for him makes maen,\nBut nane shall ken whaur he is gane;\nOver his banes when they are bare,\nThe wind shall blaw for evermair.\"\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nHELEN OF KIRCONNELL.\n\nI wad I were where Helen lies;\nNight and day on me she cries;\nO that I were where Helen lies\n    On fair Kirconnell lea!\n\nCurst be the heart that thought the thought,\nAnd curst the hand that fired the shot,\nWhen in my arms burd Helen dropt,\n    And died to succor me!\n\nO think na but my heart was sair\nWhen my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!\nI laid her down wi' meikle care\n    On fair Kirconnell lea.\n\nAs I went down the water-side,\nNane but my foe to be my guide,\nNane but my foe to be my guide,\n    On fair Kirconnell lea;\n\nI lighted down my sword to draw,\nI hack\u00e9d him in pieces sma',\nI hack\u00e9d him in pieces sma',\n    For her sake that died for me.\n\nO Helen fair, beyond compare!\nI'll make a garland of thy hair\nShall bind my heart for evermair\n    Until the day I dee.\n\nO that I were where Helen lies!\nNight and day on me she cries;\nOut of my bed she bids me rise,\n    Says, \"Haste and come to me!\"\n\nO Helen fair! O Helen chaste!\nIf I were with thee, I were blest,\nWhere thou lies low and takes thy rest\n    On fair Kirconnell lea.\n\nI wad my grave were growing green,\nA winding-sheet drawn ower my een,\nAnd I in Helen's arms lying,\n    On fair Kirconnell lea.\n\nI wad I were where Helen lies;\nNight and day on me she cries;\nAnd I am weary of the skies,\n    Since my Love died for me.\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nWALY WALY.\n\nO waly waly up the bank,\n  And waly waly down the brae,\nAnd waly waly yon burn-side\n  Where I and my Love wont to gae!\nI leant my back unto an aik,\n  I thought it was a trusty tree;\nBut first it bow'd, and syne it brak,\n  Sae my true Love did lichtly me.\n\nO waly waly, but love be bonny\n  A little time while it is new;\nBut when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld\n  And fades awa' like morning dew.\nO wherefore should I busk my head?\n  Or wherefore should I kame my hair?\nFor my true Love has me forsook,\n  And says he'll never loe me mair.\n\nNow Arthur-seat sall be my bed;\n  The sheets sall ne'er be prest by me:\nSaint Anton's well sall be my drink,\n  Since my true Love has forsaken me.\nMarti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,\n  And shake the green leaves aff the tree?\nO gentle Death, when wilt thou come?\n  For of my life I am wearie.\n\n'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,\n  Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie;\n'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,\n  But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.\nWhen we came in by Glasgow town\n  We were a comely sight to see;\nMy Love was clad in black velvet,\n  And I mysell in cramasie.\n\nBut had I wist, before I kist,\n  That love had been sae ill to win;\nI had lockt my heart in a case of gowd\n  And pinn'd it with a siller pin.\nAnd, O! that my young babe were born,\n  And set upon, the nurse's knee,\nAnd I mysell were dead and gane,\n  And the green grass growing over me!\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nLORD RONALD.\n\n\"O where hae ye been, Lord Ronald, my son,\n   O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?\"\n\"I hae been to the wild wood; mother, make my bed soon,\n   For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down.\"\n\n\"Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?\n   Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?\"\n\"I dined wi' my true-love; mother, make my bed soon,\n   For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down.\"\n\n  \"What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?\n    What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?\"\n  \"I gat eels boil'd in broo'; mother, make my bed soon,\n    For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down.\"\n\n  \"What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Ronald, my son?\n    What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?\"\n  \"O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon,\n    For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down.\"\n\n  \"O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Ronald, my son!\n    O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!\"\n  \"O yes! I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon,\n    For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nEDWARD, EDWARD.\n\n'Why dois your brand sae drap wi bluid,\n    Edward, Edward?\nWhy dois your brand sae drap wi bluid,\n  And why sae sad gang yee O?'\n'O I hae killed my hauke sae guid,\n    Mither, mither,\nO I hae killed my hauke sae guid,\n  And I had nae mair bot hee O.'\n\n'Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,\n    Edward, Edward,\nYour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,\n  My deir son, I tell thee O.'\n'O I hae killed my reid-roan steid,\n    Mither, mither,\nO I hae killed my reid-roan steid,\n  That erst was sae fair and frie O.'\n\n'Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,\n    Edward, Edward,\nYour steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,\n  Sum other dule ye drie O.'\n'O I hae killed my fadir deir,\n    Mither, mither,\nO I hae killed my fadir deir,\n  Alas, and wae is mee O!'\n\n'And whatten penance wul ye drie for that,\n    Edward, Edward?\n'And whatten penance wul ye drie for that?\n  My deir son, now tell me O.'\n'He set my feit in yonder boat,\n    Mither, mither,\nHe set my feit in yonder boat,\n  And He fare ovir the sea O.'\n\n'And what wul ye doe wi your towirs and your ha,\n    Edward, Edward?\nAnd what wul ye doe wi your towirs and your ha,\n  That were sae fair to see O?'\n'Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa,\n    Mither, mither,\nIle let thame stand tul they doun fa,\n  For here nevir mair maun I bee O.'\n\n'And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,\n    Edward, Edward?\nAnd what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,\n  When ye gang ovir the sea O?'\n'The warldis room, late them beg thrae life,\n    Mither, mither,\nThe warldis room, late them beg thrae life,\n  For thame nevir mair wul I see O.'\n\n'And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir,\n    Edward, Edward?\nAnd what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir,\n  My deir son, now tell me O.'\n'The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,\n    Mither, mither,\nThe curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,\n  Sic counseils ye gave to me O.'\n\n       *        *        *        *        *\n\n\n\nNOTES\n\n\nTHE WEE WEE MAN. Mainly after Herd. Given also by Motherwell, Buchan,\nand Kinloch, and in Caw's \"Poetical Museum.\" _Shathmont_, a six inch\nmeasure. _Lap_, leaped. _Jimp_, neat.\n\n\nTAMLANE. Mainly after Aytoun's collated version. Stanzas 16-19,\nobtained by Scott \"from a gentleman residing near Langholm,\" are too\nmodern in diction to harmonize well with the rest, but are retained\nhere because of their fidelity to the ancient beliefs of the country\nfolk about fairies. Widely varying versions are given in Johnson's\n\"Museum,\" communicated by Burns, under title of _Tam Lin_; in the\nGlenriddell MS. under title of _Young Tom Line_; by Herd, under title\nof _Kertonha_, corruption of Carterhaugh; by Motherwell, under titles\nof _Young Tamlin_ and _Tomaline_; by Buchan, under titles of\n_Tam-a-line_ and _Tam a-Lin_; and in the Campbell MS. under title of\n_Young Tam Lane_. There are humorous Scottish songs, too, of _Tam o\nLin_, _Tam o the Linn_, _Tom a Lin_, and _Tommy Linn_. The ballad is\nof respectable antiquity, the _Tayl of the Yong Tamlene_ and the dance\nof _Thom of Lyn_ being noticed in a work as old as the \"Complaynt of\nScotland\" (1548); yet it seems to have no Continental cousins, but to\nbe strictly of Scottish origin. It belongs to Selkirkshire, whose\npeasants still point out upon the plain of Carterhaugh, about a mile\nabove Selkirk, the fairy rings in the grass. _Preen'd_, decked.\n_Gars_, makes. _Bree_, brow, _Sained_, baptized, _Snell_, keen.\n_Teind_, tithe.  _Borrow_, ransom. _Cast a compass_, draw a circle.\n_Elrish_, elvish. _Gin_, if. _Maik_, mate. _Aske_, lizard. _Bale_,\nfire. _But and_, and also. _Tree_, wood. _Coft_, bought.\n\n\nTRUE THOMAS. Mainly after Scott. This is one of the ballads written\ndown from the recital of the \"good Mrs. Brown,\" to whose admirable\nmemory ballad-lovers are so deeply indebted. It is given in the Brown\nMS. as _Thomas Rymer and Queen of Elfland_; in the Campbell MS. as\n_Thomas the Rhymer_. Scott obtained his excellent version from \"a lady\nresiding not far from Ercildoune.\" This Thomas the Rhymer, or True\nThomas, or Thomas of Ercildoune, was a veritable personage, who dwelt\nin the village of Ercildoune situate by \"Leader's silver tide\" some\ntwo miles above its junction with the Tweed.  Tradition has it that\nhis date was the thirteenth century and his full name Thomas Learmont.\nHe was celebrated as poet and prophet, the rustics believing that his\ngift of soothsaying was imparted by the Fairy Queen, who kept him with\nher in Elfland for seven years, permitting him then to return to the\nupper world for a season and utter his oracles, but presently\nrecalling him to her mysterious court. A fragmentary old poem, showing\nprobable traces, as Jamieson suggests, of the Rhymer's own authorship,\ntells this famous adventure in language whose antiquated form cannot\ndisguise its sweetness. The melancholy likelihood seems to be that\nTrue Thomas was a fibbing Thomas, after all, and invented this story\nof his sojourn in Elfland to gain credit for his poetical prophecies,\nwhich claim to have first proceeded from the mouth of the Fairy Queen,\nwhen\n\n  \"Scho broghte hym agayne to Eldone tree,\n     Vndir nethe that grenewode spraye;\n   In Huntlee bannkes es mery to bee,\n     Whare fowles synges bothe nyght and daye.\"\n\n_Ferlie_, wonder. _Ilka tett_, each lock (of hair).  _Louted_, bowed.\n_Harp and carp_, play and talk.  _Leven_, lawn. _Stern-light_,\nstar-light. _Dought_, could.\n\n\nTHE ELFIN KNIGHT. After Aytoun's version framed by collation from\ncopies given by Motherwell, Kinloch, and Buchan.  These were in the\nmain recovered by recitation, although there is a broadside copy of\nthe ballad in the Pepysian collection at Cambridge.  Fragments of the\nstory have been handed down in tavern-songs and nursery-rhymes, and it\nis to be found, more or less disguised, in the literatures of many\ncountries, European and Asiatic. It is only in our own versions,\nhowever, that the outwitted knight is a supernatural being, usually an\nelf, though sometimes degenerating into \"the Deil.\" Nowhere out of\ncanny Scotland does his ungallantry debar him from the human ranks.\n_Sark_, shirt. _Gin_, if. _Tyne_, prong.  _Shear_, reap. _Bigg_,\nbuild. _Loof_, hollow of the hand. _But_ (candle, etc.), without\n(candle, etc.)\n\n\nLADY ISOBEL AND THE ELF-KNIGHT. Mainly after Buchan's version entitled\n_The Water o' Wearie's Well_, although it is in another version given\nby Buchan, under title of _The Gowans sae Gay_, that the name of the\nlady is disclosed, and the elfin nature of the eccentric lover\nrevealed. In that ballad Lady Isobel falls in love with the elf-knight\non hearing him\n\n           \"blawing his horn,\n  The first morning in May,\"\n\nand this more tuneful version retains in the first two stanzas a\nfading trace of the fairy element and the magic music, the bird, whose\nsong may be supposed to have caused the lady's heartache, being\npossibly the harper in elfin disguise. In most of the versions,\nhowever, the knight is merely a human knave, usually designated as\nFause Sir John, and the lady is frequently introduced as May Colven or\nColvin or Collin or Collean, though also as Pretty Polly. The story is\nwidely circulated, appearing in the folk-songs of nearly all the\nnations of northern and southern Europe. It has been suggested that\nthe popular legend may be \"a wild shoot from the story of Judith and\nHolofernes.\" _Dowie_, doleful.\n\n\nTOM THUMBE. After Ritson, with omissions. Ritson prints from a\nmanuscript dated 1630, the oldest copy known to be extant, but the\nstory itself can be traced much further back and was evidently a prime\nfavorite with the English rustics. The plain, often doggerel verse,\nand the rough, often coarse humor of this ballad make it appear at\nstriking disadvantage among the Scottish folk-songs, essentially\npoetic as even the rudest of them are. Tom Thumbe, it must be\nconfessed, is but a clumsy sort of elf, and the ballad as a whole can\nhardly be said to have a fairy atmosphere. Yet it is of value as\nadding to the data for a comparison between the English and the\nScottish peasantry, as throwing light on the fun-loving spirit, the\nsports and practical joking of Merrie England, as showing the tenacity\nof the Arthurian tradition, together with the confusion of chivalric\nmemories, as displaying the ignorant credulity of the popular mind\ntoward science no less than toward history, and as illustrating, by\ngiving us in all this bald, sing-song run of verses, here and there a\nsweet or dainty fancy and at least one stanza of exquisite tenderness\nand grace, the significant fact that in the genuine old English\nballads beauty is not the rule, but the surprise. _Counters_,\ncoin-shaped pieces of metal, ivory, or wood, used in reckoning.\n_Points_, here probably the bits of tin plate used to tag the strands\nof cotton yarn with which, in lieu of buttons, the common folk\nfastened their garments. The points worn by the nobles were laces or\nsilken strands ornamented with aiglets of gold or silver.\n\n\nKEMPION. After Allingham's version collated from copies given by\nScott, Buchan, and Motherwell, with a touch or two from the kindred\nballad _The Laidley Worm of Spindleston Heugh._ Buchan and Motherwell\nmake the name of the hero Kemp Owyne.  Similar ballads are known in\nIceland and Denmark, and the main features of the story appear in both\nthe classic and romantic literatures.  _Weird_, destiny. _Dree_,\nsuffer. _Borrowed_, ransomed. _Arblast bow_, cross-bow. _Stythe_,\nplace. _Louted_, bowed.\n\n\nALISON GROSS. After Jamieson's version taken from the recitation of\nMrs. Brown. Child claims that this tale is a variety of _Beauty and\nthe Beast. Lemman_, lover. _Gar_, make. _Toddle_, twine.  _Seely\nCourt_, Happy Court or Fairy Court. See English Dictionary for changes\nof meaning in _silly_.\n\n\nTHE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL. After Scott, with a stanza or two from\nChambers, both versions being recovered by recitation.  Although this\nis scarcely more than a fragment, it is well-nigh unsurpassed for\ngenuine ballad beauty, the mere touches of narrative suggesting far\ndeeper things than they actually relate. _Martinmas_, the eleventh of\nNovember. _Carline wife_, old peasant-woman.  _Fashes_, troubles.\n_Birk_, birch. _Syke_, marsh.  _Sheugh_, trench. _Channerin'_,\nfretting. _Gin_, if. _Byre_, cow-house.\n\n\nA LYKE-WAKE DIRGE. After Scott. This dirge belongs to the north of\nEngland and is said to have been chanted, in Yorkshire, over the dead,\ndown to about 1624. _Lyke-Wake_, dead-watch. _Sleete_, salt, it being\nthe old peasant custom to place a quantity of this on the breast of\nthe dead. _Whinny-muir_, Furze-moor. A manuscript found by Ritson in\nthe Cotton Library states: \"When any dieth, certaine women sing a song\nto the dead bodie, recyting the journey that the partye deceased must\ngoe; and they are of beliefe (such is their fondnesse) that once in\ntheir lives, it is good to give a pair of new shoes to a poor man, for\nas much as, after this life, they are to pass barefoote through a\ngreat launde, full of thornes and furzen, except by the meryte of the\nalmes aforesaid they have redemed the forfeyte; for, at the edge of\nthe launde, an oulde man shall meet them with the same shoes that were\ngiven by the partie when he was lyving; and, after he hath shodde\nthem, dismisseth them to go through thick and thin, without scratch or\nscalle.\" _Brigg o' Dread_, Bridge of Dread.  Descriptions of this\nBridge of Dread are found in various Scottish poems, the most minute\nbeing given in the legend of _Sir Owain_.  Compare the belief of the\nMahometan that in his approach to the judgment-seat, he must traverse\na bar of red-hot iron, stretched across a bottomless abyss, true\nbelievers being upheld by their good works, while the wicked fall\nheadlong into the gulf.\n\n\nPROUD LADY MARGARET. After Aytoun. The original versions of this\nballad, as given by Scott, Buchan, Dixon, and Laing, differ widely. It\nis known under various titles, _The Courteous Knight_, _The Jolly Hind\nSquire_, _The Knicht o Archerdale_, _Fair Margret_, and _Jolly\nJanet_. Similar ballads are rife in France, although in these it is\nmore frequently the ghost of a dead lady who admonishes her living\nlover. _Wale_, choose.  _Ill-washen feet_, etc., in allusion to the\ncustom of washing and dressing the dead for burial. _Feckless_,\nworthless. _Pirie's chair_ remains an unsolved riddle of the ballad,\neditors and commentators not being as good at guessing as the ghost.\n\n\nTHE TWA SISTERS O' BINNORIE. Mainly after Aytoun.  There are many\nversions of this ballad in Scotland, England, Wales and Ireland,\nvarying widely in titles, refrains, and indeed in everything save the\nmain events of the story. A broadside copy appeared as early as\n1656. Ballads on the same subject are very popular among the\nScandinavian peoples, and traces of the story are found as far away as\nChina and South Africa. _Twined_, parted. _Make_, mate.  _Gar'd_,\nmade. Although Lockhart would have the burden pronounced\nBinn\u014frie, a more musical effect is secured by following\nJamieson and pronouncing Binn\u014drie.\n\n\nTHE DEMON LOVER. After Scott. Buchan has a version under title of\n_James Herries_, the demon being here transformed into a lover who has\ndied abroad and comes in spirit guise to punish his \"Jeanie Douglas\"\nfor her broken vows. Motherwell gives a graphic fragment.  _Ilka_,\nevery, _Drumly_, dark. _Won_, dwell.\n\n\nRIDDLES WISELY EXPOUNDED. Mainly after Motherwell.  There are several\nbroadsides, differing slightly, of this ballad. Riddling folk-songs\nsimilar to this in general features have been found among the Germans\nand Russians and in Gaelic literature. _Speird_, asked. Unco, uncanny.\nGin, if. Pies, magpies. Clootie, see Burus's Address to the Deil.\n\n  \"O thou! whatever title suit thee,\n  Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,\" etc.\n\n\nSIR PATRICK SPENS. After Scott. There are many versions of\n\n  \"The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,\"\n\nas Coleridge so justly terms it, the fragment in the Reliques being\nun-surpassed among them all for poetic beauty. Herd's longer copy,\nlike several of the others, runs song-fashion:\n\n  \"They had not saild upon the sea\n    A league but merely nine, O,\n  When wind and weit and snaw and sleit\n    Cam' blawin' them behin', O.\"\n\nMotherwell gives the ballad in four forms, in one of them the skipper\nbeing dubbed Sir Patrick, in another Earl Patrick, in another Young\nPatrick, and in yet another Sir Andrew Wood. Jamieson's version puts\ninto Sir Patrick's mouth an exclamation that reflects little credit\nupon his sailor character:\n\n  \"O wha is this, or wha is that,\n    Has tald the king o' me?\n  For I was never a gude seaman,\n    Nor ever intend to be.\"\n\nBut with a few such trifling exceptions, the tone toward the skipper\nis universally one of earnest respect and sympathy, the keynote of\nevery ballad being the frank, unconscious heroism of this \"gude Sir\nPatrick Spens.\" In regard to the foundation for the story, Scott\nmaintains that \"the king's daughter of Noroway\" was Margaret, known to\nhistory as the Maid of Norway, daughter of Eric, king of Norway, and\nof Margaret, daughter of Alexander III. of Scotland.  This last-named\nmonarch died in 1285, the Maid of Norway, his yellow-haired little\ngranddaughter, being the heiress to his crown.  The Maid of Norway\ndied, however, before she was of age to assume control of her\nturbulent Scottish kingdom. Scott surmises, on the authority of the\nballad, that Alexander, desiring to have the little princess reared in\nthe country she was to rule, sent this expedition for her during his\nlife-time. No record of such a voyage is extant, although possibly the\npresence of the king is a bold example of poetic license, and the\nreference is to an earlier and more disastrous embassy than that\nfinally sent by the Regency of Scotland, after Alexander's death, to\ntheir young queen, Sir Michael Scott of wizard fame being at that time\none of the ambassadors. Finlay, on the other hand, places this ballad\nin the days of James III., who married Margaret of Denmark. Here we\nhave historic testimony of the voyage, but none of the shipwreck,--yet\nagainst any one of these theories the natural objection is brought\nthat so lamentable a disaster, involving so many nobles of the realm,\nwould hardly be suffered to escape the pen of the chronicler.\nMotherwell, Maidment, and Aytoun, relying on a corroborative passage\nin Fordun's _Scotichronicon_, hold with good appearance of reason that\nthe ballad pictures what is known as an actual shipwreck, on the\nreturn from Norway of those Scottish lords who had escorted thither\nthe bride of Eric, the elder Margaret, afterward mother of the little\nMaid of Norway. The ballad itself well bears out this theory,\nespecially in the taunt flung at the Scottish gallants for lingering\ntoo long in nuptial festivities on the inhospitable Norwegian coast.\nThe date of this marriage was 1281. _Skeely_, skilful.  _Gane_,\nsufficed. _Half-fou_, half-bushel. _Gurly_, stormy.\n\n\nTHE BATTE OF OTTERBURNE. After Scott. There are several Scottish\nversions of this spirit-stirring ballad, and also an English version,\nfirst printed in the fourth edition of the _Reliques_. The English\nballad, naturally enough, dwells more on the prowess of Percy and his\ncountrymen in the combat than on their final discomfiture.  A vivid\naccount of the battle of Otterburne may be found in Froissart's\n_Chronicles_. In brief, it was a terrible slaughter brought about by\nthe eager pride and ambition of those two hot-blooded young\nchieftains, James, Earl of Douglas, and the redoubtable Harry Percy.\nYet the generosity of the leaders and the devoted loyalty of their men\nthrow a moral splendor over the scene of bloodshed. In the year 1388\nDouglas, at the head of three thousand Scottish spears, made a raid\ninto Northumberland and, before the walls of Newcastle, engaged Percy\nin single combat, capturing his lance with the attached pennon.\nDouglas retired in triumph, brandishing his trophy, but Hotspur,\nburning with shame, hurriedly mustered the full force of the Marches\nand, following hard upon the Scottish rear, made a night attack upon\nthe camp of Douglas at Otterbnrne, about twenty miles from the\nfrontier. Then ensued a moonlight battle, gallant and desperate,\nfought on either side with unflinching bravery, and ending in the\ndefeat of the English, Percy being taken prisoner. But the Scots\nbought their glory dear by the loss of their noble leader, who, when\nthe English troops, superior in number, were gaining ground, dashed\nforward with impetuous courage, cheering on his men, and cleared a way\nwith his swinging battle-axe into the heart of the enemy's ranks.\nStruck down by three mortal wounds, he died in the midst of the fray,\nurging with his failing breath these last requests upon the little\nguard of kinsmen who pressed about him: \"First, that yee keep my death\nclose both from our owne folke and from the enemy; then, that ye\nsuffer not my standard to be lost or cast downe; and last, that ye\navenge my death, and bury me at Melrosse with my father. If I could\nhope for these things,\" he added, \"I should die with the greater\ncontentment; for long since I heard a prophesie that a dead man should\nwinne a field, and I hope in God it shall be I.\" Lammas-tide, the\nfirst of August. Muirmen, moorinen. Harried, plundered. The tane, the\none. Fell, skin. (The inference is that Percy was rescued by his men.)\n_Gin_, if. _Burn_, brook. _Kale_, broth. _Fend_, sustain. _Bent_, open\nfield.  _Petitions_, tents (pavilions). _Branking_, prancing.\n_Wargangs_, wagons.  _Ayont_, beyond. _Hewmont_, helmet. _Smakkit_,\nsmote.  _Bracken_, fern.\n\n\nTHE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT.  After Hearne, who first printed it from a\nmanuscript in the Ashmolean collection at Oxford. It was next printed\nin the Reliques, under title of Chevy-Chase,--a title now reserved for\nthe later and inferior broadside version which was singularly popular\nthroughout the seventeenth century and is still better known than this\nfar more spirited original. \"With regard to the subject of this\nballad,\"--to quote from Bishop Percy,--\"although it has no countenance\nfrom history, there is room to think it had originally some foundation\nin fact. It was one of the laws of the Marches, frequently renewed\nbetween the nations, that neither party should hunt in the other's\nborders, without leave from the proprietors or their deputies. There\nhad long been a rivalship between the two martial families of Percy\nand Douglas, which, heightened by the national quarrel, must have\nproduced frequent challenges and struggles for superiority, petty\ninvasions of their respective domains, and sharp contests for the\npoint of honour; which would not always be recorded in history.\nSomething of this kind, we may suppose, gave rise to the ancient\nballad of the Hunting o' the Cheviat. Percy, Earl of Northumberland,\nhad vowed to hunt for three days in the Scottish border, without\ncondescending to ask leave from Earl Douglas, who was either lord of\nthe soil, or lord warden of the Marches. Douglas would not fail to\nresent the insult, and endeavour to repel the intruders by force; this\nwould naturally produce a sharp conflict between the two parties;\nsomething of which, it is probable, did really happen, though not\nattended with the tragical circumstances recorded in the ballad: for\nthese are evidently borrowed from the Battle of Otterbourn, a very\ndifferent event, but which aftertimes would easily confound with it.\"\nThe date of the ballad cannot, of course, be strictly ascertained. It\nwas considered old in the middle of the sixteenth century, being\nmentioned in _The Complaynt of Scotland_ (1548) among the \"sangis of\nnatural music of the antiquite.\"  Not much can be said for its\n\"natural music,\" yet despite its roughness of form and enviable\ninconsistencies of spelling, it has always found grace with the poets.\nRare Ben Jonson used to say that he would rather have been the author\nof _Chevy Chase_ than of all his works; Addison honored the broadside\nversion with two critiques in the _Spectator_; and Sir Philip Sidney,\nthough lamenting that the ballad should be \"so evil apparrelled in the\ndust and cobwebs of that uncivill age,\" breaks out with the ingenuous\nconfession: \"I never heard the olde song of Percy and Duglas that I\nfound not my heart mooved more then with a trumpet, and yet is it sung\nbut by some blinde crouder, with no rougher voice then rude stile.\"\nMauger, despite.  _Let_, hinder. _Meany_, company. _Shyars_,\nshires. _Bomen_, bowmen.  _Byckarte_, moved quickly, rattling their\nweapons. _Bent_, open field.  _Aras_, arrows. _Wyld_, wild creatures,\nas deer. _Shear_, swiftly. _Grevis_, groves. _Glent_, glanced, flashed\nby. _Oware off none_, hour of noon.  _Mart_, death-signal (as used in\nhunting.) _Quyrry_, quarry, slaughtered game. _Bryttlynge_, cutting\nup. _Wyste_, knew. _Byll and brande_, axe and sword. _Glede_, live\ncoal. _The ton_, the one. _Yerle_, earl. _Cars_, curse. _Nam_, name.\n_Wat_, wot, know. _Sloughe_, slew. _Byddys_, abides. _Wouche_, injury.\n_Ost_, host. _Suar_, sure. _Many a doughete the garde to dy_, many a\ndoughty (knight) they caused to die. _Basnites_, small helmets.\n_Myneyeple_, maniple (of many folds), a coat worn under the armor.\n_Freyke_, warrior. _Swapte_, smote.  _Myllan_, Milan.  _Hight_,\npromise. _Spendyd_, grasped (spanned). _Corsiare_, courser.  _Blane_,\nhalted.  _Dynte_, stroke. _Halyde_, hauled. _Stour_, press of battle.\n_Dre_, endure. _Hinde_, gentle. _Hewyne in to_, hewn in two. _The\nmayde them byears_, they made them biers. _Makys_, mates. _Carpe off\ncare_, tell of sorrow.  _March perti_, the Border district.\n_Lyff-tenant_, lieutenant. _Weal_, clasp. _Brook_, enjoy. _Quyte_,\navenged. _That tear begane this spurn_, that wrong caused this\nretaliation. _Reane_, rain.  _Ballys bete_, sorrows amend.\n\n\nEDOM O' GORDON. After Aytoun. This ballad was first printed at\nGlasgow, 1755, as taken down by Sir David Dalrymple \"from the\nrecitation of a lady,\" and was afterwards inserted--\"interpolated and\ncorrupted,\" says the unappeasable Ritson--in Percy's _Reliques_.\nRitson himself published a genuine and ancient copy from a manuscript\nbelonging apparently to the last quarter of the sixteenth century and\npreserved in the Cotton Library. The ballad is known under two other\ntitles, _Captain Car_ and _The Burning o' London Castle._\nNotwithstanding this inexactitude in names, the ballad has an\nhistorical basis. In 1571 Adam Gordon, deputy-lieutenant of the North\nof Scotland for Queen Mary, was engaged in a struggle against the clan\nForbes, who upheld the Reformed Faith and the King's party. Gordon was\nsuccessful in two sharp encounters, but \"what glory and renown he\nobtained of these two victories,\" says the contemporary History of\nKing James the Sixth, \"was all cast down by the infamy of his next\nattempt; for immediately after this last conflict he directed his\nsoldiers to the castle of Towie, desiring the house to be rendered to\nhim in the Queen's name; which was obstinately refused by the lady,\nand she burst forth with certain injurious words.  And the soldiers\nbeing impatient, by command of their leader, Captain Ker, fire was put\nto the house, wherein she and the number of twenty-seven persons were\ncruelly burnt to the death.\"\n\n_Martinmas_, the eleventh of November. _Hauld_, stronghold.  _Toun_,\nenclosed place. _Buskit_, made ready. _Light_, alighted. _But and_,\nand also. _Dree_, suffer. _But an_, unless. _Wude_, mad. _Dule_,\npain. _Reek_, smoke. _Nourice_, nurse. _Jimp_, slender. _Row_,\nroll. _Tow_, throw.  _Busk and boun_, up and away.  _Freits_, ill\nomens. _Lowe_, blaze.  _Wichty_, sturdy. _Bent_, field. _Teenfu'_,\nsorrowful. _Wroken_, avenged.\n\nKINMONT WILLIE. After Scott. This dashing ballad appeared for the\nfirst time in the Border Minstrelsy, having been \"preserved by\ntradition,\" says Scott, \"on the West Borders, but much mangled by\nreciters, so that some conjectural emendations have been absolutely\nnecessary to render it intelligible.\" The facts in the case seem to be\nthat in 1596 Salkeld, deputy of Lord Scroope, English Warden of the\nWest Marches, and Robert Scott, for the Laird of Buccleuch, Keeper of\nLiddesdale, met on the border line for conference in the interest of\nthe public weal. The truce, that on such occasions extended from the\nday of the meeting to the next day at sunset, was this time violated\nby a party of English soldiers, who seized upon William Armstrong of\nKinmonth, a notorious freebooter, as he, attended by but three or four\nmen, was returning from the conference; and lodged him in Carlisle\nCastle. The Laird of Buccleuch, after treating in vain for his\nrelease, raised two hundred horse, surprised the castle and carried\noff the prisoner without further ceremony. This exploit the haughty\nQueen of England \"esteemed a great affront\" and \"stormed not a little\"\nagainst the \"bauld Buccleuch.\" _Haribee_, the place of execution at\nCarlisle. _Liddel-rack_, a ford on the Liddel.  _Reiver_, robber.\n_Hostelrie_, inn. _Lawing_, reckoning.  _Garr'd_, made.  _Basnet_,\nhelmet. _Curch_, cap.  _Lightly_, set light by. _Low_, blaze.  _Splent\non spauld_, armor on shoulder. _Woodhouselee_, a house belonging to\nBuccleuch, on the Border. _Herry_, harry, spoil.  _Corbie_, crow.\n_Wons_, dwells. _Lear_, lore.  _Row-footed_, rough-footed(?). _Spait_,\nflood.  _Garr'd_, made. _Stear_, stir.  _Coulters_, ploughshares.\n_Forehammers_, the large hammers that strike before the small,\nsledgehammers.  _Fley'd_, frightened.  _Spier_, inquire. _Hente_,\ncaught. _Maill_, rent.  _Airns_, irons. _Wood_, mad. _Furs_,\nfurrows. _Trew_, trust.\n\n\nKING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY. After Percy, who printed from\nan ancient black-letter copy. There are three other broadside versions\nof this popular ballad extant, and at least one older version has been\nlost. Similar riddle-stories are to be found in almost all European\nliteratures. There is nothing in this ballad save the name of King\nJohn, with his reputation for unjust and high-handed dealing, that can\nbe called traditional. _Deere_, harm.  _Stead_, place. _St. Bittel_,\nSt. Botolph(?).\n\n\nROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE WIDOW'S THREE SONS.  After Ritson, who has\ncollected in two volumes the ballads of Robin Hood. This is believed\nto be one of the oldest of them all. A concise introduction to the\nRobin Hood ballads is given by Mr. Hales in the _Percy Folio MS_.\nvol. i. This legendary king of Sherwood Forest is more rightfully the\nhero of English song than his splendid rival, the Keltic King Arthur,\n\n                  \"whose name, a ghost,\n  Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from mountain peak,\n  And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still.\"\n\nYet there is scarcely less doubt as to the actual existence of a\nflesh-and-blood Robin Hood than there is as to the actual existence of\na flesh-and-blood King Arthur. But let History look to her own;\nLiterature need have no scruple in claiming both the archer-prince of\noutlaws and the blameless king of the Table Round. Robber chieftain or\ndemocratic agitator, romantic invention or Odin-myth, it is certain\nthat by the fourteenth century Robin Hood was a familiar figure in\nEnglish balladry. We have our first reference to this generous-hearted\nrogue of the greenwood, who is supposed by Ritson to have lived from\n1160 to 1247, in Langlande's _Piers Ploughman_ (1362).  There are\nbrief notices of the popular bandit in Wyntoun's _Scottish Chronicle_\n(1420), Fordun's _Scotichronicon_ (1450), and Mair's _Historia Majoris\nBrittaniae_ (1521). Famous literary allusions occur in Latimer's\n_Sixth Sermon before Edward VI_. (1548), in Drayton's _Polyolbion_\n(1613), and Fuller's _Worthies of England_ (1662). The Robin Hood\nballads illustrate to the full the rough and heavy qualities, both of\nform and thought, that characterize all our English folk-songs as\nopposed to the Scottish. We feel the difference instantly when a\nminstrel from over the Border catches up the strain:\n\n  \"There's mony ane sings o'grass, o'grass,\n    And mony ane sings o'corn;\n  And mony ane sings o'Robin Hood,\n    Kens little whar' he was born.\n\n  \"It was na' in the ha', the ha',\n    Nor in the painted bower;\n  But it was in the gude greenwood,\n    Amang the lily flower.\"\n\nYet these rude English ballads have just claims on our regard.  They\nstand our feet squarely upon the basal rock of Saxon ethics, they\nbreathe a spirit of the sturdiest independence, and they draw, in a\nfew strong strokes, so fresh a picture of the joyous, fearless life\nled under the green shadows of the deer-haunted forest by that\nmemorable band, bold Robin and Little John, Friar Tuck and George a\nGreen, Will Scarlett, Midge the Miller's Son, Maid Marian and the\nrest, that we gladly succumb to a charm recognized by Shakespeare\nhimself: \"They say he is already in the forest of Arden, and a many\nmerry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of\nEngland; they say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and\nfleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.\"--_As You\nLike It._\n\n\nROBIN HOOD AND ALLIN A DALE. After Ritson. This ballad is first found\nin broadside copies of the latter half of the seventeenth\ncentury. _Lin._, pause.\n\n\nROBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND BURIAL. After Ritson, who made his version from\na collation of two copies given in a York garland.\n\n\nANNIE OF LOCHROYAN. After Aytoun, who improves on Jamieson's\nversion. This beautiful ballad is given in varying forms by Herd,\nScott, Buchan, and others. Lochroyan, or Loch Ryan, is a bay on the\nsouth-west coast of Scotland. _Jimp_, slender. _Gin_, if.  _Greet_,\ncry. _Tirl'd_, rattled. _But and_, and also. _Warlock_, wizard.\n_Sinsyne_, since then.  _Hooly_, slowly. _Deid_, death. _Syne_, then.\n\n\nLORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET. After Aytoun, who adds to the first\ntwenty-four stanzas of the copy given in the _Reliques_ a concluding\nfourteen taken from Jamieson's _Sweet Willie and Fair Annie_. The\nunfortunate lady elsewhere figures as _The Nut-Brown Bride_ and _Fair\nEllinor_. There are Norse ballads which relate something akin to the\nsame story. _Gif_, if. _Rede_, counsel. _Owsen_, oxen.  _Billie_, an\naffectionate term for brother.  _Byre_, cow-house. _Fadge_, clumsy\nwoman.  _Sheen_, shoes. _Tift_, whiff. _Gin_, if.  _Cleiding_,\nclothing.  _Bruik_, enjoy. _Kist_, chest. _Lee_, lonesome. _Till_,\nto. _Dowie_, doleful. _Sark_, shroud. _But and_, and also. _Birk_,\nbirch.\n\n\nTHE BANKS OF YARROW. After Allingham's collated version. There are\nmany renderings of this ballad, which Scott declares to be a great\nfavorite among the peasantry of the Ettrick forest, who firmly believe\nit founded on fact. The river Yarrow, so favored of the poets, flows\nthrough a valley in Selkirkshire and joins the Tweed above the town of\nSelkirk. The _Tennies_ is a farm below the Yarrow kirk.  _Lawing_,\nreckoning. _Dawing_, dawn. _Marrow_, mate.  _Dowie_, doleful.\n_Leafu'_, lawful. _Binna_, be not.\n\n\nTHE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. After Scott. This ballad is likewise known under\ntitles of _Earl Brand, Lady Margaret_ and _The Child of Ell_. Danish,\nSwedish, Norwegian and Icelandic ballads relate a kindred story, and\nthe incident of the intertwining plants that spring from the graves of\nhapless lovers, occurs in the folk-lore of almost all peoples.\n_Bugelet_, a small bugle. _Dighted_, strove to stanch. _Plat_,\nintertwined.\n\n\nFINE FLOWERS I' THE VALLEY. After Aytoun, his version, though taken\ndown from recitation, being in reality a compound of Herd's and\nJamieson's. Aytoun claims that \"this is perhaps the most popular of\nall the Scottish ballads, being commonly recited and sung even at the\npresent day.\" Different refrains are often employed, and the ballad is\nfrequently given under title of _The Cruel Brother_. Stories similar\nto this are found in the balladry of both northern and southern\nEurope. _Marrow_, mate. _Close_, avenue leading from the door to the\nstreet. _Loutiny_, bowing. _Its lane_, alone.\n\n\nTHE GAY GOSS-HAWK. Mainly after Motherwell, although his version is\nentitled _The Jolly Goshawk_. The epithet _Gay_ has the sanction of\nScott and Jamieson. Buchan gives a rendering of this ballad under\ntitle of _The Scottish Squire_. _Whin_, furze. _Bigly_, spacious. _Sark_,\nshroud. _Claith_, cloth. _Steeking_, stitching. _Gar'd_, made. _Chive_,\nmorsel. _Skaith_, harm.\n\n\nYOUNG REDIN. After Allingham's collated copy. There are many versions\nof this ballad, the hero being variously known as Young Hunting, Earl\nRichard, Lord William, Lord John and Young Redin. _Birl'd_, plied. _Douk_,\ndive. _Weil-head_, eddy. _Linn_, the pool beneath a cataract. _Brin_, burn.\n_Balefire_, bonfire.\n\n\nWILLIE AND MAY MARGARET. After Allingham's copy framed by collating\nJamieson's fragmentary version with Buchan's ballad of _The Drowned\nLovers_. _Stour_, wild. _Pot_, a pool in a river. _Dowie den_, doleful\nhollow. _Tirled_, rattled. _Sleeked_, fastened. _Brae_, hillside. _Sowm,\nswim. _Minnie_, affectionate term for mother.\n\nYOUNG BEICHAN. Mainly after Jamieson, his version being based upon a\ncopy taken down from the recitation of the indefatigable Mrs. Brown\nand collated with a manuscript and stall copy, both from Scotland, a\nrecited copy from the North of England, and a short version \"picked\noff an old wall in Piccadilly.\" Of this ballad of _Young Beichan_\nthere are numerous renderings, the name of the hero undergoing many\nvariations,--Bicham, Brechin, Beachen, Bekie, Bateman, Bondwell--and\nthe heroine, although Susie Pye or Susan Pye in ten of the fourteen\nversions, figuring also as Isbel, Essels, and Sophia. It was probably\nan English ballad at the start, but bears the traces of the Scottish\nminstrels who were doubtless prompt to borrow it. There is likelihood\nenough that the ballad was originally suggested by the legend of\nGilbert Becket, father of the great archbishop; the story running that\nBecket, while a captive in Holy Land, plighted his troth to the\ndaughter of a Saracenic prince.  When the crusader had made good his\nescape, the lady followed him, inquiring her way to \"England\" and to\n\"London,\" where she wandered up and down the streets, constantly\nrepeating her lover's name, \"Gilbert,\" the third and last word of\nEnglish that she knew, until finally she found him, and all her woes\nwere put to flight by the peal of wedding bells. _Termagant_, the name\ngiven in the old romances to the God of the Saracens.  _Pine_, pain.\n_Sheave_, slice. _But and_, and also. _Dreed_, endured.\n\n\nGILDEROY. After the current version adapted from the original by Sir\nAlexander Halket or his sister, Lady Elizabeth Wardlaw, the composer\nof _Hardyknute_. There is extant a black-letter broadside printed in\nEngland as early as 1650, and the ballad appears in several\nmiscellanies of later date. The reviser added the sixth, seventh, and\neighth stanzas. It is mortifying to learn that this \"winsome Gilderoy\n\"--the name, properly Gillie roy, signifying in Gaelic \"the red-haired\nlad\"--was in reality one Patrick Mac-Gregor, who was hanged at the\ncross of Edinburgh, 1638, as a common cateran or free-booter. That the\nromantic element in the ballad so outweighs the historical, must\naccount for its classification here.  _Soy_, silk. _Cess_,\nblack-mail. _Gear_, property.\n\n\nBONNY BARBARA ALLAN. After the version given in Ramsay's _Tea-Table\nMiscellany_ and followed by Herd, Ritson, and others. Percy prints\nwith this in the _Reliques_ a longer, but poorer copy. In Pepys's\n_Diary_, Jan. 2,1666, occurs an allusion to the \"little Scotch song of\nBarbary Alien.\" _Gin_, if. _Hooly_, slowly.  _Jow_, knell.\n\n\nTHE GARDENER. After Kinloch. Buchan gives a longer, but less valuable\nversion. _Jimp_, slender. _Weed_, dress. _Camorine_, camomile.\n_Kail-blade_, cabbage-leaf. _Cute_, ankle.  _Brawn_, calf.\n_Blaewort_, witch bells.\n\n\nETIN THE FORESTER. Collated. No single version of this ballad is\nsatisfactory, not Kinloch's fine fragment, _Hynde Etin_, nor Buchan's\ncomplete but inferior version, _Young Akin_, nor the modernized copy,\n_Young Hastings_, communicated by Buchan to Motherwell. Earlier and\nbetter renderings of the ballad have doubtless been lost. In the old\nScottish speech, an Etin signified an ogre or giant, and although the\nexisting versions show but faint traces of a supernatural element, it\nis probable that the original character of the story has been changed\nby the accidents of tradition, and that the Etin was at the outset in\nline with such personages as Arnold's Forsaken Merman. In the\nbeautiful kindred ballads which abound in the Norse and German\nliteratures, the Etin is sometimes represented by a merman, though\nusually by an elf-king, dwarf-king, or hill-king.  _Hind chiel_, young\nstripling. _Spier_, ask. _Bigg_, build. _Their lane_, alone. _Brae_,\nhillside. _Gars_, makes. _Greet_, weep. _Stown_, stolen.  _Laverock_,\nlark. _Lift_, air. _Buntin'_, blackbird.  _Christendame_, christening.\n_Ben_, in. _Shaw_, forest. _Louted_, bowed. _Boun'_, go.\n\n\nLAMKIN. After Jamieson. The many versions of this ballad show an\nunusually small number of variations. The name, though occurring in\nthe several forms of Lambert Linkin, Lamerlinkin, Rankin, Belinkin,\nLankyn, Lonkin, Balcanqual, most often appears as Lamkin or Lammikin\nor Lambkin, being perhaps a nick-name given to the mason for the\nmeekness with which he had borne his injuries. This would explain the\nresentful tone of his inquiries on entering the house. _Nourice_,\nnurse. _Limmer_, wretch.  _Shot-window_, projecting window. _Gaire_,\nedge of frock. _Ilka_, each.  _Bore_, crevice. _Greeting_, crying.\n_Dowie_, doleful.  _Chamer_, chamber.  _Lamer_, amber. _Ava'_, of all.\n\n\nHUGH OF LINCOLN. Mainly after Jamieson. Percy gives a version of this\nfamous ballad under title of _The Jew's Daughter_, and Herd and\nMotherwell, as well as Jamieson, have secured copies from recitation.\nThe general view that this ballad rests upon an historical basis has\nbut slender authority behind it. Matthew Paris, never too reliable as\na chronicler, says that in 1255 the Jews of Lincoln, after their\nyearly custom, stole a little Christian boy, tortured and crucified\nhim, and flung him into a pit, where his mother found the body. This\nis in all probability one of the many cruel slanders circulated\nagainst the Jews during the Middle Ages, to reconcile the Christian\nconscience to the Christian maltreatment of that long-suffering\nrace. Such stories are related of various mediaeval innocents, in\nvarious lands and centuries, and may be classed together, until better\nevidence to the contrary presents itself, as malicious falsehood. This\nballad should be compared, of course, with Chaucer's _Prioresses\nTale_. _Keppit_, caught. _Gart_, made.  _Twinn'd_, deprived.  _Row'd_,\nrolled. _Ilka_, each. _Gin_, it.\n\n\nFAIR ANNIE. Mainly after Jamieson's version entitled _Lady Jane_.\nJamieson gives another copy, where the heroic lady is known as _Burd\nHelen_, but Scott, Motherwell, Kinloch, Buchan, and others agree on\nthe name _Fair Annie_. The pathetic beauty of the ballad has secured\nit a wide popularity. There are Danish, Swedish, Dutch, and German\nversions. \"But Fair Annie's fortunes have not only been charmingly\nsung,\" says Professor Child.  \"They have also been exquisitely _told_\nin a favorite lay of Marie de France, 'Le Lai del Freisne.' This tale\nof Breton origin is three hundred years older than any manuscript of\nthe ballad. Comparison will, however, quickly show that it is not the\nsource either of the English or of the Low German and Scandinavian\nballad. The tale and the ballads have a common source, which lies\nfurther back, and too far for us to find.\" _Your lane_, alone. _Braw_,\nfinely dressed.  _Gear_, goods.  _But and_, and also. _Stown_, stolen.\n_Leugh_, laughed.  _Loot_, let. _Gars_, makes. _Greet_, weep.\n\n\nTHE LAIRD O' DRUM. After Aytoun's collated version.  Copies obtained\nfrom recitation are given by Kinloch and Buchan.  The eccentric Laird\no' Drum was an actual personage, who, in the seventeenth century,\nmortified his aristocratic relatives and delighted the commons by\nmarrying a certain Margaret Coutts, a woman of lowly rank, his first\nwife having been a daughter of the Marquis of Huntly. The old shepherd\nspeaks in the Aberdeen dialect. _Weel-faur'd_, well-favored.  _Gin_,\nif. _Speer_, ask. _Kebbuck_, cheese.  _Yetts_, gates. _Gawsy_, portly.\n_But the pearlin' abune her bree_, without the lace above her brow.\n\n\nLIZIE LINDSAY. After Jamieson. Complete copies are given by Buchan and\nWhitelaw, also. _Till_, to. _Braes_, hills. _Fit_, foot. _Gin_, if.\n_Tocher_, dowry. _Gait_, way.  _Wale_, choice. _Dey_, dairy-woman.\n_Laverock_, lark. _Liltin'_, carolling. _Shealin'_, sheep-shed. _Gaits\nand kye_, goats and cows.\n\n\nKATHARINE JANFARIE. Mainly after Motherwell's version entitled\n_Catherine Johnstone_. Other renderings are given by Scott, Maidment,\nand Buchan. In Scott's version the name of the English suitor is Lord\nLochinvar, and both name and story the thieving poet has turned, as\neverybody knows, to excellent account. The two closing stanzas here\nseem to betray the hand of an English balladist.  _Weel-faur'd_,\nwell-favored. _Lave_, rest. _Spier'd_, asked. _Brae_, hill.\n\nGLENLOGIE. After Smith's version in the _Scottish Minstrel_,--a book\nwherein \"great liberties,\" Motherwell claims, have been taken with\nancient lays. A rough but spirited version is given by Sharpe, and a\nthird by Buchan. _Gar_, make. _His lane_, alone.\n\n\nGET UP AND BAR THE DOOR. After Herd. This ballad appears, too, in\nJohnson's _Museum_ and Ritson's _Scottish Songs_.  _Martinmas_, the\neleventh of November. _Intil_, into.  _Hussyskep_, house-keeping.\n_Bree_, broth. _Scaud_, scald.\n\n\nTHE LAWLANDS O' HOLLAND. After Herd. Another version, longer and\npoorer, occurs in Johnson's _Museum_. _Withershins_, the wrong\nway. _Twinned_, parted.\n\n\nTHE TWA CORBIES. After Scott, who received it from Mr. C. K. Sharpe,\n\"as written down, from tradition, by a lady.\"  This seems to be the\nScottish equivalent of an old English poem, _The Three Ravens_, given\nby Ritson in his _Ancient Songs_. _Corbies_, ravens.  _Fail_, turf.\n_Kens_, knows. _Hause_, neck.  _Pyke_, pick. _Theek_, thatch.\n\n\nHELEN OF KIRCONNEL. After Scott. Other versions are given by Herd,\nRitson, and Jamieson. There is said to be a traditional basis for the\nballad, and the grave of the lovers, Adam Fleming and Helen Irving (or\nHelen Bell), is still pointed out in the churchyard of Kirconnell,\nnear Springkell. _Burd_, lady.\n\n\nWALY WALY. After Ramsay, being first published in the _Tea-Table\nMiscellany_. These touching and tender stanzas have been pieced by\nChambers into the patchwork ballad, _Lord Jamie Douglas_, but\nevidently it is not there that they belong. _Waly_, a cry of\nlamentation. _Brae_, hillside. _Burn_, brook. _Syne_, then. _Lichtly_,\nslight. _Busk_, adorn. _Marti'mas_, November. _Fell_, bitterly.\n_Cramasie_, crimson.\n\n\nLORD RONALD. After Scott's version entitled _Lord Randal_. Scott\nadopts this name because he thinks the ballad may originally have had\nreference to the death of Thomas Randolph, or Randal, Earl of\nMurray,--a theory which Allingham, with more justice than mercy,\nbriefly disposes of as \"mere antiquarian moonshine.\"  In point of fact\nthe ballad recounts an old, old story, told in many literatures,\nItalian, German, Dutch, Swedish, Danish, Magyar, Wendish, Bohemian,\nCatalan. The English offshoot takes on a bewildering variety of\nforms. (See Introduction, pp. xiii, xiv.) _Broo'_, broth.\n\n\nEDWARD, EDWARD. After Percy, the ballad having made its first\nappearance in the _Reliques_. Motherwell gives an interesting version,\nin which the murderer, who in this case has slain his brother, is\naddressed as _Son Davie_. There are German, Swedish, Danish and Finish\nequivalents. The old orthography, which is retained here for its\nliterary interest, cannot obscure the tragic power of the ballad.\n_Frie_, free. _Dule ye drie_, grief ye suffer.  _Tul_, till.","title":"Ballad Book","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":43199}