12742	----	MINISTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER: CONSISTING OF HISTORICAL AND ROMANTIC BALLADS, COLLECTED IN THE SOUTHERN COUNTIES OF SCOTLAND; WITH A FEW OF MODERN DATE, FOUNDED UPON LOCAL TRADITION. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I The songs, to savage virtue dear, That won of yore the public ear, Ere Polity, sedate and sage, Had quench'd the fires of feudal rage.--WARTON. 1806. TO HIS GRACE, HENRY, _DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH_, &c.&c.&c. THESE TALES, WHICH IN ELDER TIMES HAVE CELEBRATED THE PROWESS, AND CHEERED THE HALLS, OF _HIS GALLANT ANCESTORS_, ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY HIS GRACE'S MUCH OBLIGED AND MOST HUMBLE SERVANT, WALTER SCOTT. CONTENTS TO THE FIRST VOLUME. INTRODUCTION PART FIRST. _HISTORICAL BALLADS_. Sir Patrick Spens, Auld Maitland, Battle of Otterbourne, The Sang of the Outlaw Murray, Johnie Armstrang, The Lochmaben Harper, Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead, The Raid of the Reidswire, Kinmont Willie, Dick o'the Cow, Jock o'the Side, Hobbie Noble, Archie of Ca'field, Armstrong's Goodnight, The Fray of Suport, Lord Maxwell's Goodnight, The Lads of Wamphray, INTRODUCTION. From the remote period; when the Roman province was contracted by the ramparts of Severus, until the union of the kingdoms, the borders of Scotland formed the stage, upon which were presented the most memorable conflicts of two gallant nations. The inhabitants, at the commencement of this aera, formed the first wave of the torrent which assaulted, and finally overwhelmed, the barriers of the Roman power in Britain. The subsequent events, in which they were engaged, tended little to diminish their military hardihood, or to reconcile them to a more civilized state of society. We have no occasion to trace the state of the borders during the long and obscure period of Scottish history, which preceded the accession of the Stuart family. To illustrate a few ballads, the earliest of which is hardly coeval with James V. such an enquiry would be equally difficult and vain. If we may trust the Welch bards, in their account of the wars betwixt the Saxons and Danes of Deira and the Cumraig, imagination can hardly form [Sidenote: 570] any idea of conflicts more desperate, than were maintained, on the borders, between the ancient British and their Teutonic invaders. Thus, the Gododin describes the waste and devastation of mutual havoc, in colours so glowing, as strongly to recall the words of Tacitus; "_Et ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant_[1]." [Footnote 1: In the spirited translation of this poem, by Jones, the following verses are highly descriptive of the exhausted state of the victor army. At Madoc's tent the clarion sounds, With rapid clangour hurried far: Each echoing dell the note resounds-- But when return the sons of war! Thou, born of stern necessity, Dull peace! the desert yields to thee, And owns thy melancholy sway. At a later period, the Saxon families, who fled from the exterminating sword of the Conqueror, with many of the Normans themselves, whom discontent and intestine feuds had driven into exile, began to rise into eminence upon the Scottish borders. They brought with them arts, both of peace and of war, unknown in Scotland; and, among their descendants, we soon number the most powerful border chiefs. Such, during the reign of the [Sidenote: 1249] last Alexander, were Patrick, earl of March, and Lord Soulis, renowned in tradition; and such were, also, the powerful Comyns, who early acquired the principal sway upon the Scottish marches. [Sidenote: 1300] In the civil wars betwixt Bruce and Baliol, all those powerful chieftains espoused the unsuccessful party. They were forfeited and exiled; and upon their ruins was founded the formidable house of Douglas. The borders, from sea to sea, were now at the devotion of a succession of mighty chiefs, whose exorbitant power threatened to place a new dynasty upon the Scottish throne. It is not my intention to trace the dazzling career of this race of heroes, whose exploits were alike formidable to the English, and to their sovereign. The sun of Douglas set in blood. The murders of the sixth earl, and his brother, in the castle of Edinburgh, were followed by that of their successor, poignarded at Stirling by the hand of his prince. His brother, Earl James, appears neither to have possessed the abilities nor the ambition of his ancestors. He drew, indeed, against his prince, the formidable sword of Douglas, but with a timid and hesitating hand. Procrastination ruined his cause; and he was deserted, at Abercorn, by the knight of Cadyow, chief of the Hamiltons, and by his most active adherents, after they had ineffectually exhorted him to commit [Sidenote: 1453] his fate to the issue of a battle. The border chiefs, who longed for independence, shewed little [Sidenote: 1455] inclination to follow the declining fortunes of Douglas. On the contrary, the most powerful clans engaged and defeated him, at Arkinholme, in Annandale, when, after a short residence in England, he again endeavoured to gain a footing in his native country[2]. The spoils of Douglas were liberally distributed among his conquerors, and royal grants of his forfeited domains effectually interested them in excluding his return. An [Sidenote: 1457] attempt, on the east borders, by "_the Percy and the Douglas, both together_," was equally unsuccessful. The earl, grown old in exile, longed once more to see his native country, and vowed, that, [Sidenote: 1483] upon Saint Magdalen's day, he would deposit his offering on the high altar at Lochmaben.--Accompanied by the banished earl of Albany, with his usual ill fortune, he entered Scotland.--The borderers assembled to oppose him, and he suffered a final defeat at Burnswark, in Dumfries-shire. The aged earl was taken in the fight, by a son of Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, one of his own vassals. A grant of lands had been offered for his person: "Carry me to the king!" said Douglas to Kirkpatrick: "thou art well entitled to profit by my misfortune; for thou wast true to me, while I was true to myself." The young man wept bitterly, and offered to fly with the earl into England. But Douglas, weary of exile, refused his proffered liberty, and only requested, that Kirkpatrick would not deliver him to the king, till he had secured his own reward[3]. Kirkpatrick did more: he stipulated for the personal safety of his old master. His generous intercession prevailed; and the last of the Douglasses was permitted to die, in monastic seclusion, in the abbey of Lindores. [Footnote 2: At the battle of Arkinholme, the Earl of Angus, a near kinsman of Douglas, commanded the royal forces; and the difference of their complexion occasioned the saying, "that the _Black Douglas_ had put down the _Red_." The Maxwells, the Johnstones, and the Scotts, composed his army. Archibald, earl of Murray, brother to Douglas, was slain in the action; and Hugh, Earl of Ormond, his second brother, was taken and executed. His captors, Lord Carlisle, and the Baron of Johnstone, were rewarded with a grant of the lands of Pittinane, upon Clyde.--_Godscroft_, Vol. I. p. 375.--_Balfour's MS. in the Advocates' Library, Edinburgh_.--_Abercrombie's Achievements_, Vol. II. p. 361. _folio Ed_.--The other chiefs were also distinguished by royal favour. By a charter, upon record, dated 25th February, 1458, the king grants to Walter Scott of Kirkurd, ancestor of the house of Buccleuch, the lands of Abingtown, Phareholm, and Glentonan craig, in Lanarkshire. "_Pro suo fideli servitio nobis impenso et pro quod interfuit in conflictu de Arkenholme in occisione et captione nostrorum rebellium quondam Archibaldi et Hugonis de Douglas olim comitum Moraviae et de Ormond et aliorum rebellium nostrorum in eorum comitiva existen: ibidem captorum et interfectorum_." Similar grants of land were made to Finnart and Arran, the two branches of the house of Hamilton; to the chiefs of the Battisons; but, above all, to the Earl of Angus who obtained from royal favour a donation of the Lordship of Douglas, and many other lands, now held by Lord Douglas, as his representative. There appears, however, to be some doubt, whether, in this division, the Earl of Angus received more than his natural right. Our historians, indeed, say, that William I. Earl of Douglas, had three sons; 1. James, the 2d Earl, who died in the field of Otterburn; 2. Archibald, the Grim, 3d Earl; and 3. George, in right of his mother, earl of Angus. Whether, however, this Archibald was actually the son of William, seems very doubtful; and Sir David Dalrymple has strenuously maintained the contrary. Now, if Archibald, the Grim, intruded into the earldom of Douglas, without being a son of that family, it follows that the house of Angus, being kept out of their just rights for more than a century, were only restored to them after the battle of Arkinholme. Perhaps, this may help to account for the eager interest taken by the earl of Angus against his kinsman.--_Remarks on History of Scotland_, Edinburgh, 1773. p. 121.] [Footnote 3: A grant of the king, dated 2d October, 1484, bestowed upon Kirkpatrick, for this acceptable service, the lands of Kirkmichael.] After the fall of the house of Douglas, no one chieftain appears to have enjoyed the same extensive supremacy over the Scottish borders. The various barons, who had partaken of the spoil, combined in resisting a succession of uncontrouled domination. The earl of Angus alone seems to have taken rapid steps in the same course of ambition which had been pursued by his kinsmen and rivals, the earls of Douglas. Archibald, sixth earl of Angus, called _Bell-the-Cat_, was, at once, warden of the east and middle marches, Lord of Liddisdale and Jedwood forest, and possessed of the strong castles of Douglas, Hermitage, and Tantallon. Highly esteemed by the ancient nobility, a faction which he headed shook the throne of the feeble James III., whose person they restrained, and whose minions they led to an ignominious death. The king failed not to shew his sense of these insults, though unable effectually to avenge them. This hastened his fate: and the field of Bannockburn, once the scene of a more glorious conflict, beheld the combined chieftains of the border counties arrayed against their sovereign, under the banners of his own son. The king was supported by almost all the barons of the north; but the tumultuous ranks of the Highlanders were ill able to endure the steady and rapid charge of the men of Annandale and Liddisdale, who bare spears, two ells longer than were used by the rest of their countrymen. The yells, with which they accompanied their onset, caused the heart of James to quail within him. He deserted his host, [Sidenote: 1488] and fled towards Stirling; but, falling from his horse, he was murdered by the pursuers. James IV., a monarch of a vigorous and energetic character, was well aware of the danger which his ancestors had experienced, from the preponderance of one overgrown family. He is supposed to have smiled internally, when the border and highland champions bled and died in the savage sports of chivalry, by which his nuptials were solemnized. Upon the waxing power of Angus he kept a wary eye; and, embracing the occasion of a casual slaughter, he compelled that earl, and his son, to exchange the lordship of Liddisdale and the castle of Hermitage, for the castle and lordship of Bothwell[4]. By this policy, he prevented the house of Angus, mighty as it was, from rising to the height, whence the elder branch of their family had been hurled. [Footnote 4: Spens of Kilspindie, a renowned cavalier, had been present in court, when the Earl of Angus was highly praised for strength and valour. "It may be," answered Spens, "if all be good that is upcome;" insinuating, that the courage of the earl might not answer the promise of his person. Shortly after, Angus, while hawking near Borthwick, with a single attendant, met Kilspindie. "What reason had ye," said the earl, "for making question of my manhood? thou art a tall fellow, and so am I; and by St. Bride of Douglas, one of us shall pay for it!"--"Since it may be no better," answered Kilspindie, "I will defend myself against the best earl in Scotland." With these words they encountered fiercely, till Angus, with one blow, severed the thigh of his antagonist, who died upon the spot. The earl then addressed the attendant of Kilspindie: "Go thy way: tell my gossip, the king, that here was nothing but fair play. I know my gossip will be offended; but I will get me into Liddisdale, and remain in my castle of the Hermitage till his anger be abated."--_Godscroft_, Vol. II. p. 59. The price of the earl's pardon seems to have been the exchange mentioned in the text. Bothwell is now the residence of Lord Douglas. The sword, with which Archibald, _Bell-the-Cat_, slew Spens, was, by his descendant, the famous Earl of Morton, presented to Lord Lindsay of the Byres, when, about to engage in single combat with Bothwell, at Carberry-hill--_Godscroft_, Vol. II. p. 175.] Nor did James fail in affording his subjects on the marches marks of his royal justice and protection. [Sidenote: 1510] The clan of Turnbull having been guilty of unbounded excesses, the king came suddenly to Jedburgh, by a night march, and executed the most rigid justice upon the astonished offenders. Their submission was made with singular solemnity. Two hundred of the tribe met the king, at the water of Rule, holding in their hands the naked swords, with which they had perpetrated their crimes, and having each around his neck the halter which he had well merited. A few were capitally punished, many imprisoned, and the rest dismissed, after they had given hostages for their future peaceable demeanour.--_Holinshed's Chronicle, Lesly_. The hopes of Scotland, excited by the prudent and spirited conduct of James, were doomed to a sudden and fatal reverse. Why should we recapitulate the painful tale of the defeat and death of a high-spirited prince? Prudence, policy, the prodigies of superstition, and the advice of his most experienced counsellors, were alike unable to subdue in James the blazing zeal of romantic chivalry. The monarch, and the flower of his nobles, [Sidenote: 1513] precipitately rushed to the fatal field of Flodden, whence they were never to return. The minority of James V. presents a melancholy scene. Scotland, through all its extent, felt the truth of the adage, "that the country is hapless, whose prince is a child." But the border counties, exposed from their situation to the incursions of the English, deprived of many of their most gallant chiefs, and harassed by the intestine struggles of the survivors, were reduced to a wilderness, inhabited only by the beasts of the field, and by a few more brutal warriors. Lord Home, the chamberlain and favourite of James IV., leagued with the Earl of Angus, who married the widow of his sovereign, held, for a time, the chief sway upon the east border. Albany, the regent of the kingdom, bred in the French court, and more accustomed to wield the pen than the sword, feebly endeavoured to controul a lawless nobility, to whom his manners appeared strange, and his person [Sidenote: 1516] despicable. It was in vain that he inveigled the Lord Home to Edinburgh, where he was tried and executed. This example of justice, or severity, only irritated the kinsmen and followers of the deceased baron: for though, in other respects, not more sanguinary than the rest of a barbarous nation, the borderers never dismissed from their memory a deadly feud, till blood for blood had been exacted, to the uttermost drachm[5]. Of this, the fate of Anthony d'Arcey, Seigneur de la Bastie, affords a melancholy example. This gallant French cavalier was appointed warden of the east marches by Albany, at his first disgraceful retreat to France. Though De la Bastie was an able statesman, and a true son of chivalry, the choice of the regent was nevertheless unhappy. The new warden was a foreigner, placed in the office of Lord Home, as [Sidenote: 1517] the delegate of the very man, who had brought that baron to the scaffold. A stratagem, contrived by Home of Wedderburn, who burned to avenge the death of his chief, drew De la Bastie towards Langton, in the Merse. Here he found himself surrounded by his enemies. In attempting, by the speed of his horse, to gain the castle of Dunbar, the warden plunged into a morass, where he was overtaken and cruelly butchered. Wedderburn himself cut off his head; and, in savage triumph, knitted it to his saddle-bow by the long flowing hair, which had been admired by the dames of France.--_Pitscottie, Edit_. 1728, p. 130. _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, Vol. II. p. 169 [6]. [Footnote 5: The statute 1594, cap. 231, ascribes the disorders on the border in a great measure to the "counselles, directions, receipt, and partaking, of chieftains principalles of the branches, and househalders of the saides surnames, and clannes, quhilkis bears quarrel, and seeks revenge for the least hurting or slauchter of ony ane of their unhappy race, although it were ardour of justice, or in rescuing and following of trew mens geares stollen or reft."] [Footnote 6: This tragedy, or, perhaps, the preceding execution of Lord Home, must have been the subject of the song, the first two lines of which are preserved in the _Complaynt of Scotland_; God sen' the Duc hed byddin in France, And de la Bauté had never come hame. P, 100, Edin. 1801.] The Earl of Arran, head of the house of Hamilton was appointed to succeed De la Bastie in his perilous office. But the Douglasses, the Homes, and the Kerrs, proved too strong for him upon the [Sidenote: 1520] border. He was routed by these clans, at Kelso, and afterwards in a sharp skirmish, fought betwixt his faction and that of Angus, in the high-street of the metropolis[7]. [Footnote 7: The particulars of this encounter are interesting. The Hamiltons were the most numerous party, drawn chiefly from the western counties. Their leaders met in the palace of Archbishop Beaton, and resolved to apprehend Angus, who was come to the city to attend the convention of estates. Gawain Douglas, bishop of Dunkeld, a near relation of Angus, in vain endeavoured to mediate betwixt the factions. He appealed to Beaton, and invoked his assistance to prevent bloodshed. "On my conscience," answered the archbishop, "I cannot help what is to happen." As he laid his hand upon his breast, at this solemn declaration, the hauberk, concealed by his rocket, was heard to clatter: "Ah! my lord!" retorted Douglas, "your conscience sounds hollow." He then expostulated with the secular leaders, and Sir Patrick Hamilton, brother to Arran, was convinced by his remonstrances; but Sir James, the natural son of the earl, upbraided his uncle with reluctance to fight. "False bastard!" answered Sir Patrick, "I will fight to day where thou darest not be seen." With these words they rushed tumultuously towards the high-street, where Angus, with the prior of Coldinghame, and the redoubted Wedderburn, waited their assault, at the head of 400 spearmen, the flower of the east marches, who, having broke down the gate of the Netherbow, had arrived just in time to the earl's assistance. The advantage of the ground, and the disorder of the Hamiltons, soon gave the day to Angus. Sir Patrick Hamilton, and the master of Montgomery, were slain. Arran, and Sir James Hamilton, escaped with difficulty; and with no less difficulty was the military prelate of Glasgow rescued from the ferocious borderers, by the generous interposition of Gawain Douglas. The skirmish was long remembered in Edinburgh, by the name of "Cleanse the Causeway."--_Pinkerton's History_, Vol. II. p. 181.--_Pitscottie Edit._ 1728. p. 120.--_Life of Gawain Douglas, prefixed to his Virgil_.] The return of the regent was followed by the banishment of Angus, and by a desultory warfare with England, carried on with mutual incursions. Two gallant armies, levied by Albany, were dismissed without any exploit worthy notice, while Surrey, at the head of ten thousand cavalry, burned Jedburgh, and laid waste all Tiviotdale. This general pays a splendid tribute to the gallantry of the border chiefs. He terms them "the boldest [Sidenote: 1523] men, and the hottest, that ever I saw any nation[8]." [Footnote 8: A curious letter from Surrey to the king is printed in the Appendix, No. I.] Disgraced and detested, Albany bade adieu to Scotland for ever. The queen-mother, and the Earl of Arran, for some time swayed the kingdom. But their power was despised on the borders, where Angus, though banished, had many friends. Scot of Buccleuch even appropriated to himself domains, belonging to the queen, worth 4000 merks yearly; being probably the castle of Newark and her jointure lands in Ettrick forest[9].-- [Footnote 9: In a letter to the Duke of Norfolk, October 1524, Queen Margaret says, "Sen that the Lard of Sessford and the Lard of Baclw vas put in the castell of Edinbrouh, the Erl of Lenness hath past hyz vay vythout lycyens, and in despyt; and thynkyth to make the brek that he may, and to solyst other lordis to tak hyz part; for the said lard of Bavkl wvas hyz man, and dyd the gretyst ewelyz that myght be dwn, and twk part playnly vyth theasyz as is well known."--_Cot. MSS. Calig._ B.I.] This chief, with Kerr of Cessford, was committed to ward, from which they escaped, to join [Sidenote: 1525] the party of the exiled Angus. Leagued with these, and other border chiefs, Angus effected his return to Scotland, where he shortly after acquired possession of the supreme power, and of the person of the youthful king. "The ancient power of the Douglasses," says the accurate historian, whom I have so often referred to, "seemed to have revived; and, after a slumber of near a century, again to threaten destruction to the Scottish monarchy."--_Pinkerton_, Vol. 11, p. 277. In fact, the time now returned, when no one durst strive with a Douglas, or with his follower. For, although Angus used the outward pageant of conducting the king around the country, for punishing thieves and traitors, "yet," says Pitscottie, "none were found greater than were in his own company." The high spirit of the young king was galled by the ignominious restraint under which he found himself; and, in a progress to the border for repressing the Armstrongs, he probably gave such signs of dissatisfaction, as excited the [Sidenote: 1526] laird of Buccleuch to attempt his rescue. This powerful baron was the chief of a hardy clan, inhabiting Ettrick forest, Eskdale, Ewsdale, the higher part of Tiviotdale, and a portion of Liddesdale. In this warlike district he easily levied a thousand horse, comprehending a large body of Elliots, Armstrongs, and other broken clans, over whom the laird of Buccleuch exercised an extensive authority; being termed, by Lord Dacre, "chief maintainer of all misguided men on the borders of Scotland."--_Letter to Wolsey_, July 18. 1528. The Earl of Angus, with his reluctant ward, had slept at Melrose; and the clans of Home and Kerr, under the Lord Home, and the barons of Cessford, and Fairnihirst, had taken their leave of the king, when, in the gray of the morning, Buccleuch and his band of cavalry were discovered, hanging, like a thunder-cloud, upon the neighbouring hill of Haliden[10]. A herald was sent to demand his purpose, and to charge him to retire. To the first point he answered, that he came to shew his clan to the king, according to the custom of the borders; to the second, that he knew the king's mind better than Angus.--When this haughty answer was reported to the earl, "Sir," said he to the king, "yonder is Buccleuch, with the thieves of Annandale and Liddesdale, to bar your grace's passage. I vow to God they shall either fight or flee. Your grace shall tarry on this hillock, with my brother George; and I will either clear your road of yonder banditti, or die in the attempt." The earl, with these words, alighted, and hastened to the charge; while the Earl of Lennox (at whose instigation Buccleuch made the attempt), remained with the king, an inactive spectator. Buccleuch and his followers likewise dismounted, and received the assailants with a dreadful shout, and a shower of lances. The encounter was fierce and obstinate; but the Homes and Kerrs, returning at the noise of battle, bore down and dispersed the left wing of Buccleuch's little army. The hired banditti fled on all sides; but the chief himself, surrounded by his clan, fought desperately in the retreat. The laird of Cessford, chief of the Roxburgh Kerrs, pursued the chace fiercely; till, at the bottom of a steep path, Elliot of Stobs, a follower of Buccleuch, turned, and slew him with a stroke of his lance. When Cessford fell, the pursuit ceased. But his death, with those of Buccleuch's friends, who fell in the action, to the number of eighty, occasioned a deadly feud betwixt the names of Scott and Kerr, which cost much blood upon the marches[11].--See _Pitscottie_, _Lesly_, and _Godscroft_. [Footnote 10: Near Darnick. By a corruption from Skirmish field, the spot is still called the Skinnerfield. Two lines of an old ballad on the subject are still preserved: "There were sick belts and blows, The Mattous burn ran blood." [Footnote 11: Buccleuch contrived to escape forfeiture, a doom pronounced against those nobles, who assisted the Earl of Lennox, in a subsequent attempt to deliver the king, by force of arms. "The laird of Bukcleugh has a respecte, and is not forfeited; and will get his pece, and was in Leithquo, both Sondaye, Mondaye, and Tewisday last, which is grete displeasure to the Carres."--_Letter from Sir C. Dacre to Lord Dacre, 2d December_, 1526.] [Sidenote: 1528] Stratagem at length effected what force had been unable to accomplish; and the king, emancipated from the iron tutelage of Angus, made the first use of his authority, by banishing from the kingdom his late lieutenant, and the whole race of Douglas. This command was not enforced without difficulty; for the power of Angus was strongly rooted in the east border, where he possessed the castle of Tantallon, and the hearts of the Homes and Kerrs. The former, whose strength was proverbial[12], defied a royal army; and the latter, at the Pass of Pease, baffled the Earl of Argyle's attempts to enter the Merse, as lieutenant of his sovereign. On this occasion, the borderers regarded with wonder and contempt the barbarous array, and rude equipage, of their northern countrymen Godscroft has preserved the beginning of a scoffing rhyme, made upon this occasion: The Earl of Argyle is bound to ride From the border of Edgebucklin brae[13]; And all his habergeons him beside, Each man upon a sonk of strae. They made their vow that they would slay-- _Godscroft_, v. 2. p. 104. Ed. 1743. [Footnote 12: "To ding down Tantallon, and make a bridge to the Bass," was an adage expressive of impossibility. The shattered ruins of this celebrated fortress still overhang a tremendous rock on the coast of East Lothian.] [Footnote 13: Edgebucklin, near Musselburgh.] The pertinacious opposition of Angus to his doom irritated to the extreme the fiery temper of James, and he swore, in his wrath, that a Douglas should never serve him; an oath which he kept in circumstances under which the spirit of chivalry, which he worshipped[14], should have taught him other feelings. [Footnote 14: I allude to the affecting story of Douglas of Kilspindie, uncle to the Earl of Angus. This gentleman had been placed by Angus about the king's person, who, when a boy, loved him much, on account of his singular activity of body, and was wont to call him his _Graysteil_, after a champion of chivalry, in the romance of _Sir Eger and Sir Grime_. He shared, however, the fate of his chief, and, for many years, served in France. Weary, at length, of exile, the aged warrior, recollecting the king's personal attachment to him, resolved to throw himself on his clemency. As James returned from hunting in the park at Stirling, he saw a person at a distance, and, turning to his nobles, exclaimed, "Yonder is my _Graysteil_, Archibald of Kilspindie!" As he approached, Douglas threw himself on his knees, and implored permission to lead an obscure life in his native land. But the name of Douglas was an amulet, which steeled the king's heart against the influence of compassion and juvenile recollection. He passed the suppliant without an answer, and rode briskly up the steep hill, towards the castle. Kilspindie, though loaded with a hauberk under his cloaths, kept pace with the horse, in vain endeavouring to catch a glance from the implacable monarch. He sat down at the gate, weary and exhausted, and asked for a draught of water. Even this was refused by the royal attendants. The king afterwards blamed their discourtesy; but Kilspindie was obliged to return to France, where he died of a broken heart; the same disease which afterwards brought to the grave his unrelenting sovereign. Even the stern Henry VIII. blamed his nephew's conduct, quoting the generous saying "A king's face should give grace."--_Godscroft_, Vol. II. P. 107.] While these transactions, by which the fate of Scotland was influenced, were passing upon the eastern border, the Lord Maxwell seems to have exercised a most uncontrouled domination in Dumfries-shire. Even the power of the Earl of Angus was exerted in vain, against the banditti of Liddesdale, protected and bucklered by this mighty chief. Repeated complaints are made by the English residents, of the devastation occasioned by the depredations of the Elliots, Scotts, and Armstrongs, connived at, and encouraged, by Maxwell, [Sidenote: 1528] Buccleuch, and Fairnihirst. At a convention of border commissioners, it was agreed, that the king of England, in case the excesses of the Liddesdale freebooters were not duly redressed, should be at liberty to issue letters of reprisal to his injured subjects, granting "power to invade the said inhabitants of Liddesdale, to their slaughters, burning, heirships, robbing, reifing, despoiling and destruction, and so to continue the same at his grace's pleasure," till the attempts of the inhabitants were fully atoned for. This impolitic expedient, by which the Scottish prince, unable to execute justice on his turbulent subjects, committed to a rival sovereign the power of unlimited chastisement, was a principal cause of the savage state of the borders. For the inhabitants, finding that the sword of revenge was substituted for that of justice, were loosened from their attachment to Scotland, and boldly threatened to carry on their depredations, in spite of the efforts of both kingdoms. James V., however, was not backward in using more honourable expedients to quell the banditti [Sidenote: 1529] on the borders. The imprisonment of their chiefs, and a noted expedition, in which many of the principal thieves were executed (see introduction to the ballad, called _Johnie Armstrong_), produced such good effects, that, according to an ancient picturesque history, "thereafter there was great peace and rest a long time, where through the king had great profit; for he had ten thousand sheep going in the Ettrick forest, in keeping by Andrew Bell, who made the king so good count of them, as they had gone in the hounds of Fife." _Pitscottie_, p. 153. A breach with England interrupted the tranquillity [Sidenote: 1532] of the borders. The Earl of Northumberland, a formidable name to Scotland, ravaged the middle marches, and burned Branxholm, the abode of Buccleuch, the hereditary enemy of the English name. Buccleuch, with the barons of Cessford and Fairnihirst, retaliated by a raid into England, [Sidenote: 1533] where they acquired much spoil. On the east march, Fowberry was destroyed by the Scots, and Dunglass castle by D'Arcey, and the banished Angus. A short peace was quickly followed by another war, which proved fatal to Scotland, and to her king. In the battle of Haddenrig, the English, and the exiled Douglasses, were defeated by the Lords Huntly and Home; but this was a transient gleam of success. Kelso was burned, and the borders [Sidenote: 1542] ravaged, by the Duke of Norfolk; and finally, the rout of Solway moss, in which ten thousand men, the flower of the Scottish army, were dispersed and defeated by a band of five hundred English cavalry, or rather by their own dissentions, broke the proud heart of James; a death, more painful a hundred fold than was met by his father in the field of Flodden. When the strength of the Scottish army had sunk, without wounds, and without renown, the principal chiefs were led captive into England.--Among these was the Lord Maxwell, who was compelled, by the menaces of Henry, to swear allegiance to the English monarch. There is still in existence the spirited instrument of vindication, by which he renounces his connection with England, and the honours and estates which had been proffered him, as the price of treason to his infant sovereign. From various bonds of manrent, it appears, that all the western marches were swayed [Sidenote: 1543] by this powerful chieftain. With Maxwell, and the other captives, returned to Scotland the banished Earl of Angus, and his brother, Sir George Douglas, after a banishment of fifteen years. This powerful family regained at least a part of their influence upon the borders; and, grateful to the kingdom which had afforded them protection during their exile, became chiefs of the English faction in Scotland, whose object it was to urge a contract of marriage betwixt the young queen and the heir apparent of England. The impetuosity of Henry, the ancient hatred betwixt the nations, and the wavering temper of the governor, Arran, prevented the success of this measure. The wrath of the disappointed monarch discharged itself in a wide-wasting and furious invasion of the east marches, conducted by the Earl of Hertford. Seton, Home, and Buccleuch, hanging on the mountains of Lammermoor, saw, with ineffectual regret, the fertile plains of Merse and Lothian, and the metropolis itself, reduced to a smoking desert. Hertford had scarcely retreated with the main army, when Evers and Latoun laid waste the whole vale of Tiviot, with a ferocity of devastation, hitherto unheard of[15]. The same "lion mode of wooing," being pursued during the minority of Edward VI., totally alienated the affections even of those Scots who were most attached to the English interest. The Earl of Angus, in particular, united himself to the governor, and gave the English a sharp defeat at Ancram moor, [Sidenote: 1545] a particular account of which action is subjoined to the ballad, entituled, "_The Eve of St. John_." Even the fatal defeat at Pinky, which at once renewed the carnage of Flodden, and the disgrace of Solway, served to prejudice the cause of the victors. The borders saw, with dread and detestation, the ruinous fortress of Roxburgh once more receive an English garrison, and the widow of Lord Home driven from his baronial castle, to [Sidenote: 1547] make room for the "_Southern Reivers_." Many of the barons made a reluctant submission to Somerset; but those of the higher part of the marches remained among their mountains, meditating revenge. A similar incursion was made on the west borders by Lord Wharton, who, with five thousand men, ravaged and overran Annandale, Nithsdale, and Galloway, compelling the inhabitants to receive the yoke of England[16]. [Footnote 15: In Haynes' State Papers, from p. 43 to p. 64, is an account of these destructive forays. One list of the places burned and destroyed enumerates-- Monasteries and Freehouses .... 7 Castles, towres, and piles .... 16 Market townes ................. 5 Villages ...................... 243 Mylnes ........................ 13 Spytells and hospitals ........ 3 See also official accounts of these expeditions, in _Dalyell's Fragments_.] [Footnote 16: Patten gives us a list of those east border chiefs who did homage to the Duke of Somerset, on the 24th of September, 1547; namely, the lairds of Cessfoorth, Fernyherst, Grenehed, Hunthill, Hundely, Makerstone, Bymerside, Bounjedworth, Ormeston, Mellestains, Warmesay, Synton, Egerston, Merton, Mowe, Rydell, Beamerside. Of gentlemen, he enumerates George Tromboul, Jhon Haliburton, Robert Car, Robert Car of Greyden, Adam Kirton, Andrew Mether, Saunders Purvose of Erleston, Mark Car of Littledean, George Car of Faldenside, Alexander Mackdowal, Charles Rutherford, Thomas Car of the Yere, Jhon Car of Meynthorn (Nenthorn), Walter Holiburton, Richard Hangansyde, Andrew Car, James Douglas of Cavers, James Car of Mersington, George Hoppringle, William Ormeston of Edmerden, John Grymslowe.--_Patten_, in _Dalyell's Fragments_, p. 87. On the west border, the following barons and clans submitted and gave pledges to Lord Wharton, that they would serve the king of England, with the number of followers annexed to their names. ANNERDALE. NITHSDALE. Laird of Kirkmighel .......... 222 Mr Maxwell and more ........ 1000 Rose ................ 165 Laird of Closeburn ......... 403 Hempsfield .......... 163 Lag ............... 202 Home Ends ........... 162 Cransfield ........ 27 Wamfrey ............. 102 Mr Ed. Creighton ........... 10 Dunwoddy ............ 44 Laird of Cowhill ........... 91 Laird of Newby and Gratney .. 122 Maxwells of Brackenside, Tinnel (Tinwald) .... 102 and vicar of Carlaverick .. 310 Patrick Murray .............. 203 ANNERDALE AND GALWAY. Christie Urwin (Irving) of Lord Carlisle .............. 101 Coveshawe ............ 102 ANNERDALE AND CLIDSDALE Cuthbert Urwen of Robbgill .. 34 Laird of Applegirth ........ 242 Urwens of Sennersack ......... 40 LIDDESDALE AND DEBATEABLE Wat Urwen .................... 20 LAND. Jeffrey Urwen ................ 93 Armstrongs ................. 300 T. Johnston of Crackburn .... 64 Elwoods (Elliots) .......... 74 James Johnston of Coites .... 162 Nixons ..................... 32 Johnstons of Graggyland ..... 37 GALLOWAY Johnstons of Driesdell ...... 46 Laird of Dawbaylie ......... 41 Johnstons of Malinshaw ...... 65 Orcherton .................. 111 Gawen Johnston .............. 31 Carlisle ................... 206 Will Johnston, the laird's Loughenwar ................. 45 brother ................... 110 Tutor of Bumbie ............ 140 Robin Johnston of Abbot of Newabbey .......... 141 Lochmaben .................. 67 Town of Dumfries ........... 201 Lard of Gillersbie ............ 30 Town of Kircubrie .......... 36 Moffits ....................... 24 TIVIDALE. Bells of Tostints ............ 142 Laird of Drumlire .......... 364 Bells of Tindills ............ 222 Caruthers .................. 71 Sir John Lawson ............... 32 Trumbells .................. 12 Town of Annan ................ 33 ESKDALE. Roomes of Tordephe ........... 32 Battisons and Thomsons ..... 166 Total 7008 men under English assurance. _Nicolson, from Bell's MS. Introduction to History of Cumberland_, p. 65.] The arrival of French auxiliaries, and of French gold, rendered vain the splendid successes of the English. One by one, the fortresses which they occupied were recovered by force, or by stratagem; and the vindictive cruelty of the Scottish borderers made dreadful retaliation for the, injuries they had sustained. An idea may be conceived of this horrible warfare, from the memoirs of Beaugé, a French officer, serving in Scotland. The castle of Fairnihirst, situated about three miles above Jedburgh, had been taken and garrisoned by the English. The commander and his followers are accused of such excesses of lust and cruelty "as would," says Beaugé, "have made to tremble the most savage moor in Africa." A band of Frenchmen, with the laird of Fairnihirst, and [Sidenote: 1549] his borderers, assaulted this fortress. The English archers showered their arrows down the steep ascent, leading to the castle, and from the outer wall by which it was surrounded. A vigorous escalade, however, gained the base court, and the sharp fire of the French arquebusiers drove the bowmen into the square keep, or dungeon, of the fortress. Here the English defended themselves, till a breach in the wall was made by mining. Through this hole the commandant creeped forth; and, surrendering himself to De la Mothe-rouge, implored protection from the vengeance of the borderers. But a Scottish marc-hman, eyeing in the captive the ravisher of his wife, approached him ere the French officer could guess his intention, and, at one blow, carried his head four paces from the trunk. Above a hundred Scots rushed to wash their hands in the blood of their oppressor, bandied about the severed head, and expressed their joy in such shouts, as if they had stormed the city of London. The prisoners, who fell into their merciless hands, were put to death, after their eyes had been torn out; the victors contending who should display the greatest address in severing their legs and arms, before inflicting a mortal wound. When their own prisoners were slain, the Scottish, with an unextinguishable thirst for blood, purchased those of the French; parting willingly with their very arms, in exchange for an English captive. "I myself," says Beaugé, with military sang-froid, "I myself sold them a prisoner for a small horse. They laid him down upon the ground, galloped over him with their lances in rest, and wounded him as they passed. When slain, they cut his body in pieces, and bore the mangled gobbets, in triumph, on the points of their spears. I cannot greatly praise the Scottish for this practice. But the truth is, that the English tyrannized over the borders in a most barbarous manner; and I think it was but fair to repay them, according to the proverb, in their own coin."-- _Campagnes de Beaugé_. A peace, in 1551, put an end to this war; the most destructive which, for a length of time, had ravaged Scotland. Some attention was paid by the governor and queen-mother, to the administration of justice on the border; and the chieftains, who had distinguished themselves during the late troubles, received the honour of knighthood[17]. [Sidenote: 1522] At this time, also, the Debateable Land, a tract of country, situated betwixt the Esk and Sarke, claimed by both kingdoms, was divided by royal commissioners, appointed by the two crowns.--By their award, this land of contention was separated by a line, drawn from east to west, betwixt the rivers. The upper half was adjudged to Scotland, and the more eastern part to England. Yet the Debateable Land continued long after to be the residence of the thieves and banditti, to whom its dubious state had afforded a desirable refuge[18]. [Footnote 17: These were the lairds of Buccleuch, Cessford, and Fairnihirst, Littleden, Grenehed, and Coldingknows. Buccleuch, whose gallant exploits we have noticed, did not long enjoy his new honours. He was murdered, in the streets of Edinburgh, by his hereditary enemies, the Kerrs, anno 1552.] [Footnote 18: The jest of James VI. is well known, who, when a favourite cow had found her way from London, back to her native country of Fife, observed, "that nothing surprised him so much as her passing uninterrupted through the Debateable Land!"] In 1557, a new war broke out, in which rencounters on the borders were, as usual, numerous, and with varied success. In some of these, the too famous Bothwell is said to have given proofs of his courage, which was at other times very questionable[19]. About this time the Scottish borderers seem to have acquired some ascendency over their southern neighbours.--_Strype_, Vol. III. p. 437--In 1559, peace was again restored. [Footnote 19: He was lord of Liddesdale, and keeper of the Hermitage castle. But he had little effective power over that country, and was twice defeated by the Armstrongs, its lawless inhabitants.--_Border History_, p. 584. Yet the unfortunate Mary, in her famous Apology, says, "that in the weiris againis Ingland, he gaif proof of his vailyentnes, courage, and gude conduct;" and praises him especially for subjugating "the rebellious subjectis inhabiting the cuntreis lying ewest the marches of Ingland."--_Keith_, p. 388. He appears actually to have defeated Sir Henry Percy, in a skirmish, called the Raid of Haltweilswire.] The flame of reformation, long stifled in Scotland, now burst forth, with the violence of a volcanic eruption. The siege of Leith was commenced, by the combined forces of the Congregation and of England. The borderers cared little about speculative points of religion; but they shewed themselves much interested in the treasures which passed through their country, for payment of the English forces at Edinburgh. Much alarm was excited, lest the marchers should intercept these weighty protestant arguments; and it was, probably, by voluntarily imparting a share in them to Lord Home, that he became a sudden convert to the new faith[20]. [Footnote 20: This nobleman had, shortly before, threatened to spoil the English east march; "but," says the Duke of Norfolk, "we have provided such sauce for him, that I think he will not deal in such matter; but, if he do fire but one hay-goff, he shall not go to Home again without torch-light, and, peradventure, may find a lanthorn at his own house."] Upon the arrival of the ill-fated Mary in her native country, she found the borders in a state of great disorder. The exertions of her natural brother (afterwards the famous regent, Murray) were necessary to restore some degree of tranquillity. He marched to Jedburgh, executed twenty or thirty of the transgressors, burned many houses, and brought a number of prisoners to Edinburgh. The chieftains of the principal clans were also obliged to grant pledges for their future obedience. A noted convention (for the particulars of which, see _Border Laws_, p. 84.) adopted various regulations, which were attended with great advantage to the marches[21]. [Footnote 21: The commissioners on the English side were, the elder Lord Scroope of Bolton, Sir John Foster, Sir Thomas Gargrave, and Dr. Rookby. On the Scottish side appeared, Sir John Maxwell of Terreagles, and Sir John Ballenden.] The unhappy match, betwixt Henry Darnley and his sovereign, led to new dissentions on the border. The Homes, Kerrs, and other east marchers, hastened to support the queen, against Murray, Chatelherault, and other nobles, whom her marriage had offended. For the same purpose the Johnstones, Jardines, and clans of Annandale entered into bonds of confederacy. But Liddesdale was under the influence of England; in so much, that Randolph, the English minister, proposed to hire a band of _strapping Elliots_, to find Home business at home, in looking after his corn and cattle.--_Keith_, p. 265. _App_. 133. This storm was hardly overblown, when Bothwell received the commission of lieutenant upon the borders; but, as void of parts as of principle, he could not even recover to the queen's allegiance his own domains in Liddesdale.--_Keith, App_. 165. The queen herself advanced to the borders, to remedy this evil, and to hold courts at Jedburgh. Bothwell was already in Liddesdale, where he had been severely wounded, in an attempt to seize John Elliot, of the Parke, a desperate freebooter; and happy had it been for Mary, had the dagger of the moss-trooper struck more home. Bothwell being transported to his castle of Hermitage, the queen, upon hearing the tidings, hastened thither, A dangerous morass, still called the _Queen's Mire_[22], is pointed out by tradition as the spot where the lovely Mary, and her white palfrey, were in danger of perishing. The distance betwixt Hermitage and Jedburgh, by the way of Hawick, is nearly twenty-four English miles. The queen went and returned the same day. Whether she visited a wounded subject, or a lover in danger, has been warmly disputed in our latter days. [Footnote 22: The _Queen's Mire_ is still a pass of danger, exhibiting, in many places, the bones of the horses which have been entangled in it. For what reason the queen chose to enter Liddesdale by the circuitous route of Hawick, does not appear. There are two other passes from Jedburgh to Hermitage castle; the one by the _Note of the Gate_, the other over the mountain, called Winburgh. Either of these, but especially the latter, is several miles shorter than that by Hawick, and the Queen's Mire. But, by the circuitous way of Hawick, the queen could traverse the districts of more friendly clans, than by going directly into the disorderly province of Liddesdale.] To the death of Henry Darnley, it is said, some of the border lords were privy. But the subsequent marriage, betwixt the queen and Bothwell, alienated from her the affections of the chieftains of the marches, most of whom aided the association of the insurgent barons. A few gentlemen of the Merse, however, joined the army which Mary brought to Carberry-hill. But no one was willing to fight for the detested Bothwell, nor did Bothwell himself shew any inclination to put his person in jeopardy. The result to Mary was a rigorous captivity in Lochleven castle; and the name of Bothwell scarcely again pollutes the page of Scottish history. The distress of a beautiful and afflicted princess softened the hearts of her subjects; and, when she escaped from her severe captivity, the most powerful barons in Scotland crowded around her standard. Among these were many of the west border men, under the lords Maxwell and Herries[23]. But the defeat at Langside was a death-blow to her interest in Scotland. [Footnote 23: The followers of these barons are said to have stolen the horses of their friends, while they were engaged in the battle.] The death of the regent Murray, in 1569, excited the party of Mary to hope and to exertion. It seems, that the design of Bothwelhaugh, who slew him, was well known upon the borders; for, the very day on which the slaughter happened, Buccleuch and Fairnihirst, with their clans, broke into England, and spread devastation along the frontiers, with unusual ferocity. It is probable they well knew that the controuling hand of the regent was that day palsied by death. Buchanan exclaims loudly against this breach of truce with Elizabeth, charging Queen Mary's party with having "houndit furth proude and uncircumspecte young men, to hery, burne, and slay, and tak prisoneris, in her realme, and use all misordour and crueltie, not only usit in weir, but detestabil to all barbar and wild Tartaris, in slaying of prisoneris, and contrair to all humanitie and justice, keeping na promeis to miserabil catives resavit anis to thair mercy "--_Admonitioun to the trew lordis, Striveling_, 1571. He numbers, among these insurgents, highlanders as well as borderers, Buccleuch and Fairnihirst, the Johnstons and Armstrongs, the Grants, and the clan Chattan. Besides these powerful clans, Mary numbered among her adherents, the Maxwells, and almost all the west border leaders, excepting Drumlanrig, and Jardine of Applegirth. On the eastern border, the faction of the infant king was more powerful; for, although deserted by Lord Home, the greater part of his clan, under the influence of Wedderburn, remained attached to that party. The laird of Cessford wished them well, and the Earl of Angus naturally followed the steps of his uncle Morton. A sharp and bloody invasion of the middle march, under the command of the Earl of Sussex, avenged with interest the raids of Buccleuch and Fairnihirst. The domains of these chiefs were laid waste, their castles burned and destroyed. The narrow vales of Beaumont and Kale, belonging to Buccleuch, were treated with peculiar severity; and the forrays of Hertford were equalled by that of Sussex. In vain did the chiefs request assistance from the government to defend their fortresses. Through the predominating interest of Elizabeth in the Scottish councils, this was refused to all but Home, whose castle, nevertheless, again received an English garrison; while Buccleuch and Fairnihirst complained bitterly that those, who had instigated their invasion, durst not even come so far as Lauder, to shew countenance to their defence against the English. The bickerings, which followed, distracted the whole kingdom. One celebrated exploit may be selected, as an illustration of the border fashion of war. The Earl of Lennox, who had succeeded Murray in the regency, held a parliament at Stirling, in 1571. The young king was exhibited to the great council of his nation. He had been tutored to repeat a set speech, composed for the occasion; but, observing that the roof of the building was a little decayed, he interrupted his recitation, and exclaimed, with childish levity, "that there was a hole in the parliament,"--words which, in these days, were held to presage the deadly breach shortly to be made in that body, by the death of him in whose name it was convoked. Amid the most undisturbed security of confidence, the lords, who composed this parliament, were roused at day-break, by the shouts of their enemies in the heart of the town. _God and the Queen_! resounded from every quarter, and, in a few minutes, the regent, with the astonished nobles of his party, were prisoners to a band of two hundred border cavalry, led by Scott of Buccleuch, and to the Lord Claud Hamilton, at the head of three hundred infantry. These enterprising chiefs, by a rapid and well concerted manoeuvre, had reached Stirling in a night march from Edinburgh, and, without so much as being bayed at by a watch-dog had seized the principal street of the town.--The fortunate obstinacy of Morton saved his party. Stubborn and undaunted, he defended his house till the assailants set it in flames, and then yielded with reluctance to his kinsman, Buccleuch. But the time, which he had gained, effectually served his cause. The borderers had dispersed to plunder the stables of the nobility; the infantry thronged tumultuously together on the main street, when the Earl of Mar, issuing from the castle, placed one or two small pieces of ordnance in his own half-built house[24], which commands the market place. Hardly had the artillery begun to scour the street, when the assailants, surprised in their turn, fled with precipitation. Their alarm was increased by the townsmen thronging to arms. Those, who had been so lately triumphant, were now, in many instances, asking the protection of their own prisoners. In all probability, not a man would have escaped death, or captivity, but for the characteristic rapacity of Buccleuch's marauders, who, having seized and carried off all the horses in the town, left the victors no means of following the chace. The regent was slain by an officer, named Caulder, in order to prevent his being rescued. Spens of Ormeston, to whom he had surrendered, lost his life in a generous attempt to protect him[25]. Hardly does our history present another enterprise, so well planned, so happily commenced, and so strangely disconcerted. To the licence of the marchmen the failure was attributed; but the same cause ensured a safe retreat.--_Spottiswoode, Godscroft, Robertson, Melville_. [Footnote 24: This building still remains, in the unfinished state which it then presented.] [Footnote 25: Birrel says, that "the regent was shot by an unhappy fellow, while sitting on horseback behind the laird of Buccleuch."--The following curious account of the whole transaction is extracted from a journal of principal events, in the years 1570, 1571, 1572, and part of 1573, kept by Richard Bannatyne, amanuensis to John Knox. The fourt of September, they of Edinburgh, horsemen and futmen (and, as was reported, the most part of Clidisdaill, that perteinit to the Hamiltons), come to Striveling, the number of iii or iiii c men, in hors bak, guydit be ane George Bell, their hacbutteris being all horsed, enterit in Striveling, be fyve houris in the morning (whair thair was never one to mak watche), crying this slogane, 'God and the quene! ane Hamiltoun think on the bishop of St. Androis, all is owres;' and so a certaine come to everie grit manis ludgene, and apprehendit the Lordis Mortoun and Glencarne; but Mortounis hous they set on fyre, wha randerit him to the laird of Balcleuch. Wormestoun being appointed to the regentes hous, desyred him to cum furth, which he had no will to doe, yet, be perswasione of Garleys and otheris, with him, tho't it best to come in will, nor to byde the extremitie, becaus they supposed there was no resistance, and swa the regent come furth, and was randered to Wormestoun, under promeis to save his lyfe. Captane Crawfurde, being in the town, gat sum men out of the castell, and uther gentlemen being in the town, come as they my't best to the geat, chased them out of the town. The regent was schot be ane Captain Cader, wha confessed, that he did it at comande of George Bell, wha was comandit so to doe be the Lord Huntlie and Claud Hamilton. Some sayis, that Wormestoun was schot by the same schot that slew the regent, but alwayis he was slane, notwithstanding the regent cryed to save him, but it culd not be, the furie was so grit of the presewaris, who, following so fast, the lord of Mortone said to Balcleuch, 'I sall save you as ye savit me,' and so he was tane. Garleys, and sindrie otheris, war slane at the port, in the persute of thame. Thair war ten or twelve gentlemen slane of the kingis folk, and als mony of theiris, or mea, as was said, and a dosone or xvi tane. Twa especiall servantis of the Lord Argyle's were slane also. This Cader, that schot the regent, was once turned bak off the toune, and was send again (as is said), be the Lord Huntlie, to cause Wormistoun retire; but, before he come agane, he was dispatched, and had gottin deidis woundis. The regent being schot (as said is), was brought to the castell, whair he callit for ane phisitione, one for his soule, ane uther for his bodie. But all hope of life was past, for he was schot in his entreallis; and swa, after sumthingis spokin to the lordis, which I know not, he departed, in the feare of God, and made a blessed end; whilk the rest of the lordis, that tho't thame to his hiert, and lytle reguardit him, shall not mak so blised ane end, unles they mend thair maneris. This curious manuscript has been lately published, under the inspection of John Graham Dalyell, Esq.] The wily Earl of Morton, who, after the short intervening regency of Mar, succeeded to the supreme authority, contrived, by force or artifice, to render the party of the king every where superior. Even on the middle borders, he had the address to engage in his cause the powerful, though savage and licentious, clans of Rutherford and Turnbull, as well as the citizens of Jedburgh. He was thus enabled to counterpoise his powerful opponents, Buccleuch and Fairnihirst, in their own country; and, after an unsuccessful attempt to surprise Jedburgh even these warm adherents of Mary relinquished her cause in despair. While Morton swayed the state, his attachment to Elizabeth, and the humiliation which many of the border chiefs had undergone, contributed to maintain good order on the marches, till James VI. himself assumed the reigns of government.--The intervening skirmish of the Reidswire (see the ballad under that title) was but a sudden explosion of the rivalry and suppressed hatred of the borderers of both kingdoms. In truth, the stern rule of Morton, and of his delegates, men unconnected with the borders by birth, maintained in that country more strict discipline than had ever been there exercised. Perhaps this hastened his fall. The unpopularity of Morton, acquired partly by the strict administration of justice, and partly by avarice and severity, forced him from the regency. In 1578, he retired, apparently, from state affairs, to his castle of Dalkeith; which the populace, emphatically expressing their awe and dread of his person, termed the _Lion's Den_. But Morton could not live in retirement; and, early in the same year, the aged lion again rushed from his cavern. By a mixture of policy and violence, he possessed himself of the fortress of Stirling, and of the person of James. His nephew, Angus, hastened to his assistance. Against him appeared his follower Cessford, with many of the Homes, and the citizens of Edinburgh. Alluding to the restraint of the king's person, they bore his effigy on their banners, with a rude rhyme, demanding liberty or death.--_Birrel's Diary, ad annum_, 1578. The Earl of Morton marched against his foes as far as Falkirk, and a desperate action must have ensued, but for the persuasions of Bowes, the English ambassador. The only blood, then spilt, was in a duel betwixt Tait, a follower of Cessford, and Johnstone, a west border man, attending upon Angus. They fought with lances, and on horseback, according to the fashion of the borders.--The former was unhorsed and slain, the latter desperately wounded.--_Godscroft_, Vol. II. p. 261. The prudence of the late regent appears to have abandoned him, when he was decoyed into a treaty upon this occasion. It was not long before Morton the veteran warrior, and the crafty statesman, was forced bend his neck to an engine of death[26], the use of which he himself had introduced into Scotland. [Footnote 26: A rude sort of guillotine, called the _maiden_. The implement is now in possession of the Society of Scottish Antiquaries.] Released from the thraldom of Morton, the king, with more than youthful levity, threw his supreme power into the hands of Lennox and Arran. The religion of the first, and the infamous character of the second favourite, excited the hatred of the commons, while their exclusive and engrossing power awakened the jealousy of the other nobles. James, doomed to be the sport of contending factions was seized at Stirling by the nobles, confederated in what was termed the Raid of Ruthven. But the conspirators soon suffered their prize to escape, and were rewarded for their enterprize by exile or death. In 1585, an affray took place at a border meeting in which Lord Russel, the Earl of Bedford's eldest son, chanced to be slain. Queen Elizabeth imputed the guilt of this slaughter to Thomas Kerr of Fairnihirst, instigated by Arran. Upon the imperious demand of the English ambassador, both were committed to prison; but the minion, Arran, was soon restored to liberty and favour; while Fairnihirst, the dread of the English borderers and the gallant defender of Queen Mary, died in his confinement, of a broken heart.--_Spottiswoode_ p. 341. The tyranny of Arran becoming daily more insupportable the exiled lords, joined by Maxwell, Home, Bothwell, and other border chieftains, seized the town of Stirling, which was pillaged by their disorderly followers, invested the castle, which surrendered at discretion, and drove the favourite from the king's council[27]. [Footnote 27: The associated nobles seem to have owed their success chiefly to the border spearmen; for, though they had a band of mercenaries, who used fire arms, yet they were such bad masters of their craft, their captain was heard to observe, "that those, who knew his soldiers as well as he did, would hardly chuse to _march before them_."--_Godscroft_, v. ii. p. 368.] The king, perceiving the Earl of Bothwell among the armed barons, to whom he surrendered his person addressed him in these prophetic words:-- "Francis, Francis, what moved thee to come in arms against thy prince, who never wronged thee? I wish thee a more quiet spirit, else I foresee thy destruction."--_Spottiswoode_, p. 343. In fact, the extraordinary enterprizes of this nobleman disturbed the next ten years of James's reign. Francis Stuart, son to a bastard of James V., had been invested with the titles and estates belonging to his maternal uncle, James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, upon the forfeiture of that infamous man; and consequently became lord of Liddesdale, and of the castle of Hermitage.--This acquisition of power upon the borders, where he could easily levy followers, willing to undertake the most desperate enterprize, joined to the man's native daring and violent spirit, rendered Bothwell the most turbulent insurgent, that ever disturbed the tranquillity of a kingdom. During the king's absence in Denmark, Bothwell, swayed by the superstition of his age, had tampered with certain soothsayers and witches, by whose pretended art he hoped to atchieve the death of his monarch. In one of the courts of inquisition, which James delighted to hold upon the professors of the occult sciences, some of his cousin's proceedings were brought to light, for which he was put in ward in the castle of Edinburgh. Burning with revenge, he broke from his confinement, and lurked for some time upon the borders, where he hoped for the countenance of his son-in-law, Buccleuch. Undeterred by the absence of that chief, who, in obedience to the royal command, had prudently retired to France, Bothwell attempted the desperate enterprize of seizing the person of the king, while residing in his metropolis. At the dead of night, followed by a band of borderers, he occupied the court of the palace of Holyrood, and began to burst open the doors of the royal apartments. The nobility, distrustful of each other, and ignorant of the extent of the conspiracy, only endeavoured to make good the defence of their separate lodgings; but darkness and confusion prevented the assailants from profiting by their disunion. Melville, who was present, gives a lively picture of the scene of disorder, transiently illuminated by the glare of passing torches; while the report of fire arms, the clatter of armour, the din of hammers thundering on the gates, mingled wildly with the war-cry of the borderers, who shouted incessantly, "Justice! Justice! A Bothwell! A Bothwell!" The citizens of Edinburgh at length began to assemble for the defence of their sovereign; and Bothwell was compelled to retreat, which he did without considerable loss.--_Melville_, p. 356. A similar attempt on the person of James, while residing at Faulkland, also misgave; but the credit which Bothwell obtained on the borders, by these bold and desperate enterprizes, was incredible "All Tiviotdale," says Spottiswoode, "ran after him;" so that he finally obtained his object; and, at Edinburgh, in 1593, he stood before James, an unexpected apparition, with his naked sword in his hand. "Strike!" said James, with royal dignity--"Strike, and end thy work! I will not survive my dishonour." But Bothwell with unexpected moderation, only stipulated for remission of his forfeiture, and did not even insist on remaining at court, whence his party was shortly expelled, by the return of the Lord Home, and his other enemies. Incensed at this reverse, Bothwell levied a body of four hundred cavalry, and attacked the king's guard in broad day, upon the Borough Moor, near Edinburgh.--The ready succour of the citizens saved James from falling once more into the hands of his turbulent subject[28]. On a subsequent day, Bothwell met the laird of Cessford, riding near Edinburgh, with whom he fought a single combat, which lasted for two hours[29]. But his credit was now fallen; he retreated to England, whence he was driven by Elizabeth, and then wandered to Spain and Italy, where he subsisted, in indigence and obscurity, on the bread which he earned by apostatizing to the faith of Rome. So fell this agitator of domestic broils, whose name passed into a proverb, denoting a powerful and turbulent demagogue[30]. [Footnote 28: Spottiswoode says, the king awaited this charge with firmness; but Birrell avers, that he fled upon the gallop. The same author, instead of the firm deportment of James, when seized by Bothwell, describes "the king's majestie as flying down the back stair, with his breeches in his hand, in great fear."--_Birrell, apud Dalyell_, p. 30. Such is the difference betwixt the narrative of the courtly archbishop, and that of the presbyterian burgess of Edinburgh.] [Footnote 29: This rencounter took place at Humbie, in East Lothian. Bothwell was attended by a servant, called Gibson, and Cessford by one of the Rutherfords, who was hurt in the cheek. The combatant parted from pure fatigue.] [Footnote 30: Sir Walter Raleigh, in writing of Essex, then in prison, says, "Let the queen hold _Bothwell_ while she hath him."--_Murdin_, Vol. II. p. 812. It appears, from _Crichton's Memoirs_, that Bothwell's grandson, though so nearly related to the royal family, actually rode a private in the Scottish horse guards, in the reign of Charles II.--_Edinburgh_, 1731, p. 43.] While these scenes were passing in the metropolis the borders were furiously agitated by civil discord. The families of Cessford and Fairnihirst disputed their right to the wardenry of the middle marches, and to the provostry of Jedburgh; and William Kerr of Ancram, a follower of the latter, was murdered by the young chief of Cessford, at the instigation of his mother.--_Spottiswoode_, p. 383. But this was trifling, compared to the civil war, waged on the western frontier, between the Johnstones and Maxwells, of which there is a minute account in the introduction to the ballad, entitled, "_Maxwell's Goodnight_." Prefixed to that termed "_Kinmont Willie_" the reader will find an account of the last warden raids performed upon the border. My sketch of border history now draws to a close. The accession of James to the English crown converted the extremity into the centre of his kingdom. The east marches of Scotland were, at this momentous period, in a state of comparative civilization. The rich soil of Berwickshire soon invited the inhabitants to the arts of agriculture.--Even in the days of Lesley, the nobles and barons of the Merse differed in manners from the other borderers, administered justice with regularity, and abstained from plunder and depredation.--_De moribus Scotorum_, p. 7. But, on the middle and western marches, the inhabitants were unrestrained moss-troopers and cattle drivers, knowing no measure of law, says Camden, but the length of their swords. The sterility of the mountainous country, which they inhabited, offered little encouragement to industry; and, for the long series of centuries, which we have hastily reviewed, the hands of rapine were never there folded in inactivity, nor the sword of violence returned to the scabbard. Various proclamations were in vain issued for interdicting the use of horses and arms upon the west border of England and Scotland[31]. [Footnote 31: "Proclamation shall be made, that all inhabiting within Tynedale and Riddesdale, in Northumberland, Bewcastledale, Willgavey, the north part of Gilsland, Esk, and Leven, in Cumberland; east and west Tividale, Liddesdale, Eskdale, Ewsdale, and Annesdale, in Scotland (saving noblemen Footnote: and gentlemen unsuspected of felony and theft, and not being of broken clans, and their household servants, dwelling within those several places, before recited), shall put away all armour and weapons, as well offensive as defensive, as jacks, spears, lances, swords, daggers, steel-caps, hack-buts, pistols, plate sleeves, and such like; and shall not keep any horse, gelding, or mare, above the value of fifty shillings sterling, or thirty pounds Scots, upon the like paid of imprisonment."--_Proceedings of the Border Commissioners_, 1505.--_Introduction to History of Cumberland_, p. 127.] The evil was found to require the radical cure of extirpation. Buccleuch collected under his banners the most desperate of the border warriors, of whom he formed a legion, for the service of the states of Holland; who had as much reason to rejoice on their arrival upon the continent, as Britain to congratulate herself upon their departure. It may be presumed, that few of this corps ever returned to their native country. The clan of Graeme, a hardy and ferocious set of freebooters inhabiting chiefly the Debateable Land, by a very summary exertion of authority, was transported to Ireland, and their return prohibited under pain of death. Against other offenders, measures, equally arbitrary, were without hesitation pursued. Numbers of border riders were executed, without even the formality of a trial; and it is even said, that, in mockery of justice, assizes were held upon them after they had suffered. For these acts of tyranny, see _Johnston_, p. 374, 414, 39, 93. The memory of Dunbar's legal proceedings at Jedburgh, are preserved in the proverbial phrase, _Jeddart Justice_, which signifies, trial after execution. By this rigour though sternly and unconscientiously exercised the border marauders were, in the course of years, either reclaimed or exterminated; though nearly a century elapsed ere their manners were altogether assimilated to those of their countrymen[32]. [Footnote 32: See the acts 18 Cha. II. 6.3. and 80 Cha. II. ch. 2. against the border moss-troopers; to which we may add the following curious extracts from _Mercurius Politicus_, a newspaper, published during the usurpation. "_Thursday, November 11, 1662_. "Edinburgh.--The Scotts and moss-troopers have again revived their old custom, of robbing and murdering the English, whether soldiers or other, upon all opportunities, within these three weeks. We have had notice of several robberies and murders, committed by them. Among the rest, a lieutenant, and one other of Col. Overton's regiment, returning from England, were robbed not far from Dunbarr. A lieutenant, lately master of the customs at Kirkcudbright, was killed about twenty miles from this place; and four foot soldiers of Colonel Overton's were killed, going to their quarters, by some mossers, who, after they had given them quarter, tied their hands behind them, and then threw them down a steep hill, or rock, as it was related by a Scotchman, who was with them, but escaped." _Ibidem.--"October_ 13, 1663.--The Parliament, October 21, past an act, declaring, any person that shall discover any felon, or felons (commonly called, or known, by the name of moss-troopers), residing upon the borders of England and Scotland, shall have a reward of ten pound upon their conviction."] In these hasty sketches of border history, I have endeavoured to select, such incidents, as may introduce to the reader the character of the marchmen, more briefly and better than a formal essay upon their manners. If I have been successful in the attempt, he is already acquainted with the mixture of courage and rapacity by which they were distinguished; and has reviewed some of the scenes in which they acted a principal part. It is, therefore only necessary to notice, more minutely, some of their peculiar customs and modes of life. Their morality was of a singular kind. The ranpine, by which they subsisted, they accounted lawful and honourable. Ever liable to lose their whole substance, by an incursion of the English, on a sudden breach of truce, they cared little to waste their time in cultivating crops, to be reaped by their foes. Their cattle was, therefore, their chief property; and these were nightly exposed to the southern borderers, as rapacious and active as themselves. Hence, robbery assumed the appearance of fair reprisal. The fatal privilege of pursuing the marauders into their own country, for recovery of stolen goods, led to continual skirmishes The warden also, himself frequently the chieftain of a border horde, when redress was not instantly granted by the opposite officer, for depredations sustained by his district, was entitled to retaliate upon England by a warden raid. In such cases, the moss-troopers, who crowded to his standard, found themselves pursuing their craft under legal authority, and became the favourites and followers of the military magistrate, whose duty it was to have checked and suppressed them. See the curious history of _Geordie Bourne, App. No. II_. Equally unable and unwilling to make nice distinctions, they were not to be convinced, that what was to-day fair booty, was to-morrow a subject of theft. National animosity usually gave an additional stimulus to their rapacity; although it must be owned, that their depredations extended also to the more cultivated parts of their own country[33]. [Footnote 33: The armorial bearings, adopted by many of the border tribes, shew how little they were ashamed of their trade of rapine. Like _Falstaff_, they were "Gentlemen of the night, minions of the moon," under whose countenance they committed their depredations.--Hence, the emblematic moons and stars, so frequently charged in the arms of border families. Their mottoes, also, bear allusion to their profession.--"_Reparabit cornua Phaebe_," i.e. "We'll have moon-light again," is that of the family of Harden. "Ye shall want, ere I want," that of Cranstoun, &c.] Satchells, who lived when the old border ideas of _meum_ and _tuum_ were still in some force, endeavours to draw a very nice distinction betwixt a freebooter and a thief; and thus sings he of the Armstrongs: On that border was the Armstrongs, able men; Somewhat unruly, and very ill to tame. I would have none think that I call them thieves, For, if I did, it would be arrant lies. Near a border frontier, in the time of war, There's ne'er a man but he's a freebooter. * * * * * Because to all men it may appear, The freebooter he is a volunteer; In the muster rolls he has no desire to stay; He lives by purchase, he gets no pay. * * * * * It's most clear a freebooter doth live in hazard's train; A freebooter's a cavalier that ventures life for gain: But, since King James the Sixth to England went, Ther has been no cause of grief; And he that hath transgress'd since then, Is no _Freebooter_, but a _Thief_. _History of the name of Scott_. The inhabitants of the inland counties did not understand these subtle distinctions. Sir David Lindsay, in the curious drama, published by Mr Pinkerton, introduces, as one of his _dramatis personae, Common Thift_, a borderer, who is supposed to come to Fife to steal the Earl of Rothes' best hackney, and Lord Lindsay's brown jennet. _Oppression_ also (another personage there introduced), seems to be connected with the borders; for, finding himself in danger, he exclaims,-- War God that I were sound and haill, Now liftit into Liddesdail; The Mers sowld fynd me beiff and caill, What rack of breid? War I thair lyftit with my lyfe, The devill sowld styk me with a knyffe, An' ever I cum agane in Fyfe, Till I were deid.-- _Pinkerton's Scotish Poems_, Vol. II p. 180. Again, when _Common Thift_ is brought to condign punishment, he remembers his border friends in his dying speech: The widdefow wardanis tuik my geir, And left me nowthir horse nor meir, Nor erdly gud that me belangit; Now, walloway! I mon be hangit. * * * * * Adew! my bruthir Annan thieves, That holpit me in my mischevis: Adew! Grossars, Niksonis, and Bells, Oft have we fairne owthreuch the fells: Adew! Robsons, Howis, and Pylis, That in our craft hes mony wilis: Littlis, Trumbells, and Armestranges; Adew! all theeves, that me belangis; Baileowes, Erewynis, and Elwandis, Speedy of flicht, and slicht of handis: The Scotts of Eisdale, and the Gramis, I half na time to tell your namis. _Ib_. p. 156. When _Common Thift_ is executed (which is performed upon the stage), _Falset_ (Falsehood), who is also brought forth for punishment, pronounces over him the following eulogy: Waes me for thee, gude Common Thift! Was never man made more honest chift, His living for to win: Thair wes not, in all Liddesdail, That ky mair craftelly could steil, Whar thou hingis on that pin! _Ib_. p. 194. Sir Richard Maitland, incensed at the boldness and impunity of the thieves of Liddesdale in his time, has attacked them with keen iambicks. His satire, which, I suppose, had very little effect at the time, forms No. III, of the appendix to this introduction. The borderers had, in fact, little reason to regard the inland Scots as their fellow subjects, or to respect the power of the crown. They were frequently resigned, by express compact, to the bloody retaliation of the English, without experiencing any assistance from their prince, and his more immediate subjects. If they beheld him, it was more frequently in the character of an avenging judge, than of a protecting sovereign. They were, in truth, during the time of peace, a kind of outcasts, against whom the united powers of England and Scotland were often employed. Hence, the men of the borders had little attachment to the monarchs, whom they termed, in derision, the kings of Fife and Lothian; provinces which they were not legally entitled to inhabit[34], and which, therefore, they pillaged with as little remorse as if they had belonged to a foreign country. This strange, precarious, and adventurous mode of life, led by the borderers, was not without its pleasures, and seems, in all probability, hardly so disagreeable to us, as the monotony of regulated society must have been to those, who had been long accustomed to a state of rapine. Well has it been remarked, by the eloquent Burke, that the shifting tides of fear and hope, the flight and pursuit, the peril and escape, alternate famine and feast, of the savage and the robber, after a time render all course of slow, steady, progressive, unvaried occupation and the prospect only of a limited mediocrity at the end of long labour, to the last degree tame, languid, and insipid. The interesting nature of their exploits may be conceived from the account of Camden. [Footnote 34: By act 1587, c. 96, borderers are expelled from the inland counties, unless they can find security for their quiet deportment.] "What manner of cattle stealers they are, that inhabit these valleys in the marches of both kingdoms, John Lesley, a Scotchman himself, and bishop of Ross, will inform you. They sally out of their own borders, in the night, in troops, through unfrequented bye-ways, and many intricate windings. All the day-time, they refresh themselves and their horses in lurking holes they had pitched upon before, till they arrive in the dark at those places they have a design upon. As soon as they have seized upon the booty, they, in like manner, return home in the night, through blind ways, and fetching many a compass. The more skilful any captain is to pass through those wild deserts, crooked turnings, and deep precipices, in the thickest mists and darkness, his reputation is the greater, and he is looked upon as a man of an excellent head.--And they are so very cunning, that they seldom have their booty taken from them, unless sometimes, when, by the help of blood-hounds following them exactly upon the tract, they may chance to fall into the hands of their adversaries. When being taken, they have so much persuasive eloquence, and so many smooth insinuating words at command, that if they do not move their judges, nay, and even their adversaries (notwithstanding the severity of their natures), to have mercy, yet they incite them to admiration and compassion."--_Camden's Britannia._ The reader is requested to compare this curious account, given by Lesley, with the ballad, called _Hobble Noble_[35]. [Footnote 35: The following tradition is also illustrative of Lesley's account. Veitch of Dawyk, a man of great strength and bravery who flourished in the 16th century, was upon bad terms with a neighbouring proprietor, Tweedie of Drummelziar. By some accident, a flock of Dawyk's sheep had strayed over into Drummelziar's grounds, at the time when _Dickie of the Den_, a Liddesdale outlaw, was making his rounds in Tweeddale. Seeing this flock of sheep; he drove them off without ceremony. Next morning, Veitch, perceiving his loss, summoned his servants and retainers, laid a blood-hound upon the traces of the robber, by whom they were guided for many miles, till, on the banks of Liddel, he staid upon a very large hay-stack. The pursuers were a good deal surprised at the obstinate pause of the blood-hound, till Dawyk pulled down some of the hay, and discovered a large excavation, containing the robbers and their spoil. He instantly flew upon Dickie, and was about to poniard him, when the marauder, with the address noticed by Lesley, protested that he would never have touched a _cloot_ (hoof) of them, had he not taken them for Drummelziar's property. This dexterous appeal to Veitch's passions saved the life of the freebooter.] The inroads of the marchers, when stimulated only by the desire of plunder, were never marked with cruelty, and seldom even with bloodshed, unless in the case of opposition. They held, that property was common to all who stood in want of it; but they abhorred and avoided the crime of unnecessary homicide.--_Lesley_, p. 63. This was, perhaps, partly owing to the habits of intimacy betwixt the borderers of both kingdoms, notwithstanding their mutual hostility, and reciprocal depredations. A natural intercourse took place between the English and Scottish marchers, at border meetings, and during the short intervals of peace. They met frequently at parties of the chace and foot-ball; and it required many and strict regulations, on both sides, to prevent them from forming intermarriages, and from cultivating too close a degree of intimacy.--_Scottish Acts_, 1587, c. 105; _Wharton's Regulations, 6th Edward VI._ The custom, also, of paying black-mail, or protection-rent, introduced a connection betwixt the countries; for, a Scottish borderer, taking black-mail from an English inhabitant, was not only himself bound to abstain from injuring such person, but also to maintain his quarrel, and recover his property, if carried off by others. Hence, an union arose betwixt the parties, founded upon mutual interest, which counteracted, in many instances, the effects of national prejudice. The similarity of their manners may be inferred from that of their language. In an old mystery, imprinted at London, 1654, a mendicant borderer is introduced, soliciting alms of a citizen and his wife. To a question of the latter he replies, "Savying your honour, good maistress, I was born in Redesdale, in Northomberlande, and come of a wight riding sirname, call'd the Robsons: gude honeste men, and true, savyng a little shiftynge for theyr livyng; God help them, silly pure men." The wife answers, "What doest thou here, in this countrie? me thinke thou art a Scot by thy tongue." _Beggar_--"Trowe me never mair then, good deam; I had rather be hanged in a withie of a cow-taile, for thei are ever fare and fase."--_Appendix to Johnstone's Sad Shepherd_, 1783. p. 188. From the wife's observation, as well as from the dialect of the beggar, we may infer, that there was little difference between the Northumbrian and the border Scottish; a circumstance interesting in itself, and decisive of the occasional friendly intercourse among the marchmen. From all those combining circumstances arose the lenity of the borderers in their incursions and the equivocal moderation which they sometimes observed towards each other, in open war[36]. [Footnote 36: This practice of the marchmen was observed and reprobated by Patten. "Anoother maner have they (_the English borderers_) amoong them, of wearyng handkerchers roll'd about their armes, and letters brouder'd (_embroidered_) upon their cappes: they said themselves, the use thearof was that ech of them might knowe his fellowe, and thearbye the sooner assemble, or in nede to ayd one another, and such lyke respectes; howbeit, thear wear of the army amoong us (sum suspicious men perchaunce), that thought thei used them for collusion, and rather bycaus thei might be knowen to the enemie, as the enemies are knowen to them (for thei have their markes too), and so in conflict either ech to spare oother, or gently eche to take oother. Indede men have been mooved the rather to thinke so, bycaus sum of their crosses (_the English red cross_) were so narrowe, and so singly set on, that a puff of wynde might blowed them from their breastes, and that thei wear found right often talking with the Skottish prikkers within less than their gad's (_spears_) length asunder; and when thei perceived thei had been espied, thei have begun one to run at anoother, but so apparently perlassent (_in parley_), as the lookers on resembled their chasyng lyke the running at base in an uplondish toun, whear the match is made for a quart of good ale, or like the play in Robin Cookes scole (_a fencing school_), whear, bycaus the punies may lerne, thei strike fewe strokes but by assent and appointment. I hard sum men say, it did mooch augment their suspicion that wey, bycaus at the battail they sawe these prikkers so badly demean them, more intending the taking of prisoners, than the surety of victorye; for while oother men fought, thei fell to their prey; that as thear wear but fewe of them but brought home his prisoner, so wear thear many that had six or seven."--_Patten's Account of Somerset's Expedition, apud Dalyell's Fragments_, p. 76. It is singular that, about this very period, the same circumstances are severely animadverted upon by the strenuous Scottishman, who wrote the _Complaynt of Scotland_, as well as by the English author above quoted. "There is nothing that is occasione of your adhering to the opinion of Ingland contrair your natife cuntré, bot the grit familiarite that Inglis men and Scottes hes had on baitht the boirdours, ilk are witht utheris, in merchandeis, in selling and buying hors and nolt, and scheip, outfang and infang, ilk are amang utheris, the whilk familiarite is express contrar the lauis and consuetudis bayth of Ingland and Scotland. In auld tymis it was determit in the artiklis of the pace, be the twa wardanis of the boirdours of Ingland and Scotland, that there suld be na familiarite betwix Scottis men and Inglis men, nor marriage to be contrakit betwix them, nor conventions on holydais at gammis and plays, nor merchandres to be maid amang them, nor Scottis men till enter on Inglis grond, witht out the king of Ingland's save conduct, nor Inglis men til enter on Scottis grond witht out the King of Scotland's save conduct, howbeit that ther war sure pace betwix the twa realmes. Bot thir sevyn yeir bygane, thai statutis and artiklis of the pace are adnullit, for ther hes been as grit familiarite, and conventions, and makyng of merchandreis, on the boirdours, this lang tyme betwix Inglis men and Scottis men, baytht in pace and weir, as Scottismen usis amang theme selfis witht in the realme of Scotland: and sic familiarite has bene the cause that the kyng of Ingland gat intelligence witht divers gentlemen of Scotland." _Complaynt of Scotland_, _Edin_. 1801, p. 164.] This humanity and moderation was, on certain occasions, entirely laid aside by the borderers. In the case of deadly feud, either against an Englishman, or against any neighbouring tribe, the whole force of the offended clan was bent to avenge the death of any of their number. Their vengeance not only vented itself upon the homicide and his family, but upon all his kindred, on his whole tribe; on every one, in fine, whose death or ruin could affect him with regret.--_Lesley_, p. 63; _Border Laws_, _passim_; _Scottish Acts_, 1594, c. 231. The reader will find, in the following collection, many allusions to this infernal custom, which always overcame the marcher's general reluctance to shed human, blood, and rendered him remorselessly savage. For fidelity to their word, Lesley ascribes high praise to the inhabitants of the Scottish frontier. When an instance happened to the contrary, the injured person, at the first border meeting, rode through the field, displaying a glove (the pledge of faith) upon the point of his lance, and proclaiming the perfidy of the person, who had broken his word. So great was the indignation of the assembly against the perjured criminal, that he was often slain by his own clan, to wipe out the disgrace he had brought on them. In the same spirit of confidence, it was not unusual to behold the victors, after an engagement, dismiss their prisoners upon parole, who never failed either to transmit the stipulated ransom, or to surrender themselves to bondage, if unable to do so. But the virtues of a barbarous people, being founded not upon moral principle, but upon the dreams of superstition, or the capricious dictates of antient custom, can seldom be uniformly relied on. We must not, therefore, be surprised to find these very men, so true to their word in general, using, upon other occasions, various resources of cunning and chicane, against which the border laws were in vain directed. The immediate rulers of the borders were the chiefs of the different clans, who exercised over their respective septs a dominion, partly patriarchal, and partly feudal. The latter bond of adherence was, however, the more slender; for, in the acts regulating the borders, we find repeated mention of "Clannes having captaines and chieftaines, whom on they depend, oft-times against the willes of their landeslordes."--_Stat._ 1587, c. 95, _and the Roll thereto annexed_. Of course, these laws looked less to the feudal superior, than to the chieftain of the name, for the restraint of the disorderly tribes; and it is repeatedly enacted, that the head of the clan should be first called upon to deliver those of his sept, who should commit any trespass, and that, on his failure to do so, he should be liable to the injured party in full redress. _Ibidem_, and _Stat._ 1594, c. 231. By the same statutes, the chieftains and landlords, presiding over border clans, were obliged to find caution, and to grant hostages, that they would subject themselves to the due course of law. Such clans, as had no chieftain of sufficient note to enter bail for their quiet conduct, became broken men, outlawed to both nations. From these enactments, the power of the border chieftains may be conceived; for it had been hard and useless to have punished them for the trespasses of their tribes, unless they possessed over them unlimited authority. The abode of these petty princes by no means corresponded to the extent of their power. We do not find, on the Scottish borders, the splendid and extensive baronial castles, which graced and defended the opposite frontier. The gothic grandeur of Alnwick, of Raby, and of Naworth, marks the wealthier and more secure state of the English nobles. The Scottish chieftain, however extensive his domains, derived no advantage, save from such parts as he could himself cultivate or occupy. Payment of rent was hardly known on the borders, till after the union[37]. All that the landlord could gain, from those residing upon his estate, was their personal service in battle, their assistance in labouring the land retained in his natural possession, some petty quit-rents, of a nature resembling the feudal casualties, and perhaps a share in the spoil which they acquired by rapine[38]. This, with his herds of cattle and of sheep, and with the _black mail_, which he exacted from his neighbours, constituted the revenue of the chieftain; and, from funds so precarious, he could rarely spare sums to expend in strengthening or decorating his habitation. Another reason is found in the Scottish mode of warfare. It was early discovered, that the English surpassed their neighbours in the arts of assaulting or defending fortified places. The policy of the Scottish, therefore, deterred them from erecting upon the borders buildings of such extent and strength, as, being once taken by the foe, would have been capable of receiving a permanent garrison[39]. To themselves, the woods and hills of their country were pointed out, by the great Bruce, as their safest bulwarks; and the maxim of the Douglasses, that "it was better to hear the lark sing, than the mouse cheep," was adopted by every border chief. For these combined reasons, the residence of the chieftain was commonly a large square battlemented[40] tower, called a _keep_, or _peel_; placed on a precipice, or on the banks of a torrent, and, if the ground would permit, surrounded by a moat. In short, the situation of a border house, surrounded by woods, and rendered almost inaccessible by torrents, by rocks, or by morasses, sufficiently indicated the pursuits and apprehensions of its inhabitant.--"_Locus horroris et vastae solitudinis, aptus ad praedam, habilis ad rapinam, habitatoribus suis lapis erat offensiones et petra scandali, utpote qui stipendiis suis minime contenti totum de alieno parum de suo possidebant--totius provinciae spolium_." No wonder, therefore, that James V., on approaching the castle of Lochwood, the antient seat of the Johnstones, is said to have exclaimed, "that he who built it must have been a knave in his heart." An outer wall, with some slight fortifications, served as a protection for the cattle at night. The walls of these fortresses were of an immense thickness, and they could easily be defended against any small force; more especially, as, the rooms being vaulted, each story formed a separate lodgement, capable of being held out for a considerable time. On such occasions, the usual mode, adopted by the assailants, was to expel the defenders, by setting fire to wet straw in the lower apartments. But the border chieftains seldom chose to abide in person a siege of this nature; and I have not observed a single instance of a distinguished baron made prisoner in his own house[41].--_Patten's Expedition_, p. 35. The common people resided in paltry huts, about the safety of which they were little anxious, as they contained nothing of value. On the approach of a superior force, they unthatched them, to prevent their being burned, and then abandoned them to the foe.--_Stowe's Chronicle_, p. 665. Their only treasures were, a fleet and active horse, with the ornaments which their rapine had procured for the females of their family, of whose gay appearance the borderers were vain. [Footnote 37: Stowe, in detailing the happy consequences of the union of the crowns, observes, "that the northerne borders became as safe, and peaceable, as any part of the entire kingdome, so as in the fourth yeare of the king's raigne, as well gentlemen as others, inhabiting the places aforesayde, finding the auncient wast ground to be very good and fruitefull, began to contende in lawe about their bounds, challenging then, that for their hereditarie right, which formerly they disavowed, only to avoyde charge of common defence."] [Footnote 38: "As for the humours of the people (_i.e._ of Tiviotdale), they were both strong and warlike, as being inured to war, and daily incursions, and the most part of the heritors of the country gave out all their lands to their tenants, for military attendance upon rentals, and reserved only some few manses for their own sustenance, which were laboured by their tenants, besides their service. They paid an entry, a herauld, and a small rental-duty; for there were no rents raised here that were considerable, till King James went into England; yea, all along the border."--_Account of Roxburghshire, by Sir William Scott of Harden, and Kerr of Sunlaws, apud Macfarlane's MSS._] [Footnote 39: The royal castles of Roxburgh, Hermitage, Lochmaben, &c. form a class of exceptions to this rule, being extensive and well fortified. Perhaps we ought also to except the baronial castle of Home. Yet, in 1455, the following petty garrisons were thought sufficient for the protection of the border; two hundred spearmen, and as many archers, upon the east and middle marches; and one hundred spears, with a like number of bowmen, upon the western marches. But then the same statute provides, "They that are neare hand the bordoure, are ordained to have gud househaldes, and abuilzed men as effeiris: and to be reddie at their principal place, and to pass, with the wardanes, quhen and quhair they sail be charged."--_Acts of James II._, cap. 55, _Of garisonnes to be laid upon the borderes_.--Hence Buchanan has justly described, as an attribute of the Scottish nation, "_Nec fossis, nee muris, patriam sed Marte tueri_." [Footnote 40: I have observed a difference in architecture betwixt the English and Scottish towers. The latter usually have upon the top a projecting battlement, with interstices, anciently called _machicoules_, betwixt the parapet and the wall, through which stones or darts might be hurled upon the assailants. This kind of fortification is less common on the south border.] [Footnote 41: I ought to except the famous Dand Ker, who was made prisoner in his castle of Fairnihirst, after defending it bravely against Lord Dacres, 24th September, 1523.] Some rude monuments occur upon the borders, the memorial of ancient valour. Such is the cross at Milholm, on the banks of the Liddel, said to have been erected in memory of the chief of the Armstrongs, murdered treacherously by Lord Soulis, while feasting in Hermitage castle. Such also, a rude stone, now broken, and very much defaced, placed upon a mount on the lands of Haughhead, near the junction of the Kale and Teviot. The inscription records the defence made by Hobbie Hall, a man of great strength and courage against an attempt by the powerful family of Ker, to possess themselves of his small estate[42]. [Footnote 42: The rude strains of the inscription little correspond with the gallantry of a --village Hampden, who, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood. It is in these words: Here Hobbie Hall boldly maintained his right, 'Gainst reif, plain force, armed wi' awles might. Full thirty pleughs, harnes'd in all their gear, Could not his valiant noble heart make fear: But wi' his sword, he cut the foremost's soam In two; and drove baith pleughs and pleughmen home. 1620. _Soam_ means the iron links, which fasten a yoke of oxen to the plough.] The same simplicity marked their dress and arms. Patten observes, that in battle the laird could not be distinguished from the serf: all wearing the same coat armour, called a jack, and the baron being only distinguished by his sleeves of mail, and his head-piece. The borderers, in general, acted as light cavalry; riding horses of a small size, but astonishingly nimble, and trained to move, by short bounds, through the morasses with which Scotland abounds. Their offensive weapons were, a lance of uncommon length; a sword, either two-handed, or of the modern light size; sometimes a species of battle-axe, called a Jedburgh-staff; and, latterly, dags, or pistols. Although so much accustomed to act on horseback, that they held it even mean to appear otherwise, the marchmen occasionally acted as infantry; nor were they inferior to the rest of Scotland in forming that impenetrable phalanx of spears, whereof it is said, by an English historian, that "sooner shall a bare finger pierce through the skin of an angry hedge-hog, than any one encounter the brunt of their pikes." At the battle of Melrose, for example, Buccleuch's army fought upon foot. But the habits of the borderers fitted them particularly to distinguish themselves as light cavalry; and hence the name of _prickers and hobylers_, so frequently applied to them. At the blaze of their beacon fires, they were wont to assemble ten thousand horsemen in the course of a single day. Thus rapid in their warlike preparations, they were alike ready for attack and defence. Each individual carried his own provisions, consisting of a small bag of oatmeal, and trusted to plunder, or the chace, for ekeing out his precarious meal. Beaugé remarks, that nothing surprised the Scottish cavalry so much as to see their French auxiliaries encumbered with baggage-waggons, and attended by commissaries. Before joining battle, it seems to have been the Scottish practice to set fire to the litter of their camp, while, under cover of the smoke, the _hobylers_, or border cavalry, executed their manoeuvres.--There is a curious account of the battle of Mitton, fought in the year 1319, in a valuable MS. _Chronicle of England_, in the collection of the Marquis of Douglas, from which this stratagem seems to have decided the engagement. "In meyn time, while the wer thus lastyd, the kynge went agane into Skotlonde, that hitte was wonder for to wette, and bysechyd the towne of Barwick; but the Skottes went over the water of Sold, that was iii myle from the hoste, and prively they stole awaye be nyghte, and come into England, and robbed and destroyed all that they myght, and spared no manner thing til that they come to Yorke. And, whan the Englischemen, that wer left att home, herd this tiding, all tho that myght well travell, so well monkys and priestis, and freres, and chanouns, and seculars, come and met with the Skottes at Mytone of Swale, the xii day of October. Allas, for sorow for the Englischemen! housbondmen, that could nothing in wer, ther were quelled and drenchyd in an arm of the see. And hyr chyftaines, Sir William Milton, ersch-biishop of Yorke, and the abbot of Selby, with her stedes, fled and com into Yorke; and that was her owne folye that they had that mischaunce; for the passyd the water of Swale, and the Skottes set on fiir three stalkes of hey, and the smoke thereof was so huge, that the Englischemen might nott se the Scottes; and whan the Englischemen were gon over the water, tho cam the Skottes, with hir wyng, in maner of a sheld, and come toward the Englischemen in ordour. And the Englischemen fled for unnethe they had any use of armes, for the kyng had hem al almost lost att the sege of Barwick. And the Scotsmen _hobylers_ went betwene the brigge and the Englischemen; and when the gret hoste them met, the Englischemen fled between the _hobylers_ and the gret hoste; and the Englischemen were ther quelled, and he that myght wend over the water were saved, but many were drowned. Alas! for there were slayn many men of religion, and seculars, and pristis, and clerks, and with much sorwe the erschbischope scaped from the Skottes; and, therefore, the Skottes called that battell the _White Battell_" For smaller predatory expeditions, the borderers had signals, and places of rendezvous, peculiar to each tribe. If the party set forward before all the members had joined, a mark, cut in the turf, or on the bark of a tree, pointed out to the stragglers the direction which the main body had pursued[43]. [Footnote 43: In the parish of Linton, in Roxburghshire, there is a circle of stones, surrounding a smooth plot of turf, called the _Tryst_, or place of appointment, which tradition avers to have been the rendezvous of the neighbouring warriors. The name of the leader was cut in the turf, and the arrangement of the letters announced to his followers the course which he had taken. See _Statistical Account of the Parish of Linton_.] Their warlike convocations were, also, frequently disguised, under pretence of meetings for the purpose of sport. The game of foot-ball, in particular which was anciently, and still continues to be, a favourite border sport, was the means of collecting together large bodies of moss-troopers, previous to any military exploit. When Sir Robert Carey was warden of the east marches, the knowledge that there was a great match of foot-ball at Kelso, to be frequented by the principal Scottish riders, was sufficient to excite his vigilance and his apprehension[44]. Previous also to the murder of Sir John Carmichael (see Notes on the _Raid of the Reidswire_,) it appeared at the trial of the perpetrators that they had assisted at a grand foot-ball meeting, where the crime was concerted. [Footnote 44: See Appendix.] Upon the religion of the borderers there can very little be said. We have already noticed, that they remained attached to the Roman Catholic faith rather longer than the rest of Scotland. This probably arose from a total indifference upon the subject; for, we no where find in their character the respect for the church, which is a marked feature of that religion. In 1528, Lord Dacre complains heavily to Cardinal Wolsey, that, having taken a notorious freebooter, called Dyk Irwen, the brother and friends of the outlaw had, in retaliation, seized a man of some property, and a relation of Lord Dacre, called Jeffrey Middleton, as he returned from a pilgrimage to St. Ninian's, in Galloway; and that, notwithstanding the sanctity of his character, as a _true pilgrim_, and the Scottish monarch's safe conduct, they continued to detain him in their fastnesses, until he should redeem the said arrant thief, Dyk Irwen. The abbeys, which were planted upon the border, neither seem to have been much respected by the English, nor by the Scottish barons. They were repeatedly burned by the former, in the course of the border wars, and by the latter they seem to have been regarded chiefly as the means of endowing a needy relation, or the subject of occasional plunder. Thus, Andrew Home of Fastcastle, about 1488, attempted to procure a perpetual feu of certain possessions belonging to the abbey of Coldinghame; and being baffled, by the king bestowing that opulent benefice upon the royal chapel at Stirling, the Humes and Hepburns started into rebellion; asserting, that the priory should be conferred upon some younger son of their families, according to ancient custom. After the fatal battle of Flodden, one of the Kerrs testified his contempt for clerical immunities and privileges, by expelling from his house the abbot of Kelso. These bickerings betwixt the clergy and the barons were usually excited by disputes about their temporal interest. It was common for the churchmen to grant lands in feu to the neighbouring gentlemen, who, becoming their vassals, were bound to assist and protect them[45]. But, as the possessions and revenues of the benefices became thus intermixed with those of the laity, any attempts rigidly to enforce the claims of the church were usually attended by the most scandalous disputes. A petty warfare was carried on for years, betwixt James, abbot of Dryburgh, and the family of Halliburton of Mertoun, or Newmains, who held some lands from that abbey. These possessions were, under various pretexts, seized and laid waste by both parties; and some bloodshed took place in the contest, betwixt the lay vassals and their spiritual superior. The matter was, at length, thought of sufficient importance to be terminated by a reference to his majesty; whose decree arbitral, dated at Stirling, the 8th of May, 1535, proceeds thus: "Whereas we, having been advised and knowing the said gentlemen, the Halliburtons, to be leal and true honest men, long servants unto the saide abbeye, for the saide landis, stout men at armes, and goode borderers against Ingland; and doe therefore decree and ordaine, that they sail be re-possess'd, and bruik and enjoy the landis and steedings they had of the said abbeye, paying the use and wonte: and that they sall be goode servants to the said venerabil father, like as they and their predecessours were to the said venerabil father, and his predecessours, and he a good master to them[46]." It is unnecessary to detain the reader with other instances of the discord, which prevailed anciently upon the borders, betwixt the spiritual shepherd and his untractable flock. [Footnote 45: These vassals resembled, in some degree, the Vidames in France, and the Vogten, or Vizedomen, of the German abbeys; but the system was never carried regularly into effect in Britain, and this circumstance facilitated the dissolution of the religious houses.] [Footnote 46: This decree was followed by a marriage betwixt the abbot's daughter, Elizabeth Stewart, and Walter Halliburton, one of the family of Newmains. But even this alliance did not secure peace between the venerable father and his vassals. The offspring of the marriage was an only daughter, named Elizabeth Halliburton. As this young lady was her father's heir, the Halliburtons resolved that she should marry one of her cousins, to keep her property in the clan. But as this did not suit the views of the abbot, he carried off by force the intended bride, and married her, at Stirling, to Alexander Erskine, a brother of the laird of Balgony, a relation and follower of his own. From this marriage sprung the Erskines of Shielfield. This exploit of the abbot revived the feud betwixt him and the Halliburtons, which only ended with the dissolution of the abbey.--_MS. History of Halliburton Family, penes editorem_.] The reformation was late of finding its way into the border wilds; for, while the religious and civil dissentions were at the height in 1568, Drury writes to Cecil,--"Our trusty neighbours of Teviotdale are holden occupied only to attend to the pleasure and calling of their own heads, to make some diversion in this matter." The influence of the reformed preachers, among the borders, seems also to have been but small; for, upon all occasions of dispute with the kirk, James VI. was wont to call in their assistance. _Calderwood_, p. 129. We learn from a curious passage in the life of Richard Cameron, a fanatical preacher during the time of what is called "the persecution," that some of the borderers retained to a late period their indifference about religious matters. After having been licensed at Haughhead, in Teviotdale, he was, according to his biographer, sent first to preach in Annandale. "He said, 'how can I go there? I know what sort of people they are.' 'But,' Mr. Welch said, 'go your way, Ritchie, and set the fire of hell to their tails.' He went; and, the first day, he preached upon that text, _Home shall I put thee among the children, &c_. In the application he said, 'Put you among the children! the offspring of thieves and robbers! we have all heard of Annandale thieves.' Some of them got a merciful cast that day, and told afterwards, that it was the first field meeting they ever attended, and that they went out of mere curiosity, to see a minister preach in a tent, and people sit on the ground." _Life of Richard Cameron_[47]. [Footnote 47: This man was chaplain in the family of Sir Walter Scott of Harden, who attended the meetings of the indulged presbyterians; but Cameron, considering this conduct as a compromise with the foul fiend Episcopacy, was dismissed from the family. He was slain in a skirmish at Airdsmoss, bequeathing his name to the sect of fanatics, still called Cameronians.] Cleland, an enthusiastic Cameronian, lieutenant-colonel of the regiment levied after the Revolution from among that wild and fanatical sect, claims to the wandering preachers of his tribe the merit of converting the borderers. He introduces a cavalier, haranguing the Highlanders, and ironically thus guarding them against the fanatic divines: If their doctrine there get rooting, Then, farewell theift, the best of booting, And this ye see is very clear, Dayly experience makes it appear; For instance, lately on the borders, Where there was nought but theft and murders, Rapine, cheating, and resetting, Slight of hand, fortunes getting, Their designation, as ye ken, Was all along the _Tacking Men_. Now, rebels more prevails with words, Then drawgoons does with guns and swords, So that their bare preaching now Makes the rush-bush keep the cow; Better than Scots or English kings, Could do by kilting them with strings. Yea, those that were the greatest rogues, Follows them over hills and bogues, Crying for mercy and for preaching, For they'll now hear no others teaching." _Cleland's Poems_, 1697, p. 30. The poet of the whigs might exaggerate the success of their teachers; yet, it must be owned, that their doctrine of insubordination, joined to their vagrant and lawless habits, was calculated strongly to conciliate their border hearers. But, though the church, in the border counties, attracted little veneration, no part of Scotland teemed with superstitious fears and observances more than they did. "The Dalesmen[48]," says Lesley, "never count their beads with such earnestness as when they set out upon a predatory expedition." Penances, the composition betwixt guilt and conscience, were also frequent upon the borders. Of this we have a record in many bequests to the church, and in some more lasting monuments; such as the Tower of Repentance in Dumfries-shire, and, according to vulgar tradition, the church of Linton[49], in Roxburghshire. In the appendix to this introduction. No. IV., the reader will find a curious league, or treaty of peace, betwixt two hostile clans, by which the heads of each became bound to make the four pilgrimages of Scotland, for the benefit of the souls of those of the opposite clan, who had fallen in the feud. These were superstitions, flowing immediately from the nature of the Catholic religion: but there was, upon the border, no lack of others of a more general nature. Such was the universal belief in spells, of which some traces may yet remain in the wild parts of the country. These were common in the time of the learned Bishop Nicolson, who derives them from the time of the Pagan Danes. "This conceit was the more heightened, by reflecting upon the natural superstition of our borderers at this day, who were much better acquainted with, and do more firmly believe, their old legendary stories, of fairies and witches, than the articles of their creed. And to convince me, yet farther, that they are not utter strangers to the black art of their forefathers, I met with a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who shewed me a book of spells, and magical receipts, taken, two or three days before, in the pocket of one of our moss-troopers; wherein, among many other conjuring feats, was prescribed, a certain remedy for an ague, by applying a few barbarous characters to the body of the party distempered. These, methought, were very near a-kin to Wormius's _Ram Runer_, which, he says, differed wholly in figure and shape from the common _runae_. For, though he tells us, that these _Ram Runer_ were so called, _Eo quod molestias, dolores, morbosque hisce infligere inimicis soliti sunt magi_; yet his great friend, Arng. Jonas, more to our purpose, says, that--_His etiam usi sunt ad benefaciendum, juvandum, medicandum tam animi quam corporis morbis; atque ad ipsos cacodaemones pellendos et fugandos_. I shall not trouble you with a draught of this spell, because I have not yet had an opportunity of learning whether it may not be an ordinary one, and to be met with, among others of the same nature, in Paracelsus, or Cornelius Agrippa."--_Letter from Bishop Nicolson to Mr. Walker; vide Camden's Britannia, Cumberland_. Even in the editor's younger days, he can remember the currency of certain spells, for curing sprains, burns, or dislocations, to which popular credulity ascribed unfailing efficacy[50]. Charms, however, against spiritual enemies, were yet more common than those intended to cure corporeal complaints. This is not surprising, as a fantastic remedy well suited an imaginary disease. [Footnote 48: This small church is founded upon a little hill of sand, in which no stone of the size of an egg is said to have been found, although the neighbouring soil is sharp and gravelly. Tradition accounts for this, by informing us, that the foundresses were two sisters, upon whose account much blood had been spilt in that spot; and that the penance, imposed on the fair causers of the slaughter, was an order from the pope to sift the sand of the hill, upon which their church was to be erected. This story may, perhaps, have some foundation; for, in the church-yard was discovered a single grave, containing no fewer than fifty skulls, most of which bore the marks of having been cleft by violence.] [Footnote 49: An epithet bestowed upon the borderers, from the names of their various districts; as Tiviotdale, Liddesdale, Eskdale, Ewsdale, Annandale, &c. Hence, an old ballad distinguishes the north as the country, "Where every river gives name to a dale," _Ex-ale-tation of Ale_.] [Footnote 50: Among these may be reckoned the supposed influence of Irish earth, in curing the poison of adders, or other venomous reptiles.--This virtue is extended by popular credulity to the natives, and even to the animals, of Hibernia. A gentleman, bitten by some reptile, so as to occasion a great swelling, seriously assured the editor, that he ascribed his cure to putting the affected finger into the mouth of an Irish mare!] There were, upon the borders, many consecrated wells, for resorting to which the people's credulity is severely censured, by a worthy physician of the seventeenth century; who himself believed in a shower of living herrings having fallen near Dumfries. "Many run superstitiously to other wells, and there obtain, as they imagine, health and advantage; and there they offer bread and cheese, or money, by throwing them into the well." In another part of the MS. occurs the following passage. "In the bounds of the lands of Eccles, belonging to a lyneage of the name of Maitland, there is a loch called the Dowloch, of old resorted to with much superstition, as medicinal both for men and beasts, and that with such ceremonies, as are _shrewdly_ suspected to have been begun with witchcraft, and increased afterward by magical directions: For, burying of a cloth, or somewhat that did relate to the bodies of men and women, and a shackle, or teather, belonging to cow or horse; and these being cast into the loch, if they did float, it was taken for a good omen of recovery, and a part of the water carried to the patient, though to remote places, without saluting or speaking to any they met by the way; but, if they did sink, the recovery of the party was hopeless. This custom was of late much curbed and restrained; but since the discovery of many medicinal fountains near to the place, the vulgar, holding that it may be as medicinal as these are, at this time begin to re-assume their former practice."--_Account of Presbytery of Penpont, in Macfarlane's MSS._ The idea, that the spirits of the deceased return to haunt the place, where on earth they have suffered or have rejoiced, is, as Dr. Johnson has observed, common to the popular creed of all nations The just and noble sentiment, implanted in our bosoms by the Deity, teaches us, that we shall not slumber for ever, as the beasts that perish.--Human vanity, or credulity, chequers, with its own inferior and base colours, the noble prospect, which is alike held out to us by philosophy and by religion. We feel, according to the ardent expression of the poet, that we shall not wholly die; but from hence we vainly and weakly argue, that the same scenes, the same passions, shall delight and actuate the disembodied spirit, which affected it while in its tenement of clay. Hence the popular belief, that the soul haunts the spot where the murdered body is interred; that its appearances are directed to bring down vengeance on its murderers; or that, having left its terrestrial form in a distant clime, it glides before its former friends, a pale spectre, to warn them of its decease. Such tales, the foundation of which is an argument from our present feelings to those of the spiritual world, form the broad and universal basis of the popular superstition regarding departed spirits; against which reason has striven in vain, and universal experience has offered a disregarded testimony. These legends are peculiarly acceptable to barbarous tribes; and, on the borders, they were received with most unbounded faith. It is true, that these supernatural adversaries were no longer opposed by the sword and battle-axe, as among the unconverted Scandinavians. Prayers, spells, and exorcisms, particularly in the Greek and Hebrew languages, were the weapons of the borderers, or rather of their priests and cunning men, against their aërial enemy[51]. The belief in ghosts, which has been well termed the last lingering phantom of superstition, still maintains its ground upon the borders. [Footnote 51: One of the most noted apparitions is supposed to haunt Spedlin's castle, near Lochmaben, the ancient baronial residence of the Jardines of Applegirth. It is said, that, in exercise of his territorial jurisdiction, one of the ancient lairds had imprisoned, in the _Massy More_, or dungeon of the castle, a person named Porteous. Being called suddenly to Edinburgh, the laird discovered, as he entered the West Port, that he had brought along with him the key of the dungeon. Struck with the utmost horror, he sent back his servant to relieve the prisoner; but it was too late. The wretched being was found lying upon the steps descending from the door of the vault, starved to death. In the agonies of hunger, he had gnawed the flesh from one of his arms. That his spectre should haunt the castle was a natural consequence of such a tragedy. Indeed, its visits became so frequent, that a clergyman of eminence was employed to exorcise it. After a contest of twenty-four hours, the man of art prevailed so far as to confine the goblin to the _Massy More_ of the castle, where its shrieks and cries are still heard. A part, at least, of the spell, depends upon the preservation of the ancient black-lettered bible, employed by the exorcist. It was some years ago thought necessary to have this bible re-bound; but, as soon as it was removed from the castle, the spectre commenced his nocturnal orgies, with ten-fold noise; and it is verily believed that he would have burst from his confinement, had not the sacred volume been speedily replaced. A Mass John Scott, minister of Peebles, is reported to have been the last renowned exorciser, and to have lost his life in a contest with an obstinate spirit. This was owing to the conceited rashness of a young clergyman, who commenced the ceremony of laying the ghost before the arrival of Mass John. It is the nature, it seems, of spirits disembodied, as well as embodied, to increase in strength and presumption, in proportion to the advantages which they may gain over the opponent. The young clergyman losing courage, the horrors of the scene were increased to such a degree, that, as Mass John approached the house in which it passed, he beheld the slates and tiles flying from the roof, as if dispersed by a whirlwind. At his entry, he perceived all the wax-tapers (the most essential instruments of conjuration) extinguished, except one, which already burned blue in the socket. The arrival of the experienced sage changed the scene: he brought the spirit to reason; but, unfortunately, while addressing a word of advice or censure to his rash brother, he permitted the ghost to obtain the _last word_; a circumstance which, in all colloquies of this nature, is strictly to be guarded against. This fatal oversight occasioned his falling into a lingering disorder, of which he never recovered. A curious poem, upon the laying of a ghost, forms article No. V. of the Appendix.] It is unnecessary to mention the superstitious belief in witchcraft, which gave rise to so much cruelty and persecution during the seventeenth century. There were several executions upon the borders for this imaginary crime, which was usually tried, not by the ordinary judges, but by a set of country gentlemen, acting under commission from the privy council[52]. [Footnote 52: I have seen, _penes_ Hugh Scott, Esq. of Harden, the record of the trial of a witch, who was burned at Ducove. She was tried in the manner above mentioned.] Besides these grand articles of superstitious belief, the creed of the borderers admitted the existence of sundry classes of subordinate spirits, to whom were assigned peculiar employments. The chief of these were the Fairies, concerning whom the reader will find a long dissertation, in Volume Second. The Brownie formed a class of beings, distinct in habit and disposition from the freakish and mischievous elves. He was meagre, shaggy, and wild in his appearance. Thus, Cleland, in his satire against the Highlanders, compares them to "Faunes, or _Brownies_, if ye will, Or satyres come from Atlas hill." In the day time, he lurked in remote recesses of the old houses which he delighted to haunt; and, in the night, sedulously employed himself in discharging any laborious task which he thought might be acceptable to the family, to whose service he had devoted himself. His name is probably derived from the _Portuni_, whom Gervase of Tilbury describes thus: "_Ecce enim in Anglia daemones quosdam habent, daemones, inquam, nescio dixerim, an secretae et ignotae generationis effigies, quos Galli Neptunos, Angli Portunos nominant. Istis insitum est quod simplicitatem fortunatonum_ _colonorum amplectuntur, et cum nocturnas propter domesticas operas agunt vigilias, subito clausis januis ad ignem califiunt, et ranunculus ex sinu projectas, prunis impositas concedunt, senili vultu, facie corrugata, statura pusilli, dimidium pollicis non habentes. Panniculis consertis induuntur, et si quid gestandum in domo fuerit, aut onerosi opens agendum, ad operandum se jungunt citius humana facilitate expediunt. Id illis insitum est, ut obsequi possint et obesse non possint_."--Otia. Imp. p. 980. In every respect, saving only the feeding upon frogs, which was probably an attribute of the Gallic spirits alone, the above description corresponds with that of the Scottish Brownie. But the latter, although, like Milton's lubbar fiend, he loves to stretch himself by the fire[53], does not drudge from the hope of recompence. On the contrary, so delicate is his attachment, that the offer of reward, but particularly of food, infallibly occasions his disappearance for ever[54]. We learn from Olaus Magnus, that spirits, somewhat similar in their operations to the Brownie, were supposed to haunt the Swedish mines. The passage, in the translation of 1658, runs thus: "This is collected in briefe, that in northerne kingdomes there are great armies of devils, that have their services, which they perform with the inhabitants of these countries: but they are most frequent in rocks and mines, where they break, cleave, and make them hollow: which also thrust in pitchers and buckets, and carefully fit wheels and screws, whereby they are drawn upwards; and they shew themselves to the labourers, when they list, like phantasms and ghosts." It seems no improbable conjecture, that the Brownie is a legitimate descendant of the _Lar Familiaris_ of the ancients. [Footnote 53: --how the drudging goblin swet, To earn the cream-bowl, duly set; When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail had thresh'd the corn, That ten day-lab'rers could not end; Then lies him down the lubbar fiend, And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And, crop-full, out of doors he flings, E'er the first cock his matin rings. _L'Allegro_. When the menials in a Scottish family protracted their vigils around the kitchen fire, Brownie, weary of being excluded from the midnight hearth, sometimes appeared at the door, seemed to watch their departure, and thus admonished them--"Gang a' to your beds, sirs, and dinna put out the wee _grieshoch_ (embers)."] [Footnote 54: It is told of a Brownie, who haunted a border family, now extinct, that the lady having fallen unexpectedly in labour, and the servant, who was ordered to ride to Jedburgh for the _sage femme_, shewing no great alertness in setting out, the familiar spirit slipt on the great-coat of the lingering domestic, rode to the town on the laird's best horse, and returned with the mid-wife _en croupe_. Daring the short space of his absence, the Tweed, which they must necessarily ford, rose to a dangerous height. Brownie, who transported his charge with all the rapidity of the ghostly lover of _Lenoré_, was not to be stopped by this obstacle. He plunged in with the terrified old lady, and landed her in safety where her services were wanted. Having put the horse into the stable (where it was afterwards found in a woeful plight), he proceeded to the room of the servant, whose duty he had discharged; and, finding him just in the act of drawing on his boots, he administered to him a most merciless drubbing with his own horse-whip. Such an important service excited the gratitude of the laird; who, understanding that Brownie had been heard to express a wish to have a green coat, ordered a vestment of that colour to be made, and left in his haunts. Brownie took away the green coat, but never was seen more. We may suppose, that, tired of his domestic drudgery, he went in his new livery to join the fairies.--_See Appendix_, No. VI. The last Brownie, known in Ettrick forest, resided in Bodsbeck, a wild and solitary spot, where he exercised his functions undisturbed, till the scrupulous devotion of an old lady induced her to _hire him away_, as it was termed, by placing in his haunt a porringer of milk and a piece of money. After receiving this hint to depart, he was heard the whole night to howl and cry, "Farewell to bonny Bodsbeck!" which he was compelled to abandon for ever.] A being, totally distinct from those hitherto mentioned, is the Bogle, or Goblin; a freakish spirit, who delights rather to perplex and frighten mankind; than either to serve, or seriously to hurt, them. This is the _Esprit Follet_ of the French; and _Puck_, or _Robin Goodfellow_, though enlisted by Shakespeare among the fairy band of _Oberon_, properly belongs to this class of phantoms. _Shellycoat_, a spirit, who resides in the waters, and has given his name to many a rock and stone upon the Scottish coast, belongs also to the class of bogles[55]. When he appeared, he seemed to be decked with marine productions, and, in particular with shells, whose clattering announced his approach. From this circumstance he derived his name. He may, perhaps, be identified with the goblin of the northern English, which, in the towns and cities, Durham and Newcastle for example had the name of _Barquest_; but, in the country villages, was more frequently termed _Brag_. He usually ended his mischievous frolics with a horse-laugh. [Footnote 55: One of his pranks is thus narrated: Two men, in a very dark night, approaching the banks of the Ettrick, heard a doleful voice from its waves repeatedly exclaim--"Lost! lost!"--They followed the sound, which seemed to be the voice of a drowning person, and, to their infinite astonishment, they found that it ascended the river. Still they continued, during a long and tempestuous night, to follow the cry of the malicious sprite; and arriving, before morning's dawn, at the very sources of the river, the voice was now heard descending the opposite side of the mountain in which they arise. The fatigued and deluded travellers now relinquished the pursuit; and had no sooner done so, than they heard Shellycoat applauding, in loud bursts of laughter, his successful roguery. The spirit was supposed particularly to haunt the old house of Gorrinberry, situated on the river Hermitage, in Liddesdale.] _Shellycoat_ must not be confounded with _Kelpy_, a water spirit also, but of a much more powerful and malignant nature. His attributes have been the subject of a poem in Lowland Scottish, by the learned Dr. Jamieson of Edinburgh, which adorns the third volume of this collection. Of _Kelpy_, therefore, it is unnecessary to say any thing at present. Of all these classes of spirits it may be, in general observed, that their attachment was supposed to be local, and not personal. They haunted the rock, the stream, the ruined castle, without regard to the persons or families to whom the property belonged. Hence, they differed entirely from that species of spirits, to whom, in the Highlands, is ascribed the guardianship, or superintendance of a particular clan, or family of distinction; and who, perhaps yet more than the Brownie, resemble the classic household gods. Thus, in an MS. history of Moray, we are informed, that the family of Gurlinbeg is haunted by a spirit, called _Garlin Bodacher_; that of the baron of Kinchardin, by _Lamhdearg_[56], or Red-hand, a spectre, one of whose hands is as red as blood; that of Tullochgorm, by _May Moulach_, a female figure, whose left hand and arm were covered with hair, who is also mentioned in _Aubrey's Miscellanies_, pp. 211, 212, as a familiar attendant upon the elan Grant. These superstitions were so ingrafted in the popular creed, that the clerical synods and presbyteries were wont to take cognizance of them[57]. [Footnote 56: The following notice of Lamhdearg occurs in another account of Strathspey, _apud_ Macfarlane's MSS.:--"There is much talke of a spirit called _Ly-erg_, who frequents the Glenmore. He appears with a red hand, in the habit of a souldier, and challenges men to fight with him; as lately as 1669, he fought with three brothers, one after another, who immediately died thereafter."] [Footnote 57: There is current, in some parts of Germany, a fanciful superstition concerning the _Stille Volke_, or silent people. These they suppose to be attached to houses of eminence, and to consist of a number, corresponding to that of the mortal family, each person of which has thus his representative amongst these domestic spirits. When the lady of the family has a child, the queen of the silent people is delivered in the same moment. They endeavour to give warning when danger approaches the family, assist in warding it off, and are sometimes seen to weep and wring their hands, before inevitable calamity.] Various other superstitions, regarding magicians, spells, prophecies, &c., will claim our attention in the progress of this work. For the present, therefore taking the advice of an old Scottish rhymer, let us "Leave bogles, brownies, gyre carlinges, and ghaists[58]." [Footnote 58: So generally were these tales of _diablerie_ believed, that one William Lithgow, a _bon vivant_, who appears to have been a native, or occasional inhabitant, of Melrose, is celebrated by the pot-companion who composed his elegy, because He was good company at jeists. And wanton when he came to feists, He scorn'd the converse of great beasts, O'er a sheep's head; _He laugh'd at stones about ghaists_; Blythe Willie's dead! _Watson's Scotish Poems_, Edin. 1706.] _Flyting of Polwart and Montgomery_. The domestic economy of the borderers next engages our attention. That the revenue of the chieftain should be expended in rude hospitality, was the natural result of his situation. His wealth consisted chiefly in herds of cattle, which were consumed by the kinsmen, vassals, and followers, who aided him to acquire and to protect them[59]. We learn from Lesley, that the borderers were temperate in the use of intoxicating liquors, and we are therefore left to conjecture how they occupied the time, when winter, or when accident, confined them to their habitations. The little learning, which existed in the middle ages, glimmered a dim and a dying flame in the religious houses; and even in the sixteenth century, when its beams became more widely diffused, they were far from penetrating the recesses of the border mountains. The tales of tradition, the song, with the pipe or harp of the minstrel, were probably the sole resources against _ennui_, during the short intervals of repose from military adventure. [Footnote 59: We may form some idea of the stile of life maintained by the border warriors, from the anecdotes, handed down by tradition, concerning Walter Scott of Harden, who flourished towards the middle of the sixteenth century. This ancient laird was a renowned freebooter, and used to ride with a numerous band of followers. The spoil, which they carried off from England, or from their neighbours, was concealed in a deep and impervious glen, on the brink of which the old tower of Harden was situated. From thence the cattle were brought out, one by one, as they were wanted, to supply the rude and plentiful table of the laird. When the last bullock was killed and devoured, it was the lady's custom to place on the table a dish, which, on being uncovered, was found to contain a pair of clean spurs; a hint to the riders, that they must shift for their next meal. Upon one occasion, when the village herd was driving out the cattle to pasture, the old laird heard him call loudly _to drive out Harden's cow_. "_Harden's cow!_" echoed the affronted chief--"Is it come to that pass? by my faith they shall sune say Harden's _kye_ (cows)." Accordingly, he sounded his bugle, mounted his horse, set out with his followers, and returned next day with "_a bow of kye, and a bussen'd_ (brindled) _bull_." On his return with this gallant prey, he passed a very large hay-stack. It occurred to the provident laird, that this would be extremely convenient to fodder his new stock of cattle; but as no means of transporting it occurred, he was fain to take leave of it with this apostrophe, now proverbial: "By my soul, had ye but four feet, ye should not stand lang there." In short, as Froissard says of a similar class of feudal robbers, nothing came amiss to them, that was not _too heavy, or too hot_. The same mode of house-keeping characterized most border families on both sides. An MS. quoted in _History of Cumberland_, p. 466, concerning the Graemes of Netherby, and others of that clan, runs thus: "They were all stark moss-troopers and arrant thieves: both to England and Scotland outlawed: yet sometimes connived at, because they gave intelligence forth of Scotland, and would raise 400 horse at any time, upon a raid of the English into Scotland." A saying is recorded of a mother to her son (which is now become proverbial), "_Ride Rouly_ (Rowland), _hough's i' the pot_;" that is, the last piece of beef was in the pot, and therefore it was high time for him to go and fetch more. To such men might with justice be applied the poet's description of the Cretan warrior; translated by my friend, Dr. Leyden. My sword, my spear, my shaggy shield, With these I till, with these I sow; With these I reap my harvest field, The only wealth the Gods bestow. With these I plant the purple vine, With these I press the luscious wine. My sword, my spear, my shaggy shield, They make me lord of all below; For he who dreads the lance to wield, Before my shaggy shield must bow. His lands, his vineyards, must resign; And all that cowards have is mine. _Hybrias (ap. Athenaeum)_.] This brings us to the more immediate subject of the present publication. Lesley, who dedicates to the description of border manners a chapter, which we have already often quoted, notices particularly the taste of the marchmen for music and ballad poetry. "_Placent admodum sibi sua musica, et rythmicis suis cantionibus, quas de majorum suorum gestis, aut ingeniosis predandi precandive stratagematis ipsi confingunt_. "--Leslaeus, _in capitulo de moribus eorum, qui Scotiae limites Angliam versus incolunt_. The more rude and wild the state of society, the more general and violent is the impulse received from poetry and music. The muse, whose effusions are the amusement of a very small part of a polished nation, records, in the lays of inspiration, the history the laws, the very religion, of savages.--Where the pen and the press are wanting, the low of numbers impresses upon the memory of posterity, the deeds and sentiments of their forefathers. Verse is naturally connected with music; and, among a rude people, the union is seldom broken. By this natural alliance, the lays, "steeped in the stream of harmony," are more easily retained by the reciter, and produce upon his audience a more impressive effect. Hence, there has hardly been found to exist a nation so brutishly rude, as not to listen with enthusiasm to the songs of their bards, recounting the exploits of their forefathers, recording their laws and moral precepts, or hymning the praises of their deities. But, where the feelings are frequently stretched to the highest pitch, by the vicissitudes of a life of danger and military adventure, this predisposition of a savage people, to admire their own rude poetry and music, is heightened, and its tone becomes peculiarly determined. It is not the peaceful Hindu at his loom, it is not the timid Esquimaux in his canoe, whom we must expect to glow at the war song of Tyrtaeus. The music and the poetry of each country must keep pace with their usual tone of mind, as well as with the state of society. The morality of their compositions is determined by the same circumstances. Those themes are necessarily chosen by the bard, which regard the favourite exploits of the hearers; and he celebrates only those virtues, which from infancy he has been taught to admire. Hence, as remarked by Lesley, the music and songs of the borders were of a military nature, and celebrated the valour and success of their predatory expeditions. Razing, like Shakespeare's pirate, the eighth commandment from the decalogue, the minstrels praised their chieftains for the very exploits, against which the laws of the country denounced a capital doom.--An outlawed freebooter was to them a more interesting person, than the King of Scotland exerting his power to punish his depredations; and, when the characters are contrasted, the latter is always represented as a ruthless and sanguinary tyrant.--Spenser's description of the bards of Ireland applies in some degree, to our ancient border poets. "There is, among the Irish, a certain kinde of people, called bardes, which are to them instead of poets; whose profession is to set forth the praises or dispraises of men, in their poems or rhymes; the which are had in such high regard or esteem amongst them, that none dare displease them, for fear of running into reproach through their offence, and to be made infamous in the mouths of all men; for their verses are taken up with a general applause, and usually sung at all feasts and meetings, by certain other persons, whose proper function that is, who also receive, for the same, great rewardes and reputation amongst them." Spenser, having bestowed due praise upon the poets, who sung the praises of the good and virtuous, informs us, that the bards, on the contrary, "seldom use to chuse unto themselves the doings of good men for the arguments of their poems; but whomsoever they finde to be most licentious of life, most bold and lawless in his doings, most dangerous and desperate in all parts of disobedience, and rebellious disposition, him they set up and glorify in their rhythmes; him they praise to the people, and to young men make an example to follow."--_Eudoxus_--"I marvail what kind of speeches they can find, or what faces they can put on, to praise such bad persons, as live so lawlessly and licentiously upon stealths and spoyles, as most of them do; or how they can think, that any good mind will applaud or approve the same." In answer to this question, _Irenaeus_, after remarking the giddy and restless disposition of the ill educated youth of Ireland, which made them prompt to receive evil counsel, adds, that such a person, "if he shall find any to praise him, and to give him any encouragement, as those bards and rhythmers do, for little reward, or a share of a stolen cow[60], then waxeth he most insolent, and half-mad, with the love of himself and his own lewd deeds. And as for words to set forth such lewdness, it is not hard for them to give a goodly and painted show thereunto, borrowed even from the praises which are proper to virtue itself. As of a most notorious thief, and wicked outlaw, which had lived all his life-time of spoils and robberies, one of their bardes, in his praise, will say, 'that he was none of the idle milk-sops that was brought up by the fire-side, but that most of his days he spent in arms and valiant enterprizes; that he never did eat his meat, before he had won it with his sword; that he lay not all night slugging in his cabin under his mantle, but used commonly to keep others waking to defend their lives, and did light his candle at the flames of their houses to lead him in the darkness; that the day was his night, and the night his day; that he loved not to be long wooing of wenches to yield to him; but, where he came, he took by force the spoil of other men's love, and left but lamentations to their lovers; that his music was not the harp, nor lays of love, but the cries of people, and clashing of armour; and, finally, that he died, not bewailed of many, but made many wail when he died, that dearly bought his death.' Do not you think, Eudoxus, that many of these praises might be applied to men of best deserts? Yet, are they all yielded to a most notable traitor, and amongst some of the Irish not smally accounted of."--_State of Ireland_. The same concurrence of circumstances, so well pointed out by Spenser, as dictating the topics of the Irish bards, tuned the border harps to the praise of an outlawed Armstrong, or Murray. [Footnote 60: The reward of the Welch bards, and perhaps of those upon the border, was very similar. It was enacted by Howel Dha, that if the king's bard played before a body of warriors, upon a predatory excursion, be should receive, in recompence, the best cow which the party carried off.--_Leges Walliae_, I. 1. cap. 19.] For similar reasons, flowing from the state of society, the reader must not expect to find, in the border ballads, refined sentiment, and, far less, elegant expression; although the stile of such compositions has, in modern hands, been found highly susceptible of both. But passages might be pointed out, in which the rude minstrel has melted in natural pathos, or risen into rude energy. Even where these graces are totally wanting, the interest of the stories themselves, and the curious picture of manners, which they frequently present, authorise them to claim some respect from the public. But it is not the editor's present intention to enter upon a history of border poetry; a subject of great difficulty, and which the extent of his information does not as yet permit him to engage in. He will, therefore, now lay before the reader the plan of the present publication; pointing out the authorities from which his materials are derived and slightly noticing the nature of the different classes into which he has arranged them. The MINSTRELSY of the SCOTTISH BORDER contains Three Classes of Poems: I. HISTORICAL BALLADS. II. ROMANTIC. III. IMITATIONS OF THESE COMPOSITIONS BY MODERN AUTHORS. The Historical Ballad relates events, which we either know actually to have taken place, or which, at least, making due allowance for the exaggerations of poetical tradition, we may readily conceive to have had some foundation in history. For reasons already mentioned, such ballads were early current upon the border. Barbour informs us, that he thinks it unnecessary to rehearse the account of a victory, gained in Eskdale over the English, because --Whasa liks, thai may her Young women, when thai will play, Syng it among thaim ilk day.-- _The Bruce_, Book XVI. Godscroft also, in his History of the House of Douglas, written in the reign of James VI., alludes more than once to the ballads current upon the border, in which the exploits of those heroes were celebrated. Such is the passage, relating to the death of William Douglas, Lord of Liddesdale, slain by the Earl of Douglas, his kinsman, his godson, and his chief[61]. Similar strains of lamentation were poured by the border poets over the tomb of the Hero of Otterbourne; and over the unfortunate youths, who were dragged to an ignominious death, from the very table at which they partook of the hospitality of their sovereign. The only stanza, preserved of this last ballad, is uncommonly animated-- Edinburgh castle, towne and toure, God grant thou sink for sinne! And that even for the black dinoure, Erl Douglas gat therein. Who will not regret, with the editor, that compositions of such interest and antiquity should be now irrecoverable? But it is the nature of popular poetry, as of popular applause, perpetually to shift with the objects of the time; and it is the frail chance of recovering some old manuscript, which can alone gratify our curiosity regarding the earlier efforts of the border muse. Some of her later strains, composed during the sixteenth century, have survived even to the present day; but the recollection of them has, of late years, become like that of "a tale which was told." In the sixteenth century, these northern tales appear to have been popular even in London; for the learned Mr. Ritson has obligingly pointed out to me the following passages, respecting the noted ballad of _Dick o' the Cow_ (p. 157); "Dick o' the Cow, that mad demi-lance northern borderer, who plaid his prizes with the lord Jockey so bravely."--Nashe's _Have with you to Saffren-Walden, or Gabriell Harvey's Hunt is up_.--1596, 4to. _Epistle Dedicatorie_, _sig._ A. 2. 6. And in a list of books, printed for, and sold by, P. Brocksby (1688), occurs "Dick-a-the-Cow, containing north country songs[62]." Could this collection have been found, it would probably have thrown much light on the present publication: but the editor has been obliged to draw his materials chiefly from oral tradition. [Footnote 61: "The Lord of Liddisdale being at his pastime, hunting in Ettrick forest, is beset by William, Earl of Douglas, and such as he had ordained for the purpose, and there asailed, wounded, and slain, beside Galsewood, in the year 1353, upon a jealousy that the earl had conceived of him with his lady, as the report goeth; for so sayeth the old song, "The countess of Douglas out of her bower she came, And loudly there that she did call-- It is for the Lord of Liddisdale, That I let all these tears down fall." "The song also declareth, how she did write her love-letters to Liddisdale, to dissuade him from that hunting. It tells likewise the manner of the taking of his men, and his own killing at Galsewood; and how he was carried the first night to Linden kirk, a mile from Selkirk, and was buried in the abbey of Melrose."--_Godscroft_, Vol. I. p. 144, Ed. 1743. Some fragments of this ballad are still current, and will be found in the ensuing work.] [Footnote 62: The Selkirkshire ballad of _Tamlane_ seems also to have been well known in England. Among the popular heroes of romance, enumerated in the introduction to the history of "_Tom Thumbe_," (London, 1621, bl. letter), occurs "Tom a Lin, the devil's supposed bastard." There is a parody upon the same ballad in the "_Pinder of Wakefield_" (London, 1621).] Something may be still found in the border cottages resembling the scene described by Pennycuik. On a winter's night, my grannam spinning, To mak a web of good Scots linnen; Her stool being placed next to the chimley, (For she was auld, and saw right dimly,) My lucky dad, an honest whig, Was telling tales of Bothwell-brigg; He could not miss to mind the attempt, For he was sitting pu'ing hemp; My aunt, whom' nane dare say has no grace, Was reading on the Pilgrim's Progress; The meikle tasker, Davie Dallas, Was telling blads of William Wallace; My mither bade her second son say, What he'd by heart of Davie Lindsay; Our herd, whom all folks hate that knows him, Was busy hunting in his bosom; * * * * * The bairns, and oyes, were all within doors;} The youngest of us chewing cinders,} And all the auld anes telling wonders.} _Pennycuik's Poems_, p. 7. The causes of the preservation of these songs have either entirely ceased, or are gradually decaying Whether they were originally the composition of minstrels, professing the joint arts of poetry and music; or whether they were the occasional effusions of some self-taught bard; is a question into which I do not here mean to enquire. But it is certain, that, till a very late period, the pipers, of whom there was one attached to each border town of note, and whose office was often hereditary, were the great depositaries of oral, and particularly of poetical, tradition. About spring time, and after harvest, it was the custom of these musicians to make a progress through a particular district of the country. The music and the tale repaid their lodging, and they were usually gratified with a donation of seed corn[63]. This order of minstrels is alluded to in the comic song of _Maggy Lauder_, who thus addresses a piper-- "Live ye upo' the border?" By means of these men, much traditional poetry was preserved, which must otherwise have perished. Other itinerants, not professed musicians, found their welcome to their night's quarters readily insured by their knowledge in legendary lore. John Graeme, of Sowport, in Cumberland, commonly called _The Long Quaker_[64], a person of this latter description, was very lately alive; and several of the songs, now published, have been taken down from his recitation. The shepherds also, and aged persons, in the recesses of the border mountains, frequently remember and repeat the warlike songs of their fathers. This is more especially the case in what are called the South Highlands, where, in many instances, the same families have occupied the same possessions for centuries. [Footnote 63: These town pipers, an institution of great antiquity upon the borders, were certainly the last remains of the minstrel race. Robin Hastie, town-piper of Jedburgh, perhaps the last of the order, died nine or ten years ago: his family was supposed to have held the office for about three centuries. Old age had rendered Robin a wretched performer; but he knew several old songs and tunes, which have probably died along with him. The town-pipers received a livery and salary from the community to which they belonged; and, in some burghs, they had a small allotment of land, called the Piper's Croft. For further particulars regarding them, see _Introduction to Complaynt of Scotland_, Edinburgh, 1801, p. 142.] [Footnote 64: This person, perhaps the last of our professed ballad reciters, died since the publication of the first edition of this work. He was by profession an itinerant cleaner of clocks and watches; but, a stentorian voice, and tenacious memory, qualified him eminently for remembering accurately, and reciting with energy, the border gathering songs and tales of war. His memory was latterly much impaired; yet, the number of verses which he could pour forth, and the animation of his tone and gestures, formed a most extraordinary contrast to his extreme feebleness of person, and dotage of mind.] It is chiefly from this latter source that the editor has drawn his materials, most of which were collected, many years ago, during his early youth. But he has been enabled, in many instances, to supply and correct the deficiencies of his own copies, from a collection of border songs, frequently referred to in the work, under the title of _Glenriddell's MS_. This was compiled, from various sources, by the late Mr. Riddell, of Glenriddel, a sedulous border antiquary, and, since his death, has become the property of Mr. Jollie, bookseller at Carlisle; to whose liberality the editor owes the use of it, while preparing this work for the press. No liberties have been taken, either with the recited or written copies of these ballads, farther than that, where they disagreed, which is by no means unusual, the editor, in justice to the author, has uniformly preserved what seemed to him the best, or most poetical, reading of the passage. Such discrepancies must very frequently occur, wherever poetry is preserved by oral tradition; for the reciter, making it a uniform principle to proceed at all hazards, is very often, when his memory fails him, apt to substitute large portions from some other tale, altogether distinct from that which he has commenced. Besides, the prejudices of clans and of districts have occasioned variations in the mode of telling the same story. Some arrangement was also occasionally necessary, to recover the rhyme, which was often, by the ignorance of the reciters, transposed, or thrown into the middle of the line. With these freedoms, which were essentially necessary to remove obvious corruptions, and fit the ballads for the press, the editor presents them to the public, under the complete assurance, that they carry with them the most indisputable marks of their authenticity. The same observations apply to the Second Class, here termed ROMANTIC BALLADS; intended to comprehend such legends as are current upon the border, relating to fictitious and marvellous adventures Such were the tales, with which the friends of Spenser strove to beguile his indisposition: "Some told of ladies, and their paramours; Some of brave knights, and their renowned squires; Some of the fairies, and their strange attires, And some of giants, hard to be believed." These, carrying with them a general, and not merely a local, interest, are much more extensively known among the peasantry of Scotland than the border-raid ballads, the fame of which is in general confined to the mountains where they were originally composed. Hence, it has been easy to collect these tales of romance, to a number much greater than the editor has chosen to insert in this publication[65]. With this class are now intermingled some lyric pieces, and some ballads, which, though narrating real events, have no direct reference to border history or manners. To the politeness and liberality of Mr. Herd, of Edinburgh, the editor of the first classical collection of Scottish songs and ballads (Edinburgh, 1774, 2 vols.), the editor is indebted for the use of his MSS., containing songs and ballads, published and unpublished, to the number of ninety and upwards. To this collection frequent references are made, in the course of the following pages. Two books of ballads, in MS., have also been communicated to me, by my learned and respected friend, Alexander Fraser Tytler, Esq[66]. I take the liberty of transcribing Mr. Tytler's memorandum respecting the manner in which they came into his hands. "My father[67] got the following songs from an old friend, Mr. Thomas Gordon, professor of philosophy, King's College, Aberdeen. The following extract of a letter of the professor to me, explains how he came by them:--"An aunt of my children, Mrs Farquhar, now dead, who was married to the proprietor of a small estate, near the sources of the Dee, in Braemar, a good old woman, who spent the best part of her life among flocks and herds, resided in her latter days in the town of Aberdeen. She was possest of a most tenacious memory, which retained all the songs she had heard from nurses and country-women in that sequestered part of the country. Being maternally fond of my children, when young, she had them much about her, and delighted them with her songs, and tales of chivalry. My youngest daughter, Mrs Brown, at Falkland, is blest with a memory as good as her aunt, and has almost the whole of her songs by heart. In conversation I mentioned them to your father, at whose request, my grandson, Mr Scott, wrote down a parcel of them, as his aunt sung them. Being then but a mere novice in music, he added, in the copy, such musical notes, as, he supposed, might give your father some notion of the airs, or rather lilts, to which they were sung." [Footnote 65: Mr. Jamieson of Macclesfield, a gentleman of literary and poetical accomplishment, has for some years been employed in a compilation of Scottish ballad poetry, which is now in the press, and will probably be soon given to the public. I have, therefore, as far as the nature of my work permitted, sedulously avoided anticipating any of his materials; as I am very certain he himself will do our common cause the most ample justice.] [Footnote 66: Now a senator of the College of Justice, by the title of Lord Woodhouselee.] [Footnote 67: William Tytler, Esq. the ingenious defender of Queen Mary, and author of a _Dissertation upon Scotish Music_, which does honour to his memory.] From this curious and valuable collection, the editor has procured very material assistance. At the same time, it contains many beautiful legendary poems, of which he could not avail himself, as they seemed to be the exclusive property of the bards of Angus and Aberdeenshire. But the copies of such, as were known on the borders, have furnished him with various readings, and with supplementary stanzas, which he has frequent opportunities to acknowledge. The MSS. are cited under the name of Mrs. Brown of Falkland, the ingenious lady, to whose taste and memory the world is indebted for the preservation of the tales which they contain. The other authorities, which occur during the work, are particularly referred to. Much information has been communicated to the editor, from various quarters, since the work was first published of which he has availed himself, to correct and enlarge the present edition. In publishing both classes of ancient ballads, the editor has excluded those which are to be found in the common collections of this nature, unless in one or two instances, where he conceived it possible to give some novelty, by historical or critical illustration. It would have been easy for the editor to have given these songs an appearance of more indisputable antiquity, by adopting the rude orthography of the period, to which he is inclined to refer them. But this (unless when MSS. of antiquity can be referred to) seemed too arbitrary an exertion of the privileges of a publisher, and must, besides, have unnecessarily increased the difficulties of many readers. On the other hand, the utmost care has been taken, never to reject a word or phrase, used by a reciter, however uncouth or antiquated. Such barbarisms, which stamp upon the tales their age and their nation, should be respected by an editor, as the hardy emblem of his country was venerated by the Poet of Scotland: The rough bur-thistle spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, And spared the symbol dear. BURNS. The meaning of such obsolete words is usually given at the bottom of the page. For explanation of the more common peculiarities of the Scottish dialect, the English reader is referred to the excellent glossary annexed to the last edition of Burns' works. The Third Class of Ballads are announced to the public, as MODERN IMITATIONS of the Ancient Style of composition, in that department of poetry; and they are founded upon such traditions as we may suppose in the elder times would have employed the harps of the minstrels. This kind of poetry has been supposed capable of uniting the vigorous numbers and wild fiction, which occasionally charm us in the ancient ballad, with a greater equality of versification, and elegance of sentiment, than we can expect to find in the works of a rude age. But, upon my ideas of the nature and difficulty of such imitations, I ought in prudence to be silent; lest I resemble the dwarf, who brought with him a standard to measure his own stature. I may, however, hint at the difference, not always attended to, betwixt legendary poems and real imitations of the old ballad; the reader will find specimens of both in the modern part of this collection. The legendary poem, called _Glenfinlas_, and the ballad, entituled the _Eve of St. John_, were designed as examples of the difference betwixt these two kinds of composition. It would have the appearance of personal vanity, were the editor to detail the assistance and encouragement which he has received, during his undertaking, from some of the first literary characters of our age. The names of Stuart, Mackenzie, Ellis, Currie, and Ritson, with many others, are talismans too powerful to be used, for bespeaking the world's favour to a collection of old songs; even although a veteran bard has remarked, "that both the great poet of Italian rhyme, Petrarch, and our Chaucer, and other of the upper house of the muses, have thought their canzons honoured in the title of a ballad." To my ingenious friend, Dr. John Leyden, my readers will at once perceive that I lie under extensive obligations, for the poetical pieces, with which he has permitted me to decorate my compilation; but I am yet farther indebted to him for his uniform assistance, in collecting and arranging materials for the work. In the notes, and occasional dissertations, it has been my object to throw together, perhaps without sufficient attention to method, a variety of remarks, regarding popular superstitions, and legendary history, which, if not now collected, must soon have been totally forgotten. By such efforts, feeble as they are, I may contribute somewhat to the history of my native country; the peculiar features of whose manners and character are daily melting and dissolving into those of her sister and ally. And, trivial as may appear such an offering, to the manes of a kingdom, once proud and independent, I hang it upon her altar with a mixture of feelings, which I shall not attempt to describe. "--Hail, land of spearmen! seed of those who scorn'd To stoop the proud crest to Imperial Rome! Hail! dearest half of Albion, sea-wall'd! Hail! state unconquer'd by the fire of war, Red war, that twenty ages round thee blaz'd! To thee, for whom my purest raptures flow, Kneeling with filial homage, I devote My life, my strength, my first and latest song." APPENDIX. No. I. LETTER FROM THE EARL OF SURREY, TO HENRY VIII. GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THE STORM OF JEDBURGH. _Cott. MSS. Calig_. B. III. fol. 29. * * * * * "Pleisith it your grace to be advertised, that upon Fridaye, at x a clok at nyght, I retourned to this towne, and all the garnysons to their places assigned, the bushopricke men, my Lorde of Westmoreland, and my Lord Dacre, in likewise evry man home with their companys, without los of any men, thanked be God; saving viii or x slayne, and dyvers hurt, at skyrmyshis and saults of the town of Gedwurth, and the forteressis, which towne is soo suerly brent, that no garnysons ner none other shal bee lodged there, unto the tyme it bee newe buylded; the brennyng whereof I comytted to twoo sure men, Sir William Bulmer, and Thomas Tempeste. The towne was moche bettir then I went (_i.e._ ween'd) it had been, for there was twoo tymys moo houses therein then in Berwike, and well buylded, with many honest and faire houses therein, sufficiente to have lodged M horsemen in garnyson, and six good towres therein; whiche towne and towres be clenely distroyed, brent, and throwen downe. Undoubtedly there was noo journey made into Scotland, in noo manys day leving, with soo fewe a nombre that is recownted to be soo high an enterprice as this, bothe with thies contremen, and Scottishmen, nor of truthe so moche hurt doon. But in th' ende a great mysfortune ded fall, onely by foly, that such ordre, as was commaunded by me to be kepte, was not observed, the maner whereof hereaftir shall ensue. Bifore myn entre into Scotland, I appointed Sir William Bulmer and Sir William Evers too be marshallis of th' army; Sir William Bulmer for the vangard, and Sir William Evers for the reregard. In the vangard I appointed my Lord of Westmoreland, as chief, with all the bushopricke, Sir William Bulmer, Sir William Evers, my Lord Dacre, with all his company; and with me remayned all the rest of the garnysons, and the Northumberland men. I was of counsaill with the marshallis at th' ordering of our lodgingg, and our campe was soo well envirowned with ordynance, carts, and dikes, that hard it was to entre or issue, but at certain places appointed for that purpos, and assigned the mooste commodious place of the saide campe for my Lord Dacre company, next the water, and next my Lord of Westmoreland. And at suche tyme as my Lord Dacre came into the fald, I being at the sault of th' abby, whiche contynued unto twoo houres within nyght, my seid Lord Dacre wold in nowise bee contente to ly within the campe, whiche was made right sure, but lodged himself without, wherewith, at my retourne, I was not contente, but then it was to late to remove; the next daye I sente my seid Lorde Dacre to a strong hold, called Fernherst, the lorde whereof was his mortal enemy; and with hym, Sir Arthur Darcy, Sir Marmaduke Constable, with viii c. of their men, one cortoute, and dyvers other good peces of ordynance for the feld (the seid Fernherste stode marvelous strongly, within a grete woode); the seid twoo knights with the moost parte of their men, and Strickland, your grace servaunte, with my Kendall men, went into the woode on fote, with th' ordynance, where the said Kendall men were soo handled, that they found hardy men, that went noo foote back for theym; the other two knightes were alsoo soo sharply assayled, that they were enforced to call for moo of their men; and yet could not bring the ordynance to the forteresse, unto the tyme my Lord Dacre, with part of his horsemen, lighted on fote; and marvelously hardly handled himself, and fynally, with long skirmyshing, and moche difficultie, gat forthe th' ordynance within the howse and threwe downe the same. At which skyrmyshe, my seid Lord Dacre, and his brother, Sir Cristofer, Sir Arthure, and Sir Marmaduke, and many other gentilmen, did marvellously hardly; and found the best resistence that hath been seen with my comyng to their parties, and above xxxii Scottis sleyne, and not passing iiij Englishmen, but above lx hurt. Aftir that, my seid lord retournyng to the campe, wold in nowise bee lodged in the same, but where he laye the furst nyght. And he being with me at souper, about viij a clok, the horses of his company brak lowse, and sodenly ran out of his feld, in such nombre, that it caused a marvellous alarome in our feld; and our standing watche being set, the horses cam ronnyng along the campe, at whome were shot above one hundred shief of arrowes, and dyvers gonnys, thinking they had been Scotts, that wold have saulted the campe; fynally the horses were soo madde, that they ran like wild dere into the feld; above xv c. at the leest, in dyvers companys, and, in one place, above I felle downe a gret rok, and slewe theymself, and above ij c. ran into the towne being on fire, and by the women taken, and carried awaye right evill brent, and many were taken agayne. But, fynally, by that I can esteme by the nombre of theym that I sawe goo on foote the next daye, I think thare is lost above viij c. horses, and all with foly for lak of not lying within the camp. I dare not write the wondres that my Lord Dacre, and all his company, doo saye they sawe that nyght, vj. tymys of spirits and fereful sights. And unyversally all their company saye playnly, the devill was that nyght among theym vi tymys; whiche mysfortune hath blemyshed the best journey that was made in Scotland many yeres. I assure your grace I found the Scottes, at this tyme, the boldest men, and the hotest, that ever I sawe any nation, and all the journey, upon all parts of th' army, kepte us with soo contynuall skyrmyshe, that I never sawe the like. If they myght assemble xl M as good men as I nowe sawe, xv c or ij M, it wold bee a hard encountre to mete theym. Pitie it is of my Lord Dacres losse of the horses of his company; he brought with hym above iiij M. men, and came and lodged one night in Scotland, in his moost mortal enemy's centre. There is noo herdyer, ner bettir knyght, but often tyme he doth not use the most sure order, which he hath nowe payed derely for. Written at Berwike the xxvij of September. Your most bownden, T. SURREY. APPENDIX, No. II. HISTORY OF GEORDIE BOURNE. * * * * * In the following passages, extracted from the memoirs of Sir Robert Carey, then deputy of his father, Lord Hunsdon, warden of the east marches, afterwards Earl of Monmouth, the reader will find a lively illustration of the sketch given of border manners in the preceding Introduction. "Having thus ended with my brother, I then beganne to thinke of the charge I had taken upon mee, which was the government of the east march, in my father's absence. I wrote to Sir Robert Kerr[68], who was my opposite warden, a brave active young man, and desired him that hee would appoint a day, when hee and myselfe might privately meet in some part of the border, to take some good order for the quieting the borders, till my retourne from London, which journey I was shortly of necessity to take. Hee stayed my man all night, and wrote to mee back, that hee was glad to have the happinesse to be acquainted with mee, and did not doubt but the country would be better governed by our good agreements. I wrote to him on the Monday, and the Thursday after hee appointed the place and hour of meeting. [Footnote 68: Sir Robert Kerr of Cessford, warden of the middle marches, and ancestor of the house of Roxburghe.] "After hee had filled my man with drinke, and putt him to bed, hee, and some halfe a score with him, gott to horse, and came into England to a little village. There hee broke up a house, and tooke out a poore fellow, who (hee pretended) had done him some wrong, and before the doore cruelly murthered him, and so came quietly home, and went to bed. The next morning hee delivered my man a letter in answer to mine, and retourned him to mee. It pleased mee well at the reading of his kinde letter; but when I heard what a _brave_ hee had put upon mee, I quickly resolved what to do, which was, never to have to do with him, till I was righted for the greate wrong hee had done mee. Upon this resolution, the day I should have mett with him I tooke post, and with all the haste I could, rode to London, leaving him to attend my coming to him as was appointed. There hee stayed from one till five, but heard no news of mee. Finding by this that I had neglected him, hee retourned home to his house, and so things rested (with greate dislike the one of the other) till I came back, which was with all the speede I could, my businesse being ended. The first thing I did after my retourne, was to ask justice for the wrong hee had done mee; but I could gett none. The borderers, seeing our disagreement, they thought the time wished for of them was come. The winter being beganne, their was roades made out of Scotland into the east march, and goods were taken three or foure times a weeke. I had no other meanes left to quiet them, but still sent out of the garrison horsemen of Berwick, to watch in the fittest places for them, and it was their good hap many times to light upon them, with the stolen goods driving before them. They were no sooner brought before mee, but a jury went upon them, and, being found guilty, they were frequently hanged: a course which hath been seldom used, but I had no way to keep the country quiet but to do so; for, when the Scotch theeves found what a sharp course I tooke with them, that were found with the bloody hand, I had in a short time the country more quiet. All this while wee were but in jest as it were, but now beganne the greate quarrell betweene us. "There was a favorite of his, a greate theife, called Geordie Bourne. This gallant, with some of his associates would, in a bravery, come and take goods in the east march. I had that night some of the garrison abroad. They met with this Geordie and his fellowes, driving of cattle before them. The garrison set upon them, and with a shott killed Geordie Bourne's unckle, and hee himselfe bravely resisting till he was sore hurt in the head, was taken. After hee was taken, his pride was such, as hee asked, who it was that durst avow that nightes worke? but when hee heard it was the garrison, he was then more quiet. But so powerfull and awfull was this Sir Robert Kerr, and his favourites, as there was not a gentleman in all the east march that durst offend them. Presently after hee was taken, I had most of the gentlemen of the march come to mee, and told mee, that now I had the ball at my foote, and might bring Sir Robert Kerr to what conditions I pleased; for that this man's life was so neere and deare unto him, as I should have all that my heart could desire, for the good and quiet of the country and myselfe, if upon any condition I would give him his life. I heard them and their reasons; notwithstanding, I called a jury the next morning, and hee was found guilty of MARCH TREASON. Then they feared that I would cause him to be executed that afternoone, which made them come flocking to mee, humbly entreating mee, that I would spare his life till the next day, and if Sir Robert Kerr came not himselfe to mee, and made mee not such proffers, as I could not but accept, that then I should do with him what I pleased. And further, they told mee plainly, that if I should execute him, before I had heard from Sir Robert Kerr, they must be forced to quitt their houses and fly the country; for his fury would be such, against mee and the march I commanded, as hee would use all his power and strength to the utter destruction of the east march. They were so earnest with mee, that I gave them my word hee should not dye that day. There was post upon post sent to Sir Robert Kerr, and some of them rode to him themselves, to advertise him in what danger Geordie Bourne was; how he was condemned, and should have been executed that afternoone, but, by their humble suite, I gave them my word, that he should not dye that day; and therefore besought him, that hee would send to mee, with all the speede hee could, to let mee know, that hee would be the next day with mee to offer mee good conditions for the safety of his life. When all things were quiet, and the watch set at night, after supper, about ten of the clock, I tooke one of my men's liveryes, and putt it about mee, and tooke two other of my servants with mee in their liveryes, and we three, as the warden's men, came to the provost marshall's, where Bourne was, and were lett into his chamber. Wee sate down by him, and told him, that wee were desirous to see him, because wee heard hee was stoute and valiant, and true to his friend; and that wee were sorry our master could not be moved to save his life. He voluntarily of himselfe said, that hee had lived long enough to do so many villainies as hee had done; and withal told us, that hee had layne with about forty men's wives, what in England, what in Scotland; and that hee had killed seven Englishmen with his own hands, cruelly murthering them: that hee had spent his whole time in whoreing, drinking, stealing, and taking deep revenge for slight offences. Hee seemed to be very penitent, and much desired a minister for the comfort of his soule. Wee promised him to lett our master know his desire, who, wee knew, would presently grant it. Wee tooke our leaves of him, and presently I tooke order, that Mr. Selby, a very worthy honest preacher, should go to him, and not stirre from him till his execution the next morning; for, after I had heard his own confession, I was resolved no conditions should save his life: and so tooke order, that at the gates opening the next morning, hee should be carried to execution, which accordingly was performed. The next morning I had one from Sir Robert Kerr for a parley, who was within two miles staying for mee. I sent him word, "I would meet him where hee pleased, but I would first know upon what termes and conditions." Before his man was retourned, hee had heard, that in the morning, very early, Geordie Bourne had been executed. Many vowes hee made of cruell revenge, and retourned home full of griefe and disdaine, and, from that time forward still plotted revenge. Hee knew the gentlemen of the country were altogether sacklesse, and to make open road upon the march would but shew his malice, and lay him open to the punishment due to such offences. But his practice was how to be revenged on mee, or some of mine. "It was not long after that my brother and I had intelligence, that there was a great match made at footeball and the chiefe ryders were to be there. The place they were to meet at was Kelsy, and that day, wee heard it, was the day for the meeting. Wee presently called a counsaile, and after much dispute it was concluded, that the likeliest place hee was to come to, was to kill the scoutes. And it was the more suspected, for that my brother, before my coming to the office, for the cattaile stolne out of the bounds, and as it were from under the walles of Barwicke, being refused justice (upon his complaint,) or at least delaid, sent off the garrison into Liddisdale, and killed there the chiefe offender, which had done the wrong. "Upon this conclusion, there was order taken, that both horse and foote should lye in ambush, in diverse parts of the boundes, to defend the scoutes, and to give a sound blow to Sir Robert and his company. Before the horse and foote were sett out with directions what to do, it was almost darke night, and the gates ready to be lockt. Wee parted, and as I was by myselfe comeing to my house, God put it into my mind, that it might well be, hee meant destruction to my men, that I had sent out to gather tithes for mee at Norham, and their rendezvous was every night to lye and sup at an ale-house in Norham. I presently caused my page to take horse, and to ride as fast as his horse could carry him, and to command my servants (which were in all eight) that, presently upon his coming to them, they should all change their lodging, and go streight to the castle, there to lye that night in strawe and hay. Some of them were unwilling thereto, but durst not disobey; so altogether left their ale-house, and retired to the castle. They had not well settled themeselves to sleep, but they heard in the town a great alarm; for Sir Robert and his company came streight to the ale-house, broke open the doors, and made enquiry for my servants. They were answered, that by my command they were all in the castle. After they had searched all the house, and found none, they feared they were betrayed, and, with all the speede they could, made haste homewards again. Thus God blessed me from this bloody tragedy. "All the whole march expected nightly some hurt to be done; but God so blessed mee and the government I held, as, for all his fury, hee never drew drop of blood in all my march, neither durst his theeves trouble it much with stealing, for fear of hanging, if they were taken. Thus wee continued a yeare, and then God sent a meanes to bring thinges to better quiet by this occasion. "There had been commissioners in Barwicke, chosen by the queene and king of Scottes, for the better quieting of our borders. By their industry they found a great number of malefactors guilty, both in England and Scotland; and they tooke order, that the officers of Scotland should deliver such offenders, as were found guilty in their jurisdictions, to the opposite officers in England, to be detained prisoners, till they had made satisfaction for the goods they had taken out of England. The like order was taken with the wardens of England, and days prefixed for the delivery of them all. And in case any of the officers, on either side, should omit their duties, in not delivering the prisoners at the dayes and places appointed, that then there should a course be taken by the soveraignes, that what chiefe officer soever should offend herein, he himself should be delivered and detained, till he had made good what the commissioners had agreed upon. "The English officers did punctually, at the day and place, deliver their prisoners, and so did most of the officers of Scotland; only the Lord of Bocleuch and Sir Robert Kerr were faultie. They were complained of, and new dayes appointed for the delivery of their prisoners. Bocleuch was the first, that should deliver; and hee failing entered himselfe prisoner into Barwicke, there to remaine till those officers under his charge were delivered to free him. He chose for his guardian Sir William Selby, master of the ordinance at Barwicke. When Sir Robert Kerr's day of delivery came, he failed too, and my Lord Hume, by the king's command, was to deliver him prisoner into Barwicke upon the like termes, which was performed. Sir Robert Kerr (contrary to all men's expectation) chose mee for his guardian, and home I brought him to my own house, after hee was delivered to mee. I lodged him as well as I could, and tooke order for his diet, and men to attend on him, and sent him word, that (although by his harsh carriage towards mee, ever since I had that charge, he could not expect any favour, yet) hearing so much goodness of him, that hee never broke his word, if hee should give mee his hand and credit to be a true prisoner, hee would have no guard sett upon him, but have free liberty for his friends in Scotland to have ingresse and regresse to him as oft as hee pleased. He tooke this very kindly at my handes, accepted of my offer, and sent me thankes. "Some four dayes passed; all which time his friends came into him, and hee kept his chamber. Then hee sent to mee, and desired mee, I would come and speake with him, which I did; and after long discourse, charging and re-charging one another with wrong and injuries, at last, before our parting, wee became good friends, with greate protestations, on his side, never to give mee occasion of unkindnesse again. After our reconciliation hee kept his chamber no longer, but dined and supt with mee. I tooke him abroad with mee at the least thrice a weeke, a hunting, and every day wee grew better friends. Bocleuch, in a few dayes after, had his pledges delivered, and was set at liberty. But Sir Robert Kerr could not get his, so that I was commanded to carry him to Yorke, and there to deliver him prisoner to the archbishop, which accordingly I did. At our parting, he professed greate love unto mee for the kinde usage I had shewn him, and that I would find the effects of it upon his delivery, which hee hoped would be shortly. "Thus wee parted; and, not long after, his pledges were gott, and brought to Yorke, and hee sett at liberty. After his retourne home, I found him as good as his word. Wee met oft at dayes of truce, and I had as good justice as I could desire; and so wee continued very kinde and good friends, all the time that I stayed in that march, which was not long." APPENDIX, No. III. MAITLAND'S COMPLAYNT AGANIS THE THIEVIS OF LIDDISDAIL, FROM PINKERTON'S EDITION, COLLATED WITH A MS. OF MAITLAND'S POEMS, IN THE LIBRARY OF EDINBURGH COLLEGE. * * * * * Of Liddisdail the commoun theifis Sa peartlie steillis now and reifis, That nane may keip Horse, nolt, nor scheip, Nor yett dar sleip For their mischeifis. Thay plainly throw the country rydis, I trow the mekil devil thame gydis! Quhair they onsett, Ay in thair gaitt, Thair is na yet Nor dor, thame bydis. Thay leif rich nocht, quhair ever thay ga; Thair can na thing be hid thame fra; For gif men wald Thair housis hald, Than waxe thay bald, To burne and slay. Thay thiefs have neirhand herreit hail, Ettricke forest and Lawderdaill; Now are they gane, In Lawthiane; And spairis nane That thay will waill. Thay landis ar with stouth sa socht, To extreame povertye ar broucht, Thay wicked schrowis Has laid the plowis, That nane or few is That are left oucht. Bot commoun taking of blak mail, Thay that had flesche, and breid and aill, Now are sa wrakit, Made bair and nakit, Fane to be slaikit With watter caill. Thay theifs that steillis and tursis hame, Ilk ane of them has ane to-name[69]; Will of the Lawis, Hab of the Schawis: To mak bair wawis Thay thinke na schame. Thay spuilye puir men of their pakis, Thay leif them nocht on bed nor bakis; Baith hen and cok, With reil and rok, The Lairdis Jok, All with him takis. Thay leif not spindell, spoone, nor speit; Bed, boster, blanket, sark, nor scheit; Johne of the Parke Ryps kist and ark; For all sic wark He is richt meit. He is weil kend, John of the Syde; A greater theif did never ryde. He never tyris For to brek byris: Ouir muir and myris Ouir gude ane gyde. Thair is ane, callet Clement's Hob, Fra ilk puir wyfe reifis the wob, And all the lave, Quhatever they haife, The devil recave Thairfoir his gob. To sic grit stouth quha eir wald trow it, Bot gif some great man it allowit Rycht sair I trow Thocht it be rew: Thair is sa few That dar avow it. Of sum great men they have sic gait, That redy are thame to debait, And will up weir Thair stolen geir; That nane dare steir Thame air nor late. Quhat causis theifis us ourgang, Bot want of justice us amang? Nane takis cair, Thocht all for fear; Na man will spair Now to do wrang. Of stouth thocht now thay come gude speid, That nother of men nor God has dreid; Yet, or I die, Sum sail thame sie, Hing on a trie Quhill thay be deid-- _Quo_' Sir R.M. _of_ Lethington, _knicht_. [Footnote 69: Owing to the marchmen being divided into large clans, bearing the same sirname, individuals were usually distinguished by some epithet, derived from their place of residence, personal qualities, or descent. Thus, every distinguished moss-trooper had, what is here called, a _to-name_, or _nom de guerre_, in addition to his family name.] APPENDIX, No. IV. BOND OF ALLIANCE, OR FEUD STAUNCHING, BETWIXT THE CLANS OF SCOTT AND KER. * * * * * The battle of Melrose (see Introduction, p. xvii.) occasioned a deadly feud betwixt the name of Scott and Ker. The following indenture was designed to reconcile their quarrel. But the alliance, if it ever took effect, was not of long duration; for the feud again broke out about 1553, when Sir Walter Scott was slain by the Kers, in the streets of Edinburgh. "Thir indentures, made at Ancrum the 16th of March, 1529 years, contains, proports, and bears leil and suithfast witnessing. That it is appointed, agreed, and finally accorded betwixt honourable men; that is to say, Walter Ker of Cessford, Andrew Ker of Fairnieherst, Mark Ker of Dolphinston, George Kerr, tutor of Cessford, and Andrew Ker of Primesideloch, for themselves, kin, friends, mentenants, assisters, allies, adherents, and partakers, on the one part; and Walter Scot of Branxholm, knight, Robert Scot of Allanhaugh, Robert Scot, tutor of Howpaisly, John Scot of Roberton, and Walter Scot of Stirkshaws, for themselves, their kin, friends, mentenants, servants, assisters, and adherents, on the other part; in manner, form, and effect, as after follows: For staunching all discord and variance betwixt them, and for furth-bearing of the king's authority, and punishing trespasses, and for amending all slaughters, heritages, and steedings, and all other pleas concerning thereto, either of these parties to others, and for unité, friendship, and concord, to be had in time coming 'twixt them, of our sovereign lord's special command: that is to say, either of the said parties, be the tenor hereof, remits and forgives to others the rancour, hatred, and malice of their hearts; and the said Walter Scot of Branxholm shall gang, or cause gang, at the will of the party, to the four head pilgrimages of Scotland, and shall say a mass for the souls of umquhile Andrew Ker of Cessford, and them that were slain in his company, in the field of Melrose; and, upon his expence, shall cause a chaplain say a mass daily, when he is disposed, in what place the said Walter Ker and his friends pleases, for the well of the said souls, for the space of five years next to come.--Mark Ker of Dolphinston, Andrew Kerr of Graden, shall gang, at the will of the party, to the four head pilgrimages of Scotland, and shall gar say a mass for the souls of umquhile James Scot of Eskirk, and other Scots, their friends, slain in the field of Melrose; and, upon their expence, shall gar a chaplain say a mass daily, when he is disposed, for the heal of their souls, where the said Walter Scot and his friends pleases, for the space of three years next to come: and the said Walter Scot of Branxholm shall marry his son and heir upon one of the said Walter Ker his sisters; he paying, therefor, a competent portion to the said Walter Ker and his heir, at the sight of the friends of baith parties. And also, baith the saids parties bind and oblige them, be the faith and truth of their bodies, that they abide at the decreet and deliverance of the six men chosen arbiters, anent all other matters, quarrels, actiones, and debates, whilk either of them likes to propone against others betwixt the saids parties: and also the six arbiters are bound and obliged to decreet and deliver, and give forth their deliverance thereuntil, within year and day after the date hereof.--And attour, either of the saids parties bind and oblige them, be the faith and truth of their bodies, ilk ane to others, that they shall be leil and true to others, and neither of them will another's skaith, but they shall let it at their power, and give to others their best counsel, and it be asked; and shall take leil and aeffald part ilk ane with others, with their kin, friends, servants, allies, and partakers, in all and sundry their actions, quarrels, and debates, against all that live and die (may the allegiance of our sovereign lord the king allenarly be excepted).--And for the obliging and keeping all thir premises above written, baith the saids parties are bound and obliged, ilk ane to others, be the faith and truth of their bodies, but fraud or guile, under the pain of perjury, men-swearing, defalcation, and breaking of the bond of deadly. And, in witness of the whilk, ilk ane to the procuratory of this indenture remain with the said Walter Scot and his friends, the said Walter Ker of Cessford has affixed his proper seal, with his subscription manual, and with the subscription of the said Andrew Ker of Fairnieherst, Mark Ker of Dolphinston, George Ker, tutor of Cessford, and Andrew Ker of Primesideloch, before these witnesses, Mr. Andrew Drurie, abbot of Melrose, and George Douglas of Boonjedward, John Riddel of that ilk, and William Stewart. _Sic Subscribitur_, WALTER KER of Cessford. ANDREW KER of Fairnieherst. MARK KER. GEORGE KER. ANDREW KER of Primesideloch." N.B. The four pilgrimages are Scoon, Dundee, Paisley, and Melrose. APPENDIX, No. V. ANE INTERLUDE OF THE LAYING OF A GAIST. * * * * * This burlesque poem is preserved in the Bannatyne MSS. It is in the same strain with the verses concerning the _Gyre Carline_ (Vol. II.) As the mention of _Bettokis Bowr_ occurs in both pieces, and as the scene of both is laid in East Lothian, they are perhaps composed by the same author. The humour of these fragments seems to have been directed against the superstitions of Rome; but it is now become very obscure. Nevertheless, the verses are worthy of preservation, for the sake of the ancient language and allusions. Listen lordis, I sall you tell, Off ane very grit marvell, Off Lord Fergussis gaist, How meikle Sir Andro it chest, Unto Beittokis bour, The silly sawle to succour: And he hes writtin unto me, Auld storeis for to se, Gif it appinis him to meit, How he sall conjure the spreit: And I haif red mony quars, Bath the Donet, and Dominus que pars, Ryme maid, and als redene, Baith Inglis and Latene: And ane story haif I to reid, Passes Bonitatem in the creid. To conjure the litill gaist he mon haif Of tod's tails ten thraif, And kast the grit holy water With pater noster, pitter patter; And ye man sit in a compas, And cry, Harbert tuthless, Drag thow, and ye's draw, And sit thair quhill cok craw. The compas mon hallowit be With aspergis me Domine; The haly writ schawis als Thair man be hung about your bals Pricket in ane woll poik Of neis powder ane grit loik. Thir thingis mon ye beir, Brynt in ane doggis eir, Ane pluck, ane pindill, and ane palme cors, Thre tuskis of ane awld hors, And of ane yallow wob the warp, The boddome of ane awld herp, The held of ane cuttit reill, The band of an awld quheill, The taill of ane yeild sow, And ane bait of blew wow, Ane botene, and ane brechame, And ane quhorle made of lame, To luke out at the litill boir, And cry, Crystis crosse, you befoir: And quhen ye see the litill gaist, Cumand to you in all haist, Cry loud, Cryste eleisone, And speir quhat law it levis on? And gif it sayis on Godis ley, Than to the litill gaist ye say, With braid benedicite; --"Litill gaist, I conjure the, With lierie and larie, Bayth fra God, and Sanct Marie, First with ane fischis mouth, And syne with ane sowlis towth, With ten pertane tais, And nyne knokis of windil strais, With thre heidis of curle doddy."-- And bid the gaist turn in a boddy. Then efter this conjuratioun, The litill gaist will fall in soun, And thair efter down ly, Cryand mercy petously; Than with your left heil sane, And it will nevir cum agane, As meikle as a mige amaist.[70] He had a litill we leg, And it wes cant as any cleg, It wes wynd in ane wynden schet, Baythe the handis and the feit: Suppose this gaist wes litill Yit it stal Godis quhitell; It stal fra peteous Abrahame, Ane quhorle and ane quhim quhame; It stal fra ye carle of ye mone Ane payr of awld yin schone; It rane to Pencatelane, And wirreit ane awld chaplane; This litill gaist did na mair ill Bot clok lyk a corn mill; And it wald play and hop, About the heid ane stre strop; And it wald sing and it wald dance, Oure fute, and Orliance. Quha conjurit the litill gaist say ye? Nane bot the litill Spenzie fle, That with hir wit and her ingyne, Gart the gaist leif agane; And sune mareit the gaist the fle, And croun'd him King of Kandelie; And they gat them betwene, Orpheus king, and Elpha quene.[71] To reid quha will this gentill geist, Ye hard it not at Cockilby's feist.[72] [Footnote 70: Apparently some lines are here omitted.] [Footnote 71: This seems to allude to the old romance of _Orfeo and Heurodis_, from which the reader will find some extracts, Vol. II. The wife of _Orpheus_ is here called _Elpha_, probably from her having been extracted by the elves, or fairies.] [Footnote 72: Alluding to a strange unintelligible poem in the Bannatyne MSS., called _Cockelby's sow_.] APPENDIX, No. VI. SUPPLEMENTAL STANZAS TO COLLINS'S ODE ON THE SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS. BY WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ. ADVOCATE. * * * * * The editor embraces this opportunity of presenting the reader with the following stanzas, intended to commemorate some striking Scottish superstitions, omitted by Collins in his ode upon that subject; and which, if the editor can judge with impartiality of the production of a valued friend, will be found worthy of the sublime original. The reader must observe, that these verses form a continuation of the address, by Collins, to the author of _Douglas_, exhorting him to celebrate the traditions of Scotland. They were first published in the _Edinburgh Magazine_, for April, 1788. * * * * * Thy muse may tell, how, when at evening's close, To meet her love beneath the twilight shade, O'er many a broom-clad brae and heathy glade, In merry mood the village maiden goes; There, on a streamlet's margin as she lies, Chaunting some carol till her swain appears, With visage deadly pale, in pensive guise, Beneath a wither'd fir his form he rears![73] Shrieking and sad, she bends her irie flight, When, mid dire heaths, where flits the taper blue, The whilst the moon sheds dim a sickly light, The airy funeral meets her blasted view! When, trembling, weak, she gains her cottage low, Where magpies scatter notes of presage wide, Some one shall tell, while tears in torrents flow, That, just when twilight dimm'd the green hill's side, Far in his lonely sheil her hapless shepherd died. [Footnote 73: The _wraith_, or spectral appearance, of a person shortly to die, is a firm article in the creed of Scottish superstition. Nor is it unknown in our sister kingdom. See the story of the beautiful lady Diana Rich.--_Aubrey's Miscellanies_, p, 89.] Let these sad strains to lighter sounds give place! Bid thy brisk viol warble measures gay! For see! recall'd by thy resistless lay, Once more the Brownie shews his honest face. Hail, from thy wanderings long, my much lov'd sprite! Thou friend, thou lover of the lowly, hail! Tell, in what realms thou sport'st thy merry night, Trail'st the long mop, or whirl'st the mimic flail. Where dost thou deck the much-disordered hall, While the tired damsel in Elysium sleeps, With early voice to drowsy workman call, Or lull the dame, while mirth his vigils keeps? 'Twas thus in Caledonia's domes, 'tis said, Thou ply'dst the kindly task in years of yore: At last, in luckless hour, some erring maid Spread in thy nightly cell of viands store: Ne'er was thy form beheld among their mountains more.[74] [Footnote 74: See Introduction, p. ci.] Then wake (for well thou can'st) that wond'rous lay, How, while around the thoughtless matrons sleep, Soft o'er the floor the treacherous fairies creep, And bear the smiling infant far away: How starts the nurse, when, for her lovely child, She sees at dawn a gaping idiot stare! O snatch the innocent from demons vilde, And save the parents fond from fell despair! In a deep cave the trusty menials wait, When from their hilly dens, at midnight's hour, Forth rush the airy elves in mimic state, And o'er the moon-light heath with swiftness scour: In glittering arms the little horsemen shine; Last, on a milk-white steed, with targe of gold, A fay of might appears, whose arms entwine The lost, lamented child! the shepherds bold[75] The unconscious infant tear from his unhallowed hold. [Footnote 75: For an account of the Fairy superstition, see _Introduction to the Tale of Tamlane_.] MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. PART FIRST. * * * * * _HISTORICAL BALLADS_. SIR PATRICK SPENS. * * * * * One edition of the present ballad is well known; having appeared in the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, and having been inserted in almost every subsequent collection of Scottish songs. But it seems to have occurred to no editor, that a more complete copy of the song might be procured. That, with which the public is now presented, is taken from two MS. copies,[76] collated with several verses recited by the editor's friend, Robert Hamilton, Esq. advocate, being the 16th, and the four which follow. But, even with the assistance of the common copy, the ballad seems still to be a fragment. The cause of Sir Patrick Spens' voyage is, however, pointed out distinctly; and it shews, that the song has claim to high antiquity, as referring to a very remote period in Scottish history. [Footnote 76: That the public might possess this carious fragment as entire as possible, the editor gave one of these copies, which seems the most perfect, to Mr. Robert Jamieson, to be inserted in his Collection.] Alexander III. of Scotland died in 1285; and, for the misfortune of his country, as well as his own, he had been bereaved of all his children before his decease. The crown of Scotland descended upon his grand-daughter, Margaret, termed, by our historians, the _Maid of Norway_. She was the only offspring of a marriage betwixt Eric, king of Norway, and Margaret, daughter of Alexander III. The kingdom had been secured to her by the parliament of Scotland, held at Scone, the year preceding her grandfather's death. The regency of Scotland entered into a congress with the ministers of the king of Norway and with those of England, for the establishment of good order in the kingdom of the infant princess. Shortly afterwards, Edward I. conceived the idea of matching his eldest son, Edward, Prince of Wales, with the young queen of Scotland. The plan was eagerly embraced by the Scottish nobles; for, at that time, there was little of the national animosity, which afterwards blazed betwixt the countries, and they patriotically looked forward to the important advantage, of uniting the island of Britain into one kingdom. But Eric of Norway seems to have been unwilling to deliver up his daughter; and, while the negociations were thus protracted, the death of the Maid of Norway effectually crushed a scheme, the consequences of which might have been, that the distinction betwixt England and Scotland would, in our day, have been as obscure and uninteresting as that of the realms of the heptarchy.--_Hailes' Annals. Fordun, &c._ The unfortunate voyage of Sir Patrick Spens may really have taken place, for the purpose of bringing back the Maid of Norway to her own kingdom; a purpose, which was probably defeated by the jealousy of the Norwegians, and the reluctance of King Eric. I find no traces of the disaster in Scottish history; but, when we consider the meagre materials, whence Scottish history is drawn, this is no conclusive argument against the truth of the tradition. That a Scottish vessel, sent upon such an embassy, must, as represented in the ballad, have been freighted with the noblest youth in the kingdom, is sufficiently probable; and, having been delayed in Norway, till the tempestuous season was come on, its fate can be no matter of surprise. The ambassadors, finally sent by the Scottish nation to receive their queen, were Sir David Wemyss, of Wemyss, and Sir Michael Scot of Balwearie; the same, whose knowledge, surpassing that of his age, procured him the reputation of a wizard. But, perhaps, the expedition of Sir Patrick Spens was previous to their embassy. The introduction of the king into the ballad seems a deviation from history; unless we suppose, that Alexander was, before his death, desirous to see his grand-child and heir. The Scottish monarchs were much addicted to "sit in Dumfermline town," previous to the accession of the Bruce dynasty. It was a favourite abode of Alexander himself, who was killed by a fall from his horse, in the vicinity, and was buried in the abbey of Dumfermline. There is a beautiful German translation of this ballad, as it appeared in the _Reliques_, in the Volk-Lieder of Professor Herder; an elegant work, in which it is only to be regretted, that the actual popular songs of the Germans form so trifling a proportion. The tune of Mr. Hamilton's copy of _Sir Patrick Spens_ is different from that, to which the words are commonly sung; being less plaintive, and having a bold nautical turn in the close. SIR PATRICK SPENS. * * * * * The king sits in Dumfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine; "O[77] whare will I get a skeely skippe[78], "To sail this new ship of mine?" O up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee,-- "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, "That ever sail'd the sea." Our king has written a braid letter. And seal'd it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand. "To Noroway, to Noroway, "To Noroway o'er the faem; "The king's daughter of Noroway, "'Tis thou maun bring her hame." The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud loud laughed he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his e'e. "O wha is this has done this deed, "And tauld the king o' me, "To send us out, at this time of the year, "To sail upon the sea? "Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, "Our ship must sail the faem; "The king's daughter of Noroway, "'Tis we must fetch her hame," They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway, Upon a Wodensday. They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway, but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say,-- "Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, "And a' our queenis fee." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! "Fu' loud I hear ye lie." "For I brought as much white monie, "As gane[79] my men and me, "And I brought a half-fou[80] o' gude red goud, "Out o'er the sea wi' me." "Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'! "Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now, ever alake, my master dear, "I fear a deadly storm! "I saw the new moon, late yestreen, "Wi' the auld moon in her arm; "And if we gang to sea, master, "I fear we'll come to harm." They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,[81] It was sik a deadly storm; And the waves came o'er the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn. "O where will I get a gude sailor, "To take my helm in hand, "Till I get up to the tall top-mast, "To see if I can spy land?" "O here am I, a sailor gude, "To take the helm in hand, "Till you go up to the tall top-mast; "But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." He hadna' gane a step, a step, A step, but barely ane, When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in. "Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, "Another o' the twine, "And wap them into our ship's side, "And let na the sea come in." They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Another of the twine, And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in. O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heel'd shoon! But lang or a' the play was play'd, They wat their hats aboon. And mony was the feather-bed, That flattered[82] on the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son, That never mair cam hame. The ladyes wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair, A' for the sake of their true loves; For them they'll see na mair. O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand! And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves! For them they'll see na mair. O forty miles off Aberdeen, 'Tis fifty fathom deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. [Footnote 77: In singing, the interjection, O, is added to the second and fourth lines.] [Footnote 78: _Skeely skipper_--Skilful mariner.] [Footnote 79: _Gane_--Suffice.] [Footnote 80: _Half-fou_--the eighth part of a peck.] [Footnote 81: _Lap_--Sprang.] [Footnote 82: _Flattered_--Fluttered, or rather floated, on the foam.] NOTES ON SIR PATRICK SPENS. * * * * * _To send us out at this time of the year_, _To sail upon the sea_?--P. 8, v. 3. By a Scottish act of parliament, it was enacted, that no ship should be fraughted out of the kingdom, with any staple goods, betwixt the feast of St. Simon's day and Jude and Candelmas.--_James III. Parliament 2d, chap._ 15. Such was the terror entertained for navigating the north seas in winter. _When a bout flew out of our goodly ship_.--P. 10. v. 5. I believe a modern seaman would say, a plank had started, which must have been a frequent incident during the infancy of ship-building. The remedy applied seems to be that mentioned in _Cook's Voyages_, when, upon some occasion, to stop a leak, which could not be got at in the inside, a quilted sail was brought under the vessel, which, being drawn into the leak by the suction, prevented the entry of more water. Chaucer says, "There n'is no new guise that it na'as old." _O forty miles off Aberdeen_,--P. 11. v. 3. This concluding verse differs in the three copies of the ballad, which I have collated. The printed edition bears, "Have owre, have owre to Aberdour;" And one of the MSS. reads, "At the back of auld St. Johnstowne Dykes." But, in a voyage from Norway, a shipwreck on the north coast seems as probable as either in the Firth of Forth, or Tay; and the ballad states the disaster to have taken place out of sight of land. AULD MAITLAND. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * This ballad, notwithstanding its present appearance, has a claim to very high antiquity. It has been preserved by tradition; and is, perhaps, the most authentic instance of a long and very old poem, exclusively thus preserved. It is only known to a few old people, upon the sequestered banks of the Ettrick; and is published, as written down from the recitation of the mother of Mr. James Hogg[83], who sings, or rather chaunts it, with great animation. She learned the ballad from a blind man, who died at the advanced age of ninety, and is said to have been possessed of much traditionary knowledge. Although the language of this poem is much modernised, yet many words, which the reciters have retained, without understanding them, still preserve traces of its antiquity. Such are the words _Springals_ (corruptly pronounced _Springwalls_), _sowies_, _portcullize_, and many other appropriate terms of war and chivalry, which could never have been introduced by a modern ballad-maker. The incidents are striking and well-managed; and they are in strict conformity with the manners of the age, in which they are placed. The editor has, therefore, been induced to illustrate them, at considerable length, by parallel passages from Froissard, and other historians of the period to which the events refer. [Footnote 83: This old woman is still alive, and at present resides at Craig of Douglas, in Selkirkshire.] The date of the ballad cannot be ascertained with any degree of accuracy. Sir Richard Maitland, the hero of the poem, seems to have been in possession of his estate about 1250; so that, as he survived the commencement of the wars betwixt England and Scotland, in 1296, his prowess against the English, in defence of his castle of Lauder, or Thirlestane, must have been exerted during his extreme old age. He seems to have been distinguished for devotion, as well as valour; for, A.D. 1249, Dominus Ricardus de Mautlant gave to the abbey of Dryburgh, "_Terras suas de Haubentside, in territorio suo de Thirlestane, pro salute animae suae, et sponsae suae, antecessorum suorum et successorum suorum, in perpetuum_[84]." He also gave, to the same convent, "_Omnes terras, quas Walterus de Giling tenuit in feodo suo de Thirlestane, et pastura incommuni de Thirlestane, ad quadraginta oves, sexaginta vaccas, et ad viginti equos_."--Cartulary of Dryburgh Abbey, in the Advocates' Library. [Footnote 84: There exists also an indenture, or bond, entered into by Patrick, abbot of Kelsau, and his convent, referring to an engagement betwixt them and Sir Richard Maitland, and Sir William, his eldest son, concerning the lands of Hedderwicke, and the pasturages of Thirlestane and Blythe. This Patrick was abbot of Kelso, betwixt 1258 and 1260.] From the following ballad, and from the family traditions referred to in the Maitland MSS., Auld Maitland appears to have had three sons; but we learn, from the latter authority, that only one survived him, who was thence surnamed _Burd alane_, which signifies either _unequalled_, or _solitary_. A _Consolation_, addressed to Sir Richard Maitland of Lethington, a poet and scholar who flourished about the middle of the sixteenth century, and who gives name to the Maitland MSS., draws the following parallel betwixt his domestic misfortunes and those of the first Sir Richard, his great ancestor: Sic destanie and derfe devoring deid Oft his own hous in hazard put of auld; Bot your forbeiris, frovard fortounes steid And bitter blastes, ay buir with breistis bauld; Luit wanweirdis work and walter ay they wald, Thair hardie hairtis hawtie and heroik, For fortounes feid or force wald never fauld; Bot stormis withstand with stomak stoat and stoik. Renowned Richert of your race record, Quhais prais and prowis cannot be exprest; Mair lustie lynyage nevir haid ane lord, For he begat the bauldest bairnis and best, Maist manful men, and madinis maist modest, That ever wes syn Pyramus tym of Troy, But piteouslie thai peirles perles apest. Bereft him all hot Buird-allane, a boy. Himselfe was aiget, his hous hang be a har, Duill and distres almaist to deid him draife; Yet Burd-allane, his only son and air, As wretched, vyiss, and valient, as the laive, His hous uphail'd, quhilk ye with honor haive. So nature that the lyk invyand name, [85]In kindlie cair dois kindly courage craif, To follow him in fortoune and in fame. Richerd he wes, Richerd ye are also, And Maitland als, and magnanime as he; In als great age, als wrappit are in wo, Sewin sons[86] ye haid might contravaill his thrie, Bot Burd-allane ye haive behind as he: The lord his linage so inlarge in lyne, And mony hundreith nepotis grie and grie[87] Sen Richert wes as hundreth yeiris are hyne. _An Consolator Ballad to the Richt Honorabill Sir Richert Maitland of Lethingtoune.--Maitland MSS. in Library of Edinburgh University_. [Footnote 85: _i.e._ Similar family distress demands the same family courage.] [Footnote 86: _Sewin sons_--This must include sons-in-law; for the last Sir Richard, like his predecessor, had only three sons, namely, I. William, the famous secretary of Queen Mary; II. Sir John, who alone survived him, and is the _Burd-allane_ of the consolation; III. Thomas, a youth of great hopes, who died in Italy. But he had four daughters, married to gentlemen of fortune.--_Pinkerton's List of Scottish Poets_, p. 114.] [Footnote 87: _Grie and grie_--In regular descent; from _gre_, French.] Sir William Mautlant, or Maitland, the eldest and sole surviving son of Sir Richard, ratified and confirmed, to the monks of Dryburgh, "_Omnes terras quas Dominus Ricardus de Mautlant pater suus fecit dictis monachis_ _in territorio suo de Thirlestane," Sir William is supposed to have died about 1315.--Crawford's Peerage_. Such were the heroes of the ballad. The castle of Thirlestane is situated upon the Leader, near the town of Lauder. Whether the present building, which was erected by Chancellor Maitland, and improved by the Duke of Lauderdale, occupies the site of the ancient castle, I do not know; but it still merits the epithet of a "_darksome house_." I find no notice of the siege in history; but there is nothing improbable in supposing, that the castle, during the stormy period of the Baliol wars, may have held out against the English. The creation of a nephew of Edward I., for the pleasure of slaying him by the hand of young Maitland, is a poetical licence[88]; and may induce us to place the date of the composition about the reign of David II., or of his successor, when the real exploits of Maitland, and his sons, were in some degree obscured, as well as magnified, by the lapse of time. The inveterate hatred against the English, founded upon the usurpation of Edward I., glows in every line of the ballad. [Footnote 88: Such liberties with the genealogy of monarchs were common to romancers. Henry the Minstrel makes Wallace slay more than one of King Edward's nephews; and Johnie Armstrong claims the merit of slaying a sister's son of Henry VIII.] Auld Maitland is placed, by Gawain Douglas, bishop of Dunkeld, among the popular heroes of romance, in his allegorical Palice of Honour[89]: [Footnote 89: It is impossible to pass over this curious list of Scottish romances without a note; to do any justice to the subject would require an essay.--_Raf Coilyear_ is said to have been printed by Lekprevik, in 1572; but no copy of the edition is known to exist, and the hero is forgotten, even by popular tradition. _John the Reif_, as well as the former personage, is mentioned by Dunbar, in one of his poems, where he stiles mean persons, Kyne of Rauf Colyard, and Johne the Reif. They seem to have been robbers: Lord Hailes conjectured John the Reif to be the same with Johnie Armstrong; but, surely, not with his usual accuracy; for the _Palice of Honour_ was printed twenty-eight years before Johnie's execution. John the Reif is mentioned by Lindesay, in his tragedy of _Cardinal Beatoun_. --disagysit, like John the Raif, he geid.-- _Cowkilbeis Sow_ is a strange legend in the Bannatyne MSS.--See _Complaynt of Scotland_, p. 131. _How the wren came out of Ailsay_.--The wren, I know not why, is often celebrated in Scottish song. The testament of the wren is still sung by the children, beginning, The wren she lies in care's nest, Wi' meikle dole and pyne. This may be a modification of the ballad in the text.] I Saw Raf Coilyear with his thrawin brow, Crabit John the Reif, and auld Cowkilbeis Sow; And how the wran cam out of Ailsay, And Peirs Plowman[90], that meid his workmen few; Gret Gowmacmorne, and Fyn MacCowl, and how They suld be goddis in Ireland, as they say. _Thair saw I Maitland upon auld beird gray_, Robine Hude, and Gilbert with the quhite hand, How Hay of Nauchton flew in Madin land. In this curious verse, the most noted romances, or popular histories, of the poet's day, seem to be noticed. The preceding stanza describes the sports of the field; and that, which follows, refers to the tricks of "jugailrie;" so that the three verses comprehend the whole pastimes of the middle ages, which are aptly represented as the furniture of dame Venus's chamber. The verse, referring to Maitland, is obviously corrupted; the true reading was, probably, "_with his_ auld beird gray." Indeed the whole verse is full of errors and corruptions; which is the greater pity, as it conveys information, to be found no where else. [Footnote 90: _Peirs Plowman_ is well known. Under the uncouth names of Gow Mac Morn, and of Fyn MacCowl, the admirers of Ossian are to recognise Gaul, the son of Morni, and Fingal himself; _heu quantum mutatus ab illo_! To illustrate the familiar character of _Robin Hood_, would be an insult to my readers. But they may be less acquainted with _Gilbert with the White Hand_, one of his brave followers. He is mentioned in the oldest legend of that outlaw; Ritson's _Robin Hood_, p. 52. Thryes Robin shot about, And alway he slist the wand, And so dyde good _Gylberte With the White Hand_. _Hay of Nachton_ I take to be the knight, mentioned by Wintown, whose feats of war and travel may have become the subject of a romance, or ballad. He fought, in Flanders, under Alexander, Earl of Mar, in 1408, and is thus described; Lord of the Nachtane, schire William, Ane honest knycht, and of gud fame, A travalit knycht lang before than. And again, before an engagement, The lord of Nachtane, schire William The Hay, a knycht than of gud fame, Mad schire Gilberte the Hay, knycht. _Cronykil_, B. IX. c. 27. I apprehend we should read "How Hay of Nachton _slew_ in Madin Land." Perhaps Madin is a corruption for Maylin, or Milan Land.] The descendant of Auld Maitland, Sir Richard of Lethington, seems to have been frequently complimented on the popular renown of his great ancestor. We have already seen one instance; and in an elegant copy of verses in the Maitland MSS., in praise of Sir Richard's seat of Lethingtoun, which he had built, or greatly improved, this obvious topic of flattery does not escape the poet. From the terms of his panegyric we learn, that the exploits of auld Sir Richard with the gray beard, and of his three sons, were "sung in many far countrie, albeit in rural rhyme;" from which we may infer, that they were narrated rather in the shape of a popular ballad, than in a _romance of price_. If this be the case, the song, now published, may have undergone little variation since the date of the Maitland MSS.; for, divesting the poem, in praise of Lethington, of its antique spelling, it would run as smoothly, and appear as modern, as any verse in the following ballad. The lines alluded to, are addressed to the castle of Lethington: And happie art thou sic a place, That few thy mak ar sene: But yit mair happie far that race To quhome thou dois pertene. Quha dais not knaw the Maitland bluid, The best in all this land? In quhilk sumtyme the honour stuid And worship of Scotland. Of auld Sir Richard, of that name, We have hard sing and say; Of his triumphant nobill fame, And of his auld baird gray. And of his nobill sonnis three, Quhilk that tyme had no maik; Quhilk maid Scotland renounit be, And all England to quaik. Quhais luifing praysis, maid trewlie, Efter that simple tyme, Ar sung in monie far countrie, Albeit in rural rhyme. And, gif I dar the treuth declair, And nane me fleitschour call, I can to him find a compair, And till his barnis all. It is a curious circumstance, that this interesting tale, so often referred to by ancient authors, should be now recovered in so perfect a state; and many readers may be pleased to see the following sensible observations, made by a person, born in Ettrick Forest, in the humble situation of a shepherd. "I am surprised to hear, that this song is suspected by some to be a modern forgery; the contrary will be best proved, by most of the old people, hereabouts, having a great part of it by heart. Many, indeed, are not aware of the manners of this country; till this present age, the poor illiterate people, in these glens, knew of no other entertainment, in the long winter nights, than repeating, and listening to, the feats of their ancestors, recorded in songs, which I believe to be handed down, from father to son, for many generations; although, no doubt, had a copy been taken, at the end of every fifty years, there must have been some difference, occasioned by the gradual change of language. I believe it is thus that many very ancient songs have been gradually modernised, to the common ear; while, to the connoisseur, they present marks of their genuine antiquity."--_Letter to the Editor from Mr. James Hogg_. To the observations of my ingenious correspondent I have nothing to add, but that, in this, and a thousand other instances, they accurately coincide with my personal knowledge. AULD MAITLAND. * * * * * There lived a king in southern land, King Edward hight his name; Unwordily he wore the crown, Till fifty years were gane. He had a sister's son o's ain, Was large of blood and bane; And afterward, when he came up, Young Edward hight his name. One day he came before the king, And kneel'd low on his knee-- "A boon, a boon, my good uncle, "I crave to ask of thee! "At our lang wars, in fair Scotland, "I fain hae wished to be; "If fifteen hundred waled[90] wight men "You'll grant to ride wi' me." "Thou sail hae thae, thou sail hae mae; "I say it sickerlie; "And I mysell, an auld gray man, "Array'd your host sall see." King Edward rade, King Edward ran-- I wish him dool and pyne! Till he had fifteen hundred men Assembled on the Tyne. And thrice as many at Berwicke[91] Were all for battle bound, _Who, marching forth with false Dunbar, A ready welcome found_. They lighted on the banks of Tweed, And blew their coals sae het, And fired the Merse and Teviotdale, All in an evening late. As they fared up o'er Lammermore, They burned baith up and down, Until they came to a darksome house; Some call it Leader-Town. "Wha hauds this house?" young Edward cry'd, "Or wha gies't ower to me?" A gray-hair'd knight set up his head, And crackit right crousely: "Of Scotland's king I haud my house; "He pays me meat and fee; "And I will keep my gude auld house, "While my house will keep me." They laid their sowies to the wall, Wi' mony a heavy peal; But he threw ower to them agen Baith pitch and tar barrel. With springalds, stanes, and gads of airn, Amang them fast he threw; Till mony of the Englishmen About the wall he slew. Full fifteen days that braid host lay, Sieging Auld Maitland keen, Syne they hae left him, hail and fair, Within his strength of stane. Then fifteen barks, all gaily good, Met them upon a day, Which they did lade with as much spoil As they could bear away. "England's our ain by heritage; "And what can us withstand, "Now we hae conquer'd fair Scotland, "With buckler, bow, and brand?" Then they are on to the land o' France, Where auld King Edward lay, Burning baith castle, tower, and town, That he met in his way, Untill he came unto that town, Which some call Billop-Grace; There were Auld Maitland's sons, a' three, Learning at school, alas! The eldest to the youngest said, "O see ye what I see? "Gin a' be trew yon standard says[92], "We're fatherlesse a' three. "For Scotland's conquer'd, up and down; "Landmen we'll never be: "Now, will ye go, my brethren two, "And try some jeopardy?" Then they hae saddled twa black horse, Twa black horse, and a grey; And they are on to King Edward's host, Before the dawn of day. When they arriv'd before the host, They hover'd on the lay-- "Wilt thou lend me our king's standard, "To bear a little way?" "Where was thou bred? where was thou born? "Where, or in what countrie?" "In north of England I was born: (It needed him to lie.) "A knight me gat, a lady bore, "I'm a squire of high renowne; I well may bear't to any king, "That ever yet wore crowne." "He ne'er came of an Englishman, "Had sic an e'e or bree; "But thou art the likest Auld Maitland, "That ever I did see. "But sick a gloom, on ae brow-head, "Grant I ne'er see agane! "For mony of our men he slew, "And mony put to pain." When Maitland heard his father's name, An angry man was he! Then, lifting up a gilt dagger, Hung low down by his knee, He stabb'd the knight, the standard bore, He stabb'd him cruellie; Then caught the standard by the neuk, And fast away rode he. "Now, is't na time, brothers," he cried, "Now, is't na time to flee?" "Aye, by my sooth!" they baith replied, "We'll bear you company." The youngest turn'd him in a path, And drew a burnished brand, And fifteen of the foremost slew, Till back the lave did stand. He spurr'd the gray into the path, Till baith his sides they bled-- "Gray! thou maun carry me away, "Or my life lies in wad!" The captain lookit ower the wa', About the break o' day; There he beheld the three Scots lads, Pursued along the way. "Pull up portcullize! down draw-brigg! "My nephews are at hand; And they sall lodge wi' me to-night, "In spite of all England." Whene'er they came within the yate, They thrust their horse them frae, And took three lang spears in their hands, Saying, "Here sall come nae mae!". And they shot out, and they shot in, Till it was fairly day; When mony of the Englishmen About the draw-brigg lay. Then they hae yoked carts and wains, To ca' their dead away, And shot auld dykes aboon the lave, In gutters where they lay. The king, at his pavilion door, Was heard aloud to say, "Last night, three o' the lads o' France "My standard stole away. "Wi' a fause tale, disguised, they came, "And wi' a fauser trayne; "And to regain my gaye standard, "These men were a' down slayne." "It ill befits," the youngest said, "A crowned king to lie; "But, or that I taste meat and drink, "Reproved sall he be." He went before King Edward strait, And kneel'd low on his knee; "I wad hae leave, my lord," he said, "To speak a word wi' thee." The king he turned him round about, And wistna what to say-- Quo' he, "Man, thou's hae leave to speak, Tho' thou should speak a' day." "Ye said, that three young lads o' France "Your standard stole away, "Wi' a fause tale, and fauser trayne, "And mony men did slay: "But we are nane the lads o' France, "Nor e'er pretend to be; "We are three lads o' fair Scotland, "Auld Maitland's sons are we; "Nor is there men, in a' your host, "Daur fight us, three to three." "Now, by my sooth," young Edward said, "Weel fitted ye sall be! "Piercy sall wi' the eldest fight, "And Ethert Lunn wi' thee; "William of Lancaster the third, "And bring your fourth to me!" "_Remember, Piercy, aft the Scot[93] "Has cow'rd beneath thy hand_: "For every drap of Maitland blood, "I'll gie a rigg of land." He clanked Piercy ower the head, A deep wound and a sair, Till the best blood o' his bodie Cam rinning down his hair. "Now, I've slayne ane; slay ye the twa; "And that's gude companye; "And if the twa suld slay you baith, "Ye'se get na help frae me." But Ethert Lunn, a baited bear, Had many battles seen; He set the youngest wonder sair, Till the eldest he grew keen-- "I am nae king, nor nae sic thing: "My word it shanna stand! "For Ethert sail a buffet bide, "Come he beneath my brand." He clanked Ethert ower the head, A deep wound and a sair, Till the best blood of his bodie Cam rinning ower his hair. "Now I've slayne twa; slay ye the ane; "Is na that gude companye? "And tho' the ane suld slay ye baith, "Ye'se get na help o' me." The twa-some they hae slayne the ane; They maul'd him cruellie; Then hung them over the draw-brigg, That all the host might see. They rade their horse, they ran their horse, Then hovered on the lee; "We be three lads o' fair Scotland, "That fain wad fighting see." This boasting, when young Edward heard. An angry man was he! "I'll take yon lad, I'll bind yon lad, "And bring him bound to thee!" "Now, God forbid," King Edward said, "That ever thou suld try! "Three worthy leaders we hae lost, "And thou the fourth wad lie. "If thou should'st hang on yon draw-brigg, "Blythe wad I never be!" But, wi' the poll-axe in his hand, Upon the brigg sprang he. The first stroke that young Edward gae, He struck wi' might and mayn; He clove the Maitlan's helmet stout, And bit right nigh the brayn. When Maitland saw his ain blood fa', An angry man was he! He let his weapon frae him fa', And at his throat did flee. And thrice about he did him swing, Till on the grund he light, Where he has halden young Edward, Tho' he was great in might. "Now, let him up," King Edward cried, "And let him come to me! "And, for the deed that thou hast done, "Thou shalt hae erldomes three!" "Its ne'er be said in France, nor e'er In Scotland, when I'm hame, That Edward once lay under me, And e'er gat up again!" He pierced him through and through the heart; He maul'd him cruellie; Then hung him ower the draw-brigg, Beside the other three. "Now, take frae me that feather-bed! "Mak me a bed o' strae! "I wish I had na lived this day, "To mak my heart sae wae. "If I were ance at London tower, "Where I was wont to be, "I never mair suld gang frae hame, "Till borne on a bier-tree." [Footnote 90: _Waled_--Chosen.] [Footnote 91: North-Berwick, according to some reciters.] [Footnote 92: Edward had quartered the arms of Scotland with his own.] [Footnote 93: The two first lines are modern, to supply an imperfect stanza.] NOTES ON AULD MAITLAND. * * * * * _Young Edward hight his name_.--P, 25. v. 2. Were it possible to find an authority for calling this personage _Edmund_, we should be a step nearer history; for a brother, though not a nephew of Edward I., so named, died in Gascony during an unsuccessful campaign against the French.--_Knighton_, Lib. III. cap. 8. _I wish him dool and pyne_.--P. 26. v. 3. Thus, Spenser, in _Mother Huberd's tale_-- Thus is this ape become a shepherd swain, And the false fox his dog, God give them pain! _Who, marching forth with false Dunbar, A ready welcome found_.--P. 26. v. 4. These two lines are modern, and inserted to complete the verse. Dunbar, the fortress of Patrick, Earl of March, was too often opened to the English, by the treachery of that baron, during the reign of Edward I. _They laid their sowies to the wall_, _Wi' many a heavy peal_.--P. 27. v. 4. In this and the following verse, the attack and defence of a fortress, during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, is described accurately and concisely. The sow was a military engine, resembling the Roman _testudo_. It was framed of wood, covered with hides, and mounted on wheels, so that, being rolled forwards to the foot of the besieged wall, it served as a shed, or cover, to defend the miners, or those who wrought the battering ram, from the stones and arrows of the garrison. In the course of the famous defence, made by Black Agnes, Countess of March, of her husband's castle of Dunbar, Montague, Earl of Salisbury, who commanded the besiegers, caused one of these engines to be wheeled up to the wall. The countess, who, with her damsels, kept her station on the battlements, and affected to wipe off with her handkerchief the dust raised by the stones, hurled from the English machines, awaited the approach of this new engine of assault. "Beware, Montague," she exclaimed, while the fragment of a rock was discharged from the wall--"Beware, Montague! for farrow shall thy sow!"[94] Their cover being dashed to pieces, the assailants, with great loss and difficulty, scrambled back to their trenches. "By the regard of suche a ladye," would Froissart have said, "and by her comforting, a man ought to be worth two men, at need." The sow was called by the French _Truie_.--See _Hailes' Annals_, Vol. II. p. 89. _Wintown's Cronykil_, Book VIII. _William of Malmesbury_, Lib. IV. The memory of the _sow_ is preserved in Scotland by two trifling circumstances. The name given to an oblong hay-stack, is a _hay-sow_; and this may give us a good idea of the form of the machine. Children also play at a game with cherry stones, placing a small heap on the ground, which they term a _sowie_, endeavouring to hit it, by throwing single cherry-stones, as the sow was formerly battered from the walls of the besieged fortress. My companions, at the High School of Edinburgh, will remember what was meant by _berrying a sowie_. It is strange to find traces of military antiquities in the occupation of the husbandman, and the sports of children. [Footnote 94: This sort of bravade seems to have been fashionable in those times: "Et avec drapeaux, et leurs chaperons, ils torchoient les murs à l'endroit, ou les pierres venoient frapper."--_Notice des Manuscrits de la Bibliotheque Nationale_.] The pitch and tar-barrels of Maitland were intended to consume the formidable machines of the English. Thus, at a fabulous siege of York, by Sir William Wallace, the same mode of defence is adopted: The Englishmen, that cruel were and kene, Keeped their town, and fended there full fast; Faggots of fire among the host they cast, Up _pitch and tar_ on feil _sowis_ they lent; Many were hurt ere they from the walls went; _Stones on Springalds they did cast out so fast, And goads of iron made many grome agast_. Henry the Minstrel's History of Wallace.--B. 8. c. 5. A more authentic illustration may be derived from Barbour's Account of the Siege of Berwick, by Edward II., in 1319, when a _sow_ was brought on to the attack by the English, and burned by the combustibles hurled down upon it, through the device of John Crab, a Flemish engineer, in the Scottish service. And thai, that at the sege lay, Or it was passyt the fyft day, Had made thaim syndry apparall, To gang eft sonys till assaill. Off gret gests a _sow_ thai maid, That stalwart heildyne aboyne it haid; With armyt men inew tharin, And instruments for to myne. Syndry scaffalds thai maid withall, That war wele heyar than the wall, And ordanyt als that, be the se, The town suld weill assaillyt be. Thai within, that saw thaim swa, Swa gret apparaill schap to ma, Throw Craby's cunsaill, that wes sley, A crane thai haiff gert dress up hey, Rynnand on quheills, that thai micht bryng It quhar that nede war off helping. And pyk, and ter, als haiff thai tane; And lynt, and herds, and brymstane; And dry treyis that wele wald brin, And mellyt aythir other in: And gret fagalds thairoff thai maid, Gyrdyt with irne bands braid. The fagalds weill mycht mesuryt be, Till a gret towrys quantite. The fagalds bryning in a ball, With thair cran thoucht till awaill; And giff the sow come to the wall, To lat it brynand on her fall; And with stark chenyeis hald it thar, Quhill all war brynt up that thar war. * * * * * Upon sic maner gan thai fycht, Quhill it wes ner none off the day, That thai without, on gret aray, Pryssyt thair _sow_ towart the wall; And thai within sune gert call The engynour, that takyn was, And gret manance till hym mais, And swour that he suld dey, bot he Prowyt on the sow sic sutelté That he to fruschyt ilk dele, And he, that hath persawyt wele That the dede wes wele ner hym till, Bot giff he mycht fulfil thair will Thoucht that he at hys mycht wald do. Bendyt in gret by then wes sche, That till the sow wes ewyn set. In hy he gert draw the cleket; And smertly swappyt owt a stane, Ewyn our the sow the stane is gane, And behind it a litill way It fell: and then they cryt, "Hey!" That war in hyr, "furth to the wall, For dredles it is ours all!" The gynour than deleuerly Gert bend the gyn in full gret hy; And the stane smertly swappyt out. It flaw out quethyr, and with a rout, And fell rycht ewyn befor the sow. Thair harts than begouth to grow. Bot yhet than, with thair mychts all Thai pressyt the sow towart the wall; And has hyr set tharto gentilly. The gynour than gert bend in hy The gyne, and wappyt owt the stane, That ewyn towart the lyft is gane, And with gret wycht syne duschyt doun, Rycht be the wall in a randoun; And hyt the sow in sic maner, That it that wes the maist sowar, And starkast for to stynt a strak, In sundre with that dusche it brak. The men than owt in full gret hy, And on the wallis thai gan cry, That thair sow wes feryt thar. Jhon Crab, that had hys geer all yar In hys fagalds has set the fyr, And our the wall syne gan thai wyr, And brynt the sow till brands bar. _The Bruce_, Book XVII The _springalds_, used in defence of the castle of Lauder, were _balistae_, or large cross-bows, wrought by machinery, and capable of throwing stones, beams, and huge darts. They were numbered among the heavy artillery of the age; "Than the kynge made all his navy to draw along, by the cost of the Downes, every ship well garnished with bombardes, crosbowes, archers, _springalls_, and other artillarie."--_Froissart_. Goads, or sharpened bars of iron, were an obvious and formidable missile weapon. Thus, at the assault of Rochemiglion "They within cast out great barres of iron, and pots with lyme, wherewith they hurt divers Englishmen, such as adventured themselves too far."--_Froissart_, Vol. I. cap. 108. From what has been noticed, the attack and defence of Lauder castle will be found strictly conformable to the manners of the age; a circumstance of great importance, in judging of the antiquity of the ballad. There is no mention of guns, though these became so common in the latter part of the reign of Edward III., that, at the siege of St. Maloes, "the English had well a four hondred gonnes, who shot day and night into the fortresse, and agaynst it."--_Froissart_, Vol. I. cap. 336. Barbour informs us, that guns, or "crakis of wer," as he calls them, and crests for helmets, were first seen by the Scottish, in their skirmishes with Edward the Third's host, in Northumberland A.D. 1327. _Which some call Billop-Grace_.--P. 28. v. 5. If this be a Flemish, or Scottish, corruption for Ville de Grace, in Normandy, that town was never besieged by Edward I., whose wars in France were confined to the province of Gascony. The rapid change of scene, from Scotland to France, excites a suspicion, that some verses may have been lost in this place. The retreat of the English host, however, may remind us of a passage, in Wintown, when, after mentioning that the Earl of Salisbury raised the siege of Dunbar, to join King Edward in France, he observes, "It was to Scotland a gud chance, "That thai made thaim to werray in France; "For had thai halyly thaim tane "For to werray in Scotland allane. Eftyr the gret mischeffis twa, Duplyn and Hallydowne war tha, Thai suld have skaithit it to gretly. Bot fortowne thoucht scho fald fekilly Will noucht at anis myscheffis fall; Thare-fore scho set thare hartis all, To werray Fraunce richit to be, That Scottis live in grettar lé. _Cronykil_, B. VIII. cap. 34. _Now, will ye go, my brethren two, And try some jeopardie_?--P. 29. v. 2. The romantic custom of atchieving, or attempting, some desperate and perilous adventure, without either necessity or cause, was a peculiar, and perhaps the most prominent, feature of chivalry. It was not merely the duty, but the pride and delight, of a true knight, to perform such exploits, as no one but a madman would have undertaken. I think it is in the old French romance of _Erec and Eneide_, that an adventure, the access to which lay through an avenue of stakes, garnished with the bloody heads of the knights who had attempted and failed to atchieve it, is called by the inviting title of _La joie de la Cour_. To be first in advancing, or last in retreating; to strike upon the gate of a certain fortress of the enemy; to fight blindfold, or with one arm tied up; to carry off a banner, or to defend one; were often the subjects of a particular vow, among the sons of chivalry. Until some distinguishing exploit of this nature, a young knight was not said to have _won his spurs_; and, upon some occasions, he was obliged to bear, as a mark of thraldom, a chain upon his arm, which was removed, with great ceremony, when his merit became conspicuous. These chains are noticed in the romance of _Jehan de Saintré_. In the language of German chivalry, they were called _Ketten des Gelubdes_ (fetters of duty). Lord Herbert of Cherbury informs us, that the knights of the Bath were obliged to wear certain strings, of silk and gold, upon their left arm, until they had atchieved some noble deed of arms. When Edward III. commenced his French wars, many of the young bachelors of England bound up one of their eyes with a silk ribband, and swore, before the peacock and the ladies, that they would not see with both eyes until they had accomplished certain deeds of arms in France.--_Froissart_, cap. 28. A remarkable instance of this chivalrous frenzy occurred during the expedition of Sir Robert Knowles, who, in 1370, marched through France, and laid waste the country, up to the very gates of Paris. "There was a knighte, in their companye, had made a vowe, the day before, that he wolde ryde to the walles or gates of Parys, and stryke at the barryers with his speare. And, for the fournyshing of his vowe, he departed fro his companye, his spear in his fyst, his shelde about his neck, armed at all pecesse, on a good horsse, his squyer on another, behinde him, with his bassenet. And whan he approached neare to Parys, he toke and dyde on his helme, and left his squyer behind hym, and dashed his spurres to his horsse, and came gallopynge to the barryers, the whiche as then were opyn; and the lordes, that were there, had wened he wolde have entred into the towne; but that was not his mynde; for, when he hadde stryken at the barryers, as he had before avowed, he towrned his reyne, and drue back agayne, and departed. Than the knightes of France, that sawe hym depart, sayd to hym, 'Go your waye; you have ryghte well acquitted yourself.' I can nat tell you what was thys knyghtes name, nor of what contre; but the blazure of his armes was, goules, two fusses sable, a border sable. Howbeit, in the subbarbes, he had a sore encontre; for, as he passed on the pavement, he founde before hym a bocher, a bigge man, who had well sene this knighte pass by. And he helde in his handes a sharpe hevy axe, with a longe poynt; and, as the knyght returned agayne, and toke no hede, this bocher came on his side, and gave the knyghte suche a stroke, betwene the neck and the shulders, that he reversed forwarde heedlynge, to the neck of his horsse, and yet he recovered agayne. And than the bocher strake hym agayne, so that the axe entered into his body, so that, for payne, the knyghte fell to the erthe, and his horsse ran away, and came to the squyer, who abode for his mayster at the stretes ende. And so, the squyer toke the horsse, and had gret marveyle what was become of his mayster; for he had well sene him ryde to the barryers, and stryke therat with his glayve, and retourne agayne. Thanne he rode a lytell forthe, thyderwarde, and anone he sawe where his master layn upon the erthe, bytwene foure men, layenge on him strokes, as they wolde have stryken on a stethey _(anvil)_; and than the squyer was so affreyed, that he durst go no farther; for he sawe well he could nat helpe his mayster. Therefore he retourned as fast as he myght: so there the sayd knyghte was slayne. And the knyghtes, that were at the gate, caused hym to be buried in holy ground."--_Froissart_, ch. 281. A similar instance of a military jeopardy occurs in the same author, ch. 364. It happened before the gates of Troyes. "There was an Englyshe squyre, borne in the bishopryke of Lincolne, an expert man of armes; I can nat say whyder he could se or nat; but he spurred his horse, his speare in his hande, and his targe about his necke; his horse came rushyng downe the waye, and lept clene over the barres of the baryers, and so galoped to the gate, where as the duke of Burgoyne and the other lords of France were, who reputed that dede for a great enterprise. The squyer thoughte to have returned, but he could nat; for his horse was stryken with speares, and beaten downe, and the squyer slayn; wherewith the Duke of Burgoyne was right sore displeased." _Wilt thou lend me our king's standard, To bear a little way_?--P. 29. v. 4. In all ages, and in almost all countries, the military standards have been objects of respect to the soldiery, whose duty it is to range beneath them, and, if necessary, to die in their defence. In the ages of chivalry, these ensigns were distinguished by their shape, and by the various names of banners, pennons, penoncelles, &c., according to the number of men, who were to fight under them. They were displayed, on the day of battle, with singular solemnity, and consigned to the charge only of such as were thought willing and able to defend them to the uttermost. When the army of Edward, the Black Prince, was drawn up against that of Henry the Bastard, king of Castile, "Than Sir Johan Chandos brought his baner, rolled up togyder, to the prince, and said, 'Sir, behold, here is my baner. I requyre you display it abrode, and give me leave, this daye, to raise it; for, sir, I thanke God and you, I have land and heritage suffyciente to maynteyne it withal.' Than the prince, and King Dampeter (Don Pedro), toke the baner betwene their handes, and spred it abrode, the which was of sylver, a sharp pyle gaules, and delyvered it to hym, and said, 'Sir Johan, behold here youre baner; God sende you joye and honour thereof!' Than Sir Johan Chandos bare his baner to his owne company, and sayde, 'Sirs, beholde here my baner, and yours; kepe it as your owne.' And they toke it, and were right joyful therof, and sayd, that, by the pleasure of God, and Saint George, they wold kepe and defend it to the best of their powers. And so the baner abode in the handes of a good Englishe squyer, called William Alery, who bare it that day, and acquaytted himself right nobly."--_Froissart_, Vol. I. ch. 237. The loss of a banner was not only great dishonour, but an infinite disadvantage. At the battle of Cocherel, in Normandy, the flower of the combatants, on each side, were engaged in the attack and defence of the banner of the captall of Buche, the English leader. It was planted amid a bush of thorns, and guarded by sixty men at arms, who defended it gallantly. "There were many rescues, and many a one hurt and cast to the earth, and many feats of armes done, and many gret strokes given, with good axes of steel, that it was wonder to behold." The battle did not cease until the captall's standard was taken and torn to pieces. We learn, from the following passage in _Stowe's Chronicle_, that the standard of Edward I. was a golden dragon. "The king entred Wales with an army, appointing the footmen to occupie the enemies in fight, whiles his horsemen, in a wing, set on the rere battell: himselfe, with a power, kept his place, where he pight his golden dragon, unto whiche, as to a castle, the wounded and wearied might repair." "_Where was thou bred? where was thou born? Where, or in what countrie?" "In north of England I was born: (It needed him to lie_.)--P. 29. v. 5. Stratagems, such as that of Maitland, were frequently practised with success, in consequence of the complete armour worn by the knights of the middle ages. In 1359, Edward III. entered France, to improve the success of the battle of Poictiers. Two French knights, Sir Galahaut of Rybamont, and Sir Roger of Cologne, rode forth, with their followers, to survey the English host, and, in short, to seek adventures. It chanced that they met a foraging party of Germans, retained in King Edward's service, under the command of Reynold of Boulant, a knight of that nation. By the counsel of a squire of his retinue, Sir Galahaut joined company with the German knight, under the assumed character of Bartholomew de Bonne, Reynold's countryman, and fellow soldier in the English service. The French knights "were a 70 men of armes, and Sir Renolde had not past a 30; and, whan Sir Renolde saw theym, he displayed his baner befor hym, and came softely rydynge towarde theym, wenyng to hym that they had been Englyshemen. Whan he approched, he lyft up hys vyser, saluted Sir Galahaut, in the name of Sir Bartylmewe de Bonnes. Sir Galahaut helde hymselfe styll secrete, and answered but fayntly, and sayd, 'let us ryde forth;' and so rode on, and hys men, on the one syde, and the Almaygnes on the other. Whan Sir Renolde of Boulant sawe theyr maner, and howe Sir Galahaut rode sometyme by hym, and spake no word, than he began to suspecte. And he had not so ryden, the space of a quarter of an hour, but he stode styll, under his baner, among hys men, and sayd, 'Sir, I have dout what knyght ye be. I thynke ye be nat Sir Bartylmewe, for I knowe hym well; and I see well that yt ys nat you. I woll ye telle me your name, or I ryde any farter in your company.' Therwith Sir Galahaut lyft up hys vyser, and rode towardes the knyght to have taken hym by the raygne of hys brydell, and cryed, '_Our Ladye of Rybamont_!' than Sir Roger of Coloyne sayd, '_Coloyne to the rescue_!'[95] Whan Sir Renolde of Boulant sawe what case he was in, he was nat gretly afrayed, but drewe out his sworde; and, as Sir Galahaut wolde have taken hym by the brydell, Sir Renolde put his sworde clene through hym, and drue agayne hys sworde out of hym, and toke his horse, with the spurres, and left Sir Galahaut sore hurt. And, whan Sir Galahautes men sawe theyr master in that case, they were sore dyspleased, and set on Sir Renolde's men; there were many cast to the yerth, but as sone as Sir Renolde had gyven Sir Galahaut that stroke, he strak hys horse with the spurres, and toke the feldes. Than certayne of Galahaut's squyers chasyd hym, and, whan he sawe that they folowed hym so nere, that he muste other tourne agayne, or els be shamed, lyke a hardy knyght he tourned, and abode the foremost, and gave hym such a stroke, that he had no more lyste to folwe him. And thus, as he rode on, he served three of theym, that folowed hym, and wounded theym sore: if a goode axe had been in hys hand, at every stroke he had slayne a man. He dyd so muche, that he was out of danger of the Frenchmen, and saved hymselfe withoute any hurte; the whyche hys enemyes reputed for a grete prowess, and so dyd all other that harde thereof; but hys men were nere slayne or taken, but few that were saved. And Sir Galahaut was caryed from thence sore hurt to Perone; of that hurt he was never after perfectly hole; for he was a knyght of suche courage, that, for all his hurte, he wold not spare hymselfe; wherefore he lyved not long after."--_Froissart_, Vol. I. Chap. 207. [Footnote 95: The war-cries of their family.] _The youngest turn'd him in a path, And drew a burnished brand, &c._--P. 31. v. 2. Thus, Sir Walter Mauny, retreating into the fortress of Hanyboute, after a successful sally, was pursued by the besiegers, who ranne after them, lyke madde men; than Sir Gualtier saide, "Let me never be beloved wyth my lady, without I have a course wyth one of these folowers!" and turning, with his lance in the rest, he overthrew several of his pursuers, before he condescended to continue his retreat. _Whene'er they came within the yate, They thrust their horse them frae, &c._--P. 32. v. 1. "The Lord of Hangest (pursued by the English) came so to the barryers (of Vandonne) that were open, as his happe was, and so entred in therat, and than toke his speare, and turned him to defence, right valiantly."--_Froissart_, Vol. I. Chap. 367. _They rade their horse, they ran their horse, Then hovered on the lee, &c._--P. 36. v. 1. The sieges, during the middle ages, frequently afforded opportunity for single combat, of which the scene was usually the draw-bridge, or barriers, of the town. The former, as the more desperate place of battle, was frequently chosen by knights, who chose to break a lance for honour, and their ladies' love. In 1387, Sir William Douglas, lord of Nithisdale, upon the draw-bridge of the town of Carlisle, consisting of two beams, hardly two feet in breadth, encountered and slew, first, a single champion of England, and afterwards two, who attacked him together.--_Forduni Scotichronicon_, Lib. XIV. cap. 51. He brynt the surburbys of Carlele, And at the bareris he faucht sa wele, That on thare bryg he slw a man, The wychtast that in the town wes than: Quhare, on a plank of twa feet brade, He stude, and twa gude payment made, That he feld twa stout fechteris, And but skath went till his feres. _Wintown's Cronykil_, Book IX. Chap. 8. These combats at the barriers, or palisades, which formed the outer fortification of a town, were so frequent, that the mode of attack and defence was early taught to the future knight, and continued long to be practised in the games of chivalry. The custom, therefore, of defying the inhabitants of a besieged town to this sort of contest, was highly fashionable in the middle ages; and an army could hardly appear before a place, without giving rise to a variety of combats at the barriers, which were, in general, conducted without any unfair advantage being taken on either part. The following striking example of this romantic custom occurs in Froissart. During the French wars of Edward the Black Prince, and in the year 1370, a body of English, and of adventurers retained in his service, approached the city of Noyon, then occupied by a French garrison, and arrayed themselves, with displayed banners, before the town, defying the defenders to battle. "There was a Scottysh knyghte[96] dyde there a goodly feate of armes, for he departed fro his companye, hys speare in hys hand, and mounted on a good horse, hys page behynde hyme, and so came before the barryers. Thys knyghte was called Sir Johan Assueton,[97] a hardy man and a couragyous. Whan he was before the barryers of Noyon, he lyghted a-fote, and sayd to hys page, 'Holde, kepe my horse, and departe nat hens;' and so wente to the barryers. And wythyn the barryers, there were good knyghtes; as, Sir John of Roy, Sir Lancelat of Loutys, and a x or xii other, who had grete marveyle what thys sayde knyghte wolde do. Than he sayde to them, 'Sirs, I am come hyder to se you. I se well, ye wyll nat issue out of your barryers; therefore I will entre, and I can, and wyll prove my knyghthode agaynst yours; wyn me and ye can.' And therewyth he layde on, round about hym, and they at hym. And thus, he alone fought agaynst them, more than an houre; and dyd hurte two or three of them; so that they of the towne, on the walles and garrettes, stode still, and behelde them, and had great pleasure to regarde his valyauntness, and dyd him no hurte; the whiche they myght have done, if they hadde list to have shotte, or cast stones at hym. And also the French knyghtes charged them to let hym and them alone togyder. So long they foughte, that, at last, his page came near to the barryers, and spake in his langage, and sayd, 'Sir, come awaye; it is time for you to departe, for your cumpanye is departyng hens.' The knyghte harde hym well, and than gave a two or three strokes about him, and so, armed as he was, he lepte out of the barryers, and lepte upon his horse, without any hurte, behynde his page; and sayd to the Frenchemen, 'Adue, sirs! I thank you;' and so rode forthe to his owne company. The whiche dede was moche praysed of many folkes."--_Froissart_, cap. 278. [Footnote 96: By the terms of the peace betwixt England and Scotland, the Scottish were left at liberty to take service either with France or England, at their pleasure. Sir Robert Knolles, therefore, who commanded the expedition, referred to in the text, had under his command a hundred Scottish spears.] [Footnote 97: _Assueton_ is a corruption for Swinton. Sir John Swinton, of Swinton, was a Scottish champion, noted for his courage and gigantic stature.] The barriers, so often alluded to, are described, by the same admirable historian, to be grated pallisades, the grates being about half a foot wide. In a skirmish before Honycourt, Sir Henry of Flanders ventured to thrust his sword so far through one of those spaces, that a sturdy abbot, who was within, seized his sword-arm, and drew it through the harriers, up to the shoulder. In this aukward situation he remained for some time, being unwilling to dishonour himself by quitting his weapon. He was at length rescued, but lost his sword; which Froissart afterwards saw preserved, as a relique, in the monastery of Honycourt.--Vol. I. chap. 39. For instances of single combats, at the barriers, see the same author, _passim_. _And if the twa suld slay ye baith, Ye'se get na help frae me_.--P. 34. v. 5. According to the laws of chivalry, laws, which were also for a long time observed in duels, when two or more persons were engaged on each side, he, who first conquered his immediate antagonist, was at liberty, if he pleased, to come to the assistance of his companions. The play of the "_Little French Lawyer_" turns entirely upon this circumstance; and it may be remarked throughout the poems of Boiardo and Ariosto; particularly in the combat of three Christian and three Pagan champions, in the 42d canto of _Orlando Furioso_. But doubtless a gallant knight was often unwilling, like young Maitland, to avail himself of this advantage. Something of this kind seems to have happened in the celebrated combat, fought in the presence of James II. at Stirling, in 1449, between three French, or Flemish, warriors, and three noble Scottishmen, two of whom were of the house of Douglas. The reader will find a literal translation of Olivier de la Marche's account of this celebrated tourney, in _Pinkerton's History_, Vol. I. p. 428. _I am nae king, nor nae sic thing: My word it shanna stand_!--P. 35. v. 2. Maitland's apology for retracting his promise to stand neuter, is as curious as his doing so is natural. The unfortunate John of France was wont to say, that, if truth and faith were banished from all the rest of the universe, they should still reside in the breast and the mouth of kings. _They maul'd him cruellie_.--P. 35. v. 5. This has a vulgar sound, but is actually a phrase of romance. _Tant frappent et_ maillent _lex deux vassaux l'un sur l'autre, que leurs heaumes, et leurs hauberts, sont tous cassez et rompus_.--La fleur des Battailes. _But, wi' the poll-axe in his hand, Upon the brigg sprang he_.--P. 36. v. 4. The battle-axe, of which there are many kinds, was a knightly weapon, much used in the middle ages, as well in single combat as in battle. "And also there was a younge bachelor, called Bertrande of Glesguyne, who duryng the seige, fought wyth an Englyshman, called Sir Nycholas Dagerne; and that batayle was takene thre courses wyth a speare, thre strokes wyth an axe, and thre wyth a dagger. And eche of these knyghtes bare themselves so valyantly, that they departed fro the felde wythout any damage, and they were well regarded, bothe of theyme wythyn, and they wythout." This happened at the siege of Rennes, by the Duke of Lancaster, in 1357.--_Froissart_, Vol. I. c. 175. With the same weapon Godfrey of Harcourt long defended himself, when surprised and defeated by the French. "And Sir Godfraye's men kepte no goode array, nor dyd nat as they had promysed; moost part of theyme fledde: whan Sir Godfraye sawe that, he sayde to hymselfe, howe he had rather there be slayne than be taken by the Frenchmen; there he toke hys axe in hys handes, and set fast the one legge before the other, to stonde the more surely; for hys one legge was a lytell crooked, but he was strong in the armes. Ther he fought valyantly and long: none durste well abyde hys strokes; than two Frenchmen mounted on theyr horses, and ranne both with their speares at ones at hym, and so bare hym to the yerth: than other, that were a-fote, came wyth theyr swerdes, and strake hym into the body, under his barneys, so that ther he was slayne."--_Ibid_, chap. 172. The historian throws Sir Godfrey into a striking attitude of desperation. _When Maitland saw his ain blude fa', An angry man was he_,--P. 37, v. 1. There is a saying, that a Scottishman fights best after seeing his own blood. Camerarius has contrived to hitch this foolish proverb into a national compliment; for he quotes it as an instance of the persevering gallantry of his countrymen. "_Si in pugna proprium effundi sanguinem vidissent, non statim prostrato animo concedebant, sed irato potius in hostes velut furentes omnibus viribus incurrebant_." _That Edward once lay under me, And e'er gat up again_.--P. 37. v. 4. Some reciters repeat it thus: "That _Englishman_ lay under me," which is in the true spirit of Blind Harry, who makes Wallace say, "I like better to see the southeron die, "Than gold or land, that they can gie to me." In slaying Edward, Maitland acts pitilessly, but not contrary to the laws of arms, which did not enjoin a knight to shew mercy to his antagonist, until he yielded him, "_rescue or no rescue_." Thus, the seigneur de Languerant came before the walls of an English garrison, in Gascony, and defied any of the defenders to run a course with a spear: his challenge being accepted by Bertrand Courant, the governor of the place, they couched their spears, like good knights, and dashed on their horses. Their spears were broke to pieces, and Languerant was overthrown, and lost his helmet among the horses' feet. His attendants were coming up; but Bernard drew his dagger, and said, "Sir, yield ye my prisoner, rescue or no rescue; else ye are but dead." The dismounted champion spoke not a word; on which, Bertrand, entering into fervent ire, dashed his dagger into his skull. Besides, the battle was not always finished by one warrior obtaining this advantage over the other. In the battle of Nejara, the famous Sir John Chandos was overthrown, and held down, by a gigantic Spanish cavalier, named Martino Fernandez. "Then Sir Johan Chandos remembred of a knyfe, that he had in his bosome, and drew it out, and struck this Martyne so in the backe, and in the sydes, that he wounded him to dethe, as he laye upon hym." The dagger, which the knights employed in these close and desperate struggles, was called the _poniard of mercy_. BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. THE SCOTTISH EDITION. * * * * * The following edition of the Battle of Otterbourne, being essentially different from that which is published in the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, Vol. I. and being obviously of Scottish composition, claims a place in the present collection. The particulars of that noted action are related by Froissard, with the highest encomium upon the valour of the combatants on each side. James, Earl of Douglas, with his brother, the Earl of Murray, in 1387 invaded Northumberland, at the head of 3000 men; while the Earls of Fife and Strathern, sons to the king of Scotland, ravaged the western borders of England, with a still more numerous army. Douglas penetrated as far as Newcastle, where the renowned Hotspur lay in garrison. In a skirmish before the walls, Percy's lance, with the pennon, or guidon, attached to it, was taken by Douglas, as most authors affirm, in a personal encounter betwixt the two heroes. The earl shook the pennon aloft, and swore he would carry it as his spoil into Scotland, and plant it upon his castle of Dalkeith. "That," answered Percy, "shalt thou never!"--Accordingly, having collected the forces of the marches, to a number equal, or (according to the Scottish historians) much superior, to the army of Douglas, Hotspur made a night attack upon the Scottish camp, at Otterbourne, about thirty-two miles from Newcastle. An action took place, fought, by moon-light, with uncommon gallantry and desperation. At length, Douglas, armed with an iron mace, which few but he could wield, rushed into the thickest of the English battalions, followed only by his chaplain, and two squires of his body.[98] Before his followers could come up, their brave leader was stretched on the ground, with three mortal wounds: his squires lay dead by his side; the priest alone, armed with a lance, was protecting his master from farther injury. "I die like my forefathers," said the expiring hero, "in a field of battle, and not on a bed of sickness. Conceal my death, defend my standard,[99] and avenge my fall! It is an old prophecy, that a dead man shall gain a field,[100] and I hope it will be accomplished this night."--_Godscroft_.--With these words he expired; and the fight was renewed with double obstinacy around his body. When morning appeared, however, victory began to incline to the Scottish side. Ralph Percy, brother to Hotspur, was made prisoner by the earl Marischal, and, shortly after, Harry Percy[101] himself was taken by Lord Montgomery. The number of captives, according to Wyntoun, nearly equalled that of the victors. Upon this the English retired, and left the Scots masters of the dear-bought honours of the field. But the bishop of Durham approaching, at the head of a body of fresh forces, not only checked the pursuit of the victors, but made prisoners some of the stragglers, who had urged the chase too far. The battle was not, however, renewed, as the bishop of Durham did not venture to attempt the rescue of Percy. The field was fought 15th August, 1388.--_Fordun, Froissard, Hollinshed, Godscroft_. [Footnote 98: Their names were Robert Hart and Simon Glendinning. The chaplain was Richard Lundie, afterwards archdean of Aberdeen.--_Godscroft_. Hart, according to Wintown, was a knight. That historian says, no one knew how Douglas fell.] [Footnote 99: The banner of Douglas, upon this memorable occasion, was borne by his natural son, Archibald Douglas, ancestor of the family of Cavers, hereditary sheriffs of Teviotdale, amongst whose archives this glorious relique is still preserved. The earl, at his onset, is said to have charged his son to defend it to the last drop of his blood.] [Footnote 100: This prophecy occurs in the ballad as an ominous dream.] [Footnote 101: Hotspur, for his ransom, built the castle of Penoon, in Ayrshire, belonging to the family of Montgomery, now earls of Eglintoun.] The ground, on which this memorable engagement took place, is now the property of John Davidson, Esq. of Newcastle, and still retains the name of Battle Cross. A cross, erroneously termed _Percy's Cross_, has been erected upon the spot where the gallant Earl of Douglas is supposed to have fallen. These particulars were communicated to the editor, in the most obliging manner, by the present proprietor of Otterbourne. The ballad, published in the _Reliques_, is avowedly an English production; and the author, with a natural partiality, leans to the side of his countrymen; yet, that ballad, or some one similar, modified probably by national prejudice, must have been current in Scotland during the reign of James VI.: for Godscroft, in treating of this battle, mentions its having been the subject of popular song, and proceeds thus: But that, which is commonly sung of the _Hunting of Chiviot_, seemeth indeed poetical, and a mere fiction, perhaps to stir up virtue; yet a fiction whereof there is no mention, either in the Scottish or English Chronicle. Neither are the songs, that are made of them, both one; for the _Scots song made of Otterbourne_, telleth the time, about Lammas; and also the occasion, to take preys out of England; also the dividing the armies betwixt the earls of Fife and Douglas, and their several journeys, almost as in the authentic history. It beginneth thus; "It fell about the Lammas tide, "When yeomen win their hay, "The doughty Douglas 'gan to ride, "In England to take a prey."-- GODSCROFT, _ed. Edin_. 1743. Vol. I. p. 195. I cannot venture to assert, that the stanzas, here published, belong to the ballad alluded to by Godscroft; but they come much nearer to his description than the copy published in the first edition, which represented Douglas as falling by the poignard of a faithless page. Yet we learn, from the same author, that the story of the assassination was not without foundation in tradition.--"There are that say, that he (Douglas) was not slain by the enemy, but by one of his own men, a groom of his chamber, whom he had struck the day before with a truncheon, in ordering of the battle, because he saw him make somewhat slowly to. And they name this man John Bickerton of Luffness, who left a part of his armour behind, unfastened, and when he was in the greatest conflict, this servant of his came behind his back, and slew him thereat."--_Godscroft, ut supra_.--"But this narration," adds the historian, "is not so probable."[102] Indeed, it seems to have no foundation, but the common desire of assigning some remote and extraordinary cause for the death of a great man. The following ballad is also inaccurate in many other particulars, and is much shorter, and more indistinct, than that printed in the _Reliques_, although many verses are almost the same. Hotspur, for instance, is called _Earl Percy_, a title he never enjoyed; neither was Douglas buried on the field of battle, but in Melrose Abbey, where his tomb is still shown. [Footnote 102: Wintown assigns another cause for Douglas being carelessly armed. "The erle Jamys was sa besy, For til ordane his cumpany; And on his Fays for to pas, That reckles he of his armyng was; The Erle of Mwrrawys Bassenet, Thai sayd, at that tyme was feryhete." Book VIII. Chap 7. The circumstance of Douglas' omitting to put on his helmet, occurs in the ballad.] This song was first published from Mr. Herd's _Collection of Scottish Songs and Ballads_, Edin. 1774: 2 vols. octavo; but two recited copies have fortunately been obtained from the recitation of old persons residing at the head of Ettrick Forest, by which the story is brought out, and completed, in a manner much more correspondent to the true history. I cannot dismiss the subject of the Battle of Otterbourne, without stating (with all the deference due to the father of this species of literature) a doubt, which occurs to me, as to the account given of "Sir John of Agurstone," one of the Scottish warriors, in the learned and excellent notes subjoined to the ballad, in the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_. This personage is there supposed to have been one of the Haggerstons of Haggerston, a Northumbrian family, who, according to the fate of war, were sometimes subjects of Scotland. I cannot, however, think, that at this period, while the English were in possession both of Berwick and Roxburgh, with the intermediate fortresses of Wark, Cornwall, and Norham, the Scots possessed any part of Northumberland, much less a manor which lay within that strong chain of castles. I should presume the person alluded to rather to have been one of the Rutherfords, barons of Edgerstane, or Adgerston, a warlike family, which has long flourished on the Scottish borders, and who were, at this very period, retainers of the house of Douglas. The same notes contain an account of the other Scottish warriors of distinction, who were present at the battle. These were, the earls of Monteith, Buchan, and Huntley; the barons of Maxwell and Johnston; Swinton of that ilk, an ancient family which, about that period, produced several distinguished warriors; Sir David (or rather, as the learned editor well remarks, Sir Walter) Scott of Buccleuch, Stewart of Garlies, and Murray of Cockpool. _Regibus et legibus Scotici constantes, Vos clypeis et gladiis pro patria pugnantes, Vestra est victoria, vestra est et gloria, In cantu et historia, perpes est memoria_! BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. * * * * * It fell about the Lammas tide, When the muir-men win their hay, The doughty earl of Douglas rode Into England, to catch a prey. He chose the Gordons and the Graemes, With them the Lindesays, light and gay; But the Jardines wald not with him ride, And they rue it to this day. And he has burn'd the dales of Tyne, And part of Bambrough shire; And three good towers on Roxburgh fells, He left them all on fire. And he march'd up to Newcastle, And rode it round about; "O wha's the lord of this castle, "Or wha's the lady o't?" But up spake proud Lord Percy, then, And O but he spake hie! "I am the lord of this castle, "My wife's the lady gay." "If thou'rt the lord of this castle, "Sae weel it pleases me! "For, ere I cross the border fells, "The tane of us shall die." He took a lang spear in his hand. Shod with the metal free, And for to meet the Douglas there, He rode right furiouslie. But O how pale his lady look'd, Frae aff the castle wa', When down, before the Scottish spear, She saw proud Percy fa', "Had we twa been upon the green, "And never an eye to see, I wad hae had you, flesh and fell[103]; "But your sword sall gae wi' me." "But gae ye up to Otterbourne, "And wait there dayis three; And, if I come not ere three dayis end, "A fause knight ca' ye me." "The Otterbourne's a bonnie burn; "'Tis pleasant there to be; "But there is nought at Otterbourne, "To feed my men and me. "The deer rins wild on hill and dale, "The birds fly wild from tree to tree; "But there is neither bread nor kale, "To fend[104] my men and me. "Yet I will stay at Otterbourne, "Where you shall welcome be; "And, if ye come not at three dayis end, "A fause lord I'll ca' thee." "Thither will I come," proud Percy said, "By the might of Our Ladye!"-- "There will I bide thee," said the Douglas, "My trowth I plight to thee." They lighted high on Otterbourne, Upon the bent sae brown; They lighted high on Otterbourne, And threw their pallions down. And he that had a bonnie boy, Sent out his horse to grass; And he that had not a bonnie boy, His ain servant he was. But up then spake a little page, Before the peep of dawn-- "O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord, "For Percy's hard at hand." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud! "Sae loud I hear ye lie: For Percy had not men yestreen, "To dight my men and me." "But I hae dream'd a dreary dream, "Beyond the Isle of Sky; "I saw a dead man win a fight, "And I think that man was I." He belted on his good braid sword, And to the field he ran; But he forgot the helmet good, That should have kept his brain. When Percy wi' the Douglas met, I wat he was fu' fain! They swakked their swords, till sair they swat, And the blood ran down like rain. But Percy, with his good broad sword, That could so sharply wound, Has wounded Douglas on the brow, Till he fell to the ground. Then he call'd on his little foot-page. And said--"Run speedilie, "And fetch my ain dear sister's son, "Sir Hugh Montgomery." "My nephew good," the Douglas said, "What recks the death of ane! "Last night I dream'd a dreary dream, "And I ken the day's thy ain, "My wound is deep; I fain would sleep; "Take thou the vanguard of the three, "And hide me by the braken bush, "That grows on yonder lilye lee, "O bury me by the braken bush, "Beneath the blooming briar; "Let never living mortal ken, "That ere a kindly Scot lies here." He lifted up that noble lord, Wi' the saut tear in his e'e; He hid him in the braken bush, That his merrie men might not see. The moon was clear, the day drew near, The spears in flinders flew, But mony a gallant Englishman, Ere day the Scotsmen slew. The Gordons good, in English blood, They steep'd their hose and shoon; The Lindsays flew like fire about, Till all the fray was done. The Percy and Montgomery met, That either of other were fain; They swapped swords, and they twa swat, And aye the blude ran down between. "Yield thee, O yield thee, Percy!" he said, "Or else I vow I'll lay thee low!" "Whom to shall I yield," said Earl Percy, "Now that I see it must be so?" "Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun, "Nor yet shalt thou yield to me; "But yield thee to the braken bush,[105] "That grows upon yon lilye lee!" "I will not yield to a braken bush, "Nor yet will I yield to a briar; But I would yield to Earl Douglas, "Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here." As soon as he knew it was Montgomery, He stuck his sword's point in the gronde; And the Montgomery was a courteous knight, And quickly took him by the honde. This deed was done at Otterbourne, About the breaking of the day; Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush, And the Percy led captive away. [Footnote 103: _Fell_.--Hide. Douglas insinuates, that Percy was rescued by his soldiers.] [Footnote 104: _Fend_.--Support.] [Footnote 105: _Braken_.--Fern.] * * * * * NOTES ON THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. _He chose the Gordons and the Graemes_.--P. 64. v. 2. The illustrious family of Gordon was originally settled upon the lands of Gordon and Huntly, in the shire of Berwick, and are, therefore, of border extraction. The steps, by which they removed from thence to the shires of Aberdeen and Inverness, are worthy notice. In 1300, Adam de Gordon was warden of the marches.--_Rymer_, Vol. II. p. 870. He obtained, from Robert the Bruce, a grant of the forfeited estate of David de Strathbolgie, Earl of Athol; but no possession followed, the earl having returned to his allegiance.--John de Gordon, his great-grandson, obtained, from Robert II., a new charter of the lands of Strathbolgie, which had been once more and finally forfeited, by David, Earl of Athol, slaine in the battle of Kilblene. This grant is dated 13th July, 1376. John de Gordon who was destined to transfer, from the borders of England to those of the Highlands, a powerful and martial race, was himself a redoubted warrior, and many of his exploits occur in the annals of that turbulent period. In 1371-2, the English borderers invaded and plundered the lands of Gordon, on the Scottish east march. Sir John of Gordon retaliated, by an incursion on Northumberland, where he collected much spoil. But, as he returned with his booty, he was attacked, at unawares, by Sir John Lillburne, a Northumbrian, who, with a superior force, lay near Carham in ambush, to intercept him. Gordon harangued and cheered his followers, charged the English gallantly, and, after having himself been five times in great peril, gained a complete victory; slaying many southerns, and taking their leader and his brother captive. According to the prior of Lochlevin, he was desperately wounded; but "Thare rays a welle gret renowne, "And gretly prysyd wes gud Gordown." Shortly after this exploit, Sir John of Gordon encountered and routed Sir Thomas Musgrave, a renowned English marc-hman whom he made prisoner. The lord of Johnstone had, about the same time, gained a great advantage on the west border; and hence, says Wynton, He and the Lord of Gordowne Had a soverane gud renown, Of ony that war of thare degré, For full thai war of gret bounté. Upon another occasion, John of Gordon is said to have partially succeeded in the surprisal of the town of Berwick, although the superiority of the garrison obliged him to relinquish his enterprise. The ballad is accurate, in introducing this warrior, with his clan, into the host of Douglas at Otterbourne. Perhaps, as he was in possession of his extensive northern domains, he brought to the field the northern broad-swords, as well as the lances of his eastern borderers. With his gallant leader, he lost his life in the deadly conflict. The English ballad commemorates his valour and prudence; "The Erle of Huntley, cawte and kene." But the title is a premature designation. The earldom of Huntly was first conferred on Alexander Seaton, who married the grand-daughter of the hero of Otterbourne, and assumed his title from Huntly, in the north. Besides his eldest son Adam, who carried on the line of the family, Sir John de Gordon left two sons, known, in tradition, by the familiar names of _Jock_ and _Tam_. The former was the ancestor of the Gordons of Pitlurg; the latter of those of Lesmoir, and of Craig-Gordon. This last family is now represented by James Gordon, Esq. of Craig, being the eleventh, in direct descent, from Sir John de Gordon. _The Graemes_. The clan of Graeme, always numerous and powerful upon the border, were of Scottish origin, and deduce the descent of their chieftain, Graeme of Netherby, from John _with the bright sword_, a son of Malice Graeme, Earl of Menteith, who flourished in the fourteenth century. Latterly, they _became Englishmen_, as the phrase went, and settled upon the Debateable Land, whence they were transported to Ireland, by James VI., with the exception of a very few respectable families; "because," said his majesty in a proclamation, "they do all (but especially the Graemes) confess themselves to be no meet persons to live in these countries; and also, to the intent their lands may be inhabited by others, of good and honest conversation." But, in the reign of Henry IV., the Graemes of the border still adhered to the Scottish allegiance, as appears from the tower of Graeme in Annandale, Graemes Walls in Tweeddale, and other castles within Scotland, to which they have given their name. The reader is, however, at liberty to suppose, that the Graemes of the Lennox and Menteith, always ready to shed their blood in the cause of their country, on this occasion joined Douglas. _With them the Lindsays light and gay_.--p. 64. v. 2. The chief of this ancient family, at the date of the battle of Otterbourne, was David Liudissay, lord of Glenesk, afterwards created Earl of Crawford. He was, after the manner of the times, a most accomplished knight. He survived the battle of Otterbourne, and the succeeding carnage of Homildon. In May, 1390, he went to England, to seek adventures of chivalry; and justed, upon London Bridge, against the lord of Wells, an English knight, with so much skill and success, as to excite, among the spectators, a suspicion that he was tied to his saddle; which he removed, by riding up to the royal chair, vaulting out of his saddle, and resuming his seat without assistance, although loaded with complete armour. In 1392, Lindsay was nearly slain in a strange manner. A band of Catterans, or wild Highlanders, had broken down from the Grampian Hills, and were engaged in plundering the county of Angus. Walter Ogilvy, the sheriff, with Sir Patrick Gray, marched against them, and were joined by Sir David Lindsay. Their whole retinue did not exceed sixty men, and the Highlanders were above three hundred. Nevertheless, trusting to the superiority of arms and discipline, the knights rushed on the invaders, at Gasclune, in the Stormont. The issue was unfortunate. Ogilvy, his brother, and many of his kindred, were overpowered and slain. Lindsay, armed at all points, made great slaughter among the naked Catterans; but, as he pinned one of them to the earth with his lance, the dying mountaineer writhed upwards and, collecting his force, fetched a blow with his broad-sword which cut through the knight's stirrup-leather and steel-boot and nearly severed his leg. The Highlander expired, and Lindsay was with difficulty borne out of the field by his followers--_Wyntown_. Lindsay is also noted for a retort, made to the famous Hotspur. At a march-meeting, at Haldane-Stank, he happened to observe, that Percy was sheathed in complete armour. "It is for fear of the English horsemen," said Percy, in explanation; for he was already meditating the insurrection, immortalised by Shakespeare. "Ah! Sir Harry," answered Lindsay, "I have seen you more sorely bestad by Scottish footmen than by English horse."--_Wyntown_. Such was the leader of the "_Lindsays light and guy_." According to Froissard, there were three Lindsays in the battle of Otterbourne, whom he calls Sir William, Sir James, and Sir Alexander. To Sir James Lindsay there fell "a strange chance of war," which I give in the words of the old historian. "I shall shewe you of Sir Mathewe Reedman (an English warrior, and governor of Berwick), who was on horsebacke, to save himselfe, for he alone coude nat remedy the mater. At his departynge, Sir James Limsay was nere him, and sawe Sir Mathewe departed. And this Sir James, to wyn honour, followed in chase Sir Mathewe Reedman, and came so nere him, that he myght have stryken hym with hys speare, if he had lyst. Than he said, 'Ah! Sir knyght, tourne! it is a shame thus to fly! I am James of Lindsay. If ye will nat tourne, I shall strike you on the back with my speare.' Sir Mathewe spoke no worde, but struke his hors with his spurres sorer than he did before. In this maner he chased hym more than three myles. And at last Sir Mathewe Reedman's hors foundered, and fell under hym. Than he stept forthe on the erthe, and drewe oute his swerde, and toke corage to defend himselfe. And the Scotte thoughte to have stryken hym on the brest, but Sir Mathewe Reedman swerved fro the stroke, and the speare point entred into the erthe. Than Sir Mathewe strake asonder the speare wyth his swerde. And whan Sir James Limsay sawe howe he had lost his speare, he cast away the tronchon, and lyghted a-fote, and toke a lytell battell-axe, that he carryed at his backe, and handled it with his one hand, quickly and delyverly, in the whyche feate Scottes be well experte. And than he set at Sir Mathewe, and he defended himselfe properly. Thus they journeyed toguyder, one with an axe, and the other with a swerde, a longe season, and no man to lette them. Fynally, Sir James Limsay gave the knyght such strokes, and helde him so shorte, that he was putte out of brethe in such wyse, that he yelded himselfe, and sayde,--'Sir James Limsay, I yeld me to you.'--'Well,' quod he; 'and I receyve you, rescue or no rescue.'--'I am content,' quod Reedman, 'so ye dele wyth me like a good companyon.'--'I shall not fayle that,' quod Limsay, and so put up his swerde. 'Well,' said Reedman, 'what will ye nowe that I shall do? I am your prisoner; ye have conquered me; I wolde gladly go agayn to Newcastell, and, within fiftene dayes, I shall come to you into Scotlande, where as ye shall assigne me.'--'I am content,' quod Limsay; 'ye shall promyse, by your faythe, to present yourselfe, within these foure wekes, at Edinborowe; and wheresoever ye go, to repute yourselfe my prisoner.' All this Sir Mathewe sware, and promised to fulfil." The warriors parted upon these liberal terms, and Reedman returned to Newcastle. But Lindsay had scarcely ridden a mile, when he met the bishop of Durham, with 500 horse, whom he rode towards, believing them to be Scottish, until he was too near them to escape. The bysshoppe stepte to him, and sayde, 'Limsay, ye are taken; yelde ye to me.'--'Who be you?' quod Limsay. 'I am,' quod he, 'the bysshoppe of Durham.'--'And fro whens come you, sir?' quod Limsay. 'I come fro the battell,' quod the bysshoppe, 'but I strucke never a stroke there. I go backe to Newcastell for this night, and ye shal go with me.'--'I may not chuse,' quod Limsay, 'sith ye will have it so. I have taken, and I am taken; suche is the adventures of armes.' Lindsay was accordingly conveyed to the bishop's lodgings in Newcastle, and here he was met by his prisoner, Sir Matthew Reedman; who founde hym in a studye, lying in a windowe, and sayde, 'What! Sir James Lindsay, what make you here?' Than Sir James came forth of the study to him, and saydc, 'By my fayth, Sir Mathewe, fortune hath brought me hyder; for, as soon as I was departed fro you, I mete by chaunce the bisshoppe of Durham, to whom I am prisoner, as ye be to me. I beleve ye shall not nede to come to Edenborowe to me to mak your fynaunce. I thynk, rather, we shall make an exchange one for another, if the bysshoppe be also contente.'--'Well, sir,' quod Reedman, 'we shall accord ryghte well toguyder; ye shall dine this day with me: the bysshoppe and our men be gone forth to fyght with your men. I can nat tell what we shall know at their retourne.'--'I am content to dyne with you,' quod Limsay."--_Froissart's Chronicle_, translated by Bourchier, Lord Berners, Vol. I, chap. 146. _O gran bontà de' cavalieri antiqui! Eran rivali, eran di fè diversi; E si sentian, de gli aspri colpi iniqui, Per tutta la persona anco dolersi; E pur per selve oscure, e calle inqui Insieme van senza sospetto aversi._ L'Orlando. _But the Jardines wald not with him ride_.--P. 64. v. 2. The Jardines were a clan of hardy west-border men. Their chief was Jardine of Applegirth. Their refusal to ride with Douglas was, probably, the result of one of those perpetual feuds, which usually rent to pieces a Scottish army. _And he that had a bonny boy, Sent out his horse to grass_.--P. 67. v, 4. Froissard describes a Scottish host, of the same period, as consisting of "IIII. M. men of armes, knightis, and squires, mounted on good horses; and other X.M. men of warre armed, after their gyse, right hardy and firse, mounted on lytle hackneys, the whiche were never tyed, nor kept at hard meat, but lette go to pasture in the fieldis and bushes."--_Cronykle of Froissart_, translated by Lord Berners, Chap. xvii. * * * * * THE SANG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. This ballad appears to have been composed about the reign of James V. It commemorates a transaction, supposed to have taken place betwixt a Scottish monarch, and an ancestor of the ancient family of Murray of Philiphaugh in Selkirkshire. The editor is unable to ascertain the historical foundation of the tale; nor is it probable that any light can be thrown upon the subject, without an accurate examination of the family charter chest. It is certain, that, during the civil wars betwixt Bruce and Baliol, the family of Philiphaugh existed, and was powerful; for their ancestor, Archibald de Moravia, subscribes the oath of fealty to Edward I.A.D. 1296. It is, therefore, not unlikely, that, residing in a wild and frontier country, they may have, at one period or other, during these commotions, refused allegiance to the feeble monarch of the day, and thus extorted from him some grant of territory or jurisdiction. It is also certain, that, by a charter from James IV., dated November 30, 1509, John Murray of Philiphaugh is vested with the dignity of heritable sheriff of Ettrick Forest, an office held by his descendants till the final abolition of such jurisdictions by 28th George II. cap. 23. But it seems difficult to believe that the circumstances, mentioned in the ballad, could occur under the reign of so vigorous a monarch as James IV. It is true, that the _Dramatis Personae_ introduced seem to refer to the end of the fifteenth, or beginning of the sixteenth, century; but from this it can only be argued, that the author himself lived soon after that period. It may, therefore, be supposed (unless farther evidence can be produced, tending to invalidate the conclusion), that the bard, willing to pay his court to the family, has connected the grant of the sheriffship by James IV. with some further dispute betwixt the Murrays of Philiphaugh and their sovereign, occurring, either while they were engaged upon the side of Baliol, or in the subsequent reigns of David II. and Robert II. and III., when the English possessed great part of the Scottish frontier, and the rest was in so lawless a state as hardly to acknowledge any superior. At the same time, this reasoning is not absolutely conclusive. James IV. had particular reasons for desiring that Ettrick Forest, which actually formed part of the jointure lands of Margaret, his queen, should be kept in a state of tranquillity.--_Rymer_, Vol. XIII. p. 66. In order to accomplish this object, it was natural for him, according to the policy of his predecessors to invest one great family with the power of keeping order among the rest. It is even probable, that the Philiphaugh family may have had claims upon part of the lordship of Ettrick Forest, which lay intermingled with their own extensive possessions; and, in the course of arranging, not indeed the feudal superiority, but the property, of these lands, a dispute may have arisen, of sufficient importance to be the ground-work of a ballad.--It is farther probable, that the Murrays, like other border clans, were in a very lawless state, and held their lands merely by occupancy, without any feudal right. Indeed, the lands of the various proprietors in Ettrick Forest (being a royal demesne) were held by the possessors, not in property, but as the kindly tenants, or rentallers, of the crown; and it is only about 150 years since they obtained charters, striking the feu-duty of each proprietor, at the rate of the quit-rent, which he formerly paid. This state of possession naturally led to a confusion of rights and claims. The kings of Scotland were often reduced to the humiliating necessity of compromising such matters with their rebellious subjects, and James himself even entered into a sort of league with Johnie Faa, the king of the gypsies.--Perhaps, therefore, the tradition, handed down in this song, may have had more foundation than it would at present be proper positively to assert. The merit of this beautiful old tale, it is thought, will be fully acknowledged. It has been, for ages, a popular song in Selkirkshire. The scene is, by the common people, supposed to have been the castle of Newark, upon Yarrow. This is highly improbable, because Newark was always a royal fortress. Indeed, the late excellent antiquarian Mr. Plummer, sheriff-depute of Selkirkshire, has assured the editor, that he remembered the _insignia_ of the unicorns, &c. so often mentioned in the ballad, in existence upon the old tower at Hangingshaw, the seat of the Philiphaugh family; although, upon first perusing a copy of the ballad, he was inclined to subscribe to the popular opinion. The tower of Hangingshaw has been demolished for many years. It stood in a romantic and solitary situation, on the classical banks of the Yarrow. When the mountains around Hangingshaw were covered with the wild copse which constituted a Scottish forest, a more secure strong-hold for an outlawed baron can hardly be imagined. The tradition of Ettrick Forest bears, that the Outlaw was a man of prodigious strength, possessing a batton or club, with which he laid _lee_ (i.e. waste) the country for many miles round; and that he was at length slain by Buccleuch, or some of his clan, at a little mount, covered with fir-trees, adjoining to Newark castle, and said to have been a part of the garden. A varying tradition bears the place of his death to have been near to the house of the Duke of Buccleuch's game-keeper, beneath the castle; and, that the fatal arrow was shot by Scot of Haining, from the ruins of a cottage on the opposite side of the Yarrow. There was extant, within these twenty years, some verses of a song on his death. The feud betwixt the Outlaw and the Scotts may serve to explain the asperity, with which the chieftain of that clan is handled in the ballad. In publishing the following ballad, the copy principally resorted to is one, apparently of considerable antiquity, which was found among the papers of the late Mrs. Cockburn, of Edinburgh, a lady whose memory will be long honoured by all who knew her. Another copy, much more imperfect, is to be found in Glenriddel's MSS. The names are in this last miserably mangled, as is always the case when ballads are taken down from the recitation of persons living at a distance from the scenes in which they are laid. Mr. Plummer also gave the editor a few additional verses, not contained in either copy, which are thrown into what seemed their proper place. There is yet another copy, in Mr. Herd's MSS., which has been occasionally made use of. Two verses are restored in the present edition, from the recitation of Mr. Mungo Park, whose toils, during his patient and intrepid travels in Africa, have not eradicated from his recollection the legendary lore of his native country. The arms of the Philiphaugh family are said by tradition to allude to their outlawed state. They are indeed those of a huntsman, and are blazoned thus; Argent, a hunting horn sable, stringed and garnished gules, on a chief azure, three stars of the first. Crest, a Demi Forester, winding his horn, proper. Motto, _Hinc usque superna venabor_. * * * * * THE SANG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. Ettricke Foreste is a feir foreste, In it grows manie a semelie trie; There's hart and hynd, and dae and rae, And of a' wilde beastes grete plentie. There's a feir castelle, bigged wi' lyme and stane; O! gin it stands not pleasauntlie! In the forefront o' that castelle feir, Twa unicorns are bra' to see; There's the picture of a knight, and a ladye bright, And the grene hollin abune their brie.[106] There an Outlaw keeps five hundred men; He keepis a royalle cumpanie! His merryemen are a' in ae liverye clad, O' the Liukome grene saye gaye to see; He and his ladye in purple clad, O! gin they lived not royallie! Word is gane to our nobil king, In Edinburgh, where that he lay, That there was an Outlaw in Ettricke Foreste, Counted him nought, nor a' his courtrie gay. "I make a vowe," then the gude king said, Unto the man that deir bought me, "I'se either be king of Ettricke Foreste, Or king of Scotlonde that Outlaw sail be!" Then spak the lord, hight Hamilton, And to the nobil king said he, "My sovereign prince, sum counsell take, First at your nobilis, syne at me. "I redd ye, send yon braw Outlaw till, And see gif your man cum will he: Desyre him cum and be your man, And hald of you yon Foreste frie. "Gif he refuses to do that, We'll conquess baith his landis and he! Or else, we'll throw his castell down, And make a widowe o' his gay ladye." The king then call'd a gentleman, James Boyd, (the Earl of Arran his brother was he) When James he cam befor the king, He knelit befor him on his kné. "Wellcum, James Boyd!" said our nobil king; "A message ye maun gang for me; Ye maun hye to Ettricke Foreste, To yon Outlaw, where bydeth he: "Ask him of whom he haldis his landis, Or man, wha may his master be, And desyre him cum, and be my man, And hald of me yon Foreste frie. "To Edinburgh to cum and gang, His safe warrant I sall gie; And gif he refuses to do that, We'll conquess baith his landis and he. "Thou may'st vow I'll cast his castell down, And mak a widowe o' his gay ladye; I'll hang his merryemen, payr by payr, In ony frith where I may them see." James Boyd tuik his leave o' the nobil king, To Ettricke Foreste feir cam he; Down Birkendale Brae when that he cam, He saw the feir Foreste wi' his e'e. Baithe dae and rae, and hart and hinde, And of a' wilde beastis great plentie; He heard the bows that bauldly ring, And arrows whidderan' hym near bi. Of that feir castell he got a sight; The like he neir saw wi' his e'e! On the fore front o' that castell feir, Twa unicorns were gaye to see; The picture of a knight, and a ladye bright, And the grene hollin abune their brie. Thereat he spyed five hundred men, Shuting with bows on Newark Lee; They were a' in ae livery clad, O' the Lincome grene sae gaye to see. His men were a' clad in the grene, The knight was armed capapie, With a bended bow, on a milk-white steed; And I wot they ranked right bonilie. Thereby Boyd kend he was master man, And serv'd him in his ain degré. "God mot thee save, brave Outlaw Murray! Thy ladye, and all thy chyvalrie!" "Marry, thou's wellcum, gentelman, Some king's messenger thou seemis to be." "The king of Scotlonde sent me here, And, gude Outlaw, I am sent to thee; I wad wot of whom ye hald your landis, Or man, wha may thy master be?" "Thir landis are MINE!" the Outlaw said; "I ken nae king in Christentie; Frae Soudron[107] I this Foreste wan, When the king nor his knightis were not to see." "He desyres you'l cum to Edinburgh, And hauld of him this Foreste frie; And, gif ye refuse to do this, He'll conquess baith thy landis and thee. He hath vow'd to cast thy castell down, And mak a widowe o' thy gaye ladye; "He'll hang thy merryemen, payr by payr, In ony frith where he may them finde." "Aye, by my troth!" the Outlaw said, "Than wald I think me far behinde. "E'er the king my feir countrie get, This land that's nativest to me! Mony o' his nobilis sall be cauld, Their ladyes sall be right wearie." Then spak his ladye, feir of face, She seyd, "Without consent of me, That an Outlaw suld cum befor a King; I am right rad[108] of treasonrie. Bid him be gude to his lordis at hame, For Edinburgh my lord sall nevir see." James Boyd tuik his leave o' the Outlaw kene, To Edinburgh boun is he; When James he cam befor the king, He knelit lowlie on his kné. "Wellcum, James Boyd!" seyd our nobil king; "What Foreste is Ettricke Foreste frie?" "Ettricke Foreste is the feirest foreste That evir man saw wi' his e'e. "There's the dae, the rae, the hart, the hynde, And of a' wild beastis grete plentie; There's a pretty castell of lyme and stane; O gif it stands not pleasauntlie! "There's in the forefront o' that castell, Twa unicorns, sae bra' to see; There's the picture of a knight, and a ladye bright, Wi' the grene hollin abune their brie. "There the Outlaw keepis five hundred men; He keepis a royalle cumpanie! His merrymen in ae livery clad, O' the Linkome grene sae gaye to see: "He and his ladye in purple clad; O! gin they live not royallie! "He says, yon Foreste is his awin; He wan it frae the Southronie; Sae as he wan it, sae will he keep it, Contrair all kingis in Christentie." "Gar warn me Perthshire, and Angus baith; Fife up and down, and the Louthians three, And graith my horse!" said the nobil king, "For to Ettricke Foreste hie will I me." Then word is gane the Outlaw till, In Ettricke Foreste, where dwelleth he, That the king was cuming to his cuntrie, To conquess baith his landis and he. "I mak a vow," the Outlaw said, "I mak a vow, and that trulie, Were there but three men to tak my pairt; Yon king's cuming full deir suld be!" Then messengers he called forth, And bade them hie them speedilye-- "Ane of ye gae to Halliday, The laird of the Corhead is he. "He certain is my sister's son; Bid him cum quick and succour me! The king cums on for Ettricke Foreste, And landless men we a' will be." "What news? What news?" said Halliday, "Man, frae thy master unto me?" "Not as ye wad; seeking your aide; The king's his mortal enemie." "Aye, by my troth!" said Halliday, "Even for that it repenteth me; For gif he lose feir Ettricke Foreste, He'll tak feir Moffatdale frae me. "I'll meet him wi' five hundred men, And surely mair, if mae may be; And before he gets the Foreste feir, We a' will die on Newark Lee!" The Outlaw call'd a messenger, And bid him hie him speedilye, To Andrew Murray of Cockpool-- "That man's a deir cousin to me; Desyre him cum, and mak me ayd, With a' the power that he may be." "It stands me hard," Andrew Murray said, Judge gif it stands na hard wi' me; To enter against a king wi' crown, And set my landis in jeopardie! Yet, if I cum not on the day, Surely at night he sall me see." To Sir James Murray of Traquair, A message cam right speedilye-- "What news? What news?" James Murray said, "Man, frae thy master unto me?" "What neids I tell? for weell ye ken, The king's his mortal enemie; And now he is cuming to Ettricke Foreste, And landless men ye a' will be." "And, by my trothe," James Murray said, "Wi' that Outlaw will I live and die; The king has gifted my landis lang syne-- It cannot be nae warse wi' me." The king was cuming thro' Caddon Ford[109], And full five thousand men was he; They saw the derke Foreste them before, They thought it awsome for to see. Then spak the lord, hight Hamilton, And to the nobil king said he, "My sovereign liege, sum council tak, First at your nobilis, syne at me. "Desyre him mete thee at Permanscore, And bring four in his cumpanie; Five erles sall gang yoursell befor, Gude cause that you suld honour'd be. "And, gif he refuses to do that, We'll conquess baith his landis and he; "There sall nevir a Murray, after him, Hald land in Ettricke Foreste frie." Then spak the kene laird of Buckscleuth, A stalworthye man, and sterne was he-- "For a king to gang an Outlaw till, Is beneath his state and his dignitie. "The man that wons yon Foreste intill, He lives by reif and felonie! Wherefore, brayd on, my sovereign liege! Wi' fire and sword we'll follow thee; Or, gif your courtrie lords fa' back, Our borderers sall the onset gie." Then out and spak the nobil king, And round him cast a wilie e'e-- "Now haud thy tongue, Sir Walter Scott, Nor speik of reif nor felonie: For, had everye honeste man his awin kye, A right puir clan thy name wad be!" The king then call'd a gentleman, Royal banner bearer there was he; James Hop Pringle of Torsonse, by name; He cam and knelit upon his kné. "Wellcum, James Pringle of Torsonse! A message ye maun gang for me; Ye maun gae to yon Outlaw Murray, Surely where bauldly bideth he. "Bid him mete me at Permanscore, And bring four in his cumpanie; Five erles sall cum wi' mysell Gude reason I suld honour'd be. "And, gif he refuses to do that, Bid him luke for nae good o' me! Ther sall nevir a Murray, after him, Have land in Ettricke Foreste frie." James cam befor the Outlaw kene, And serv'd him in his ain degré-- "Wellcum, James Pringle of Torsonse! What message frae the king to me?" "He bidds ye mete him at Permanscore, And bring four in your cumpanie; Five erles sall gang himsell befor, Nae mair in number will he be. "And, gif you refuse to do that, (I freely here upgive wi' thee) He'll cast yon bonny castle down, And mak a widowe o' that gaye ladye. "He'll loose yon bluidhound borderers, Wi' fire and sword to follow thee; There will nevir a Murray, after thysell, Have land in Ettricke Foreste frie." "It stands me hard," the Outlaw said; "Judge gif it stands na hard wi' me! Wha reck not losing of mysell, But a' my offspring after me. "My merryemen's lives, my widowe's teirs-- There lies the pang that pinches me! When I am straught in bluidie eard, Yon castell will be right dreirie. "Auld Halliday, young Halliday, Ye sall be twa to gang wi' me; Andrew Murray, and Sir James Murray, We'll be nae mae in cumpanie." When that they cam befor the king, They fell befor him on their kné-- "Grant mercie, mercie, nobil king! E'en for his sake that dyed on trie." "Sicken like mercie sall ye have; On gallows ye sall hangit be!" "Over God's forbode," quoth the Outlaw then, "I hope your grace will bettir be! Else, ere ye come to Edinburgh port, I trow thin guarded sall ye be: "Thir landis of Ettricke Foreste feir, I wan them from the enemie; Like as I wan them, sae will I keep them, Contrair a' kingis in Christentie." All the nobilis the king about, Said pitie it were to see him die-- "Yet graunt me mercie, sovereign prince! Extend your favour unto me! "I'll give thee the keys of my castell, Wi' the blessing o' my gaye ladye, Gin thoul't mak me sheriffe of this Foreste, And a' my offspring after me." "Wilt thou give me the keys of thy castell, Wi' the blessing of thy gaye ladye? I'se mak thee sheriffe of Ettricke Foreste, Surely while upwards grows the trie; If you be not traitour to the king, Forfaulted sall thou nevir be." "But, prince, what sall cum o' my men? When I gae back, traitour they'll ca' me. I had rather lose my life and land, E'er my merryemen rebuked me." "Will your merryemen amend their lives? And a' their pardons I graunt thee-- Now, name thy landis where'er they lie, And here I RENDER them to thee." "Fair Philiphaugh is mine by right, And Lewinshope still mine shall be; Newark, Foulshiells, and Tinnies baith, My bow and arrow purchased me. "And I have native steads to me, The Newark Lee and Hangingshaw; I have mony steads in the Foreste shaw, But them by name I dinna knaw." The keys o' the castell he gave the king, Wi' the blessing o' his feir ladye; He was made sheriffe of Ettricke Foreste, Surely while upwards grows the trie; And if he was na traitour to the king, Forfaulted he suld nevir be. Wha ever heard, in ony times, Sicken an Outlaw in his degré, Sick favour get befor a king, As did the OUTLAW MURRAY of the Foreste frie? [Footnote 106: Brow.] [Footnote 107: Southern, or English.] [Footnote 108: Afraid.] [Footnote 109: A ford on the Tweed, at the mouth of the Caddon Burn, near Yair.] NOTES ON THE SANG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. * * * * * _Then spak the Lord, hight Hamilton_.--P. 86. v. 4. This is, in most copies, the _earl_ hight Hamilton, which must be a mistake of the reciters, as the family did not enjoy that title till 1503. _James Boyd (the Earl of Arran his brother), &c._--P. 87. v. 2. Thomas Boyd, Earl of Arran, was forfeited, with his father and uncle, in 1469, for an attempt on the person of James III. He had a son, James, who was restored, and in favour with James IV. about 1482. If this be the person here meant, we should read "The Earl of Arran his _son_ was he." Glenriddel's copy reads, "A highland laird I'm sure was he." Reciters sometimes call the messenger, the laird of Skene. _Down Birkendale Brae when that he cam_.--P. 88, v. 2. Birkendale Brae, now commonly called _Birkendailly_, is a steep descent on the south side of Minch-Moor, which separates Tweeddale from Ettrick Forest; and from the top of which you have the first view of the woods of Hangingshaw, the castle of Newark, and the romantic dale of Yarrow. _The laird of the Corehead, &c._--P. 93. v. 1. This is a place at the head of Moffat-water, possessed of old by the family of Halliday. _To Andrew Murray of Cockpool_.--P. 94. v. 1. This family were ancestors of the Murrays, earls of Annandale; but the name of the representative, in the time of James IV. was William, not Andrew. Glenriddel's MS. reads, "the country-keeper." _To Sir James Murray of Traquair_.--P. 94. v. 3. Before the barony of Traquair became the property of the Stewarts, it belonged to a family of Murrays, afterwards Murrays of Black-barony, and ancestors of Lord Elibank. The old castle was situated on the Tweed. The lands of Traquair were forfeited by Willielmus de Moravia, previous to 1464; for, in that year, a charter, proceeding upon his forfeiture, was granted by the crown "Willielmo Douglas de Cluny." Sir James was, perhaps, the heir of William Murray. It would farther seem, that the grant in 1464 was not made effectual by Douglas; for, another charter from the crown, dated the 3d February, 1478, conveys the estate of Traquair to James Stewart, Earl of Buchan, son to the black knight of Lorne, and maternal uncle to James III., from whom is descended the present Earl of Traquair. The first royal grant not being followed by possession, it is very possible that the Murrays may have continued to occupy Traquair long after the date of that charter. Hence, Sir James might have reason to say, as in the ballad, "The king has gifted my lands lang syne." _James Hop Pringle of Torsonse_.--P. 97. v. 1. The honourable name of Pringle, or Hoppringle, is of great antiquity in Roxburghshire and Selkirkshire. The old tower of Torsonse is situated upon the banks of the Gala. I believe the Pringles of Torsonse are now represented by Sir James Pringle of Stitchell. There are three other ancient and distinguished families of this name; those of Whitebank, Clifton, and Torwoodlee. _He bids ye mete him at Permanscore_.--P. 98. v. 1. Permanscore is a hollow on the top of a high ridge of hills, dividing the vales of Tweed and Yarrow, a little to the east-ward of Minch-Moor. It is the outermost point of the lands of Broadmeadows. The Glenriddel MS., which, in this instance, is extremely inaccurate as to names, calls the place of rendezvous "_The Poor Man's house_," and hints, that the Outlaw was surprised by the treachery of the king:-- "Then he was aware of the king's coming, With hundreds three in company, I wot the muckle deel * * * * * He learned kings to lie! For to fetch me here frae amang my men, Here like a dog for to die." I believe the reader will think, with me, that the catastrophe is better, as now printed from Mrs. Cockburn's copy. The deceit supposed to be practised on the Outlaw, is unworthy of the military monarch, as he is painted in the ballad; especially if we admit him to be King James IV. _Fair Philiphaugh is mine by right_.--P. 101. v. 1. In this and the following verse, the ceremony of feudal investiture is supposed to be gone through, by the Outlaw resigning his possessions into the hands of the king, and receiving them back, to be held of him as superior. The lands of Philiphaugh are still possessed by the Outlaw's representative. Hangingshaw and Lewinshope were sold of late years. Newark, Foulshiels and Tinnies, have long belonged to the family of Buccleuch. JOHNIE ARMSTRANG. * * * * * There will be such frequent occasion, in the course of this volume, to mention the clan, or sept, of the Armstrongs, that the editor finds it necessary to prefix, to this ballad, some general account of that tribe. The Armstrongs appear to have been, at an early period, in possession of great part of Liddesdale, and of the Debateable Land. Their immediate neighbourhood to England, rendered them the most lawless of the Border depredators; and, as much of the country possessed by them was claimed by both kingdoms, the inhabitants, protected from justice by the one nation, in opposition to the other, securely preyed upon both.[110] The chief was Armstrong of Mangertoun; but, at a later period, they are declared a broken clan, i.e. one which had no lawful head, to become surety for their good behaviour. The rapacity of this clan, and of their allies, the Elliots, occasioned the popular saying, "Elliots and Armstrongs ride thieves all."--But to what Border-family of note, in former days, would not such an adage have been equally applicable? All along the river Liddel may still be discovered the ruins of towers, possessed by this numerous clan. They did not, however, entirely trust to these fastnesses; but, when attacked by a superior force, abandoned entirely their dwellings, and retired into morasses, accessible by paths known to themselves alone. One of their most noted places of refuge was the Tarras Moss, a desolate and horrible marsh, through which a small river takes its course. Upon its banks are found some dry spots, which were occupied by these outlaws, and their families, in cases of emergency. The stream runs furiously among huge rocks, which has occasioned a popular saying-- Was ne'er are drown'd in Tarras, nor yet in doubt, For e'er the head can win down, the harns (brains) are out. The morass itself is so deep, that, according to an old historian, two spears tied together would not reach the bottom. In this retreat, the Armstrongs, _anno_ 1588, baffled the Earl of Angus, when lieutenant on the Border, although he reckoned himself so skilful in winding a thief, that he declared, "he had the same pleasure in it, as others in a hunting a hare." On this occasion he was totally unsuccessful, and nearly lost his relation, Douglas of Ively, whom the freebooters made prisoner.--_Godscroft_ Vol. II. p. 411. [Footnote 110: In illustration of this position, the reader is referred to a long correspondence betwixt Lord Dacre and the Privy Council of England, in 1550, concerning one Sandye Armstrang, a partizan of England, and an inhabitant of the Debateable Land, who had threatened to become a Scottishman, if he was not protected by the English warden against the Lord Maxwell.--See _Introduction to Nicholson and Burn's History of Cumberland and Westmoreland_.] Upon another occasion the Armstrongs were less fortunate. They had, in one of their incursions, plundered the town of Haltwhistle, on the borders of Cumberland. Sir Robert Carey, warden of the west marches, demanded satisfaction from the king of Scotland, and received for answer, that the offenders were no subjects of his, and that he might take his own revenge. The English warden, accordingly entered Llddesdale, and ravaged the lands of the outlaws; on which occasion, _Sim of the Cat-hill_ (an Armstrong) was killed by one of the Ridleys of Haltwhistle. This incident procured Haltwhistle another visit from the Armstrongs, in which they burnt great part of the town, but not without losing one of their leaders, by a shot from a window. "The death of this young man (says Sir Robert Carey) wrote (wrought) so deep an impression upon them (the outlaws), as many vowes were made, that, before the end of next winter, they would lay the whole Border waste. This (the murder) was done about the end of May (1598). The chiefe of all these outlaws was _old Sim of Whittram_.[111] He had five or six sonnes, as able men as the Borders had. This old man and his sonnes had not so few as two hundred at their commands, that were ever ready to ride with them to all actions, at their beck. [Footnote 111: Whittram is a place in Liddesdale. It is mistaken by the noble editor for Whithern, in Galloway, as is Hartwesel (Haltwhistle, on the borders of Cumberland) for Twisel, a village on the English side of the Tweed, near Wark.] The high parts of the marsh (march) towards Scotland were put in a mighty fear, and the chiefe of them, for themselves and the rest, petitioned to mee, and did assure mee, that, unless I did take some course with them, by the end of that summer, there was none of the inhabitants durst, or would, stay in their dwellings the next winter, but they would fley the countrey, and leave their houses and lands to the fury of the outlawes. Upon this complaint, I called the gentlemen of the countrey together, and acquainted them with the misery that the highest parts of the marsh towards Scotland were likely to endure, if there were not timely prevention to avoid it, and desired them to give mee their best advice what course were fitt to be taken. They all showed themselves willing to give mee their best counsailles, and most of them were of opinion, that I was not well advised to refuse the hundred horse that my Lord Euers had; and that now my best way was speedily to acquaint the quene and counsaile with the necessity of having more soldiers, and that there could not be less than a hundred horse sent downe for the defence of the countrey, besides the forty I had already in pay, and that there was nothing but force of soldiers could keep them in awe: and to let the counsaile plainly understand, that the marsh, of themselves, were not able to subsist, whenever the winter and long nights came in, unlesse present cure and remedy were provided for them. I desired them to advise better of it, and to see if they could find out any other meanes to prevent their mischievous intentions, without putting the quene and countrey to any further charge. They all resolved that there was no second meanes. Then I told them my intention what I meant to do, which was, that myselfe, with my two deputies, and the forty horse that I was allowed, would, with what speede wee could, make ourselves ready to go up to the Wastes, and there wee would entrench ourselves, and lye as near as wee could to the outlawes; and, if there were any brave spirits among them, that would go with us, they should be very wellcome, and fare and lye as well as myselfe: and I did not doubte before the summer ended, to do something that should abate the pride of these outlawes. Those, that were unwilling to hazard themselves, liked not this motion. They said, that, in so doing, I might keep the countrey quiet the time I lay there; but, when the winter approached, I could stay there no longer, and that was the theeves' time to do all their mischiefe. But there were divers young gentlemen, that offered to go with mee, some with three, some with four horses, and to stay with mee as long as I would there continue. I took a list of those that offered to go with mee, and found, that, with myself, my officers, the gentlemen, and our servants, wee should be about two hundred good men and horse; a competent number, as I thought, for such a service. The day and place was appointed for our meeting in the Wastes, and, by the help of the foot of Liddisdale[112] and Risdale, wee had soone built a pretty fort, and within it wee had all cabines made to lye in, and every one brought beds or matresses to lye on. There wee stayed, from the middest of June, till almost the end of August. We were betweene fifty and sixty gentlemen, besides their servants and my horsemen; so that wee were not so few as two hundred horse. Wee wanted no provisions for ourselves nor our horses, for the countrey people were well payed for any thing they brought us; so that wee had a good market every day, before our fort, to buy what we lacked. The chiefe outlawes, at our coming, fled their houses where they dwelt, and betooke themselves to a large and great forest (with all their goodes), which was called the Tarras. It was of that strength, and so surrounded with bogges and marish grounds, and thicke bushes and shrubbes, as they feared not the force nor power of England nor Scotland, so long as they were there. They sent me word, that I was like the first puffe of a haggasse,[113] hottest at the first, and bade me stay there as long as the weather would give me leave. They would stay in the Tarras Wood till I was weary of lying in the Waste; and when I had had my time, and they no whit the worse, they would play their parts, which should keep mee waking the next winter. Those gentlemen of the countrey that came not with mee, were of the same minde; for they knew (or thought at least), that my force was not sufficient to withstand the furey of the outlawes. The time I stayed at the fort I was not idle, but cast, by all meanes I could, how to take them in the great strength they were in. I found a meanes to send a hundred and fifty horsemen into Scotland (conveighed by a muffled man,[114] not known to any of the company), thirty miles within Scotland, and the businesse was carried so, that none in the countrey tooke any alarm at this passage. They were quietly brought to the back-side of the Tarras, to Scotland-ward. There they divided themselves into three parts, and tooke up three passages which the outlawes made themselves secure of, if from England side they should at any time be put at. [Footnote 112: The foot of Liddisdale were the garrison of King James, in the castle of Hermitage, who assisted Carey on this occasion, as the Armstrongs were outlaws to both nations.] [Footnote 113: A haggis, (according to Burns, "the chieftain of the pudding-race,") is an olio, composed of the liver, heart, &c. of a sheep, minced down with oatmeal, onions, and spices, and boiled in the stomach of the animal, by way of bag. When the bag is cut, the contents, (if this savoury dish be well made) should spout out with the heated air. This will explain the allusion.] [Footnote 114: A Muffled Man means a person in disguise; a very necessary precaution for the guide's safety; for, could the outlaws have learned who played them this trick, beyond all doubt it must have cost him dear.] They had their scoutes on the tops of hills, on the English side, to give them warning if at any time any power of men should come to surprise them. The three ambushes were safely laid, without being discovered, and, about four o'clock in the morning, there were three hundred horse, and a thousand foote,[115] that came directly to the place where the scoutes lay. They gave the alarm; our men brake down as fast as they could into the wood. The outlawes thought themselves safe, assuring themselves at any time to escape; but they were so strongly set upon, on the English side, as they were forced to leave their goodes, and betake themselves to their passages towards Scotland. There was presently five taken of the principall of them. The rest, seeing themselves, as they thought, betrayed, retired into the thicke woodes and bogges,[116] that our men durst not follow them for fear of loosing themselves. The principall of the five, that were taken, were two of the eldest sonnes of _Sim of Whitram_. These five they brought to mee to the fort, and a number of goodes, both of sheep and kine, which satisfied most part of the countrey, that they had stolen them from. [Footnote 115: From this it would appear, that Carey, although his constant attendants in his fort consisted only of 200 horse, had, upon this occasion by the assistance, probably, of the English and Scottish royal garrisons, collected a much greater force.] [Footnote 116: There are now no trees in Liddesdale, except on the banks of the rivers, where they are protected from the sheep. But the stumps and fallen timber, which are every where found in the morasses, attest how well the country must have been wooded in former days.] "The five, that were taken, were of great worth and value amongst them; insomuch, that, for their liberty, I should have what conditions I should demand or desire. First, all English prisoners were set at liberty. Then had I themselves, and most part of the gentlemen of the Scottish side, so strictly bound in bondes to enter to mee, in fifteen dayes warning, any offendour, that they durst not, for their lives, break any covenant that I made with them; and so, upon these conditions, I set them at liberty, and was never after troubled with these kind of people. Thus God blessed me in bringing this great trouble to so quiet an end; wee brake up our fort, and every man retired to his owne house."--_Carey's Memoirs_, p. 151. The people of Liddesdale have retained, by tradition, the remembrance of _Carey's Raid_, as they call it. They tell, that, while he was besieging the outlaws in the Tarras they contrived, by ways known only to themselves, to send a party into England, who plundered the warden's lands. On their return, they sent Carey one of his own cows, telling him, that, fearing he might fall short of provision during his visit to Scotland, they had taken the precaution of sending him some English beef. The anecdote is too characteristic to be suppressed. From this narrative, the power and strength of the Armstrongs, at this late period, appear to have been very considerable. Even upon the death of Queen Elizabeth, this clan, associated with other banditti of the west marches to the number of two or three hundred horse, entered England in a hostile manner, and extended their ravages as far as Penrith. James VI., then at Berwick, upon his journey to his new capital, detached a large force, under Sir William Selby, captain of Berwick, to bring these depredators to order. Their raid, remarkable for being the last of any note occurring in history, was avenged in an exemplary manner. Most of the strong-holds upon the Liddel were razed to the foundation, and several of the principal leaders executed at Carlisle; after which we find little mention of the Armstrongs in history. The precautions, adopted by the Earl of Dunbar, to preserve peace on the borders, bore peculiarly hard upon a body of men, long accustomed to the most ungoverned licence. They appear, in a great measure, to have fallen victims to the strictness of the new enactments.--_Ridpath_, p. 703.--_Stow_, 819.--_Laing_, Vol. I. The lands, possessed by them in former days, have chiefly come into the hands of the Buccleuch family, and of the Elliots; so that, with one or two exceptions, we may say, that, in the country which this warlike clan once occupied, there is hardly left a land-holder of the name. One of the last border reivers was, however, of this family, and lived within the beginning of the last century. After having made himself dreaded over the whole country, he at last came to the following end: One--, a man of large property, having lost twelve cows in one night, raised the country of Tiviotdale, and traced the robbers into Liddesdale, as far as the house of this Armstrong, commonly called _Willie of Westburnflat_, from the place of his residence, on the banks of the Hermitage water. Fortunately for the pursuers he was then asleep; so that he was secured, along with nine of his friends, without much resistance. He was brought to trial at Selkirk; and, although no precise evidence was adduced to convict him of the special fact (the cattle never having been recovered), yet the jury brought him in _guilty_ on his general character, or, as it is called in our law, on habite and repute. When sentence was pronounced, Willie arose; and, seizing the oaken chair in which he was placed, broke it into pieces by main strength, and offered to his companions, who were involved in the same doom, that, if they would stand behind him, he would fight his way out of Selkirk with these weapons. But they held his hands, and besought him to let them _die like Christians_. They were accordingly executed in form of law. This was the last trial at Selkirk. The people of Liddesdale, who (perhaps not erroneously) still consider the sentence as iniquitous, remarked, that--, the prosecutor, never throve afterwards, but came to beggary and ruin, with his whole family. Johnie Armstrong, of Gilnockie, the hero of the following ballad, is a noted personage, both in history and tradition. He was, it would seem from the ballad, a brother of the laird of Mangertoun, chief of the name. His place of residence (now a roofless tower) was at the Hollows, a few miles from Langholm, where its ruins still serve to adorn a scene, which, in natural beauty, has few equals in Scotland. At the head of a desperate band of freebooters, this Armstrong is said to have spread the terror of his name almost as far as Newcastle, and to have levied _black mail_, or _protection and forbearance money_, for many miles around. James V., of whom it was long remembered by his grateful people, that he made the "rush-bush keep the cow," about 1529, undertook an expedition through the border counties, to suppress the turbulent spirit of the marchmen. But, before setting out upon his journey, he took the precaution of imprisoning the different border chieftains, who were the chief protectors of the marauders. The Earl of Bothwell was forfeited, and confined in Edinburgh castle. The lords of Home and Maxwell, the lairds of Buccleuch, Fairniherst, and Johnston, with many others, were also committed to ward. Cockburn of Henderland, and Adam Scott of Tushielaw, called the King of the Border, were publicly executed.--_Lesley_, p. 430. The king then marched rapidly forward, at the head of a flying army of ten thousand men, through Ettrick Forest, and Ewsdale. The evil genius of our Johnie Armstrong, or, as others say, the private advice of some courtiers, prompted him to present himself before James, at the head of thirty-six horse, arrayed in all the pomp of border chivalry, Pitscottie uses nearly the words of the ballad, in describing the splendour of his equipment, and his high expectations of favour from the king. "But James, looking upon him sternly, said to his attendants, 'What wants that knave that a king should have?' and ordered him and his followers to instant execution."--"But John Armstrong," continues this minute historian, "made great offers to the king. That he should sustain himself, with forty gentlemen, ever ready at his service, on their own cost, without wronging any Scottishman: Secondly, that there was not a subject in England, duke, earl, or baron, but, within a certain day, he should bring him to his majesty, either quick or dead.[117] At length he, seeing no hope of favour, said very proudly, 'It is folly to seek grace at a graceless face; but,' said he, 'had I known this, I should have lived upon the borders in despite of King Harry and you both; for I know King Harry would _down-weigh my best horse with gold_, to know that I were condemned to die this day.'--_Pitscottie's History_, p. 145. Johnie, with all his retinue, was accordingly hanged upon growing trees, at a place called Carlenrig chapel, about ten miles above Hawick, on the high road to Langholm. The country people believe, that, to manifest the injustice of the execution, the trees withered away. Armstrong and his followers were buried in a deserted church-yard, where their graves are still shewn. [Footnote 117: The borderers, from their habits of life, were capable of most extraordinary exploits of this nature. In the year 1511, Sir Robert Ker of Cessford, warden of the middle marches of Scotland, was murdered at a border-meeting, by the bastard Heron, Starhead, and Lilburn. The English monarch delivered up Lilburn to justice in Scotland, but Heron and Starhead escaped. The latter chose his residence in the very centre of England, to baffle the vengeance of Ker's clan and followers. Two dependants of the deceased, called Tait, were deputed by Andrew Ker of Cessford to revenge his father's murder. They travelled through England in various disguises till they discovered the place of Starhead's retreat, murdered him in his bed, and brought his head in triumph to Edinburgh, where Ker caused it to be exposed at the cross. The bastard Heron would have shared the same fate, had he not spread abroad a report of his having died of the plague, and caused his funeral obsequies to be performed.--_Ridpath's History_, p. 481.--_See also Metrical Account of the Battle of Flodden, published by the Rev. Mr. Lambe_.] As this border hero was a person of great note in his way, he is frequently alluded to by the writers of the time. Sir David Lindsay of the Mount, in the curious play published by Mr. Pinkerton, from the Bannatyne MS., introduces a pardoner, or knavish dealer in reliques, who produces, among his holy rarities-- --The cordis, baith grit and lang, Quhilt hangit Johnnie Armistrang, Of gude hempt, soft and sound, Gude haly pepill, I stand ford, Wha'evir beis hangit in this cord, Neidis nevir to be drowned! _Pinkerton's Scottish Poems_, Vol. II. p. 69. In _The Complaynt of Scotland_, John Armistrangis's dance, mentioned as a popular tune, has probably some reference to our hero. The common people of the high parts of Tiviotdale, Liddesdale, and the country adjacent, hold the memory of Johnie Armstrong in very high respect. They affirm also, that one of his attendants broke through the king's guard, and carried to Gilnockie Tower the news of the bloody catastrophe. This song was first published by Allan Ramsay, in his _Evergreen_, who says, he copied it from the mouth of a gentleman, called Armstrong, who was in the sixth generation from this John. The reciter assured him, that this was the genuine old ballad; the common one false. By the common one, Ramsay means an English ballad upon the same subject, but differing in various particulars, which is published in Mr. Ritson's _English Songs_, Vol. II. It is fortunate for the admirers of the old ballad, that it did not fall into Ramsay's hands, when he was equipping with new sets of words the old Scottish tunes in his _Tea-Table Miscellany_. Since his time it has been often reprinted. JOHNIE ARMSTRANG * * * * * Sum speikis of lords, sum speikis of lairds, And sick lyke men of hie degrie; Of a gentleman I sing a sang, Sum tyme called laird of Gilnockie. The king he wrytes a luving letter, With his ain hand sae tenderly, And he hath sent it to Johnie Armstrang, To cum and speik with him speedily. The Eliots and Armstrangs did convene; They were a gallant cumpanie-- "We'll ride and meit our lawful king, And bring him safe to Gilnockie." "Make kinnen[118] and capon ready then, And venison in great plentie; We'll wellcum here our royal king; I hope he'll dine at Gilnockie!" They ran their horse on the Langhome howm, And brak their speirs wi' mickle main; The ladies lukit frae their loft windows-- "God bring our men weel back agen!" When Johnie cam before the king, Wi' a' his men sae brave to see, The king he movit his bonnet to him; He ween'd he was a king as well as he. "May I find grace, my sovereign liege, Grace for my loyal men and me? For my name it is Johnie Armstrang, And subject of your's, my liege," said he. "Away, away, thou traitor strang! Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! I grantit nevir a traitor's life, And now I'll not begin wi' thee." "Grant me my life, my liege, my king! "And a bonny gift I'll gie to thee-- "Full four and twenty milk-white steids, "Were a' foaled in ae yeir to me. "I'll gie thee a' these milk-white steids, "That prance and nicker[119] at a speir; "And as mickle gude Inglish gilt[120], "As four of their braid backs dow[121] bear." "Away, away, thou traitor strang! "Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! "I grantit never a traitor's life, "And now I'll not begin wi' thee!" "Grant me my life, my liege, my king! "And a bonny gift I'll gie to thee-- "Gude four and twenty ganging[122] mills, "That gang thro' a' the yeir to me. "These four and twenty mills complete, "Sall gang for thee thro' a' the yeir; "And as mickle of gude reid wheit, "As a' their happers dow to bear." "Away, away, thou traitor strang! "Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! "I grantit nevir a traitor's life, "And now I'll not begin wi' thee." "Grant me my life, my liege, my king! "And a great gift I'll gie to thee-- "Bauld four and twenty sister's sons, "Sall for thee fecht, tho' a' should flee!" "Away, away, thou traitor strang! "Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! "I grantit nevir a traitor's life, "And now I'll not begin wi' thee." "Grant me my life, my liege, my king! "And a brave gift I'll gie to thee-- "All between heir and Newcastle town "Sall pay their yeirly rent to thee." "Away, away, thou traitor strang! "Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! "I grantit nevir a traitor's life, "And now I'll not begin wi' thee." "Ye lied[123], ye lied, now king," he says. "Altho' a king and prince ye be! For I've luved naething in my life, "I weel dare say it, but honesty-- "Save a fat horse," and a fair woman, "Twa bonny dogs to kill a deir; "But England suld have found me meal and mault, "Gif I had lived this hundred yeir! "Sche suld have found me meal and mault, "And beif and mutton in a' plentie; "But nevir a Scots wyfe could have said, "That e'er I skaithed her a pure flee. "To seik het water beneith cauld ice, "Surely it is a greit folie-- "I have asked grace at a graceless face, "But there is mine for my men and me! "But, had I kenn'd ere I cam frae hame, "How thou unkind wadst been to me! "I wad have keepit the border side, "In spite of al thy force and thee. "Wist England's king that I was ta'en, "O gin a blythe man he wad be! "For anes I slew his sister's son, "And on his breist bane brake a trie." John wore a girdle about his middle, Imbroidered ower wi' burning gold, Bespangled wi' the same metal; Maist beautiful was to behold. There hang nine targats[124] at Johnie's hat, And ilk are worth three hundred pound-- "What wants that knave that a king suld have, But the sword of honour and the crown! "O whair got thou these targats, Johnie, "That blink[125] sae brawly abune thy brie?" "I gat them in the field fechting, "Where, cruel king, thou durst not be. "Had I my horse, and harness gude, "And riding as I wont to be, "It suld have been tald this hundred yeir, "The meeting of my king and me! "God be with thee, Kirsty,[126] my brother! "Lang live thou laird of Mangertoun! "Lang may'st thou live on the border syde, "Ere thou see thy brother ride up and down! "And God be with thee, Kirsty, my son, "Where thou sits on thy nurse's knee! "But and thou live this hundred yeir, "Thy father's better thou'lt nevir be. "Farewell! my bonny Gilnock hall, "Where on Esk side thou stand est stout! "Gif I had lived but seven yeirs mair, "I wad hae gilt thee round about." John murdered was at Carlinrigg, And all his gallant cumpanie; But Scotland's heart was ne'er sae wae, To see sae mony brave men die-- Because they saved their countrey deir, Frae Englishmen! Nane were sae bauld, Whyle Johnie lived on the border syde, Nane of them durst cum neir his hauld. [Footnote 118: _Kinnen_--Rabbits.] [Footnote 119: _Nicker_--Neigh.] [Footnote 120: _Gilt--Gold_.] [Footnote 121: _Dow_--Able to.] [Footnote 122: _Ganging_--Going.] [Footnote 123: _Lied_--Lye.] [Footnote 124: _Targats_--Tassels.] [Footnote 125: _Blink sae brawly_--Glance so bravely.] [Footnote 126: Christopher.] SUPPLEMENT TO THE BALLAD OF JOHNIE ARMSTRANG. * * * * * The editor believes, his readers will not be displeased to see a Bond of Manrent, granted by this border freebooter to the Scottish warden of the west marches, in return for the gift of a feudal casualty of certain lauds particularized. It is extracted from _Syme's Collection of Old Writings, MS. penes_ Dr. Robert Anderson, of Edinburgh. BOND OF MANRENT. Be it kend till all men, be thir present letters, me, Johne Armistrang, for to be bound and oblist, and be the tenor of thir present letters, and faith and trewth in my body, lelie and trewlie, bindis and oblissis me and myn airis, to are nobil and michtie lord, Robert Lord Maxwell, wardane of the west marches of Scotland, that, forasmikle as my said lord has given and grantit to me, and mine airis perpetuallie, the nonentries of all and hail the landis underwritten, that is to say, the landis of Dalbetht, Shield, Dalblane, Stapil-Gortown, Langholme, and--with their pertindis, lyand in the lordship of Eskdale, as his gift, maid to me, therupon beris in the self: and that for all the tyme of the nonentres of the samyn. Theirfor, I, the said Johne Armistrang, bindis and oblissis me and myne airis, in manrent and service to the said Robert Lord Maxwell, and his airis, for evermair, first and befor all uthirs, myne allegiance to our soverane lord, the king, allanerly except; and to be trewe, gude, and lele servant to my said lord, and be ready to do him service, baith in pece and weir, with all my kyn, friends, and servants, that I may and dowe to raise, and be and to my said lord's airis for evermair. And sall tak his true and plane part in all maner of actions at myn outer power, and sall nouther wit, hear, nor se my said lordis skaith, lak, nor dishonestie, but we sall stop and lett the samyn, and geif we dowe not lett the samyn, we sall warn him thereof in all possible haist; and geif it happenis me, the said Johne Armistrang, or myne airis, to fail in our said service and manrent, any maner of way, to our said lord (as God forbid we do), than, and in that caiss, the gift and nonentres maid be him to us, of the said landis of Dalbetht, Schield, Dalblane, Stapil-Gortown, Langholme, and--with the pertinentis to be of no avale, force, nor effect; but the said lord and his airis to have free regress and ingress to the nonentres of the samyn, but ony pley or impediment. To the keeping and fulfilling of all and sundry the premisses, in form above writtin, I bind and obliss me and my airis foresaids, to the said lord and his airis for evermare, be the faithis treuthis in our bodies, but fraud or gile. In witness of the whilk thing, to thir letters of manrent subscrievit, with my hand at the pen, my sele is hangin, at Drumfries, the secund day of November, the yeir of God, Jaiv and XXV. yeiris. JOHNE ARMISTRANG, with my hand at the pen. The lands, here mentioned, were the possessions of Armstrong himself, the investitures of which not having been regularly renewed, the feudal casualty of non-entry had been incurred by the vassal. The brother of Johnie Armstrang is said to have founded, or rather repaired, Langholm castle, before which, as mentioned in the ballad, verse 5th, they "ran their horse," and "brake their spears," in the exercise of border chivalry.--_Account of the Parish of Langholm, apud Macfarlane's MSS_. The lands of Langholm and Staplegorton continued in Armstrong's family; for there is, in the same MS. collection, a similar bond of manrent, granted by "Christofer Armistrang, calit _Johne's Pope_," on 24th January, 1557, to Lord Johne Lord Maxwell, and to Sir Johne Maxwell of Terreglis, knight, his tutor and governor, in return for the gift of "the males of all and haill the landis whilk are conteint in ane bond made by umquhile Johne Armistrang, my father, to umquhile Robert, Lord Maxwell, gudshore to the said Johne, now Lord Maxwell." It would therefore appear, that the bond of manrent, granted by John Armstrong, had been the price of his release from the feudal penalty arising from his having neglected to procure a regular investiture from his superior. As Johnie only touched the pen, it appears that he could not write. Christopher Armstrong, above-mentioned, is the person alluded to in the conclusion of the ballad--"God be with thee, Kirsty, my son." He was the father, or grandfather, of William Armstrong, called _Christie's Will_, a renowned freebooter, some of whose exploits the reader will find recorded in the third volume of this work. THE LOCHMABEN HARPER NOW FIRST PUBLISHED. * * * * * _The castle of Lochmaben was formerly a noble building, situated upon a peninsula, projecting into one of the four lakes which are in the neighbourhood of the royal burgh, and is said to have been the residence of Robert Bruce, while lord of Annandale. Accordingly, it was always held to be a royal fortress, the keeping of which, according to the custom of the times, was granted to some powerful lord, with an allotment of lands and fishings, for the defence and maintenance of the place. There is extant a grant, dated 16th March, 1511, to Robert Lauder of the Bass, of the office of captain and keeper of Lochmaben castle, for seven years, with many perquisites. Among others, the_ "land, stolen frae the king," _is bestowed upon the captain, as his proper lands.--What shall we say of a country, where the very ground was the subject of theft_? * * * * * O heard ye na o' the silly blind Harper, How lang he lived in Lochmaben town? And how he wad gang to fair England, To steal the Lord Warden's Wanton Brown! But first he gaed to his gude wyfe, Wi' a' the haste that he could thole-- "This wark," quo' he, "will ne'er gae weel, Without a mare that has a foal." Quo' she--"Thou hast a gude gray mare, That can baith lance o'er laigh and hie; Sae set thee on the gray mare's back, And leave the foal at hame wi' me." So he is up to England gane, And even as fast as he may drie; And when he cam to Carlisle gate, O whae was there but the Warden, he? "Come into my hall, thou silly blind Harper, And of thy harping let me hear!" "O by my sooth," quo' the silly blind Harper, I wad rather hae stabling for my mare." The Warden look'd ower his left shoulder, And said unto his stable groom-- "Gae take the silly blind Harper's mare, And tie her beside my Wanton Brown." Then aye he harped, and aye he carped[127], Till a' the lordlings footed the floor; But an' the music was sae sweet, The groom had nae mind of the stable door. And aye he harped, and aye he carped, Till a' the nobles were fast asleep; Then quickly he took aff his shoon, And saftly down the stair did creep. Syne to the stable door he hied, Wi' tread as light as light could be; And when he opened and gaed in, There he fand thirty steeds and three. He took a cowt halter[128] frae his hose, And o' his purpose he did na fail; He slipt it ower the Wanton's nose, And tied it to his gray mare's tail. He turned them loose at the castle gate, Ower muir and moss and ilka dale; And she ne'er let the Wanton bait, But kept him a-galloping hame to her foal. The mare she was right swift o' foot, She did na fail to find the way; For she was at Lochmaben gate, A lang three hours before the day. When she cam to the Harper's door, There she gave mony a nicker and sneer--[129] "Rise up," quo' the wife, "thou lazy lass; Let in thy master and his mare." Then up she rose, put on her clothes, And keekit through at the lock-hole-- "O! by my sooth," then cried the lass, Our mare has gotten a braw brown foal!" "Come, haud thy tongue, thou silly wench! The morn's but glancing in your e'e."-- I'll[130] wad my hail fee against a groat, He's bigger than e'er our foal will be." Now all this while, in merry Carlisle, The Harper harped to hie and law; And the[131] fiend thing dought they do but listen him to, Until that the day began to daw. But on the morn, at fair day light, When they had ended a' their cheer, Behold the Wanton Brown was gane, And eke the poor blind Harper's mare! "Allace! allace!" quo' the cunning auld Harper, "And ever allace that I cam here! In Scotland I lost a braw cowt foal, In England they've stown my gude gray mare!" "Come! cease thy allacing, thou silly blind Harper, And again of thy harping let us hear; And weel payd sall thy cowt-foal be, And thou sall have a far better mare." Then aye he harped, and aye he carped; Sae sweet were the harpings he let them hear! He was paid for the foal he had never lost, And three times ower for the gude GRAY MARE. [Footnote 127: _Carped_--Sung.] [Footnote 128: _Cowt halter_--Colt's halter.] [Footnote 129: _Nicker and sneer_--Neigh and snort.] [Footnote 130: _Wad my hail fee_--Bet my whole wages.] [Footnote 131: _Fiend thing dought_--Nothing could they do.] NOTES ON THE LOCHMABEN HARPER. * * * * * The only remark which offers itself on the foregoing ballad seems to be, that it is the most modern in which the harp, as a border instrument of music, is found to occur. I cannot dismiss the subject of Lochmaben, without noticing an extraordinary and anomalous class of landed proprietors, who dwell in the neighbourhood of that burgh. These are the inhabitants of four small villages, near the ancient castle, called the Four Towns of Lochmaben. They themselves are termed the King's Rentallers, or kindly tenants; under which denomination each of them has a right, of an allodial nature, to a small piece of ground. It is said, that these people are the descendants of Robert Bruce's menials, to whom he assigned, in reward of their faithful service, these portions of land, burdened only with the payment of certain quit-rents, and grassums or fines, upon the entry of a new tenant. The right of the rentallers is, in essence, a right of property, but, in form, only a right of lease; of which they appeal for the foundation on the rent-rolls of the lord of the castle and manor. This possession, by rental, or by simple entry upon the rent-roll, was anciently a common, and peculiarly sacred, species of property, granted by a chief to his faithful followers; the connection of landlord and tenant being esteemed of a nature too formal to be necessary, where there was honour upon one side, and gratitude upon the other. But, in the case of subjects granting a right of this kind, it was held to expire with the life of the granter, unless his heir chose to renew it; and also upon the death of the rentaller himself, unless especially granted to his heirs, by which term only his first heir was understood. Hence, in modern days, the _kindly tenants_ have entirely disappeared from the land. Fortunately for the inhabitants of the Four Towns of Lochmaben, the maxim, that the king can never die, prevents their right of property from reverting to the crown. The viscount of Stormonth, as royal keeper of the castle, did, indeed, about the beginning of last century, make an attempt to remove the rentallers from their possessions, or at least to procure judgment, finding them obliged to take out feudal investitures, and subject themselves to the casualties thereto annexed. But the rentallers united in their common defence; and, having stated their immemorial possession, together with some favourable clauses in certain old acts of parliament, enacting, that the king's _poor kindly tenants_ of Lochmaben should not be hurt, they finally prevailed in an action before the Court of Session. From the peculiar state of their right of property, it follows, that there is no occasion for feudal investitures, or the formal entry of an heir; and, of course, when they chuse to convey their lands, it is done by a simple deed of conveyance, without charter or sasine. The kindly tenants of Lochmaben live (or at least lived till lately) much sequestered from their neighbours, marry among themselves, and are distinguished from each other by _soubriquets_, according to the ancient border custom, repeatedly noticed You meet, among their writings, with such names as _John Out-bye, Will In-bye, White-fish, Red-fish_, &c. They are tenaciously obstinate in defence of their privileges of commonty, &c. which are numerous. Their lands are, in general, neatly inclosed, and well cultivated, and they form a contented and industrious little community. Many of these particulars are extracted from the MSS. of Mr. Syme, writer to the signet. Those, who are desirous of more information, may consult _Craig de Feudis_, Lib. II. dig. 9. sec. 24. It is hoped the reader will excuse this digression, though somewhat professional; especially as there can be little doubt, that this diminutive republic must soon share the fate of mightier states; for, in consequence of the increase of commerce, lands possessed under this singular tenure, being now often brought to sale, and purchased by the neighbouring proprietors, will, in process of time, be included in their investitures, and the right of rentallage be entirely forgotten. JAMIE TELFER OF THE FAIR DODHEAD. * * * * * _There is another ballad, under the same title as the following, in which nearly the same incidents are narrated, with little difference, except that the honour of rescuing the cattle is attributed to the Liddesdale Elliots, headed by a chief, there called Martin Elliot of the Preakin Tower, whose son, Simon, is said to have fallen in the action. It is very possible, that both the Tiviotdale Scotts, and the Elliots were engaged in the affair, and that each claimed the honour of the victory_. _The editor presumes, that the Willie Scott, here mentioned must have been a natural son of the laird of Buccleuch_. * * * * * It fell about the Martinmas tyde, When our border steeds get corn and hay, The captain, of Bewcastle hath bound him to ryde, And he's ower to Tividale to drive a prey. The first ae guide that they met wi', It was high up in Hardhaughswire; The second guide that they met wi', It was laigh down in Borthwick water. "What tidings, what tidings, my trusty guide?" "Nae tidings, nae tidings, I hae to thee; But, gin ye'll gae to the fair Dodhead, Mony a cow's cauf I'll let thee see." And whan they cam to the fair Dodhead, Right hastily they clam the peel; They loosed the kye out, are and a', And ranshackled[132] the house right weel. Now Jamie Telfer's heart was sair, The tear aye rowing in his e'e; He pled wi' the captain to hae his gear, Or else revenged he wad be. The captain turned him round, and leugh; Said--"Man, there's naething in thy house, But ae auld sword without a sheath, That hardly now wad fell a mouse!" The sun was na up, but the moon was down, It was the gryming[133] of a new fa'n snaw, Jamie Telfer has run ten myles a-foot, Between the Dodhead and the Stobs's Ha'. And whan he cam to the fair tower yate, He shouted loud, and cried weel hie, Till out bespak auld Gibby Elliot-- "Whae's this that brings the fraye to me?" "Its I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead, And a harried man I think I be! There's naething left at the fair Dodhead, But a waefu' wife and bairnies three." "Gar seek your succour at Branksome Ha', For succour ye'se get nane frae me! Gae seek your succour where ye paid black mail, For, man! ye ne'er paid money to me." Jamie has turned him round about, I wat the tear blinded his e'e-- "I'll ne'er pay mail to Elliot again, And the fair Dodhead I'll never see! "My hounds may a' rin masterless, My hawks may fly frae tree to tree, My lord may grip my vassal lands, For there again maun I never be!" He has turned him to the Tiviot side, E'en as fast as he could drie, Till he cam to the Coultart Cleugh, And there he shouted baith loud and hie. Then up bespak him auld Jock Grieve-- "Whae's this that bring's the fray to me?" "It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead, A harried man I trew I be. "There's naething left in the fair Dodhead, But a greeting wife and bairnies three, And sax poor ca's[134] stand in the sta', A' routing loud for their minnie."[135] "Alack a wae!" quo' auld Jock Grieve, "Alack! my heart is sair for thee! For I was married on the elder sister, And you on the youngest of a' the three," Then he has ta'en out a bonny black, Was right weel fed wi' corn and hay, And he's set Jamie Telfer on his back, To the Catslockhill to tak the fraye. And whan he cam to the Catslockhill, He shouted loud, and cried weel hie, Till out and spak him William's Wat-- "O whae's this brings the fraye to me?" "Its I, Jamie Telfer of the fair Dodhead, A harried man I think I be! The captain of Bewcastle has driven my gear; For God's sake rise, and succour me!" "Alas for wae!" quo' William's Wat, Alack, for thee my heart is sair! I never cam bye the fair Dodhead, That ever I fand thy basket bare." He's set his twa sons on coal-black steeds, Himsel' upon a freckled gray, And they are on wi' Jamie Telfer, To Branksome Ha' to tak the fraye. And whan they cam to Branksome Ha', They shouted a' baith loud and hie, Till up and spak him auld Buccleuch, Said--"Whae's this brings the fraye to me?" "It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead, And a harried man I think I be! There's nought left in the fair Dodhead, But a greeting wife, and bairnies three." "Alack for wae!" quoth the gude auld lord, "And ever my heart is wae for thee! But fye gar cry on Willie, my son, And see that he come to me speedilie! "Gar warn the water, braid and wide, Gar warn it sune and hastilie! They that winna ride for Telfer's kye, Let them never look in the face o' me! "Warn Wat o' Harden, and his sons, Wi' them will Borthwick water ride; Warn Gaudilands, and Allanhaugh, And Gilmanscleugh, and Commonside. "Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire, And warn the Currors o' the Lee; As ye cum down the Hermitage Slack, Warn doughty Willie o' Gorrinberry." The Scots they rade, the Scots they ran, Sae starkly and sae steadilie! And aye the ower-word o' the thrang Was--"Rise for Branksome readilie!" The gear was driven the Frostylee up, Frae the Frostylee unto the plain, Whan Willie has looked his men before, And saw the kye right fast driving. "Whae drives thir kye?" can Willie say, To mak an outspeckle[136] o' me?" "Its I, the captain o' Bewcastle, Willie; I winna layne my name for thee." "O will ye let Telfer's kye gae back? Or will ye do aught for regard o' me? Or, by the faith of my body," quo' Willie Scott, "I'se ware my dame's cauf's skin on thee!" "I winna let the kye gae back, Neither for thy love, nor yet thy fear; But I will drive Jamie Telfer's kye, In spite of every Scot that's here." "Set on them, lads!" quo' Willie than; Fye, lads, set on them cruellie! For ere they win to the Ritterford, Mony a toom[137] saddle there sall be!" Then till't they gaed, wi' heart and hand; The blows fell thick as bickering hail; And mony a horse ran masterless, And mony a comely cheek was pale! But Willie was stricken ower the head, And thro' the knapscap[138] the sword has gane; And Harden grat for very rage, Whan Willie on the grund lay slane. But he's tane aff his gude steel cap, And thrice he's wav'd it in the air-- The Dinlay[139] snaw was ne'er mair white, Nor the lyart locks of Harden's hair. "Revenge! revenge!" auld Wat can cry; "Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie! We'll ne'er see Tiviotside again, Or Willie's death revenged sall be." O mony a horse ran masterless, The splintered lances flew on hie; But or they wan to the Kershope ford, The Scots had gotten the victory. John o' Brigham there was slane, And John o' Barlow, as I hear say; And thirty mae o' the captain's men, Lay bleeding on the grund that day. The captain was run thro' the thick of the thigh, And broken was his right leg bane; If he had lived this hundred years, He had never been loved by woman again. "Hae back thy kye!" the captain said; "Dear kye, I trow, to some they be! For gin I suld live a hundred years, There will ne'er fair lady smile on me." Then word is gane to the captain's bride, Even in the bower where that she lay, That her lord was prisoner in enemy's land, Since into Tividale he had led the way. "I wad lourd[140] have had a winding-sheet, And helped to put it ower his head, Ere he had been disgraced by the _border Scot_, Whan he ower Liddel his men did lead!" There was a wild gallant amang us a', His name was Watty wi' the Wudspurs,[141] Cried--"On for his house in Stanegirthside, If ony man will ride with us!" When they cam to the Stanegirthside, They dang wi' trees, and burst the door; They loosed out a' the captain's kye, And set them forth our lads before. There was an auld wyfe ayont the fire, A wee bit o' the captain's kin-- "Whae dar loose out the captain's kye, Or answer to him and his men?" "Its I, Watty Wudspurs, loose the kye! I winna layne my name frae thee! And I will loose out the captain's kye, In scorn of a' his men and he." When they cam to the fair Dodhead, They were a wellcum sight to see! For instead of his ain ten milk kye, Jamie Telfer has gotten thirty and three. And he has paid the rescue shot, Baith wi' goud, and white monie; And at the burial o' Willie Scott, I wat was mony a weeping e'e. [Footnote 132: _Ranshackled_--Ransacked.] [Footnote 133: _Gryming_--Sprinkling.] [Footnote 134: _Ca's_--Calves.] [Footnote 135: _Minnie_--Mother.] [Footnote 136: _Outspeckle_.--Laughing-stock.] [Footnote 137: _Toom_--Empty.] [Footnote 138: _Knapscap_--Headpiece.] [Footnote 139: _The Dinlay_--is a mountain in Liddesdale.] [Footnote 140: _Lourd_--Rather.] [Footnote 141: _Wudspurs_--Hotspur, or Madspur.] NOTES ON JAMIE TELFER OF THE FAIR DODHEAD. * * * * * _It was high up in Hardhaughswire_.--P. 140. v. 1. Hardhaughswire is the pass from Liddesdale to the head of Tiviotdale. _It was laigh down in Borthwick water_.--P. 140. v. 1. Borthwick water is a stream, which falls into the Tiviot, three miles above Hawick. _But, gin ye'll gae to the fair Dodhead_.--P. 140. v. 2. The Dodhead, in Selkirkshire, near Singlee, where there are still the vestiges of an old tower. _Now Jamie Telfer's heart was sair_.--P. 140. v. 4. There is still a family of Telfers, residing near Langholm, who pretend to derive their descent from the Telfers of the Dodhead. _Between the Dodhead and the Stobs's Ha'_.--P. 141. v. 1. Stobs Hall, upon Slitterick. Jamie Telfer made his first application here because he seems to have paid the proprietor of that castle _black-mail_, or protection-money. _Gar seek your succour at Branksome Ha'_.--P. 141. v. 4. The ancient family-seat of the lairds of Buccleuch, near Hawick. _Till he cam to the Coultart Cleugh_.--P. 142. v. 2. The Coultart Cleugh is nearly opposite to Carlinrig, on the road between Hawick and Mosspaul. _Gar warn the water, braid and wide_.--P. 144. v. 4. The water, in the mountainous districts of Scotland, is often used to express the banks of the river, which are the only inhabitable parts of the country. _To raise the water_, therefore, was to alarm those who lived along its side. _Warn Wat o' Harden, and his sons_, &c.--P. 144. v. 5. The estates, mentioned in this verse, belonged to families of the name of Scott, residing upon the waters of Borthwick and Tiviot, near the castle of their chief. _Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire_.--P. 145. v. 1. The pursuers seem to have taken the road through the hills of Liddesdale, in order to collect forces, and intercept the foragers at the passage of the Liddel, on their return to Bewcastle. The Ritterford and Kershope-ford, after mentioned, are noted fords on the river Liddel. _The gear was driven the Frostylee up_.--P. 145. v. 3. The Frostylee is a brook, which joins the Tiviot, near Mosspaul. _And Harden grat for very rage_.--P. 146. v. 4. Of this border laird, commonly called _Auld Wat of Harden_, tradition has preserved many anecdotes. He was married to Mary Scott, celebrated in song by the title of the Flower of Yarrow. By their marriage-contract, the father-in-law, Philip Scott of Dryhope, was to find Harden in horse meat, and man's meat, at his tower of Dryhope, for a year and a day; but five barons pledge themselves, that, at the expiry of that period, the son-in-law should remove, without attempting to continue in possession by force! A notary-public signed for all the parties to the deed, none of whom could write their names. The original is still in the charter-room of the present Mr. Scott of Harden. By the Flower of Yarrow the laird of Harden had six sons; five of whom survived him, and founded the families of Harden (now extinct), Highchesters (now representing Harden), Reaburn, Wool, and Synton. The sixth son was slain at a fray, in a hunting-match, by the Scotts of Gilmanscleugh. His brothers flew to arms; but the old laird secured them in the dungeon of his tower, hurried to Edinburgh, stated the crime, and obtained a gift of the lands of the offenders from the crown. He returned to Harden with equal speed, released his sons, and shewed them the charter. "To horse, lads!" cried the savage warrior, "and let us take possession! the lands of Gilmanscleuch are well worth a dead son." The property, thus obtained, continued in the family till the beginning of last century, when it was sold, by John Scott of Harden, to Anne, Duchess of Buccleuch. _John o' Brigham there was slane_.--P. 147. v. 3. Perhaps one of the ancient family of Brougham, in Cumberland. The editor has used some freedom with the original in the subsequent verse. The account of the captain's disaster _(tests laeva vulnerata_) is rather too _naive_ for literal publication. _Cried--"On for his house in Stanegirthside_.--P. 148. v. 3. A house belonging to the Foresters, situated on the English side of the Liddel. An article in the list of attempts upon England, fouled by the commissioners ar Berwick, in the year 1587, may relate to the subject of the foregoing ballad. October, 1582. Thomas Musgrave, deputy {Walter Scott, laird } 200 kine and of Bewcastle, and {of Buckluth, and his} oxen,300 gait the tenants, against {complices; for } and sheep. _Introduction, to History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, p. 31. THE RAID OF THE REIDSWIRE. * * * * * This poem is published from a copy in the Bannatyne MS. in the hand-writing of the Hon. Mr. Carmichael, advocate. It first appeared in _Allan Ramsay's Evergreen_, but some liberties have been taken by him in transcribing it; and, what is altogether unpardonable, the MS., which is itself rather inaccurate, has been interpolated to favour his readings; of which there remain obvious marks. The skirmish of the Reidswire happened upon the 7th of June, 1575, at one of the meetings, held by the wardens of the marches, for arrangements necessary upon the border. Sir John Carmichael, ancestor of the present Earl of Hyndford, was the Scottish warden, and Sir John Forster held that office on the English middle march.--In the course of the day, which was employed, as usual, in redressing wrongs, a bill, or indictment, at the instance of a Scottish complainer, was fouled (_i.e._ found a true bill) against one Farnstein, a notorious English freebooter. Forster alleged that he had fled from justice: Carmichael considering this as a pretext to avoid making compensation for the felony, bade him "play fair!" to which the haughty English warden retorted, by some injurious expressions respecting Carmichael's family, and gave other open signs of resentment. His retinue, chiefly men of Reesdale and Tynedale, the most ferocious of the English borderers, glad of any pretext for a quarrel, discharged a flight of arrows among the Scots. A warm conflict ensued, in which, Carmichael being beat down and made prisoner, success seemed at first to incline to the English side; till the Tynedale men, throwing themselves too greedily upon the plunder, fell into disorder; and a body of Jedburgh citizens arriving at that instant, the skirmish terminated in a complete victory on the part of the Scots, who took prisoners, the English warden, James Ogle, Cuthbert Collingwood, Francis Russel, son to the Earl of Bedford, and son-in-law to Forster, some of the Fenwicks, and several other border chiefs. They were sent to the Earl of Morton, then regent, who detained them at Dalkeith for some days, till the heat of their resentment was abated; which prudent precaution prevented a war betwixt the two kingdoms. He then dismissed them with great expressions of regard; and, to satisfy Queen Elizabeth,[142] sent up Carmichael to York, whence he was soon after honourably dismissed. The field of battle, called the Reidswire, is a part of the Carter Mountain, about ten miles from Jedburgh.--See, for these particulars, _Godscroft, Spottiswoode_, and _Johnstone's History_. [Footnote 142: Her ambassador at Edinburgh refused to lie in a bed of state which had been provided for him, till this "_oudious fact_" had been enquired into.--_Murden's State Papers_, Vol. II, p. 282.] The editor has adopted the modern spelling of the word Reidswire, to prevent the mistake in pronunciation which might be occasioned by the use of the Scottish _qu_ for _w_. The MS. reads _Reidsquair. Swair_, or _Swire_, signifies the descent of a hill; and the epithet _Red_ is derived from the colour of the heath, or, perhaps, from the Reid-water, which rises at no great distance. THE RAID OF THE REIDSWIRE. * * * * * The seventh of July, the suith to say, At the Reidswire the tryst was set; Our wardens they affixed the day, And, as they promised, so they met. Alas! that day I'll ne'er forgett! Was sure sae feard, and then sae faine-- They came theare justice for to gett, Will never green[143] to come again. Carmichael was our Warden then, He caused the country to conveen; And the Laird's Wat, that worthie man, Brought in that sirname weil beseen[144]: The Armestranges, that aye hae been A hardie house, but not a hail, The Elliot's honours to maintaine, Brought down the lave[145] o' Liddesdale. Then Tividale came to wi' speid; The sheriffe brought the Douglas down, Wi' Cranstane, Gladstain, good at need, Baith Rewle water, and Hawick town. Beanjeddart bauldly made him boun, Wi' a' the Trumbills, stronge and stout; The Rutherfoords, with grit renown, Convoyed the town of Jedbrugh out. Of other clans I cannot tell, Because our warning was not wide.-- Be this our folks hae taen the fell, And planted down palliones[146] there to bide. We looked down the other side, And saw come breasting ower the brae, Wi' Sir John Forster for their guyde, Full fifteen hundred men and mae. It grieved him sair, that day, I trow, Wi' Sir George Hearoune of Schipsydehouse; Because we were not men enow, They counted us not worth a louse. Sir George was gentle, meek, and douse, But _he_ was hail and het as fire; And yet, for all his cracking crouse[147], He rewd the raid o' the Reidswire. To deal with proud men is but pain; For either must ye fight or flee, Or else no answer make again, But play the beast, and let them be. It was na wonder he was hie, Had Tindaill, Reedsdaill, at his hand, Wi' Cukdaill, Gladsdaill on the lee, And Hebsrime, and Northumberland. Yett was our meeting meek enough, Begun wi' merriement and mowes, And at the brae, aboon the heugh, The clark sate down to call the rowes.[148] And some for kyne, and some for ewes, Called in of Dandrie, Hob, and Jock-- We saw, come marching ower the knows, Five hundred Fennicks in a flock. With jack and speir, and bows all bent, And warlike weapons at their will: Although we were na weel content, Yet, be my trouth, we feard no ill. Some gaed to drink, and some stude still, And some to cairds and dice them sped; Till on ane Farnstein they fyled a bill, And he was fugitive and fled. Carmichael bade them speik out plainlie, And cloke no cause for ill nor good; The other, answering him as vainlie, Began to reckon kin and blood: He raise, and raxed[149] him where he stood, And bade him match him with his marrows, Then Tindaill heard them reasun rude, And they loot off a flight of arrows. Then was there nought but bow and speir, And every man pulled out a brand; "A Schaftan and a Fenwick" thare: Gude Symington was slain frae hand. The Scotsmen cried on other to stand, Frae time they saw John Robson slain-- What should they cry? the king's command Could cause no cowards turn again. Up rose the laird to red the cumber,[150] Which would not be for all his boast;-- What could we doe with sic a number? Fyve thousand men into a host. Then Henry Purdie proved his cost,[151] And very narrowlie had mischiefed him, And there we had our warden lost, Wert not the grit God he relieved him. Another throw the breiks him bair, Whill flatlies to the ground he fell: Than thought I weel we had lost him there, Into my stomach it struck a knell! Yet up he raise, the treuth to tell ye, And laid about him dints full dour; His horsemen they raid sturdilie, And stude about him in the stoure. Then raise[152] the slogan with ane shout-- "Fy Tindaill, to it! Jedbrugh's here!" I trow he was not half sae stout, But[153] anis his stomach was asteir. With gun and genzie,[154] bow and speir, Men might see monie a cracked crown! But up amang the merchant geir, They were as busie as we were down. The swallow taill frae tackles flew, Five hundreth flain[155] into a flight, But we had pestelets enow, And shot amang them as we might. With help of God the game gaed right, Frae time the foremost of them fell; Then ower the know without goodnight, They ran, with mony a shout and yell. But after they had turned backs, Yet Tindaill men they turned again; And had not been the merchant packs, There had been mae of Scotland slain. But, Jesu! if the folks were fain To put the bussing on their thies; And so they fled, wi' a' their main, Down ower the brae, like clogged bees. Sir Francis Russel ta'en was there, And hurt, as we hear men rehearse; Proud Wallinton was wounded sair, Albeit he be a Fennick fierce. But if ye wald a souldier search, Among them a' were ta'en that night, Was nane sae wordie to put in verse, As Collingwood, that courteous knight. Young Henry Schafton, he is hurt; A souldier shot him with a bow: Scotland has cause to mak great sturt, For laiming of the laird of Mow. The Laird's Wat did weel, indeed; His friends stood stoutlie by himsel', With little Gladstain, gude in need, For Gretein kend na gude be ill. The Sheriffe wanted not gude will, Howbeit he might not fight so fast; Beanjeddart, Hundlie, and Hunthill, Three, on they laid weel at the last. Except the horsemen of the guard, If I could put men to availe, None stoutlier stood out for their laird. For did the lads of Liddesdail. But little harness had we there; But auld Badreule had on a jack, And did right weel, I you declare, With all his Trumbills at his back. Gude Ederstane was not to lack, Nor Kirktoun, Newtoun, noble men! Thirs[156] all the specials I of speake, By[157] others that I could not ken. Who did invent that day of play, We need not fear to find him soon; For Sir John Forster, I dare well say, Made us this noisome afternoon. Not that I speak preceislie out, That he supposed it would be perril; But pride, and breaking out of feuid, Garr'd Tindaill lads begin the quarrel. [Footnote 143: _Green_--Long.] [Footnote 144: _Weil beseen_--Well appointed. The word occurs in Morte Arthur: "And when Sir Percival saw this, he hied him thither, "and found the ship covered with silke, more blacker than any beare; and therein was a gentlewoman, of great beautie, and she was richly _beseene_, that none might be better."] [Footnote 145: _Lave_--Remainder.] [Footnote 146: _Palliones_--Tents.] [Footnote 147: _Cracking crouse_--Talking big.] [Footnote 148: _Rowes_--Rolls.] [Footnote 149: _Raxed him_--Stretched himself up.] [Footnote 150: _Red the cumber_--Quell the tumult.] [Footnote 151: _Cost_--Signifies loss or risk.] [Footnote 152: _Raise_--Rose.] [Footnote 153: _But, &c_.--Till once his anger was up.] [Footnote 154: _Genzie_--Engine of war.] [Footnote 155: _Flain_--Arrows; hitherto absurdly printed _slain_.] [Footnote 156: _Thirs_--These are.] [Footnote 157: _By_--Besides.] NOTES ON THE RAID OF THE REIDSWIRE. * * * * * _Carmichael was our warden then_.--P. 157. v. 2. Sir John Carmichael was a favourite of the resent Morton, by whom he was appointed warden of the middle marches, in preference to the border chieftains. With the like policy, the regent married Archibald Carmichael, the warden's brother, to the heiress of Edrom, in the Merse, much contrary to the inclination of the lady and her friends. In like manner, he compelled another heiress, Jane Sleigh, of Cumlege, to marry Archibald, brother to Auchinleck of Auchiuleck, one of his dependants. By such arbitrary practices, Morton meant to strengthen his authority on the borders; instead of which, he hastened his fall, by giving disgust to his kinsman the Earl of Angus, and his other friends, who had been established in the country for ages.--_Godscroft_, Vol. II. Pages 238. 246. Sir John Carmichael, the warden, was murdered 16th June, 1600, by a party of borderers, at a place called Raesknows, near Lochmaben, whither he was going to hold a court of justice. Two of the ring-leaders in the slaughter, Thomas Armstrong, called _Ringan's Tarn_, and Adam Scott, called _the Pecket_, were tried at Edinburgh, at the instance of Carmichael of Edrom. They were condemned to have their right hands struck off, thereafter to be hanged, and their bodies gibbeted on the Borough Moor; which sentence was executed, 14th November, 1601. "This _Pecket_, (saith Birrel in his _Diary_), was ane of the maist notalrie thieftes that ever raid:" he calls his name Steill, which appears, from the record, to be a mistake. Four years afterwards, an Armstrong, called _Sandy of Rowanburn_, and several others of that tribe, were executed for this and other excesses.--_Books of Adjournal of these dates_. _And the Laird's Wat, that worthie man_.--P. 157. v. 2. The chief, who led out the sirname of Scott upon this occasion, was (saith Satchells) Walter Scott of Ancrum, a natural son of Walter of Buccleuch. The laird of Buccleuch was then a minor. The ballad seems to have been popular in Satchells' days, for he quotes it literally. He must, however, have been mistaken in this particular; for the family of Scott of Ancrum, in all our books of genealogy, deduce their descent from the Scotts of Balwearie in Fife, whom they represent. The first of this family, settled in Roxburghshire, is stated in _Douglas' Baronage_ to have been Patrick Scott, who purchased the lands of Ancrum, in the reign of James VI. He therefore could not be the _Laird's Wat_ of the ballad; indeed, from the list of border families in 1597, Ker appears to have been proprietor of Ancrum at the date of the ballad. It is plainly written in the MS. the _Laird's Wat_, i.e., the Laird's son Wat; notwithstanding which, it has always hitherto been printed the _Laird Wat_. If Douglas be accurate in his genealogy, the person meant must be the young laird of Buccleuch, afterwards distinguished for his surprise of Carlisle Castle.--See _Kinmont Willie_. I am the more confirmed in this opinion, because Kerr of Ancrum was at this time a fugitive, for slaying one of the Rutherfords, and the tower of Ancrum given in keeping to the Turnbulls, his hereditary enemies. His mother, however, a daughter of Home of Wedderburn, contrived to turn out the Turnbulls, and possess herself of the place by surprise.--_Godscroft_, Vol. II. p. 250. _The Armestranges, that aye hae been_.--P. 158. v. 1. This clan are here mentioned as not being hail, or whole, because they were outlawed or broken men. Indeed, many of them had become Englishmen, as the phrase then went. Accordingly, we find, from Paton, that forty of them, under the laird of Mangertoun, joined Somerset upon his expedition into Scotland.--_Paton, in Dalyell's Fragments_, p. 1. There was an old alliance betwixt the Elliots and Armstrongs, here alluded to. For the enterprises of the Armstrongs, against their native country, when under English assurance, see _Murdin's State Papers_, Vol. I. p. 43. From which it appears, that, by command of Sir Ralph Evers, this clan ravaged almost the whole west border of Scotland. _The sheriffe brought the Douglas down_.--P. 158. v. 2, Douglas of Cavers, hereditary sheriff of Teviotdale, descended from Black Archibald, who carried the standard of his father, the Earl of Douglas, at the battle of Otterbourne.--_See the Ballad of that name_. _Wi' Cranstane, Gladstain, good at need_.--P. 158. v. 2. Cranstoun of that ilk, ancestor to Lord Cranstoun; and Gladstain of Gladstains. _Wi a' the Trumbills, stronge and stout; The Rutherfoords, with grit renown_.--P. 158. v. 2. These were ancient and powerful border clans, residing chiefly upon the river Jed. Hence, they naturally convoyed the town of Jedburgh out. Although notorious freebooters, they were specially patronised by Morton, who, by their means, endeavoured to counterpoise the power of Buccleuch and Ferniherst, during the civil wars attached to the queen's faction. The following fragment of an old ballad is quoted in a letter from an aged gentleman of this name, residing at New-York, to a friend in Scotland: "Bauld Rutherfurd, he was fow stout, Wi' a' his nine sons him round about; He led the town o' Jedburgh out, All bravely fought that day." _Wi' Sir John Forster for their guyde_.--P. 158. v. 3. This gentleman is called, erroneously, in some copies of this ballad, _Sir George_. He was warden of the mid-marches of England. _Wi' Sir George Henroune of Schipsydehouse_.--P. 159. v. 1. Sir George Heron of Chipchase-house, whose character is contrasted with that of the English warden. _Had Tindaill, Reedsdaill at his hand_.--P. 159. v. 2. These are districts, or dales, on the English border. Hebsrime seems to be an error in the MS. for Hebburn upon the Till. _Five hundred Fennicks in a flock_.--P. 159. v. 3. The Fenwicks; a powerful and numerous Northumberland clan. _Then raise the slogan with ane shout_.--P. 161. v. 3. The gathering word, peculiar to a certain name, or set of people, was termed _slogan_, or _slughorn_, and was always repeated at an onset, as well as on many other occasions, as appears from the following passage of an old author, whom this custom seems much to have offended--for he complains, "That whereas alweys, both in al tounes of war, and in al campes of armies, quietnes and stilnes without nois is principally in the night, after the watch is set, observed (I need not reason why.) Yet, our northern prikkers, the borderers, notwithstanding, with great enormitie, (as thought me) and not unlyke (to be playn) unto a masterless hounde houyling in a hie wey, when he hath lost him he wayted upon, sum hoopyng, sum whistelyng, and most with crying, a _Berwyke_! a _Berwyke_! a _Fenwyke_! a _Fenwyke_! a _Bulmer_! a _Bulmer_! or so ootherwise as theyr captein's names wear, never linnde those troublous and daungerous noyses all the night long. They sayd they did it to fynd out their captein and fellowes; but if the soldiours of our oother countries and sheres had used the same maner, in that case we shoold have oftymes had the state of our campe more lyke the outrage of a dissolute huntyng, than the quiet of a wel ordred army."-- _Patten's Account of Somerset's Expedition_, p. 76.--_Apud Dalyell's Fragments_. Honest Patten proceeds, with great prolixity, to prove, that this was a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance; and, like Fluellen, declares, "that such idle pribble prabbles were contrary to all the good customs and disciplines of war." Nevertheless, the custom of crying the _slogan_ or _ensenzie_, is often alluded to in all our ancient histories and poems. It was usually the name of the clan, or place of rendezvous, or leader. In 1335, the English, led by Thomas of Rosslyne, and William Moubray, assaulted Aberdeen. The former was mortally wounded in the onset; and, as his followers were pressing forward, shouting _Rosslyne! Rosslyne_! "Cry _Moubray_," said the expiring chieftain; "_Rosslyne_ is gone!" The Highland clans had also their appropriate slogans. The Macdonalds cried _Frich_, (heather); the Macphersons _Craig-Ubh_; the Grants _Craig-Elachie_; and the Macfarlanes _Lock-Sloy_. _The swallow taill frae tackles flew_.--P. 162. v. 2. The Scots, on this occasion, seem to have had chiefly fire-arms; the English retaining still their partiality for their ancient weapon, the long-bow. It also appears, by a letter from the Duke of Norfolk to Cecil, that the English borderers were unskilful in fire-arms, or, as he says, "our countrymen be not so commyng with shots as I woolde wishe."--See _Murdin's State Papers_, Vol. I. p. 319. _And had not been the merchant packs_.--P. 162. v. 3. The ballad-maker here ascribes the victory to the real cause; for, the English borderers, dispersing to plunder the merchandise, gave the opposite party time to recover from their surprise It seems to have been usual for travelling merchants to attend border-meetings, although one would have thought the kind of company, usually assembled there, might have deterred them. _Sir Francis Russel ta'en was there_.--P, 163. v. 1. This gentleman was son to the Earl of Bedford. He was afterwards killed in a fray of a similar nature, at a border-meeting, between the same Sir John Forster (father-in-law to Russell), and Thomas Ker of Fairnihurst, A.D. 1585. _Proud Wallinton was wounded sair_.--P. 163. v. 1. Fenwick of Wallinton, a powerful Northumbrian chief. _As Collingwood, that courteous knight_.--P. 163. v. 1. Sir Cuthbert Collingwood. Besides these gentlemen, James Ogle, and many other Northumbrians of note, were made prisoners. Sir George Heron, of Chipchase and Ford, was slain, to the great regret of both parties, being a man highly esteemed by the Scots, as well as the English. When the prisoners were brought to Morton, at Dalkeith, and, among other presents, received from him some Scottish falcons, one of his train observed, that the English were nobly treated, since they got live _hawks_ for dead _herons_.--_Godscroft_. _Young Henry Schufton_,--P. 163. v. 2. The name of this gentleman does not appear in the MS. in the Advocates' Library, but is restored from a copy in single sheet, printed early in the last century. _For laiming of the laird of Mow_.--P. 163. v. 2. An ancient family on the borders. The lands of Mowe are situated upon the river Bowmont, in Roxburghshire. The family is now represented by William Molle, Esq. of Mains, who has restored the ancient spelling of the name. The laird of Mowe, here mentioned, was the only gentleman of note killed in the skirmish on the Scottish side. _For Gretein kend net gude be ill_.--P. 163. v. 2; Graden, a family of Kerrs. _Beanjeddart, Hundlie, and Hunthill_.--P. 163. v. 3. Douglas of Beanjeddart, an ancient branch of the house of Cavers, possessing property near the junction of the Jed and Tiviot. _Hundlie_,--Rutherford of Hundlie, or Hundalee, situated on the Jed, above Jedhurgh. _Hunthill_.--The old tower of Hunthill was situated about a mile above Jedburgh. It was the patrimony of an ancient family of Rutherfords. I suppose the person, here meant, to be the same who is renowned in tradition by the name of the _Cock of Hunthill_. His sons were executed for march-treason, or border-theft, along with the lairds of Corbet, Greenhead, and Overton, A.D. 1588.--_Johnston's History_, p. 129. _But auld Badreule had on a jack_.--P. 164. v. 1. Sir Andrew Turnbull of Bedrule, upon Rule Water. This old laird was so notorious a thief, that the principal gentlemen of the clans of Hume and Kerr refused to sign a bond of alliance, to which he, with the Turnbulls and Rutherfords, was a party; alleging, that their proposed allies had stolen Hume of Wedderburn's cattle. The authority of Morton, however, compelled them to digest the affront. The debate (and a curious one it is) may be seen at length in _Godscroft_, Vol. I. p. 221. The Rutherfords became more lawless after having been deprived of the countenance of the court, for slaying the nephew of Forman, archbishop of St. Andrews, who had attempted to carry off the heiress of Rutherford. This lady was afterwards married to James Stuart of Traquair, son to James, Earl of Buchan, according to a papal bull, dated 9th November, 1504. By this lady a great estate in Tiviotdale fell to the family of Traquair, which was sold by James, Earl of Traquair, lord-high-treasurer of Scotland, in consequence of the pecuniary difficulties to which he was reduced, by his loyal exertions in favour of Charles I. _Gude Ederstane was not to lack_.--P. 164. v. 1. An ancient family of Rutherfords; I believe, indeed, the most ancient now extant. The family is represented by Major Rutherford of Edgerstane. His seat is about three miles distant from the field of battle. _Nor Kirktoun, Newtoun, noble men_!--P. 164. v. 1. The parish of Kirktoun belonged, I believe, about this time, to a branch of the Cavers family; but Kirkton of Stewartfield is mentioned in the list of border clans in 1597. _Newtoun_.--This is probably Grinyslaw of Little Newtoun, mentioned in the said roll of border clans. KINMONT WILLIE * * * * * In the following rude strains, our forefathers commemorated one of the last, and most gallant atchievements, performed upon the border. The reader will find, in the subjoined extract from Spottiswoode, a minute historical account of the exploit; which is less different from that contained in the ballad than might perhaps have been expected. _Anno, 1596_.--"The next year began with a trouble in the borders, which was like to have destroyed the peace betwixt the two realms, and arose upon this occasion. The Lord Scroop being the warden of the west marches of England, and the laird of Bacleuch having the charge of Liddesdale, they sent their deputies to keep a day of truce, for redress of some ordinary matters.--The place of meeting was at the Dayholme of Kershop, where a small brook divideth England from Scotland, and Liddesdale from Bawcastle. There met, as deputy for the laird of Bacleuch, Robert Scott of Hayninge; and for the Lord Scroop, a gentleman within the west wardenry, called Mr. Salkeld. These two, after truce taken and proclaimed, as the custom was, by sound of trumpet, met friendly, and, upon mutual redress of such wrongs as were then complained of, parted in good terms, each of them taking his way homewards. Meanwhile it happened, one William Armstrong, commonly called _Will of Kinmonth_, to be in company with the Scottish deputy, against whom the English had a quarrel, for many wrongs he had committed, as he was indeed a notorious thief. This man, having taken his leave of the Scots deputy, and riding down the river of Liddel on the Scottish side, towards his own house, was pursued by the English, who espied him from the other side of the river, and, after a chase of three or four miles, taken prisoner, and brought back to the English deputy, who carried him away to the castle of Carlisle. "The laird of Bacleuch complaining of the breach of truce (which was always taken from the time of meeting, unto the next day at sun-rising), wrote to Mr. Salkeld, and craved redress. He excused himself by the absence of the Lord Scroop. Whereupon Bacleuch sent to the Lord Scroop, and desired the prisoner might be set at liberty, without any bond or condition, seeing he was unlawfully taken. Scroop answered, that he could do nothing in the matter, it having so happened, without a direction from the queen and council of England, considering the man was such a malefactor.--Bacleuch, loth to inform the king of what was done, lest it might have bred some misliking betwixt the princes, dealt with Mr. Bowes, the resident ambassador of England, for the prisoner's liberty; who wrote very seriously to the Lord Scroop in that business, advising him to set the man free, and not to bring the matter to a farther hearing. But no answer was returned: the matter thereupon was imparted to the king, and the queen of England solicited by letters to give direction for his liberty; yet nothing was obtained; which Bacleuch perceiving, and apprehending both the king, and himself as the king's officer, to be touched in honour, he resolved to work the prisoner's relief, by the best means he could. "And, upon intelligence that the castle of Carlisle, wherein the prisoner was kept, was surprisable, he employed some trusty persons to take a view of the postern gate, and measure the height of the wall, which he meant to scale by ladders, and, if those failed, to break through the wall with some iron instruments, and force the gates. This done, so closely as he could, he drew together some two hundred horse, assigning the place of meeting at the tower of Morton, some ten miles from Carlisle, an hour before sun-set. With this company, passing the water of Esk, about the falling, two hours before day, he crossed Eden beneath Carlisle bridge (the water, through the rain that had fallen, being thick), and came to the Sacery, a plain under the castle. There making a little halt, at the side of a small bourn, which they call Cadage, he caused eighty of the company to light from their horses, and take the ladders, and other instruments which he had prepared, with them. He himself, accompanying them to the foot of the wall, caused the ladders to be set to it, which proving too short, he gave order to use the other instruments for opening the wall nigh the postern; and, finding the business likely to succeed, retired to the rest whom he had left on horseback, for assuring those that entered upon the castle against any eruption from the town. With some little labor a breach was made for single men to enter, and they who first went in, broke open the postern for the rest. The watchmen, and some few the noise awaked, made a little restraint, but they were quickly repressed, and taken captive. After which, they passed to the chamber wherein the prisoner was kept; and, having brought him forth, sounded a trumpet, which was a signal to them without that the enterprize was performed. My Lord Scroope and Mr. Salkeld were both within the house, and to them the prisoner cried "a good night!" The captives taken in the first encounter were brought to Bacleuch, who presently returned them to their master, and would not suffer any spoil, or booty, as they term it, to be carried away; he had straitly forbidden to break open any door, but that where the prisoner was kept, though he might have made prey of all the goods within the castle, and taken the warden himself captive; for he would have it seen, that he did intend nothing but the reparation of his majesty's honor. By this time, the prisoner was brought forth, the town had taken the alarm, the drums were beating, the bells ringing, and a beacon put on the top of the castle, to give warning to the country. Whereupon Bacleuch commanded those that entered the castle, and the prisoner, to horse; and marching again by the Sacery, made to the river at the Stony-bank, on the other side, whereof certain were assembled to stop his passage; but he, causing to sound the trumpet, took the river, day being then broken, and they choosing to give him way, he retired in order through the Grahams of Esk (men at that time of great power, and his un-friends), and came back into Scottish ground two hours after sun-rising, and so homewards. "This fell out the 13th of April, _1596_. The queen of England, having notice sent her of what was done, stormed not a little. One of her chief castles surprised, a prisoner taken forth of the hands of the warden, and carried away, so far within England, she esteemed a great affront. The lieger, Mr. Bowes, in a frequent convention kept at Edinburgh, the 22d of May, did, as he was charged, in a long oration, aggravate the heinousness of the fact, concluding that peace could not longer continue betwixt the two realms, unless Bacleuch were delivered in England, to be punished at the queen's pleasure. Bacleuch compearing, and charged with the fact, made answer--'That he went not into England with intention to assault any of the queen's houses, or to do wrong to any of her subjects, but only to relieve a subject of Scotland unlawfully taken, and more unlawfully detained; that, in the time of a general assurance, in a day of truce, he was taken prisoner against all order, neither did he attempt his relief till redress was refused; and that he had carried the business in such a moderate manner, as no hostility was committed, nor the least wrong offered to any within the castle; yet was he content, according to the ancient treaties observed betwixt the two realms, when as mutual injuries were alleged, to be tried by the commissioners that it should please their majesties to appoint, and submit himself to that which they should decern.'--The convention, esteeming the answer reasonable, did acquaint the ambassador therewith, and offered to send commissioners to the borders, with all diligence, to treat with such as the queen should be pleased to appoint for her part. "But she, not satisfied with the answer, refused to appoint any commissioners; whereupon the council of England did renew the complaint in July thereafter; and the business being of new agitated, it was resolved of as before, and that the same should be remitted to the trial of commissioners: the king protesting, 'that he might, with great reason, crave the delivery of Lord Scroope, for the injury committed by his deputy, it being less favourable to take a prisoner, than relieve him that is unlawfully taken; yet, for the continuing of peace, he would forbear to do it, and omit nothing, on his part, that could be desired, either in equity, or by the laws of friendship.'--The borders, in the mean time, making daily incursions one upon another, filled all their parts with trouble, the English being continually put to the worse; neither were they made quiet, till, for satisfying the queen, the laird of Bacleuch was first committed in St. Andrews, and afterwards entered in England, where he remained not long[158]."--_Spottiswood's History of the Church of Scotland_, p. 414, 416, _Ed. 1677_. Scott of Satchells, in the extraordinary poetical performance, which he has been pleased to entitle _A History of the Name of Scott_ (published 1688), dwells, with great pleasure, upon this gallant achievement, at which, it would seem, his father had been present. He also mentions, that the laird of Buccleuch employed the services of the younger sons and brothers only of his clan, lest the name should have been weakened by the landed men incurring forfeiture. But he adds, that three gentlemen of estate insisted upon attending their chief, notwithstanding this prohibition. These were, the lairds of Harden and Commonside, and Sir Gilbert Elliot of the Stobbs, a relation of the laird of Buccleuch, and ancestor to the present Sir William Elliot, Bart. In many things Satchells agrees with the ballads current in his time, from which, in all probability, he derived most of his information as to past events, and from which he sometimes pirates whole verses, as noticed in the annotations upon the _Raid of the Reidswire_. In the present instance, he mentions the prisoner's _large spurs_ (alluding to the fetters), and some other little incidents noticed in the ballad, which was, therefore, probably well known in his days. [Footnote 158: The bishop is, in this last particular, rather inaccurate. Buccleuch was indeed delivered into England, but this was done in consequence of the judgment of commissioners of both nations, who met at Berwick this same year. And his delivery took place, less on account of the raid of Carlisle, than of a second exploit of the same nature, to be noticed hereafter.] All contemporary historians unite in extolling the deed itself as the most daring and well-conducted atchievement of that age. "_Audax facinus cum modica manu, in urbe maenibus et multitudine oppidanorum munita, et callidae: audaciae, vix ullo obsisti modo potuit_."--_Johnstoni Historia, Ed. Amstael. p_. 215. Birrel, in his gossipping way, says, the exploit was performed "with shouting and crying, and sound of trumpet, puttand the said toun and countrie in sic ane fray, that the like of sic ane wassaladge wes nevir done since the memory of man, no not in Wallace dayis."--_Birrel's Diary_, April 6, 1596. This good old citizen of Edinburgh also mentions another incident which I think proper to insert here, both as relating to the personages mentioned in the following ballad, and as tending to shew the light in which the men of the border were regarded, even at this late period, by their fellow subjects. The author is talking of the king's return to Edinburgh, after the disgrace which he had sustained there, during the riot excited by the seditious ministers, on December 17, 1596. Proclamation had been made, that the Earl of Mar should keep the West Port, Lord Seton the Nether-Bow, and Buccleuch, with sundry others, the High Gate. "Upon the morn, at this time, and befoir this day, thair wes ane grate rumour and word among the tounesmen, that the kinges M. sould send in _Will Kinmond, the common thieffe_, and so many southland men as sould spulye the toun of Edinburgh. Upon the whilk, the haill merchants tuik thair haill gear out of their buiths or chops, and transportit the same to the strongest hous that wes in the toune, and remained in the said hous, thair, with thameselfis, thair servants, and luiking for nothing bot that thai sould have been all spulyeit. Sic lyke the hail craftsmen and comons convenit themselfis, thair best guides, as it wer ten or twelve householdes in are, whilk wes the strongest hous, and might be best kepit from spuilyeing or burning, with hagbut, pistolet, and other sic armour, as might best defend thameselfis. Judge, gentill reider, giff this wes playing." The fear of the borderers being thus before the eyes of the contumacious citizens of Edinburgh, James obtained a quiet hearing for one of his favourite orisones, or harangues, and was finally enabled to prescribe terms to his fanatic metropolis. Good discipline was, however, maintained by the chiefs upon this occasion; although the fears of the inhabitants were but too well grounded, considering what had happened in Stirling ten years before, when the Earl of Angus, attended by Home, Buccleuch, and other border chieftains, marched thither to remove the Earl of Arran from the king's councils: the town was miserably pillaged by the borderers, particularly by a party of Armstrongs, under this very Kinmont Willie, who not only made prey of horses and cattle, but even of the very iron grating of the windows.--_Johnstoni Historia_, p. 102. _Ed. Amstael_.--_Moyse's Memoirs_, p. 100. The renown of Kinmont Willie is not surprising, since, in 1588, the apprehending that freebooter, and Robert Maxwell, natural-brother to the Lord Maxwell, was the main, but unaccomplished, object of a royal expedition to Dumfries. "_Rex ... Robertum Maxvallium ... et Gulielmum Armstrangum Kinmonthum latrociniis intestinis externisque famosum, conquiri jubet. Missi e ministerio regio, qui per aspera loca vitabundos persequuntur, magnoque incommodo afficiunt. At illi latebris aut silvis se eripiunt."--Johnstoni Historia_, p. 138. About this time, it is possible that Kinmont Willie may have held some connection with the Maxwells, though afterwards a retainer to Buccleuch, the enemy of that tribe. At least, the editor finds, that, in a bond of manrent, granted by Simon Elliot of Whytheuch, in Liddesdale, to Lord Maxwell, styled therein Earl of Morton, dated February 28, 1599, William Armstrang, called _Will of Kinmond_, appears as a witness.--_Syme's MSS_. According to Satchells, this freebooter was descended of Johnie Armstrong of Gilnockie (See _Ballad, p. 105, of this volume_.)--_Est in juvencis, est et in equis, patrum virtus_. In fact, his rapacity made his very name proverbial. Mas James Melvine, in urging reasons against subscribing the act of supremacy, in 1584, asks ironically, "Who shall take order with vice and wickedness? The court and bishops? As well as Martine Elliot, and Will of Kinmont, with stealing upon the borders!"--_Calderwood_, p. 168. This affair of Kinmont Willie was not the only occasion upon which the undaunted keeper of Liddesdale gave offence to the haughty Elizabeth. For, even before this business was settled, certain of the English borderers having invaded Liddesdale, and wasted the country, the laird of Buccleuch retaliated the injury by a _raid_ into England, in which he not only brought off much spoil, but apprehended thirty-six of the Tynedale thieves, all of whom he put to death.--_Spottiswoode_, p. 450. How highly the Queen of England's resentment blazed on this occasion, may be judged from the preface to her letter to Bowes, then her ambassador in Scotland. "I wonder how base-minded that king thinks me, that, with patience, I can digest this dishonourable ********. Let him know, therefore, that I will have satisfaction, or else *********." These broken words of ire are inserted betwixt the subscription and the address of the letter.--_Rymer_, Vol. XVI. p. 318. Indeed, so deadly was the resentment of the English, on account of the affronts put upon them by this formidable chieftain, that there seems at one time to have been a plan formed (not, as was alleged, without Elizabeth's privity,) to assassinate Buccleuch.--_Rymer_, Vol. XVI. p. 107. The matter was at length arranged by the commissioners of both nations in Berwick, by whom it was agreed that delinquents should be delivered up on both sides, and that the chiefs themselves should enter into ward in the opposite countries, till these were given up, and pledges granted for the future maintenance of the quiet of the borders. Buccleuch, and Sir Robert Ker of Cessford (ancestor of the Duke of Roxburgh), appear to have struggled hard against complying with this regulation; so much so, that it required all James's authority to bring to order these two powerful chiefs.--_Rymer_, Vol. XVI. p. 322.--_Spottiswoode_, p. 448.--_Carey's Memoirs_, p, 131. _et sequen_.--When at length they appeared, for the purpose of delivering themselves up to be warded at Berwick, an incident took place, which nearly occasioned a revival of the deadly feud which formerly subsisted between the Scots and the Kers. Buccleuch had chosen, for his guardian, during his residence in England, Sir William Selby, master of the ordnance at Berwick, and accordingly gave himself into his hands. Sir Robert Ker was about to do the same, when a pistol was discharged by one of his retinue, and the cry of treason was raised. Had not the Earl of Home been present, with a party of Merse men, to preserve order, a dreadful tumult would probably have ensued. As it was, the English commissioners returned in dismay to Berwick, much disposed to wreak their displeasure on Buccleuch; and he, on his side, mortally offended with Cessford, by whose means, as he conceived, he had been placed in circumstances of so much danger. Sir Robert Ker, however, appeased all parties, by delivering himself up to ward in England; on which occasion, he magnanimously chose for his guardian Sir Robert Carey, deputy-warden of the east marches, notwithstanding various causes of animosity which existed betwixt them. The hospitality of Carey equalled the generous confidence of Cessford, and a firm friendship was the consequence[159]. [Footnote 159: Such traits of generosity illuminate the dark period of which we treat. Carey's conduct, on this occasion, almost atones for the cold and unfeeling policy with which he watched the closing moments of his benefactress, Elizabeth, impatient till remorse and sorrow should extort her last sigh, that he might lay the foundation of his future favour with her successor, by carrying him the first tidings of her death.--_Carey's Memoirs_, p. 172. _et sequen_. It would appear that Sir Robert Ker was soon afterwards committed to the custody of the archbishop of York; for there is extant a letter from that prelate to the lord-treasurer, desiring instructions about the mode of keeping this noble hostage. "I understand," saith he, "that the gentleman is wise and valiant, but somewhat haughty here, and resolute. I would pray your lordship, that I may have directions whether he may not go with his keeper in my company, to sermons; and whether he may not sometimes dine with the council, as the last hostages did; and, thirdly, whether he may sometimes be brought to sitting to the common-hall, where he may see how careful her majesty is that the poorest subject in her kingdom may have their right, and that her people seek remedy by law, and not by avenging themselves. Perhaps it may do him good as long as he liveth."--_Strype's Annals, ad annum, 1597_. It would appear, from this letter, that the treatment of the hostages was liberal; though one can hardly suppress a smile at the zeal of the good bishop for the conversion of the Scottish chieftain to a more christian mode of thinking than was common among the borderers of that day. The date is February 25. 1597, which is somewhat difficult to reconcile with those given by the Scottish historians--Another letter follows, stating, that Sir Robert, having been used to open air, prayed for more liberty for his health's sake, "offering his word, which it is said he doth chiefly regard, that he would be true prisoner."--_Strype, Ibid._] Buccleuch appears to have remained in England from October, 1597, till February, 1598.--_Johnstoni Historia_, p. 231,--_Spottiswoode, ut supra_. According to ancient family tradition, Buccleuch was presented to Elizabeth, who, with her usual rough and peremptory address, demanded of him, "how he dared to undertake an enterprize so desperate and presumptuous." "What is it," answered the undaunted chieftain, "What is it that a man dares not do!" Elizabeth, struck with the reply, turned to a lord in waiting; "With ten thousand such men," said she, "our brother of Scotland might shake the firmest throne of Europe." Luckily, perhaps, for the murtheress of Queen Mary, James's talents did not lie that way. The articles, settled by the commissioners at Berwick, were highly favourable to the peace of the border. They may be seen at large in the _Border Laws_, p. 103. By article sixth, all wardens and keepers are discharged from seeking reparation of injuries, in the ancient hostile mode of riding, or causing to ride, in warlike manner, against the opposite march; and that under the highest penalty, unless authorized by a warrant under the hand of their sovereign. The mention of the word _keeper_, alludes obviously to the above-mentioned reprisals, made by Buccleuch in the capacity of keeper of Liddesdale. This ballad is preserved, by tradition, on the west borders, but much mangled by reciters; so that some conjectural emendations have been absolutely necessary to render it intelligible. In particular, the _Eden_ has been substituted for the _Eske_, p. 193, the latter name being inconsistent with geography. KINMONT WILLIE. * * * * * O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde? O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroop? How they hae ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie, On Hairibee to hang him up? Had Willie had but twenty men, But twenty men as stout as he, Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en, Wi' eight score in his cumpanie. They band his legs beneath the steed, They tied his hands behind his back; They guarded him, fivesome on each side, And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack. They led him thro' the Liddel-rack, And also thro' the Carlisle sands; They brought him to Carlisle castell, To be at my Lord Scroop's commands. "My hands are tied, but my tongue is free! And whae will dare this deed avow? Or answer by the border law? Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch!" "Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver! There's never a Scot shall set ye free: Before ye cross my castle yate, I trow ye shall take farewell o' me." "Fear na ye that, my lord," quo' Willie: "By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroop," he said, "I never yet lodged in a hostelrie,[160] But I paid my lawing[161] before I gaed." Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper, In Branksome Ha', where that he lay, That Lord Scroop has ta'en the Kinmont Willie, Between the hours of night and day. He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, He garr'd the red wine spring on hie-- "Now Christ's curse on my head," he said, "But avenged of Lord Scroop I'll be! "O is my basnet[162] a widow's curc[163] Or my lance a wand of the willow tree? Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand, That an English lord should lightly[164] me! "And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Against the truce of border tide? And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch Is Keeper here on the Scottish side? "And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Withouten either dread or fear? And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch Can back a steed, or shake a spear? "O were there war between the lands, As well I wot that there is none, I would slight Carlisle castell high, Tho' it were builded of marble stone. "I would set that castell in a low,[165] And sloken it with English blood! There's nevir a man in Cumberland, Should ken where Carlisle castell stood. "But since nae war's between the lands, And there is peace, and peace should be; I'll neither harm English lad or lass, And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!" He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, I trow they were of his ain name, Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, call'd The laird of Stobs, I mean the same. He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch; With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,[166] And gleuves of green, and feathers blue. There were five and five before them a', Wi' hunting horns and bugles bright; And five and five came wi' Buccleuch, Like warden's men, arrayed for fight: And five and five, like a mason gang, That carried the ladders lang and hie; And five and five, like broken men; And so they reached the Woodhouselee. And as we cross'd the Bateable Land, When to the English side we held, The first o' men that we met wi', Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde? "Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?" Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell to me!" "We go to hunt an English stag, Has trespassed on the Scots countrie." "Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?" Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell me true!"' "We go to catch a rank reiver, Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch." "Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, Wi' a' your ladders, lang and hie?" "We gang to herry a corbie's nest, That wons not far frae Woodhouselee." "Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?" Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell to me!" Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band, And the never a word o' lear had he. "Why trespass ye on the English side? Row-footed outlaws, stand!" quo' he; The never a word had Dickie to say, Sae he thrust the lance thro' his fause bodie. Then on we held for Carlisle toun, And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we cross'd; The water was great and meikle of spait, But the nevir a horse nor man we lost. And when we reached the Staneshaw-bank, The wind was rising loud and hie; And there the laird garr'd leave our steeds, For fear that they should stamp and nie. And when we left the Staneshaw-bank, The wind began full loud to blaw; But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, When we came beneath the castle wa'. We crept on knees, and held our breath, Till we placed the ladders against the wa'; And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell To mount the first, before us a'. He has ta'en the watchman by the throat, He flung him down upon the lead-- "Had there not been peace between our land, Upon the other side thou hadst gaed!-- "Now sound out, trumpets!" quo' Buccleuch; "Let's waken Lord Scroop, right merrilie!" Then loud the warden's trumpet blew-- "_O whae dare meddle wi' me_?"[167] Then speedilie to work we gaed, And raised the slogan ane and a'. And cut a hole thro' a sheet of lead, And so we wan to the castle ha'. They thought King James and a' his men Had won the house wi' bow and spear; It was but twenty Scots and ten, That put a thousand in sic a stear![168] Wi' coulters and wi' fore-hammers, We garr'd the bars bang merrilie, Untill we cam to the inner prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie. And when we cam to the lower prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie-- "O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie, Upon the morn that thou's to die?" "O I sleep saft,[169] and I wake aft; Its lang since sleeping was fleyed[170] frae me! Gie my service back to my wife and bairns, And a' gude fellows that speer for me." Then Red Rowan has hente him up, The starkest man in Teviotdale-- "Abide, abide now, Red Rowan, Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell. "Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope! My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!" he cried-- "I'll pay you for my lodging maill,[171] When first we meet on the border side." Then shoulder high, with shout and cry, We bore him down the ladder lang; At every stride Red Rowan made, I wot the Kinmont's aims played clang! "O mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie, "I have ridden horse baith wild and wood; But a rougher beast than Red Rowan, I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode. "And mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie, "I've pricked a horse out oure the furs;[172] But since the day I backed a steed, I never wore sic cumbrous spurs!" We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank, When a' the Carlisle bells were rung, And a thousand men, in horse and foot, Cam wi' the keen Lord Scroope along. Buccleuch has turned to Eden water, Even where it flow'd frae bank to brim, And he has plunged in wi' a' his band, And safely swam them thro' the stream. He turned him on the other side, And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he-- "If ye like na my visit in merry England, In fair Scotland come visit me!" All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope, He stood as still as rock of stane; He scarcely dared to trew his eyes, When thro' the water they had gane. "He is either himsell a devil frae hell, Or else his mother a witch maun be; I wad na have ridden that wan water, For a' the gowd in Christentie." [Footnote 160: _Hostelrie_--Inn.] [Footnote 161: _Lawing_--Reckoning.] [Footnote 162: _Basnet_--Helmet.] [Footnote 163: _Curch_--Coif.] [Footnote 164: _Lightly_--Set light by.] [Footnote 165: _Low_--Flame.] [Footnote 166: _Splent on spauld_--Armour on shoulder.] [Footnote 167: The name of a border tune.] [Footnote 168: _Stear_--Stir.] [Footnote 169: _Soft_--Light.] [Footnote 170: _Fleyed_--Frightened.] [Footnote 171: _Maill_--Rent.] [Footnote 172: _Furs_--Furrows.] NOTES ON KINMONT WILLIE. * * * * * _On Hairibee to hang him up_?--P. 188. v. 1. Hairibee is the place of execution at Carlisle. _And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack_.--P. 188. v. 3. The Liddel-rack is a ford on the Liddel. _And so they reached the Woodhouselee_.--P. 192. v. 1. Woodhouselee; a house on the border, belonging to Buccleuch. * * * * * The Salkeldes, or Sakeldes, were a powerful family in Cumberland, possessing, among other manors, that of Corby, before it came into the possession of the Howards, in the beginning of the seventeenth century. A strange stratagem was practised by an outlaw, called Jock Grame of the Peartree, upon Mr. Salkelde, sheriff of Cumberland; who is probably the person alluded to in the ballad, as the fact is stated to have happened late in Elizabeth's time. The brother of this freebooter was lying in Carlisle jail for execution, when Jock of the Peartree came riding past the gate of Corby castle. A child of the sheriff was playing before the door, to whom the outlaw gave an apple, saying, "Master, will you ride?" The boy willingly consenting, Grame took him up before him, carried him into Scotland, and would never part with him, till he had his brother safe from the gallows. There is no historical ground for supposing, either that Salkelde, or any one else, lost his life in the raid of Carlisle. In the list of border clans, 1597, Will of Kinmonth, with Kyrstie Armestrange, and John Skynbanke, are mentioned as leaders of a band of Armstrongs, called _Sandies Barnes_, inhabiting the Debateable Land. The ballad itself has never before been published. DICK O' THE COW. * * * * * This ballad, and the two which immediately follow it in the collection, were published, 1784, in the _Hawick Museum_, a provincial miscellany, to which they were communicated by John Elliot, Esq. of Reidheugh, a gentleman well skilled in the antiquities of the western border, and to whose friendly assistance the editor is indebted for many valuable communications. These ballads are connected with each other, and appear to have been composed by the same author. The actors seem to have flourished, while Thomas, Lord Scroope, of Bolton, was warden of the west marches of England, and governor of Carlisle castle; which offices he acquired upon the death of his father, about 1590; and retained it till the union of the crowns. _Dick of the Cow_, from the privileged insolence which he assumes, seems to have been Lord Scroope's jester. In the preliminary dissertation, the reader will find the border custom of assuming _noms de guerre_ particularly noticed. It is exemplified in the following ballad, where one Armstrong is called the _Laird's Jock_ (i.e. the laird's son Jock), another _Fair Johnie_, a third _Billie Willie_ (brother Willie), &c. The _Laird's Jock_, son to the laird of Mangerton, appears, as one of the men of name in Liddesdale, in the list of border clans, _1597_. _Dick of the Cow_ is erroneously supposed to have been the same with one Ricardus Coldall, de Plumpton, a knight and celebrated warrior, who died in 1462, as appears from his epitaph in the church of Penrith.--_Nicolson's History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, Vol. II. p. 408. This ballad is very popular in Liddesdale; and the reciter always adds, at the conclusion, that poor Dickie's cautious removal to Burgh under Stanemore, did not save him from the clutches of the Armstrongs; for that, having fallen into their power several years after this exploit, he was put to an inhuman death. The ballad was well known in England, so early as 1556. An allusion to it likewise occurs in _Parrot's Laquei Ridiculosi_, or _Springes for Woodcocks_; London, 1613. Owenus wondreth, since he came to Wales, What the description of this isle should be, That nere had seen but mountains, hills, and dales. Yet would he boast, and stand on pedigree, From Rice ap Richard, sprung from Dick a Cow, Be cod, was right gud gentleman, looke ye now! _Epigr. 76_. DICK O' THE COW. * * * * * Now Liddesdale has layen lang in, There is na riding there at a'; The horses are grown sae lither fat, They downa stur out o' the sta.' Fair Johnie Armstrang to Willie did say-- "Billie, a riding we will gae; England and us have been lang at feid; Ablins we'll light on some bootie." Then they are come on to Hutton Ha'; They rade that proper place about; But the laird he was the wiser man, For he had left nae gear without. For he had left nae gear to steal, Except sax sheep upon a lee: Quo' Johnie--"I'd rather in England die, "Ere thir sax sheep gae to Liddesdale wi' me." "But how ca' they the men we last met, Billie, as we cam owre the know?" "That same he is an innocent fule, And men they call him Dick o' the Cow," "That fule has three as good kye o' his ain, As there are in a' Cumberland, billie," quo he: "Betide me life, betide me death, These kye shall go to Liddesdale wi' me." Then they have come on to the pure fule's house, And they hae broken his wa's sae wide; They have loosed out Dick o' the Cow's three ky, And ta'en three co'erlets frae his wife's bed. Then on the morn when the day was light, The shouts and cries rase loud and hie: "O haud thy tongue, my wife," he says, "And o' thy crying let me be! "O had thy tongue, my wife," he says, "And o' thy crying let me be; And ay where thou hast lost ae cow, In gude suith I shall bring thee three." Now Dickie's gane to the gude Lord Scroope, And I wat a dreirie fule was he; "Now hand thy tongue, my fule," he says, "For I may not stand to jest wi' thee." "Shame fa' your jesting, my lord!" quo' Dickie, "For nae sic jesting grees wi' me; Liddesdale's been in my house last night, And they hae awa my three kye frae me. "But I may nae langer in Cumberland dwell, To be your puir fule and your leal, Unless you gi' me leave, my lord, To gae to Liddesdale and steal." "I gie thee leave, my fule!" he says; "Thou speakest against my honour and me, Unless thou gie me thy trowth and thy hand, Thou'lt steal frae nane but whae sta' frae thee." "There is my trowth, and my right hand! My head shall hang on Hairibee; I'll ne'er cross Carlisle sands again, If I steal frae a man but whae sta' frae me." Dickie's ta'en leave o' lord and master; I wat a merry fule was he! He's bought a bridle and a pair of new spurs, And pack'd them up in his breek thie. Then Dickie's come on to Pudding-burn house, E'en as fast as he might drie; Then Dickie's come on to Pudding-burn, Where there were thirty Armstrangs and three. "O what's this come o' me now?" quo' Dickie; "What mickle wae is this?" quo' he; "For here is but ae innocent fule, And there are thirty Armstrangs and three!" Yet he has come up to the fair ha' board, Sae weil he's become his courtesie! "Weil may ye be, my gude Laird's Jock! But the deil bless a' your cumpanie. "I'm come to plain o' your man, fair Johnie Armstrang And syne o' his billie Willie," quo he; "How they've been in my house last night, And they hae ta'en my three kye frae me." "Ha!" quo' fair Johnie Armstrang, "we will him hang." "Na," quo' Willie, "we'll him slae." Then up and spak another young Armstrang, "We'll gie him his batts,[173] and let him gae." But up and spak the gude Laird's Jock, The best falla in a' the cumpanie: "Sit down thy ways a little while, Dickie, And a piece o' thy ain cow's hough I'll gie ye." But Dickie's heart it grew sae grit, That the ne'er a bit o't he dought to eat-- Then was he aware of an auld peat-house, Where a' the night he thought for to sleep. Then Dickie was aware of an auld peat-house, Where a' the night he thought for to lye-- And a' the prayers the pure fule prayed Were, "I wish I had amends for my gude three kye!" It was then the use of Pudding-burn house, And the house of Mangerton, all hail, Them that cam na at the first ca', Gat nae mair meat till the neist meal. The lads, that hungry and weary were, Abune the door-head they threw the key; Dickie he took gude notice o' that, Says--"There will be a bootie for me." Then Dickie has into the stable gane, Where there stood thirty horses and three; He has tied them a' wi' St. Mary's knot, A' these horses but barely three. He has tied them a' wi' St. Mary's knot, A' these horses but barely three; He's loupen on ane, ta'en another in hand, And away as fast as he can hie. But on the morn, when the day grew light, The shouts and cries raise loud and hie-- "Ah! whae has done this?" quo' the gude Laird's Jock, "Tell me the truth and the verity!" "Whae has done this deed?" quo' the gude Laird's Jock; "See that to me ye dinna lie!" Dickie has been in the stable last night, And has ta'en my brother's horse and mine frae me." "Ye wad ne'er be tald," quo' the gude Laird's Jock; "Have ye not found my tales fu' leil? Ye ne'er wad out o' England bide, Till crooked, and blind, and a' would steal." "But lend me thy bay," fair Johnie can say; "There's nae horse loose in the stable save he; And I'll either fetch Dick o' the Cow again, Or the day is come that he shall die." "To lend thee my bay!" the Laird's Jock can say, "He's baith worth gowd and gude monie; Dick o' the Cow has awa twa horse; I wish na thou may make him three." He has ta'en the laird's jack on his back, A twa-handed sword to hang by his thie; He has ta'en a steil cap on his head, And gallopped on to follow Dickie. Dickie was na a mile frae aff the town, I wat a mile but barely three, When he was o'erta'en by fair Johnie Armstrang, Hand for hand, on Cannobie lee. "Abide, abide, thou traitour thief! The day is come that thou maun die." Then Dickie look't owre his left shoulder, Said--"Johnie, hast thou nae mae in cumpanie? "There is a preacher in our chapell, And a' the live lang day teaches he: When day is gane, and night is come, There's ne'er ae word I mark but three. "The first and second is--Faith and Conscience; The third--Ne'er let a traitour free: But, Johnie, what faith and conscience was thine, When thou took awa my three ky frae me? "And when thou had ta'en awa my three ky, Thou thought in thy heart thou wast not weil sped, Till thou sent thy billie Willie ower the know, To take thrie coverlets off my wife's bed!" Then Johnie let a speir fa' laigh by his thie, Thought well to hae slain the innocent, I trow; But the powers above were mair than he, For he ran but the puir fule's jerkin through. Together they ran, or ever they blan; This was Dickie the fule and he! Dickie could na win at him wi' the blade o' the sword, But fell'd him wi' the plummet under the e'e. Thus Dickie has fell'd fair Johnie Armstrang, The prettiest man in the south country--- "Gramercy!" then can Dickie say, "I had but twa horse, thou hast made me thrie!" He's ta'en the steil jack aff Johnie's back, The twa-handed sword that hang low by his thie; He's ta'en the steil cap aff his head-- "Johnie, I'll tell my master I met wi' thee." When Johnie wakened out o' his dream, I wat a dreirie man was he: "And is thou gane? Now, Dickie, than The shame and dule is left wi' me. "And is thou gane? Now, Dickie, than The deil gae in thy cumpanie! For if I should live these hundred years, I ne'er shall fight wi' a fule after thee."-- Then Dickie's come hame to the gude Lord Scroope, E'en as fast as he might his; "Now, Dickie, I'll neither eat nor drink, Till hie hanged thou shalt be." "The shame speed the liars, my lord!" quo' Dickie; "This was na the promise ye made to me! For I'd ne'er gane to Liddesdale to steal, Had I not got my leave frae thee." "But what garr'd thee steal the Laird's Jock's horse? And, limmer, what garr'd ye steal him?" quo' he; "For lang thou mightst in Cumberland dwelt, Ere the Laird's Jock had stown frae thee." "Indeed I wat ye lied, my lord! And e'en sae loud as I hear ye lie! I wan the horse frae fair Johnie Armstrong, Hand to hand, on Cannobie lee. "There is the jack was on his back; This twa-handed sword hang laigh by his thie, And there's the steil cap was on his head; I brought a' these tokens to let thee see." "If that be true thou to me tells, (And I think thou dares na tell a lie,) I'll gie thee fifteen punds for the horse, Weil tald on thy cloak lap shall be. "I'll gie thee are o' my best milk ky, To maintain thy wife and children thrie; And that may be as gude, I think, As ony twa o' thine wad be." "The shame speed the liars, my lord!" quo' Dickie; "Trow ye aye to make a fule o' me? I'll either hae twenty punds for the gude horse, Or he's gae to Mortan fair wi' me." He's gien him twenty punds for the gude horse, A' in goud and gude monie; He's gien him ane o' his best milk ky, To maintain his wife and children thrie. Then Dickie's come down thro' Carlisle toun, E'en as fast as he could drie; The first o' men that he met wi' Was my lord's brother, bailiff Glozenburrie. "Weil be ye met, my gude Ralph Scroope!" "Welcome, my brother's fule!" quo' he: "Where didst thou get fair Johnie Armstrong's horse?" "Where did I get him? but steal him," quo' he. "But wilt thou sell me the bonny horse? And, billie, wilt thou sell him to me?" quo' he: "Aye; if thoul't tell me the monie on my cloak lap: "For there's never ae penny I'll trust thee." "I'll gie thee ten punds for the gude horse, Weil tald on thy cloak lap they shall be; And I'll gie thee ane o' the best milk ky, To maintain thy wife and children thrie." "The shame speid the liars, my lord!" quo' Dickie; "Trow ye ay to make a fule o' me! I'll either hae twenty punds for the gude horse, Or he's gae to Mortan fair wi' me." He's gien him twenty punds for the gude horse, Baith in goud and gude monie; He's gien him ane o' his best milk ky, To maintain his wife and children thrie. Then Dickie lap a loup fu' hie, And I wat a loud laugh laughed he-- "I wish the neck o' the third horse were broken, If ony of the twa were better than he!" Then Dickie's come hame to his wife again; Judge ye how the poor fule had sped! He has gien her twa score English punds, For the thrie auld coverlets ta'en aff her bed. "And tak thee these twa as gude ky, I trow, as a' thy thrie might be; And yet here is a white-footed nagie, I trow he'll carry baith thee and me. "But I may nae langer in Cumberland bide; The Armstrongs they would hang me hie." So Dickie's ta'en leave at lord and master, And at Burgh under Stanmuir there dwells he. [Footnote 173: _Gie him his batts_--Dismiss him with a beating.] NOTES ON DICK O' THE COW. * * * * * _Then Dickie's come on to Pudding-burn house_.--P. 205. v, 3. This was a house of strength, held by the Armstrongs. The ruins at present form a sheep-fold, on the farm of Reidsmoss, belonging to the Duke of Buccleuch. _He has tied them a' wi' St. Mary's knot_.--P. 207. v. 4. Hamstringing a horse is termed, in the border dialect, _tying him with St. Mary's Knot_. Dickie used this cruel expedient to prevent a pursuit. It appears from the narration, that the horses, left unhurt, belonged to Fair Johnie Armstrang, his brother Willie, and the Laird's Jock, of which Dickie carried off two, and left that of the Laird's Jock, probably out of gratitude for the protection he had afforded him on his arrival. _Hand for hand, on Cannobie lee_.--P. 209. v. 1. A rising-ground on Cannobie, on the borders of Liddesdale. _Ere the Laird's Jock had stown frae thee_.--P. 211. v. 4. The commendation of the Laird's Jock's honesty seems but indifferently founded; for, in July 1586, a bill was fouled against him, Dick of Dryup, and others, by the deputy of Bewcastle, at a warden-meeting, for 400 head of cattle taken in open forray from the Drysike in Bewcastle: and, in September 1587, another complaint appears at the instance of one Andrew Rutledge of the Nook, against the Laird's Jock, and his accomplices, for 50 kine and oxen, besides furniture, to the amount of 100 merks sterling. See Bell's MSS., as quoted in the _History of Cumberland and Westmoreland_. In Sir Richard Maitland's poem against the thieves of Liddesdale, he thus commemorates the Laird's Jock: They spuilye puir men of thair pakis, They leif them nocht on bed nor bakis; Baith hen and cok, With reil and rok, The _Lairdis Jock_ All with him takis. Those, who plundered Dick, had been bred up under an expert teacher. JOCK O' THE SIDE. * * * * * The subject of this ballad, being a common event in those troublesome and disorderly times, became a favourite theme of the ballad-makers. There are, in this collection, no fewer than three poems on the rescue of prisoners, the incidents in which nearly resemble each other; though the poetical description is so different, that the editor did not think himself at liberty to reject any one of them, as borrowed from the others. As, however, there are several verses, which, in recitation, are common to all these three songs, the editor, to prevent unnecessary and disagreeable repetition, has used the freedom of appropriating them to that, in which they seem to have the best poetic effect. The reality of this story rests solely upon the foundation of tradition. Jock o' the side seems to have been nephew to the laird of Mangertoun, cousin to the Laird's Jock, one of his deliverers, and probably brother to Chrystie of the Syde, mentioned in the list of border clans 1597. Like the Laird's Jock, he also is commemorated by Sir Richard Maitland.--See the _Introduction_. He is weil kend, Johne of the Syde, A greater theif did never ryde; He never tyris For to brek byris. Our muir and myris Ouir gude ane guide. The land-serjeant, mentioned in this ballad, and also in that of _Hobble Noble_, was an officer under the warden, to whom was committed the apprehending of delinquents, and the care of the public peace. JOCK O' THE SIDE. Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid, But I wat they had better hae staid at hame; For Michael o' Winfield he is dead, And Jock o' the Side is prisoner ta'en. For Mangerton house Lady Downie has gane, Her coats she has kilted up to her knee; And down the water wi' speed she rins, While tears in spaits[174] fa' fast frae her e'e. Then up and spoke our gude auld lord-- "What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?" "Bad news, bad news, my Lord Mangerton; "Michael is killed, and they hae ta'en my son Johnie." "Ne'er fear, sister Downie," quo' Mangerton; "I have yokes of ousen, eighty and three; "My barns, my byres, and my faulds a' weil fill'd, And I'll part wi' them a' ere Johnie shall die. "Three men I'll send to set him free, A' harneist wi' the best o' steil; The English louns may hear, and drie The weight o' their braid-swords to feel. "The Laird's Jock ane, the Laird's Wat twa, O Hobbie Noble, thou ane maun be! Thy coat is blue, thou hast been true, Since England banish'd thee to me." Now Hobbie was an English man, In Bewcastle dale was bred and born: But his misdeeds they were sae great, They banish'd him ne'er to return. Lord Mangerton them orders gave, "Your horses the wrang way maun be shod; Like gentlemen ye mauna seim, But look like corn-caugers[175] ga'en the road. "Your armour gude ye mauna shaw, Nor yet appear like men o' weir; As country lads be a' array'd, Wi' branks and brecham[176] on each mare." Sae now their horses are the wrang way shod. And Hobbie has mounted his grey sae fine; Jock his lively bay, Wat's on his white horse, behind, And on they rode for the water of Tyne At the Cholerford they all light down, And there, wi' the help of the light o' the moon, A tree they cut, wi' fifteen nogs on each side, To climb up the wa' of Newcastle toun. But when they cam to Newcastle toun, And were alighted at the wa', They fand their tree three ells ower laigh, They fand their stick baith short and sma'. Then up and spak the Laird's ain Jock; "There's naething for't; the gates we maun force." But when they cam the gate untill, A proud porter withstood baith men and horse. His neck in twa the Armstrangs wrang; Wi' fute or hand he ne'er play'd pa! His life and his keys at anes they hae ta'en, And cast the body ahind the wa'. Now sune they reach Newcastle jail, And to the prisoner thus they call; "Sleeps thou, wakes thou, Jock o' the Side, Or art thou weary of thy thrall?" Jock answers thus, wi' dulefu' tone; "Aft, aft, I wake--I seldom sleep: But whae's this kens my name sae well, And thus to mese[177] my waes does seik?" Then out and spak the gude Laird's Jock, "Now fear ye na, my billie," quo' he; "For here are the Laird's Jock, the Laird's Wat, And Hobbie Noble, come to set thee free." "Now hand thy tongue, my gude Laird's Jock; For ever, alas! this canna be; For if a' Liddesdale was here the night, The morn's the day that I maun die. "Full fifteen stane o' Spanish iron, They hae laid a' right sair on me; Wi' locks and keys I am fast bound Into this dungeon dark and dreirie." "Fear ye na' that," quo' the Laird's Jock; "A faint heart ne'er wan a fair ladie; Work thou within, we'll work without, And I'll be sworn we'll set thee free." The first strong door that they cam at, They loosed it without a key; The next chain'd door that they cam at, They garr'd it a' to flinders flee. The prisoner now upon his back, The Laird's Jock has gotten up fu' hie; And down the stair, him, irons and a', Wi' nae sma' speid and joy, brings he. "Now, Jock, my man," quo' Hobbie Noble, "Some o' his weight ye may lay on me." "I wat weil no!" quo' the Laird's ain Jock, "I count him lighter than a flee." Sae out at the gates they a' are gane, The prisoner's set on horseback hie; And now wi' speid they've ta'en the gate, While ilk ane jokes fu' wantonlie: "O Jock! sae winsomely's ye ride, Wi' baith your feet upon ae side; Sae weel ye're harneist, and sae trig, In troth ye sit like ony bride!" The night, tho' wat, they did na mind, But hied them on fu' merrilie, Until they cam to Cholerford brae,[178] Where the water ran like mountains hie. But when they cam to Cholerford, There they'met with an auld man; Says--"Honest man, will the water ride? Tell us in haste, if that ye can." "I wat weel no," quo' the gude auld man; "I hae lived here threty years and thrie, And I ne'er yet saw the Tyne sae big, Nor running anes sae like a sea." Then out and spak the Laird's saft Wat, The greatest coward in the cumpanie; "Now halt, now halt! we need na try't; The day is come we a' maun die!" "Puir faint-hearted thief!" cried the Laird's ain Jock, "There'l nae man die but him that's fie;[179] I'll guide ye a' right safely thro'; Lift ye the pris'ner on ahint me." Wi' that the water they hae ta'en, By ane's and twa's they a' swam thro'; "Here are we a' safe," quo' the Laird's Jock, "And, puir faint Wat, what think ye now?" They scarce the other brae had won, When twenty men they saw pursue; Frae Newcastle toun they had been sent, A' English lads baith stout and true. But when the land-serjeant the water saw, "It winna ride, my lads," says he; Then cried aloud--"The prisoner take, But leave the fetters, I pray, to me." "I wat weil no," quo' the Laird's Jock; "I'll keep them a'; shoon to my mare they'll be, My gude bay mare--for I am sure, She has bought them a' right dear frae thee." Sae now they are on to Liddesdale, E'en as fast as they could them hie; The prisoner is brought to's ain fire side, And there o's airns they mak him free. "Now, Jock, my billie," quo' a' the three, "The day is com'd thou was to die; But thou's as weil at thy ain ingle side, Now sitting, I think, 'twixt thee and me." [Footnote 174: _Spaits_--Torrents.] [Footnote 175: _Caugers_--Carriers.] [Footnote 176: _Branks and brecham_--Halter and cart-collar.] [Footnote 177: _Mese_--Soothe.] [Footnote 178: _Cholerford brae_--A ford upon the Tyne, above Hexham.] [Footnote 179: _Fie_--Predestined.] HOBBIE NOBLE. * * * * * We have seen the hero of this ballad act a distinguished part in the deliverance of Jock o' the Side, and are now to learn the ungrateful return which the Armstrongs made him for his faithful services.[180] Halbert, or Hobbie Noble, appears to have been one of those numerous English outlaws, who, being forced to fly their own country, had established themselves on the Scottish borders. As Hobbie continued his depredations upon the English, they bribed some of his hosts, the Armstrongs, to decoy him into England, under pretence of a predatory expedition. He was there delivered, by his treacherous companions, into the hands of the officers of justice, by whom he was conducted to Carlisle, and executed next morning. The laird of Mangerton, with whom Hobbie was in high favour, is said to have taken a severe revenge upon the traitors who betrayed him. The principal contriver of the scheme, called here Sim o' the Maynes, fled into England from the resentment of his chief; but experienced there the common fate of a traitor, being himself executed at Carlisle, about two months after Hobbie's death. Such is, at least, the tradition of Liddesdale. Sim o' the Maynes appears among the Armstrongs of Whitauch, in Liddesdale, in the list of clans so often alluded to. [Footnote 180: The original editor of the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_ has noticed the perfidy of this clan in another instance; the delivery of the banished Earl of Northumberland into the hands of the Scottish regent, by Hector of Harelaw, an Armstrong, with whom he had taken refuge.--_Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, Vol. I. p. 283. This Hector of Harelaw seems to have been an Englishman, or under English assurance; for he is one of those, against whom bills were exhibited, by the Scottish commissioners, to the lord-bishop of Carlisle.--_Introduction to the History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, p. 81. In the list of borderers, 1597, Hector of Harelaw, with the Griefs and Cuts of Harelaw, also figures as an inhabitant of the Debateable Land. It would appear, from a spirited invective in the Maitland MSS. against the regent, and those who delivered up the unfortunate earl to Elizabeth, that Hector had been guilty of this treachery, to redeem the pledge which had been exacted from him for his peaceable demeanour. The poet says, that the perfidy of Morton and Lochlevin was worse than even that of-- --the traitour Eckie of Harelaw, That says he sould him to redeem his pledge; Your deed is war, as all the world does know-- You nothing can but covatice alledge. _Pinkerton's Maitland Poems_, Vol. II. p. 290. Eckie is the contraction of Hector among the vulgar. These little memoranda may serve still farther to illustrate the beautiful ballads, upon that subject, published in the _Reliques_.] Kershope-burn, where Hobbie met his treacherous companions, falls into the Liddel, from the English side, at a place called Turnersholm, where, according to tradition, turneys and games of chivalry were often solemnized. The Mains was anciently a border-keep, near Castletoun, on the north side of the Liddel, but is now totally demolished. Askerton is an old castle, now ruinous, situated in the wilds of Cumberland, about seventeen miles north-east of Carlisle, amidst that mountainous and desolate tract of country, bordering upon Liddesdale, emphatically termed the Waste of Bewcastle. Conscouthart Green, and Rodric-haugh, and the Foulbogshiel, are the names of places in the same wilds, through which the Scottish plunderers generally made their raids upon England; as appears from the following passage in a letter from William, Lord Dacre, to Cardinal Wolsey, 18th July, 1528; _Appendix to Pinkerton's Scotland_, v. 12, No. XIX. "Like it also your grace, seeing the disordour within Scotlaund, and that all the mysguyded men, borderers of the same, inhabiting within Eskdale, Ewsdale, Walghopedale, Liddesdale, and a part of Tividale, foranempt Bewcastelldale, and a part of the middle marches of this the king's bordours, entres not this west and middle marches, to do any attemptate to the king our said soveraine's subjects: but thaye come throrow Bewcastelldale, and retornes, for the most part, the same waye agayne." Willeva and Speir Edom are small districts in Bewcastledale, through which also the Hartlie-burn takes its course. Of the castle of Mangertoun, so often mentioned in these ballads, there are very few vestiges. It was situated on the banks of the Liddel, below Castletoun. In the wall of a neighbouring mill, which has been entirely built from the ruins of the tower, there is a remarkable stone, bearing the arms of the lairds of Mangertoun, and a long broad-sword, with the figures 1583; probably the date of building, or repairing, the castle. On each side of the shield are the letters S.A. and E.E. standing probably for Simon Armstrong, and Elizabeth Elliot. Such is the only memorial of the laird of Mangertoun, except those rude ballads, which the editor now offers to the public. HOBBIE NOBLE. * * * * * Foul fa' the breast first treason bred in! That Liddesdale may safely say: For in it there was baith meat and drink, And corn unto our geldings gay. And we were a' stout-hearted men, As England she might often say; But now we may turn our backs and flee, Since brave Noble is sold away. Now Hobbie was an English man, And born into Bewcastle dale; But his misdeeds they were sae great, They banish'd him to Liddesdale. At Kershope foot the tryst was set, Kershope of the lilye lee; And there was traitor Sim o' the Mains, And with him a private companie. Then Hobbie has graithed his body fair, Baith wi' the iron and wi' the steil; And he has ta'en out his fringed grey, And there, brave Hobbie, he rade him weel. Then Hobbie is down the water gane, E'en as fast as he could his; Tho' a' should hae bursten and broken their hearts, Frae that riding tryst he wad na be. "Weel be ye met, my feres[181] five! And now, what is your will wi' me?" Then they cried a', wi ae consent, "Thou'rt welcome here, brave Noble, to me. "Wilt thou with us into England ride, And thy safe warrand we will be? If we get a horse, worth a hundred pound, Upon his back thou sune shalt be." "I dare not by day into England ride; The land-serjeant has me at feid: "And I know not what evil may betide, For Peter of Whitfield, his brother, is dead. "And Anton Shiel he loves not me, For I gat twa drifts o' his sheep; The great Earl of Whitfield[182] loves me not, For nae geer frae me he e'er could keep. "But will ye stay till the day gae down, Untill the night come o'er the grund, And I'll be a guide worth ony twa, That may in Liddesdale be found. "Tho' the night be black as pick and tar, I'll guide ye o'er yon hill sae hie; And bring ye a' in safety back, If ye'll be true, and follow me." He has guided them o'er moss and muir, O'er hill and hope, and mony a down; Until they came to the Foulbogshiel, And there, brave Noble, he lighted down. But word is gane to the land-serjeant, In Askerton where that he lay-- "The deer, that ye hae hunted sae lang, Is seen into the Waste this day." "Then Hobbie Noble is that deer! I wat he carries the style fu' hie; Aft has he driven our bluidhounds back, And set ourselves at little lee. "Gar warn the bows of Hartlie-burn; See they sharp their arrows on the wa': Warn Willeva, and Speir Edom, And see the morn they meet me a'. "Gar meet me on the Rodric-haugh, And see it be by break o' day; And we will on to Conscouthart-green, For there, I think, we'll get our prey." Then Hobbie Noble has dreimt a dreim, In the Foulbogshiel, where that he lay; He dreimt his horse was aneath him shot, And he himself got hard away. The cocks could craw, the day could daw, And I wot sae even fell down the rain; Had Hobble na wakened at that time, In the Foulbogshiel he had been ta'en or slain. "Awake, awake, my feres five! I trow here makes a fu' ill day; Yet the worst cloak o' this company, I hope, shall cross the Waste this day." Now Hobbie thought the gates were clear; But, ever alas! it was na sae: They were beset by cruel men and keen, That away brave Hobbie might na gae. "Yet follow me, my feres five, And see ye kelp of me guid ray; And the worst cloak o' this company Even yet may cross the Waste this day." But the land-serjeant's men came Hobbie before, The traitor Sim came Hobbie behin', So had Noble been wight as Wallace was, Away, alas! he might na win. Then Hobbie had but a laddie's sword; But he did mair than a laddie's deed; For that sword had clear'd Conscouthart green, Had it not broke o'er Jerswigham's head. Then they hae ta'en brave Hobbie Noble, Wi's ain bowstring they band him sae; But his gentle heart was ne'er sae sair, As when his ain five bound him on the brae. They hae ta'en him on for west Carlisle; They asked him, if he kend the way? Tho' much he thought, yet little he said; He knew the gate as weel as they. They hae ta'en him up the Ricker-gate; The wives they cast their windows wide: And every wife to another can say, "That's the man loosed Jock o' the Side!" "Fy on ye, women! why ca' ye me man? For it's nae man that I'm used like; I am but like a forfoughen[183] hound, Has been fighting in a dirty syke."[184] They hae had him up thro' Carlisle toun, And set him by the chimney fire; They gave brave Noble a loaf to eat, And that was little his desire. They gave him a wheaten loaf to eat, And after that a can of beer; And they a' cried, with one consent, "Eat, brave Noble, and make gude cheir! "Confess my lord's horse, Hobbie," they said, "And to-morrow in Carlisle thou's na die." "How can I confess them," Hobbie says, "When I never saw them with my e'e?" Then Hobbie has sworn a fu' great aith, Bi the day that he was gotten and born, He never had ony thing o' my lord's, That either eat him grass or corn. "Now fare thee weel, sweet Mangerton! For I think again I'll ne'er thee see: I wad hae betrayed nae lad alive, For a' the gowd o' Christentie. "And fare thee weel, sweet Liddesdale! Baith the hie land and the law; Keep ye weel frae the traitor Mains! For goud and gear he'll sell ye a'. "Yet wad I rather be ca'd Hobbie Noble, In Carlisle, where he suffers for his fau't, Than I'd be ca'd the traitor Mains, That eats and drinks o' the meal and maut." [Footnote 181: _Feres_--Companions.] [Footnote 182: _Earl of Whitfield_--The editor does not know who is here meant.] [Footnote 183: _Forfoughen_--Quite fatigued.] [Footnote 184: _Syke_--Ditch.] NOTES ON HOBBIE NOBLE. * * * * * _Aft has he driven our bluidhounds back_.--P. 234. v. 2. "The russet blood-hound wont, near Annand's stream, "To trace the sly thief with avenging foot, "Close as an evil conscience still at hand." Our ancient statutes inform us, that the blood-hound, or sluith-hound (so called from its quality of tracing the slot, or track, of men and animals), was early used in the pursuit and detection of marauders. _Nullus perturbet, aut impediat canem trassantem, aut homines trassantes cum ipso, ad sequendum latrones.--Regiam Majestatem_, Lib. 4tus, Cap. 32. And, so late as 1616, there was an order from the king's commissioners of the northern counties, that a certain number of slough-hounds should be maintained in every district of Cumberland, bordering upon Scotland. They were of great value, being sometimes sold for a hundred crowns. _Exposition of Bleau's Atlas, voce Nithsdale_. The breed of this sagacious animal, which could trace the human footstep with the most unerring accuracy, is now nearly extinct. ARCHIE OF CA'FIELD. * * * * * It may perhaps be thought, that, from the near resemblance which this ballad bears to Kinmont Willie, and Jock o' the Side, the editor might have dispensed with inserting it in this collection. But, although the incidents in these three ballads are almost the same, yet there is considerable variety in the language; and each contains minute particulars, highly characteristic of border manners, which it is the object of this publication to illustrate. Ca'field, or Calfield, is a place in Wauchopdale, belonging of old to the Armstrongs. In the account betwixt the English and Scottish marches, Jock and Geordie of Ca'field, there called Calfhill, are repeatedly marked as delinquents.--_History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, Vol. I. _Introduction_, p. 33. "_Mettled John Hall, from the laigh Tiviotdale_," is perhaps John Hall of Newbigging, mentioned in the list of border clans, as one of the chief men of name residing on the middle marches in 1597. The editor has been enabled to add several stanzas to this ballad, since publication of the first edition. They were obtained from recitation; and, as they contrast the brutal indifference of the elder brother with the zeal and spirit of his associates, they add considerably to the dramatic effect of the whole. ARCHIE OF CA'FIELD. * * * * * As I was a walking mine alane, It was by the dawning of the day, I heard twa brithers make their mane, And I listened weel to what they did say. The youngest to the eldest said, "Blythe and merrie how can we be? There were three brithren of us born, And ane of us is condemned to die." "An' ye wad be merrie, an' ye wad be sad, What the better wad billie Archie be? Unless I had thirty men to mysell, And a' to ride in my cumpanie. "Ten to hald the horses' heads, And other ten the watch to be, And ten to break up the strong prison, Where billy[185] Archie he does lie." Then up and spak him mettled John Hall, (The luve of Teviotdale aye was he) "An' I had eleven men to mysell, Its aye the twalt man I wad be." Then up bespak him coarse Ca'field, (I wot and little gude worth was he) "Thirty men is few anew, And a' to ride in our cumpanie." There was horsing, horsing in haste, And there was marching on the lee; Until they cam to Murraywhate, And they lighted there right speedilie. "A smith! a smith!" Dickie he cries, "A smith, a smith, right speedilie, To turn back the caukers of our horses' shoon! For its unkensome[186] we wad be." "There lives a smith on the water side, Will shoe my little black mare for me; And I've a crown in my pocket, And every groat of it I wad gie." "The night is mirk, and its very mirk, And by candle light I canna weel see; The night is mirk, and its very pit mirk, And there will never a nail ca' right for me." "Shame fa' you and your trade baith, Canna beet[187] a gude fellow by your myster[188] But leez me on thee, my little black mare, Thou's worth thy weight in gold to me." There was horsing, horsing in haste, And there was marching upon the lee; Until they cam to Dumfries port, And they lighted there right speedilie. "There's five of us will hold the horse, And other five will watchmen be: But wha's the man, amang ye a', Will gae to the Tolbooth door wi' me?" O up then spak him mettled John Hall, (Frae the laigh Tiviotdale was he) "If it should cost my life this very night, I'll gae to the Tolbooth door wi' thee." "Be of gude cheir, now, Archie, lad! Be of gude cheir, now, dear billie! Work thou within, and we without, And the mom thou'se dine at Ca'field wi' me." O Jockie Hall stepped to the door, And he bended low back his knee; And he made the bolts, the door hang on, Loup frae the wa' right wantonlie. He took the prisoner on his back, And down the Tolbooth stair cam he; The black mare stood ready at the door, I wot a foot ne'er stirred she. They laid the links out ower her neck, And that was her gold twist to be;[189] And they cam down thro' Dumfries toun, And wow but they cam speedilie. The live long night these twelve men rade, And aye till they were right wearie, Until they cam to the Murraywhate, And they lighted there right speedilie. "A smith! a smith!" then Dickie he cries; "A smith, a smith, right speedilie, To file the irons frae my dear brither! For forward, forward we wad be," They had na filed a shackle of iron, A shackle of iron but barely thrie, When out and spak young Simon brave, "O dinna ye see what I do see? "Lo! yonder comes Lieutenant Gordon, Wi' a hundred men in his cumpanie; This night will be our lyke-wake night, The morn the day we a' maun die," O there was mounting, mounting in haste, And there was marching upon the lee; Until they cam to Annan water, And it was flowing like the sea. "My mare is young and very skeigh,[190] And in o' the weil[191] she will drown me; But ye'll take mine, and I'll take thine, And sune through the water we sall be." Then up and spak him, coarse Ca'field, (I wot and little gude worth was he) "We had better lose are than lose a' the lave; We'll lose the prisoner, we'll gae free." "Shame fa' you and your lands baith! Wad ye e'en[192] your lands to your born billy? But hey! bear up, my bonnie black mare, And yet thro' the water we sall be." Now they did swim that wan water, And wow but they swam bonilie! Until they cam to the other side, And they wrang their cloathes right drunkily. "Come thro', come thro', Lieutenant Gordon! Come thro' and drink some wine wi' me! For there is an ale-house here hard by, And it shall not cost thee ae penny." "Throw me my irons," quo' Lieutenant Gordon; "I wot they cost me dear aneugh." "The shame a ma," quo' mettled John Ha', "They'll be gude shackles to my pleugh." "Come thro', come thro', Lieutenant Gordon! Come thro' and drink some wine wi' me! Yestreen I was your prisoner, But now this morning am I free." [Footnote 185: _Billy_--Brother.] [Footnote 186: _Unkensome_--Unknown.] [Footnote 187: _Beet_--Abet, aid.] [Footnote 188: _Mystery_--Trade.--See Shakespeare.] [Footnote 189: The _Gold Twist_ means the small gilded chains drawn across the chest of a war-horse, as a part of his caparaison.] [Footnote 190: _Skeigh_--Shy.] [Footnote 191: _Weil_--Eddy.] [Footnote 192: _E'en_--Even, put into comparison.] ARMSTRONG'S GOODNIGHT. * * * * * _The followng verses are said to have been composed by one of the_ ARMSTRONGS, _executed for the murder of Sir_ JOHN CARMICHAEL _of Edrom, warden of the middle marches, (See_ p. 165.) _The tune is popular in Scotland; but whether these are the original words, will admit of a doubt_. * * * * * This night is my departing night, For here nae langer must I stay; There's neither friend nor foe o' mine, But wishes me away. What I have done thro' lack of wit, I never, never, can recall; I hope ye're a' my friends as yet; Goodnight and joy be with you all! * * * * * THE FRAY OF SUPORT. AN ANCIENT BORDER GATHERING SONG FROM TRADITION. * * * * * Of all the border ditties, which have fallen into the editor's hands, this is by far the most uncouth and savage. It is usually chaunted in a sort of wild recitative, except the burden, which swells into a long and varied howl, not unlike to a view hollo'. The words, and the very great irregularity of the stanza (if it deserves the name), sufficiently point out its intention and origin. An English woman, residing in Suport, near the foot of the Kershope, having been plundered in the night by a band of the Scottish moss-troopers, is supposed to convoke her servants and friends for the pursuit, or _Hot Trod_; upbraiding them, at the same time, in homely phrase, for their negligence and security. The _Hot Trod_ was followed by the persons who had lost goods, with blood-hounds and horns, to raise the country to help. They also used to carry a burning wisp of straw at a spear head, and to raise a cry, similar to the Indian war-whoop. It appears, from articles made by the wardens of the English marches, September 12th, in 6th of Edward VI. that all, on this cry being raised, were obliged to follow the fray, or chace, under pain of death. With these explanations, the general purport of the ballad may be easily discovered, though particular passages have become inexplicable, probably through corruptions introduced by reciters. The present copy is corrected from four copies, which differed widely from each other. THE FRAY OF SUPORT. * * * * * Sleep'ry Sim of the Lamb-hill, And snoring Jock of Suport-mill, Ye are baith right het and fou';-- But my wae wakens na you. Last night I saw a sorry sight-- Nought left me, o' four-and-twenty gude ousen and ky, My weel-ridden gelding, and a white quey, But a toom byre and a wide, And the twelve nogs[193] on ilka side. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' gane. Weel may ye ken, Last night I was right scarce o' men: But Toppet Hob o' the Mains had guesten'd in my house by chance; I set him to wear the fore-door wi' the speir, while I kept the back door wi' the lance; But they hae run him thro' the thick o' the thie, and broke his knee-pan, And the mergh[194] o' his shin bane has run down on his spur leather whang: He's lame while he lives, and where'er he may gang. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' gane. But Peenye, my gude son, is out at the Hagbut-head, His e'en glittering for anger like a fierye gleed; Crying--"Mak sure the nooks Of Maky's-muir crooks; For the wily Scot takes by nooks, hooks, and crooks. Gin we meet a' together in a head the morn, We'll be merry men." Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a' My gear's a' gane. There's doughty Cuddy in the Heugh-head, Thou was aye gude at a' need: With thy brock-skin bag at thy belt, Ay ready to mak a puir man help. Thou maun awa' out to the cauf-craigs, (Where anes ye lost your ain twa naigs) And there toom thy brock-skin bag. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' taen. Doughty Dan o' the Houlet Hirst, Thou was aye gude at a birst: Gude wi' a bow, and better wi' a speir, The bauldest march-man, that e'er followed gear; Come thou here. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' gane. Rise, ye carle coopers, frae making o' kirns and tubs, In the Nicol forest woods. Your craft has na left the value of an oak rod, But if you had had ony fear o' God, Last night ye had na slept sae sound, And let my gear be a' ta'en. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. Ah! lads, we'll fang them a' in a net! For I hae a' the fords o' Liddel set; The Dunkin, and the Door-loup, The Willie-ford, and the Water-slack, The Black-rack and the Trout-dub o' Liddel; There stands John Forster wi' five men at his back, Wi' bufft coat and cap of steil: Boo! ca' at them e'en, Jock; That ford's sicker, I wat weil. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. Hoo! hoo! gar raise the Reid Souter, and Ringan's Wat, Wi' a broad elshin and a wicker; I wat weil they'll mak a ford sicker. Sae whether they be Elliots or Armstrangs, Or rough riding Scots, or rude Johnstones, Or whether they be frae the Tarras or Ewsdale, They maun turn and fight, or try the deeps o' Liddel. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. "Ah! but they will play ye another jigg, For they will out at the big rig, And thro' at Fargy Grame's gap." "But I hae another wile for that: For I hae little Will, and stalwart Wat, And lang Aicky, in the Souter moor, Wi' his sleuth dog sits in his watch right sure: Shou'd the dog gie a bark, He'll be out in his sark, And die or won. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. Ha! boys--I see a party appearing--wha's yon! Methinks it's the captain of Bewcastle, and Jephtha's John, Coming down by the foul steps of Catlowdie's loan: They'll make a sicker, come which way they will. Ha lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. Captain Musgrave, and a' his band, Are coming down by the Siller-strand, And the muckle toun-bell o' Carlisle is rung: My gear was a' weel won, And before it's carried o'er the border, mony a man's gae down. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a gane. [Footnote 193: _Nogs_--Stakes.] [Footnote 194: _Mergh_--Marrow.] NOTES ON THE FRAY OF SUPORT. * * * * * _And there, toom thy brock-skin bag_.--P. 254. v. 1. The badger-skin pouch was used for carrying ammunition. _In the Nicol forest woods_.--P. 254. v. 3. A wood in Cumberland, in which Suport is situated. _For I hae a' the fords o' Liddel set_.--P. 255. v. 1. Watching fords was a ready mode of intercepting the marauders; the names of the most noted fords upon the Liddel are recited in this verse. _And thro' at Fargy Grame's gap_.--P. 256. v. 1. Fergus Grame of Sowport, as one of the chief men of that clan, became security to Lord Scroope for the good behaviour of his friends and dependants, 8th January, 1602.--_Introduction to History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, p. 111. _Wi' his sleuth dog sits in his watch right sure_.--P 256. v. 1. The centinels, who, by the march laws, were planted upon the border each night, had usually sleuth-dogs, or blood-hounds, along with them.--See _Nicolson's Border Laws_, and _Lord Wharton's Regulations, in the 6th of Edward VI_. Of the blood-hound we have said something in the notes on _Hobbie Noble_; but we may, in addition, refer to the following poetical description of the qualities and uses of that singular animal: --Upon the banks Of Tweed, slow winding thro' the vale, the seat Of war and rapine once, ere Britons knew The sweets of peace, or Anna's dread commands To lasting leagues the haughty rivals awed, There dwelt a pilfering race; well trained and skill'd In all the mysteries of theft, the spoil Their only substance, feuds and war their sport. Not more expert in every fraudful art The arch felon was of old, who by the tail Drew back his lowing prize: in vain his wiles, In vain the shelter of the covering rock, In vain the sooty cloud, and ruddy flames, That issued from his mouth; for soon he paid His forfeit life: a debt how justly due To wronged Alcides, and avenging Heaven! Veil'd in the shades of night, they ford the stream; Then, prowling far and near, whate'er they seize Becomes their prey; nor flocks nor herds are safe, Nor stalls protect the steer, nor strong barr'd doors Secure the favourite horse. Soon as the morn Reveals his wrongs, with ghastly visage wan The plunder'd owner stands, and from his lips A thousand thronging curses burst their way. He calls his stout allies, and in a line His faithful hound he leads; then, with a voice That utters loud his rage, attentive cheers. Soon the sagacious brute, his curling tail Flourish'd in air, low bending, plies around His busy nose, the steaming vapour snuffs Inquisitive, nor leaves one turf untried; Till, conscious of the recent stains, his heart Beats quick, his snuffling nose, his active tail, Attest his joy; then, with deep-opening mouth That makes the welkin tremble, he proclaims The audacious felon; foot by foot he marks His winding way, while all the listening crowd Applaud his reasonings. O'er the watery ford, Dry sandy heaths, and stony barren hills, O'er beaten tracks, with men and beast distain'd, Unerring he pursues; till, at the cot Arrived, and seizing by his guilty throat The caitiff vile, redeems the captive prey: So exquisitely delicate his sense! SOMERVILLE'S _Chase_. _Methinks it's the Captain of Newcastle, &c. Coming down by the foul steps of Catlowdie's loan_.--P. 256. v. 2. According to the late Glenriddell's notes on this ballad, the office of captain of Bewcastle was held by the chief of the Nixons. Catlowdie is a small village in Cumberland, near the junction of the Esk and Liddel. _Captain Musgrave and a' his band_.--P. 256. v. 3. This was probably the famous Captain Jack Musgrave, who had charge of the watch along the Cryssop, or Kershope, as appears from the order of the watches appointed by Lord Wharton, when deputy-warden-general, in 6th Edward VI. LORD MAXWELL'S GOODNIGHT. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * This beautiful ballad is published from a copy in Glenriddel's MSS., with some slight variations from tradition. It alludes to one of the most remarkable feuds upon the west marches. A.D. 1585, John, Lord Maxwell, or, as he styled himself, Earl of Morton, having quarrelled with the Earl of Arran, reigning favourite of James VI., and fallen, of course, under the displeasure of the court, was denounced rebel. A commission was also given to the laird of Johnstone, then warden of the west-marches, to pursue and apprehend the ancient rival and enemy of his house. Two bands of mercenaries, commanded by Captains Cranstoun and Lammie, who were sent from Edinburgh to support Johnstone, were attacked and cut to pieces at Crawford-muir by Robert Maxwell, natural brother to the chieftain;[195] who, following up his advantage, burned Johnstone's castle of Lochwood, observing, with savage glee, that he would give Lady Johnstone light enough by which to "set her hood." In a subsequent conflict, Johnstone himself was defeated, and made prisoner, and is said to have died of grief at the disgrace which he sustained.--See _Spottiswoode_ and _Johnstone's Histories_, and _Moyse's Memoirs, ad annum_ 1585. By one of the revolutions, common in those days, Maxwell was soon after restored to the king's favour, in his turn, and obtained the wardenry of the west marches. A bond of alliance was subscribed by him, and by Sir James Johnstone, and for some time the two clans lived in harmony. In the year 1593, however, the hereditary feud was revived, on the following occasion: A band of marauders, of the clan Johnstone, drove a prey of cattle from the lands belonging to the lairds of Crichton, Sanquhar, and Drumlanrig; and defeated, with slaughter, the pursuers, who attempted to rescue their property.--[_See the following Ballad and Introduction_.] The injured parties, being apprehensive that Maxwell would not cordially embrace their cause, on account of his late reconciliation with the Johnstones, endeavoured to overcome his reluctance, by ottering to enter into bonds of manrent, and so to become his followers and liegemen; he, on the other hand, granting to them a bond of maintenance, or protection, by which he bound himself, in usual form, to maintain their quarrel against all mortals, saving his loyalty. Thus, the most powerful and respectable families in Dumfries-shire became, for a time, the vassals of Lord Maxwell. This secret alliance was discovered to Sir James Johnstone by the laird of Cummertrees, one of his own clan, though a retainer to Maxwell. Cummertrees even contrived to possess himself of the bonds of manrent, which he delivered to his chief. The petty warfare betwixt the rival barons was instantly renewed. Buccleuch, a near relation of Johnstone, came to his assistance with his clan, "the most renowned freebooters (says a historian), the fiercest and bravest warriors, among the border tribes"[196] With Buccleuch also came the Elliots, Armstrongs, and Graemes. Thus reinforced, Johnstone surprised and cut to pieces a party of the Maxwells, stationed at Lochmaben. On the other hand, Lord Maxwell, armed with the royal authority, and numbering among his followers all the barons of Nithesdale, displayed his banner as the king's lieutenant, and invaded Annandale, at the head of 2000 men. In those days, however, the royal auspices to have carried as little good fortune as effective strength with them. A desperate conflict, still renowned in tradition, took place at the Dryffe sands, not far from Lockerby, in which Johnstone, although inferior in numbers, partly by his own conduct, partly by the valour of his allies, gained a decisive victory. Lord Maxwell, a tall man, and heavily armed, was struck from his horse in the flight, and cruelly slain, after the hand, which he stretched out for quarter, had been severed from his body. Many of his followers were slain in the battle, and many cruelly wounded; especially by slashes in the face, which wound was thence termed a "_Lockerby lick_." The barons of Lag, Closeburn, and Drumlanrig, escaped by the fleetness of their horses; a circumstance alluded to in the following ballad. [Footnote 195: It is devoutly to be wished, that this Lammie (who was killed in the skirmish) may have been the same miscreant, who, in the day of Queen Mary's distress, "hes ensigne being of quhyt taffitae, had painted one it ye creuell murther of King Henry, and layed down before her majestie, at quhat time she presented herself as prisoner to ye lordis."--_Birrel's Diary, June_ 15, 1567. It would be some satisfaction to know, that the grey hairs of this worthy personage did not go down to the grave in peace.] [Footnote 196: _Inter accolas latrociniis famosos Scotos Buccleuchi clientes--fortissimos tributium et ferocissimos_,--JOHNSTONI _Historia, ed. Amstael_, p. 182.] This fatal battle was followed by a long feud, attended with all the circumstances of horror, proper to a barbarous age. Johnstone, in his diffuse manner, describes it thus: "_Ab eo die ultro citroque in Annandia et Nithia magnis utriusque regionis jacturis certatum. Caedes, incendia, rapinae, et nefanda facinora; liberi in maternis gremiis trucidati; mariti in conspectu conjugum suarum, incensae villae lamentabiles ubique querimoniae et horribiles armorum fremitus_." JOHNSTONI _Historia, Ed. Amstael_. p. 182. John, Lord Maxwell, with whose _Goodnight_ the reader is here presented, was son to him who fell at the battle of Dryffe Sands, and is said to have early vowed the deepest revenge for his father's death. Such, indeed, was the fiery and untameable spirit of the man, that neither the threats nor entreaties of the king himself could make him lay aside his vindictive purpose; although Johnstone, the object of his resentment, had not only reconciled himself to the court, but even obtained the wardenry of the middle-marches, in room of Sir John Carmichael, murdered by the Armstrongs. Lord Maxwell was therefore prohibited to approach the border counties; and having, in contempt of that mandate, excited new disturbances, he was confined in the castle of Edinburgh. From this fortress, however, he contrived to make his escape; and, having repaired to Dumfries-shire, he sought an amicable interview with Johnstone, under pretence of a wish to accommodate their differences. Sir Robert Maxwell, of Orchardstane (mentioned in the Ballad, verse 1.), who was married to a sister of Sir James Johnstone, persuaded his brother-in-law to accede to Maxwell's proposal. The two chieftains met, each with a single attendant, at a place called Achmanhill, 6th April, 1608. A quarrel arising betwixt the two gentlemen who attended them (Charles Maxwell, brother to the laird of Kirkhouse, and Johnstone of Lockerby), and a pistol being discharged, Sir James turned his horse to separate the combatants; at which instant Lord Maxwell shot him through the back with a brace of bullets, of which wound he died on the spot, after having for some time gallantly defended himself against Maxwell, who endeavoured to strike him with his sword. "A fact," saith Spottiswoode, "detested by all honest men, and the gentleman's misfortune severely lamented, for he was a man full of wisdom and courage."--SPOTTISWOODE, _Edition_ 1677, _pages_ 467, 504. JOHNSTONI _Historia, Ed. Amstael_. pp. 254, 283, 449. Lord Maxwell, the murderer, made his escape to France; but, having ventured to return to Scotland, he was apprehended lurking in the wilds of Caithness, and brought to trial at Edinburgh. The royal authority was now much strengthened by the union of the crowns, and James employed it in staunching the feuds of the nobility, with a firmness which was no attribute of his general character. But, in the best actions of that monarch, there seems to have been an unfortunate tincture of that meanness, so visible on the present occasion. Lord Maxwell was indicted for the murder of Johnstone; but this was combined with a charge of _fire-raising_, which, according to the ancient Scottish law, if perpetrated by a landed man, constituted a species of treason, and inferred forfeiture. Thus, the noble purpose of public justice was sullied, by being united with that of enriching some needy favourite. John, Lord Maxwell, was condemned, and beheaded, 21st May, 1613. Sir Gideon Murray, treasurer-depute, had a great share of his forfeiture; but the attainder was afterwards reversed, and the honours and estate were conferred upon the brother of the deceased.--LAING'S _History of Scotland_, Vol. I. p. 62.--JOHNSTONI _Historia_, p. 493. The lady, mentioned in the ballad, was sister to the Marquis of Hamilton, and, according to Johnstone the historian, had little reason to regret being separated from her husband, whose harsh treatment finally occasioned her death. But Johnstone appears not to be altogether untinctured with the prejudices of his clan, and is probably, in this instance, guilty of exaggeration; as the active share, taken by the Marquis of Hamilton in favour of Maxwell, is a circumstance inconsistent with such a report. Thus was finally ended, by a salutary example of severity, the "foul debate" betwixt the Maxwells and Johnstones, in the course of which each family lost two chieftains; one dying of a broken heart, one in the field of battle, one by assassination, and one by the sword of the executioner. It seems reasonable to believe, that the following ballad must have been written before the death of Lord Maxwell, in 1613; otherwise there would have been some allusion to that event. It must therefore have been composed betwixt 1608 and that period. LORD MAXWELL'S GOODNIGHT. * * * * * Adieu, madame, my mother dear, But and my sisters three! Adieu, fair Robert of Orchardstane! My heart is wae for thee. Adieu, the lily and the rose, The primrose fair to see: Adieu, my ladie, and only joy! For I may not stay with thee. "Though I hae slain the Lord Johnstone, What care I for their feid? My noble mind their wrath disdains: He was my father's deid. Both night and day I laboured oft Of him avenged to be; But now I've got what lang I sought, And I may not stay with thee. "Adieu! Drumlanrig, false wert aye, And Closeburn in a Land! The laird of Lag, frae my father that fled, When the Johnston struck aff his hand. They were three brethren in a band-- Joy may they never see! Their treacherous art, and cowardly heart, Has twin'd my love and me, Adieu! Dumfries, my proper place, But and Carlaverock fair! Adieu! my castle of the Thrieve, Wi' a my buildings there: Adieu! Lochmaben's gates sae fair, The Langholm-holm where birks there be; Adieu! my ladye, and only joy, For, trust me, I may not stay wi' thee, "Adieu! fair Eskdale up and down, Where my puir friends do dwell; The bangisters[197] will ding them down, And will them sair compell. But I'll avenge their feid mysell, When I come o'er the sea; Adieu! my ladye, and only joy, For I may not stay wi' thee." "Lord of the land!"--that ladye said, "O wad ye go wi' me, Unto my brother's stately tower, Where safest ye may be! There Hamiltons and Douglas baith, Shall rise to succour thee." "Thanks for thy kindness, fair my dame, But I may not stay wi' thee." Then he tuik aff a gay gold ring, Thereat hang signets three; "Hae, take thee that, mine ain dear thing, And still hae mind o' me; But, if thou take another lord, Ere I come ower the sea-- His life is but a three day's lease, Tho' I may not stay wi' thee." The wind was fair, the ship was clear, That good lord went away; And most part of his friends were there, To give him a fair convey. They drank the wine, they did na spair, Even in that gude lord's sight-- Sae now he's o'er the floods sae gray, And Lord Maxwell has ta'en his Goodnight. [Footnote 197: _Bangisters_--The prevailing party.] NOTES ON LORD MAXWELL'S GOODNIGHT. * * * * * _Adieu! Drumlanrig, &c_.--P. 268. v. 1. The reader will perceive, from the Introduction, what connection the bond, subscribed by Douglas of Drumlanrig, Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, and Grierson of Lagg, had with the death of Lord Maxwell's father. For the satisfaction of those, who may be curious as to the form of these bonds, I have transcribed a letter of manrent,[198] from a MS. collection of upwards of twenty deeds of that nature, copied from the originals by the late John Syme, Esq. writer to the signet; for the use of which, with many other favours of a similar nature, I am indebted to Dr. Robert Anderson of Edinburgh. The bond is granted by Thomas Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, to Robert, Lord Maxwell, father of him who was slain at the battle of the Dryffe Sands. [Footnote 198: The proper spelling is _manred_. Thus, in the romance of _Florice and Blancheflour_-- "He wil falle to thi fot, "And bicom thi man gif be mot; "His _manred_ thou schalt afonge, "and the trewthe of his honde." BOND OF MANRENT. "Be it kend till all men be thir present lettres, me Thomas Kirkpatrik of Closburn, to be bundin and oblist, and be the tenor heirof, bindis and oblissis me be the faith and treuth of my body, in manrent and service to ane nobil and mychty lord, Robert Lord Maxwell, induring all the dayis of my lyfe; and byndis and oblissis me, as said is, to be leill and trew man and servand to the said Robert Lord Maxwell, my master, and sall nowthir heir nor se his skaith, but sall lat the samyn at my uter power, an warn him therof. And I sall conceill it that the said lord schawis to me, and sall gif him agane the best leill and trew counsale that I can, quhen he ony askis at me; and that I sall ryde with my kin, freyndis, servandis, and allies, that wil do for me, or to gang with the said lord; and do to him aefauld, trew, and thankful service, and take aefauld playne part with the said lord, my maister, in all and sindry his actionis, causis, querrellis, leful and honest, movit, or to be movit be him, or aganis him, baith in peace and weir, contrair or aganis all thae that leiffes or de may (my allegeant to owr soveran ladye the quenis grace, her tutor and governor, allanerly except). And thir my lettres of manrent, for all the dayis of my life foresaid to indure, all dissimulations, fraud, or gyle, secludit and away put. In witness, &c." The deed is signed at Edinburgh, 3d February, 1542. In the collection, from which this extract is made, there are bonds of a similar nature granted to Lord Maxwell, by Douglas of Drumlanrig, ancestor of the Duke of Queensberry; by Crichton Lord Sanquhar, ancestor of the earls of Dumfries, and many of his kindred; by Stuart of Castlemilk; by Stuart of Garlies, ancestor of the earls of Galloway; by Murray of Cockpool, ancestor of the Murrays, lords Annandale; by Grierson of Lagg, Gordon of Lochmaben, and many other of the most ancient and respectable barons in the south-west of Scotland, binding themselves, in the most submissive terms, to become the liegemen and the vassals of the house of Maxwell; a circumstance which must highly excite our idea of the power of that family. Nay, even the rival chieftain, Johnstone of Johnstone, seems at one time to have come under a similar obligation to Maxwell, by a bond, dated 11th February 1528, in which reference is made to the counter-obligation of the patron, in these words: "Forasmeikle as the said lord has oblist him to supple, maintene, and defend me, in the peciabill brouking and joysing of all my landis, rentis, &c. and to take my aefald, leill and trew part, in all my good actionis, causis, and quarles, leiful and honest, aganes all deedlie, his alledgeance to our soveraigne lord the king allanerly excepted, as at mair length is contained in his lettres of maintenance maid to me therupon; therfore, &c." he proceeds to bind himself as liegeman to the Maxwell. I cannot dismiss the subject without observing, that, in the dangerous times of Queen Mary, when most of these bonds are dated, many barons, for the sake of maintaining unanimity and good order, may have chosen to enroll themselves among the clients of Lord Maxwell, then warden of the border, from which, at a less turbulent period, personal considerations would have deterred them. _Adieu! my castle of the Thrieve_.--P. 268. v. 2. This fortress is situated in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, upon an island about two acres in extent, formed by the river Dee. The walls are very thick and strong, and bear the marks of great antiquity. It was a royal castle; but the keeping of it, agreeable to the feudal practice, was granted by charter, or sometimes by a more temporary and precarious right, to different powerful families, together with lands for their good service in maintaining and defending the place. This office of heritable keeper remained with the Nithesdale family (chief of the Maxwells) till their forfeiture, 1715. The garrison seems to have been victualled upon feudal principles; for each parish in the stewartry was burdened with the yearly payment of a _lardner mart cow_, i.e. a cow fit for being killed and salted at Martinmas, for winter provisions. The right of levying these cattle was retained by the Nithesdale family, when they sold the castle and estate, in 1704, and they did not cease to exercise it till their attainder.--_Fountainhall's Decisions_, Vol. I. p. 688. This same castle of the Thrieve was, A.D. 1451-2, the scene of an outrageous and cruel insult upon the royal authority. The fortress was then held by William VIII. Earl of Douglas, who, in fact, possessed a more unlimited authority over the southern districts of Scotland, than the reigning monarch. The earl had, on some pretence, seized and imprisoned a baron, called Maclellan, tutor of Bombie, whom he threatened to bring to trial, by his power of hereditary jurisdiction. The uncle of this gentleman, Sir Patrick Gray of Foulis, who commanded the body-guard of James II., obtained from that prince a warrant, requiring from Earl Douglas the body of the prisoner. When Gray appeared, the earl instantly suspected his errand. "You have not dined," said he, without suffering him to open his commission: "it is ill talking between a full man and a fasting." While Gray was at meat, the unfortunate prisoner was, by Douglas's command, led forth to the court-yard and beheaded. When the repast was finished, the king's letter was presented and opened. "Sir Patrick," says Douglas, leading Gray to the court, "right glad had I been to honour the king's messenger; but you have come too late. Yonder lies your sister's son, without the head: you are welcome to his dead body." Gray, having mounted his horse, turned to the earl, and expressed his wrath in a deadly oath, that he would requite the injury with Douglas's heart's blood.--"To horse!" cried the haughty baron, and the messenger of his prince was pursued till within a few miles of Edinburgh. Gray, however, had an opportunity of keeping his vow; for, being upon guard in the king's anti-chamber at Stirling, when James, incensed at the insolence of the earl, struck him with his dagger, Sir Patrick rushed in, and dispatched him with a pole-axe. The castle of Thrieve was the last of the fortresses which held out for the house of Douglas, after their grand rebellion in 1553. James II. writes an account of the exile of this potent family, to Charles VII. of France, 8th July, 1555; and adds, that all their castles had been yielded to him, _Excepto duntaxat castro de Trefe, per nostres fideles impraesentiarum obsesso; quod domino concedente in brevi obtinere speramus.--Pinkerton's History, Appendix_, Vol. I. p. 486.--See _Pitscottie's History, Godscroft, &c._ _And most part of his friends were, there_,--P. 269. v. 3. The ancestor of the present Mr. Maxwell of Broomholm is particularly mentioned in Glenriddell's MS. as having attended his chieftain in his distress, and as having received a grant of lands, in reward of this manifestation of attachment. _Sae now he's o'er the floods sae gray_.--P. 269. v. 3. This seems to have been a favourite epithet in old romances, Thus in _Hornchilde_, and _Maiden Rimuild_, Thai sayled ower the _flode so gray_, In Inglond arrived were thay, Ther him levest ware. THE LADS OF WAMPHRAY. The reader will find, prefixed to the foregoing ballad, an account of the noted feud betwixt the families of Maxwell and Johnstone. The following song celebrates the skirmish, in 1593, betwixt the Johnstones and Crichtons, which led to the revival of the ancient quarrel betwixt Johnstone and Maxwell, and finally to the battle of Dryffe Sands, in which the latter lost his life. Wamphray is the name of a parish in Annandale. Lethenhall was the abode of Johnstone of Wamphray, and continued to be so till of late years. William Johnstone of Wamphray, called the _Galliard_, was a noted freebooter. A place, near the head of Tiviotdale, retains the name of the _Galliard's Faulds_, (folds) being a valley where he used to secrete and divide his spoil, with his Liddesdale and Eskdale associates. His _nom de guerre_ seems to have been derived from the dance called _The Galliard_. The word is still used in Scotland, to express an active, gay, dissipated character.[199] Willie of the Kirkhill, nephew to the Galliard, and his avenger, was also a noted border robber. Previous to the battle of Dryffe Sands, so often mentioned, tradition reports, that Maxwell had offered a ten-pound-land to any of his party, who should bring him the head or hand of the laird of Johnstone. This being reported to his antagonist, he answered, he had not a ten-pound-land to offer, but would give a five-merk-land to the man who should that day cut off the head or hand of Lord Maxwell. Willie of the Kirkhill, mounted upon a young gray horse, rushed upon the enemy, and earned the reward, by striking down their unfortunate chieftain, and cutting off his right hand. Leverhay, Stefenbiggin, Girth-head, &c. are all situated in the parish of Wamphray. The Biddes-burn, where the skirmish took place betwixt the Johnstones and their pursuers, is a rivulet which takes its course among the mountains on the confines of Nithesdale and Annandale. The Wellpath is a pass by which the Johnstones were retreating to their fastnesses in Annandale. Ricklaw-holm is a place upon the Evan water, which falls into the Annan, below Moffat. Wamphray-gate was in these days an ale-house. With these local explanations, it is hoped the following ballad will be easily understood. From a pedigree in the appeal case of Sir James Johnstone of Westeraw, claiming the honours and titles of Annandale, it appears that the Johnstones of Wamphray were descended from James, sixth son of the sixth baron of Johnstone. The male line became extinct in 1657. [Footnote 199: Cleveland applies the phrase in a very different manner, in treating of the assembly of Divines at Westminster, 1644: And Selden is a _Galliard_ by himself. And wel might be; there's more divines in him. Than in all this their Jewish Sanhedrim. Skelton, in his railing poem against James IV., terms him _Sir Skyr Galyard_.] THE LADS OF WAMPHRAY. 'Twixt Girth-head and the Langwood end, Lived the Galliard, and the Galliard's men; But and the lads of Leverhay, That drove the Crichtons' gear away. It is the lads of Lethenha', The greatest rogues amang them a': But and the lads of Stefenbiggin, They broke the house in at the rigging. The lads of Fingland, and Hellbeck-hill, They were never for good, but aye for ill; 'Twixt the Staywood-bush and Langside-hill, They stealed the broked cow and the branded bull. It is the lads of the Girth-head, The deil's in them for pride and greed; For the Galliard, and the gay Galliard's men, They ne'er saw a horse but they made it their ain. The Galliard to Nithside is gane, To steal Sim Crichton's winsome dun; The Galliard is unto the stable gane, But instead of the dun, the blind he has ta'en. "Now Simmy, Simmy of the Side, Come out and see a Johnstone ride! Here's the bonniest horse in a' Nithside, And a gentle Johnstone aboon his hide." Simmy Crichton's mounted then, And Crichtons has raised mony a ane; The Galliard trowed his horse had been wight, But the Crichtons beat him out o' sight. As soon as the Galliard the Crichton saw, Behind the saugh-bush he did draw; And there the Crichtons the Galliard hae ta'en, And nane wi' him but Willie alane. "O Simmy, Simmy, now let me gang, And I'll nevir mair do a Crichton wrang! O Simmy, Simmy, now let me be, And a peck o' gowd I'll give to thee! O Simmy, Simmy, now let me gang, And my wife shall heap it with her hand." But the Crichtons wad na let the Galliard be, But they hanged him hie upon a tree. O think then Willie he was right wae, When he saw his uncle guided sae; "But if ever I live Wamphray to see, My uncle's death avenged shall be!" Back to Wamphray he is gane, And riders has raised mony a ane; Saying--"My lads, if ye'll be true, Ye shall a' be clad in the noble blue." Back to Nithisdale they have gane, And awa' the Crichtons' nowt hae ta'en; But when they cam to the Wellpath-head, The Crichtons bade them 'light and lead. And when they cam to the Biddes burn, The Crichtons bade them stand and turn; And when they cam to the Biddess strand, The Crichtons they were hard at hand. But when they cam to the Biddes law, The Johnstones bade them stand and draw; "We've done nae ill, we'll thole nae wrang, "But back to Wamphray we will gang," And out spoke Willy o' the Kirkhill, "Of fighting, lads, ye'se hae your fill." And from his horse Willie he lap, And a burnished brand in his hand he gat. Out through the Crichtons Willie he ran, And dang them down baith horse and man; O but the Johnstones were wondrous rude, When the Biddes burn ran three days blood. "Now, Sirs, we have done a noble deed; "We have revenged the Galliard's bleid: "For every finger of the Galliard's hand, "I vow this day I've killed a man." As they cam in at Evan-head, At Ricklaw-holm they spread abread; "Drive on, my lads! it will be late; We'll hae a pint at Wamphray gate. "For where'er I gang, or e'er I ride, The lads of Wamphray are on my side; And of a' the lads that I do ken, A Wamphray lad's the king of men." THE END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
12882	----	MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER: CONSISTING OF HISTORICAL AND ROMANTIC BALLADS, COLLECTED IN THE SOUTHERN COUNTIES OF SCOTLAND; WITH A FEW OF MODERN DATE, FOUNDED UPON LOCAL TRADITION. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II. The songs, to savage virtue dear. That won of yore the public ear, Ere Polity, sedate and sage, Had quench'd the fires of feudal rage.--WARTON. THIRD EDITION. 1806. CONTENTS TO THE SECOND VOLUME. LESLEY'S MARCH The Battle of Philiphaugh The Gallant Grahams The Battle of Pentland Hills The Battle of Loudonhill The Battle of Bothwell-bridge PART SECOND. _ROMANTIC BALLADS._ Scottish Music, an Ode Introduction to the Tale of Tamlane The Young Tamlane Erlinton The Twa Corbies The Douglas Tragedy Young Benjie Lady Anne Lord William The Broomfield-Hill Proud Lady Margaret The Original Ballad of the Broom of Cowdenknows Lord Randal Sir Hugh Le Blond Graeme and Bewick The Duel of Wharton and Stuart, Part I. Part II. The Lament of the Border Widow Fair Helen of Kirkonnel, Part I. Part II. Hughie the Graeme Johnie of Breadislee Katherine Janfarie The Laird o' Logie A Lyke-wake Dirge The Dowie Dens of Yarrow The Gay Goss Hawk Brown Adam Jellon Grame Willie's Ladye Clerk Saunders Earl Richard The Lass of Lochroyan Rose the Red and White Lilly MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. PART FIRST.--CONTINUED. _HISTORICAL BALLADS._ LESLY'S MARCH. "But, O my country! how shall memory trace "Thy glories, lost in either Charles's days, "When through thy fields destructive rapine spread, "Nor sparing infants' tears, nor hoary head! "In those dread days, the unprotected swain "Mourn'd, in the mountains, o'er his wasted plain; "Nor longer vocal, with the shepherd's lay, "Were Yarrow's banks, or groves of Endermay." LANGHORN--_Genius and Valour_. Such are the verses, in which a modern bard has painted the desolate state of Scotland, during a period highly unfavourable to poetical composition. Yet the civil and religious wars of the seventeenth century have afforded some subjects for traditionary poetry, and the reader is here presented with the ballads of that disastrous aera. Some prefatory history may not be unacceptable. That the Reformation was a good and a glorious work, few will be such slavish bigots as to deny. But the enemy came, by night, and sowed tares among the wheat; or rather; the foul and rank soil, upon which the seed was thrown, pushed forth, together with the rising crop, a plentiful proportion of pestilential weeds. The morals of the reformed clergy were severe; their learning was usually respectable, sometimes profound; and their eloquence, though often coarse, was vehement, animated, and popular. But they never could forget, that their rise had been achieved by the degradation, if not the fall, of the crown; and hence, a body of men, who, in most countries, have been attached to monarchy, were in Scotland, for nearly two centuries, sometimes the avowed enemies, always the ambitious rivals, of their prince. The disciples of Calvin could scarcely avoid a tendency to democracy, and the republican form of church government was sometimes hinted at, as no unfit model for the state; at least, the kirkmen laboured to impress, upon their followers and hearers, the fundamental principle, that the church should be solely governed by those, unto whom God had given the spiritual sceptre. The elder Melvine, in a conference with James VI., seized the monarch by the sleeve, and, addressing him as _God's sillie vassal_, told him, "There are two kings, and two kingdomes. There is Christ, and his kingdome, the kirke; whose subject King James the sixth is, and of whose kingdome he is not a king, nor a head, nor a lord, but a member; and they, whom Christ hath called and commanded to watch ower his kirke, and govern his spiritual kingdome, have sufficient authorise and power from him so to do; which no christian king, no prince, should controul or discharge, but fortifie and assist: otherwise they are not faithful subjects to Christ."--_Calderwood_, p. 329. The delegated theocracy, thus sternly claimed, was exercised with equal rigour. The offences in the king's household fell under their unceremonious jurisdiction, and he was formally reminded of his occasional neglect to say grace before and after meat--his repairing to hear the word more rarely than was fitting--his profane banning and swearing, and keeping of evil company--and finally, of his queen's carding, dancing, night-walking, and such like profane pastimes.--_Calderwood_, p. 313. A curse, direct or implied, was formally denounced against every man, horse, and spear, who should assist the king in his quarrel with the Earl of Gowrie; and from the pulpit, the favourites of the listening sovereign were likened to Haman, his wife to Herodias, and he himself to Ahab, to Herod, and to Jeroboam. These effusions of zeal could not be very agreeable to the temper of James: and accordingly, by a course of slow, and often crooked and cunning policy, he laboured to arrange the church-government upon a less turbulent and menacing footing. His eyes were naturally turned towards the English hierarchy, which had been modelled, by the despotic Henry VIII., into such a form, as to connect indissolubly the interest of the church with that of the regal power.[A] The Reformation, in England, had originated in the arbitrary will of the prince; in Scotland, and in all other countries of Europe, it had commenced among insurgents of the lower ranks. Hence, the deep and essential difference which separated the Huguenots, the Lutherans, the Scottish presbyterians, and, in fine, all the other reformed churches, from that of England. But James, with a timidity which sometimes supplies the place of prudence, contented himself with gradually imposing upon the Scottish nation a limited and moderate system of episcopacy, which, while it gave to a proportion of the churchmen a seat in the council of the nation, induced them to look up to the sovereign, as the power to whose influence they owed their elevation. But, in other respects, James spared the prejudices of his subjects; no ceremonial ritual was imposed upon their consciences; the pastors were reconciled by the prospect of preferment,[B] the dress and train of the bishops were plain and decent; the system of tythes was placed upon a moderate and unoppressive footing;[C] and, perhaps, on the whole, the Scottish hierarchy contained as few objectionable points as any system of church-government in Europe. Had it subsisted to the present day, although its doctrines could not have been more pure, nor its morals more exemplary, than those of the present kirk of Scotland, yet its degrees of promotion might have afforded greater encouragement to learning, and objects of laudable ambition to those, who might dedicate themselves to its service. But the precipitate bigotry of the unfortunate Charles I. was a blow to episcopacy in Scotland, from which it never perfectly recovered. [Footnote A: Of this the Covenanters were so sensible, as to trace (what they called) the Antichristian hierarchy, with its idolatry, superstition, and human inventions, "to the prelacy of England, the fountain whence all these Babylonish streams issue unto us."--See their manifesto on entering England, in 1640.] [Footnote B: Many of the preachers, who had been loudest in the cause of presbytery, were induced to accept of bishoprics. Such was, for example, William Cooper, who was created bishop of Galloway. This recreant Mass John was a hypochondriac, and conceived his lower extremities to be composed of glass; hence, on his court advancement, the following epigram was composed: _"Aureus heu! frugilem confregit malleus urnam."_] [Footnote C: This part of the system was perfected in the reign of Charles I.] It has frequently happened, that the virtues of the individual, at least their excess (if, indeed, there can be an excess in virtue), have been fatal to the prince. Never was this more fully exemplified than in the history of Charles I. His zeal for religion, his family affection, the spirit with which he defended his supposed rights, while they do honour to the man, were the fatal shelves upon which the monarchy was wrecked. Impatient to accomplish the total revolution, which his father's cautious timidity had left incomplete, Charles endeavoured at once to introduce into Scotland the church-government, and to renew, in England, the temporal domination, of his predecessor, Henry VIII. The furious temper of the Scottish nation first took fire; and the brandished footstool of a prostitute[A] gave the signal for civil dissension, which ceased not till the church was buried under the ruins of the constitution; till the nation had stooped to a military despotism; and the monarch to the block of the executioner. [Footnote A: "_Out, false loon! wilt thou say the mass at my lug (ear)_," was the well known exclamation of Margaret Geddes, as she discharged her missile tripod against the bishop of Edinburgh, who, in obedience to the orders of the privy-council, was endeavouring to rehearse the common prayer. Upon a seat more elevated, the said Margaret had shortly before done penance, before the congregation, for the sin of fornication: such, at least, is the tory tradition.] The consequence of Charles' hasty and arbitrary measures were soon evident. The united nobility, gentry, and clergy of Scotland, entered into the SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT, by which memorable deed, they subscribed and swore a national renunciation of the hierarchy. The walls of the prelatic Jericho (to use the language of the times) were thus levelled with the ground, and the curse of Hiel, the Bethelite, denounced against those who should rebuild them. While the clergy thundered, from the pulpits, against the prelatists and malignants (by which names were distinguished the scattered and heartless adherents of Charles), the nobility and gentry, in arms, hurried to oppose the march of the English army, which now advanced towards their borders. At the head of their defensive forces they placed Alexander Lesley, who, with many of his best officers, had been trained to war under the great Gustavus Adolphus. They soon assembled an army of 26,000 men, whose camp, upon Dunse-law, is thus described by an eye-witness. "Mr Baillie acknowledges, that it was an agreeable feast to his eyes, to survey the place: it is a round hill, about a Scots mile in circle, rising, with very little declivity, to the height of a bow-shot, and the head somewhat plain, and near a quarter of a mile in length and breadth; on the top it was garnished with near forty field pieces, pointed towards the east and south. The colonels, who were mostly noblemen, as Rothes, Cassilis, Eglinton, Dalhousie, Lindsay, Lowdon, Boyd, Sinclair, Balcarras, Flemyng, Kirkcudbright, Erskine, Montgomery, Yester, &c. lay in large tents at the head of their respective regiments; their captains, who generally were barons, or chief gentlemen, lay around them: next to these were the lieutenants, who were generally old veterans, and had served in that, or a higher station, over sea; and the common soldiers lay outmost, all in huts of timber, covered with divot, or straw. Every company, which, according to the first plan, did consist of two hundred men, had their colours flying at the captain's tent door, with the Scots arms upon them, and this motto, in golden letters, "FOR CHRIST'S CROWN AND COVENANT." Against this army, so well arrayed and disciplined, and whose natural hardihood was edged and exalted by a high opinion of their sacred cause, Charles marched at the head of a large force, but divided, by the emulation of the commanders, and enervated, by disuse of arms. A faintness of spirit pervaded the royal army, and the king stooped to a treaty with his Scottish subjects. The treaty was soon broken; and, in the following year, Dunse-law again presented the same edifying spectacle of a presbyterian army. But the Scots were not contented with remaining there. They passed the Tweed; and the English troops, in a skirmish at Newburn, shewed either more disaffection, or cowardice, than had at any former period disgraced their national character. This war was concluded by the treaty of Rippon; in consequence of which, and of Charles's concessions, made during his subsequent visit to his native country, the Scottish parliament congratulated him on departing "a contented king, from a contented people." If such content ever existed, it was of short duration. The storm, which had been soothed to temporary rest in Scotland, burst forth in England with treble violence. The popular clamour accused Charles, or his ministers, of fetching into Britain the religion of Rome, and the policy of Constantinople. The Scots felt most keenly the first, and the English the second, of these aggressions. Accordingly, when the civil war of England broke forth, the Scots nation, for a time, regarded it in neutrality, though not with indifference. But, when the successes of a prelatic monarch, against a presbyterian parliament, were paving the way for rebuilding the system of hierarchy, they could no longer remain inactive. Bribed by the delusive promise of Sir Henry Vane, and Marshall, the parliamentary commissioners, that the church of England should be reformed, _according to the word of God_, which, they fondly believed, amounted to an adoption of presbytery, they agreed to send succours to their brethren of England. Alexander Lesly, who ought to have ranked among the _contented_ subjects, having been raised by the king to the honours of Earl of Leven, was, nevertheless, readily induced to accept the command of this second army. Doubtless, where insurrection is not only pardoned, but rewarded, a monarch has little right to expect gratitude for benefits, which all the world, as well as the receiver, must attribute to fear. Yet something is due to decency; and the best apology for Lesly, is his zeal for propagating presbyterianism in England, the bait which had caught the whole parliament of Scotland. But, although the Earl of Leven was commander in chief, David Lesly, a yet more renowned and active soldier than himself, was major-general of the cavalry, and, in truth, bore away the laurels of the expedition. The words of the following march, which was played in the van of this presbyterian crusade, were first published by Allan Ramsay, in his _Evergreen_; and they breathe the very spirit we might expect. Mr Ritson, in his collection of Scottish songs, has favoured the public with the music, which seems to have been adapted to the bagpipes. The hatred of the old presbyterians to the organ was, apparently, invincible. It is here vilified with the name of a "_chest-full of whistles_," as the episcopal chapel at Glasgow was, by the vulgar, opprobriously termed the _Whistling Kirk_. Yet, such is the revolution of sentiment upon this, as upon more important points, that reports have lately been current, of a plan to introduce this noble instrument into presbyterian congregations. The share, which Lesly's army bore in the action of Marston Moor, has been exalted, or depressed, as writers were attached to the English or Scottish nations, to the presbyterian or independent factions. Mr Laing concludes, with laudable impartiality, that the victory was equally due to "Cromwell's iron brigade of disciplined independents, and to three regiments of Lesly's horse."--Vol I. p. 244. LESLEY'S MARCH. March! march! Why the devil do ye na march? Stand to your arms, my lads, Fight in good order; Front about, ye musketeers all, Till ye come to the English border: Stand til't, and fight like men, True gospel to maintain. The parliament's blythe to see us a' coming. When to the kirk we come, We'll purge it ilka room, Frae popish reliques, and a' sic innovation, That a' the warld may see, There's nane in the right but we, Of the auld Scottish nation. _Jenny_ shall wear the hood, _Jocky_ the sark of God; And the kist-fou of whistles, That mak sic a cleiro, Our piper's braw Shall hae them a', Whate'er come on it: Busk up your plaids, my lads! Cock up your bonnets! _Da Capo._ THE BATTLE OF PHILIPHAUGH. This ballad is so immediately connected with the former, that the editor is enabled to continue his sketch of historical transactions, from the march of Lesly. In the insurrection of 1680, all Scotland, south from the Grampians, was actively and zealously engaged. But, after the treaty of Rippon, the first fury of the revolutionary torrent may be said to have foamed off its force, and many of the nobility began to look round, with horror, upon the rocks and shelves amongst which it had hurried them. Numbers regarded the defence of Scotland as a just and necessary warfare, who did not see the same reason for interfering in the affairs of England. The visit of King Charles to the metropolis of his fathers, in all probability, produced its effect on his nobles. Some were allied to the house of Stuart by blood; all regarded it as the source of their honours, and venerated the ancient in obtaining the private objects of ambition, or selfish policy which had induced them to rise up against the crown. Amongst these late penitents, the well known marquis of Montrose was distinguished, as the first who endeavoured to recede from the paths of rude rebellion. Moved by the enthusiasm of patriotism, or perhaps of religion, but yet more by ambition, the sin of noble minds, Montrose had engaged, eagerly and deeply, upon the side of the covenanters He had been active in pressing the town of Aberdeen to take the covenant, and his success against the Gordons, at the bridge of Dee, left that royal burgh no other means of safety from pillage. At the head of his own battalion, he waded through the Tweed, in 1640, and totally routed the vanguard of the king's cavalry. But, in 1643, moved with resentment against the covenanters who preferred, to his prompt and ardent character, the caution of the wily and politic earl of Argyle, or seeing, perhaps, that the final views of that party were inconsistent with the interests of monarchy, and of the constitution, Montrose espoused the falling cause of royalty and raised the Highland clans, whom he united to a small body of Irish, commanded by Alexander Macdonald, still renowned in the north, under the title of Colkitto. With these tumultuary and uncertain forces, he rushed forth, like a torrent from the mountains, and commenced a rapid and brilliant career of victory. At Tippermoor, where he first met the covenanters, their defeat was so effectual, as to appal the presbyterian courage, even after the lapse of eighty years.[A] A second army was defeated under the walls of Aberdeen; and the pillage of the ill-fated town was doomed to expiate the principles, which Montrose himself had formerly imposed upon them. Argyleshire next experienced his arms; the domains of his rival were treated with more than military severity; and Argyle himself, advancing to Inverlochy for the defence of his country, was totally and disgracefully routed by Montrose. Pressed betwixt two armies, well appointed, and commanded by the most experienced generals of the Covenant, Mozitrose displayed more military skill in the astonishingly rapid marches, by which he avoided fighting to disadvantage, than even in the field of victory. By one of those hurried marches, from the banks of Loch Katrine to the heart of Inverness-shire, he was enabled to attack, and totally to defeat, the Covenanters, at Aulderne though he brought into the field hardly one half of their forces. Baillie, a veteran officer, was next routed by him, at the village of Alford, in Strathbogie. Encouraged by these repeated and splendid successes, Montrose now descended into the heart of Scotland, and fought a bloody and decisive battle, near Kilsyth, where four thousand covenanters fell under the Highland claymore. [Footnote A: Upon the breaking out of the insurrection, in the year 1715, the earl of Rothes, sheriff and lord-lieutenant of the county of Fife, issued out an order for "all the fencible men of the countie to meet him, at a place called Cashmoor. The gentlemen took no notice of his orders, nor did the commons, except those whom the ministers forced to goe to the place of rendezvouse, to the number of fifteen hundred men, being all that their utmost diligence could perform. But those of that countie, having been taught by their experience, that it is not good meddling with edge tools, especiallie in the hands of Highlandmen, were very averse from taking armes. No sooner they reflected on the name of the place of rendezvouse, Cashmoor, than Tippermoor was called to mind; a place not far from thence, where Montrose had routed them, when under the command of my great-grand-uncle the earl of Wemyss, then generall of God's armie. In a word, the unlucky choice of a place, called _Moo_, appeared ominous; and that, with the flying report of the Highlandmen having made themselves masters of Perth, made them throw down their armes, and run, notwithstanding the trouble that Rothes and the ministers gave themselves to stop them."--M.S. _Memoirs of Lord St Clair._] This victory opened the whole of Scotland to Montrose He occupied the capital, and marched forward to the border; not merely to complete the subjection of the southern provinces, but with the flattering hope of pouring his victorious army into England, and bringing to the support of Charles the sword of his paternal tribes. Half a century before Montrose's career, the state of the borders was such as might have enabled him easily to have accomplished his daring plan. The marquis of Douglas, the earls of Hume, Roxburgh, Traquair, and Annandale, were all descended of mighty border chiefs, whose ancestors could, each of them, have led into the field a body of their own vassals, equal in numbers, and superior in discipline, to the army of Montrose. But the military spirit of the borderers, and their attachment to their chiefs, had been much broken since the union of the crowns. The disarming acts of James had been carried rigorously into execution, and the smaller proprietors, no longer feeling the necessity of protection from their chiefs in war, had aspired to independence, and embraced the tenets of the covenant. Without imputing, with Wishart, absolute treachery to the border nobles, it may be allowed, that they looked with envy upon Montrose, and with dread and aversion upon his rapacious and disorderly forces. Hence, had it been in their power, it might not have altogether suited their inclinations, to have brought the strength of the border lances to the support of the northern clans. The once formidable name of Douglas still sufficed to raise some bands, by whom Montrose was joined, in his march down the Gala. With these reinforcements, and with the remnant of his Highlanders (for a great number had returned home with Colkitto, to deposit their plunder, and provide for their families), Montrose after traversing the border, finally encamped upon the field of Philiphaugh. The river Ettrick, immediately after its junction with the Yarrow, and previous to its falling into the Tweed, makes a large sweep to the southward, and winds almost beneath the lofty bank, on which the town of Selkirk stands; leaving, upon the northern side, a large and level plain, extending in an easterly direction, from a hill, covered with natural copse-wood, called the Harehead-wood, to the high ground which forms the banks of the Tweed, near Sunderland-hall. This plain is called Philliphaugh:[A] it is about a mile and a half in length, and a quarter of a mile broad; and, being defended, to the northward, by the high hills which separate Tweed from Yarrow, by the river in front, and by the high grounds, already mentioned on each flank, it forms, at once, a convenient and a secure field of encampment. On each flank Montrose threw up some trenches, which are still visible; and here he posted his infantry, amounting to about twelve or fifteen hundred men. He himself took up his quarters in the burgh of Selkirk, and, with him, the cavalry, in number hardly one thousand, but respectable, as being chiefly composed of gentlemen, and their immediate retainers. In this manner, by a fatal and unaccountable error, the river Ettrick was thrown betwixt the cavalry and infantry, which were to depend upon each other for intelligence and mutual support. But this might be overlooked by Montrose, in the conviction, that there was no armed enemy of Charles in the realm of Scotland; for he is said to have employed the night in writing and dispatching this agreeable intelligence to the king. Such an enemy was already within four miles of his camp. [Footnote A: The Scottish language is rich in words, expressive of local situation The single word _haugh_, conveys, to a Scotsman, almost all that I have endeavoured to explain in the text, by circumlocutory description.] Recalled by the danger of the cause of the Covenant, General David Lesly came down from England, at the head of those iron squadrons, whose force had been proved in the fatal battle of Long Marston Moor. His array consisted of from five to six thousand men, chiefly cavalry. Lesly's first plan seems to have been, to occupy the mid-land counties, so as to intercept the return of Montrose's Highlanders, and to force him to an unequal combat Accordingly, he marched along the eastern coast, from Berwick to Tranent; but there he suddenly altered his direction, and, crossing through Mid-Lothian, turned again to the southward, and, following the course of Gala water, arrived at Melrose, the evening before the engagement How it is possible that Montrose should have received no notice whatever of the march of so considerable an army, seems almost inconceivable, and proves, that the country was strongly disaffected to his cause, or person. Still more extraordinary does it appear, that, even with the advantage of a thick mist, Lesly should have, the next morning, advanced towards Montrose's encampment without being descried by a single scout. Such, however, was the case, and it was attended with all the consequences of the most complete surprisal. The first intimation that Montrose received of the march of Lesly, was the noise of the conflict, or, rather, that which attended the unresisted slaughter of his infantry, who never formed a line of battle: the right wing alone, supported by the thickets of Harehead-wood, and by the entrenchments which are there still visible, stood firm for some time. But Lesly had detached two thousand men, who, crossing the Ettrick still higher up than his main body, assaulted the rear of Montrose's right wing. At this moment, the marquis himself arrived, and beheld his army dispersed, for the first time, in irretrievable route. He had thrown himself upon a horse the instant he heard the firing, and, followed by such of his disorderly cavalry as had gathered upon the alarm, he galloped from Selkirk, crossed the Ettrick, and made a bold and desperate attempt to retrieve the fortune of the day. But all was in vain; and, after cutting his way, almost singly, through a body of Lesly's troopers, the gallant Montrose graced by his example the retreat of the fugitives. That retreat he continued up Yarrow, and over Minch-moor; nor did he stop till he arrived at Traquair, sixteen miles from the field of battle. Upon Philiphaugh he lost, in one defeat, the fruit of six splendid victories: nor was he again able effectually to make head, in Scotland, against the covenanted cause. The number slain in the field did not exceed three or four hundred; for the fugitives found refuge in the mountains, which had often been the retreat of vanquished armies, and were impervious to the pursuer's cavalry. Lesly abused his victory, and dishonoured his arms, by slaughtering, in cold blood, many of the prisoners whom he had taken; and the court-yard of Newark castle is said to have been the spot, upon which they were shot by his command. Many others are said, by Wishart, to have been precipitated from a high bridge over the Tweed. This, as Mr Laing remarks, is impossible; because there was not a bridge over the Tweed betwixt Peebles and Berwick. But there is an old bridge, over the Ettrick, only four miles from Philiphaugh, and another over the Yarrow, both of which lay in the very line of flight and pursuit; and either might have been the scene of the massacre. But if this is doubtful, it is too certain, that several of the royalists were executed by the Covenanters, as traitors to the king and parliament.[A] [Footnote A: A covenanted minister, present at the execution of these gentlemen observed, "This wark gaes bonnilie on!" an amiable exclamation equivalent to the modern _ça ira_, so often used on similar occasions.--_Wishart's Memoirs of Montrose._] I have reviewed, at some length, the details of this memorable engagement, which, at the same time, terminated the career of a hero, likened, by no mean judge of mankind[A] to those of antiquity, and decided the fate of his country. It is further remarkable, as the last field which was fought in Ettrick forest, the scene of so many bloody actions. The unaccountable neglect of patroles, and the imprudent separation betwixt the horse and foot, seem to have been the immediate causes of Montrose's defeat. But the ardent and impetuous character of this great warrior, corresponding with that of the troops which he commanded was better calculated for attack than defence; for surprising others, rather than for providing against surprise himself. Thus, he suffered loss by a sudden attack upon part of his forces, stationed at Aberdeen;[B] and, had he not extricated himself with the most singular ability, he must have lost his whole army, when surprised by Baillie, during the plunder of Dundee. Nor has it escaped an ingenious modern historian, that his final defeat at Dunbeath, so nearly resembles in its circumstances the surprise at Philiphaugh, as to throw some shade on his military talents.--LAING'S _History_. [Footnote A: Cardinal du Retz.] [Footnote B: Colonel Hurry, with a party of horse, surprised the town, while Montrose's Highlanders and cavaliers were "dispersed through the town, drinking carelessly in their lodgings; and, hearing the horse's feet, and great noise, were astonished, never dreaming of their enemy. However, Donald Farquharson happened to come to the causey, where he was cruelly slain, anent the Court de Guard; a brave gentleman, and one of the noblest captains amongst all the Highlanders of Scotland. Two or three others were killed, and some (taken prisoners) had to Edinburgh, and cast into irons in the tolbooth. Great lamentation was made for this gallant, being still the king's man for life and death."--SPALDING Vol. II. p. 281. The journalist, to whom all matters were of equal importance, proceeds to inform us, that Hurry took the marquis of Huntly's best horse, and, in his retreat through Montrose seized upon the marquis's second son. He also expresses his regret, that "the said Donald Farquharson's body was found in the street, stripped naked: for they tirr'd from off his body a rich stand of apparel, but put on the same day."--_Ibid._] The following ballad, which is preserved by tradition in Selkirkshire, coincides accurately with historical fact. This, indeed, constitutes its sole merit. The Covenanters were not, I dare say, addicted, more than their successors "to the profane and unprofitable art of poem-making."[A] Still, however, they could not refrain from some strains of exultation, over the defeat of the _truculent tyrant_, James Grahame. For, gentle reader, Montrose, who, with resources which seemed as none, gained six victories, and reconquered a kingdom; who, a poet, a scholar, a cavalier, and a general, could have graced alike a court, and governed a camp; this Montrose was numbered, by his covenanted countrymen, among "the troublers of Israel, the fire-brands of hell, the Corahs, the Balaams, the Doegs, the Rabshakahs, the Hamans, the Tobiahs, and Sanballats of the time." [Footnote A: So little was the spirit of illiberal fanaticism decayed in some parts of Scotland, that only thirty years ago, when Wilson, the ingenious author of a poem, called "_Clyde_," now republished, was inducted into the office of schoolmaster at Greenock, he was obliged formally, and in writing, to abjure _"the profane and unprofitable art of poem-making."_ It is proper to add, that such an incident is _now_ as unlikely to happen in Greenock as in London.] THE BATTLE OF PHILIPHAUGH. On Philiphaugh a fray began, At Hairhead wood it ended; The Scots out o'er the Graemes they ran, Sae merrily they bended. Sir David frae the border came, Wi' heart an' hand came he; Wi' him three thousand bonny Scotts, To bear him company. Wi' him three thousand valiant men, A noble sight to see! A cloud o' mist them weel concealed, As close as e'er might be. When they came to the Shaw burn, Said he, "Sae weel we frame, "I think it is convenient, "That we should sing a psalm."[A] When they came to the Lingly burn, As day-light did appear, They spy'd an aged father, And he did draw them near. "Come hither, aged father!" Sir David he did cry, "And tell me where Montrose lies, "With all his great army." "But, first, you must come tell to me, "If friends or foes you be; "I fear you are Montrose's men, "Come frae the north country." "No, we are nane o' Montrose's men, "Nor e'er intend to be; "I am sir David Lesly, "That's speaking unto thee." "If you're sir David Lesly, "As I think weel ye be, "I'm sorry ye hae brought so few "Into your company. "There's fifteen thousand armed men, "Encamped on yon lee; "Ye'll never be a bite to them, "For aught that I can see. "But, halve your men in equal parts, "Your purpose to fulfil; "Let ae half keep the water side, "The rest gae round the hill. "Your nether party fire must, "Then beat a flying drum; "And then they'll think the day's their ain, "And frae the trench they'll come. "Then, those that are behind them maun "Gie shot, baith grit and sma'; "And so, between your armies twa, "Ye may make them to fa'." "O were ye ever a soldier?" Sir David Lesly said; "O yes; I was at Solway flow, "Where we were all betray'd. "Again I was at curst Dunbar, "And was a pris'ner ta'en; "And many weary night and day, "In prison I hae lien." "If ye will lead these men aright, "Rewarded shall ye be; "But, if that ye a traitor prove, "I'll hang thee on a tree." "Sir, I will not a traitor prove; "Montrose has plundered me; "I'll do my best to banish him "Away frae this country." He halv'd his men in equal parts, His purpose to fulfill; The one part kept the water side, The other gaed round the hill. The nether party fired brisk, Then turn'd and seem'd to rin; And then they a' came frae the trench, And cry'd, "the day's our ain!" The rest then ran into the trench, And loos'd their cannons a': And thus, between his armies twa, He made them fast to fa'. Now, let us a' for Lesly pray, And his brave company! For they hae vanquish'd great Montrose, Our cruel enemy. [Footnote A: Various reading; "That we should take a dram."] NOTES ON THE BATTLE OF PHILIPHAUGH. _When they came to the Shaw burn._--P. 27. v. 1. A small stream, that joins the Ettrick, near Selkirk, on the south side of the river. _When they came to the Lingly burn._--P. 27. v. 2. A brook, which falls into the Ettrick, from the north, a little above the Shaw burn. _They spy'd an aged father._--P. 27. v. 2. The traditional commentary upon the ballad states this man's name to have been Brydone, ancestor to several families in the parish of Ettrick, particularly those occupying the farms of Midgehope and Redford Green. It is a strange anachronism, to make this aged father state himself at the battle of _Solway flow,_ which was fought a hundred years before Philiphaugh; and a still stranger, to mention that of Dunbar, which did not take place till five years after Montrose's defeat. A tradition, annexed to a copy of this ballad, transmitted to me by Mr James Hogg, bears, that the earl of Traquair, on the day of the battle, was advancing with a large sum of money, for the payment of Montrose's forces, attended by a blacksmith, one of his retainers. As they crossed Minch-moor, they were alarmed by firing, which the earl conceived to be Montrose exercising his forces, but which his attendant, from the constancy and irregularity of the noise, affirmed to be the tumult of an engagement. As they came below Broadmeadows, upon Yarrow, they met their fugitive friends, hotly pursued by the parliamentary troopers. The earl, of course, turned, and fled also: but his horse, jaded with the weight of dollars which he carried, refused to take the hill; so that the earl was fain to exchange with his attendant, leaving him with the breathless horse, and bag of silver, to shift for himself; which he is supposed to have done very effectually. Some of the dragoons, attracted by the appearance of the horse and trappings, gave chase to the smith, who fled up the Yarrow; but finding himself as he said, encumbered with the treasure, and unwilling that it should be taken, he flung it into a well, or pond, near the Tinnies, above Hangingshaw. Many wells were afterwards searched in vain; but it is the general belief, that the smith, if he ever hid the money, knew too well how to anticipate the scrutiny. There is, however, a pond, which some peasants began to drain, not long ago, in hopes of finding the golden prize, but were prevented, as they pretended, by supernatural interference. THE GALLANT GRAHAMS. The preceding ballad was a song of triumph over the defeat of Montrose at Philiphaugh; the verses, which follow are a lamentation for his final discomfiture and cruel death. The present edition of _"The Gallant Grahams"_ is given from tradition, enlarged and corrected by an ancient printed edition, entitled, _"The Gallant Grahams of Scotland"_ to the tune of _"I will away, and I will not tarry,"_ of which Mr Ritson favoured the editor with an accurate copy. The conclusion of Montrose's melancholy history is too well known. The Scottish army, which sold king Charles I. to his parliament, had, we may charitably hope, no idea that they were bartering his blood; although they must have been aware, that they were consigning him to perpetual bondage.[A] At least the sentiments of the kingdom at large differed widely from those of the military merchants, and the danger of king Charles drew into England a well appointed Scottish army, under the command of the duke of Hamilton. But he met with Cromwell, and to meet with Cromwell was inevitable defeat. The death of Charles, and the triumph of the independents, excited still more highly the hatred and the fears of the Scottish nation. The outwitted presbyterians, who saw, too late, that their own hands had been employed in the hateful task of erecting the power of a sect, yet more fierce and fanatical than themselves, deputed a commission to the Hague, to treat with Charles II., whom, upon certain conditions they now wished to restore to the throne of his fathers. At the court of the exiled monarch, Montrose also offered to his acceptance a splendid plan of victory and conquest, and pressed for his permission to enter Scotland; and there, collecting the remains of the royalists to claim the crown for his master, with the sword in his hand. An able statesman might perhaps have reconciled these jarring projects; a good man would certainly have made a decided choice betwixt them. Charles was neither the one not the other; and, while he treated with the presbyterians, with a view of accepting the crown from their hands, he scrupled not to authorise Montrose, the mortal enemy of the sect, to pursue his separate and inconsistent plan of conquest. [Footnote A: As Salmasius quaintly, but truly, expresses it, _Presbyterian iligaverunt independantes trucidaverunt_.] Montrose arrived in the Orkneys with six hundred Germans, was furnished with some recruits from those islands, and was joined by several royalists, as he traversed the wilds of Caithness and Sutherland: but, advancing into Ross-shire, he was surprised, and totally defeated, by colonel Strachan, an officer of the Scottish parliament, who had distinguished himself in the civil wars, and who afterwards became a decided Cromwellian. Montrose, after a fruitless resistance, at length fled from the field of defeat, and concealed himself in the grounds of Macleod of Assint to whose fidelity he entrusted his life, and by whom he was delivered up to Lesly, his most bitter enemy. He was tried for what was termed treason against the estates of the kingdom; and, despite the commission of Charles for his proceedings, he was condemned to die by a parliament, who acknowledged Charles to be their king, and whom, on that account only, Montrose acknowledged to be a parliament. "The clergy," says a late animated historian, "whose vocation it was to persecute the repose of his last moments, sought, by the terrors of his sentence, to extort repentance; but his behaviour, firm and dignified to the end, repelled their insulting advances with scorn and disdain. He was prouder, he replied, to have his head affixed to the prison-walls, than to have his picture placed in the king's bed-chamber: 'and, far from being troubled that my limbs are to be sent to your principal cities, I wish I had flesh enough to be dispersed through Christendom, to attest my dying attachment to my king.' It was the calm employment of his mind, that night, to reduce this extravagant sentiment to verse. He appeared next day, on the scaffold, in a rich habit, with the same serene and undaunted countenance, and addressed the people, to vindicate his dying unabsolved by the church, rather than to justify an invasion of the kingdom, during a treaty with the estates. The insults of his enemies were not yet exhausted. The history of his exploits was attached to his neck by the public executioner: but he smiled at their inventive malice; declared, that he wore it with more pride than he had done the garter; and, when his devotions were finished, demanding if any more indignities remained to be practised, submitted calmly to an unmerited fate."--_Laing's History of Scotland,_ Vol. I. p. 404. Such was the death of James Graham, the great marquis of Montrose, over whom some lowly bard has poured forth the following elegiac verses. To say, that they are far unworthy of the subject, is no great reproach; for a nobler poet might have failed in the attempt. Indifferent as the ballad is, we may regret its being still more degraded by many apparent corruptions. There seems an attempt to trace Montrose's career, from his first raising the royal standard, to his second expedition and death; but it is interrupted and imperfect. From the concluding stanza, I presume the song was composed upon the arrival of Charles in Scotland, which so speedily followed the execution of Montrose, that the king entered the city while the head of his most faithful and most successful adherent was still blackening in the sun. THE GALLANT GRAHAMS. Now, fare thee weel, sweet Ennerdale! Baith kith and countrie I bid adieu; For I maun away, and I may not stay, To some uncouth land which I never knew. To wear the blue I think it best, Of all the colours that I see; And I'll wear it for the gallant Grahams, That are banished from their countrie. I have no gold, I have no land, I have no pearl, nor precious stane; But I wald sell my silken snood, To see the gallant Grahams come hame. In Wallace days when they began, Sir John the Graham did bear the gree, Through all the lands of Scotland wide; He was a lord of the south countrie. And so was seen full many a time; For the summer flowers did never spring, But every Graham, in armour bright, Would then appear before the king. They all were dressed in armour sheen, Upon the pleasant banks of Tay; Before a king they might be seen, These gallant Grahams in their array. At the Goukhead our camp we set, Our leaguer down there for to lay; And, in the bonnie summer light, We rode our white horse and our gray. Our false commander sold our king Unto his deadly enemie, Who was the traitor Cromwell, then; So I care not what they do with me. They have betrayed our noble prince, And banish'd him from his royal crown; But the gallant Grahams have ta'en in hand, For to command those traitors down. In Glen-Prosen[A] we rendezvoused, March'd to Glenshie by night and day, And took the town of Aberdeen, And met the Campbells in their array. Five thousand men, in armour strong. Did meet the gallant Grahams that day At Inverlochie, where war began, And scarce two thousand men were they. Gallant Montrose, that chieftain bold, Courageous in the best degree, Did for the king fight well that day; The lord preserve his majestie! Nathaniel Gordon, stout and bold, Did for king Charles wear the blue; But the cavaliers they all were sold, And brave Harthill, a cavalier too. And Newton Gordon, burd-alone And Dalgatie, both stout and keen, And gallant Veitch upon the field, A braver face was never seen. Now, fare ye weel, sweet Ennerdale! Countrie and kin I quit ye free; Chear up your hearts, brave cavaliers, For the Grahams are gone to high Germany. Now brave Montrose he went to France, And to Germany, to gather fame; And bold Aboyne is to the sea, Young Huntly is his noble name. Montrose again, that chieftain bold, Back unto Scotland fair he came, For to redeem fair Scotland's land, The pleasant, gallant, worthy Graham! At the water of Carron he did begin, And fought the battle to the end; Where there were killed, for our noble king, Two thousand of our Danish men. Gilbert Menzies, of high degree, By whom the king's banner was borne; For a brave cavalier was he, But now to glory he is gone. Then woe to Strachan, and Hacket baith! And, Lesly, ill death may thou die! For ye have betrayed the gallant Grahams, Who aye were true to majestic. And the laird of Assint has seized Montrose, And had him into Edinburgh town; And frae his body taken the head, And quartered him upon a trone. And Huntly's gone the selfsame way, And our noble king is also gone; He suffered death for our nation, Our mourning tears can ne'er be done. But our brave young king is now come home, King Charles the second in degree; The Lord send peace into his time, And God preserve his majestie! [Footnote A: Glen-Prosen, in Angus-shire.] NOTES ON THE GALLANT GRAHAMS. _Now, fare thee weel, sweet Ennerdale._--P. 38. v. 1. A corruption of Endrickdale. The principal, and most ancient possessions of the Montrose family lie along the water of Endrick, in Dumbartonshire. _Sir John the Graham did bear the gree._--P. 39. v. 1. The faithful friend and adherent of the immortal Wallace, slain at the battle of Falkirk. _Who was the traitor Cromwell, then._--P. 39. v. 5. This extraordinary character, to whom, in crimes and in success our days only have produced a parallel, was no favourite in Scotland. There occurs the following invective against him, in a MS. in the Advocates' Library. The humour consists in the dialect of a Highlander, speaking English, and confusing _Cromwell_ with _Gramach,_ ugly: Te commonwelt, tat Gramagh ting. Gar brek hem's word, gar do hem's king; Gar pay hem's sesse, or take hem's (geers) We'l no de at, del come de leers; We'l bide a file amang te crowes, (_i.e._ in the woods) We'l scor te sword, and wiske to bowes; And fen her nen-sel se te re, (the king) Te del my care for _Gromaghee_. The following tradition, concerning Cromwell, is preserved by an uncommonly direct line of traditional evidence; being narrated (as I am informed) by the grandson of an eye-witness. When Cromwell, in 1650, entered Glasgow, he attended divine service in the High Church; but the presbyterian divine, who officiated, poured forth, with more zeal than prudence, the vial of his indignation upon the person, principles, and cause, of the independent general. One of Cromwell's officers rose, and whispered his commander; who seemed to give him a short and stern answer, and the sermon was concluded without interruption Among the crowd, who were assembled to gaze at the general, as he came out of the church, was a shoemaker, the son of one of James the sixth's Scottish footmen. This man had been born and bred in England, but, after his father's death, had settled in Glasgow. Cromwell eyed him among the crowd, and immediately called him by his name--the man fled; but, at Cromwell's command, one of his retinue followed him, and brought him to the general's lodgings. A number of the inhabitants remained at the door, waiting the end of this extraordinary scene. The shoemaker soon came out, in high spirits, and, shewing some gold, declared, he was going to drink Cromwell's health. Many attended him to hear the particulars of his interview; among others, the grandfather of the narrator. The shoemaker said, that he had been a playfellow of Cromwell when they were both boys, their parents residing in the same street; that he had fled, when the general first called to him, thinking he might owe him some ill-will, on account of his father being in the service of the royal family. He added, that Cromwell had been so very kind and familiar with him, that he ventured to ask him, what the officer had said to him in the church. "He proposed," said Cromwell, "to pull forth the "minister by the ears; and I answered, that the preacher was "one fool, and he another." In the course of the day, Cromwell held an interview with the minister, and contrived to satisfy his scruples so effectually, that the evening discourse, by the same man, was tuned to the praise and glory of the victor of Naseby. _Nathaniel Gordon, stout and bold, Did for King Charles wear the, blue._--P. 40. v. 5. This gentleman was of the ancient family of Gordon of Gight. He had served, as a soldier, upon the continent, and acquired great military skill. When his chief, the marquis of Huntly, took up arms in 1640, Nathaniel Gordon, then called Major Gordon, joined him, and was of essential service during that short insurrection. But, being checked for making prize of a Danish fishing buss, he left the service of the marquis, in some disgust. In 1644, he assisted at a sharp and dexterous _camisade_ (as it was then called), when the barons of Haddo, of Gight, of Drum, and other gentlemen, with only sixty men under their standard, galloped through the old town of Aberdeen, and, entering the burgh itself, about seven in the morning, made prisoners, and carried off, four of the covenanting magistrates and effected a safe retreat, though the town was then under the domination of the opposite party. After the death of the baron of Haddo, and the severe treatment of Sir George Gordon of Gight, his cousin-german, Major Nathaniel Gordon seems to have taken arms, in despair of finding mercy at the covenanters' hands. On the 24th of July, 1645, he came down, with a band of horsemen, upon the town of Elgin, while St James' fair was held, and pillaged the merchants of 14,000 merks of money and merchandize.[A] He seems to have joined Montrose, as soon as he raised the royal standard; and, as a bold and active partizan, rendered him great service. But, in November 1644, Gordon, now a colonel, suddenly deserted Montrose, aided the escape of Forbes of Craigievar, one of his prisoners, and reconciled himself to the kirk, by doing penance for adultery, and for the almost equally heinous crime of having scared Mr Andrew Cant,[B] the famous apostle of the covenant. This, however, seems to have been an artifice, to arrange a correspondence betwixt Montrose and Lord Gordon, a gallant young nobleman, representative of the Huntley family, and inheriting their loyal spirit, though hitherto engaged in the service of the covenant. Colonel Gordon was successful, and returned to the royal camp with his converted chief. Both followed zealously the fortunes of Montrose, until Lord Gordon fell in the battle of Alford, and Nathaniel Gordon was taken at Philiphaugh. He was one of ten loyalists, devoted upon that occasion, by the parliament, to expiate, with their blood, the crime of fidelity to their king. Nevertheless, the covenanted nobles would have probably been satisfied with the death of the gallant Rollock, sharer of Montrose's dangers and glory, of Ogilvy, a youth of eighteen, whose crime was the hereditary feud betwixt his family and Argyle, and of Sir Philip Nisbet, a cavalier of the ancient stamp, had not the pulpits resounded with the cry, that God required the blood of the malignants, to expiate the sins of the people. "What meaneth," exclaimed the ministers, in the perverted language of scripture--"What meaneth, then, this bleating of the sheep in my ears, and the lowing of the oxen?" The appeal to the judgment of Samuel was decisive, and the shambles were instantly opened. Nathaniel Gordon was brought first to execution. He lamented the sins of his youth, once more (and probably with greater sincerity) requested absolution from the sentence of excommunication pronounced on account of adultery, and was beheaded 6th January 1646. [Footnote A: Spalding, Vol. II. pp. 151, 154, 169, 181, 221. _History of the Family of Gordon,_ Edin. 1727, Vol. II. p. 299.] [Footnote B: He had sent him a letter, which nigh frightened him out of his wits.--SPALDING, Vol. II. p. 231.] _And brave Harthill, a cavalier too._--P. 40, v. 5. Leith, of Harthill, was a determined loyalist, and hated the covenanters, not without reason. His father, a haughty high-spirited baron, and chief of a clan, happened, in 1639, to sit down in the desk of provost Lesly, in the high kirk of Aberdeen He was disgracefully thrust out by the officers, and, using some threatening language to the provost, was imprisoned, like a felon, for many months, till he became furious, and nearly mad. Having got free of the shackles, with which he was loaded, he used his liberty by coming to the tolbooth window where he uttered the most violent and horrible threats against Provost Lesly, and the other covenanting magistrates, by whom he had been so severely treated. Under pretence of this new offence, he was sent to Edinburgh, and lay long in prison there; for, so fierce was his temper, that no one would give surety for his keeping the peace with his enemies, if set at liberty. At length he was delivered by Montrose, when he made himself master of Edinburgh.--SPALDING, Vol. I. pp. 201; 266. His house of Harthill was dismantled, and miserably pillaged by Forbes of Craigievar, who expelled his wife and children with the most relentless inhumanity.--_Ibid._ Vol. II. p. 225. Meanwhile, young Harthill was the companion and associate of Nathaniel Gordon, whom he accompanied at plundering the fair of Elgin, and at most of Montrose's engagements. He retaliated severely on the covenanters, by ravaging and burning their lands. _Ibid._ Vol. II. p. 301. His fate has escaped my notice. _And Dalgatie, both stout and keen._--P. 41. v. 1. Sir Francis Hay, of Dalgatie, a steady cavalier, and a gentleman of great gallantry and accomplishment. He was a faithful follower of Montrose, and was taken prisoner with him at his last fatal battle. He was condemned to death, with his illustrious general. Being a Roman catholic, he refused the assistance of the presbyterian clergy, and was not permitted, even on the scaffold, to receive ghostly comfort, in the only form in which his religion taught him to consider it as effectual. He kissed the axe, avowed his fidelity to his sovereign, and died like a soldier.--_Montrose's Memoirs,_ p. 322. _And Newton Gordon, burd-alone._--P. 41. v. 1. Newton, for obvious reasons, was a common appellation of an estate, or barony, where a new edifice had been erected. Hence, for distinction's sake, it was anciently compounded with the name of the proprietor; as, Newtown-Edmonstone, Newtown-Don, Newtown-Gordon, &c. Of Gordon of Newtown, I only observe, that he was, like all his clan, a steady loyalist, and a follower of Montrose. _And gallant Veitch, upon the field._--P. 41. v. 1. I presume this gentleman to have been David Veitch, brother to Veitch of Dawick, who, with many other of the Peebles-shire gentry, was taken at Philiphaugh. The following curious accident took place, some years afterwards, in consequence of his loyal zeal. "In the year 1653, when the loyal party did arise in arms against the English, in the North and West Highlands, some noblemen and loyal gentlemen, with others, were forward to repair to them, with such forces as they could make; which the English, with marvelouse diligence, night and day, did bestir themselves to impede; making their troops of horse and dragoons to pursue the loyal party in all places, that they might not come to such a considerable number as was designed. It happened, one night, that one Captain Masoun, commander of a troop of dragoons, that came from Carlisle, in England, marching through the town of Sanquhar, in the night, was encountered by one captain Palmer, commanding a troop of horse, that came from Ayr, marching eastward; and, meeting at the tollhouse, or tolbooth, one David Veitch, brother to the laird of Dawick, in Tweeddale, and one of the loyal party, being prisoner in irons by the English, did arise, and came to the window at their meeting, and cryed out, that they should _fight valiantly for King Charles_, Where-through, they, taking each other for the loyal party, did begin a brisk fight, which continued for a while, til the dragoons, having spent their shot, and finding the horsemen to be too strong for them, did give ground; but yet retired, in some order, towards the castle of Sanquhar, being hotly pursued by the troop, through the whole town, above a quarter of a mile, till they came to the castle; where both parties did, to their mutual grief, become sensible of their mistake. In this skirmish there were several killed on both sides, and Captain Palmer himself dangerously wounded, with many mo wounded in each troop, who did peaceably dwell together afterward for a time, untill their wounds were cured, in Sanquhar castle."--_Account of Presbytery of Penpont, in Macfarlane's MSS._ _And bold Aboyne is to the sea, Young Huntly is his noble name._--P. 41. v. 3. James, earl of Aboyne, who fled to France, and there died heart-broken. It is said, his death was accelerated by the news of King Charles' execution. He became representative of the Gordon family, or _Young Huntly_, as the ballad expresses it, in consequence of the death of his elder brother, George, who fell in the battle of Alford.--_History of Gordon Family._ _Two thousand of our Danish men._--P. 41. v. 5. Montrose's foreign auxiliaries, who, by the way, did not exceed 600 in all. _Gilbert Menzies, of high degree, By whom the king's banner was borne._--P. 42. v. 1. Gilbert Menzies, younger of Pitfoddells, carried the royal banner in Montrose's last battle. It bore the headless corpse of Charles I., with this motto, _"Judge and revenge my cause, O Lord!"_ Menzies proved himself worthy of this noble trust, and, obstinately refusing quarter, died in defence of his charge. _Montrose's Memoirs_. _Then woe to Strachan, and Hacket baith._--P. 42. v. 2. Sir Charles Hacket, an officer in the service of the estates. _And Huntly's gone, the self-same way._--P. 42. v. 4. George Gordon, second marquis of Huntley, one of the very few nobles in Scotland, who had uniformly adhered to the king from the very beginning of the troubles, was beheaded by the sentence of the parliament of Scotland (so calling themselves), upon the 22d March, 1649, one month and twenty-two days after the martyrdom of his master. He has been much blamed for not cordially co-operating with Montrose; and Bishop Wishart, in the zeal of partiality for his hero, accuses Huntley of direct treachery. But he is a true believer, who seals, with his blood, his creed, religious or political; and there are many reasons, short of this foul charge, which may have dictated the backward conduct of Huntley towards Montrose. He could not forget, that, when he first stood out for the king, Montrose, then the soldier of the covenant, had actually made him prisoner: and we cannot suppose Huntley to have been so sensible of Montrose's superior military talents, as not to think himself, as equal in rank, superior in power, and more uniform in loyalty entitled to equally high marks of royal trust and favour. This much is certain, that the gallant clan of Gordon contributed greatly to Montrose's success; for the gentlemen of that name, with the brave and loyal Ogilvies, composed the principal part of his cavalry. THE BATTLE OF PENTLAND HILLS. We have observed the early antipathy, mutually entertained by the Scottish presbyterians and the house of Stuart It seems to have glowed in the breast even of the good-natured Charles II. He might have remembered, that, in 1551, the presbyterians had fought, bled, and ruined themselves in his cause. But he rather recollected their early faults than their late repentance; and even their services were combined with the recollection of the absurd and humiliating circumstances of personal degradation,[A] to which their pride and folly had subjected him, while they professed to espouse his cause. As a man of pleasure, he hated their stern and inflexible rigour, which stigmatised follies even more deeply than crimes; and he whispered to his confidents, that "presbytery was no religion for a gentleman." It is not, therefore, wonderful, that, in the first year of his restoration, he formally reestablished prelacy in Scotland; but it is surprising, that, with his father's example before his eyes, he should not have been satisfied to leave at freedom the consciences of those who could not reconcile themselves to the new system. The religious opinions of sectaries have a tendency like the water of some springs, to become soft and mild, when freely exposed to the open day. Who can recognise in the decent and industrious quakers, and ana-baptists the wild and ferocious tenets which distinguished their sects, while they were yet honoured with the distinction of the scourge and the pillory? Had the system of coercion against the presbyterians been continued until our day, Blair and Robertson would have preached in the wilderness, and only discovered their powers of eloquence and composition, by rolling along a deeper torrent of gloomy fanaticism. [Footnote A: Among other ridiculous occurrences, it is said, that some of Charles's gallantries were discovered by a prying neighbour. A wily old minister was deputed, by his brethren, to rebuke the king for this heinous scandal. Being introduced into the royal presence he limited his commission to a serious admonition, that, upon such occasions, his majesty should always shut the windows.--The king is said to have recompensed this unexpected lenity after the Restoration. He probably remembered the joke, though he might have forgotten the service.] The western counties distinguished themselves by their opposition to the prelatic system. Three hundred and fifty ministers, ejected from their churches and livings, wandered through the mountains, sowing the seeds of covenanted doctrine, while multitudes of fanatical followers pursued them, to reap the forbidden crop. These conventicles as they were called, were denounced by the law, and their frequenters dispersed by military force. The genius of the persecuted became stubborn, obstinate, and ferocious; and, although indulgencies were tardily granted to some presbyterian ministers, few of the true covenanters or whigs, as they were called, would condescend to compound with a prelatic government, or to listen even to their own favourite doctrine under the auspices of the king. From Richard Cameron, their apostle, this rigid sect acquired the name of Cameronians. They preached and prayed against the indulgence, and against the presbyterians who availed themselves of it, because their accepting this royal boon was a tacit acknowledgment of the king's supremacy in ecclesiastical matters. Upon these bigotted and persecuted fanatics, and by no means upon the presbyterians at large, are to be charged the wild anarchical principles of anti-monarchy and assassination which polluted the period when they flourished. The insurrection, commemorated and magnified in the following ballad, as indeed it has been in some histories, was, in itself, no very important affair. It began in Dumfries-shire where Sir James Turner, a soldier of fortune, was employed to levy the arbitrary fines imposed for not attending the episcopal churches. The people rose, seized his person, disarmed his soldiers, and having continued together, resolved to march towards Edinburgh, expecting to be joined by their friends in that quarter. In this they were disappointed; and, being now diminished to half their numbers, they drew up on the Pentland Hills, at a place called Rullien Green. They were commanded by one Wallace; and here they awaited the approach of General Dalziel, of Binns; who, having marched to Calder, to meet them on the Lanark road, and finding, that, by passing through Collington, they had got to the other side of the hills, cut through the mountains, and approached them. Wallace shewed both spirit and judgment: he drew his men up in a very strong situation, and withstood two charges of Dalziel's cavalry; but, upon the third shock, the insurgents were broken, and utterly dispersed. There was very little slaughter, as the cavalry of Dalziel were chiefly gentlemen, who pitied their oppressed and misguided countrymen. There were about fifty killed, and as many made prisoners. The battle was fought on the 28th November, 1666; a day still observed by the scattered remnant of the Cameronian sect, who regularly hear a field-preaching upon the field of battle. I am obliged for a copy of the ballad to Mr Livingston of Airds, who took it down from the recitation of an old woman residing on his estate. The gallant Grahams, mentioned in the text, are Graham of Claverhouse's horse. THE BATTLE OF PENTLAND HILLS. _This Ballad is copied verbatim from the Old Woman's recitation._ The gallant Grahams cum from the west, Wi' their horses black as ony craw; The Lothian lads they marched fast, To be at the Rhyns o' Gallowa. Betwixt Dumfries town and Argyle, The lads they marched mony a mile; Souters and taylors unto them drew, Their covenants for to renew. The whigs, they, wi' their merry cracks, Gard the poor pedlars lay down their packs; But aye sinsyne they do repent The renewing o' their covenant. A the Mauchline muir, where they were reviewed, Ten thousand men in armour shewed; But, ere they cam to the Brockie's burn, The half o' them did back return. General Dalyell, as I hear tell, Was our lieutenant general; And captain Welsh, wi' his wit and skill, Was to guide them on to the Pentland hill. General Dalyell held to the hill, Asking at them what was their will; And who gave them this protestation, To rise in arms against the nation? "Although we all in armour be, It's not against his majesty; Nor yet to spill our neighbour's bluid, But wi' the country we'll conclude." "Lay down your arms, in the king's name, And ye shall all gae safely hame;" But they a' cried out, wi' ae consent, "We'll fight a broken covenant." "O well," says he, "since it is so, A willfu' man never wanted woe;" He then gave a sign unto his lads, And they drew up in their brigades. The trumpets blew, and the colours flew, And every man to his armour drew; The whigs were never so much aghast, As to see their saddles toom sae fast. The cleverest men stood in the van, The whigs they took their heels and ran; But such a raking was never seen, As the raking o' the Rullien Green. THE BATTLE OF LOUDONHILL. The whigs, now become desperate, adopted the most desperate principles; and retaliating, as far as they could, the intolerating persecution which they endured, they openly disclaimed allegiance to any monarch who should not profess presbytery, and subscribe the covenant.--These principles were not likely to conciliate the favour of government; and as we wade onward in the history of the times, the scenes become yet darker. At length, one would imagine the parties had agreed to divide the kingdom of vice betwixt them; the hunters assuming to themselves open profligacy and legalized oppression; and the hunted, the opposite attributes of hypocrisy, fanaticism, disloyalty, and midnight assassination. The troopers and cavaliers became enthusiasts in the pursuit of the covenanters If Messrs Kid, King, Cameron, Peden, &c. boasted of prophetic powers, and were often warned of the approach of the soldiers, by supernatural impulse,[A] captain John Creichton, on the other side, dreamed dreams, and saw visions (chiefly, indeed, after having drunk hard), in which the lurking holes of the rebels were discovered to his imagination.[B] Our ears are scarcely more shocked with the profane execrations of the persecutors,[C] than with the strange and insolent familiarity used towards the Deity by the persecuted fanatics. Their indecent modes of prayer, their extravagant expectations of miraculous assistance, and their supposed inspirations, might easily furnish out a tale, at which the good would sigh, and the gay would laugh. [Footnote A: In the year 1684, Peden, one of the Cameronian preachers, about ten o'clock at night, sitting at the fire-side, started up to his feet, and said, "Flee, auld Sandie (thus he designed himself), and hide yourself! for colonel----is coming to this house to apprehend you; and I advise you all to do the like, for he will be here within an hour;" which came to pass: and when they had made a very narrow search, within and without the house, and went round the thorn-bush, under which he was lying praying, they went off without their prey. He came in, and said, "And has this gentleman (designed by his name) given poor Sandie, and thir poor things, such a fright? For this night's work, God shall give him such a blow, within a few days, that all the physicians on earth shall not be able to cure;" which came to pass, for he died in great misery.--_Life of Alexander Peden._] [Footnote B: See the life of this booted apostle of prelacy, written by Swift, who had collected all his anecdotes of persecution, and appears to have enjoyed them accordingly.] [Footnote C: "They raved," says Peden's historian, "like fleshly devils, when the mist shrouded from their pursuit the wandering whigs." One gentleman closed a declaration of vengeance against the conventiclers with this strange imprecation, "Or may the devil make my ribs a gridiron to my soul!"--MS. _Account of the Presbytery of Penpont._ Our armies swore terribly in Flanders, but nothing to this!] In truth, extremes always approach each other; and the superstition of the Roman catholics was, in some degree, revived, even by their most deadly enemies. They are ridiculed by the cavaliers, as wearing the relics of their saints by way of amulet:-- "She shewed to me a box, wherein lay hid The pictures of Cargil and Mr Kid; A splinter of the tree, on which they were slain; A double inch of Major Weir's best cane; Rathillet's sword, beat down to table-knife, Which took at Magus' Muir a bishop's life; The worthy Welch's spectacles, who saw, That windle-straws would fight against the law; They, windle-straws, were stoutest of the two, They kept their ground, away the prophet flew; And lists of all the prophets' names were seen At Pentland Hills, Aird-Moss, and Rullen Green. "Don't think," she says, "these holy things are foppery; They're precious antidotes against the power of popery." _The Cameronian Tooth.--Pennycuick's Poems,_ p. 110. The militia and standing army soon became unequal to the task of enforcing conformity, and suppressing conventicles In, their aid, and to force compliance with a test proposed by government, the Highland clans were raised, and poured down into Ayrshire.[A] An armed host of undisciplined mountaineers, speaking a different language, and professing, many of them, another religion, were let loose, to ravage and plunder this unfortunate country; and it is truly astonishing to find how few acts of cruelty they perpetrated, and how seldom they added murder to pillage[B] Additional levies of horse were also raised, under the name of Independent Troops, and great part of them placed under the command of James Grahame of Claverhouse a man well known to fame, by his subsequent title of viscount Dundee, but better remembered, in the western shires, under the designation of the bloody Clavers. In truth, he appears to have combined the virtues and vices of a savage chief. Fierce, unbending, and rigorous, no emotion of compassion prevented his commanding, and witnessing, every detail of military execution against the non-conformists. Undauntedly brave, and steadily faithful to his prince, he sacrificed himself in the cause of James, when he was deserted by all the world. If we add, to these attributes, a goodly person, complete skill in martial exercises, and that ready and decisive character, so essential to a commander, we may form some idea of this extraordinary character. The whigs, whom he persecuted daunted by his ferocity and courage, conceived him to be impassive to their bullets,[C] and that he had sold himself, for temporal greatness, to the seducer of mankind. It is still believed, that a cup of wine, presented to him by his butler, changed into clotted blood; and that, when he plunged his feet into cold water, their touch caused it to boil. The steed, which bore him, was supposed to be the gift of Satan; and precipices are shewn, where a fox could hardly keep his feet, down which the infernal charger conveyed him safely, in pursuit of the wanderers. It is remembered, with terror, that Claverhouse was successful in every engagement with the whigs, except that at Drumclog, or Loudon-hill, which is the subject of the following ballad. The history of Burly, the hero of the piece, will bring us immediately to the causes and circumstances of that event. [Footnote A: Peden complained heavily, that, after a heavy struggle with the devil, he had got above him, _spur-galled_ him hard, and obtained a wind to carry him from Ireland to Scotland, when, behold! another person had set sail, and reaped the advantage of his _prayer-wind,_ before he could embark.] [Footnote B: Cleland thus describes this extraordinary army: --Those, who were their chief commanders, As sach who bore the pirnie standarts. Who led the van, and drove the rear, Were right well mounted of their gear; With brogues, and trews, and pirnie plaids, With good blue bonnets on their heads, Which, oil the one side, had a flipe, Adorn'd with a tobacco pipe, With durk, and snap-work, and snuff-mill, A bag which they with onions fill; And, as their strict observers say, A tup-born filled with usquebay; A slasht out coat beneath her plaides, A targe of timber, nails, and hides; With a long two-handed sword, As good's the country can afford. Had they not need of bulk-and bones. Who fought with all these arms at once? * * * * Of moral honestie they're clean, Nought like religion they retain; In nothing they're accounted sharp, Except in bag-pipe, and in harp; For a misobliging word, She'll durk her neighbour o'er the boord, And then she'll flee like fire from flint, She'll scarcely ward the second dint; If any ask her of her thrift. Forsooth her nainsell lives by thift. _Cleland's Poems,_ Edin. 1697, p. 12. ] [Footnote C: It was, and is believed, that the devil furnished his favourites, among the persecutors, with what is called _proof_ against leaden bullets, but against those only. During the battle of Pentland-hills Paton of Meadowhead conceived he saw the balls hop harmlessly down from General Dalziel's boots, and, to counteract the spell, loaded his pistol with a piece of silver coin. But Dalziel, having his eye on him, drew back behind his servant, who was shot dead.--_Paton's Life._ At a skirmish, in Ayrshire, some of the wanderers defended themselves in a sequestered house, by the side of a lake. They aimed repeatedly, but in vain, at the commander of the assailants, an English officer, until, their ammunition running short, one of them loaded his piece with the ball at the head of the tongs, and succeeded in shooting the hitherto impenetrable captain. To accommodate Dundee's fate to their own hypothesis, the Cameronian tradition runs, that, in the battle of Killicrankie, he fell, not by the enemy's fire, but by the pistol of one of his own servants, who, to avoid the spell, had loaded it with a silver button from his coat. One of their writers argues thus: "Perhaps, some may think this, anent proof-shot, a paradox, and be ready to object here, as formerly concerning Bishop Sharpe and Dalziel--How can the devil have, or give, power to save life? Without entering upon the thing in its reality, I shall only observe, 1. That it is neither in his power, or of his nature, to be a saviour of men's lives; he is called Apollyon, the destroyer. 2. That, even in this case, he is said only to give enchantment against one kind of metal, and this does not save life: for, though lead could not take Sharpe and Claverhouse's lives, yet steel and silver could do it; and, for Dalziel, though he died not on the field, yet he did not escape the arrows of the Almighty."--_God's Judgement against Persecutors._ If the reader be not now convinced of _the thing in its reality_, I have nothing to add to such exquisite reasoning.] John Balfour of Kinloch, commonly called Burly, was one of the fiercest of the proscribed sect. A gentleman by birth, he was, says his biographer, "zealous and honest-hearted, courageous in every enterprise, and a brave soldier, seldom any escaping that came in his hands." _Life of John Balfour._ Creichton says, that he was once chamberlain to Archbishop Sharpe, and, by negligence, or dishonesty, had incurred a large arrear, which occasioned his being active in his master's assassination. But of this I know no other evidence than Creichton's assertion, and a hint in Wodrow. Burly, for that is his most common designation, was brother-in-law to Hackston of Rathillet a wild enthusiastic character, who joined daring courage, and skill in the sword, to the fiery zeal of his sect. Burly, himself, was less eminent for religious fervour than for the active and violent share which he had in the most desperate enterprises of his party. His name does not appear among the covenanters, who were denounced for the affair of Pentland. But, in 1677, Robert Hamilton, afterwards commander of the insurgents at Loudon Hill, and Bothwell Bridge, with several other non-conformists, were assembled at this Burly's house, in Fife. There they were attacked by a party of soldiers, commanded by Captain Carstairs, whom they beat off, wounding desperately one of his party. For this resistance to authority, they were declared rebels. The next exploit, in which Burly was engaged, was of a bloodier complexion, and more dreadful celebrity. It is well known, that James Sharpe, archbishop of St Andrews, was regarded, by the rigid presbyterians, not only as a renegade, who had turned back from the spiritual plough, but as the principal author of the rigours exercised against their sect. He employed, as an agent of his oppression, one Carmichael, a decayed gentleman. The industry of this man, in procuring information, and in enforcing the severe penalties against conventiclers, having excited the resentment of the Cameronians, nine of their number, of whom Burly, and his brother-in-law, Hackston, were the leaders, assembled, with the purpose of way-laying and murdering Carmichael; but, while they searched for him in vain, they received tidings that the archbishop himself was at hand. The party resorted to prayer; after which, they agreed, unanimously, that the Lord had delivered the wicked Haman into their hand. In the execution of the supposed will of heaven, they agreed to put themselves under the command of a leader; and they requested Hackston of Rathillet to accept the office, which he declined alleging, that, should he comply with their request, the slaughter might be imputed to a private quarrel, which existed betwixt him and the archbishop. The command was then offered to Burly, who accepted it without scruple; and they galloped off in pursuit of the archbishop's carriage, which contained himself and his daughter. Being well mounted, they easily overtook and disarmed the prelate's attendants. Burly, crying out, "Judas, be taken!" rode up to the carriage, wounded the postillion and ham-strung one of the horses. He then fired into the coach a piece, charged with several bullets, so near, that the archbishop's gown was set on fire. The rest, coming up, dismounted, and dragged him out of the carriage, when, frightened and wounded, he crawled towards Hackston, who still remained on horseback, and begged for mercy. The stern enthusiast contented himself with answering, that he would not himself _lay a hand on him_. Burly and his men again fired a volley upon the kneeling old man; and were in the act of riding off, when one, who remained to girth his horse, unfortunately heard the daughter of their victim call to the servant for help, exclaiming, that his master was still alive. Burly then again dismounted, struck off the prelate's hat with his foot, and split his skull with his shable (broad sword), although one of the party (probably Rathillet) exclaimed, "_Spare these grey hairs_!"[A] The rest pierced him with repeated wounds. They plundered the carriage, and rode off, leaving, beside the mangled corpse, the daughter, who was herself wounded, in her pious endeavour to interpose betwixt her father and his murderers. The murder is accurately represented, in bas-relief, upon a beautiful monument erected to the memory of Archbishop Sharpe, in the metropolitan church of St Andrews. This memorable example of fanatic revenge was acted upon Magus Muir, near St Andrews, 3d May, 1679.[B] [Footnote A: They believed Sharpe to be proof against shot; for one of the murderers told Wodrow, that, at the sight of cold iron, his courage fell. They no longer doubted this, when they found in his pocket a small clue of silk, rolled round a bit of parchment, marked with two long words, in Hebrew or Chaldaic characters. Accordingly, it is still averred, that the balls only left blue marks on the prelate's neck and breast, although the discharge was so near as to burn his clothes.] [Footnote B: The question, whether the bishop of St Andrews' death was murder was a shibboleth, or _experimentum crucis_, frequently put to the apprehended conventiclers. Isabel Alison, executed at Edinburgh, 26th January, 1681, was interrogated, before the privy council, if she conversed with David Hackston? "I answered, I did converse with him, and I bless the Lord that ever I saw him; for I never saw ought in him but a godly pious youth. They asked, if the killing of the bishop of St Andrews was a pious act? I answered, I never heard him say he killed him; but, if God moved any, and put it upon them, to execute his righteous judgment upon him, I have nothing to say to that. They asked me, when saw ye John Balfour (Burly), that pious youth? I answered, I have seen him. They asked, when? I answered, these are frivolous questions; I am not bound to answer them." _Cloud of Witnesses_, p. 85.] Burly was, of course, obliged to leave Fife; and, upon the 25th of the same month, he arrived in Evandale, in Lanarkshire, along with Hackston, and a fellow, called Dingwall, or Daniel, one of the same bloody band. Here he joined his old friend Hamilton, already mentioned; and, as they resolved to take up arms, they were soon at the head of such a body of the "chased and tossed western men," as they thought equal to keep the field. They resolved to commence their exploits upon the 29th of May, 1679, being the anniversary of the Restoration, appointed to be kept as a holiday, by act of parliament; an institution which they esteemed a presumptuous and unholy solemnity. Accordingly, at the head of eighty horse, tolerably appointed, Hamilton, Burly, and Hackston, entered the royal burgh of Rutherglen, extinguished the bonfires, made in honour of the day; burned at the cross the acts of parliament in favour of prelacy, and for suppression of conventicles, as well as those acts of council, which regulated the indulgence granted to presbyterians. Against all these acts they entered their solemn protest, or testimony, as they called it; and, having affixed it to the cross, concluded with prayer and psalms. Being now joined by a large body of foot, so that their strength seems to have amounted to five or six hundred men, though very indifferently armed, they encamped upon Loudoun Hill. Claverhouse, who was in garrison at Glasgow, instantly marched against the insurgents, at the head of his own troop of cavalry and others, amounting to about one hundred and fifty men. He arrived at Hamilton, on the 1st of June, so unexpectedly, as to make prisoner John King, a famous preacher among the wanderers; and rapidly continued his march, carrying his captive along with him, till he came to the village of Drumclog, about a mile east of Loudoun Hill, and twelve miles south-west of Hamilton. At some distance from this place, the insurgents were skilfully posted in a boggy strait, almost inaccessible to cavalry, having a broad ditch in their front. Claverhouse's dragoons discharged their carabines, and made an attempt to charge; but the nature of the ground threw them into total disorder. Burly, who commanded the handful of horse belonging to the whigs, instantly led them down on the disordered squadrons of Claverhouse, who were, at the same time, vigorously assaulted by the foot, headed by the gallant Cleland,[A] and the enthusiastic Hackston. Claverhouse himself was forced to fly, and was in the utmost danger of being taken; his horse's belly being cut open by the stroke of a scythe, so that the poor animal trailed his bowels for more than a mile. In his flight, he passed King, the minister, lately his prisoner, but now deserted by his guard, in the general confusion. The preacher hollowed to the flying commander, "to halt, and take his prisoner with him;" or, as others say, "to stay, and take the afternoon's preaching." Claverhouse, at length remounted, continued his retreat to Glasgow. He lost, in the skirmish, about twenty of his troopers, and his own cornet and kinsman, Robert Graham, whose fate is alluded to in the ballad. Only four of the other side were killed, among whom was Dingwall, or Daniel, an associate of Burly in Sharpe's murder. "The rebels," says Creichton, "finding the cornet's body, and supposing it to be that of Clavers, because the name of Graham was wrought in the shirt-neck, treated it with the utmost inhumanity; cutting off the nose, picking out the eyes, and stabbing it through in a hundred places." The same charge is brought by Guild, in his _Bellum Bothuellianum_, in which occurs the following account of the skirmish at Drumclog:-- Mons est occiduus surgit qui celsus in oris (Nomine Loudunum) fossis puteisque profundis Quot scatet hic tellus et aprico gramine tectus: Huc collecta (ait) numeroso milite cincta; Turba ferox, matres, pueri, innuptaeque puellae; Quam parat egregia Graemus dispersere turma. Venit, et primo campo discedere cogit; Post hos et alios, caeno provolvit inerti; At numerosa cohors, campum dispersa per omnem, Circumfusa, ruit; turmasque indagine captas, Aggreditur; virtus non hic, nec profuit ensis; Corripuere fugam, viridi sed gramine tectis, Precipitata perit, fossis, pars plurima, quorum Cornipedes haesere luto, sessore rejecto: Tum rabiosa cohors, misereri nescia, stratos Invadit laceratque viros: hic signifer eheu! Trajectus globulo, Graemus quo fortior alter, Inter Scotigenas fuerat, nec justior ullus: Hunc manibus rapuere feris, faciemque virilem Faedarunt, lingua, auriculus, manibusque resectis, Aspera, diffuso, spargentes saxa, cerebro: Vix dux ipse fuga salvus, namque exta trahebat Vulnere tardatus, sonipes generosus hiante: Insequitur clamore, cohors fanatica, namque Crudelis semper timidus si vicerit unquam. _MS. Bellum Bothuellianum._ [Footnote A: William Cleland, a man of considerable genius, was author of several poems, published in 1697. His Hudibrastic verses are poor scurrilous trash, as the reader may judge from the description of the Highlanders, already quoted. But, in a wild rhapsody, entitled, "Hollo, my Fancy," he displays some imagination. His anti-monarchical principles seem to break out in the following lines:-- Fain would I know (if beasts have any reason) _If falcons killing eagles do commit a treason?_ He was a strict non-conformist, and, after the Revolution, became lieutenant colonel of the earl of Angus's regiment, called the Cameronian regiment. He was killed 21st August, 1689, in the churchyard of Dunkeld, which his corps manfully and successfully defended against a superior body of Highlanders. His son was the author of the letter prefixed to the Dunciad, and is said to have been the notorious Cleland, who, in circumstances of pecuniary embarrassment, prostituted his talents to the composition of indecent and infamous works; but this seems inconsistent with dates, and the latter personage was probably the grandson of Colonel Cleland.] Although Burly was among the most active leaders in the action, he was not the commander in chief, as one would conceive from the ballad. That honour belonged to Robert Hamilton, brother to Sir William Hamilton of Preston, a gentleman, who, like most of those at Drumclog, had imbibed the very wildest principles of fanaticism. The Cameronian account of the insurrection states, that "Mr Hamilton discovered a great deal of bravery and valour, both in the conflict with, and pursuit of the enemy; but when he and some others were pursuing the enemy, others flew too greedily upon the spoil, small as it was, instead of pursuing the victory: and some, without Mr Hamilton's knowledge, and against his strict command, gave five of these bloody enemies quarters, and then let them go: this greatly grieved Mr Hamilton, when he saw some of Babel's brats spared, after the Lord had delivered them to their hands, that they might dash them against the stones." _Psalm_ cxxxvii. 9. In his own account of this, "he reckons the sparing of these enemies, and letting them go, to be among their first stepping aside; for which, he feared that the Lord would not honour them to do much more for him; and says, that he was neither for taking favours from, nor giving favours to the Lord's enemies." Burly was not a likely man to fall into this sort of backsliding. He disarmed one of the duke of Hamilton's servants, who had been in the action, and desired him to tell his master, he would keep, till meeting, the pistols he had taken from him. The man described Burly to the duke as a little stout man, squint-eyed, and of a most ferocious aspect; from which it appears, that Burly's figure corresponded to his manners, and perhaps gave rise to his nickname, _Burly_ signifying _strong_. He was with the insurgents till the battle of Bothwell Bridge, and afterwards fled to Holland. He joined the prince of Orange, but died at sea, during the expedition. The Cameronians still believe, he had obtained liberty from the prince to be avenged of those who had persecuted the Lord's people; but through his death, the laudable design of purging the land with their blood, is supposed to have fallen to the ground.--_Life of Balfour of Kinloch._ The consequences of the battle of Loudon Hill will be detailed in the introduction to the next ballad. THE BATTLE OF LOUDONHILL. You'l marvel when I tell ye o' Our noble Burly, and his train; When last he march'd up thro' the land, Wi' sax and twenty westland men. Than they I ne'er o' braver heard, For they had a' baith wit and skill They proved right well, as I heard tell, As they cam up o'er Loudoun Hill. Weel prosper a' the gospel lads, That are into the west countrie; Ay wicked Claver'se to demean, And ay an ill dead may he die! For he's drawn up i' battle rank, An' that baith soon an' hastilie; But they wha live till simmer come, Some bludie days for this will see. But up spak cruel Claver'se then, Wi' hastie wit, an' wicked skill; "Gie fire on yon westlan' men; "I think it is my sov'reign's will." But up bespake his cornet, then, "It's be wi' nae consent o' me! "I ken I'll ne'er come back again, "An' mony mae as weel as me. "There is not ane of a' yon men, "But wha is worthy other three; "There is na ane amang them a', "That in his cause will stap to die. "An' as for Burly, him I knaw; "He's a man of honour, birth, an' fame; "Gie him a sword into his hand, "He'll fight thysel an' other ten." But up spake wicked Claver'se then, I wat his heart it raise fu' hie! And he has cry'd that a' might hear, "Man, ye hae sair deceived me. "I never ken'd the like afore, "Na, never since I came frae hame, "That you sae cowardly here suld prove, "An' yet come of a noble Graeme." But up bespake his cornet, then, "Since that it is your honour's will, "Mysel shall be the foremost man, "That shall gie fire on Loudoun Hill. "At your command I'll lead them on, "But yet wi' nae consent o' me; "For weel I ken I'll ne'er return, "And mony mae as weel as me." Then up he drew in battle rank; I wat he had a bonny train! But the first time that bullets flew, Ay he lost twenty o' his men. Then back he came the way he gael, I wat right soon an' suddenly! He gave command amang his men, And sent them back, and bade them flee. Then up came Burly, bauld an' stout, Wi's little train o' westland men; Wha mair than either aince or twice In Edinburgh confined had been. They hae been up to London sent, An' yet they're a' come safely down; Sax troop o' horsemen they hae beat, And chased them into Glasgow town. THE BATTLE OF BOTHWELL-BRIDGE. It has been often remarked, that the Scottish, notwithstanding their national courage, were always unsuccessful, when fighting for their religion. The cause lay, not in the principle, but in the mode of its application. A leader like Mahomet, who is, at the same time, the prophet of his tribe, may avail himself of religious enthusiasm, because it comes to the aid of discipline, and is a powerful means of attaining the despotic command, essential to the success of a general. But, among the insurgents, in the reigns of the last Stuarts, were mingled preachers, who taught different shades of the presbyterian doctrine; and, minute as these shades sometimes were, neither the several shepherds, nor their flocks, could cheerfully unite in a common cause. This will appear from the transactions leading to the battle of Bothwell Bridge. We have seen, that the party, which defeated Claverhouse at Loudoun Hill, were Cameronians, whose principles consisted in disowning all temporal authority, which did not flow from and through the Solemn League and Covenant. This doctrine, which is still retained by a scattered remnant of the sect in Scotland, is in theory, and would be in practice, inconsistent with the safety of any well regulated government, because the Covenanters deny to their governors that toleration, which was iniquitously refused to themselves. In many respects, therefore, we cannot be surprised at the anxiety and rigour with which the Cameronians were persecuted, although we may be of opinion, that milder means would have induced a melioration of their principles. These men, as already noticed, excepted against such presbyterians, as were contented to exercise their worship under the indulgence granted by government, or, in other words, who would have been satisfied with toleration for themselves, without insisting upon a revolution in the state, or even in the church government. When, however, the success at Loudoun Hill was spread abroad, a number of preachers, gentlemen, and common people, who had embraced the more moderate doctrine, joined the army of Hamilton, thinking, that the difference in their opinions ought not to prevent their acting in the common cause. The insurgents were repulsed in an attack upon the town of Glasgow, which, however, Claverhouse, shortly afterwards, thought it necessary to evacuate. They were now nearly in full possession of the west of Scotland, and pitched their camp at Hamilton, where, instead of modelling and disciplining their army, the Cameronians and Erastians (for so the violent insurgents chose to call the more moderate presbyterians) only debated, in council of war, the real cause of their being in arms. Hamilton, their general, was the leader of the first party; Mr John Walsh, a minister, headed the Erastians. The latter so far prevailed, as to get a declaration drawn up, in which they owned the king's government; but the publication of it gave rise to new quarrels. Each faction had its own set of leaders, all of whom aspired to be officers; and there were actually two councils of war issuing contrary orders and declarations at the same time; the one owning the king, and the other designing him a malignant, bloody, and perjured tyrant. Meanwhile, their numbers and zeal were magnified at Edinburgh, and great alarm excited lest they should march eastward. Not only was the foot militia instantly called out, but proclamations were issued, directing all the heritors, in the eastern, southern, and northern shires, to repair to the king's host, with their best horses, arms, and retainers. In Fife, and other countries, where the presbyterian doctrines prevailed, many gentlemen disobeyed this order, and were afterwards severely fined. Most of them alleged, in excuse, the apprehension of disquiet from their wives.[A] A respectable force was soon assembled; and James, duke of Buccleuch and Monmouth, was sent down, by Charles, to take the command, furnished with instructions, not unfavourable to presbyterians. The royal army now moved slowly forwards towards Hamilton, and reached Bothwell-moor on the 22d of June, 1679. The insurgents were encamped chiefly in the duke of Hamilton's park, along the Clyde, which separated the two armies. Bothwell-bridge, which is long and narrow, had then a portal in the middle, with gates, which the Covenanters shut, and barricadoed with stones and logs of timber. This important post was defended by three hundred of their best men, under Hackston of Rathillet, and Hall of Haughhead. Early in the morning, this party crossed the bridge, and skirmished with the royal van-guard, now advanced as far as the village of Bothwell. But Hackston speedily retired to his post, at the western end of Bothwell-bridge. [Footnote A: "Balcanquhall of that ilk alledged, that his horses were robbed, but shunned to take the declaration, for fear of disquiet from his wife. Young of Kirkton--his ladyes dangerous sickness, and bitter curses if he should leave her, and the appearance of abortion on his offering to go from her. And many others pled, in general terms, that their wives opposed or contradicted their going. But the justiciary court found this defence totally irrelevant."--Fountainhall's _Decisions_, Vol. I. p. 88.] While the dispositions, made by the duke of Monmouth, announced his purpose of assailing the pass, the more moderate of the insurgents resolved to offer terms. Ferguson of Kaithloch, a gentleman of landed fortune, and David Hume, a clergyman, carried to the duke of Monmouth a supplication, demanding free exercise of their religion, a free parliament, and a free general assembly of the church. The duke heard their demands with his natural mildness, and assured them, he would interpose with his majesty in their behalf, on condition of their immediately dispersing themselves, and yielding up their arms. Had the insurgents been all of the moderate opinion, this proposal would have been accepted, much bloodshed saved, and, perhaps, some permanent advantage derived to their party; or, had they been all Cameronians, their defence would have been fierce and desperate. But, while their motley and misassorted officers were debating upon the duke's proposal, his field-pieces were already planted on the eastern side of the river, to cover the attack of the foot guards, who were led on by Lord Livingstone to force the bridge. Here Hackston maintained his post with zeal and courage; nor was it until all his ammunition was expended, and every support denied him by the general, that he reluctantly abandoned the important pass.[A] When his party were drawn back, the duke's army, slowly, and with their cannon in front, defiled along the bridge, and formed in line of battle, as they came over the river; the duke commanded the foot, and Claverhouse the cavalry. It would seem, that these movements could not have been performed without at least some loss, had the enemy been serious in opposing them. But the insurgents were otherwise employed. With the strangest delusion, that ever fell upon devoted beings, they chose these precious moments to cashier their officers, and elect others in their room. In this important operation, they were at length disturbed by the duke's cannon, at the very first discharge of which, the horse of the Covenanters wheeled, and rode off, breaking and trampling down the ranks of their infantry in their flight. The Cameronian account blames Weir of Greenridge, a commander of the horse, who is termed a sad Achan in the camp. The more moderate party lay the whole blame on Hamilton, whose conduct, they say, left the world to debate, whether he was most traitor, coward, or fool. The generous Monmouth was anxious to spare the blood of his infatuated countrymen, by which he incurred much blame among the high-flying royalists. Lucky it was for the insurgents that the battle did not happen a day later, when old General Dalziel, who divided with Claverhouse the terror and hatred of the whigs, arrived in the camp, with a commission to supersede Monmouth, as commander in chief. He is said to have upbraided the duke, publicly, with his lenity, and heartily to have wished his own commission had come a day sooner, when, as he expresses himself, "These rogues should never more have troubled the king or country."[B] But, notwithstanding the merciful orders of the duke of Monmouth, the cavalry made great slaughter among the fugitives, of whom four hundred were slain. Guild thus expresses himself: Ei ni Dux validus tenuisset forte catervas, Vix quisquam profugus vitam servasset inertem: Non audita Ducis verum mandata supremi Omnibus, insequitur fugientes plurima turba, Perque agros, passim, trepida formidine captos Obtruncat, saevumque adigit per viscera ferrum. _MS. Bellum Bothuellianum._ [Footnote A: There is an accurate representation of this part of the engagement in an old painting, of which there are two copies extant; one in the collection of his grace the duke of Hamilton, the other at Dalkeith house. The whole appearance of the ground, even including a few old houses, is the same which the scene now presents: The removal of the porch, or gateway, upon the bridge, is the only perceptible difference. The duke of Monmouth, on a white charger, directs the march of the party engaged in storming the bridge, while his artillery gall the motley ranks of the Covenanters. An engraving of this painting would be acceptable to the curious; and I am satisfied an opportunity of copying it, for that purpose, would be readily granted by either of the noble proprietors.] [Footnote B: Dalziel was a man of savage manners. A prisoner having railed at him, while under examination before the privy council, calling him "a Muscovia beast, who used to roast men, the general, in a passion, struck him, with the pomel of his shabble, on the face, till the blood sprung."--FOUNTAINHALL, Vol. I. p. 159. He had sworn never to shave his beard after the death of Charles the First. This venerable appendage reached his girdle, and, as he wore always an old-fashioned buff coat, his appearance in London never failed to attract the notice of the children and of the mob. King Charles II. used to swear at him, for bringing such a rabble of boys together, to be squeezed to death, while they gaped at his long beard and antique habit, and exhorted him to shave and dress like a Christian, to keep the poor _bairns_, as Dalziel expressed it, out of danger. In compliance with this request, he once appeared at court fashionably dressed, excepting the beard; but, when the king had laughed sufficiently at the metamorphosis, he resumed his old dress, to the great joy of the boys, his usual attendants.--CREICHTON'S _Memoirs_, p. 102.] The same deplorable circumstances are more elegantly bewailed in _Clyde_, a poem, reprinted in _Scotish Descriptive Poems_, edited by Dr John Leyden, Edinburgh, 1803: "Where Bothwell's bridge connects the margins steep, And Clyde, below, runs silent, strong, and deep, The hardy peasant, by oppression driven To battle, deemed his cause the cause of heaven: Unskilled in arms, with useless courage stood, While gentle Monmouth grieved to shed his blood: But fierce Dundee, inflamed with deadly hate, In vengeance for the great Montrose's fate, Let loose the sword, and to the hero's shade A barbarous hecatomb of victims paid." The object of Claverhouse's revenge, assigned by Wilson, is grander, though more remote and less natural, than that in the ballad, which imputes the severity of the pursuit to his thirst to revenge the death of his cornet and kinsman, at Drumclog;[A] and to the quarrel betwixt Claverhouse and Monmouth, it ascribes, with great _naiveté_ the bloody fate of the latter. Local tradition is always apt to trace foreign events to the domestic causes, which are more immediately in the narrator's view. There is said to be another song upon this battle, once very popular, but I have not been able to recover it. This copy is given from recitation. [Footnote A: There is some reason to conjecture, that the revenge of the Cameronians, if successful, would have been little less sanguinary than that of the royalists. Creichton mentions, that they had erected, in their camp, a high pair of gallows, and prepared a quantity of halters, to hang such prisoners as might fall into their hands, and he admires the forbearance of the king's soldiers, who, when they returned with their prisoners, brought them to the very spot where the gallows stood, and guarded them there, without offering to hang a single individual. Guild, in the _Bellum Bothuellianum_, alludes to the same story, which is rendered probable by the character of Hamilton, the insurgent general. GUILD'S _MSS._--CREICHTON'S _Memoirs_, p. 61.] There were two Gordons of Earlstoun, father and son. They were descended of an ancient family in the west of Scotland, and their progenitors were believed to have been favourers of the reformed doctrine, and possessed of a translation of the Bible, as early as the days of Wickliffe. William Gordon, the father, was, in 1663, summoned before the privy council, for keeping conventicles in his house and woods. By another act of council, he was banished out of Scotland; but the sentence was never put into execution. In 1667, Earlstoun was turned out of his house, which was converted into a garrison for the king's soldiers. He was not in the battle of Bothwell Bridge, but was met, hastening towards it, by some English dragoons, engaged in the pursuit, already commenced. As he refused to surrender, he was instantly slain. WILSON'S _History of Bothwell Rising--Life of Gordon of Earlston, in Scottish Worthies_--WODROW'S _History,_ Vol. II. The son, Alexander Gordon of Earlstoun, I suppose to be the hero of the ballad. He was not a Cameronian, but of the more moderate class of presbyterians, whose sole object was freedom of conscience, and relief from the oppressive laws against non-conformists. He joined the insurgents, shortly after the skirmish at Loudoun-hill. He appears to have been active in forwarding the supplication sent to the duke of Monmouth. After the battle, he escaped discovery, by flying into a house at Hamilton, belonging to one of his tenants, and disguising himself in female attire. His person was proscribed, and his estate of Earlstoun was bestowed upon Colonel Theophilus Ogilthorpe, by the crown, first in security for L.5000, and afterwards in perpetuity.--FOUNTAINHALL, p. 390. The same author mentions a person tried at the circuit court, July 10, 1683, solely for holding intercourse with Earlstoun, an intercommuned (proscribed) rebel. As he had been in Holland after the battle of Bothwell, he was probably accessory to the scheme of invasion, which the unfortunate earl of Argyle was then meditating. He was apprehended upon his return to Scotland, tried, convicted of treason, and condemned to die; but his fate was postponed by a letter from the king, appointing him to be reprieved for a month, that he might, in the interim, be tortured for the discovery of his accomplices. The council had the unusual spirit to remonstrate against this illegal course of severity. On November 3, 1653, he received a farther respite, in hopes he would make some discovery. When brought to the bar, to be tortured (for the king had reiterated his commands), he, through fear or distraction, roared like a bull, and laid so stoutly about him, that the hangman and his assistant could hardly master him. At last he fell into a swoon, and, on his recovery, charged General Dalziel and Drummond (violent tories), together with the duke of Hamilton, with being the leaders of the fanatics. It was generally thought, that he affected this extravagant behaviour, to invalidate all that agony might extort from him concerning his real accomplices. He was sent, first, to Edinburgh castle, and, afterwards, to a prison upon the Bass island; although the privy council more than once deliberated upon appointing his immediate death. On 22d August, 1684, Earlstoun was sent for from the Bass, and ordered for execution, 4th November, 1684. He endeavoured to prevent his doom by escape; but was discovered and taken, after he had gained the roof of the prison. The council deliberated, whether, in consideration of this attempt, he was not liable to instant execution. Finally, however, they were satisfied to imprison him in Blackness castle, where he remained till after the Revolution, when he was set at liberty, and his doom of forfeiture reversed by act of parliament.--See FOUNTAINHALL, Vol. I. pp. 238, 240, 245, 250, 301, 302. THE BATTLE OF BOTHWELL-BRIDGE. "O Billie, billie, bonny billie, "Will ye go to the wood wi' me? "We'll ca' our horse hame masterless, "An' gar them trow slain men are we." "O no, O no!" says Earlstoun, "For that's the thing that mauna be; "For I am sworn to Bothwell Hill, "Where I maun either gae or die." So Earlstoun rose in the morning, An' mounted by the break o' day; An' he has joined our Scottish lads, As they were marching out the way. "Now, farewell father, and farewell mother, "An' fare ye weel my sisters three; "An' fare ye weel my Earlstoun, "For thee again I'll never see!" So they're awa' to Bothwell Hill, An waly[A] they rode bonnily! When the duke o' Monmouth saw them comin', He went to view their company. "Ye're welcome, lads," then Monmouth said, "Ye're welcome, brave Scots lads, to me; "And sae are ye, brave Earlstoun, "The foremost o' your company! "But yield your weapons ane an' a'; "O yield your weapons, lads, to me; "For, gin ye'll yield your weapons up, "Ye'se a' gae hame to your country." Out up then spak a Lennox lad, And waly but he spak bonnily! "I winna yield my weapons up, "To you nor nae man that I see." Then he set up the flag o' red, A' set about wi' bonny blue; "Since ye'll no cease, and be at peace, "See that ye stand by ither true." They stell'd[B] their cannons on the height, And showr'd their shot down in the how;[C] An' beat our Scots lads even down, Thick they lay slain on every know.[D] As e'er you saw the rain down fa', Or yet the arrow frae the bow,-- Sae our Scottish lads fell even down, An' they lay slain on every know. "O, hold your hand," then Monmouth cry'd, "Gie quarters to yon men for me!" But wicked Claver'se swore an oath, His cornet's death reveng'd sud be. "O hold your hand," then Monmouth cry'd, "If ony thing you'll do for me; "Hold up your hand, you cursed Graeme, "Else a rebel to our king ye'll be." Then wicked Claver'se turn'd about, I wot an angry man was he; And he has lifted up his hat, And cry'd, "God bless his majesty!" Then he's awa to London town, Ay e'en as fast as he can dree; Fause witnesses he has wi' him ta'en. An' ta'en Monmouth's head f'rae his body. Alang the brae, beyond the brig, Mony brave man lies cauld and still; But lang we'll mind, and sair we'll rue, The bloody battle of Bothwell Hill. [Footnote A: _Waly!_ an interjection.] [Footnote B: _Stell'd_--Planted.] [Footnote C: _How_--Hollow.] [Footnote D: _Know_--Knoll.] NOTES ON THE BATTLE OF BOTHWELL-BRIDGE. _Then he set up the flag of red, A' set about wi' bonnie blue._--P. 91. v. 1. Blue was the favourite colour of the Covenanters; hence the vulgar phrase of a true blue whig. Spalding informs us, that when the first army of Covenanters entered Aberdeen, few or none "wanted a blue ribband; the lord Gordon, and some others of the marquis (of Huntley's) family had a ribband, when they were dwelling in the town, of a red fresh colour, which they wore in their hats, and called it the _royal ribband_, as a sign of their love and loyalty to the king. In despite and derision thereof, this blue ribband was worn, and called the _Covenanter's ribband_, by the hail soldiers of the army, who would not hear of the royal ribband, such was their pride and malice."--Vol. I. p. 123. After the departure of this first army, the town was occupied by the barons of the royal party, till they were once more expelled by the Covenanters, who plundered the burgh and country adjacent; "no fowl, cock, or hen, left unkilled, the hail house-dogs, messens (i.e. lap-dogs), and whelps, within Aberdeen, killed upon the streets; so that neither hound, messen, nor other dog, was left alive that they could see: the reason was this,--when the first army came here, ilk captain and soldier had a blue ribband about his craig (i.e. neck); in despite and derision whereof, when they removed from Aberdeen, some women of Aberdeen, as was alleged, knit blue ribbands about their messens' craigs, whereat their soldiers took offence, and killed all their dogs for this very cause."--P. 160. I have seen one of the ancient banners of the Covenanters: it was divided into four copartments, inscribed with the words, _Christ--Covenant--King--Kingdom_. Similar standards are mentioned in Spalding's curious and minute narrative, Vol. II. pp. 182, 245. _Hold up your hand, ye cursed Graeme, Else a rebel to our king ye'll be._--P, 91. v. 5. It is very extraordinary, that, in April, 1685, Claverhouse was left out of the new commission of privy council, as being too favourable to the fanatics. The pretence was his having married into the presbyterian family of lord Dundonald. An act of council was also past, regulating the payment of quarters, which is stated by Fountainhall to have been done in _odium_ of Claverhouse, and in order to excite complaints against him. This charge, so inconsistent with the nature and conduct of Claverhouse, seems to have been the fruit of a quarrel betwixt him and the lord high treasurer. FOUNTAINHALL, Vol. I. p. 360. That Claverhouse was most unworthily accused of mitigating the persecution of the Covenanters, will appear from the following simple, but very affecting narrative, extracted from one of the little publications which appeared soon after the Revolution, while the facts were fresh in the memory of the sufferers. The imitation of the scriptural stile produces, in some passages of these works, an effect not unlike what we feel in reading the beautiful book of Ruth. It is taken from the life of Mr Alexander Peden,[A] printed about 1720. "In the beginning of May, 1685, he came to the house of John Brown and Marion Weir, whom he married before he went to Ireland, where he stayed all night; and, in the morning when he took farewell, he came out of the door, saying to himself, "Poor woman, a fearful morning," twice over. "A dark misty morning!" The next morning, between five and six hours, the said John Brown having performed the worship of God in his family, was going, with a spade in his hand, to make ready some peat ground: the mist being very dark, he knew not until cruel and bloody Claverhouse compassed him with three troops of horse, brought him to his house, and there examined him; who, though he was a man of a stammering speech, yet answered him distinctly and solidly; which made Claverhouse to examine those whom he had taken to be his guides through the muirs, if ever they heard him preach? They answered, "No, no, he was never a preacher." He said, "If he has never preached, meikle he has prayed in his time;" he said to John, "Go to your prayers, for you shall immediately die!" When he was praying, Claverhouse interrupted him three times; one time, that he stopt him, he was pleading that the Lord would spare a remnant, and not make a full end in the day of his anger. Claverhouse said, "I gave you time to pray, and ye are begun to preach;" he turned about upon his knees, and said, "Sir, you know neither the nature of preaching or praying, that calls this preaching." Then continued without confusion. When ended, Claverhouse said, "Take goodnight of your wife and children." His wife, standing by with her child in her arms that she had brought forth to him, and another child of his first wife's, he came to her, and said, "Now, Marion, the day is come, that I told you would come, when I spake first to you of marrying me." She said, "Indeed, John, I can willingly part with you."--"Then," he said, "this is all I desire, I have no more to do but die." He kissed his wife and bairns, and wished purchased and promised blessings to be multiplied upon them, and his blessing. Clavers ordered six soldiers to shoot him; the most part of the bullets came upon his head, which scattered his brains upon the ground. Claverhouse said to his wife, "What thinkest thou of thy husband now, woman?" She said, "I thought ever much of him, and now as much as ever." He said, "It were justice to lay thee beside him." She said, "If ye were permitted, I doubt not but your cruelty would go that length; but how will ye make answer for this morning's work?" He said, "To man I can be answerable; and for God, I will take him in my own hand." Claverhouse mounted his horse, and marched, and left her with the corpse of her dead husband lying there; she set the bairn on the ground, and gathered his brains, and tied up his head, and straighted his body, and covered him in her plaid, and sat down, and wept over him. It being a very desart place, where never victual grew, and far from neighbours, it was some time before any friends came to her; the first that came was a very fit hand, that old singular Christian woman, in the Cummerhead, named Elizabeth Menzies, three miles distant, who had been tried with the violent death of her husband at Pentland, afterwards of two worthy sons, Thomas Weir, who was killed at Drumclog, and David Steel, who was suddenly shot afterwards when taken. The said Marion Weir, sitting upon her husband's grave, told me, that before that, she could see no blood but she was in danger to faint; and yet she was helped to be a witness to all this, without either fainting or confusion, except when the shots were let off her eyes dazzled. His corpse were buried at the end of his house, where he was slain, with this inscription on his grave-stone:-- In earth's cold bed, the dusty part here lies, Of one who did the earth as dust despise! Here, in this place, from earth he took departure; Now, he has got the garland of the martyrs. [Footnote A: The enthusiasm of this personage, and of his followers, invested him, as has been already noticed, with prophetic powers; but hardly any of the stories told of him exceeds that sort of gloomy conjecture of misfortune, which the precarious situation of his sect so greatly fostered. The following passage relates to the battle of Bothwell-bridge:--"That dismal day, 22d of June, 1679, at Bothwell-bridge, when the Lord's people fell and fled before the enemy, he was forty miles distant, near the border, and kept himself retired until the middle of the day, when some friends said to him, 'Sir, the people are waiting for sermon,' He answered, 'Let them go to their prayers; for me, I neither can nor will preach any this day, for our friends are fallen and fled before the enemy, at Hamilton, and they are hacking and hewing them down, and their blood is running like water." The feats of Peden are thus commemorated by Fountainhall, 27th of March, 1650: "News came to the privy council, that about one hundred men, well armed and appointed, had left Ireland, because of a search there for such malcontents, and landed in the west of Scotland, and joined with the wild fanatics. The council, finding that they disappointed the forces, by skulking from hole to hole, were of opinion, it were better to let them gather into a body, and draw to a head, and so they would get them altogether in a snare. They had one Mr Peden, a minister, with them, and one Isaac, who commanded them. They had frighted most part of all the country ministers, so that they durst not stay at their churches, but retired to Edinburgh, or to garrison towns; and it was sad to see whole shires destitute of preaching, except in burghs. Wherever they came they plundered arms, and particularly at my Lord Dumfries's house."--FOUNTAINHALL, Vol. I. p. 359.] "This murder was committed betwixt six and seven in the morning: Mr Peden was about ten or eleven miles distant, having been in the fields all night: he came to the house betwixt seven and eight, and desired to call in the family, that he might pray amongst them; when praying, he said, "Lord, when wilt thou avenge Brown's blood? Oh, let Brown's blood be precious in thy sight! and hasten the day when thou wilt avenge it, with Cameron's, Cargil's, and many others of our martyrs' names; and oh! for that day, when the Lord would avenge all their bloods!" When ended, John Muirhead enquired what he meant by Brown's blood? He said twice over, "What do I mean? Claverhouse has been at the Preshil this morning, and has cruelly murdered John Brown; his corpse are lying at the end of his house, and his poor wife sitting weeping by his corpse, and not a soul to speak a word comfortably to her." While we read this dismal story, we must remember Brown's situation was that of an avowed and determined rebel, liable as such to military execution; so that the atrocity was more that of the times than of Claverhouse. That general's gallant adherence to his master, the misguided James VII., and his glorious death on the field of victory, at Killicrankie, have tended to preserve and gild his memory. He is still remembered in the Highlands as the most successful leader of their clans. An ancient gentleman, who had borne arms for the cause of Stuart, in 1715, told the editor, that, when the armies met on the field of battle, at Sheriff-muir, a veteran chief (I think he named Gordon of Glenbucket), covered with scars, came up to the earl of Mar, and earnestly pressed him to order the Highlanders to charge, before the regular army of Argyle had completely formed their line, and at a moment when the rapid and furious onset of the clans might have thrown them into total disorder. Mar repeatedly answered, it was not yet time; till the chieftain turned from him in disdain and despair, and, stamping with rage, exclaimed aloud, "O for one hour of Dundee!" Claverhouse's sword (a strait cut-and-thrust blade) is in the possession of Lord Woodhouselee. In Pennycuik-house is preserved the buff-coat, which he wore at the battle of Killicrankie. The fatal shot-hole is under the arm-pit, so that the ball must have been received while his arm was raised to direct the pursuit However he came by his charm of _proof_, he certainly had not worn the garment usually supposed to confer that privelage, and which is called _the waistcoat of proof, or of necessity_. It was thus made: "On Christmas daie, at night, a thread must be sponne of flax, by a little virgine girle, in the name of the divell: and it must be by her woven, and also wrought with the needle. In the breast, or forepart thereof, must be made with needle work, two heads; on the head, at the right side, must be a hat and a long beard; the left head must have on a crown, and it must be so horrible that it maie resemble Belzebub; and on each side of the wastcote must be made a crosse."--SCOTT'S _Discoverie of Witchcraft,_ p. 231. It would be now no difficult matter to bring down our popular poetry, connected with history, to the year 1745. But almost all the party ballads of that period have been already printed, and ably illustrated by Mr Ritson. END OF HISTORICAL BALLADS. MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. PART SECOND. _ROMANTIC BALLADS._ SCOTTISH MUSIC, AN ODE, BY J. LEYDEN. TO IANTHE. Again, sweet syren, breathe again That deep, pathetic, powerful strain; Whose melting tones, of tender woe, Fall soft as evening's summer dew, That bathes the pinks and harebells blue, Which in the vales of Tiviot blow. Such was the song that soothed to rest. Far in the green isle of the west, The Celtic warrior's parted shade; Such are the lonely sounds that sweep O'er the blue bosom of the deep, Where ship-wrecked mariners are laid. Ah! sure, as Hindú legends tell, When music's tones the bosom swell, The scenes of former life return; Ere, sunk beneath the morning star, We left our parent climes afar, Immured in mortal forms to mourn. Or if, as ancient sages ween, Departed spirits, half-unseen, Can mingle with the mortal throng; 'Tis when from heart to heart we roll The deep-toned music of the soul, That warbles in our Scottish song. I hear, I hear, with awful dread, The plaintive music of the dead; They leave the amber fields of day: Soft as the cadence of the wave, That murmurs round the mermaid's grave, They mingle in the magic lay. Sweet syren, breathe the powerful strain! _Lochroyan's Damsel_[A] sails the main; The chrystal tower enchanted see! "Now break," she cries, "ye fairy charms!" As round she sails with fond alarms, "Now break, and set my true love free!" Lord Barnard is to greenwood gone, Where fair _Gil Morrice_ sits alone, And careless combs his yellow hair; Ah! mourn the youth, untimely slain! The meanest of Lord Barnard's train The hunter's mangled head must bear. Or, change these notes of deep despair, For love's more soothing tender air: Sing, how, beneath the greenwood tree, _Brown Adam's_[B] love maintained her truth, Nor would resign the exiled youth For any knight the fair could see. And sing _the Hawk of pinion gray_,[C] To southern climes who winged his way, For he could speak as well as fly; Her brethren how the fair beguiled, And on her Scottish lover smiled, As slow she raised her languid eye. Fair was her cheek's carnation glow, Like red blood on a wreath of snow; Like evening's dewy star her eye: White as the sea-mew's downy breast, Borne on the surge's foamy crest, Her graceful bosom heaved the sigh. In youth's first morn, alert and gay, Ere rolling years had passed away, Remembered like a morning dream, I heard these dulcet measures float, In many a liquid winding note, Along the banks of Teviot's stream. Sweet sounds! that oft have soothed to rest The sorrows of my guileless breast, And charmed away mine infant tears: Fond memory shall your strains repeat, Like distant echoes, doubly sweet, That in the wild the traveller hears. And thus, the exiled Scotian maid, By fond alluring love betrayed To visit Syria's date-crowned shore; In plaintive strains, that soothed despair, Did "Bothwell's banks that bloom so fair," And scenes of early youth, deplore. Soft syren! whose enchanting strain Floats wildly round my raptured brain, I bid your pleasing haunts adieu! Yet, fabling fancy oft shall lead My footsteps to the silver Tweed, Through scenes that I no more must view. [Footnote A: _The Lass of Lochroyan_--In this volume.] [Footnote B: See the ballad, entitled, _Brown Adam._] [Footnote C: See the _Gay Goss Hawk._] NOTES ON SCOTTISH MUSIC, AN ODE. _Far in the green isle of the west._--P. 103. v. 2. The _Flathinnis_, or Celtic paradise. _Ah! sure, as Hindú legends tell._--P. 104. v. 1. The effect of music is explained by the Hindús, as recalling to our memory the airs of paradise, heard in a state of pre-existence--_Vide_ Sacontala. _Did "Bathwell's banks that bloom so fair."_--P. 106. v. 3. "So fell it out of late years, that an English gentleman, travelling in Palestine, not far from Jerusalem, as he passed through a country town, he heard, by chance, a woman sitting at her door, dandling her child, to sing, _Bothwel bank thou blumest fair_. The gentleman hereat wondered, and forthwith, in English, saluted the woman, who joyfully answered him; and said, she was right glad there to see a gentleman of our isle: and told him, that she was a Scottish woman, and came first from Scotland to Venice, and from Venice thither, where her fortune was to be the wife of an officer under the Turk; who being at that instant absent, and very soon to return, she entreated the gentleman to stay there until his return. The which he did; and she, for country sake, to shew herself the more kind and bountiful unto him, told her husband, at his home-coming, that the gentleman was her kinsman; whereupon her husband entertained him very kindly; and, at his departure gave him divers things of good value."--_Verstigan's Restitution of Decayed Intelligence._ Chap. _Of the Sirnames of our Antient Families._ Antwerp, 1605. INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF TAMLANE. ON THE FAIRIES OF POPULAR SUPERSTITION. _"Of airy elves, by moon-light shadows seen, The silver token, and the circled green._--POPE. In a work, avowedly dedicated to the preservation of the poetry and tradition of the "olden time," it would be unpardonable to omit this opportunity of making some observations upon so interesting an article of the popular creed, as that concerning the Elves, or Fairies. The general idea of spirits, of a limited power, and subordinate nature, dwelling among the woods and mountains, is, perhaps common to all nations. But the intermixture of tribes, of languages, and religion, which has occurred in Europe, renders it difficult to trace the origin of the names which have been bestowed upon such spirits, and the primary ideas which were entertained concerning their manners and habits. The word _elf_, which seems to have been the original name of the beings, afterwards denominated fairies, is of Gothic origin, and probably signified, simply, a spirit of a lower order. Thus, the Saxons had not only _dun-elfen_, _berg-elfen_, and _munt-elfen_, spirits of the downs, hills, and mountains; but also _feld-elfen_, _wudu-elfen_, _sae-elfen_, and _water-elfen_; spirits of the fields, of the woods, of the sea, and of the waters. In low German, the same latitude of expression occurs; for night hags are termed _aluinnen_, and _aluen_, which is sometimes Latinized _eluoe_. But the prototype of the English elf, is to be sought chiefly in the _berg-elfen_, or _duergar_, of the Scandinavians. From the most early of the Icelandic Sagas, as well as from the Edda itself, we learn the belief of the northern nations in a race of dwarfish spirits, inhabiting the rocky mountains, and approaching, in some respects, to the human nature. Their attributes, amongst which we recognize the features of the modern Fairy, were, supernatural wisdom and prescience, and skill in the mechanical arts, especially in the fabrication of arms. They are farther described, as capricious, vindictive, and easily irritated. The story of the elfin sword, _Tyrfing_, may be the most pleasing illustration of this position. Suafurlami, a Scandinavian monarch, returning from hunting, bewildered himself among the mountains. About sun-set, he beheld a large rock, and two dwarfs, sitting before the mouth of a cavern. The king drew his sword, and intercepted their retreat, by springing betwixt them and their recess, and imposed upon them the following condition of safety:--that they should make for him a faulchion, with a baldric and scabbard of pure gold, and a blade, which should divide stones and iron as a garment, and which should render the wielder ever victorious in battle. The elves complied with the requisition, and Suafurlami pursued his way home. Returning at the time appointed, the dwarfs delivered to him the famous sword _Tyrfing_; then, standing in the entrance of their cavern, spoke thus: "This sword, O king, shall "destroy a man every time it is brandished; but it shall "perform three atrocious deeds, and it shall be thy bane." The king rushed forward with the charmed sword, and buried both its edges in the rock; but the dwarfs escaped into their recesses.[A] This enchanted sword emitted rays like the sun, dazzling all against whom it was brandished; it divided steel like water, and was never unsheathed without slaying a man--_Hervarar Saga,_ p. 9. Similar to this was the enchanted sword, _Skoffhung_, which was taken by a pirate out of the tomb of a Norwegian monarch. Many such tales are narrated in the Sagas; but the most distinct account of the _-duergar_, or elves, and their attributes, is to be found in a preface of Torfaeus to the history of Hrolf Kraka, who cites a dissertation by Einar Gudmund, a learned native of Iceland. "I am firmly of opinion," says the Icelander, "that these beings are creatures of God, consisting, like human beings, of a body and rational soul; that they are of different sexes, and capable of producing children, and subject to all human affections, as sleeping and waking, laughing and crying, poverty and wealth; and that they possess cattle, and other effects, and are obnoxious to death, like other mortals." He proceeds to state, that the females of this race are capable of procreating with mankind; and gives an account of one who bore a child to an inhabitant of Iceland, for whom she claimed the privilege of baptism; depositing the infant, for that purpose, at the gate of the church-yard, together with a goblet of gold, as an offering.--_Historia Hrolfi Krakae, a_ TORFAEO. [Footnote A: Perhaps in this, and similar tales, we may recognize something of real history. That the Fins, or ancient natives of Scandinavia, were driven into the mountains, by the invasion of Odin and his Asiatics, is sufficiently probable; and there is reason to believe, that the aboriginal inhabitants understood, better than the intruders, how to manufacture the produce of their own mines. It is therefore possible, that, in process of time, the oppressed Fins may have been transformed into the supernatural _duergar_. A similar transformation has taken place among the vulgar in Scotland, regarding the Picts, or Pechs, to whom they ascribe various supernatural attributes.] Similar to the traditions of the Icelanders, are those current among the Laplanders of Finland, concerning a subterranean people, gifted with' supernatural qualities, and inhabiting the recesses of the earth. Resembling men in their general appearance, the manner of their existence, and their habits of life, they far excel the miserable Laplanders in perfection of nature, felicity of situation, and skill in mechanical arts. From all these advantages, however, after the partial conversion of the Laplanders, the subterranean people have derived no farther credit, than to be confounded with the devils and magicians of the dark ages of Christianity; a degradation which, as will shortly be demonstrated, has been also suffered by the harmless Fairies of Albion, and indeed by the whole host of deities of learned Greece and mighty Rome. The ancient opinions are yet so firmly rooted, that the Laps of Finland, at this day, boast of an intercourse with these beings, in banquets, dances, and magical ceremonies, and even in the more intimate commerce of gallantry. They talk, with triumph, of the feasts which they have shared in the elfin caverns, where wine and tobacco, the productions of the Fairy region, went round in abundance, and whence the mortal guest, after receiving the kindest treatment and the most salutary counsel, has been conducted to his tent by an escort of his supernatural entertainers.--_Jessens, de Lapponibus._ The superstitions of the islands of Feroe, concerning their _Froddenskemen_, or under-ground people, are derived from the _duergar_ of Scandinavia. These beings are supposed to inhabit the interior recesses of mountains, which they enter by invisible passages. Like the Fairies, they are supposed to steal human beings. "It happened," says Debes, p. 354, "a good while since, when the burghers of Bergen had the commerce of Feroe, that there was a man in Servaade, called Jonas Soideman, who was kept by spirits in a mountain, during the space of seven years, and at length came out; but lived afterwards in great distress and fear, lest they should again take him away; wherefore people were obliged to watch him in the night." The same author mentions another young man, who had been carried away, and, after his return, was removed a second time upon the eve of his marriage. He returned in a short time, and narrated, that the spirit that had carried him away, was in the shape of a most beautiful woman, who pressed him to forsake his bride, and remain with her; urging her own superior beauty, and splendid appearance. He added, that he saw the men who were employed to search for him, and heard them call; but that they could not see him, nor could he answer them, till, upon his determined refusal to listen to the spirit's persuasions, the spell ceased to operate. The kidney-shaped West Indian bean, which is sometimes driven upon the shore of the Feroes, is termed, by the natives "the _Fairie's kidney_." In these traditions of the Gothic and Finnish tribes, we may recognize, with certainty, the rudiments of elfin superstition; but we must look to various other causes for the modifications which it has undergone. These are to be sought, 1st, in the traditions of the east; 2d, in the wreck and confusion of the Gothic mythology; 3d, in the tales of chivalry; 4th, in the fables of classical antiquity; 5th, in the influence of the Christian religion; 6th, and finally, in the creative imagination of the sixteenth century. It may be proper to notice the effect of these various causes, before stating the popular belief of our own time, regarding the Fairies. I. To the traditions of the east, the Fairies of Britain owe, I think, little more than the appellation, by which they have been distinguished since the days of the crusade. The term "Fairy," occurs not only in Chaucer, and in yet older English authors, but also, and more frequently, in the romance language; from which they seem to have adopted it. Ducange cites the following passage from Gul. Guiart, in _Historia Francica_, MS. Plusiers parlent de Guenart, Du Lou, de L'Asne, de Renart, De _Faëries_ et de Songes, De phantosmes et de mensonges. The _Lay le Frain_, enumerating the subjects of the Breton Lays, informs us expressly, Many ther beth _faëry_. By some etymologists of that learned class, who not only know whence words come, but also whither they are going, the term _Fairy_, or _Faërie_, is derived from _Faë_, which is again derived from _Nympha_. It is more probable the term is of oriental origin, and is derived from the Persic, through the medium of the Arabic. In Persic, the term _Peri_ expresses a species of imaginary being, which resembles the Fairy in some of its qualities, and is one of the fairest creatures of romantic fancy. This superstition must have been known to the Arabs, among whom the Persian tales, or romances, even as early as the time of Mahomet, were so popular, that it required the most terrible denunciations of that legislator to proscribe them. Now, in the enunciation of the Arabs, the term _Peri_ would sound _Fairy_, the letter _p_ not occurring in the alphabet of that nation; and, as the chief intercourse of the early crusaders was with the Arabs, or Saracens, it is probable they would adopt the term according to their pronounciation. Neither will it be considered as an objection to this opinion, that in Hesychius, the Ionian term _Phereas_, or _Pheres_, denotes the satyrs of classical antiquity, if the number of words of oriental origin in that lexicographer be recollected. Of the Persian Peris, Ouseley, in his _Persian Miscellanies_, has described some characteristic traits, with all the luxuriance of a fancy, impregnated with the oriental association of ideas. However vaguely their nature and appearance is described, they are uniformly represented as gentle, amiable females, to whose character beneficence and beauty are essential. None of them are mischievous or malignant; none of them are deformed or diminutive, like the Gothic fairy. Though they correspond in beauty with our ideas of angels, their employments are dissimilar; and, as they have no place in heaven, their abode is different. Neither do they resemble those intelligences, whom, on account of their wisdom, the Platonists denominated Daemons; nor do they correspond either to the guardian Genii of the Romans, or the celestial virgins of paradise, whom the Arabs denominate Houri. But the Peris hover in the balmy clouds, live in the colours of the rainbow, and, as the exquisite purity of their nature rejects all nourishment grosser than the odours of flowers, they subsist by inhaling the fragrance of the jessamine and rose. Though their existence is not commensurate with the bounds of human life, they are not exempted from the common fate of mortals.--With the Peris, in Persian mythology, are contrasted the Dives, a race of beings, who differ from them in sex, appearance, and disposition. These are represented as of the male sex, cruel, wicked, and of the most hideous aspect; or, as they are described by Mr Finch, "with ugly shapes, long horns, staring eyes, shaggy hair, great fangs, ugly paws, long tails, with such horrible difformity and deformity, that I wonder the poor women are not frightened therewith." Though they live very long, their lives are limited, and they are obnoxious to the blows of a human foe. From the malignancy of their nature, they not only wage war with mankind, but persecute the Peris with unremitting ferocity. Such are the brilliant and fanciful colours in which the imaginations of the Persian poets have depicted the charming race of the Peris; and, if we consider the romantic gallantry of the knights of chivalry, and of the crusaders, it will not appear improbable, that their charms might occasionally fascinate the fervid imagination of an amorous troubadour. But, further; the intercourse of France and Italy with the Moors of Spain, and the prevalence of the Arabic, as the language of science in the dark ages, facilitated the introduction of their mythology amongst the nations of the west. Hence, the romances of France, of Spain, and of Italy, unite in describing the Fairy as an inferior spirit, in a beautiful female form, possessing many of the amiable qualities of the eastern Peri. Nay, it seems sufficiently clear, that the romancers borrowed from the Arabs, not merely the general idea concerning those spirits, but even the names of individuals amongst them. The Peri, _Mergian Banou_ (see _Herbelot, ap. Peri_), celebrated in the ancient Persian poetry, figures in the European romances, under the various names of _Mourgue La Faye_, sister to _King Arthur; Urgande La Deconnue_, protectress of _Amadis de Gaul_; and the _Fata Morgana_ of Boiardo and Ariosto. The description of these nymphs, by the troubadours and minstrels, is in no respect inferior to those of the Peris. In the tale of _Sir Launfal_, in Way's _Fabliaux_, as well as in that of _Sir Gruelan_, in the same interesting collection, the reader will find the fairy of Normandy, or Bretagne, adorned with all the splendour of eastern description. The fairy _Melusina_, also, who married Guy de Lusignan, count of Poictou, under condition that he should never attempt to intrude upon her privacy, was of this latter class. She bore the count many children, and erected for him a magnificent castle by her magical art. Their harmony was uninterrupted, until the prying husband broke the conditions of their union, by concealing himself, to behold his wife make use of her enchanted bath. Hardly had _Melusina_ discovered the indiscreet intruder, than, transforming herself into a dragon, she departed with a loud yell of lamentation, and was never again visible to mortal eyes; although, even in the days of Brantome, she was supposed to be the protectress of her descendants, and was heard wailing, as she sailed upon the blast round the turrets of the castle of Lusiguan, the night before it was demolished. For the full story, the reader may consult the _Bibliotheque des Romans_.[A]--Gervase of Tilbury (pp. 895, and 989), assures us, that, in his days, the lovers of the Fadae, or Fairies, were numerous; and describes the rules of their intercourse with as much accuracy, as if he had himself been engaged in such an affair. Sir David Lindsay also informs us, that a leopard is the proper armorial bearing of those who spring from such intercourse, because that beast is generated by adultery of the pard and lioness. He adds, that Merlin, the prophet, was the first who adopted this cognizance, because he was "borne of faarie in adultre, and right sua the first duk of Guyenne, was borne of a _fee_; and, therefoir, the armes of Guyenne are a leopard."--_MS. on Heraldry, Advocates' Library,_ w. 4. 13. While, however, the Fairy of warmer climes was thus held up as an object of desire and of affection, those of Britain, and more especially those of Scotland, were far from being so fortunate; but, retaining the unamiable qualities, and diminutive size of the Gothic elves, they only exchanged that term for the more popular appellation of Fairies. [Footnote A: Upon this, or some similar tradition, was founded the notion, which the inveteracy of national prejudice, so easily diffused in Scotland, that the ancestor of the English monarchs, Geoffrey Plantagenet, had actually married a daemon. Bowmaker, in order to explain the cruelty and ambition of Edward I., dedicates a chapter to shew "how the kings of England are descended from the devil, by the mother's side."--_Fordun, Chron._ lib. 9, cap. 6. The lord of a certain castle, called Espervel, was unfortunate enough to have a wife of the same class. Having observed, for several years, that she always left the chapel before the mass was concluded, the baron, in a fit of obstinacy or curiosity, ordered his guard to detain her by force; of which the consequence was, that, unable to support the elevation of the host, she retreated through the air, carrying with her one side of the chapel, and several of the congregation.] II. Indeed, so singularly unlucky were the British Fairies that, as has already been hinted, amid the wreck of the Gothic mythology, consequent upon the introduction of Christianity, they seem to have preserved, with difficulty, their own distinct characteristics, while, at the same time, they engrossed the mischievous attributes of several other classes of subordinate spirits, acknowledged by the nations of the north. The abstraction of children, for example, the well known practice of the modern Fairy, seems, by the ancient Gothic nations, to have rather been ascribed to a species of night-mare, or hag, than to the _berg-elfen_, or _duergar_. In the ancient legend of _St Margaret_, of which there is a Saxo-Norman copy, in _Hickes' Thesaurus Linguar. Septen._ and one, more modern, in the Auchinleck MSS., that lady encounters a fiend, whose profession it was, among other malicious tricks, to injure new-born children and their mothers; a practice afterwards imputed to the Fairies. Gervase of Tilbury, in the _Otia Imperialia_, mentions certain hags, or _Lamiae_, who entered into houses in the night-time, to oppress the inhabitants, while asleep, injure their persons and property, and carry off their children. He likewise mentions the _Dracae_, a sort of water spirits, who inveigle women and children into the recesses which they inhabit, beneath lakes and rivers, by floating past them, on the surface of the water, in the shape of gold rings, or cups. The women, thus seized, are employed as nurses, and, after seven years, are permitted to revisit earth. Gervase mentions one woman, in particular, who had been allured by observing a wooden dish, or cup, float by her, while washing clothes in a river. Being seized as soon as she reached the depths, she was conducted into one of these subterranean recesses, which she described as very magnificent, and employed as nurse to one of the brood of the hag who had allured her. During her residence in this capacity, having accidentally touched one of her eyes with an ointment of serpent's grease, she perceived, at her return to the world, that she had acquired the faculty of seeing the _dracae_, when they intermingle themselves with men. Of this power she was, however, deprived by the touch of her ghostly mistress, whom she had one day incautiously addressed. It is a curious fact, that this story, in almost all its parts, is current in both the Highlands and Lowlands of Scotland, with no other variation than the substitution of Fairies for _dracae_, and the cavern of a hill for that of a river.[A] These water fiends are thus characterized by Heywood, in the _Hierarchie_-- "Spirits, that have o'er water gouvernement, Are to mankind alike malevolent; They trouble seas, flouds, rivers, brookes, and wels, Meres, lakes, and love to enhabit watry cells; Hence noisome and pestiferous vapours raise; Besides, they men encounter divers ways. At wreckes some present are; another sort, Ready to cramp their joints that swim for sport: One kind of these, the Italians _fatae_ name, _Fee_ the French, we _sybils_, and the same; Others _white nymphs_, and those that have them seen, _Night ladies_ some, of which Habundia queen. _Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels,_ p. 507. [Footnote A: Indeed, many of the vulgar account it extremely dangerous to touch any thing, which they may happen to find, without _saining_ (blessing) it, the snares of the enemy being notorious and well attested. A poor woman of Tiviotdale, having been fortunate enough, as she thought herself, to find a wooden beetle, at the very time when she needed such an implement, seized it without pronouncing the proper blessing, and, carrying it home, laid it above her bed, to be ready for employment in the morning. At midnight, the window of her cottage opened, and a loud voice was heard, calling upon some one within, by a strange and uncouth name, which I have forgotten. The terrified cottager ejaculated a prayer, which, we may suppose, insured her personal safety; while the enchanted implement of housewifery, tumbling from the bed-stead, departed by the window with no small noise and precipitation. In a humorous fugitive tract, the late Dr Johnson is introduced as disputing the authenticity of an apparition, merely because the spirit assumed the shape of a tea-pot, and of a shoulder of mutton. No doubt, a case so much in point, as that we have now quoted, would have removed his incredulity.] The following Frisian superstition, related by Schott, in his _Physica Curiosa_, p. 362, on the authority of Cornelius a Kempen, coincides more accurately with the popular opinions concerning the Fairies, than even the _dracae_ of Gervase, or the water-spirits of Thomas Heywood.--"In the time of the emperor Lotharius, in 830," says he, "many spectres infested Frieseland, particularly the white nymphs of the ancients, which the moderns denominate _witte wiven_, who inhabited a subterraneous cavern, formed in a wonderful manner, without human art, on the top of a lofty mountain. These were accustomed to surprise benighted travellers, shepherds watching their herds and flocks, and women newly delivered, with their children; and convey them into their caverns, from which subterranean murmurs, the cries of children, the groans and lamentations of men, and sometimes imperfect words, and all kinds of musical sounds, were heard to proceed." The same superstition is detailed by Bekker, in his _World Bewitch'd_, p. 196, of the English translation. As the different classes of spirits were gradually confounded, the abstraction of children seems to have been chiefly ascribed to the elves, or Fairies; yet not so entirely, as to exclude hags and witches from the occasional exertion of their ancient privilege.--In Germany, the same confusion of classes has not taken place. In the beautiful ballads of the _Erl King_, the _Water King_, and the _Mer-Maid_, we still recognize the ancient traditions of the Goths, concerning the _wald-elven_, and the _dracae_. A similar superstition, concerning abstraction by daemons, seems, in the time of Gervase of Tilbury, to have pervaded the greatest part of Europe. "In Catalonia," says that author, "there is a lofty mountain, named Cavagum, at the foot of which runs a river with golden sands, in the vicinity of which there are likewise mines of silver. This mountain is steep, and almost inaccessible. On its top, which is always covered with ice and snow, is a black and bottomless lake, into which if a stone be thrown, a tempest suddenly rises; and near this lake, though invisible to men, is the porch of the palace of daemons. In a town adjacent to this mountain, named Junchera, lived one Peter de Cabinam. Being one day teazed with the fretfulness of his young daughter, he, in his impatience, suddenly wished that the devil might take her; when she was immediately borne away by the spirits. About seven years afterwards, an inhabitant of the same city, passing by the mountain, met a man, who complained bitterly of the burthen he was constantly forced to bear. Upon enquiring the cause of his complaining, as he did not seem to carry any load, the man related, that he had been unwarily devoted to the spirits by an execration, and that they now employed him constantly as a vehicle of burthen. As a proof of his assertion, he added, that the daughter of his fellow-citizen was detained by the spirits, but that they were willing to restore her, if her father would come and demand her on the mountain. Peter de Cabinam, on being informed of this, ascended the mountain to the lake, and, in the name of God, demanded his daughter; when, a tall, thin, withered figure, with wandering eyes, and almost bereft of understanding, was wafted to him in a blast of wind. After some time, the person, who had been employed as the vehicle of the spirits, also returned, when he related where the palace of the spirits was situated; but added, that none were permitted to enter but those who devoted themselves entirely to the spirits; those, who had been rashly committed to the devil by others, being only permitted, during their probation, to enter the porch." It may be proper to observe, that the superstitious idea, concerning the lake on the top of the mountain, is common to almost every high hill in Scotland. Wells, or pits, on the top of high hills, were likewise supposed to lead to the subterranean habitations of the Fairies. Thus, Gervase relates, (p. 975), "that he was informed the swine-herd of William Peverell, an English baron, having lost a brood-sow, descended through a deep abyss, in the middle of an ancient ruinous castle, situated on the top of a hill, called Bech, in search of it. Though a violent wind commonly issued from this pit, he found it calm; and pursued his way, till he arrived at a subterraneous region, pleasant and cultivated, with reapers cutting down corn, though the snow remained on the surface of the ground above. Among the ears of corn he discovered his sow, and was permitted to ascend with her, and the pigs which she had farrowed." Though the author seems to think that the inhabitants of this cave might be Antipodes, yet, as many such stories are related of the Fairies, it is probable that this narration is of the same kind. Of a similar nature seems to be another superstition, mentioned by the same author, concerning the ringing of invisible bells, at the hour of one, in a field in the vicinity of Carleol, which, as he relates, was denominated _Laikibraine_, or _Lai ki brait_. From all these tales, we may perhaps be justified in supposing, that the faculties and habits ascribed to the Fairies, by the superstition of latter days, comprehended several, originally attributed to other classes of inferior spirits. III. The notions, arising from the spirit of chivalry, combined to add to the Fairies certain qualities, less atrocious, indeed, but equally formidable, with those which they derived from the last mentioned source, and alike inconsistent with the powers of the _duergar_, whom we may term their primitive prototype. From an early period, the daring temper of the northern tribes urged them to defy even the supernatural powers. In the days of Caesar, the Suevi were described, by their countrymen, as a people, with whom the immortal gods dared not venture to contend. At a later period, the historians of Scandinavia paint their heroes and champions, not as bending at the altar of their deities, but wandering into remote forests and caverns, descending into the recesses of the tomb, and extorting boons, alike from gods and daemons, by dint of the sword, and battle-axe. I will not detain the reader by quoting instances, in which heaven is thus described as having been literally attempted by storm. He may consult Saxo, Olaus Wormius, Olaus Magnus, Torfaeus, Bartholin, and other northern antiquaries. With such ideas of superior beings, the Normans, Saxons, and other Gothic tribes, brought their ardent courage to ferment yet more highly in the genial climes of the south, and under the blaze of romantic chivalry. Hence, during the dark ages, the invisible world was modelled after the material; and the saints, to the protection of whom the knights-errant were accustomed to recommend themselves, were accoutered like _preux chevaliers_, by the ardent imaginations of their votaries. With such ideas concerning the inhabitants of the celestial regions, we ought not to be surprised to find the inferior spirits, of a more dubious nature and origin, equipped in the same disguise. Gervase of Tilbury (_Otia Imperial, ap. Script, rer. Brunsvic,_ Vol. I. p. 797.) relates the following popular story concerning a Fairy Knight. "Osbert, a bold and powerful baron, visited a noble family in the vicinity of Wandlebury, in the bishopric of Ely. Among other stories related in the social circle of his friends, who, according to custom, amused each other by repeating ancient tales and traditions, he was informed, that if any knight, unattended, entered an adjacent plain by moon-light, and challenged an adversary to appear, he would be immediately encountered by a spirit in the form of a knight. Osbert resolved to make the experiment, and set out, attended by a single squire, whom he ordered to remain without the limits of the plain, which was surrounded by an ancient entrenchment. On repeating the challenge, he was instantly assailed by an adversary, whom he quickly unhorsed, and seized the reins of his steed. During this operation, his ghostly opponent sprung up, and, darting his spear, like a javelin, at Osbert, wounded him in the thigh. Osbert returned in triumph with the horse, which he committed to the care of his servants. The horse was of a sable colour, as well as his whole accoutrements, and apparently of great beauty and vigour. He remained with his keeper till cock-crowing, when, with eyes flashing fire, he reared, spurned the ground, and vanished. On disarming himself, Osbert perceived that he was wounded, and that one of his steel boots was full of blood. Gervase adds, that, as long as he lived, the scar of his wound opened afresh on the anniversary of the eve on which he encountered the spirit."[A] Less fortunate was the gallant Bohemian knight, who, travelling by night, with a single companion, came in sight of a fairy host, arrayed under displayed banners. Despising the remonstrances of his friend, the knight pricked forward to break a lance with a champion who advanced from the ranks, apparently in defiance. His companion beheld the Bohemian over-thrown horse and man, by his aërial adversary; and, returning to the spot next morning, he found the mangled, corpse of the knight and steed.--_Hierarchie of Blessed Angels,_ p. 554. [Footnote A: The unfortunate Chatterton was not, probably, acquainted with Gervase of Tilbury; yet he seems to allude, in the _Battle of Hastings_, to some modification of Sir Osbert's adventure: So who they be that ouphant fairies strike, Their souls shall wander to King Offa's dike. The entrenchment, which served as lists for the combatants, is said by Gervase to have been the work of the pagan invaders of Britain. In the metrical romance of _Arthour and Merlin_, we have also an account of Wandlesbury being occupied by the Sarasins, i.e. the Saxons; for all pagans were Saracens with the romancers. I presume the place to have been Wodnesbury, in Wiltshire, situated on the remarkable mound, called Wansdike, which is obviously a Saxon work.--GOUGH'S _Cambden's Britannia,_ pp. 87--95.] To the same current of warlike ideas, we may safely attribute the long train of military processions which the Fairies are supposed occasionally to exhibit. The elves, indeed, seem in this point to be identified with the aërial host, termed, during the middle ages, the _Milites Herlikini_, or _Herleurini_, celebrated by Pet. Blesensis, and termed, in the life of St Thomas of Canterbury, the _Familia Helliquinii_. The chief of this band was originally a gallant knight and warrior; but, having spent his whole possessions in the service of the emperor, and being rewarded with scorn, and abandoned to subordinate oppression, he became desperate, and, with his sons and followers, formed a band of robbers. After committing many ravages, and defeating all the forces sent against him, Hellequin, with his whole troop, fell in a bloody engagement with the Imperial host. His former good life was supposed to save him from utter reprobation; but he and his followers were condemned, after death, to a state of wandering, which should endure till the last day. Retaining their military habits, they were usually seen in the act of justing together, or in similar warlike employments. See the ancient French romance of _Richard sans Peur_. Similar to this was the _Nacht Lager_, or midnight camp, which seemed nightly to beleaguer the walls of Prague, "With ghastly faces thronged, and fiery arms," but which disappeared upon recitation of the magical words, _Vezelé, Vezelé, ho! ho! ho!_--For similar delusions, see DELRIUS, pp. 294, 295. The martial spirit of our ancestors led them to defy these aërial warriors; and it is still currently believed, that he, who has courage to rush upon a fairy festival, and snatch from them their drinking cup, or horn, shall find it prove to him a cornucopia of good fortune, if he can bear it in safety across a running stream. Such a horn is said to have been presented to Henry I. by a lord of Colchester.--GERVAS TILB. p. 980. A goblet is still carefully preserved in Edenhall, Cumberland, which is supposed to have been seized at a banquet of the elves, by one of the ancient family of Musgrave; or, as others say, by one of their domestics, in the manner above described. The Fairy train vanished, crying aloud, If this glass do break or fall, Farewell the luck of Edenhall! The goblet took a name from the prophecy, under which it is mentioned, in the burlesque ballad, commonly attributed to the duke of Wharton, but in reality composed by Lloyd, one of his jovial companions. The duke, after taking a draught, had nearly terminated the "luck of Edenhall," had not the butler caught the cup in a napkin, as it dropped from his grace's hands. I understand it is not now subjected to such risques, but the lees of wine are still apparent at the bottom. God prosper long, from being broke, The luck of Edenhall.--_Parody on Chevy Chace._ Some faint traces yet remain, on the borders, of a conflict of a mysterious and terrible nature, between mortals and the spirits of the wilds. This superstition is incidentally alluded to by Jackson, at the beginning of the 17th century. The fern seed, which is supposed to become visible only on St John's Eve,[A] and at the very moment when the Baptist was born, is held by the vulgar to be under the special protection of the queen of Faëry. But, as the seed was supposed to have the quality of rendering the possessor invisible at pleasure,[B] and to be also of sovereign use in charms and incantations, persons of courage, addicted to these mysterious arts, were wont to watch in solitude, to gather it at the moment when it should become visible. The particular charms, by which they fenced themselves during this vigil, are now unknown; but it was reckoned a feat of no small danger, as the person undertaking it was exposed to the most dreadful assaults from spirits, who dreaded the effect of this powerful herb in the hands of a cabalist. Such were the shades, which the original superstition, concerning the. Fairies, received from the chivalrous sentiments of the middle ages. [Footnote A: Ne'er be I found by thee unawed, On that thrice hallowed eve abroad, When goblins haunt, from fire and fen. And wood and lake, the steps of men. COLLINS'S _Ode to Fear._ The whole history of St John the Baptist was, by our ancestors, accounted mysterious, and connected with their own superstitions. The fairy queen was sometimes identified with Herodias.--DELRII _Disquisitiones Magicae,_ pp. 168. 807. It is amusing to observe with what gravity the learned Jesuit contends, that it is heresy to believe that this celebrated figurante (_saltatricula_) still leads choral dances upon earth!] [Footnote B: This is alluded to by Shakespeare, and other authors of his time: "We have the receipt of _fern-seed_; we walk invisible." _Henry IV. Part 1st, Act 2d, Sc. 3_.] IV. An absurd belief in the fables of classical antiquity lent an additional feature to the character of the woodland spirits of whom we treat. Greece and Rome had not only assigned tutelary deities to each province and city, but had peopled, with peculiar spirits, the Seas, the Rivers, the Woods, and the Mountains. The memory of the pagan creed was not speedily eradicated, in the extensive provinces through which it was once universally received; and, in many particulars, it continued long to mingle with, and influence, the original superstitions of the Gothic nations. Hence, we find the elves occasionally arrayed in the costume of Greece and Rome, and the Fairy Queen and her attendants transformed into Diana and her nymphs, and invested with their attributes and appropriate insignia.--DELRIUS, pp. 168, 807. According to the same author, the Fairy Queen was also called _Habundia_. Like Diana, who, in one capacity, was denominated _Hecate_, the goddess of enchantment, the Fairy Queen is identified in popular tradition, with the _Gyre-Carline, Gay Carline_, or mother witch, of the Scottish peasantry. Of this personage, as an individual, we have but few notices. She is sometimes termed _Nicneven_, and is mentioned in the _Complaynt of Scotland_, by Lindsay in his _Dreme_, p. 225, edit. 1590, and in his _Interludes_, apud PINKERTON'S _Scottish Poems_, Vol. II. p. 18. But the traditionary accounts regarding her are too obscure to admit of explanation. In the burlesque fragment subjoined, which is copied from the Bannatyne MS. the Gyre Carline is termed the _Queen of Jowis_ (Jovis, or perhaps Jews), and is, with great consistency, married to Mohammed.[A] [Footnote A: In Tyberius tyme, the trew imperatour, Quhen Tynto hills fra skraipiug of toun-henis was keipit, Thair dwelt are grit Gyre Carling in awld Betokis bour, That levit upoun Christiane menis flesche, and rewheids unleipit; Thair wynit ane hir by, on the west syde, callit Blasour, For luve of hir lanchane lippis, he walit and he weipit; He gadderit are menzie of modwartis to warp doun the tour: The Carling with are yren club, quhen yat Blasour sleipit, Behind the heil scho hat him sic ane blaw, Quhil Blasour bled ane quart Off milk pottage inwart, The Carling luche, and lut fart North Berwik Law. The king of fary than come, with elfis many ane, And sett are sege, and are salt, with grit pensallis of pryd; And all the doggis fra Dunbar wes thair to Dumblane, With all the tykis of Tervey, come to thame that tyd; Thay quelle doune with thair gonnes mony grit stane, The Carling schup hir on ane sow, and is her gaitis gane, Grunting our the Greik sie, and durst na langer byd, For bruklyng of bargane, and breikhig of browis: The Carling now for dispyte Is maieit with Mahomyte, And will the doggis interdyte, For scho is queue of Jowis. Sensyne the cockis of Crawmound crew nevir at day, For dule of that devillisch deme wes with Mahoun mareit, And the henis of Hadingtoun sensyne wald not lay, For this wild wibroun wich thame widlit sa and wareit; And the same North Berwik Law, as I heir wyvis say, This Carling, with a fals east, wald away careit; For to luck on quha sa lykis, na langer scho tareit: All this languor for love before tymes fell, Lang or Betok was born, Scho bred of ane accorne; The laif of the story to morne, To you I sall telle.] But chiefly in Italy were traced many dim characters of ancient mythology, in the creed of tradition. Thus, so lately as 1536, Vulcan, with twenty of his Cyclops, is stated to have presented himself suddenly to a Spanish merchant, travelling in the night, through the forests of Sicily; an apparition, which was followed by a dreadful eruption of Mount Aetna.--_Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels,_ p. 504 Of this singular mixture, the reader will find a curious specimen in the following tale, wherein the Venus of antiquity assumes the manners of one of the Fays, or Fatae, of romance. "In the year 1058, a young man of noble birth had been married at Rome, and, during the period of his nuptial feast, having gone with his companions to play at ball, he put his marriage ring on the finger of a broken statue of Venus in the area, to remain, while he was engaged in the recreation. Desisting from the exercise, he found the finger, on which he had put his ring, contracted firmly against the palm, and attempted in vain either to break it, or to disengage his ring. He concealed the circumstance from his companions, and returned at night with a servant, when he found the finger extended, and his ring gone. He dissembled the loss, and returned to his wife; but, whenever he attempted to embrace her, he found himself prevented by something dark and dense, which was tangible, though not visible, interposing between them; and he heard a voice saying, 'Embrace me! for I am Venus, whom this day you wedded, and I will not restore your ring.' As this was constantly repeated, he consulted his relations, who had recourse to Palumbus, a priest, skilled in necromancy. He directed the young man to go, at a certain hour of night, to a spot among the ruins of ancient Rome, where four roads met, and wait silently till he saw a company pass by, and then, without uttering a word, to deliver a letter, which he gave him, to a majestic being, who rode in a chariot, after the rest of the company. The young man did as he was directed; and saw a company of all ages, sexes, and ranks, on horse and on foot, some joyful and others sad, pass along; among whom he distinguished a woman in a meretricious dress, who, from the tenuity of her garments, seemed almost naked. She rode on a mule; her long hair, which flowed over her shoulders, was bound with a golden fillet; and in her hand was a golden rod, with which she directed her mule. In the close of the procession, a tall majestic figure appeared in a chariot, adorned with emeralds and pearls, who fiercely asked the young man, 'What he did there?' He presented the letter in silence, which the daemon dared not refuse. As soon as he had read, lifting up his hands to heaven, he exclaimed, 'Almighty God! how long wilt thou endure the iniquities of the sorcerer Palumbus!' and immediately dispatched some of his attendants, who, with much difficulty, extorted the ring from Venus, and restored it to its owner, whose infernal banns were thus dissolved."--FORDUNI _Scotichronicon,_ Vol. I. p. 407, _cura_ GOODALL. But it is rather in the classical character of an infernal deity, that the elfin queen may be considered, than as _Hecate_, the patroness of magic; for not only in the romance writers, but even in Chaucer, are the Fairies identified with the ancient inhabitants of the classical hell. Thus Chaucer, in his _Marchand's Tale_, mentions Pluto that is king of fayrie--and Proserpine and all her fayrie. In the _Golden Terge_ of Dunbar, the same phraseology is adopted: Thus, Thair was Pluto that elricke incubus In cloke of grene, his court usit in sable. Even so late as 1602, in Harsenet's _Declaration of Popish Imposture,_ p. 57, Mercury is called _Prince of the Fairies._ But Chaucer, and those poets who have adopted his phraseology, have only followed the romance writers; for the same substitution occurs in the romance of _Orfeo and Heurodis_, in which the story of Orpheus and Eurydice is transformed into a beautiful romantic tale of faëry, and the Gothic mythology engrafted on the fables of Greece. _Heurodis_ is represented as wife of _Orfeo_, and queen of Winchester, the ancient name of which city the romancer, with unparalleled ingenuity, discovers to have been Traciens, or Thrace. The monarch, her husband, had a singular genealogy: His fader was comen of King Pluto, And his moder of King Juno; That sum time were as godes y-holde, For aventours that thai dede and tolde. Reposing, unwarily, at noon, under the shade of an ymp tree,[A] _Heurodis_ dreams that she is accosted by the King of Fairies, With an hundred knights and mo, And damisels an hundred also, Al on snowe white stedes; As white as milke were her wedes; Y no seigh never yete bifore, So fair creatours y-core: The kinge hadde a croun on hed, It nas of silver, no of golde red, Ac it was of a precious ston: As bright as the sonne it schon. [Footnote A: _Ymp tree_--According to the general acceptation, this only signifies a grafted tree; whether it should he here understood to mean a tree consecrated to the imps, or fairies, is left with the reader.] The King of Fairies, who had obtained power over the queen, perhaps from her sleeping at noon in his domain, orders her, under the penalty of being torn to pieces, to await him to-morrow under the ymp tree, and accompany him to Fairy-Land. She relates her dream to her husband, who resolves to accompany her, and attempt her rescue: A morwe the under tide is come, And Orfeo hath his armes y-nome, And wele ten hundred knights with him, Ich y-armed stout and grim; And with the quen wenten he, Right upon that ympe tre. Thai made scheltrom in iche aside, And sayd thai wold there abide, And dye ther everichon, Er the qeun schuld fram hem gon: Ac yete amiddes hem ful right, The quen was oway y-twight, With Fairi forth y-nome, Men wizt never wher sche was become. After this fatal catastrophe, _Orfeo_, distracted for the loss of his queen, abandons his throne, and, with his harp, retires into a wilderness, where he subjects himself to every kind of austerity, and attracts the wild beasts by the pathetic melody of his harp. His state of desolation is poetically described: He that werd the fowe and griis, And on bed the purpur biis, Now on bard hethe he lith. With leves and gresse he him writh: He that had castells and tours, Rivers, forests, frith with flowrs. Now thei it commence to snewe and freze, This king mot make his bed in mese: He that had y-had knightes of priis, Bifore him kneland and leuedis, Now seth he no thing that him liketh, Bot wild wormes bi him striketh: He that had y-had plente Of mete and drinke, of ich deynte, Now may he al daye digge and wrote, Er he find his fille of rote. In sorner he liveth bi wild fruit, And verien hot gode lite. In winter may he no thing find, Bot rotes, grases, and the rinde. * * * * * His here of his herd blac and rowe, To his girdel stede was growe; His harp, whereon was al his gle, He hidde in are holwe tre: And, when the weder was clere and bright, He toke his harpe to him wel right, And harped at his owen will, Into al the wode the soun gan shill, That al the wild bestes that ther beth For joie abouten him thai teth; And al the foules that ther wer, Come and sete on ich a brere, To here his harping a fine, So miche melody was therein. At last he discovers, that he is not the sole inhabitant of this desart; for He might se him besides Oft in hot undertides, The king of Fairi, with his route, Come to hunt him al about, With dim cri and bloweing, And houndes also with him berking; Ac no best thai no nome, No never he nist whider thai bi come. And other while he might hem se As a gret ost bi him te, Well atourued ten hundred knightes, Ich y-armed to his rightes, Of cuntenance stout and fers, With mani desplaid baners; And ich his sword y-drawe hold, Ac never he nist whider thai wold. And otherwhile he seighe other thing; Knightis and lenedis com daunceing, In queynt atire gisely, Queyete pas and softlie: Tabours and trumpes gede hem bi, And al mauer menstraci.-- And on a day he seighe him biside, Sexti leuedis on hors ride, Gentil and jolif as brid on ris; Nought o man amonges hem ther nis; And ich a faucoun on bond bere, And riden on hauken bi o river. Of game thai found wel gode haunt, Maulardes, hayroun, and cormoraunt; The foules of the water ariseth, Ich faucoun hem wele deviseth, Ich fancoun his pray slough, That seize Orfeo and lough. "Par fay," quoth he, "there is fair game, "Hider Ichil bi Godes name, "Ich was y won swich work to se:" He aros, and thider gan te; To a leuedie hi was y-come, Bihelde, and hath wel under nome, And seth, bi al thing, that is His owen quen, dam Heurodis; Gern hi biheld her, and sche him eke, Ac nouther to other a word no speke: For messais that sche on him seighe, That had ben so riche and so heighe, The teres fel out of her eighe; The other leuedis this y seighe, And maked hir oway to ride, Sche most with him no longer obide. "Allas!" quoth he, "nowe is mi woe, "Whi nil deth now me slo; "Allas! to long last mi liif, "When y no dare nought with mi wif, "Nor hye to me o word speke; "Allas whi nil miin hert breke! "Par fay," quoth he, "tide what betide, "Whider so this leuedis ride, "The selve way Ichil streche; "Of liif, no dethe, me no reche. In consequence, therefore, of this discovery _Orfeo_ pursues the hawking damsels, among whom he has descried his lost queen. They enter a rock, the king continues the pursuit, and arrives at Fairy-Land, of which the following very poetical description is given: In at roche the leuedis rideth, And he after and nought abideth; When he was in the roche y-go, Wele thre mile other mo, He com into a fair cuntray, As bright soonne somers day, Smothe and plain and al grene, Hill no dale nas none ysene, Amiddle the loud a castel he seighe, Rich and reale and wonder heighe; Al the utmast wal Was cler and schine of cristal; An hundred tours ther were about, Degiselich and bataild stout; The butrass come out of the diche, Of rede gold y-arched riche; The bousour was anowed al, Of ich maner deuers animal; Within ther wer wide wones Al of precious stones, The werss piler onto biholde, Was al of burnist gold: Al that loud was ever light, For when it schuld be therk and night, The riche stonnes light gonne, Bright as doth at nonne the sonne No man may tel, no thenke in thought. The riche werk that ther was rought. * * * * * Than he gan biholde about al, And seighe ful liggeand with in the wal, Of folk that wer thidder y-brought, And thought dede and nere nought; Sum stode with outen hadde; And some none armes nade; And sum thurch the bodi hadde wounde; And sum lay wode y-bounde; And sum armed on hors sete; And sum astrangled as thai ete; And sum war in water adreynt; And sum with fire al for schreynt; Wives ther lay on childe bedde; Sum dede, and sum awedde; And wonder fere ther lay besides, Right as thai slepe her undertides; Eche was thus in this warld y-nome, With fairi thider y-come.[A] There he seize his owhen wiif, Dame Heurodis, his liif liif, Slepe under an ympe tree: Bi her clothes he knewe that it was he, And when he had bihold this mervalis alle, He went into the kinges halle; Then seigh he there a semly sight, A tabernacle blisseful and bright; Ther in her maister king sete, And her quen fair and swete; Her crounes, her clothes schine so bright, That unnethe bihold he hem might. _Orfeo and Heurodis, MS._ [Footnote A: It was perhaps from such a description that Ariosto adopted his idea of the Lunar Paradise, containing every thing that on earth was stolen or lost.] _Orfeo_, as a minstrel, so charms the Fairy King with the music of his harp, that he promises to grant him whatever he should ask. He immediately demands his lost _Heurodis_; and, returning safely with her to Winchester, resumes his authority; a catastrophe, less pathetic indeed, but more pleasing, than that of the classical story. The circumstances, mentioned in this romantic legend, correspond very exactly with popular tradition. Almost all the writers on daemonology mention, as a received opinion that the power of the daemons is most predominant at noon and midnight. The entrance to the Land of Faëry is placed in the wilderness; a circumstance, which coincides with a passage in Lindsay's _Complaint of the Papingo:_ Bot sen my spreit mon from my bodye go, I recommend it to the queue of Fary, Eternally into her court to tarry In _wilderness_ amang the holtis hair. LINDSAY'S _Works_, 1592, p. 222. Chaucer also agrees, in this particular, with our romancer: In his sadel he clombe anon, And priked over stile and ston, An elf quene for to espie; Til he so long had riden and gone That he fond in a privie wone The countree of Faërie. Wherein he soughte north and south, And often spired with his mouth, In many a foreste wilde; For in that countree nas ther non, That to him dorst ride or gon, Neither wif ne childe. _Rime of Sir Thopas._ V. Other two causes, deeply affecting the superstition of which we treat, remain yet to be noticed. The first is derived from the Christian religion, which admits only of two classes of spirits, exclusive of the souls of men--Angels, namely, and Devils. This doctrine had a necessary tendency to abolish the distinction among subordinate spirits, which had been introduced by the superstitions of the Scandinavians. The existence of the Fairies was readily admitted; but, as they had no pretensions to the angelic character, they were deemed to be of infernal origin. The union, also, which had been formed betwixt the elves and the Pagan deities, was probably of disservice to the former; since every one knows, that the whole synod of Olympus were accounted daemons. The fulminations of the church were, therefore, early directed against those, who consulted or consorted with the Fairies; and, according to the inquisitorial logic, the innocuous choristers of Oberon and Titania were, without remorse, confounded with the sable inhabitants of the orthodox Gehennim; while the rings, which marked their revels, were assimilated to the blasted sward on which the witches held their infernal sabbath.--_Delrii Disq. Mag._ p. 179. This transformation early took place; for, among the many crimes for which the famous Joan of Arc was called upon to answer, it was not the least heinous, that she had frequented the Tree and Fountain, near Dompré, which formed the rendezvous of the Fairies, and bore their name; that she had joined in the festive dance with the elves, who haunted this charmed spot; had accepted of their magical bouquets, and availed herself of their talismans, for the delivery of her country.--_Vide Acta Judiciaria contra Johannam D'Arceam, vulgo vocutam Johanne la Pucelle._ The Reformation swept away many of the corruptions of the church of Rome; but the purifying torrent remained itself somewhat tinctured by the superstitious impurities of the soil over which it had passed. The trials of sorcerers and witches, which disgrace our criminal records, become even more frequent after the Reformation of the church; as if human credulity, no longer amused by the miracles of Rome, had sought for food in the traditionary records of popular superstition. A Judaical observation of the precepts of the Old Testament also characterized the Presbyterian reformers. _"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,"_ was a text, which at once (as they conceived) authorized their belief in sorcery, and sanctioned the penalty which they denounced against it. The Fairies were, therefore, in no better credit after the Reformation than before, being still regarded as actual daemons, or something very little better. A famous divine, Doctor Jasper Brokeman, teaches us, in his system of divinity, "that they inhabit in those places that are polluted with any crying sin, as effusion of blood, or where unbelief or superstitione have gotten the upper hand."--_Description of Feroe._ The Fairies being on such bad terms with the divines, those, who pretended to intercourse with them, were, without scruple, punished as sorcerers; and such absurd charges are frequently stated as exaggerations of crimes, in themselves sufficiently heinous. Such is the case in the trial of the noted Major Weir, and his sister; where the following mummery interlards a criminal indictment, too infamously flagitious to be farther detailed: "9th April, 1670. Jean Weir, indicted of sorceries, committed by her when she lived and kept a school at Dalkeith: that she took employment from a woman, to speak in her behalf to the _Queen of Fairii, meaning the Devil_; and that another woman gave her a piece of a tree, or root, the next day, and did tell her, that as long as she kept the same, she should be able to do what she pleased; and that same woman, from whom she got the tree, caused her spread a cloth before her door, and set her foot upon it, and to repeat thrice, in the posture foresaid, these words, _'All her losses and crosses go alongst to the doors,'_ which was truly a consulting with the devil, and an act of sorcery, &c. That after the spirit, in the shape of a woman, who gave her the piece of tree, had removed, she, addressing herself to spinning, and having spun but a short time, found more yarn upon the pirn than could possibly have come there by good means."[A]--_Books of Adjournal._ [Footnote A: It is observed in the record, that Major Weir, a man of the most vicious character, was at the same time ambitious of appearing eminently godly; and used to frequent the beds of sick persons, to assist them with his prayers. On such occasions, he put to his mouth a long staff, which he usually carried, and expressed himself with uncommon energy and fluency, of which he was utterly incapable when the inspiring rod was withdrawn. This circumstance, the result, probably, of a trick or habit, appearing suspicious to the judges, the staff of the sorcerer was burned along with his person. One hundred and thirty years have elapsed since his execution, yet no one has, during that space, ventured to inhabit the house of this celebrated criminal.] Neither was the judgment of the criminal court of Scotland less severe against another familiar of the Fairies, whose supposed correspondence with the court of Elfland seems to have constituted the sole crime, for which she was burned alive. Her name was Alison Pearson, and she seems to have been a very noted person. In a bitter satire against Adamson, Bishop of St Andrews, he is accused of consulting with sorcerers, particularly with this very woman; and an account is given of her travelling through Breadalbane, in the company of the Queen of Faëry, and of her descrying, in the court of Elfland, many persons, who had been supposed at rest in the peaceful grave.[A] Among these we find two remarkable personages; the secretary, young Maitland of Lethington, and one of the old lairds of Buccleuch. The cause of their being stationed in Elfland probably arose from the manner of their decease; which, being uncommon and violent, caused the vulgar to suppose that they had been abstracted by the Fairies. Lethington, as is generally supposed, died a Roman death during his imprisonment in Leith; and the Buccleuch, whom I believe to be here meant, was slain in a nocturnal scuffle by the Kerrs, his hereditary enemies. Besides, they were both attached to the cause of Queen Mary, and to the ancient religion; and were thence, probably, considered as more immediately obnoxious to the assaults of the powers of darkness.[B] The indictment of Alison Pearson notices her intercourse with the Archbishop of St Andrews, and contains some particulars, worthy of notice, regarding the court of Elfland. It runs thus: "28th May, 1586. Alison Pearson, in Byrehill, convicted of witchcraft, and of consulting with evil spirits, in the form of one Mr William Simpsone, her cosin, who she affirmed was a gritt schollar, and doctor of medicine, that healed her of her diseases when she was twelve years of age; having lost the power of her syde, and having a familiaritie with him for divers years, dealing with charms, and abuseing the common people by her arts of witchcraft, thir divers years by-past. [Footnote A: For oght the kirk culd him forbid, He sped him sone, and gat the thrid; Ane carling of the quene of Phareis, That ewill win geir to elpliyne careis; Through all Brade Abane scho has bene, On horsbak on Hallow ewin; And ay in seiking certayne nightis, As scho sayis with sur silly wychirs: And names out nybours sex or sewin, That we belevit had bene in heawin; Scho said scho saw theme weill aneugh, And speciallie gude auld Balcleuch, The secretar, and sundrie uther: Ane William Symsone, her mother brother, Whom fra scho has resavit a buike For ony herb scho likes to luke; It will instruct her how to tak it, In saws and sillubs how to mak it; With stones that meikle mair can doe, In leich craft, where scho lays them toe: A thousand maladeis scho hes mendit; Now being tane, and apprehendit, Scho being in the bischopis cure, And keipit in his castle sure, Without respect of worldlie glamer, He past into the witches chalmer. _Scottish Poems of XVI. Century,_ Edin. 1801, Vol. II, p. 320.] [Footnote B: Buccleuch was a violent enemy to the English, by whom his lands had been repeatedly plundered (See _Introduction,_ p. xxvi), and a great advocate for the marriage betwixt Mary and the dauphin, 1549. According to John Knox, he had recourse even to threats, in urging the parliament to agree to the French match. "The laird of Buccleuch," says the Reformer, "a bloody man, with many Gods wounds, swore, they that would not consent should do worse."] "_Item,_ For banting and repairing with the gude neighbours, and queene of Elfland, thir divers years by-past, as she had confest; and that she had friends in that court, which were of her own blude, who had gude acquaintance of the queene of Elfland, which might have helped her; but she was whiles well, and whiles ill, sometimes with them, a'nd other times away frae them; and that she would be in her bed haille and feire, and would not wytt where she would be the morn; and that she saw not the queene this seven years, and that she was seven years ill handled in the court of Elfland; that, however, she kad gude friends there, and that it was the gude neighbours that healed her, under God; and that she was comeing and going to St Andrews to haile folkes thir many years past. "_Item,_ Convict of the said act of witchcraft, in as far as she confest that the said Mr William Sympsoune, who was her guidsir sone, born in Stirleing, who was the king's smith, who, when about eight years of age, was taken away by ane Egyptian to Egypt; which Egyptian was a gyant, where he remained twelve years, "and then came home. "_Item,_ That she being in Grange Muir, with some other folke, she, being sick, lay downe; and, when alone, there came a man to her, clad in green, who said to her, if she would be faithful, he would do her good; but she, being feared, cried out, but naebodye came to her; so she said, if he came in God's name, and for the gude of her saule, it was well; but he gaid away: that he appeared to her another tyme like a lustie man, and many men and women with him; that, at seeing him, she signed herself and prayed, and past with them, and saw them making merrie with pypes, and gude cheir and wine, and that she was carried with them; and that when she telled any of these things, she was sairlie tormentit by them; and that the first time she gaed with them, she gat a sair straike frae one of them, which took all the _poustie_[A] of her syde frae her, and left ane ill-far'd mark on her syde. "_Item,_ That she saw the gude neighbours make their sawes[B] with panns and fyres, and that they gathered the herbs before the sun was up, and they came verie fearful sometimes to her, and flaide[C] her very sair, which made her cry, and threatened they would use her worse than before; and, at last, they took away the power of her haile syde frae her, which made her lye many weeks. Sometimes they would come and sitt by her, and promise all that she should never want if she would be faithful, but if she would speak and telle of them, they should murther her; and that Mr William Sympsoune is with them, who healed her, and telt her all things; that he is a young man not six years older than herself, and that he will appear to her before the court comes; that he told her he was taken away by them, and he bidd her sign herself that she be not taken away, for the teind of them are tane to hell everie year. [Footnote A: _Poustie_--Power.] [Footnote B: _Sawes_--Salves.] [Footnote C: _Flaide_--Scared.] "_Item,_ That the said Mr William told her what herbs were fit to cure every disease, and how to use them; and particularlie tauld, that the Bishop of St Andrews laboured under sindrie diseases, sic as the riples, trembling, feaver, flux, &c. and bade her make a sawe, and anoint several parts of his body therewith, and gave directions for making a posset, which she made and gave him." For this idle story the poor woman actually suffered death. Yet, notwithstanding the fervent arguments thus liberally used by the orthodox, the common people, though they dreaded even to think or speak about the Fairies, by no means unanimously acquiesced in the doctrine, which consigned them to eternal perdition. The inhabitants of the Isle of Man call them the "_good people_, and say they live in wilds, and forests, and on mountains, and shun great cities, because of the wickedness acted therein: all the houses are blessed where they visit, for they fly vice. A person would be thought impudently prophane who should suffer his family to go to bed, without having first set a tub, or pail, full of clean water, for those guests to bathe themselves in, which the natives aver they constantly do, as soon as ever the eyes of the family are closed, wherever they vouchsafe to come."--WALDREN's _Works_, p. 126. There are some curious, and perhaps anomalous facts, concerning the history of Fairies, in a sort of Cock-lane narrative, contained in a letter from Moses Pitt, to Dr Edward Fowler, Lord Bishop of Gloucester, printed at London in 1696, and preserved in Morgan's _Phoenix Britannicus,_ 4to, London 1732. Anne Jefferies was born in the parish of St Teath, in the county of Cornwall, in 1626. Being the daughter of a poor man, she resided as servant in the house of the narrator's father, and waited upon the narrator himself, in his childhood. As she was knitting stockings in an arbour of the garden, "six small people, all in green clothes," came suddenly over the garden wall; at the sight of whom, being much frightened, she was seized with convulsions, and continued so long sick, that she became as a changeling, and was unable to walk. During her sickness, she frequently exclaimed, "They are just gone out of the window! they are just gone out of the window! do you not see them?" These expressions, as she afterwards declared, related to their disappearing. During the harvest, when every one was employed, her mistress walked out; and dreading that Anne, who was extremely weak and silly, might injure herself, or the house, by the fire, with some difficulty persuaded her to walk in the orchard till her return. She accidentally hurt her leg, and, at her return, Anne cured it, by stroking it with her hand. She appeared to be informed of every particular, and asserted, that she had this information from the Fairies, who had caused the misfortune. After this, she performed numerous cures, but would never receive money for them. From harvest time to Christmas, she was fed by the Fairies, and eat no other victuals but theirs. The narrator affirms, that, looking one day through the key-hole of the door of her chamber, he saw her eating; and that she gave him a piece of bread, which was the most delicious he ever tasted. The Fairies always appeared to her in even numbers; never less than two, nor more than eight, at a time. She had always a sufficient stock of salves and medicines, and yet neither made, nor purchased any; nor did she ever appear to be in want of money. She, one day, gave a silver cup, containing about a quart, to the daughter of her mistress, a girl about four years old, to carry to her mother, who refused to receive it. The narrator adds, that he had seen her dancing in the orchard among the trees, and that she informed him she was then dancing with the Fairies. The report of the strange cures which she performed, soon attracted the attention of both ministers and magistrates. The ministers endeavoured to persuade her, that the Fairies by which she was haunted, were evil spirits, and that she was under the delusion of the devil. After they had left her, she was visited by the Fairies, while in great perplexity; who desired her to cause those, who termed them evil spirits, to read that place of scripture, _First Epistle of John,_, chap. iv. v. 1,--_Dearly beloved, believe not every spirit, but try the spirits, whether they are of God,_ &c. Though Anne Jefferies could not read, she produced a Bible folded down at this passage. By the magistrates she was confined three months, without food, in Bodmin jail, and afterwards for some time in the house of Justice Tregeagle. Before the constable appeared to apprehend her, she was visited by the Fairies, who informed her what was intended, and advised her to go with him. When this account was given, on May 1, 1696, she was still alive; but refused to relate any particulars of her connection with the Fairies, or the occasion on which they deserted her, lest she should again fall under the cognizance of the magistrates. Anne Jefferies' Fairies were not altogether singular in maintaining their good character, in opposition to the received opinion of the church. Aubrey and Lily, unquestionably judges in such matters, had a high opinion of these beings, if we may judge from the following succinct and business-like memorandum of a ghost-seer. "Anno 1670. Not far from Cirencester was an apparition. Being demanded whether a good spirit or a bad, returned no answer, but disappeared with a curious perfume, and most melodious twang. M.W. Lilly believes it was a Fairie. So Propertius, Omnia finierat; tenues secessit in auras, Mansit odor possis scire fuisse Deam!" AUBREY'S _Miscellanies,_ p. 80. A rustic, also, whom Jackson taxed with magical practices, about 1620, obstinately denied that the good King of the Fairies had any connection with the devil; and some of the Highland seers, even in our day, have boasted of their intimacy with the elves, as an innocent and advantageous connection. One Maccoan, in Appin, the last person eminently gifted with the second sight, professed to my learned and excellent friend, Mr Ramsay, of Ochtertyre, that he owed his prophetic visions to their intervention. VI. There remains yet another cause to be noticed, which seems to have induced a considerable alteration into the popular creed of England, respecting Fairies. Many poets of the sixteenth century, and, above all, our immortal Shakespeare, deserting the hackneyed fictions of Greece and Rome, sought for machinery in the superstitions of their native country. "The fays, which nightly dance upon the wold," were an interesting subject; and the creative imagination of the bard, improving upon the vulgar belief, assigned to them many of those fanciful attributes and occupations, which posterity have since associated with the name of Fairy. In such employments, as rearing the drooping flower, and arranging the disordered chamber, the Fairies of South Britain gradually lost the harsher character of the dwarfs, or elves. Their choral dances were enlivened by the introduction of the merry goblin _Puck_,[A] for whose freakish pranks they exchanged their original mischievous propensities. The Fairies of Shakespeare, Drayton, and Mennis, therefore, at first exquisite fancy portraits, may be considered as having finally operated a change in the original which gave them birth.[B] [Footnote A: Robin Goodfellow, or Hobgoblin, possesses the frolicksome qualities of the French _Lutin_. For his full character, the reader is referred to the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_. The proper livery of this sylvan Momus is to be found in an old play. "Enter Robin Goodfellow, in a suit of leather, close to his body, his hands and face coloured russet colour, with a flail."--_Grim, the Collier of Croydon, Act 4, Scene 1._ At other times, however, he is presented in the vernal livery of the elves, his associates: _Tim._ "I have made "Some speeches, sir, ill verse, which have been spoke "By a _green Robin Goodfellow_, from Cheapside conduit, "To my father's company." _The City Match, Act I, Scene 6._] [Footnote B: The Fairy land, and Fairies of Spenser, have no connection with popular superstition, being only words used to denote an Utopian scene of action, and imaginary or allegorical characters; and the title of the "Fairy Queen" being probably suggested by the elfin mistress of Chaucer's _Sir Thopas_. The stealing of the Red Cross Knight, while a child, is the only incident in the poem which approaches to the popular character of the Fairy: --A Fairy thee unweeting reft; There as thou sleptst in tender swadling band, And her base elfin brood there for thee left: Such men do changelings call, so chang'd by Fairies theft. _Book I. Canto_ 10.] While the fays of South Britain received such attractive and poetical embellishments, those of Scotland, who possessed no such advantage, retained more of their ancient, and appropriate character. Perhaps, also, the persecution which these sylvan deities underwent, at the instance of the stricter presbyterian clergy, had its usual effect, in hardening their dispositions, or at least in rendering them more dreaded by those among whom they dwelt. The face of the country, too, might have some effect; as we should naturally attribute a less malicious disposition, and a less frightful appearance, to the fays who glide by moon-light through the oaks of Windsor, than to those who haunt the solitary heaths and lofty mountains of the North. The fact at least is certain; and it has not escaped a late ingenious traveller, that the character of the Scottish Fairy is more harsh and terrific than that which is ascribed to the elves of our sister kingdom.--See STODDART'S _View of Scenery and Manners in Scotland._ The Fairies of Scotland are represented as a diminutive race of beings, of a mixed, or rather dubious nature, capricious in their dispositions, and mischievous in their resentment. They inhabit the interior of green hills, chiefly those of a conical form, in Gaelic termed _Sighan_, on which they lead their dances by moon-light; impressing upon the surface the mark of circles, which sometimes appear yellow and blasted, sometimes of a deep green hue; and within which it is dangerous to sleep, or to be found after sun-set. The removal of those large portions of turf, which thunderbolts sometimes scoop out of the ground with singular regularity, is also ascribed to their agency. Cattle, which are suddenly seized with the cramp, or some similar disorder, are said to be _elf-shot_; and the approved cure is, to chafe the parts affected with a blue bonnet, which, it may be readily believed, often restores the circulation. The triangular flints, frequently found in Scotland, with which the ancient inhabitants probably barbed their shafts, are supposed to be the weapons of Fairy resentment, and are termed _elf-arrow heads_. The rude brazen battle-axes of the ancients, commonly called _celts_, are also ascribed to their manufacture. But, like the Gothic duergar, their skill is not confined to the fabrication of arms; for they are heard sedulously hammering in linns, precipices, and rocky or cavernous situations where, like the dwarfs of the mines, mentioned by Georg. Agricola, they busy themselves in imitating the actions and the various employments of men. The brook of Beaumont, for example, which passes, in its course, by numerous linns and caverns, is notorious for being haunted by the Fairies; and the perforated and rounded stones, which are formed by trituration in its channel, are termed, by the vulgar, fairy cups and dishes. A beautiful reason is assigned, by Fletcher, for the fays frequenting streams and fountains. He tells us of A virtuous well, about whose flowery banks The nimble-footed Fairies dance their rounds, By the pale moon-shine, dipping oftentimes Their stolen children, so to make them free From dying flesh, and dull mortality. _Faithful Shepherdess._ It is sometimes accounted unlucky to pass such places, without performing some ceremony to avert the displeasure of the elves. There is, upon the top of Minchmuir, a mountain in Peebles-shire, a spring, called the _Cheese Well_, because, anciently, those who passed that way were wont to throw into it a piece of cheese, as an offering to the Fairies, to whom it was consecrated. Like the _feld elfen_ of the Saxons, the usual dress of the Fairies is green; though, on the moors, they have been sometimes observed in heath-brown, or in weeds dyed with the stoneraw, or lichen.[A] They often ride in invisible procession, when their presence is discovered by the shrill ringing of their bridles. On these occasions, they sometimes borrow mortal steeds; and when such are found at morning, panting and fatigued in their stalls, with their manes and tails dishevelled and entangled, the grooms, I presume, often find this a convenient excuse for their situation; as the common belief of the elves quaffing the choicest liquors in the cellars of the rich (see the story of Lord Duffus below), might occasionally cloak the delinquencies of an unfaithful butler. [Footnote A: Hence the hero of the ballad is termed an "elfin grey."] The Fairies, beside their equestrian processions, are addicted it would seem, to the pleasures of the chace. A young sailor, travelling by night from Douglas, in the Isle of Man, to visit his sister, residing in Kirk Merlugh, heard the noise of horses, the holla of a huntsman, and the sound of a horn. Immediately afterwards, thirteen horsemen, dressed in green, and gallantly mounted, swept past him. Jack was so much delighted with the sport, that he followed them, and enjoyed the sound of the horn for some miles; and it was not till he arrived at his sister's house that he learned the danger which he had incurred. I must not omit to mention, that these little personages are expert jockeys, and scorn to ride the little Manks ponies, though apparently well suited to their size. The exercise therefore, falls heavily upon the English and Irish horses brought into the Isle of Man. Mr Waldron was assured by a gentleman of Ballafletcher, that he had lost three or four capital hunters by these nocturnal excursions.--WALDRON'S _Works_, p. 132. From the same author we learn, that the Fairies sometimes take more legitimate modes of procuring horses. A person of the utmost integrity informed him, that, having occasion to sell a horse, he was accosted among the mountains by a little gentleman plainly dressed, who priced his horse, cheapened him, and, after some chaffering, finally purchased him. No sooner had the buyer mounted, and paid the price, than, he sunk through the earth, horse and man, to the astonishment and terror of the seller; who experienced, however, no inconvenience from dealing with so extraordinary a purchaser.--_Ibid._ p. 135. It is hoped the reader will receive, with due respect, these, and similar stories, told by Mr Waldron; for he himself, a scholar and a gentleman, informs us, "as to circles in grass, and the impression of small feet among the snow, I cannot deny but I have seen them frequently, and once thought I heard a whistle, as though in my ear, when nobody that could make it was near me." In this passage there is a curious picture of the contagious effects of a superstitious atmosphere. Waldron had lived so long among the Manks, that he was almost persuaded to believe their legends. From the _History of the Irish Bards_, by Mr Walker, and from the glossary subjoined to the lively and ingenious _Tale of Castle Rackrent_, we learn, that the same ideas, concerning Fairies, are current among the vulgar in that country. The latter authority mentions their inhabiting the ancient tumuli, called _Barrows_, and their abstracting mortals. They are termed "the good people;" and when an eddy of wind raises loose dust and sand, the vulgar believe that it announces a Fairy procession, and bid God speed their journey. The Scottish Fairies, in like manner, sometimes reside in subterranean abodes, in the vicinity of human habitations or, according to the popular phrase, under the "door-stane," or threshold; in which situation, they sometimes establish an intercourse with men, by borrowing and lending, and other kindly offices. In this capacity they are termed "the good neighbours,"[A] from supplying privately the wants of their friends, and assisting them in all their transactions, while their favours are concealed. Of this the traditionary story of Sir Godfrey Macculloch forms a curious example. [Footnote A: Perhaps this epithet is only one example, among many, of the extreme civility which the vulgar in Scotland use towards spirits of a, dubious, or even a determinedly mischievous, nature. The archfiend himself is often distinguished by the softened title of the "good-man." This epithet, so applied, must sound strange to a southern ear; but, as the phrase bears various interpretations, according to the places where it is used, so, in the Scottish dialect, the _good-man of such a place_ signifies the tenant, or life-renter, in opposition to the laird, or proprietor. Hence, the devil is termed the good-man, or tenant, of the infernal regions. In the book of the Universal Kirk, 13th May, 1594, mention is made of "the horrible superstitioune usit in Garioch, and dyvers parts of the countrie, in not labouring a parcel of ground dedicated to the devil, under the title of the _Guid-man's Croft_." Lord Hailes conjectured this to have been the _tenenos_ adjoining to some ancient Pagan temple. The unavowed, but obvious, purpose of this practice, was to avert the destructive rage of Satan from the neighbouring possessions. It required various fulminations of the General Assembly of the Kirk to abolish a practice bordering so nearly upon the doctrine of the Magi.] As this Gallovidian gentleman was taking the air on horseback, near his own house, he was suddenly accosted by a little old man, arrayed in green, and mounted upon a white palfrey. After mutual salutation, the old man gave Sir Godfrey to understand, that he resided under his habitation, and that he had great reason to complain of the direction of a drain, or common sewer, which emptied itself directly into his chamber of dais, [A] Sir Godfrey Macculloch was a good deal startled at this extraordinary complaint; but, guessing the nature of the being he had to deal with, he assured the old man, with great courtesy, that the direction of the drain should be altered; and caused it be done accordingly. Many years afterwards, Sir Godfrey had the misfortune to kill, in a fray, a gentleman of the neighbourhood. He was apprehended, tried, and condemned.[B] The scaffold, upon which his head was to be struck off, was erected on the Castle-hill of Edinburgh; but hardly had he reached the fatal spot, when the old man, upon his white palfrey, pressed through the crowd, with the rapidity of lightning. Sir Godfrey, at his command, sprung on behind him; the "good neighbour" spurred his horse down the steep bank, and neither he nor the criminal were ever again seen. [Footnote A: The best chamber was thus currently denominated in Scotland, from the French _dais_, signifying that part of the ancient halls which was elevated above the rest, and covered with a canopy. The turf-seats, which occupy the sunny side of a cottage wall, is also termed the _dais_.] [Footnote B: In this particular, tradition coincides with the real fact; the trial took place in 1697.] The most formidable attribute of the elves, was their practice of carrying away, and exchanging, children; and that of stealing human souls from their bodies. "A persuasion prevails among the ignorant," says the author of a MS. history of Moray, "that, in a consumptive disease, the Fairies steal away the soul, and put the soul of a Fairy in the room of it." This belief prevails chiefly along the eastern coast of Scotland, where a practice, apparently of druidical origin, is used to avert the danger. In the increase of the March moon, withies of oak and ivy are cut, and twisted into wreaths or circles, which they preserve till next March. After that period, when persons are consumptive, or children hectic, they cause them to pass thrice through these circles. In other cases the cure was more rough, and at least as dangerous as the disease, as will appear from the following extract: "There is one thing remarkable in this parish of Suddie (in Inverness-shire), which I think proper to mention. There is a small hill N.W. from the church, commonly called Therdy Hill, or Hill of Therdie, as some term it; on the top of which there is a well, which I had the curiosity to view, because of the several reports concerning it. When children happen to be sick, and languish long in their malady, so that they almost turned skeletons, the common people imagine they are taken away (at least the substance) by spirits, called Fairies, and the shadow left with them; so, at a particular season in summer, they leave them all night themselves, watching at a distance, near this well, and this they imagine will either _end or mend them_; they say many more do recover than do not. Yea, an honest tenant who lives hard by it, and whom I had the curiosity to discourse about it, told me it has recovered some, who were about eight or nine years of age, and to his certain knowledge they bring adult persons to it; for, as he was passing one dark night, he heard groanings, and coming to the well, he found a man, who had been long sick, wrapped in a plaid, so that he could scarcely move, a stake being fixed in the earth, with a rope, or tedder, that was about the plaid; he had no sooner enquired what he was, but he conjured him to loose him, and out of sympathy he was pleased to slacken that, wherein he was, as I may so speak, swaddled; but, if I right remember, he signified, he did not recover."--_Account of the Parish of Suddie,_ apud _Macfarlane's MSS._ According to the earlier doctrine, concerning the original corruption of human nature, the power of daemons over infants had been long reckoned considerable, in the period intervening between birth and baptism. During this period, therefore, children were believed to be particularly liable to abstraction by the Fairies, and mothers chiefly dreaded the substitution of changelings in the place of their own offspring. Various monstrous charms existed in Scotland, for procuring the restoration of a child, which had been thus stolen; but the most efficacious of them was supposed to be, the roasting of the suppositious child upon the live embers, when it was believed it would vanish, and the true child appear in the place, whence it had been originally abstracted.[A] [Footnote A: Less perilous recipes were sometimes used. The editor is possessed of a small relique, termed by tradition a toad-stone, the influence of which was supposed to preserve pregnant women from the power of daemons, and other dangers incidental to their situation. It has been carefully preserved for several generations, was often pledged for considerable sums of money, and uniformly redeemed, from a belief in its efficacy.] The most minute and authenticated account of an exchanged child is to be found in Waldron's _Isle of Man_, a book from which I have derived much legendary information. "I was prevailed upon myself," says that author, "to go and see a child, who, they told me, was one of these changelings, and, indeed, must own, was not a little surprised, as well as shocked, at the sight. Nothing under heaven could have a more beautiful face; but, though between five and six years old, and seemingly healthy, he was so far from being able to walk or stand, that he could not so much as move any one joint; his limbs were vastly long for his age, but smaller than any infant's of six months; his complexion was perfectly delicate, and he had the finest hair in the world. He never spoke nor cried, ate scarce any thing, and was very seldom seen to smile; but if any one called him a _fairy-elf_, he would frown, and fix his eyes so earnestly on those who said it, as if he would look them through. His mother, or at least his supposed mother, being very poor, frequently went out a chareing, and left him a whole day together. The neighbours, out of curiosity, have often looked in at the window, to see how he behaved while alone; which, whenever they did, they were sure to find him laughing, and in the utmost delight. This made them judge that he was not without company, more pleasing to him than any mortals could be; and what made this conjecture seem the more reasonable, was, that if he were left ever so dirty, the woman, at her return, saw him with a clean face, and his hair combed with the utmost exactness and nicety." P. 128. Waldron gives another account of a poor woman, to whose offspring, it would seem, the Fairies had taken a special fancy. A few nights after she was delivered of her first child, the family were alarmed by a dreadful cry of "Fire!" All flew to the door, while the mother lay trembling in bed, unable to protect her infant, which was snatched from the bed by an invisible hand. Fortunately the return of the gossips, after the causeless alarm, disturbed the Fairies, who dropped the child, which was found sprawling and shrieking upon the threshold. At the good woman's second _accouchement_, a tumult was heard in the cow-house, which drew thither the whole assistants. They returned, when they found that all was quiet among the cattle, and lo! the second child had been carried from the bed, and dropped in the middle of the lane. But, upon the third occurrence of the same kind, the company were again decoyed out of the sick woman's chamber by a false alarm, leaving only a nurse, who was detained by the bonds of sleep. On this last occasion, the mother plainly saw her child removed, though the means were invisible. She screamed for assistance to the nurse; but the old lady had partaken too deeply of the cordials which circulate on such joyful occasions, to be easily awakened. In short, the child was this time fairly carried off, and a withered, deformed creature, left in its stead, quite naked, with the clothes of the abstracted infant, rolled in a bundle, by its side. This creature lived nine years, ate nothing but a few herbs, and neither spoke, stood, walked nor performed any other functions of mortality; resembling, in all respects, the changeling already mentioned.--WALDRON'S _Works, ibid._ But the power of the Fairies was not confined to unchristened children alone; it was supposed frequently to extend to full grown persons, especially such as, in an unlucky hour, were devoted to the devil by the execration of parents, and of masters;[A] or those who were found asleep under a rock, or on a green hill, belonging to the Fairies, after sun-set; or, finally, to those who unwarily joined their orgies. A tradition existed, during the seventeenth century, concerning an ancestor of the noble family of Duffus, who, "walking abroad in the fields, near to his own house, was suddenly carried away, and found the next day at Paris, in the French king's cellar, with a silver cup in his hand. Being brought into the king's presence, and questioned by him who he was, and how he came thither, he told his name, his country, and the place of his residence; and that, on such a day of the month, which proved to be the day immediately preceding, being in the fields, he heard the noise of a whirlwind, and of voices, crying, _'Horse and Hattock!'_ (this is the word which the Fairies are said to use when they remove from any place), whereupon he cried, _'Horse and Hattock'_ also, and was immediately caught up, and transported through the air, by the Fairies, to that place, where, after he had drunk heartily, he fell asleep, and, before he woke, the rest of the company were gone, and had left him in the posture wherein he was found. It is said the king gave him the cup, which was found in his hand, and dismissed him." The narrator affirms, "that the cup was still preserved, and known by the name of the _Fairy cup_." He adds, that Mr Steward, tutor to the then Lord Duffus, had informed him, "that, when a boy, at the school of Forres, he, and his school-fellows, were upon a time whipping their tops in the church-yard, before the door of the church, when, though the day was calm, they heard a noise of a wind, and at some distance saw the small dust begin to rise and turn round, which motion continued advancing till it came to the place where they were, whereupon they began to bless themselves; but one of their number being, it seems, a little more bold and confident than his companions, said, _'Horse and Hattock, with my top,'_ and immediately they all saw the top lifted up from the ground, but could not see which way it was carried, by reason of a cloud of dust which was raised at the same time. They sought for the top all about the place where it was taken up, but in vain; and it was found afterwards in the church-yard, on the other side of the church."--This puerile legend is contained in a letter from a learned gentleman in Scotland, to Mr Aubrey, dated 15th March, 1695, published in AUBREY'S _Miscellanies,_ p. 158. [Footnote A: This idea is not peculiar to the Gothic tribes, but extends to those of Sclavic origin. Tooke (_History of Russia,_ Vol. I. p. 100) relates, that the Russian peasants believe the nocturnal daemon, _Kikimora_, to have been a child, whom the devil stole out of the womb of its mother, because she had cursed it. They also assert, that if an execration against a child be spoken in an evil hour, the child is carried off by the devil. The beings, so stolen, are neither fiends nor men; they are invisible, and afraid of the cross and holy water; but, on the other hand, in their nature and dispositions they resemble mankind, whom they love, and rarely injure.] Notwithstanding the special example of Lord Duffus, and of the top, it is the common opinion, that persons, falling under the power of the Fairies, were only allowed to revisit the haunts of men, after seven years had expired. At the end of seven years more, they again disappeared, after which they were seldom seen among mortals. The accounts they gave of their situation, differ in some particulars. Sometimes they were represented as leading a life of constant restlessness, and wandering by moon-light. According to others, they inhabited a pleasant region, where, however, their situation was rendered horrible, by the sacrifice of one or more individuals to the devil, every seventh year. This circumstance is mentioned in Alison Pearson's indictment, and in the _Tale of the Young Tamlane,_ where it is termed, "the paying the kane to hell," or, according to some recitations, "the teind," or tenth. This is the popular reason assigned for the desire of the Fairies to abstract young children, as substitutes for themselves in this dreadful tribute. Concerning the mode of winning, or recovering, persons abstracted by the Fairies, tradition differs; but the popular opinion, contrary to what may be inferred from the following tale, supposes, that the recovery must be effected within a year and a day, to be held legal in the Fairy court. This feat, which was reckoned an enterprize of equal difficulty and danger, could only be accomplished on Hallowe'en, at the great annual procession of the Fairy court.[A] Of this procession the following description is found in Montgomery's _Flyting against Polwart,_ apud _Watson's Collection of Scots Poems,_ 1709, Part III. p. 12. In the hinder end of harvest, on All-hallowe'en, When our _good neighbours_ dois ride, if I read right. Some buckled on a bunewand, and some on a been, Ay trottand in tronps from the twilight; Some saidled a she-ape, all grathed into green, Some hobland on a hemp-stalk, hovand to the hight; The king of Pharie and his court, with the Elf queen, With many elfish incubus was ridand that night. There an elf on an ape, an unsel begat. Into a pot by Pomathorne; That bratchart in a busse was born; They fand a monster on the morn, War faced nor a cat. [Footnote A: See the inimitable poem of Hallowe'en:-- "Upon that night, when Fairies light On Cassilis Downan dance; Or o'er the leas, in splendid blaze, On stately coursers prance," &c. _Burns._] The catastrophe of _Tamlane_ terminated more successfully than that of other attempts, which tradition still records. The wife of a farmer in Lothian had been carried off by the Fairies, and, during the year of probation, repeatedly appeared on Sunday, in the midst of her children, combing their hair. On one of these occasions she was accosted by her husband; when she related to him the unfortunate event which had separated them, instructed him by what means he might win her, and exhorted him to exert all his courage, since her temporal and eternal happiness depended on the success of his attempt. The farmer, who ardently loved his wife, set out on Hallow-e'en and, in the midst of a plot of furze, waited impatiently for the procession of the Fairies. At the ringing of the Fairy bridles, and the wild unearthly sound which accompanied the cavalcade, his heart failed him, and he suffered the ghostly train to pass by without interruption. When the last had rode past, the whole troop vanished, with loud shouts of laughter and exultation; among which he plainly discovered the voice of his wife, lamenting that he had lost her for ever. A similar, but real incident, took place at the town of North Berwick, within the memory of man. The wife of a man, above the lowest class of society, being left alone in the house, a few days after delivery, was attacked and carried off by one of those convulsion fits, incident to her situation. Upon the return of the family, who had been engaged in hay-making, or harvest, they found the corpse much disfigured. This circumstance, the natural consequence of her disease, led some of the spectators to think that she had been carried off by the Fairies, and that the body before them was some elfin deception. The husband, probably, paid little attention to this opinion at the time. The body was interred, and, after a decent time had elapsed, finding his domestic affairs absolutely required female superintendence, the widower paid his addresses to a young woman in the neighbourhood. The recollection, however, of his former wife, whom he had tenderly loved, haunted his slumbers; and, one morning, he came to the clergyman of the parish in the utmost dismay, declaring, that she had appeared to him the preceding night, informed him that she was a captive in Fairy Land, and conjured him to attempt her deliverance. She directed him to bring the minister, and certain other persons, whom she named, to her grave at midnight. Her body was then to be dug up, and certain prayers recited; after which the corpse was to become animated, and fly from them. One of the assistants, the swiftest runner in the parish, was to pursue the body; and, if he was able to seize it, before it had thrice encircled the church, the rest were to come to his assistance, and detain it, in spite of the struggles it should use, and the various shapes into which it might be transformed. The redemption of the abstracted person was then to become complete. The minister, a sensible man, argued with his parishioner upon the indecency and absurdity of what was proposed, and dismissed him. Next Sunday, the banns being for the first time proclaimed betwixt the widower and his new bride, his former wife, very naturally, took the opportunity of the following night to make him another visit, yet more terrific than the former. She upbraided him with his incredulity, his fickleness, and his want of affection; and, to convince him that her appearance was no aërial illusion, she gave suck, in his presence, to her youngest child. The man, under the greatest horror of mind, had again recourse to the pastor; and his ghostly counsellor fell upon an admirable expedient to console him. This was nothing less than dispensing with the further solemnity of banns, and marrying him, without an hour's delay, to the young woman to whom he was affianced; after which no spectre again disturbed his repose. * * * * * Having concluded these general observations upon the Fairy superstition, which, although minute, may not, I hope, be deemed altogether uninteresting, I proceed to the more particular illustrations, relating to the _Tale of the Young Tamlane._ The following ballad, still popular in Ettrick Forest, where the scene is laid, is certainly of much greater antiquity than its phraseology, gradually modernized as transmitted by tradition, would seem to denote. The _Tale of the Young Tamlane_ is mentioned in the _Complaynt of Scotland;_ and the air, to which it was chaunted, seems to have been accommodated to a particular dance; for the dance of _Thorn of Lynn_, another variation of _Thomalin_, likewise occurs in the same performance. Like every popular subject, it seems to have been frequently parodied; and a burlesque ballad, beginning "Tom o' the Linn was a Scotsman born," is still well known. In a medley, contained in a curious and ancient MS. cantus, _penes_ J.G. Dalyell, Esq., there is an allusion to our ballad:-- "Sing young Thomlin, be merry, be merry, and twice so merry." In _Scottish Songs_, 1774, a part of the original tale was published, under the title of _Kerton Ha';_ a corruption of Carterhaugh; and, in the same collection, there is a fragment, containing two or three additional verses, beginning, "I'll wager, I'll wager, I'll wager with you," &c. In Johnson's _Musical Museum_, a more complete copy occurs, under the title of _Thom Linn_, which, with some alterations was reprinted in the _Tales of Wonder_. The present edition is the most perfect which has yet appeared; being prepared from a collation of the printed copies, with a very accurate one in Glenriddell's MSS., and with several recitals from tradition. Some verses are omitted in this edition, being ascertained to belong to a separate ballad, which will be found in a subsequent part of the work. In one recital only, the well known fragment of the _Wee, wee Man_, was introduced, in the same measure with the rest of the poem. It was retained in the first edition, but is now omitted; as the editor has been favoured, by the learned Mr Ritson, with a copy of the original poem, of which it is a detached fragment. The editor has been enabled to add several verses of beauty and interest to this edition of _Tamlane_, in consequence of a copy, obtained from a gentleman residing near Langholm, which is said to be very ancient, though the diction is somewhat of a modern cast. The manners of the Fairies are detailed at considerable length, and in poetry of no common merit. Carterhaugh is a plain, at the conflux of the Ettrick and Yarrow, in Selkirkshire, about a mile above Selkirk, and two miles below Newark Castle; a romantic ruin, which overhangs the Yarrow, and which is said to have been the habitation of our heroine's father, though others place his residence in the tower of Oakwood. The peasants point out, upon the plain, those electrical rings, which vulgar credulity supposes to be traces of the Fairy revels. Here, they say, were placed the stands of milk, and of water, in which _Tamlane_ was dipped, in order to effect the disenchantment; and upon these spots, according to their mode of expressing themselves, the grass will never grow. Miles Cross (perhaps a corruption of Mary's Cross), where fair Janet waited the arrival of the Fairy train, is said to have stood near the duke of Buccleuch's seat of Bowhill, about half a mile from Carterhaugh. In no part of Scotland, indeed, has the belief in Fairies maintained its ground with more pertinacity than in Selkirkshire. The most sceptical among the lower ranks only venture to assert, that their appearances, and mischievous exploits, have ceased, or at least become infrequent, since the light of the Gospel was diffused in its purity. One of their frolics is said to have happened late in the last century. The victim of elfin sport was a poor man, who, being employed in pulling heather upon Peatlaw, a hill not far from Carterhaugh, had tired of his labour, and laid him down to sleep upon a Fairy ring.--When he awakened, he was amazed to find himself in the midst of a populous city, to which, as well as to the means of his transportation, he was an utter stranger. His coat was left upon the Peatlaw; and his bonnet, which had fallen off in the course of his aërial journey, was afterwards found hanging upon the steeple of the church of Lanark. The distress of the poor man was, in some degree, relieved, by meeting a carrier, whom he had formerly known, and who conducted him back to Selkirk, by a slower conveyance than had whirled him to Glasgow.--That he had been carried off by the Fairies, was implicitly believed by all, who did not reflect, that a man may have private reasons for leaving his own country, and for disguising his having intentionally done so. THE YOUNG TAMLANE O I forbid ye, maidens a', That wear gowd on your hair, To come or gae by Carterhaugh; For young Tamlane is there. There's nane, that gaes by Carterhaugh, But maun leave him a wad; Either goud rings or green mantles, Or else their maidenheid. Now, gowd rings ye may buy, maidens, Green mantles ye may spin; But, gin ye lose your maidenheid, Ye'll ne'er get that agen. But up then spak her, fair Janet, The fairest o' a' her kin; "I'll cum and gang to Carterhaugh, "And ask nae leave o' him." Janet has kilted her green kirtle,[A] A little abune her knee; And she has braided her yellow hair, A little abune her bree. And when she cam to Carterhaugh, She gaed beside the well; And there she fand his steed standing, But away was himsell. She hadna pu'd a red red rose, A rose but barely three; Till up and starts a wee wee man, At Lady Janet's knee. Says--"Why pu' ye the rose, Janet? "What gars ye break the tree? "Or why come ye to Carterhaugh, "Withoutten leave o' me?" Says--"Carterhaugh it is mine ain; "My daddie gave it me; "I'll come and gang to Carterhaugh, "And ask nae leave o' thee." He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, Amang the leaves sae green; And what they did I cannot tell-- The green leaves were between. He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, Amang the roses red; And what they did I cannot say-- She ne'er returned a maid. When she cam to her father's ha', She looked pale and wan; They thought she'd dried some sair sickness, Or been wi' some leman. She didna comb her yellow hair, Nor make meikle o' her heid; And ilka thing, that lady took, Was like to be her deid. Its four and twenty ladies fair Were playing at the ba'; Janet, the wightest of them anes, Was faintest o' them a'. Four and twenty ladies fair Were playing at the chess; And out there came the fair Janet, As green as any grass. Out and spak an auld gray-headed knight, Lay o'er the castle wa'-- "And ever alas! for thee, Janet, "But we'll be blamed a'!" "Now haud your tongue, ye auld gray knight! "And an ill deid may ye die! "Father my bairn on whom I will, "I'll father nane on thee." Out then spak her father dear, And he spak meik and mild-- "And ever alas! my sweet Janet, "I fear ye gae with child." "And, if I be with child, father, "Mysell maun bear the blame; "There's ne'er a knight about your ha' "Shall hae the bairnie's name. "And if I be with child, father, "'Twill prove a wondrous birth; "For well I swear I'm not wi' bairn "To any man on earth. "If my love were an earthly knight, "As he's an elfin grey, "I wadna gie my ain true love "For nae lord that ye hae." She princked hersell and prinn'd hersell, By the ae light of the moon, And she's away to Carterhaugh, To speak wi' young Tamlane. And when she cam to Carterhaugh, She gaed beside the well; And there she saw the steed standing, But away was himsell. She hadna pu'd a double rose, A rose but only twae, When up and started young Tamlane, Says--"Lady, thou pu's nae mae! "Why pu' ye the rose, Janet, "Within this garden grene, "And a' to kill the bonny babe, "That we got us between?" "The truth ye'll tell to me, Tamlane; "A word ye mauna lie; "Gin ye're ye was in haly chapel, "Or sained[B] in Christentie." "The truth I'll tell to thee, Janet, "A word I winna lie; "A knight me got, and a lady me bore, "As well as they did thee. "Randolph, Earl Murray, was my sire, "Dunbar, Earl March, is thine; "We loved when we were children small, "Which yet you well may mind. "When I was a boy just turned of nine, "My uncle sent for me, "To hunt, and hawk, and ride with him, "And keep him cumpanie. "There came a wind out of the north, "A sharp wind and a snell; "And a dead sleep came over me, "And frae my horse I fell. "The Queen of Fairies keppit me, "In yon green hill to dwell; "And I'm a Fairy, lyth and limb; "Fair ladye, view me well. "But we, that live in Fairy-land, "No sickness know, nor pain; "I quit my body when I will, "And take to it again. "I quit my body when I please, "Or unto it repair; "We can inhabit, at our ease, "In either earth or air. "Our shapes and size we can convert, "To either large or small; "An old nut-shell's the same to us, "As is the lofty hall. "We sleep in rose-buds, soft and sweet, "We revel in the stream; "We wanton lightly on the wind, "Or glide on a sunbeam. "And all our wants are well supplied, "From every rich man's store, "Who thankless sins the gifts he gets, "And vainly grasps for more. "Then would I never tire, Janet, "In elfish land to dwell; "But aye at every seven years, "They pay the teind to hell; "And I am sae fat, and fair of flesh, "I fear 'twill be mysell. "This night is Hallowe'en, Janet, "The morn is Hallowday; "And, gin ye dare your true love win, "Ye hae na time to stay. "The night it is good Hallowe'en, "When fairy folk will ride; "And they, that wad their true love win, "At Miles Cross they maun bide." "But how shall I thee ken, Tamlane? "Or how shall I thee knaw, "Amang so many unearthly knights, "The like I never saw.?" "The first company, that passes by, "Say na, and let them gae; "The next company, that passes by, "Say na, and do right sae; "The third company, that passes by, "Than I'll be ane o' thae. "First let pass the black, Janet, "And syne let pass the brown; "But grip ye to the milk-white steed, "And pu' the rider down. "For I ride on the milk-white steed, "And ay nearest the town; "Because I was a christened knight, "They gave me that renown. "My right hand will be gloved, Janet, "My left hand will be bare; "And these the tokens I gie thee, "Nae doubt I will be there. "They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, "An adder and a snake; "But had me fast, let me not pass, "Gin ye wad be my maik. "They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, "An adder and an ask; "They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, "A bale[C] that burns fast. "They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, "A red-hot gad o' aim; "But had me fast, let me not pass, "For I'll do you no harm. "First, dip me in a stand o' milk, "And then in a stand o' water; "But had me fast, let me not pass-- "I'll be your bairn's father. "And, next, they'll shape me in your arms, "A toad, but and an eel; "But had me fast, nor let me gang, "As you do love me weel. "They'll shape me in your arms, Janet, "A dove, but and a swan; "And, last, they'll shape me in your arms, "A mother-naked man: "Cast your green mantle over me-- "I'll be mysell again." Gloomy, gloomy, was the night, And eiry[D] was the way, As fair Janet, in her green mantle, To Miles Cross she did gae. The heavens were black, the night was dark, And dreary was the place; But Janet stood, with eager wish, Her lover to embrace. Betwixt the hours of twelve and one, A north wind tore the bent; And straight she heard strange elritch sounds Upon that wind which went. About the dead hour o' the night, She heard the bridles ring; And Janet was as glad o' that, As any earthly thing! Their oaten pipes blew wondrous shrill, The hemlock small blew clear; And louder notes from hemlock large, And bog-reed struck the ear; But solemn sounds, or sober thoughts, The Fairies cannot bear. They sing, inspired with love and joy, Like sky-larks in the air; Of solid sense, or thought that's grave, You'll find no traces there. Fair Janet stood, with mind unmoved, The dreary heath upon; And louder, louder, wax'd the sound, As they came riding on. Will o' Wisp before them went, Sent forth a twinkling light; And soon she saw the Fairy bands All riding in her sight. And first gaed by the black black steed, And then gaed by the brown; But fast she gript the milk-white steed, And pu'd the rider down. She pu'd him frae the milk-white steed, And loot the bridle fa'; And up there raise an erlish[E] cry-- "He's won amang us a'!" They shaped him in fair Janet's arms, An esk[F], but and an adder; She held him fast in every shape-- To be her bairn's father. They shaped him in her arms at last, A mother-naked man; She wrapt him in her green mantle, And sae her true love wan. Up then spake the Queen o' Fairies, Out o' a bush o' broom-- "She that has borrowed young Tamlane, Has gotten a stately groom." Up then spake the Queen of Fairies, Out o' a bush of rye-- "She's ta'en awa the bonniest knight In a' my cumpanie. "But had I kenn'd, Tamlane," she says, "A lady wad borrowed thee-- "I wad ta'en out thy twa gray een, "Put in twa een o' tree. "Had I but kenn'd, Tamlane," she says, "Before ye came frae hame-- "I wad tane out your heart o' flesh, "Put in a heart o' stane. "Had I but had the wit yestreen, "That I hae coft[G] the day-- "I'd paid my kane seven times to hell, "Ere you'd been won away!" [Footnote A: The ladies are always represented, in Dunbar's Poems, with green mantles and yellow hair. _Maitland Poems,_ Vol. I. p. 45.] [Footnote B: _Sained_--Hallowed.] [Footnote C: _Bale_--A faggot.] [Footnote D: _Eiry_--Producing superstitious dread.] [Footnote E: _Erlish_--Elritch, ghastly.] [Footnote F: _Esk_--Newt.] [Footnote G: _Coft_--Bought.] NOTES ON THE YOUNG TAMLANE. _Randolph, Earl Murray, was my sire, Dunbar, Earl March, is thine,_ &c.--P. 185, v. 5. Both these mighty chiefs were connected with Ettrick Forest, and its vicinity. Their memory, therefore, lived in the traditions of the country. Randolph, earl of Murray, the renowned nephew of Robert Bruce, had a castle at Ha' Guards, in Annandale, and another in Peebles-shire, on the borders of the forest, the site of which is still called Randall's Walls. Patrick of Dunbar, earl of March, is said by Henry the Minstrel, to have retreated to Ettrick Forest, after being defeated by Wallace. _And all our wants are well supplied, From every rich man's store; Who thankless sins the gifts he gets, &c._--P. 187. v. 3. To _sin our gifts, or mercies_, means, ungratefully to hold them in slight esteem. The idea, that the possessions of the wicked are most obnoxious to the depredations of evil spirits, may be illustrated by the following tale of a _Buttery Spirit_, extracted from Thomas Heywood:-- An ancient and virtuous monk came to visit his nephew, an inn-keeper, and, after other discourse, enquired into his circumstances. Mine host confessed, that, although he practised all the unconscionable tricks of his trade, he was still miserably poor. The monk shook his head, and asked to see his buttery, or larder. As they looked into it, he rendered visible to the astonished host an immense goblin, whose paunch, and whole appearance, bespoke his being gorged with food, and who, nevertheless, was gormandizing at the innkeeper's expence, emptying whole shelves of food, and washing it down with entire hogsheads of liquor. "To the depredation of this visitor will thy viands be exposed," quoth the uncle, "until thou shalt abandon fraud, and false reckonings." The monk returned in a year. The host having turned over a new leaf, and given christian measure to his customers, was now a thriving man. When they again inspected the larder, they saw the same spirit, but woefully reduced in size, and in vain attempting to reach at the full plates and bottles, which stood around him; starving, in short, like Tantalus, in the midst of plenty. Honest Heywood sums up the tale thus: In this discourse, far be it we should mean Spirits by meat are fatted made, or lean; Yet certain 'tis, by God's permission, they May, over goods extorted, bear like sway. * * * * * All such as study fraud, and practise evil, Do only starve themselves to plumpe the devill. _Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels,_ p. 577. ERLINTON. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. This ballad is published from the collation of two copies, obtained from recitation. It seems to be the rude original, or perhaps a corrupted and imperfect copy, of _The Child of Elle_, a beautiful legendary tale, published in the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_. It is singular, that this charming ballad should have been translated, or imitated, by the celebrated Bürger, without acknowledgment of the English original. As _The Child of Elle_ avowedly received corrections, we may ascribe its greatest beauties to the poetical taste of the ingenious editor. They are in the truest stile of Gothic embellishment. We may compare, for example, the following beautiful verse, with the same idea in an old romance: The baron stroked his dark-brown cheek, And turned his face aside, To wipe away the starting tear, He proudly strove to hide! _Child of Elle._ The heathen Soldan, or Amiral, when about to slay two lovers, relents in a similar manner: Weeping, he turned his heued awai, And his swerde hit fel to grounde. _Florice and Blauncheflour._ ERLINTON. Erlinton had a fair daughter, I wat he weird her in a great sin,[A] For he has built a bigly bower, An' a' to put that lady in. An' he has warn'd her sisters six, An' sae has he her brethren se'en, Outher to watch her a' the night, Or else to seek her morn an' e'en. She hadna been i' that bigly bower, Na not a night, but barely ane, Till there was Willie, her ain true love, Chapp'd at the door, cryin', "Peace within!" "O whae is this at my bower door, "That chaps sae late, nor kens the gin?"[B] "O it is Willie, your ain true love, "I pray you rise an' let me in!" "But in my bower there is a wake, "An' at the wake there is a wane;[C] "But I'll come to the green-wood the morn, "Whar blooms the brier by mornin' dawn." Then she's gane to her bed again, Where she has layen till the cock crew thrice, Then she said to her sisters a', "Maidens, 'tis time for us to rise." She pat on her back a silken gown, An' on her breast a siller pin, An' she's tane a sister in ilka hand, An' to the green-wood she is gane. She hadna walk'd in the green-wood, Na not a mile but barely ane, Till there was Willie, her ain true love, Whae frae her sisters has her ta'en. He took her sisters by the hand, He kiss'd them baith, an' sent them hame, An' he's ta'en his true love him behind, And through the green-wood they are gane. They hadna ridden in the bonnie green-wood, Na not a mile but barely ane, When there came fifteen o' the boldest knights. That ever bare flesh, blood, or bane. The foremost was an aged knight, He wore the grey hair on his chin, Says, "Yield to me thy lady bright, "An' thou shalt walk the woods within." "For me to yield my lady bright "To such an aged knight as thee, "People wad think I war gane mad, "Or a' the courage flown frae me." But up then spake the second knight, I wat he spake right boustouslie, "Yield me thy life, or thy lady bright, "Or here the tane of us shall die." "My lady is my warld's meed; "My life I winna yield to nane; "But if ye be men of your manhead, "Ye'll only fight me ane by ane." He lighted aff his milk-white steed, An' gae his lady him by the head, Say'n, "See ye dinna change your cheer; "Until ye see my body bleed." He set his back unto an aik, He set his feet against a stane, An' he has fought these fifteen men, An' kill'd them a' but barely ane; For he has left that aged knight, An' a' to carry the tidings hame. When he gaed to his lady fair, I wat he kiss'd her tenderlie; "Thou art mine ain love, I have thee bought; "Now we shall walk the green-wood free." [Footnote A: _Weird her in a great sin_--Placed her in danger of committing a great sin.] [Footnote B: _Gin_--The slight or trick necessary to open the door, from engine.] [Footnote C: _Wane_--A number of people.] THE TWA CORBIES. This poem was communicated to me by Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, Esq. jun. of Hoddom, as written down, from tradition, by a lady. It is a singular circumstance, that it should coincide so very nearly with the ancient dirge, called _The Three Ravens_, published by Mr Ritson, in his _Ancient Songs;_ and that, at the same time, there should exist such a difference, as to make the one appear rather a counterpart than copy of the other. In order to enable the curious reader to contrast these two singular poems, and to form a judgment which may be the original, I take the liberty of copying the English ballad from Mr Ritson's Collection, omitting only the burden and repetition of the first line. The learned editor states it to be given _"From Ravencroft's Metismata. Musical phansies, fitting the cittie and country, humours to 3, 4, and 5 voyces,_ London, 1611, 4to. It will be obvious (continues Mr Ritson) that this ballad is much older, not only than the date of the book, but most of the other pieces contained in it." The music is given with the words, and is adapted to four voices: There were three rauens sat on a tre, They were as blacke as they might be: The one of them said to his mate, "Where shall we our breakfast take?" "Downe in yonder greene field, "There lies a knight slain under his shield; "His hounds they lie downe at his feete, "So well they their master keepe; "His haukes they flie so eagerly, "There's no fowle dare come him nie. "Down there comes a fallow doe, "As great with yong as she might goe, "She lift up his bloudy hed, "And kist his wounds that were so red. "She got him up upon her backe, "And carried him to earthen lake. "She buried him before the prime, "She was dead her selfe ere euen song time. "God send euery gentleman, "Such haukes, such houndes, and such a leman. _Ancient Songs,_ 1792, p. 155. I have seen a copy of this dirge much modernized. THE TWA CORBIES. As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane; The tane unto the t'other say, "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?" "In behint yon auld fail[A] dyke, "I wot there lies a new slain knight; "And nae body kens that he lies there, "But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. "His hound is to the hunting gane, "His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, "His lady's ta'en another mate, "So we may mak our dinner sweet. "Ye'll sit on his white hause bane, "And I'll pike out his bonny blue een: "Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair, "We'll theek[B] our nest when it grows bare. "Mony a one for him makes mane, "But nane sall ken whare he is gane: "O'er his white banes, when they are bare, "The wind sall blaw for evermair." [Footnote A: _Fail_--Turf.] [Footnote B: _Theek_--Thatch.] THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. The ballad of _The Douglas Tragedy_ is one of the few, to which popular tradition has ascribed complete locality. The farm of Blackhouse, in Selkirkshire, is said to have been the scene of this melancholy event. There are the remains of a very ancient tower, adjacent to the farmhouse, in a wild and solitary glen, upon a torrent, named Douglas-burn, which joins the Yarrow, after passing a craggy rock, called the Douglas-craig. This wild scene, now a part of the Traquair estate, formed one of the most ancient possessions of the renowned family of Douglas; for Sir John Douglas, eldest son of William, the first Lord Douglas, is said to have sat, as baronial lord of Douglas-burn, during his father's lifetime, in a parliament of Malcolm Canmore, held at Forfar.--GODSCROFT, Vol. I. p. 20. The tower appears to have been square, with a circular turret at one angle, for carrying up the staircase, and for flanking the entrance. It is said to have derived its name of Blackhouse from the complexion of the lords of Douglas, whose swarthy hue was a family attribute. But, when the high mountains, by which it is inclosed, were covered with heather, which was the case till of late years, Blackhouse must have also merited its appellation from the appearance of the scenery. From this ancient tower Lady Margaret is said to have been carried by her lover. Seven large stones, erected upon the neighbouring heights of Blackhouse, are shown, as marking the spot where the seven brethren were slain; and the Douglas-burn is averred to have been the stream, at which the lovers stopped to drink: so minute is tradition in ascertaining the scene of a tragical tale, which, considering the rude state of former times, had probably foundation in some real event. Many copies of this ballad are current among the vulgar, but chiefly in a state of great corruption; especially such as have been committed to the press in the shape of penny pamphlets. One of these is now before me, which, among many others, has the ridiculous error of "_blue gilded_ horn," for "_bugelet_ horn." The copy, principally used in this edition of the ballad, was supplied by Mr Sharpe. The three last verses are given from the printed copy, and from tradition. The hackneyed verse, of the rose and the briar springing from the grave of the lovers, is common to most tragic ballads; but it is introduced into this with singular propriety, as the chapel of St Mary, whose vestiges may be still traced upon the lake, to which it has given name, is said to have been the burial place of Lord William and Fair Margaret. The wrath of the Black Douglas, which vented itself upon the brier, far surpasses the usual stanza: At length came the clerk of the parish, As you the truth shall hear, And by mischance he cut them down, Or else they had still been there. THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. "Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, "And put on your armour so bright; "Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine "Was married to a lord under night. "Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, "And put on your armour so bright, "And take better care of your youngest sister, "For your eldest's awa the last night." He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And lightly they rode away. Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, To see what he could see, And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold Come riding over the lee. "Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret," he said, "And hold my steed in your hand, "Until that against your seven brethren bold, "And your father, I mak a stand." She held his steed in her milk-white hand, And never shed one tear, Until that she saw her seven brethren fa', And her father hard fighting, who lov'd her so dear. "O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, "For your strokes they are wond'rous sair; "True lovers I can get many a ane, "But a father I can never get mair." O she's ta'en out her handkerchief, It was o' the holland sae fine, And ay she dighted her father's bloody wounds, That ware redder than the wine. "O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg'ret," he said, "O whether will ye gang or bide?" "I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, "For ye have left me no other guide." He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And slowly they baith rade away. O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they came to yon wan water, And there they lighted down. They lighted down to tak a drink Of the spring that ran sae clear; And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, And sair she gan to fear. "Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, "For I fear that you are slain!" "'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak; "That shines in the water sae plain." O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they cam' to his mother's ha' door, And there they lighted down. "Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "Get up, and let me in!-- "Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "For this night my fair lady I've win. "O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, "O mak it braid and deep! "And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back, "And the sounder I will sleep." Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, Lady Marg'ret lang ere day-- And all true lovers that go thegither, May they have mair luck than they! Lord William was buried in St Marie's kirk, Lady Margaret in Mary's quire; Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, And out o' the knight's a brier. And they twa met, and they twa plat, And fain they wad be near; And a' the warld might ken right weel, They were twa lovers dear. But bye and rade the Black Douglas, And wow but he was rough! For he pull'd up the bonny brier, And flang'd in St Mary's loch. YOUNG BENJIE. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. In this ballad the reader will find traces of a singular superstition, not yet altogether discredited in the wilder parts of Scotland. The lykewake, or watching a dead body, in itself a melancholy office, is rendered, in the idea of the assistants, more dismally awful, by the mysterious horrors of superstition. In the interval betwixt death and interment, the disembodied spirit is supposed to hover around its mortal habitation, and, if invoked by certain rites, retains the power of communicating, through its organs, the cause of its dissolution. Such enquiries, however are always dangerous, and never to be resorted to unless the deceased is suspected to have suffered _foul play_, as it is called. It is the more unsafe to tamper with this charm, in an unauthorized manner; because the inhabitants of the infernal regions are, at such periods, peculiarly active. One of the most potent ceremonies in the charm, for causing the dead body to speak, is, setting the door ajar, or half open. On this account, the peasants of Scotland sedulously avoid leaving the door ajar, while a corpse lies in the house. The door must either be left wide open, or quite shut; but the first is always preferred, on account of the exercise of hospitality usual on such occasions. The attendants must be likewise careful never to leave the corpse for a moment alone, or, if it is left alone, to avoid, with a degree of superstitious horror, the first sight of it. The following story, which is frequently related by the peasants of Scotland, will illustrate the imaginary danger of leaving the door ajar. In former times, a man and his wife lived in a solitary cottage, on one of the extensive border fells. One day, the husband died suddenly; and his wife, who was equally afraid of staying alone by the corpse, or leaving the dead body by itself, repeatedly went to the door, and looked anxiously over the lonely moor, for the sight of some person approaching. In her confusion and alarm, she accidentally left the door ajar, when the corpse suddenly started up, and sat in the bed, frowning and grinning at her frightfully. She sat alone, crying bitterly, unable to avoid the fascination of the dead man's eye, and too much terrified to break the sullen silence, till a catholic priest, passing over the wild, entered the cottage. He first set the door quite open, then put his little finger in his mouth, and said the paternoster backwards; when the horrid look of the corpse relaxed, it fell back on the bed, and behaved itself as a dead man ought to do. The ballad is given from tradition. YOUNG BENJIE. Of a' the maids o' fair Scotland, The fairest was Marjorie; And young Benjie was her ae true love, And a dear true love was he. And wow! but they were lovers dear, And loved fu' constantlie; But ay the mair when they fell out, The sairer was their plea.[A] And they hae quarrelled on a day, Till Marjorie's heart grew wae; And she said she'd chuse another luve, And let young Benjie gae. And he was stout,[B] and proud-hearted, And thought o't bitterlie; And he's ga'en by the wan moon-light, To meet his Marjorie. "O open, open, my true love, "O open, and let me in!" "I dare na open, young Benjie, "My three brothers are within." "Ye lied, ye lied, ye bonny burd, "Sae loud's I hear ye lie; "As I came by the Lowden banks, "They bade gude e'en to me. "But fare ye weel, my ae fause love, "That I hae loved sae lang! "It sets[C] ye chuse another love, "And let young Benjie gang." Then Marjorie turned her round about, The tear blinding her ee,-- "I darena, darena, let thee in, "But I'll come down to thee." Then saft she smiled, and said to him, "O what ill hae I done?" He took her in his armis twa, And threw her o'er the linn. The stream was strang, the maid was stout, And laith laith to be dang,[D] But, ere she wan the Lowden banks, Her fair colour was wan. Then up bespak her eldest brother, "O see na ye what I see?" And out then spak her second brother, "Its our sister Marjorie!" Out then spak her eldest brother, "O how shall we her ken?" And out then spak her youngest brother, "There's a honey mark on her chin." Then they've ta'en up the comely corpse, And laid it on the ground-- "O wha has killed our ae sister, "And how can he be found? "The night it is her low lykewake, "The morn her burial day, "And we maun watch at mirk midnight, "And hear what she will say." Wi' doors ajar, and candle light, And torches burning clear; The streikit corpse, till still midnight, They waked, but naething hear. About the middle o' the night. The cocks began to craw; And at the dead hour o' the night, The corpse began to thraw. "O wha has done the wrang, sister, "Or dared the deadly sin? "Wha was sae stout, and feared nae dout, "As thraw ye o'er the linn?" "Young Benjie was the first ae man "I laid my love upon; "He was sae stout and proud-hearted, "He threw me o'er the linn." "Sall we young Benjie head, sister, "Sall we young Benjie hang, "Or sall we pike out his twa gray een, "And punish him ere he gang?" "Ye mauna Benjie head, brothers, "Ye mauna Benjie hang, "But ye maun pike out his twa gray een, "And punish him ere he gang. "Tie a green gravat round his neck, "And lead him out and in, "And the best ae servant about your house "To wait young Benjie on. "And ay, at every seven year's end, "Ye'll tak him to the linn; "For that's the penance he maun drie, "To scug[E] his deadly sin." [Footnote A: _Plea_--Used obliquely for _dispute_.] [Footnote B: _Stout_--Through this whole ballad, signifies _haughty_.] [Footnote C: _Sets ye_--Becomes you--ironical.] [Footnote D: _Dang_--defeated.] [Footnote E: _Scug_--shelter or expiate.] LADY ANNE. This ballad was communicated to me by Mr Kirkpatrick Sharpe of Hoddom, who mentions having copied it from an old magazine. Although it has probably received some modern corrections, the general turn seems to be ancient, and corresponds with that of a fragment, containing the following verses, which I have often heard sung in my childhood:-- She set her back against a thorn, And there she has her young son borne; "O smile nae sae, my bonny babe! "An ye smile sae sweet, ye'll smile me dead." * * * * * An' when that lady went to the church, She spied a naked boy in the porch, "O bonnie boy, an' ye were mine, "I'd clead ye in the silks sae fine." "O mither dear, when I was thine, "To me ye were na half sae kind." * * * * * Stories of this nature are very common in the annals of popular superstition. It is, for example, currently believed in Ettrick Forest, that a libertine, who had destroyed fifty-six inhabited houses, in order to throw the possessions of the cottagers into his estate, and who added to this injury, that of seducing their daughters, was wont to commit, to a carrier in the neighbourhood, the care of his illegitimate children, shortly after they were born. His emissary regularly carried them away, but they were never again heard of. The unjust and cruel gains of the profligate laird were dissipated by his extravagance, and the ruins of his house seem to bear witness to the truth of the rhythmical prophecies denounced against it, and still current among the peasantry. He himself died an untimely death; but the agent of his amours and crimes survived to extreme old age. When on his death-bed, he seemed much oppressed in mind, and sent for a clergyman to speak peace to his departing spirit: but, before the messenger returned, the man was in his last agony; and the terrified assistants had fled from his cottage, unanimously averring, that the wailing of murdered infants had ascended from behind his couch, and mingled with the groans of the departing sinner. LADY ANNE Fair lady Anne sate in her bower, Down by the greenwood side, And the flowers did spring, and the birds did sing, 'Twas the pleasant May-day tide. But fair lady Anne on sir William call'd, With the tear grit in her e'e, "O though thou be fause, may heaven thee guard, "In the wars ayont the sea!" Out of the wood came three bonnie boys, Upon the simmer's morn, And they did sing, and play at the ba', As naked as they were born. "O seven lang year was I sit here, "Amang the frost and snaw, "A' to hae but ane o' these bonnie boys, "A playing at the ba'." Then up and spake the eldest boy, "Now listen, thou fair ladie! "And ponder well the read that I tell, "Then make ye a choice of the three. "'Tis I am Peter, and this is Paul, "And that are, sae fair to see, "But a twelve-month sinsyne to paradise came, "To join with our companie." "O I will hae the snaw-white boy, "The bonniest of the three." "And if I were thine, and in thy propine,[A] "O what wad ye do to me?" "'Tis I wad clead thee in silk and gowd, "And nourice thee on my knee." "O mither! mither! when I was thine, "Sic kindness I could na see. "Before the turf, where I now stand, "The fause nurse buried me; "Thy cruel penknife sticks still in my heart, "And I come not back to thee." [Footnote A: _Propine_--Usually gift, but here the power of giving or bestowing.] * * * * * LORD WILLIAM This ballad was communicated to me by Mr James Hogg; and, although it bears a strong resemblance to that of _Earl Richard_, so strong, indeed, as to warrant a supposition, that the one has been derived from the other, yet its intrinsic merit seems to warrant its insertion. Mr Hogg has added the following note, which, in the course of my enquiries, I have found most fully corroborated. "I am fully convinced of the antiquity of this song; for, although much of the language seems somewhat modernized, this must be attributed to its currency, being much liked, and very much sung, in this neighbourhood. I can trace it back several generations, but cannot hear of its ever having been in print. I have never heard it with any considerable variation, save that one reciter called the dwelling of the feigned sweetheart, _Castleswa_." LORD WILLIAM Lord William was the bravest knight That dwait in fair Scotland, And, though renowned in France and Spain, Fell by a ladie's hand. As she was walking maid alone, Down by yon shady wood. She heard a smit[A] o' bridle reins, She wish'd might be for good. "Come to my arms, my dear Willie, "You're welcome hame to me; "To best o' chear and charcoal red,[B] "And candle burnin' free." "I winna light, I darena light, "Nor come to your arms at a'; "A fairer maid than ten o' you, "I'll meet at Castle-law." "A fairer maid than me, Willie! "A fairer maid than me! "A fairer maid than ten o' me, "Your eyes did never see." He louted owr his saddle lap, To kiss her ere they part, And wi' a little keen bodkin, She pierced him to the heart. "Ride on, ride on, lord William, now, "As fast as ye can dree! "Your bonny lass at Castle-law "Will weary you to see." Out up then spake a bonny bird, Sat high upon a tree,-- How could you kill that noble lord? "He came to marry thee." "Come down, come down, my bonny bird, "And eat bread aff my hand! "Your cage shall be of wiry goud, "Whar now its but the wand." "Keep ye your cage o' goud, lady, "And I will keep my tree; "As ye hae done to lord William., "Sae wad ye do to me." She set her foot on her door step, A bonny marble stane; And carried him to her chamber, O'er him to make her mane. And she has kept that good lord's corpse Three quarters of a year, Until that word began to spread, Then she began to fear. Then she cried on her waiting maid, Ay ready at her ca'; "There is a knight unto my bower, "'Tis time he were awa." The ane has ta'en him by the head, The ither by the feet, And thrown him in the wan water, That ran baith wide and deep. "Look back, look back, now, lady fair, "On him that lo'ed ye weel! "A better man than that blue corpse "Ne'er drew a sword of steel." [Footnote A: _Smit_--Clashing noise, from smite--hence also _(perhaps)_ Smith and Smithy.] [Footnote B: _Charcoal red_--This circumstance marks the antiquity of the poem. While wood was plenty in Scotland, charcoal was the usual fuel in the chambers of the wealthy.] THE BROOMFIELD HILL. The concluding verses of this ballad were inserted in the copy of _Tamlane_, given to the public in the first edition of this work. They are now restored to their proper place. Considering how very apt the most accurate reciters are to patch up one ballad with verses from another, the utmost caution cannot always avoid such errors. A more sanguine antiquary than the editor might perhaps endeavour to identify this poem, which is of undoubted antiquity, with the _"Broom Broom on Hill,"_ mentioned by Lane, in his _Progress of Queen Elizabeth into Warwickshire_, as forming part of Captain's Cox's collection, so much envied by the black-letter antiquaries of the present day.--_Dugdale's Warwickshire,_ p. 166. The same ballad is quoted by one of the personages, in a "very mery and pythie comedie," called _"The longer thou livest, the more fool thou art."_ See Ritson's Dissertation, prefixed to _Ancient Songs,_ p. lx. "Brume brume on hill," is also mentioned in the _Complayat of Scotland_. See Leyden's edition, p. 100. THE BROOMFIELD HILL. There was a knight and a lady bright, Had a true tryste at the broom; The ane ga'ed early in the morning, The other in the afternoon. And ay she sat in her mother's bower door, And ay she made her mane, "Oh whether should I gang to the Broomfield hill, "Or should I stay at hame? "For if I gang to the Broomfield hill, "My maidenhead is gone; "And if I chance to stay at hame, "My love will ca' me mansworn." Up then spake a witch woman, Ay from the room aboon; "O, ye may gang to the Broomfield hill, "And yet come maiden hame. "For, when ye gang to the Broomfield hill, "Ye'll find your love asleep, "With a silver-belt about his head, "And a broom-cow at his feet. "Take ye the blossom of the broom, "The blossom it smells sweet, "And strew it at your true love's head, "And likewise at his feet. "Take ye the rings off your fingers, "Put them on his right hand, "To let him know, when he doth awake, "His love was at his command." She pu'd the broom flower on Hive-hill, And strew'd on's white hals bane, And that was to be wittering true, That maiden she had gane. "O where were ye, my milk-white steed, "That I hae coft sae dear, "That wadna watch and waken me, "When there was maiden here?" "I stamped wi' my foot, master, "And gar'd my bridle ring; "But na kin' thing wald waken ye, "Till she was past and gane." "And wae betide ye, my gay goss hawk, "That I did love sae dear, "That wadna watch and waken me, "When there was maiden here." "I clapped wi' my wings, master, "And aye my bells I rang, "And aye cry'd, waken, waken, master, "Before the ladye gang." "But haste and haste, my good white steed, "To come the maiden till, "Or a' the birds, of gude green wood, "Of your flesh shall have their fill." "Ye need na burst your good white steed, "Wi' racing o'er the howm; "Nae bird flies faster through the wood, "Than she fled through the broom." PROUD LADY MARGARET. _This Ballad was communicated to the Editor by Mr_ HAMILTON, _Music-seller, Edinburgh, with whose Mother it had been a, favourite. Two verses and one line were wanting, which are here supplied from a different Ballad, having a plot somewhat similar. These verses are the 6th and 9th._ 'Twas on a night, an evening bright, When the dew began to fa', Lady Margaret was walking up and down, Looking o'er her castle wa'. She looked east, and she looked west, To see what she could spy, When a gallant knight came in her sight, And to the gate drew nigh. "You seem to be no gentleman, "You wear your boots so wide; "But you seem to be some cunning hunter, "You wear the horn so syde."[A] "I am no cunning hunter," he said, "Nor ne'er intend to be; "But I am come to this castle "To seek the love of thee; "And if you do not grant me love, "This night for thee I'll die." "If you should die for me, sir knight, "There's few for you will mane, "For mony a better has died for me, "Whose graves are growing green. "But ye maun read my riddle," she said, "And answer my questions three; "And but ye read them right," she said, "Gae stretch ye out and die.-- "Now, what is the flower, the ae first flower, "Springs either on moor or dale? "And what is the bird, the bonnie bonnie bird, "Sings on the evening gale?" "The primrose is the ae first flower, "Springs either on moor or dale; "And the thistlecock is the bonniest bird; "Sings on the evening gale." "But what's the little coin," she said, "Wald buy my castle bound? "And what's the little boat," she said, "Can sail the world all round?" "O hey, how mony small pennies "Make thrice three thousand pound? "Or hey, how mony small fishes "Swim a' the salt sea round." "I think you maun be my match," she said, "My match, and something mair; "You are the first e'er got the grant Of love frae my father's heir. "My father was lord of nine castles, "My mother lady of three; "My father was lord of nine castles, "And there's nane to heir but me. "And round about a' thae castles, "You may baith plow and saw, "And on the fifteenth day of May, "The meadows they will maw." "O hald your tongue, lady Margaret," he said, "For loud I hear you lie! "Your father was lord of nine castles, "Your mother was lady of three; "Your father was lord of nine castles, "But ye fa' heir to but three. "And round about a' thae castles, "You may baith plow and saw, "But on the fifteenth day of May "The meadows will not maw. "I am your brother Willie," he said, "I trow ye ken na me; "I came to humble your haughty heart, "Has gar'd sae mony die." "If ye be my brother Willie," she said, "As I trow weel ye be, "This night I'll neither eat nor drink, "But gae alang wi' thee." "O hold your tongue, lady Margaret," he said. "Again I hear you lie; "For ye've unwashen hands, and ye've unwashen feet,[B] "To gae to clay wi' me. "For the wee worms are my bedfellows, "And cauld clay is my sheets; "And when the stormy winds do blow, "My body lies and sleeps." [Footnote A: _Syde_--Long or low.] [Footnote B: _Unwashen hands and unwashen feet_--Alluding to the custom of washing and dressing dead bodies.] THE ORIGINAL BALLAD OF THE BROOM OF COWDENKNOWS. _The beautiful air of Cowdenknows is well known and popular. In Ettrick Forest the following words are uniformly adapted to the tune, and seem to be the original ballad. An edition of this pastoral tale, differing considerably from the present copy, was published by Mr_ HERD, _in 1772. Cowdenknows is situated upon the river Leader, about four miles from Melrose, and is now the property of Dr_ HUME. O the broom, and the bonny bonny broom, And the broom of the Cowdenknows! And aye sae sweet as the lassie sang, I' the bought, milking the ewes. The hills were high on ilka side, An' the bought i' the lirk o' the hill, And aye, as she sang, her voice it rang Out o'er the head o' yon hill. There was a troop o' gentlemen Came riding merrilie by, And one of them has rode out o' the way, To the bought to the bonny may. "Weel may ye save an' see, bonny lass, "An' weel may ye save an' see." "An' sae wi' you, ye weel-bred knight," "And what's your will wi' me?" "The night is misty and mirk, fair may, "And I have ridden astray, "And will ye be so kind, fair may, "As come out and point my way?" "Ride out, ride out, ye ramp rider! "Your steed's baith stout and strang; "For out of the bought I dare na come, "For fear 'at ye do me wrang." "O winna ye pity me, bonny lass, "O winna ye pity me? "An' winna ye pity my poor steed, "Stands trembling at yon tree?" "I wadna pity your poor steed, "Tho' it were tied to a thorn; "For if ye wad gain my love the night, "Ye wad slight me ere the morn. "For I ken you by your weel-busked hat, "And your merrie twinkling e'e, "That ye're the laird o' the Oakland hills, "An' ye may weel seem for to be." "But I am not the laird o' the Oakland hills, "Ye're far mista'en o' me; "But I'm are o' the men about his house, "An' right aft in his companie." He's ta'en her by the middle jimp, And by the grass-green sleeve; He's lifted her over the fauld dyke, And speer'd at her sma' leave. O he's ta'en out a purse o' gowd, And streek'd her yellow hair, "Now, take ye that, my bonnie may, "Of me till you hear mair." O he's leapt on his berry-brown steed, An' soon he's o'erta'en his men; And ane and a' cried out to him, "O master, ye've tarry'd lang!" "O I hae been east, and I hae been west, "An' I hae been far o'er the know, "But the bonniest lass that ever I saw "Is i'the bought milking the ewes." She set the cog[A] upon her head, An' she's gane singing hame-- "O where hae ye been, my ae daughter? "Ye hae na been your lane." "O nae body was wi' me, father, "O nae body has been wi' me; "The night is misty and mirk, father, "Ye may gang to the door and see. "But wae be to your ewe-herd, father, "And an ill deed may he die; "He bug the bought at the back o' the know, "And a tod[B] has frighted me. "There came a tod to the bought-door, "The like I never saw; "And ere he had tane the lamb he did, "I had lourd he had ta'en them a'." O whan fifteen weeks was come and gane, Fifteen weeks and three. That lassie began to look thin and pale, An' to long for his merry twinkling e'e. It fell on a day, on a het simmer day, She was ca'ing out her father's kye, By came a troop o' gentlemen, A' merrilie riding bye. "Weel may ye save an' see, bonny may, "Weel may ye save and see! "Weel I wat, ye be a very bonny may, "But whae's aught that babe ye are wi'?" Never a word could that lassie say, For never a ane could she blame, An' never a word could the lassie say, But "I have a good man at hame." "Ye lied, ye lied, my very bonny may, "Sae loud as I hear you lie; "For dinna ye mind that misty night "I was i' the bought wi' thee? "I ken you by your middle sae jimp, "An' your merry twinkling e'e, "That ye're the bonny lass i'the Cowdenknow, "An' ye may weel seem for to be." Than he's leap'd off his berry-brown steed, An' he's set that fair may on-- "Caw out your kye, gude father, yoursell, "For she's never caw them out again. "I am the laird of the Oakland hills, "I hae thirty plows and three; "Ah' I hae gotten the bonniest lass "That's in a' the south country. [Footnote A: _Cog_--Milking-pail.] [Footnote B: _Tod_--Fox.] LORD RANDAL. There is a beautiful air to this old ballad. The hero is more generally termed _Lord Ronald;_ but I willingly follow the authority of an Ettrick Forest copy for calling him _Randal;_ because, though the circumstances are so very different, I think it not impossible, that the ballad may have originally regarded the death of Thomas Randolph, or Randal, earl of Murray, nephew to Robert Bruce, and governor of Scotland. This great warrior died at Musselburgh, 1332, at the moment when his services were most necessary to his country, already threatened by an English army. For this sole reason, perhaps, our historians obstinately impute his death to poison. See _The Bruce_, book xx. Fordun repeats, and Boece echoes, this story, both of whom charge the murder on Edward III. But it is combated successfully by Lord Hailes, in his _Remarks on the History of Scotland_. The substitution of some venomous reptile for food, or putting it into liquor, was anciently supposed to be a common mode of administering poison; as appears from the following curious account of the death of King John, extracted from a MS. Chronicle of England, _penes_ John Clerk, esq. advocate. "And, in the same tyme, the pope sente into Englond a legate, that men cald Swals, and he was prest cardinal of Rome, for to mayntene King Johnes cause agens the barons of Englond; but the barons had so much pte (_poustie_, i.e. power) through Lewys, the kinges sone of Fraunce, that King Johne wist not wher for to wend ne gone: and so hitt fell, that he wold have gone to Suchold; and as he went thedurward, he come by the abbey of Swinshed, and ther he abode II dayes. And, as he sate at meat, he askyd a monke of the house, how moche a lofe was worth, that was before hym sete at the table? and the monke sayd that loffe was worthe bot ane halfpenny. 'O!' quod the kyng, 'this is a grette cheppe of brede; now,' said the king, 'and yff I may, such a loffe shalle be worth xxd. or half a yer be gone:' and when he said the word, muche he thought, and ofte tymes sighed, and nome and ete of the bred, and said, 'By Gode, the word that I have spokyn shall be sothe.' The monke, that stode befor the kyng, was ful sory in his hert; and thought rather he wold himself suffer peteous deth; and thought yff he myght ordeyn therfore sum remedy. And anon the monke went unto his abbott, and was schryvyd of him, and told the abbott all that the kyng said, and prayed his abbott to assoyl him, for he wold gyffe the kyng such a wassayle, that all Englond shuld be glad and joyful therof. Tho went the monke into a gardene, and fond a tode therin; and toke her upp, and put hyr in a cuppe, and filled it with good ale, and pryked hyr in every place, in the cuppe, till the venome come out in every place; an brought hitt befor the kyng, and knelyd, and said, 'Sir, wassayle; for never in your lyfe drancke ye of such a cuppe,' 'Begyne, monke,' quod the king; and the monke dranke a gret draute, and toke the kyng the cuppe, and the kyng also drank a grett draute, and set downe the cuppe.--The monke anon went to the Farmarye, and ther dyed anon, on whose soule God have mercy, Amen. And v monkes syng for his soule especially, and shall while the abbey stondith. The kyng was anon ful evil at ese, and comaunded to remove the table, and askyd after the monke; and men told him that he was ded, for his wombe was broke in sondur. When the king herd this tidyng, he comaunded for to trusse; but all hit was for nought, for his bely began to swelle for the drink that he dranke, that he dyed within II dayes, the moro aftur Seynt Luke's day." A different account of the poisoning of King John is given in a MS. Chronicle of England, written in the minority of Edward III., and contained in the Auchinleck MS. of Edinburgh. Though not exactly to our present purpose, the passage is curious, and I shall quote it without apology. The author has mentioned the interdict laid on John's kingdom by the pope, and continues thus: He was ful wroth and grim, For no prest wald sing for him He made tho his parlement, And swore his _croy de verament_, That he shuld make such assaut, To fede all Inglonde with a spand. And eke with a white lof, Therefore I hope[A] he was God-loth. A monk it herd of Swines-heued, And of this wordes he was adred, He went hym to his fere, And seyd to hem in this manner; "The king has made a sori oth, That he schal with a white lof Fede al Inglonde, and with a spand, Y wis it were a sori saut; And better is that we die to, Than al Inglond be so wo. Ye schul for me belles ring, And after wordes rede and sing; So helpe you God, heven king, Granteth me alle now mill asking, And Ichim wil with puseoun slo, Ne schal he never Inglond do wo." His brethren him graunt alle his bone. He let him shrive swithe sone, To make his soule fair and cleue, To for our leuedi heven queen, That sche schuld for him be, To for her son in trinité. Dansimond zede and gadred frut, For sothe were plommes white, The steles[B] he puld out everichon, Puisoun he dede therin anon, And sett the steles al ogen, That the gile schuld nought be sen. He dede hem in a coupe of gold, And went to the kinges bord; On knes he him sett, The king full fair he grett; "Sir," he said, "by Seynt Austin, This is front of our garden, And gif that your wil be, Assayet herof after me." Dansimoud ete frut, on and on, And al tho other ete King Jon; The monke aros, and went his way, God gif his soule wel gode day; He gaf King Jon ther his puisoun, Himself had that ilk doun, He dede, it is nouther for mirthe ne ond, Bot for to save al Iuglond. The King Jon sate at mete, His wombe to wex grete; He swore his oth, _per la croyde_, His wombe wald brest a thre; He wald have risen fram the bord, Ac he spake never more word; Thus ended his time, Y wis he had an evel fine. [Footnote A: _Hope, for think._] [Footnote B: _Steles_--Stalks.] Shakespeare, from such old chronicles, has drawn his authority for the last fine scene in _King John_. But he probably had it from Caxton, who uses nearly the words of the prose chronicle. Hemingford tells the same tale with the metrical historian. It is certain, that John increased the flux, of which he died, by the intemperate use of peaches and of ale, which may have given rise to the story of the poison.--See MATTHEW PARIS. To return to the ballad: there is a very similar song, in which, apparently to excite greater interest in the nursery, the handsome young hunter is exchanged for a little child, poisoned by a false step-mother. LORD RANDAL. "O where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son? "O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?" "I hae been to the wild wood; mother, make my bed soon, "For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." "Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? "Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?" "I din'd wi' my true-love; mother, make my bed soon, "For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." "What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randal, my son?. "What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?" "I gat eels boil'd in broo'; mother, make my bed soon, "For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." "What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my son? "What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?" "O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon, "For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." "O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Randal, my son! "O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!" "O yes! I am poison'd; mother, make my bed soon, "For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down." SIR HUGH LE BLOND. This ballad is a northern composition, and seems to have been the original of the legend called _Sir Aldingar_, which is printed in the _Reliques of Antient Poetry_. The incidents are nearly the same in both ballads, excepting that, in _Aldingar_, an angel combats for the queen, instead of a mortal champion. The names of _Aldingar_ and _Rodingham_ approach near to each other in sound, though not in orthography, and the one might, by reciters, be easily substituted for the other. The tradition, upon which the ballad is founded, is universally current in the Mearns; and the editor is informed, that, till very lately, the sword, with which Sir Hugh le Blond was believed to have defended the life and honour of the queen, was carefully preserved by his descendants, the viscounts of Arbuthnot. That Sir Hugh of Arbuthnot lived in the thirteenth century, is proved by his having, in 1282, bestowed the patronage of the church of Garvoch upon the monks of Aberbrothwick, for the safety of his soul.--_Register of Aberbrothwick, quoted by Crawford in Peerage._ But I find no instance in history, in which the honour of a queen of Scotland was committed to the chance of a duel. It is true, that Mary, wife of Alexander II., was, about 1242, somewhat implicated in a dark story, concerning the murder of Patrick, earl of Athole, burned in his lodging at Haddington, where he had gone to attend a great tournament. The relations of the deceased baron accused of the murder Sir William Bisat, a powerful nobleman, who appears to have been in such high favour with the young queen, that she offered her oath, as a compurgator, to prove his innocence. Bisat himself stood upon his defence, and proffered the combat to his accusers; but he was obliged to give way to the tide, and was banished from Scotland. This affair interested all the northern barons; and it is not impossible, that some share, taken in it by this Sir Hugh de Arbuthnot, may have given a slight foundation for the tradition of the country.--WINTON, B. vii. ch. 9. Or, if we suppose Sir Hugh le Blond to be a predecessor of the Sir Hugh who flourished in the thirteenth century, he may have been the victor in a duel, shortly noticed as having occurred in 1154, when one Arthur, accused of treason, was unsuccessful in his appeal to the judgment of God. _Arthurus regem Malcolm proditurus duello periit._ Chron. Sanctae Crucis ap. Anglia Sacra, Vol. I. p. 161. But, true or false, the incident, narrated in the ballad, is in the genuine style of chivalry. Romances abound with similar instances, nor are they wanting in real history. The most solemn part of a knight's oath was to defend "all widows, orphelines, and maidens of gude fame."[A]--LINDSAY'S _Heraldry, MS._ The love of arms was a real passion of itself, which blazed yet more fiercely when united with the enthusiastic admiration of the fair sex. The knight of Chaucer exclaims, with chivalrous energy, To fight for a lady! a benedicite! It were a lusty sight for to see. It was an argument, seriously urged by Sir John of Heinault, for making war upon Edward II., in behalf of his banished wife, Isabella, that knights were bound to aid, to their uttermost power, all distressed damsels, living without council or comfort. [Footnote A: Such an oath is still taken by the Knights of the Bath; but, I believe, few of that honourable brotherhood will now consider it quite so obligatory as the conscientious Lord Herbert of Cherbury, who gravely alleges it as a sufficient reason for having challenged divers cavaliers, that they had either snatched from a lady her bouquet, or ribband, or, by some discourtesy of similar importance, placed her, as his lordship conceived, in the predicament of a distressed damozell.] An apt illustration of the ballad would have been the combat, undertaken by three Spanish champions against three Moors of Granada, in defence of the honour of the queen of Granada, wife to Mohammed Chiquito, the last monarch of that kingdom. But I have not at hand _Las Guerras Civiles de Granada_, in which that atchievement is recorded. Raymond Berenger, count of Barcelona, is also said to have defended, in single combat, the life and honour of the Empress Matilda, wife of the Emperor Henry V., and mother to Henry II. of England.--See ANTONIO ULLOA, _del vero Honore Militare_, Venice, 1569. A less apocryphal example is the duel, fought in 1387, betwixt Jaques le Grys and John de Carogne, before the king of France. These warriors were retainers of the earl of Alencon, and originally sworn brothers. John de Carogne went over the sea, for the advancement of his fame, leaving in his castle a beautiful wife, where she lived soberly and sagely. But the devil entered into the heart of Jaques le Grys, and he rode, one morning, from the earl's house to the castle of his friend, where he was hospitably received by the unsuspicious lady. He requested her to show him the donjon, or keep of the castle, and in that remote and inaccessible tower forcibly violated her chastity. He then mounted his horse, and returned to the earl of Alencon within so short a space, that his absence had not been perceived. The lady abode within the donjon, weeping bitterly, and exclaiming, "Ah Jaques! it was not well done thus to shame me! but on you shall the shame rest, if God send my husband safe home!" The lady kept secret this sorrowful deed until her husband's return from his voyage. The day passed, and night came, and the knight went to bed; but the lady would not; for ever she blessed herself, and walked up and down the chamber, studying and musing, until her attendants had retired; and then, throwing herself on her knees before the knight, she shewed him all the adventure. Hardly would Carogne believe the treachery of his companion; but, when convinced, he replied, "Since it is so, lady, I pardon you; but the knight shall die for this villainous deed." Accordingly, Jaques le Grys was accused of the crime, in the court of the earl of Alencon. But, as he was greatly loved of his lord, and as the evidence was very slender, the earl gave judgment against the accusers. Hereupon John Carogne appealed to the parliament of Paris; which court, after full consideration, appointed the case to be tried by mortal combat betwixt the parties, John Carogne appearing as the champion of his lady. If he failed in his combat, then was he to be hanged, and his lady burned, as false and unjust calumniators. This combat, under circumstances so very peculiar, attracted universal attention; in so much, that the king of France and his peers, who were then in Flanders, collecting troops for an invasion of England, returned to Paris, that so notable a duel might be fought in the royal presence. "Thus the kynge, and his uncles, and the constable, came to Parys. Then the lystes were made in a place called Saynt Katheryne, behinde the Temple. There was soo moche people, that it was mervayle to beholde; and on the one side of the lystes there was made gret scaffoldes, that the lordes might the better se the batayle of the ii champion; and so they bothe came to the felde, armed at all peaces, and there eche of them was set in theyr chayre; the erle of Saynt Poule gouverned John of Carongne, and the erle of Alanson's company with Jacques le Grys; and when the knyght entred in to the felde, he came to his wyfe, who was there syttynge in a chayre, covered in blacke, and he sayd to her thus:--Dame, by your enformacyon, and in your quarrell, I do put my lyfe in adventure, as to fyght with Jacques le Grys; ye knowe, if the cause be just and true.'--'Syr,' sayd the lady, 'it is as I have sayd; wherefore ye maye fyght surely; the cause is good and true.' With those wordes, the knyghte kissed the lady, and toke her by the hande, and then blessyd hym, and soo entred into the felde. The lady sate styll in the blacke chayre, in her prayers to God, and to the vyrgyne Mary, humbly prayenge them, by theyr specyall grace, to send her husbande the victory, accordynge to the ryght. She was in gret hevynes, for she was not sure of her lyfe; for, if her husbande sholde have ben dyscomfyted, she was judged, without remedy, to be brente, and her husbande hanged. I cannot say whether she repented her or not, as the matter was so forwarde, that both she and her husbande were in grete peryll: howbeit, fynally, she must as then abyde the adventure. Then these two champyons were set one agaynst another, and so mounted on theyr horses, and behauved them nobly; for they knewe what perteyned to deades of armes. There were many lordes and knyghtes of Fraunce, that were come thyder to se that batayle. The two champyons justed at theyr fyrst metyng, but none of them dyd hurte other; and, after the justes, they lyghted on foote to periournie theyr batayle, and soo fought valyauntly.--And fyrst, John of Carongne was hurt in the thyghe, whereby al his frendes were in grete fere; but, after that, he fought so valyauntly, that he bette down his adversary to the erthe, and threst his swerde in his body, and soo slewe hyrn in the felde; and then he demaunded, if he had done his devoyse or not? and they answered, that he had valyauntly atchieved his batayle. Then Jacques le Grys was delyuered to the hangman of Parys, and he drewe hym to the gybbet of Mountfawcon, and there hanged him up. Then John of Carongne came before the kynge, and kneled downe, and the kynge made him to stand up before hym; and, the same daye, the kynge caused to be delyvred to him a thousande franks, and reteyned him to be of his chambre, with a pencyon of ii hundred pounde by yere, durynge the terme of his lyfe. Then he thanked the kynge and the lordes, and went to his wyfe, and kissed her; and then they wente togyder to the chyrche of our ladye, in Parys, and made theyr offerynge, and then retourned to their lodgynges. Then this Sir John of Carongne taryed not longe in Fraunce, but went, with Syr John Boucequant, Syr John of Bordes, and Syr Loys Grat. All these went to se Lamorabaquyn,[A] of whome, in those dayes, there was moche spekynge." [Footnote A: This odd name Froissart gives to the famous Mahomet, emperor of Turkey, called the Great.] Such was the readiness, with which, in those times, heroes put their lives in jeopardy, for honour and lady's sake. But I doubt whether the fair dames of the present day will think, that the risk of being burned, upon every suspicion of frailty, could be altogether compensated by the probability, that a husband of good faith, like John de Carogne, or a disinterested champion, like Hugh le Blond, would take up the gauntlet in their behalf. I fear they will rather accord to the sentiment of the hero of an old romance, who expostulates thus with a certain duke:-- Certes, sir duke, thou doest unright, To make a roast of your daughter bright; I wot you ben unkind. _Amis and Amelion._ I was favoured with the following copy of _Sir Hugh le Blond_, by K. Williamson Burnet, Esq. of Monboddo, who wrote it down from the recitation of an old woman, long in the service of the Arbuthnot family. Of course the diction is very much humbled, and it has, in all probability, undergone many corruptions; but its antiquity is indubitable, and the story, though indifferently told, is in itself interesting. It is believed, that there have been many more verses. SIR HUGH LE BLOND. The birds sang sweet as ony bell, The world had not their make, The queen she's gone to her chamber, With Rodingham to talk. "I love you well, my queen, my dame, "'Bove land and rents so clear "And for the love of you, my queen, "Would thole pain most severe." "If well you love me, Rodingham, "I'm sure so do I thee: "I love you well as any man, "Save the king's fair bodye." "I love you well, my queen, my dame; "'Tis truth that I do tell: "And for to lye a night with you, "The salt seas I would sail." "Away, away, O Rodingham! "You are both stark and stoor; "Would you defile the king's own bed, "And make his queen a whore? "To-morrow you'd be taken sure, "And like a traitor slain; "And I'd be burned at a stake, "Altho' I be the queen." He then stepp'd out at her room-door, All in an angry mood; Until he met a leper-man, Just by the hard way-side. He intoxicate the leper-man With liquors very sweet; And gave him more and more to drink, Until he fell asleep. He took him in his arms two, And carried him along, Till he came to the queen's own bed, And there he laid him down. He then stepp'd out of the queen's bower, As switt as any roe, Till he came to the very place Where the king himself did go. The king said unto Rodingham, "What news have you to me?" He said, "Your queen's a false woman, "As I did plainly see." He hasten'd to the queen's chamber, So costly and so fine, Untill he came to the queen's own bed, Where the leper-man was lain. He looked on the leper-man, Who lay on his queen's bed; He lifted up the snaw-white sheets, And thus he to him said: "Plooky, plooky,[A] are your cheeks, "And plooky is your chin, "And plooky are your arms two "My bonny queen's layne in. "Since she has lain into your arms, "She shall not lye in mine; "Since she has kiss'd your ugsome mouth, "She never shall kiss mine." In anger he went to the queen, Who fell upon her knee; He said, "You false, unchaste woman, "What's this you've done to me?" The queen then turn'd herself about, The tear blinded her e'e-- There's not a knight in all your court "Dare give that name to me." He said, "'Tis true that I do say; "For I a proof did make: "You shall be taken from my bower, "And burned at a stake. "Perhaps I'll take my word again, "And may repent the same, "If that you'll get a Christian man "To fight that Rodingham." "Alas! alas!" then cried our queen, "Alas, and woe to me! "There's not a man in all Scotland "Will fight with him for me." She breathed unto her messengers, Sent them south, east, and west; They could find none to fight with him, Nor enter the contest. She breathed on her messengers, She sent them to the north; And there they found Sir Hugh le Blond, To fight him he came forth. When unto him they did unfold The circumstance all right, He bade them go and tell the queen, That for her he would fight. The day came on that was to do That dreadful tragedy; Sir Hugh le Blond was not come up To fight for our lady. "Put on the fire," the monster said; "It is twelve on the bell!" "Tis scarcely ten, now," said the king; "I heard the clock mysell." Before the hour the queen is brought, The burning to proceed; In a black velvet chair she's set, A token for the dead. She saw the flames ascending high, The tears blinded her e'e: "Where is the worthy knight," she said, "Who is to fight for me?" Then up and spake the king himsel, "My dearest, have no doubt, "For yonder comes the man himsel, "As bold as ere set out." They then advanced to fight the duel With swords of temper'd steel, Till down the blood of Rodingham Came running to his heel. Sir Hugh took out a lusty sword, 'Twas of the metal clear; And he has pierced Rodingham Till's heart-blood did appear. "Confess your treachery, now," he said, "This day before you die!" "I do confess my treachery, "I shall no longer lye: "I like to wicked Haman am, "This day I shall be slain." The queen was brought to her chamber A good woman again. The queen then said unto the king, "Arbattle's near the sea; "Give it unto the northern knight, "That this day fought for me." Then said the king, "Come here, sir knight, "And drink a glass of wine; "And, if Arbattle's not enough, "To it we'll Fordoun join." [Footnote A: _Plooky_--Pimpled.] NOTES ON SIR HUGH LE BLOND. _Until he met a leper-man. &c._--P. 268. v. 4. Filth, poorness of living, and the want of linen, made this horrible disease formerly very common in Scotland. Robert Bruce died of the leprosy; and, through all Scotland, there were hospitals erected for the reception of lepers, to prevent their mingling with the rest of the community. _"It is twelve on the bell!" "Tis scarcely ten, now," said the king, &c._--P. 272. v. 2. In the romance of Doolin, called _La Fleur des Battailles_, a false accuser discovers a similar impatience to hurry over the execution, before the arrival of the lady's champion:--_"Ainsi comme Herchambaut vouloit jetter la dame dedans le feu, Sanxes de Clervaut va a lui, si lui dict; 'Sire Herchambaut, vous estes trop a blasmer; car vous ne devez mener ceste chose que par droit ainsi qu'il est ordonnè; je veux accorder que ceste dame ait un vassal qui la diffendra contre vous et Drouart, car elle n'a point de coulpe en ce que l'accusez; si la devez retarder jusque a midy, pour scavoir si un bon chevalier l'a viendra secourir centre vous et Drouart."_--Cap. 22. _"And, if Arbattle's not enough, "To it we'll Fordoun join."_--P. 274. v. 1. Arbattle is the ancient name of the barony of Arbuthnot. Fordun has long been the patrimony of the same family. GRAEME AND BEWICK. The date of this ballad, and its subject, are uncertain. From internal evidence, I am inclined to place it late in the sixteenth century. Of the Graemes enough is elsewhere said. It is not impossible, that such a clan, as they are described, may have retained the rude ignorance of ancient border manners to a later period than their more inland neighbours; and hence the taunt of old Bewick to Graeme. Bewick is an ancient name in Cumberland and Northumberland. The ballad itself was given, in the first edition, from the recitation of a gentleman, who professed to have forgotten some verses. These have, in the present edition, been partly restored, from a copy obtained by the recitation of an ostler in Carlisle, which has also furnished some slight alterations. The ballad is remarkable, as containing, probably, the very latest allusion to the institution of brotherhood in arms, which was held so sacred in the days of chivalry, and whose origin may be traced up to the Scythian ancestors of Odin. Many of the old romances turn entirely upon the sanctity of the engagement, contracted by the _freres d'armes_. In that of _Amis and Amelion_, the hero slays his two infant children, that he may compound a potent salve with their blood, to cure the leprosy of his brother in arms. The romance of _Gyron le Courtois_ has a similar subject. I think the hero, like Graeme in the ballad, kills himself, out of some high point of honour towards his friend. The quarrel of the two old chieftains, over their wine, is highly in character. Two generations have not elapsed since the custom of drinking deep, and taking deadly revenge for slight offences, produced very tragical events on the border; to which the custom of going armed to festive meetings contributed not a little. A minstrel, who flourished about 1720, and is often talked of by the old people, happened to be performing before one of these parties, when they betook themselves to their swords. The cautious musician, accustomed to such scenes, dived beneath the table. A moment after, a man's hand, struck off with a back-sword, fell beside him. The minstrel secured it carefully in his pocket, as he would have done any other loose moveable; sagely observing, the owner would miss it sorely next morning. I chuse rather to give this ludicrous example, than some graver instances of bloodshed at border orgies. I observe it is said, in a MS. account of Tweeddale, in praise of the inhabitants, that, "when they fall in the humour of good fellowship, they use it as a cement and bond of society, and not to foment revenge, quarrels, and murders, which is usual in other countries;" by which we ought, probably, to understand Selkirkshire and Teviotdale.--_Macfarlane's MSS._ GRAEME AND BEWICK. Gude lord Graeme is to Carlisle gane; Sir Robert Bewick there met he; And arm in arm to the wine they did go, And they drank till they were baith merrie. Gude lord Graeme has ta'en up the cup, "Sir Robert Bewick, and here's to thee! "And here's to our twae sons at hame! "For they like us best in our ain countrie." "O were your son a lad like mine, "And learn'd some books that he could read, "They might hae been twae brethren bauld, "And they might hae bragged the border side." "But your son's a lad, and he is but bad, "And billie to my son he canna be; * * * * * "Ye sent him to the schools, and he wadna learn; "Ye bought him books, and he wadna read." "But my blessing shall he never earn, "Till I see how his arm can defend his head." Gude lord Graeme has a reckoning call'd, A reckoning then called he; And he paid a crown, and it went roun'; It was all for the gude wine and free.[A] And he has to the stable gaen, Where there stude thirty steeds and three; He's ta'en his ain horse amang them a', And hame he' rade sae manfullie. "Wellcome, my auld father!" said Christie Graeme, "But where sae lang frae hame were ye?" "It's I hae been at Carlisle town, "And a baffled man by thee I be. "I hae been at Carlisle town, "Where Sir Robert Bewick he met me; "He says ye're a lad, and ye are but bad, "And billie to his son ye canna be. "I sent ye to the schools, and ye wadna learn; "I bought ye books, and ye wadna read; "Therefore, my blessing ye shall never earn, "Till I see with Bewick thou save thy head." "Now, God forbid, my auld father, "That ever sic a thing suld be! "Billie Bewick was my master, and I was his scholar, "And aye sae weel as he learned me." "O hald thy tongue, thou limmer lown, "And of thy talking let me be! "If thou does na end me this quarrel soon, "There is my glove I'll fight wi' thee." Then Christie Graeme he stooped low Unto the ground, you shall understand;-- "O father, put on your glove again, "The wind has blown it from your hand." "What's that thou says, thou limmer loun? "How dares thou stand to speak to me? "If thou do not end this quarrel soon, "There's my right hand thou shalt fight with me." Then Christie Graeme's to his chamber gane, To consider weel what then should be; Whether he suld fight with his auld father Or with his billie Bewick, he. "If I suld kill my billie dear, "God's blessing I sall never win; "But if I strike at my auld father, "I think 'twald be a mortal sin. "But if I kill my billie dear, "It is God's will! so let it be. "But I make a vow, ere I gang frae hame, "That I shall be the next man's die." Then he's put on's back a good ould jack, And on his head a cap of steel, And sword and buckler by his side; O gin he did not become them weel! We'll leave off talking of Christie Graeme, And talk of him again belive; And we will talk of bonnie Bewick, Where he was teaching his scholars five. When he had taught them well to fence, And handle swords without any doubt; He took his sword under his arm, And he walked his father's close about. He looked atween him and the sun, And a' to see what there might be, Till he spied a man, in armour bright, Was riding that way most hastilie. "O wha is yon, that came this way, "Sae hastilie that hither came? "I think it be my brother dear; "I think it be young Christie Graeme." "Ye're welcome here, my billie dear, "And thrice you're welcome unto me!" "But I'm wae to say, I've seen the day, "When I am come to fight with thee. "My father's gane to Carlisle town, "Wi' your father Bewick there met he; "He says I'm a lad, and I am but bad, "And a baffled man I trow I be. "He sent me to schools, and I wadna learn; "He gae me books, and I wadna read; "Sae my father's blessing I'll never earn, "Till he see how my arm can guard my head." "O God forbid, my billie dear, "That ever such a thing suld be! "We'll take three men on either side, "And see if we can our fathers agree." "O hald thy tongue, now, billie Bewick, "And of thy talking let me be! "But if thou'rt a man, as I'm sure thou art, "Come o'er the dyke, and fight wi' me." "But I hae nae harness, billie, on my back, "As weel I see there is on thine." "But as little harness as is on thy back, "As little, billie, shall be on mine." Then he's thrown aff his coat of mail, His cap of steel away flung he; He stuck his spear into the ground, And he tied his horse unto a tree. Then Bewick has thrown aff his cloak, And's psalter-book frae's hand flung he; He laid his hand upon the dyke, And ower he lap most manfullie. O they hae fought for twae lang hours; When twae lang hours were come and gane, The sweat drapped fast frae aff them baith, But a drap of blude could not be seen. Till Graeme gae Bewick an ackward[B] stroke, Ane ackward stroke, strucken sickerlie; He has hit him under the left breast, And dead-wounded to the ground fell he. "Rise up, rise up, now, hillie dear! "Arise, and speak three words to me!-- "Whether thou'se gotten thy deadly wound, "Or if God and good leaching may succour thee?" "O horse, O horse, now billie Graeme, "And get thee far from hence with speed; "And get thee out of this country, "That none may know who has done the deed." "O I have slain thee, billie Bewick, "If this be true thou tellest to me; "But I made a vow, ere I came frae hame, "That aye the next man I wad be." He has pitched his sword in a moodie-hill,[C] And he has leap'd twentie lang feet and three, And on his ain sword's point he lap, And dead upon the grund fell he. 'Twas then came up Sir Robert Bewick, And his brave son alive saw he; "Rise up, rise up, my son," he said, "For I think ye hae gotten the victorie." "O hald your tongue, my father dear! "Of your prideful talking let me be! "Ye might hae drunken your wine in peace, "And let me and my billie be. "Gae dig a grave, baith wide and deep, "A grave to hald baith him and me; "But lay Christie Graeme on the sunny side, "For I'm sure he wan the victorie." "Alack! a wae!" auld Bewick cried, "Alack! was I not much to blame! "I'm sure I've lost the liveliest lad "That e'er was born unto my name." "Alack! a wae!" quo' gude Lord Graeme, "I'm sure I hae lost the deeper lack! "I durst hae ridden the Border through, "Had Christie Graeme been at my back. "Had I been led through Liddesdale, "And thirty horsemen guarding me, "And Christie Gramme been at my back, "Sae soon as he had set me free! "I've lost my hopes, I've lost my joy, "I've lost the key but and the lock; "I durst hae ridden the world round, "Had Christie Graeme been at my back." [Footnote A: The ostler's copy reads very characteristically-- "It was all for good wine and _hay_."] [Footnote B: _Ackward_--Backward.] [Footnote C: _Moodie-hill_--Mole-hill.] THE DUEL OF WHARTON AND STUART. IN TWO PARTS. Duels, as may be seen from the two preceding ballads, are derived from the times of chivalry. They succeeded to the _combat at outrance_, about the end of the sixteenth century; and, though they were no longer countenanced by the laws, nor considered a solemn appeal to the Deity, nor honoured by the presence of applauding monarchs and multitudes, yet they were authorised by the manners of the age, and by the applause of the fair.[A] They long continued, they even yet continue, to be appealed to, as the test of truth; since, by the code of honour, every gentleman is still bound to repel a charge of falsehood with the point of his sword, and at the peril of his life. This peculiarity of manners, which would have surprised an ancient Roman, is obviously deduced from the Gothic ordeal of trial by combat. Nevertheless, the custom of duelling was considered, at its first introduction, as an innovation upon the law of arms; and a book, in two huge volumes, entituled _Le vrai Theatre d' Honneur et de la Chivalerie_, was written by a French nobleman, to support the venerable institutions of chivalry against this unceremonious mode of combat. He has chosen for his frontispiece two figures; the first represents a conquering knight, trampling his enemy under foot in the lists, crowned by Justice with laurel, and preceded by Fame, sounding his praises. The other figure presents a duellist, in his shirt, as was then the fashion (see the following ballad), with his bloody rapier in his hand: the slaughtered combatant is seen in the distance, and the victor is pursued by the Furies. Nevertheless, the wise will make some scruple, whether, if the warriors were to change equipments, they might not also exchange their emblematic attendants. The modern mode of duel, without defensive armour, began about the reign of Henry III. of France, when the gentlemen of that nation, as we learn from Davila, began to lay aside the cumbrous lance and cuirass, even in war. The increase of danger being supposed to contribute to the increase of honour, the national ardour of the french gallants led them early to distinguish themselves by neglect of every thing, that could contribute to their personal safety. Hence, duels began to be fought by the combatants in their shirts, and with the rapier only. To this custom contributed also the art of fencing, then cultivated as a new study in Italy and Spain, by which the sword became, at once, an offensive and defensive weapon. The reader will see the new "science of defence," as it was called, ridiculed by Shakespeare, in _Romeo and Juliet_, and by Don Quevedo, in some of his novels. But the more ancient customs continued for some time to maintain their ground. The sieur Colombiere mentions two gentlemen, who fought with equal advantage for a whole day, in all the panoply of chivalry, and, the next day, had recourse to the modern mode of combat. By a still more extraordinary mixture of ancient and modern fashions, two combatants on horseback ran a tilt at each other with lances, without any covering but their shirts. [Footnote A: "All things being ready for the ball, and every one being in their place, and I myself being next to the queen (of France), expecting when the dancers would come in, one knockt at the door somewhat louder than became, as I thought, a very civil person. When he came in, I remember there was a sudden whisper among the ladies, saying, 'C'est Monsieur Balagny,' or, 'tis Monsieur Balagny; whereupon, also, I saw the ladies and gentlewomen, one after another, invite him to sit near them; and, which is more, when one lady had his company a while, another would say, 'you have enjoyed him long enough; I must have him now;' at which bold civility of theirs, though I were astonished, yet it added unto my wonder, that his person could not be thought, at most, but ordinary handsome; his hair, which was cut very short, half grey, his doublet but of sackcloth, cut to his shirt, and his breeches only of plain grey cloth. Informing myself of some standers by who he was, I was told he was one of the gallantest men in the world, as having killed eight or nine men in single fight; and that, for this reason, the ladies made so much of him; it being the manner of all French women to cherish gallant men, as thinking they could not make so much of any one else, with the safety of their honour."--_Life of Lord Herbert of Cherbury,_ p. 70. How near the character of the duellist, originally, approached to that of the knight-errant, appears from a transaction, which took place at the siege of Juliers, betwixt this Balagny and Lord Herbert. As these two noted duellists stood together in the trenches, the Frenchman addressed Lord Herbert: _"Monsieur, on dit que vous etes un des plus braves de votre nation, et je suis Balagny; allons voir qui fera le mieux."_ With these words, Balagny jumped over the trench, and Herbert as speedily following, both ran sword in hand towards the defences of the besieged town, which welcomed their approach with a storm of musquetry and artillery. Balagny then observed, this was hot service; but Herbert swore, he would not turn back first; so the Frenchman was finally fain to set him the example or retreat. Notwithstanding the advantage which he had gained over Balagny, in this "jeopardy of war," Lord Herbert seems still to have grudged that gentleman's astonishing reputation; for he endeavoured to pick a quarrel with him, on the romantic score of the worth of their mistresses; and, receiving a ludicrous answer, told him, with disdain, that he spoke more like a _palliard_ than a _cavalier_. From such instances the reader may judge, whether the age of chivalry did not endure somewhat longer than is generally supposed.] When armour was laid aside, the consequence was, that the first duels were very sanguinary, terminating frequently in the death of one, and sometimes, as in the ballad, of both persons engaged. Nor was this all: The seconds, who had nothing to do with the quarrel, fought stoutly, _pour se desennuyer_, and often sealed with their blood their friendship for their principal. A desperate combat, fought between Messrs Entraguet and Caylus, is said to have been the first, in which this fashion of promiscuous fight was introduced. It proved fatal to two of Henry the Third's minions, and extracted from that sorrowing monarch an edict against duelling, which was as frequently as fruitlessly renewed by his successors. The use of rapier and poniard together,[A] was another cause of the mortal slaughter in these duels, which were supposed, in the reign of Henry IV., to have cost France at least as many of her nobles as had fallen in the civil wars. With these double weapons, frequent instances occurred, in which a duellist, mortally wounded, threw himself within his antagonist's guard, and plunged his poniard into his heart. Nay, sometimes the sword was altogether abandoned for the more sure and murderous dagger. A quarrel having arisen betwixt the vicompte d' Allemagne and the sieur de la Roque, the former, alleging the youth and dexterity of his antagonist, insisted upon fighting the duel in their shirts, and with their poniards only; a desperate mode of conflict, which proved fatal to both. Others refined even upon this horrible struggle, by chusing for the scene a small room, a large hogshead, or, finally, a hole dug in the earth, into which the duellists descended, as into a certain grave.--Must I add, that even women caught the phrenzy, and that duels were fought, not only by those whose rank and character rendered it little surprising, but by modest and well-born maidens! _Audiguier Traité de Duel. Theatre D' Honneur,_ Vol. I.[B] [Footnote A: It appears from a line in the black-letter copy of the following ballad, that Wharton and Stuart fought with rapier and dagger: With that stout Wharton was the first Took _rapier_ and _poniard_ there that day. _Ancient Songs,_ 1792, p. 204.] [Footnote B: This folly ran to such a pitch, that no one was thought worthy to be reckoned a gentleman, who had not tried his valour in at least one duel; of which Lord Herbert gives the following instance:--A young gentleman, desiring to marry a niece of Monsieur Disaucour, _ecuyer_ to the duke de Montmorenci, received this answer: "Friend, it is not yet time to marry; if you will be a brave man, you must first kill, in single combat, two or three men; then marry, and get two or three children; otherwise the world will neither have gained or lost by you." HERBERT'S _Life_, p. 64.] We learn, from every authority, that duels became nearly as common in England, after the accession of James VI., as they had ever been in France. The point of honour, so fatal to the gallants of the age, was no where carried more highly than at the court of the pacific _Solomon_ of Britain. Instead of the feudal combats, upon the _Hie-gate of Edinburgh_, which had often disturbed his repose at Holy-rood, his levees, at Theobald's, were occupied with listening to the detail of more polished, but not less sanguinary, contests. I rather suppose, that James never was himself disposed to pay particular attention to the laws of the _duello;_ but they were defined with a quaintness and pedantry, which, bating his dislike to the subject, must have deeply interested him. The point of honour was a science, which a grown gentleman might study under suitable professors, as well as dancing, or any other modish accomplishment. Nay, it would appear, that the ingenuity of the _sword-men_ (so these military casuists were termed) might often accommodate a bashful combatant with an honourable excuse for declining the combat: --Understand'st them well nice points of duel? Art born of gentle blood and pure descent? Were none of all thy lineage hang'd, or cuckold? Bastard or bastinadoed? Is thy pedigree As long, as wide as mine? For otherwise Thou wert most unworthy; and 'twere loss of honour In me to fight. More: I have drawn five teeth-- If thine stand sound, the terms are much unequal; And, by strict laws of duel, I am excused To fight on disadvantage.-- _Albumazar,_ Act IV. Sc. 7. In Beaumont and Fletcher's admirable play of _A King and no King_, there is some excellent mirth at the expence of the professors of the point of honour. But, though such shifts might occasionally be resorted to by the faint-hearted, yet the fiery cavaliers of the English court were but little apt to profit by them; though their vengeance for insulted honour sometimes vented itself through fouler channels than that of fair combat It happened, for example, that Lord Sanquhar, a Scottish nobleman, in fencing with a master of the noble science of defence, lost his eye by an unlucky thrust. The accident was provoking, but without remedy; nor did Lord Sanquhar think of it, unless with regret, until some years after, when he chanced to be in the French court. Henry the Great casually asked him, how he lost his eye? "By the thrust of a sword," answered Lord Sanquhar, not caring to enter into particulars. The king, supposing the accident the consequence of a duel, immediately enquired, "Does the man yet live?" These few words set the blood of the Scottish nobleman on fire; nor did he rest till he had taken the base vengeance of assassinating, by hired ruffians, the unfortunate fencing-master. The mutual animosity betwixt the English and Scottish nations, had already occasioned much bloodshed among the gentry, by single combat; and James now found himself under the necessity of making a striking example of one of his Scottish nobles, to avoid the imputation of the grossest partiality. Lord Sanquhar was condemned to be hanged, and suffered that ignominious punishment accordingly. By a circuitous route, we are now arrived at the subject of our ballad; for, to the tragical duel of Stuart and Wharton, and to other instances of bloody combats and brawls betwixt the two nations, is imputed James's firmness in the case of Lord Sanquhar. "For Ramsay, one of the king's servants, not long before Sanquhar's trial, had switched the earl of Montgomery, who was the king's first favourite, happily because he tooke it so. Maxwell, another of them, had bitten Hawley, a gentleman of the Temple, by the ear, which enraged the Templars (in those times riotous, and subject to tumults), and brought it allmost to a national quarrel, till the king slept in, and took it up himself.--The Lord Bruce had summoned Sir Edward Sackville (afterward earl of Dorset), into France, with a fatal compliment, to take death from his hand.[A] _And the much lamented Sir James Stuart, one of the king's blood, and Sir George Wharton, the prime branch of that noble family, for little worthless punctilios of honor (being intimate friends), took the field, and fell together by each others hand."_--WILSON'S Life of James VI. p. 60. [Footnote A: See an account of this desperate duel in the _Guardian_.] The sufferers in this melancholy affair were both men of high birth, the heirs apparent of two noble families, and youths of the most promising expectation. Sir James Stuart was a knight of the Bath, and eldest son of Walter, first lord Blantyre, by Nicolas, daughter of Sir James Somerville, of Cambusnethan. Sir George Wharton was also a knight of the Bath, and eldest son of Philip, lord Wharton, by Frances, daughter of Henry Clifford, earl of Cumberland. He married Anne, daughter of the earl of Rutland, but left no issue. The circumstances of the quarrel and combat are accurately detailed in the ballad, of which there exists a black-letter copy in the Pearson Collection, now in the library of the late John duke of Roxburghe, entitled, "A Lamentable Ballad, of a Combate, lately fought, near London, between Sir James Stewarde, and Sir George Wharton, knights, who were both slain at that time.--To the tune of, _Down Plumpton Park, &c_." A copy of this ballad has been published in Mr Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, and, upon comparison, appears very little different from that which has been preserved by tradition in Ettrick Forest. Two verses have been added, and one considerably improved, from Mr Ritson's edition. These three stanzas are the fifth and ninth of Part First, and the penult verse of Part Second. I am thus particular, that the reader may be able, if he pleases, to compare the traditional ballad with the original edition. It furnishes striking evidence, that, "without characters, fame lives long." The difference, chiefly to be remarked betwixt the copies, lies in the dialect, and in some modifications applicable to Scotland; as, using the words _"Our Scottish Knight."_ The black-letter ballad, in like manner, terms Wharton _"Our English Knight."_ My correspondent, James Hogg, adds the following note to this ballad: "I have heard this song sung by several old people; but all of them with this tradition, that Wharton bribed Stuart's second, and actually fought in armour. I acknowledge, that, from some dark hints in the song, this appears not impossible; but, that you may not judge too rashly, I must remind you, that the old people, inhabiting the head-lands (high grounds) hereabouts, although possessed of many original songs, traditions, and anecdotes, are most unreasonably partial when the valour or honour of a Scotsman is called in question." I retain this note, because it is characteristic; but I agree with my correspondent, there can be no foundation for the tradition, except in national partiality. THE DUEL OF WHARTON AND STUART. PART FIRST. It grieveth me to tell you o' Near London late what did befal, 'Twixt two young gallant gentlemen; It grieveth me, and ever shall. One of them was Sir George Wharton, My good Lord Wharton's son and heir; The other, James Stuart, a Scottish knight, One that a valiant heart did bear. When first to court these nobles came, One night, a gaining, fell to words; And in their fury grew so hot, That they did both try their keen swords. No manner of treating, nor advice, Could hold from striking in that place; For, in the height and heat of blood, James struck George Wharton on the face. "What doth this mean," George Wharton said, "To strike in such unmanly sort? "But, that I take it at thy hands, "The tongue of man shall ne'er report!" "But do thy worst, then," said Sir James, "Now do thy worst! appoint a day! "There's not a lord in England breathes "Shall gar me give an inch of way." "Ye brag right weel," George Wharton said; "Let our brave lords at large alane, "And speak of me, that am thy foe; "For you shall find enough o' ane! "I'll alterchange my glove wi' thine; "I'll show it on the bed o' death; "I mean the place where we shall fight; "There ane or both maun lose life and breath!" "We'll meet near Waltham," said Sir James; "To-morrow, that shall be the day. "We'll either take a single man, "And try who bears the bell away." Then down together hands they shook, Without any envious sign; Then went to Ludgate, where they lay, And each man drank his pint of wine. No kind of envy could be seen, No kind of malice they did betray; But a' was clear and calm as death, Whatever in their bosoms lay, Till parting time; and then, indeed, They shew'd some rancour in their heart; "Next time we meet," says George Wharton, "Not half sae soundly we shall part!" So they have parted, firmly bent Their valiant minds equal to try: The second part shall clearly show, Both how they meet, and how they dye. THE DUEL OF WHARTON AND STUART. PART SECOND. George Wharton was the first ae man, Came to the appointed place that day, Where he espyed our Scots lord coming, As fast as he could post away. They met, shook hands; their cheeks were pale; Then to George Wharton James did say, "I dinna like your doublet, George, "It stands sae weel on you this day. "Say, have you got no armour on? "Have ye no under robe of steel? "I never saw an English man "Become his doublet half sae weel." "Fy no! fy no!" George Wharton said, "For that's the thing that mauna be, "That I should come wi' armour on, "And you a naked man truly." "Our men shall search our doublets, George, "And see if one of us do lie; "Then will we prove, wi' weapons sharp, "Ourselves true gallants for to be." Then they threw off their doublets both, And stood up in their sarks o' lawn; "Now, take my counsel," said Sir James, "Wharton, to thee I'll make it knawn: "So as we stand, so will we fight; "Thus naked in our sarks," said he; "Fy no! fy no!" George Wharton says; "That is the thing that must not be. "We're neither drinkers, quarrellers, "Nor men that cares na for oursel; "Nor minds na what we're gaun about, "Or if we're gaun to heav'n or hell. "Let us to God bequeath our souls, "Our bodies to the dust and clay!" With that he drew his deadly sword, The first was drawn on field that day. Se'en bouts and turns these heroes had, Or e'er a drop o' blood was drawn; Our Scotch lord, wond'ring, quickly cry'd, "Stout Wharton! thou still hauds thy awn!" The first stroke that George Wharton gae, He struck him thro' the shoulder-bane; The neist was thro' the thick o' the thigh; He thought our Scotch lord had been slain. "Oh! ever alak!" George Wharton cry'd, "Art thou a living man, tell me? "If there's a surgeon living can, "He'se cure thy wounds right speedily." "No more of that!" James Stuart said; "Speak not of curing wounds to me! "For one of us must yield our breath, "Ere off the field one foot we flee." They looked oure their shoulders both, To see what company was there; They both had grievous marks of death, But frae the other nane wad steer. George Wharton was the first that fell; Our Scotch lord fell immediately: They both did cry to Him above, To save their souls, for they boud die. THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW. This fragment, obtained from recitation in the Forest of Ettrick, is said to relate to the execution of Cokburne of Henderland, a border freebooter, hanged over the gate of his own tower by James V., in the course of that memorable expedition, in 1529, which was fatal to Johnie Armstrang, Adam Scott of Tushielaw, and many other marauders. The vestiges of the castle of Henderland are still to be traced upon the farm of that name, belonging to Mr Murray of Henderland. They are situated near the mouth of the river Meggat, which falls into the lake of St Mary, in Selkirkshire. The adjacent country, which now hardly bears a single tree, is celebrated by Lesly, as, in his time, affording shelter to the largest stags in Scotland. A mountain torrent, called Henderland Burn, rushes impetuously from the hills, through a rocky chasm, named the Dow-glen, and passes near the site of the tower. To the recesses of this glen the wife of Cokburne is said to have retreated, during the execution of her husband; and a place, called the _Lady's Seat_, is still shewn, where she is said to have striven to drown, amid the roar of a foaming cataract, the tumultuous noise, which announced the close of his existence. In a deserted burial-place, which once surrounded the chapel of the castle, the monument of Cokburne and his lady is still shewn. It is a large stone, broken into three parts; but some armorial bearings may be yet traced, and the following inscription is still legible, though defaced: HERE LYES PERYS OF COKBURNE AND HIS WYFE MARJORY. Tradition says, that Cokburne was surprised by the king, while sitting at dinner. After the execution, James marched rapidly forward, to surprise Adam Scott of Tushielaw, called the King of the Border, and sometimes the King of Thieves. A path through the mountains, which separate the vale of Ettrick from the head of Yarrow, is still called the _King's Road_, and seems to have been the rout which he followed. The remains of the tower of Tushielaw are yet visible, overhanging the wild banks of the Ettrick; and are an object of terror to the benighted peasant, from an idea of their being haunted by spectres. From these heights, and through the adjacent county of Peebles, passes a wild path, called still the _Thief's Road_, from having been used chiefly by the marauders of the border. THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW. My love he built me a bonny bower, And clad it a' wi' lilye flour; A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, Than my true love he built for me. There came a man, by middle day, He spied his sport, and went away; And brought the king that very night, Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. He slew my knight, to me sae dear; He slew my knight, and poin'd[A] his gear; My servants all for life did flee, And left me in extremitie. I sew'd his sheet, making my mane; I watched the corpse, myself alane; I watched his body, night and day; No living creature came that way. I took his body on my back, And whiles I gaed, and whiles I satte; I digg'd a grave, and laid him in, And happ'd him with the sod sae green. But think na ye my heart was sair, When I laid the moul on his yellow hair? O think na ye my heart was wae, When I turn'd about, away to gae? Nae living man I'll love again, Since that my lovely knight is slain; Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair I'll chain my heart for evermair. [Footnote A: _Poin'd_--Poinded, attached by legal distress.] FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNELL. The following very popular ballad has been handed down by tradition in its present imperfect state. The affecting incident, on which it is founded, is well known. A lady, of the name of Helen Irving, or Bell,[A] (for this is disputed by the two clans) daughter of the laird of Kirconnell, in Dumfries-shire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen in the neighbourhood. The name of the favoured suitor was Adam Fleming, of Kirkpatrick; that of the other has escaped tradition; though it has been alleged, that he was a Bell, of Blacket House. The addresses of the latter were, however, favoured by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the church-yard of Kirconnell, a romantic spot, surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of those private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carabine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces. Other accounts say, that Fleming pursued his enemy to Spain, and slew him in the streets of Madrid. [Footnote A: This dispute is owing to the uncertain date of the ballad; for, although the last proprietors if Kirconnell were Irvings, when deprived of their possession by Robert Maxwell in 1600, yet Kirconnell is termed in old chronicles _The Bell's Tower;_ and a stone, with the arms of that family, has been found among its ruins. Fair Helen's sirname, therefore, depends upon the period at which she lived, which it is now impossible to ascertain.] The ballad, as now published, consists of two parts. The first seems to be an address, either by Fleming or his rival, to the lady; if, indeed, it constituted any portion of the original poem. For the editor cannot help suspecting, that these verses have been the production of a different and inferior bard, and only adapted to the original measure and tune. But this suspicion, being unwarranted by any copy he has been able to procure, he does not venture to do more than intimate his own opinion. The second part, by far the most beautiful, and which is unquestionably original, forms the lament of Fleming over the grave of fair Helen. The ballad is here given, without alteration or improvement, from the most accurate copy which could be recovered. The fate of Helen has not, however, remained unsung by modern bards. A lament, of great poetical merit, by the learned historian Mr Pinkerton, with several other poems on this subject, have been printed in various forms. The grave of the lovers is yet shewn in the church-yard of Kirconnell, near Springkell. Upon the tomb-stone can still be read--_Hie jacet Adamus Fleming;_ a cross and sword are sculptured on the stone. The former is called, by the country people, the gun with which Helen was murdered; and the latter, the avenging sword of her lover. _Sit illis terra levis!_ A heap of stones is raised on the spot where the murder was committed; a token of abhorrence common to most nations.[A] [Footnote A: This practice has only very lately become obsolete in Scotland. The editor remembers, that, a few years ago, a cairn was pointed out to him in the King's Park of Edinburgh, which had been raised in detestation of a cruel murder, perpetrated by one Nicol Muschet, on the body of his wife, in that place, in the year 1720.] FAIR HELEN. PART FIRST. O! sweetest sweet, and fairest fair, Of birth and worth beyond compare, Thou art the causer of my care, Since first I loved thee. Yet God hath given to me a mind, The which to thee shall prove as kind As any one that thou shalt find, Of high or low degree. The shallowest water makes maist din, The deadest pool the deepest linn. The richest man least truth within, Though he preferred be. Yet, nevertheless, I am content, And never a whit my love repent, But think the time was a' weel spent, Though I disdained be. O! Helen sweet, and maist complete, My captive spirit's at thy feet! Thinks thou still fit thus for to treat Thy captive cruelly? O! Helen brave! but this I crave, Of thy poor slave some pity have, And do him save that's near his grave, And dies for love of thee. FAIR HELEN. PART SECOND. I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirconnell Lee! Curst be the heart, that thought the thought, And curst the hand, that fired the shot, When in my arms burd[A] Helen dropt, And died to succour me! O think na ye my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spak nae mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirconnell Lee. As I went down the water side, None but my foe to be my guide. None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnell Lee. I lighted down, my sword did draw, I hacked him in pieces sma, I hacked him in pieces sma, For her sake that died for me. O Helen fair, beyond compare! I'll make a garland of thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair, Untill the day I die. O that I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "haste, and come to me!" O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee I were blest, Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest, On fair Kirconnell Lee. I wish my grave were growing green, A winding sheet drawn ower my een, And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirconnell Lee. I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me. [Footnote A: _Burd Helen_--Maid Helen.] HUGHIE THE GRAEME. The Graemes, as we have had frequent occasion to notice, were a powerful and numerous clan, who chiefly inhabited the Debateable Land. They were said to be of Scottish extraction, and their chief claimed his descent from Malice, earl of Stratherne. In military service, they were more attached to England than to Scotland; but, in their depredations on both countries, they appear to have been very impartial; for, in the year 1600, the gentlemen of Cumberland alleged to Lord Scroope, "that the Graemes, and their clans, with their children, tenants, and servants, were the chiefest actors in the spoil and decay of the country." Accordingly, they were, at that time, obliged to give a bond of surety for each other's peaceable demeanour; from which bond, their numbers appear to have exceeded four hundred men.--See _Introduction to_ NICOLSON'S _History of Cumberland,_ p. cviii. Richard Graeme, of the family of Netherbye, was one of the attendants upon Charles I., when prince of Wales, and accompanied him upon his romantic journey through France and Spain. The following little anecdote, which then occurred, will shew, that the memory of the Graemes' border exploits was at that time still preserved. "They were now entered into the deep time of Lent, and could get no flesh in their inns. Whereupon fell out a pleasant passage, if I may insert it, by the way, among more serious. There was, near Bayonne, a herd of goats, with their young ones; upon the sight whereof, Sir Richard Graham tells the marquis (of Buckingham), that he would snap one of the kids, and make some shift to carry him snug to their lodging. Which the prince overhearing, 'Why, Richard,' says he, 'do you think you may practise here your old tricks upon the borders?' Upon which words, they, in the first place, gave the goat-herd good contentment; and then, while the marquis and Richard, being both on foot, were chasing the kid about the stack, the prince, from horseback, killed him in the head, with a Scottish pistol.--Which circumstance, though trifling, may yet serve to shew how his Royal Highness, even in such slight and sportful damage, had a noble sense of just dealing."--_Sir_ HENRY WOTTON'S _Life of the Duke of Buckingham._ I find no traces of this particular Hughie Graeme, of the ballad; but, from the mention of the _Bishop_, I suspect he may have been one, of about four hundred borderers, against whom bills of complaint were exhibited to Robert Aldridge, lord bishop of Carlisle, about 1553, for divers incursions, burnings, murders, mutilations, and spoils, by them committed.--NICHOLSON'S _History, Introduction_, lxxxi. There appear a number of Graemes, in the specimen which we have of that list of delinquents. There occur, in particular, Ritchie Grame of Bailie, Will's Jock Grame, Fargue's Willie Grame, Muckle Willie Grame, Will Grame of Rosetrees, Ritchie Grame, younger of Netherby, Wat Grame, called Flaughtail, Will Grame, Nimble Willie, Will Grahame, Mickle Willie, with many others. In Mr Ritson's curious and valuable collection of legendary poetry, entitled _Ancient Songs_, he has published this Border ditty, from a collation of two old black-letter copies, one in the collection of the late John duke of Roxburghe, and another in the hands of John Bayne, Esq.--The learned editor mentions another copy, beginning, "Good Lord John is a hunting gone." The present edition was procured for me by my friend Mr W. Laidlaw, in Blackhouse, and has been long current in Selkirkshire. Mr Ritson's copy has occasionally been resorted to for better readings. HUGHIE THE GRAEME. Gude Lord Scroope's to the hunting gane, He has ridden o'er moss and muir; And he has grippit Hughie the Graeme, For stealing o' the Bishop's mare. "Now, good Lord Scroope, this may not be! "Here hangs a broad sword by my side; "And if that thou canst conquer me, "The matter it may soon be tryed." "I ne'er was afraid of a traitor thief; "Although thy name be Hughie the Graeme, "I'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds, "If God but grant me life and time." "Then do your worst now, good Lord Scroope, "And deal your blows as hard as you can! "It shall be tried, within an hour, "Which of us two is the better man." But as they were dealing their blows so free, And both so bloody at the time, Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall, All for to take brave Hughie the Graeme. Then they hae grippit Hughie the Graeme, And brought him up through Carlisle town; The lasses and lads stood on the walls, Crying, "Hughie the Graeme, thou'se ne'er gae down!" Then hae they chosen a jury of men, The best that were in Carlisle[A] town; And twelve of them cried out at once, "Hughie the Graeme, thou must gae down!" Then up bespake him gude Lord Hume,[B] As he sat by the judge's knee,-- "Twentie white owsen, my gude lord, "If you'll grant Hughie the Graeme to me." "O no, O no, my gude Lord Hume! "For sooth and sae it manna be; "For, were there but three Graemes of the name, "They suld be hanged a' for me." 'Twas up and spake the gude Lady Hume, As she sate by the judge's knee,-- A peck of white pennies, my gude lord judge, "If you'll grant Hughie the Graeme to me." "O no, O no, my gude Lady Hume! "Forsooth and so it mustna be; "Were he but the one Graeme of the name, "He suld be hanged high for me." "If I be guilty," said Hughie the Graeme, "Of me my friends shall hae small talk;" And he has loup'd fifteen feet and three, Though his hands they were tied behind his back. He looked over his left shoulder, And for to see what he might see; There was he aware of his auld father, Came tearing his hair most piteouslie. "O hald your tongue, my father," he says, "And see that ye dinna weep for me! "For they may ravish me o' my life, "But they canna banish me fro' heaven hie.' "Fare ye weel, fair Maggie, my wife! "The last time we came ower the muir, "'Twas thou bereft me of my life, "And wi' the Bishop thou play'd the whore. "Here, Johnie Armstrang, take thou my sword, "That is made o' the metal sae fine; "And when thou comest to the English[C] side, "Remember the death of Hughie the Graeme." [Footnote A: _Garlard_--Anc. Songs.] [Footnote B: _Boles_--Anc. Songs.] [Footnote C: _Border_--Anc, Songs.] NOTE ON HUGHIE THE GRAEME. _And wi' the Bishop thou play'd the whore._--P. 326, v. 9. Of the morality of Robert Aldridge, bishop of Carlisle, we know but little; but his political and religious faith were of a stretching and accommodating texture. Anthony a Wood observes, that there were many changes in his time, both in church and state; but that the worthy prelate retained his offices and preferments during them all. JOHNIE OF BREADISLEE. AN ANCIENT NITHESDALE BALLAD. The hero of this ballad appears to have been an outlaw and deer-stealer--probably one of the broken men residing upon the border. There are several different copies, in one of which the principal personage is called _Johnie of Cockielaw_. The stanzas of greatest merit have been selected from each copy. It is sometimes said, that this outlaw possessed the old castle of Morton, in Dumfries-shire, now ruinous:--"Near to this castle there was a park, built by Sir Thomas Randolph, on the face of a very great and high hill; so artificially, that, by the advantage of the hill, all wild beasts, such as deers, harts, and roes, and hares, did easily leap in, but could not get out again; and if any other cattle, such as cows, sheep, or goats, did voluntarily leap in, or were forced to do it, _it is doubted_ if their owners were permitted to get them out again."--_Account of Presbytery of Penpont, apud Macfarlane's MSS._ Such a park would form a convenient domain to an outlaw's castle, and the mention of Durrisdeer, a neighbouring parish, adds weight to the tradition. I have seen, on a mountain near Callendar, a sort of pinfold, composed of immense rocks, piled upon each other, which, I was told, was anciently constructed for the above-mentioned purpose. The mountain is thence called _Uah var_, or the _Cove of the Giant_. JOHNIE OF BREADISLEE. AN ANCIENT NITHISDALE BALLAD. Johnie rose up in a May morning, Called for water to wash his hands-- "Gar loose to me the gude graie dogs "That are bound wi' iron bands," When Johnie's mother gat word o' that, Her hands for dule she wrang-- "O Johnie! for my benison, "To the grenewood dinna gang! "Eneugh ye hae o' the gude wheat bread, "And eneugh o' the blude-red wine; "And, therefore, for nae venison, Johnie, "I pray ye, stir frae hame." But Johnie's busk't up his gude bend bow, His arrows, ane by ane; And he has gane to Durrisdeer To hunt the dun deer down. As he came down by Merriemass, And in by the benty line, There has he espied a deer lying Aneath a bush of ling.[A] Johnie he shot, and the dun deer lap, And he wounded her on the side; But, atween the water and the brae, His hounds they laid her pride. And Johnie has bryttled[B] the deer sae weel, That he's had out her liver and lungs; And wi' these he has feasted his bludy hounds, As if they had been erl's sons. They eat sae much o' the venison, And drank sae much o' the blude, That Johnie and a' his bludy hounds Fell asleep, as they had been dead. And by there came a silly auld carle, An ill death mote he die! For he's awa to Hislinton, Where the Seven Foresters did lie. "What news, what news, ye gray-headed carle, "What news bring ye to me?" "I bring nae news," said the gray-headed carle, "Save what these eves did see. "As I came down by Merriemass, "And down amang the scroggs,[C] "The bonniest childe that ever I saw "Lay sleeping amang his dogs. "The shirt that was upon his back "Was o' the Holland fine; "The doublet which was over that "Was o' the lincome twine. "The buttons that were on his sleeve "Were o' the goud sae gude; "The gude graie hounds he lay amang, "Their months were dyed wi' blude." Then out and spak the First Forester, The held man ower them a'-- If this be Johnie o' Breadislee, "Nae nearer will we draw." But up and spak the Sixth Forester, (His sister's son was he) "If this be Johnie o' Breadislee, "We soon snall gar him die!" The first flight of arrows the Foresters shot, They wounded him on the knee; And out and spak the Seventh Forester, "The next will gar him die." Johnie's set his back against an aik, His fute against a stane; And he has slain the Seven Foresters, He has slam them a' but ane. He has broke three ribs in that ane's side, But and his collar bane; He's laid him twa-fald ower his steed, Bade him cany the tidings hame. "O is there na a bonnie bird, "Can sing as I can say; "Could flee away to my mother's bower, "And tell to fetch Johnie away?" The starling flew to his mother's window stane, It whistled and it sang; And aye the ower word o' the tune Was--"Johnie tarries lang!" They made a rod o the hazel bush, Another o' the slae-thorn tree, And mony mony were the men At fetching our Johnie. Then out and spak his auld mother, And fast her tears did fa'-- "Ye wad nae be warned, my son Johnie, "Frae the hunting to bide awa. "Aft hae I brought to Breadislee, "The less gear[D] and the mair, "But I ne'er brought to Breadislee, "What grieved my heart sae sair! "But wae betyde that silly auld carle! "An ill death shall he die! "For the highest tree in Merriemass "Shall be his morning's fee." Now Johnie's gude bend bow is broke, And his gude graie dogs are slain; And his body lies dead in Durrisdeer, And his hunting it is done. [Footnote A: _Ling_--Heath.] [Footnote B: _Brytlled_--To cut up venison. See the ancient ballad of _Chevy Chace_, v. 8.] [Footnote C: _Scroggs_--Stunted trees.] [Footnote D: _Gear_--Usually signifies _goods_, but here _spoil_.] KATHERINE JANFARIE. _The Ballad was published in the first edition of this work, under the title of_ "The Laird of Laminton." _It is now given in a more perfect state, from several recited copies. The residence of the Lady, and the scene of the affray at her bridal, is said, by old people, to have been upon the banks of the Cadden, near to where it joins the Tweed. Others say the skirmish was fought near Traquair, and_ KATHERINE JANFARIE'S _dwelling was in the glen, about three miles above Traquair house._ There was a may, and a weel far'd may., Lived high up in yon glen; Her name was Katherine Janfarie, She was courted by mony men. Up then came Lord Lauderdale, Up frae the Lawland border; And he has come to court this may, A' mounted in good order. He told na her father, he told na her mother, And he told na ane o' her kin; But he whisper'd the bonnie lassie hersel', And has her favour won. But out then cam Lord Lochinvar, Out frae the English border, All for to court this bonnie may, Weil mounted, and in order. He told her father, he told her mother, And a' the lave o' her kin; But he told na the bonnie may hersel', Till on her wedding e'en. She sent to the Lord of Lauderdale, Gin he wad come and see; And he has sent word back again, Weel answered she suld be. And he has sent a messenger Right quickly through the land, And raised mony an armed man To be at his command. The bride looked out at a high window, Beheld baith dale and down, And she was aware of her first true love, With riders mony a one. She scoffed him, and scorned him, Upon her wedding day; And said--"It was the Fairy court "To see him in array! "O come ye here to fight, young lord, "Or come ye here to play? "Or come ye here to drink good wine "Upon the wedding day?" "I come na here to fight," he said, "I come na here to play; "I'll but lead a dance wi' the bonnie bride, "And mount and go my way." It is a glass of the blood-red wine Was filled up them between, And aye she drank to Lauderdale, Wha her true love had been. He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, And by the grass-green sleeve; He's mounted her hie behind himsell, At her kinsmen spear'd na leave. "Now take your bride, Lord Lochinvar! "Now take her if you may! "But, if you take your bride again, "We'll call it but foul play." There were four-and-twenty bonnie boys, A' clad in the Johnstone grey;[A] They said they would take the bride again, By the strong hand, if they may. Some o' them were right willing men, But they were na willing a'; And four-and-twenty Leader lads Bid them mount and ride awa'. Then whingers flew frae gentles' sides, And swords flew frae the shea's, And red and rosy was the blood Ran down the lily braes. The blood ran down by Caddon bank, And down by Caddon brae; And, sighing, said the bonnie bride-- "O waes me for foul play!" My blessing on your heart, sweet thing! Wae to your willfu' will! There's mony a gallant gentleman Whae's blude ye have garr'd to spill. Now a' you lords of fair England, And that dwell by the English border, Come never here to seek a wife, For fear of sic disorder. They'll haik ye up, and settle ye bye, Till on your wedding day; Then gie ye frogs instead of fish, And play ye foul foul play. [Footnote A: _Johnstone grey_--The livery of the ancient family of Johnstone.] THE LAIRD O' LOGIE An edition of this ballad is current, under the title of "The Laird of Ochiltree;" but the editor, since publication of this work, has been fortunate enough to recover the following more correct and ancient copy, as recited by a gentleman residing near Biggar. It agrees more nearly, both in the name and in the circumstances, with the real fact, than the printed ballad of Ochiltree. In the year 1592, Francis Stuart, earl of Bothwell, was agitating his frantic and ill-concerted attempts against the person of James VI., whom he endeavoured to surprise in the palace of Falkland. Through the emulation and private rancour of the courtiers, he found adherents even about the king's person; among whom, it seems, was the hero of our ballad, whose history is thus narrated in that curious and valuable chronicle, of which the first part has been published under the title of "The Historie of "King James the Sext," and the second is now in the press. "In this close tyme it fortunit, that a gentelman, callit Weymis of Logye, being also in credence at court, was delatit as a traffekker with Frances Erle Bothwell; and he being examinat before king and counsall, confessit his accusation to be of veritie, that sundrie tymes he had spokin with him, expresslie aganis the king's inhibitioun proclamit in the contrare, whilk confession he subscryvit with his hand; and because the event of this mater had sik a succes, it sall also be praysit be my pen, as a worthie turne, proceiding frome honest chest loove and charitie, whilk suld on na wayis be obscurit from the posteritie for the gude example; and therefore I have thought gude to insert the same for a perpetual memorie. "Queen Anne, our noble princess, was servit with dyverss gentilwemen of hir awin cuntrie, and naymelie with are callit Mres Margaret Twynstoun,[A] to whome this gentilman, Weymes of Logye, bure great honest affection, tending to the godlie band of marriage, the whilk was honestlie requytet be the said gentilwoman, yea evin in his greatest mister; for howsone she understude the said gentilman to be in distress, and apperantlie be his confession to be puueist to the death, and she having prevelege to ly in the queynis chalmer that same verie night of his accusation, whare the king was also reposing that same night, she came forth of the dur prevelie, bayth the prencis being then at quyet rest, and past to the chalmer, whare the said gentilman was put in custodie to certayne of the garde, and commandit thayme that immediatelie he sould be broght to the king and queyne, whareunto thay geving sure credence, obeyit. Bot howsone she was cum bak to the chalmer dur, she desyrit the watches to stay till he sould cum furth agayne, and so she closit the dur, and convoyit the gentilman to a windo', whare she ministrat a long corde unto him to convoy himself doun upon; and sa, be hir gude cheritable help, he happelie escapit be the subteltie of loove." [Footnote A: Twynelace, according to Spottiswoode.] THE LAIRD O' LOGIE. I will sing, if ye will hearken, If ye will hearken unto me; The king has ta'en a poor prisoner, The wanton laird o' young Logie. Young Logie's laid in Edinburgh chapel; Carmichael's the keeper o' the key; And may Margaret's lamenting sair, A' for the love of young Logie. "Lament, lament na, may Margaret, "And of your weeping let me be; "For ye maun to the king himsell, "To seek the life of young Logie." May Margaret has kilted her green cleiding, And she has curl'd back her yellow hair-- "If I canna get young Logie's life, "Fareweel to Scotland for evermair." When she came before the king, She knelit lowly on her knee-- "O what's the matter, may Margaret? "And what needs a' this courtesie?" "A boon, a boon, my noble liege, "A boon, a boon, I beg o' thee! "And the first boon that I come to crave, "Is to grant me the life of young Logic." "O na, O na, may Margaret, "Forsooth, and so it manna be; "For a' the gowd o' fair Scotland "Shall not save the life of young Logie." But she has stown the king's redding kaim,[A] Likewise the queen her wedding knife; And sent the tokens to Carmichael, To cause young Logic get his life. She sent him a purse o' the red gowd, Another o' the white monie; She sent him a pistol for each hand, And bade him shoot when he gat free. When he came to the tolbooth stair, There he let his volley flee; It made the king in his chamber start, E'en in the bed where he might be. "Gae out, gae out, my merrymen a', "And bid Carmichael come speak to me; "For I'll lay my life the pledge o' that, "That yon's the shot o' young Logie." When Carmichael came before the king, He fell low down upon his knee; The very first word that the king spake, Was--"Where's the laird of young Logie?" Carmichael turn'd him round about, (I wot the tear blinded his eye) "There came a token frae your grace, "Has ta'en away the laird frae me." "Hast thou play'd me that, Carmichael?" "And hast thou play'd me that?" quoth he; "The morn the justice court's to stand, "And Logic's place ye maun supply." Carmichael's awa to Margaret's bower, Even as fast as he may drie-- "O if young Logie be within, "Tell him to come and speak with me!" May Margaret turned her round about, (I wot a loud laugh laughed she) "The egg is chipped, the bird is flown, "Ye'll see na mair of young Logie." The tane is shipped at the pier of Leith, The tother at the Queen's Ferrie; And she's gotten a father to her bairn, The wanton laird of young Logie. [Footnote A: _Redding kain_--Comb for the hair.] NOTE ON THE LAIRD O' LOGIE. _Carmichael's the keeper o' the key._--P. 344. v. 2. Sir John Carmichael of Carmichael, the hero of the ballad, called the Raid of the Reidswair, was appointed captain of the king's guard in 1588, and usually had the keeping of state criminals of rank. A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE. This is a sort of charm, sung by the lower ranks of Roman Catholics, in some parts of the north of England, while watching a dead body, previous to interment. The tune is doleful and monotonous, and, joined to the mysterious import of the words, has a solemn effect. The word _sleet_, in the chorus, seems to be corrupted from _selt_, or salt; a quantity of which, in compliance with a popular superstition, is frequently placed on the breast of a corpse. The mythologic ideas of the dirge are common to various creeds. The Mahometan believes, that, in advancing to the final judgment seat, he must traverse a bar of red-hot iron, stretched across a bottomless gulph. The good works of each true believer, assuming a substantial form, will then interpose betwixt his feet and this _"Bridge of Dread;"_ but the wicked, having no such protection, must fall headlong into the abyss.--D'HERBELOT, _Bibiotheque Orientale_. Passages, similar to this dirge, are also to be found in _Lady Culross's Dream_, as quoted in the second Dissertation prefixed by Mr Pinkerton to his _Select Scottish Ballads_, 2 vols. The dreamer journeys towards heaven, accompanied and assisted by a celestial guide: Through dreadful dens, which made my heart aghast, He bare me up when I began to tire. Sometimes we clamb o'er craggy mountains high. And sometimes stay'd on uglie braes of sand: They were so stay that wonder was to see; But, when I fear'd, he held me by the hand. Through great deserts we wandered on our way-- Forward we passed on narrow bridge of trie, O'er waters great, which hediously did roar. Again, she supposes herself suspended over an infernal gulph: Ere I was ware, one gripped me at the last, And held me high above a naming fire. The fire was great; the heat did pierce me sore; My faith grew weak.; my grip was very small; I trembled fast; my fear grew more and more. A horrible picture of the same kind, dictated probably by the author's unhappy state of mind, is to be found in Brooke's _Fool of Quality_. The dreamer, a ruined female, is suspended over the gulph of perdition by a single hair, which is severed by a demon, who, in the form of her seducer springs upwards from the flames. The Russian funeral service, without any allegorical imagery, expresses the sentiment of the dirge in language alike simple and noble. "Hast thou pitied the afflicted, O man? In death shalt thou be pitied. Hast thou consoled the orphan? The orphan will deliver thee. Hast thou clothed the naked? The naked will procure thee protection."--RICHARDSON'S _Anecdotes of Russia._ But the most minute description of the _Brig o' Dread_, occurs in the legend of _Sir Owain_, No. XL. in the MS. Collection of Romances, W. 4.1. Advocates' Library, Edinburgh; though its position is not the same as in the dirge, which may excite a suspicion that the order of the stanzas in the latter has been transposed. Sir Owain, a Northumbrian knight, after many frightful adventures in St Patrick's purgatory, at last arrives at the bridge, which, in the legend, is placed betwixt purgatory and paradise: The fendes han the knight ynome, To a stinkand water thai ben ycome, He no seigh never er non swiche; It stank fouler than ani hounde. And maui mile it was to the grounde. And was as swart as piche. And Owain seigh ther ouer ligge A swithe strong naru brigge: The fendes seyd tho; "Lo! sir knight, sestow this? "This is the brigge of paradis, "Here ouer thou must go. "And we the schul with stones prowe, "And the winde the schul ouer blow, "And wirche the full wo; "Thou no schalt tor all this unduerd, "Bot gif thou falle a midwerd, "To our fewes[A] mo. "And when thou art adown yfalle, "Than schal com our felawes alle, "And with her hokes the hede; "We schul the teche a newe play: "Thou hast served ous mani a day, "And into helle the lede." Owain biheld the brigge smert, The water ther under blac and swert, And sore him gan to drede: For of othing he tok yeme, Never mot, in sonne beme, Thicker than the fendes yede. The brigge was as heigh as a tour, And as scharpe as a rasour, And naru it was also; And the water that ther ran under, Brend o' lighting and of thonder, That thoght him michel wo. Ther nis no clerk may write with ynke, No no man no may bithink, No no maister deuine; That is ymade forsoth ywis. Under the brigge of paradis, Halvendel the pine. So the dominical ous telle, That is the pure entrae of helle, Seine Poule berth witnesse;[A] Whoso falleth of the brigge adown, Of him nis no redempcioun, Noîther more nor lesse. The fendes seyd to the knight tho, "Ouer this brigge might thou nowght go, "For noneskines nede; "Fle peril sorwe and wo, "And to that stede ther thou com fro, "Wel fair we schul the lede." Owain anon be gan bithenche, Fram hou mani of the fendes wrenche, God him saved hadde; He sett his fot opon the brigge, No feld he no scharpe egge, No nothing him no drad. When the fendes yseigh tho, That he was more than half ygo, Loude thai gun to crie; "Alias! alias! that he was born! "This ich night we have forlorn "Out of our baylie." [Footnote A: _Fewes_--Probably contracted for fellows.] [Footnote B: The reader will probably search St Paul in vain, for the evidence here referred to.] The author of the _Legend of Sir Owain_, though a zealous catholic, has embraced, in the fullest extent, the Talmudic doctrine of an earthly paradise, distinct from the celestial abode of the just, and serving as a place of initiation, preparatory to perfect bliss, and to the beatific vision.--See the Rabbi Menasse ben Israel, in a treatise called _Nishmath Chajim_, i.e. The Breath of Life. THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW. NOW FIRST PUBLISHED. This ballad, which is a very great favourite among the inhabitants of Ettrick Forest, is universally believed to be founded in fact. The editor found it easy to collect a variety of copies; but very difficult, indeed, to select from them such a collated edition, as may, in any degree, suit the taste of "these more light and giddy-paced times." Tradition places the event, recorded in the song, very early; and it is probable that the ballad was composed soon afterwards, although the language has been gradually modernized, in the course of its transmission to us, through the inaccurate channel of oral tradition.--The bard does not relate particulars, but barely the striking outlines of a fact, apparently so well known when he wrote, as to render minute detail as unnecessary, as it is always tedious and unpoetical. The hero of the ballad was a knight of great bravery, called Scott, who is said to have resided at Kirkhope, or Oakwood castle, and is, in tradition, termed the Baron of Oakwood. The estate of Kirkhope belonged anciently to the Scotts of Harden: Oakwood is still their property, and has been so from time immemorial. The editor was therefore led to suppose, that the hero of the ballad might have been identified with John Scott, sixth son of the laird of Harden, murdered in Ettrick Forest by his kinsmen, the Scotts of Gilmanscleugh (see notes to _Jamie Telfer_, Vol. I. p. 152). This appeared the more probable, as the common people always affirm, that this young man was treacherously slain, and that, in evidence thereof, his body remained uncorrupted for many years; so that even the roses on his shoes seemed as fresh as when he was first laid in the family vault at Hassendean. But from a passage in Nisbet's Heraldry, he now believes the ballad refers to a duel fought at Deucharswyre, of which Annan's Treat is a part, betwixt John Scott of Tushielaw and his brother-in-law Walter Scott, third son of Robert of Thirlestane, in which the latter was slain. In ploughing Annan's Treat, a huge monumental stone, with an inscription, was discovered; but being rather scratched than engraved, and the lines being run through each other, it is only possible to read one or two Latin words. It probably records the event of the combat.--The person slain was the male ancestor of the present Lord Napier. Tradition affirms, that the hero of the song (be he who he may) was murdered by the brother, either of his wife, or betrothed bride. The alleged cause of malice was, the lady's father having proposed to endow her with half of his property, upon her marriage with a warrior of such renown. The name of the murderer is said to have been Annan, and the place of combat is still called Annan's Treat. It is a low muir, on the banks of the Yarrow, lying to the west of Yarrow Kirk. Two tall unhewn masses of stone are erected, about eighty yards distant from each other; and the least child, that can herd a cow, will tell the passenger, that there lie "the two lords, who were slain in single combat." It will be, with many readers, the greatest recommendation of these verses, that they are supposed to have suggested to Mr Hamilton, of Bangour, the modern ballad, beginning, "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride." A fragment, apparently regarding the story of the following ballad, but in a different measure, occurs in Mr Herd's MSS., and runs thus:-- "When I look cast, my heart is sair, "But when I look west, its mair and mair; "For then I see the braes o' Yarrow, "And there, for aye, I lost my marrow." THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW. Late at e'en, drinking the wine, And ere they paid the lawing, They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawing. "O stay at hame, my noble lord! "O stay at hame, my marrow! "My cruel brother will you betray "On the dowie houms of Yarrow." "O fare ye weel, my ladye gaye! "O fare ye weel, my Sarah! "For I maun gae, though I ne'er return, "Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow. She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair, As oft she had done before, O; She belted him with his noble brand, And he's awa' to Yarrow. As he gaed up the Tennies bank, I wot he gaed wi' sorrow, Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm'd men, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. "O come ye here to part your land, "The bonnie forest thorough? "Or come ye here to wield your brand, "On the dowie houms of Yarrow?" "I come not here to part my land, "And neither to beg nor borrow; "I come to wield my noble brand, "On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. "If I see all, ye're nine to ane; "And that's an unequal marrow; "Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, "On the bonnie banks of Yarrow." Four has he hurt, and five has slain, On the bloody braes of Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him behind, And ran his bodie thorough. "Gae hame, gae hame, good-brother[A] John, "And tell your sister Sarah, "To come and lift her leafu' lord; "He's sleepin sound on Yarrow."---- "Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream; "I fear there will be sorrow! "I dream'd, I pu'd the heather green, "Wi' my true love, on Yarrow. "O gentle wind, that bloweth south, "From where my love repaireth, "Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, "And tell me how he fareth! "But in the glen strive armed men; "They've wrought me dole and sorrow; "They've slain--the comeliest knight they've slain-- "He bleeding lies on Yarrow." As she sped down yon high high hill, She gaed wi' dole and sorrow, And in the den spyed ten slain men, On the dowie banks of Yarrow. She kissed his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, She search'd his wounds all thorough; She kiss'd them, till her lips grew red, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. "Now, haud your tongue, my daughter dear! "For a' this breeds but sorrow; "I'll wed ye to a better lord, "Than him ye lost on Yarrow." "O haud your tongue, my father dear! "Ye mind me but of sorrow; "A fairer rose did never bloom "Than now lies cropp'd on Yarrow." [Footnote A: _Good-brother_--Beau-frere, Brother-in-law.] THE GAY GOSS HAWK. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. _This Ballad is published, partly from one, under this title, in Mrs_ BROWN'S _Collection, and partly from a MS. of some antiquity,_ penes Edit.--_The stanzas appearing to possess mo st merit have been selected from each copy._ "O waly, waly, my gay goss hawk, "Gin your feathering be sheen!" "And waly, waly, my master dear, "Gin ye look pale and lean! "O have ye tint, at tournament, "Your sword, or yet your spear? "Or mourn ye for the southern lass, "Whom you may not win near?" "I have not tint, at tournament, "My sword, nor yet my spear; "But sair I mourn for my true love, "Wi' mony a bitter tear. "But weel's me on ye, my gay goss hawk, "Ye can baith speak and flee; "Ye sall carry a letter to my love, "Bring an answer back to me." "But how sall I your true love find, "Or how suld I her know? "I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake, "An eye that ne'er her saw." "O weel sall ye my true love ken, "Sae sune as ye her see; "For, of a' the flowers of fair England, "The fairest flower is she. "The red, that's on my true love's cheik, "Is like blood drops on the snaw; "The white, that is on her breast bare, "Like the down o' the white sea-maw. "And even at my love's bour door "There grows a flowering birk; "And ye maun sit and sing thereon "As she gangs to the kirk. "And four-and-twenty fair ladyes "Will to the mass repair; "But weel may ye my ladye ken, "The fairest ladye there." Lord William has written a love letter, Put it under his pinion gray; And he is awa' to Southern land As fast as wings can gae. And even at that ladye's bour There grew a flowering birk; And he sat down and sang thereon As she gaed to the kirk. And weel he kent that ladye fair Amang her maidens free; For the flower, that springs in May morning, Was not sae sweet as she. He lighted at the ladye's yate, And sat him on a pin; And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love, Till a' was cosh[A] within. And first he sang a low low note, And syne he sang a clear; And aye the o'erword o' the sang Was--"Your love can no win here." "Feast on, feast on, my maidens a': "The wine flows you amang: "While I gang to my shot-window, "And hear yon bonny bird's sang. "Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, "The sang ye sung yestreen; "For weel I ken, by your sweet singing, "Ye are frae my true love sen'." O first he sang a merry sang, And syne he sang a grave; And syne he peck'd his feathers gray, To her the letter gave. "Have there a letter from Lord William; "He says he's sent ye three: "He canna wait your love langer, "But for your sake he'll die." "Gae bid him bake his bridal bread, "And brew his bridal ale; "And I sall meet him at Mary's kirk "Lang, lang ere it be stale." The ladye's gane to her chamber, And a moanfu' woman was she; As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash,[B] And were about to die. "A boon, a boon, my father deir, "A boon I beg of thee!" "Ask not that paughty Scottish lord, "For him you ne'er shall see. "But, for your honest asking else, "Wee! granted it shall be." "Then, gin I die in Southern land, "In Scotland gar bury me. "And the first kirk that ye come to, "Ye's gar the mass be sung; "And the next kirk that ye come to, "Ye's gar the bells be rung. "And, when ye come to St Mary's kirk, "Ye's tarry there till night." And so her father pledged his word, And so his promise plight. She has ta'en her to her bigly bour As fast as she could fare; And she has drank a sleepy draught, That she had mixed wi' care. And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek, That was sae bright of blee, And she seemed to be as surely dead As any one could be. Then spak her cruel step-minnie, "Take ye the burning lead, "And drap a drap on her bosome, "To try if she be dead." They took a drap o' boiling lead, They drap'd it on her breast; "Alas! alas!" her father cried, "She's dead without the priest." She neither chatter'd with her teeth, Nor shiver'd with her chin; "Alas! alas!" her father cried, "There is nae breath within." Then up arose her seven brethren, And hew'd to her a bier; They hew'd it frae the solid aik, Laid it o'er wi' silver clear. Then up and gat her seven sisters, And sewed to her a kell; And every steek that they pat in Sewed to a siller bell. The first Scots kirk that they cam to, They gar'd the bells be rung; The next Scots kirk that they cam to, They gar'd the mass be sung. But when they cam to St Mary's kirk, There stude spearmen, all on a raw; And up and started Lord William, The chieftane amang them a'. "Set down, set down the bier," he said; "Let me looke her upon:" But as soon as Lord William touched her hand, Her colour began to come. She brightened like the lily flower, Till her pale colour was gone; With rosy cheik, and ruby lip, She smiled her love upon. "A morsel of your bread, my lord, "And one glass of your wine: "For I hae fasted these three lang days, "All for your sake and mine. "Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers! "Gae hame and blaw your horn! "I trow you wad hae gien me the skaith, "But I've gien you the scorn. "Commend me to my grey father, "That wish'd, my saul gude rest; "But wae be to my cruel step-dame, "Gar'd burn me on the breast." "Ah! woe to you, you light woman! "An ill death may you die! "For we left father and sisters at hame "Breaking their hearts for thee." [Footnote A: _Cosh_--Quiet.] [Footnote B: _Brash_--Sickness.] NOTES ON THE GAY GOSS HAWK. _The red, that's on my true love's cheik, Is like blood drops on the snaw._--P. 362. v, 5. This simile resembles a passage in a MS. translation of an Irish Fairy tale, called _The Adventures of Faravla, Princess of Scotland, and Carral O'Daly, Son of Donogho More O'Daly, Chief Bard of Ireland._ "Faravla, as she entered her bower, cast her looks upon the earth, which was tinged with the blood of a bird which a raven had newly killed; 'Like that snow,' said Faravla, 'was the complexion of my beloved, his cheeks like the sanguine traces thereon; whilst the raven recals to my memory the colour of his beautiful locks." There is also some resemblance, in the conduct of the story, betwixt the ballad and the tale just quoted. The Princess Faravla, being desperately in love with Carral O'Daly, dispatches in search of him a faithful confidant, who, by her magical art, transforms herself into a hawk, and, perching upon the windows of the bard, conveys to him information of the distress of the princess of Scotland. In the ancient romance of _Sir Tristrem_, the simile of the "blood drops upon snow" likewise occurs: A bride bright thai ches As blod open snoweing. BROWN ADAM. _There is a copy of this Ballad in Mrs_ BROWN'S _Collection. The Editor has seen one, printed on a single sheet. The epithet, "Smith," implies, probably, the sirname, not the profession, of the hero, who seems to have been an outlaw There is, however, in Mrs_ BROWN'S _copy, a verse of little merit here omitted, alluding to the implements of that occupation._ O wha wad wish the wind to blaw, Or the green leaves fa' therewith? Or wha wad, wish a lealer love Than Brown Adam the smith? But they hae banished him, Brown Adam, Frae father and frae mother; And they hae banished him, Brown Adam, Frae sister and frae brother. And they hae banished him, Brown Adam, The flower o' a' his kin; And he's bigged a hour in gude green-wood Atween his ladye and him. It fell upon a summer's day, Brown Adam he thought lang; And, for to hunt some venison, To green-wood he wald gang. He has ta'en his bow his arm o'er, His bolts and arrows lang; And he is to the gude green-wood As fast as he could gang. O he's shot up, and he's shot down, The bird upon the brier; And he's sent it hame to his ladye, Bade her be of gude cheir. O he's shot up, and he's shot down, The bird upon the thorn; And sent it hame to his ladye, Said he'd be hame the morn. When he cam to his ladye's bour door He stude a little forbye, And there he heard a fou fause knight Tempting his gay ladye. For he's ta'en out a gay goud ring, Had cost him mony a poun', "O grant me love for love, ladye, "And this shall be thy own." "I lo'e Brown Adam weel," she said; "I trew sae does he me: "I wadna gie Brown Adam's love "For nae fause knight I see." Out has he ta'en a purse o' gowd, Was a' fou to the string, "O grant me love for love, ladye, "And a' this shall be thine." "I lo'e Brown Adam weel," she says; "I wot sae does he me: "I wad na be your light leman "For mair than ye could gie." Then out he drew his lang bright brand, And flashed it in her een; "Now grant me love for love, ladye, "Or thro' ye this sall gang!" Then, sighing, says that ladye fair, "Brown Adam tarries lang!" Then in and starts him Brown Adam, Says--"I'm just at your hand." He's gar'd him leave his bonny bow, He's gar'd him leave his brand, He's gar'd him leave a dearer pledge-- Four fingers o' his right hand. JELLON GRAME. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. This ballad is published from tradition, with some conjectural emendations. It is corrected by a copy in Mrs Brown's MS., from which it differs in the concluding stanzas. Some verses are apparently modernized. _Jellon_ seems to be the same name with _Jyllian_ or _Julian_. "Jyl of Brentford's Testament" is mentioned in Warton's _History of Poetry,- Vol. II. p. 40. The name repeatedly occurs in old ballads, sometimes as that of a man, at other times as that of a woman. Of the former is an instance in the ballad of _"Knight and the Shepherd's Daughter,"--Reliques of Ancient Poetry,_ Vol. III. p. 72. Some do call me Jack, sweetheart. And some do call me _Jille_. Witton Gilbert, a village four miles west of Durham, is, throughout the bishopric, pronounced Witton Jilbert. We have also the common name of Giles, always in Scotland pronounced Jill. For Gille, or Julianna, as a female name, we have _Fair Gillian_ of Croyden, and a thousand authorities. Such being the case, the editor must enter his protest against the conversion of Gil Morrice, into child Maurice, an epithet of chivalry. All the circumstances in that ballad argue, that the unfortunate hero was an obscure and very young man, who had never received the honour of knighthood. At any rate, there can be no reason, even were internal evidence totally wanting, for altering a well known proper name, which, till of late years, has been the uniform title of the ballad. JELLON GRAME. O JELLON GRAME sat in Silverwood,[A] He sharped his broad sword lang; And he has call'd his little foot page An errand for to gang. "Win up, my bonny boy," he says, "As quickly as ye may; "For ye maun gang for Lillie Flower "Before the break of day." The boy has buckled his belt about, And thro' the green-wood ran; And he cam to the ladye's bower Before the day did dawn. "O sleep ye, wake ye, Lillie Flower? "The red sun's on the rain: "Ye're bidden come to Silverwood, "But I doubt ye'll never win hame." She hadna ridden a mile, a mile, A mile but barely three, Ere she cam to a new made grave, Beneath a green aik tree. O then up started Jellon Grame, Out of a bush thereby; "Light down, light down, now, Lillie Flower, "For its here that ye maun lye." She lighted aff her milk-white steed, And kneel'd upon her knee; "O mercy, mercy, Jellon Grame, "For I'm no prepared to die! "Your bairn, that stirs between my sides, "Maun shortly see the light; "But to see it weltering in my blood, "Would be a piteous sight." "O should I spare your life," he says, "Until that bairn were born, "Full weel I ken your auld father "Would hang me on the morn." "O spare my life, now, Jellon Grame! "My father ye need na dread: "I'll keep my babe in gude green-wood, "Or wi' it I'll beg my bread." He took no pity on Lillie Flower, Tho' she for life did pray; But pierced her thro' the fair body As at his feet she lay. He felt nae pity for Lillie Flower, Where she was lying dead; But he felt some for the bonny bairn, That lay weltering in her bluid. Up has he ta'en that bonny boy, Given him to nurses nine; Three to sleep, and three to wake, And three to go between. And he bred up that bonny boy, Called him his sister's son; And he thought no eye could ever see The deed that he had done. O so it fell, upon a day, When hunting they might be, They rested them in Silverwood, Beneath that green aik tree. And mony were the green-wood flowers Upon the grave that grew, And marvell'd much that bonny boy To see their lovely hue. "What's paler than the prymrose wan? "What's redder than the rose? "What's fairer than the lilye flower "On this wee know[B] that grows?" O out and answered Jellon Grame, And he spak hastelie-- "Your mother was a fairer flower, "And lies beneath this tree. "More pale she was, when she sought my grace, "Than prymrose pale and wan; "And redder than rose her ruddy heart's blood, "That down my broad sword ran." Wi' that the boy has bent his bow, It was baith stout and lang; And thro' and thro' him, Jellon Grame, He gar'd an arrow gang. Says--"Lie ye there, now, Jellon Grame! "My malisoun gang you wi'! "The place my mother lies buried in "Is far too good for thee." [Footnote A: Silverwood, mentioned in this ballad, occurs in a medley MS song, which seems to have been copied from the first edition of the Aberdeen caurus, _penes_ John G. Dalyell, esq. advocate. One line only is cited, apparently the beginning of some song: Silverwood, gin ye were mine.] [Footnote B: _Wee know_--Little hillock.] WILLIE'S LADYE. ANCIENT COPY. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. Mr Lewis, in his _Tales of Wonder_, has presented the public with a copy of this ballad, with additions and alterations. The editor has also seen a copy, containing some modern stanzas, intended by Mr Jamieson, of Macclesfield, for publication in his Collection of Scottish Poetry. Yet, under these disadvantages, the editor cannot relinquish his purpose of publishing the old ballad, in its native simplicity, as taken from Mrs Brown of Faulkland's MS. Those, who wish to know how an incantation, or charm, of the distressing nature here described, was performed in classic days, may consult the story of Galanthis's Metamorphosis, in Ovid, or the following passage in Apuleius: _"Eadem (Saga scilicet quaedam), amatoris uxorem, quod in sibi dicacule probrum dixerat, jam in sarcinam praegnationis, obsepto utero, et repigrato faetu, perpetua praegnatione damnavit. Et ut cuncti numerant, octo annorum onere, misella illa, velut elephantum paritura, distenditur."_--APUL. Metam. lib. 1. There is also a curious tale about a count of Westeravia, whom a deserted concubine bewitched upon his marriage, so as to preclude all hopes of his becoming a father. The spell continued to operate for three years, till one day, the count happening to meet with his former mistress, she maliciously asked him about the increase of his family. The count, conceiving some suspicion from her manner, craftily answered, that God had blessed him with three fine children; on which she exclaimed, like Willie's mother in the ballad, "May Heaven confound the old hag, by whose counsel I threw an enchanted pitcher into the draw-well of your palace!" The spell being found, and destroyed, the count became the father of a numerous family.--_Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels,_ p. 474. WILLIE'S LADYE. Willie's ta'en him o'er the faem,[A] He's wooed a wife, and brought her hame; He's wooed her for her yellow hair, But his mother wrought her meikle care; And meikle dolour gar'd her drie, For lighter she can never be; But in her bower she sits wi' pain, And Willie mourns o'er her in vain. And to his mother he has gane, That vile rank witch, o' vilest kind! He says--"My ladie has a cup, Wi' gowd and silver set about, This gudely gift sall be your ain, And let her be lighter o' her young bairn." "Of her young bairn she's never be lighter, "Nor in her bour to shine the brighter; "But she sall die, and turn to clay, "And you shall wed another may." "Another may I'll never wed, "Another may I'll never bring hame." But, sighing, said that weary wight-- "I wish my life were at an end!" "Yet gae ye to your mother again, "That vile rank witch, o' vilest kind! "And say, your ladye has a steed, "The like o' him's no in the land o' Leed.[B] "For he is silver shod before, "And he is gowden shod behind; "At every tuft of that horse mane, "There's a golden chess[C], and a bell to ring. "This gudely gift sall be her ain, "And let me be lighter o' my young bairn." "Of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter, "Nor in her bour to shine the brighter; "But she sall die, and turn to clay, "And ye sall wed another may." "Another may I'll never wed, "Another may I'll never bring hame." But, sighing, said that weary wight-- "I wish my life were at an end!" "Yet gae ye to your mother again, "That vile rank witch, o' rankest kind! "And say, your ladye has a girdle, "It is a' red gowd to the middle; "And aye, at ilka siller hem "Hang fifty siller bells and ten; "This gudely gift sall be her ain, "And let me be lighter o' my young bairn." "Of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter, "Nor in your bour to shine the brighter; "For she sall die, and turn to clay, "And thou sall wed another may." "Another may I'll never wed, "Another may I'll never bring hame." But, sighing, said that weary wight-- "I wish my days were at an end!" Then out and spak the Billy Blind,[D] (He spak ay in a gude time:) "Yet gae ye to the market-place, "And there do buy a loaf of wace;[E] "Do shape it bairn and bairnly like, "And in it twa glassen een you'll put; "And bid her your boy's christening to, "Then notice weel what she shall do; "And do ye stand a little away, "To notice weel what she may saye. * * * * * [_A stanza seems to be wanting. Willie is supposed to follow the advice of the spirit.--His mother speaks._] "O wha has loosed the nine witch knots, "That were amang that ladye's locks? "And wha's ta'en out the kaims o' care, "That were amang that ladye's hair? "And wha has ta'en downe that bush o' woodbine, "That hung between her bour and mine? "And wha has kill'd the master kid, "That ran beneath that ladye's bed? "And wha has loosed her left foot shee, "And let that ladye lighter be?" Syne, Willy's loosed the nine witch knots, That were amang that ladye's locks; And Willy's ta'en out the kaims o' care, That were into that ladye's hair; And he's ta'en down the bush o' woodbine, Hung atween her bour and the witch carline; And he has kill'd the master kid, That ran beneath that ladye's bed; And he has loosed her left foot shee, And latten that ladye lighter be; And now he has gotten a bonny son, And meikle grace be him upon. [Footnote A: _Faem_--The sea foam.] [Footnote B: _Land o' Leed_--Perhaps Lydia.] [Footnote C: _Chess_--Should probably be _jess_, the name of a hawk's bell.] [Footnote D: _Billy-Blind_--A familiar genius, or propitious spirit, somewhat similar to the _Brownie_. He is mentioned repeatedly in Mrs Brown's Ballads, but I have not met with him any where else, although he is alluded to in the rustic game of _Bogle_ (i.e. _goblin) Billy-Blind_. The word is, indeed, used in Sir David Lindsay's plays, but apparently in a different sense-- "Preists sall leid you like ane _Billy Blinde_." PINKERTON'S _Scottish Poems_, 1792, Vol. II. p. 232.] [Footnote E: _Wace_--Wax.] CLERK SAUNDERS. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. This romantic ballad is taken from Mr Herd's MSS., with several corrections from a shorter and more imperfect copy, in the same volume, and one or two conjectural emendations in the arrangement of the stanzas. The resemblance of the conclusion to the ballad, beginning, "There came a ghost to Margaret's door," will strike every reader.--The tale is uncommonly wild and beautiful, and apparently very ancient. The custom of the passing bell is still kept up in many villages of Scotland. The sexton goes through the town, ringing a small bell, and announcing the death of the departed, and the time of the funeral.--The three concluding verses have been recovered since the first edition of this work; and I am informed by the reciter, that it was usual to separate from the rest, that part of the ballad which follows the death of the lovers, as belonging to another story. For this, however, there seems no necessity, as other authorities give the whole as a complete tale. CLERK SAUNDERS. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. Clerk Saunders and may Margaret Walked ower yon garden green; And sad and heavy was the love That fell thir twa between. "A bed, a bed," Clerk Saunders said, "A bed for you and me!" "Fye na, fye na," said may Margaret, "Till anes we married be. "For in may come my seven bauld brothers, "Wi' torches burning bright; "They'll say--'We hae but ae sister, "And behold she's wi' a knight!' "Then take the sword frae my scabbard, "And slowly lift the pin; "And you may swear, and safe your aith, "Ye never let Clerk Saunders in. "And take a napkin in your hand, "And tie up baith your bonny een; "And you may swear, and safe your aith, "Ye saw me na since late yestreen." It was about the midnight hour, When they asleep were laid, When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning red. When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches shining bright; They said, "We hae but ae sister, "And behold her lying with a knight!" Then out and spake the first o' them, "I bear the sword shall gar him die!" And out and spake the second o' them, "His father has nae mair than he!" And out and spake the third o' them, "I wot that they are lovers dear!" And out and spake the fourth o' them, "They hae been in love this mony a year!" Then out and spake the fifth o' them, "It were great sin true love to twain!" And out and spake the sixth o' them, "It were shame to slay a sleeping man!" Then up and gat the seventh o' them, And never a word spake he; But he has striped[A] his bright brown brand Out through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye. Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turned Into his arms as asleep she lay; And sad and silent was the night That was atween thir twae. And they lay still and sleeped sound, Until the day began to daw; And kindly to him she did say, "It is time, true love, you were awa'." But he lay still, and sleeped sound, Albeit the sun began to sheen; She looked atween her and the wa', And dull and drowsie were his een. Then in and came her father dear, Said--"Let a' your mourning be: "I'll carry the dead corpse to the clay, "And I'll come back and comfort thee." "Comfort weel your seven sons; "For comforted will I never be: "I ween 'twas neither knave nor lown "Was in the bower last night wi' me." The clinking bell gaed through the town, To carry the dead corse to the clay; And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret's window, I wot, an hour before the day. "Are ye sleeping, Margaret?" he says, "Or are ye waking presentlie? "Give me my faith and troth again, "I wot, true love, I gied to thee." "Your faith and troth ye sall never get, "Nor our true love sall never twin, "Until ye come within my bower, "And kiss me cheik and chin." "My mouth it is full cold, Margaret, "It has the smell, now, of the ground; "And if I kiss thy comely mouth, "Thy days of life will not be lang. "O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight, "I wot the wild fowls are boding day; "Give me my faith and troth again, "And let me fare me on my way." "Thy faith and troth thou sall na get, "And our true love sall never twin, "Until ye tell what comes of women, "I wot, who die in strong traivelling?"[B] "Their beds are made in the heavens high, "Down at the foot of our good lord's knee, "Weel set about wi' gillyflowers: "I wot sweet company for to see. "O cocks are crowing a merry mid-night, "I wot the wild fowl are boding day; "The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, "And I, ere now, will be missed away." Then she has ta'en a crystal wand, And she has stroken her troth thereon; She has given it him out at the shot-window, Wi' mony a sad sigh, and heavy groan. "I thank ye, Marg'ret; I thank ye, Marg'ret; "And aye I thank ye heartilie; "Gin ever the dead come for the quick, "Be sure, Marg'ret, I'll come for thee." Its hosen and shoon, and gown alone, She climbed the wall, and followed him, Until she came to the green forest, And there she lost the sight o' him. "Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? "Is there ony room at your feet? "Or ony room at your side, Saunders, "Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?" "There's nae room at my head, Marg'ret, "There's nae room at my feet; "My bed it is full lowly now: "Amang the hungry worms I sleep. "Cauld mould is my covering now, "But and my winding-sheet; "The dew it falls nae sooner down, "Than my resting-place is weet. "But plait a wand o' bonnie birk, "And lay it on my breast; "And shed a tear upon my grave, "And wish my saul gude rest. "And fair Marg'ret, and rare Marg'ret, "And Marg'ret o' veritie, "Gin ere ye love another man, "Ne'er love him as ye did me." Then up and crew the milk-white cock, And up and crew the gray; Her lover vanish'd in the air, And she gaed weeping away. [Footnote A: _Striped_--Thrust.] [Footnote B: _Traivelling_--Child-birth.] NOTES ON CLERK SAUNDERS. _Weel set about wi' gillyflowers._--P. 394. v. 5. From whatever source the popular ideas of heaven be derived, the mention of gillyflowers is not uncommon. Thus, in the Dead Men's Song-- The fields about this city faire Were all with roses set; _Gillyflowers_, and carnations faire, Which canker could not fret. RITSON'S _Ancient Songs_, p. 288. The description, given in the legend of _Sir Owain_, of the terrestrial paradise, at which the blessed arrive, after passing through purgatory, omits gillyflowers, though it mentions many others. As the passage is curious, and the legend has never been published, many persons may not be displeased to see it extracted-- Fair were her erbers with flowres, Rose and lili divers colours, Primrol and parvink; Mint, feverfoy, and eglenterre Colombin, and mo ther wer Than ani man mai bithenke. It berth erbes of other maner, Than ani in erth groweth here, Tho that is lest of priis; Evermore thai grene springeth, For winter no somer it no clingeth, And sweeter than licorice. _But plait a wand o' bonnie birk_, &c.--P. 396. v. 3. The custom of binding the new-laid sod of the church-yard with osiers, or other saplings, prevailed both in England and Scotland, and served to protect the turf from injury by cattle, or otherwise. It is alluded to by Gay, in the _What d'ye call it_-- Stay, let me pledge, 'tis my last earthly liquor, When I am dead you'll bind my grave with _wicker_. In the _Shepherd's Week_, the same custom is alluded to, and the cause explained:-- With _wicker rods_ we fenced her tomb around, To ward, from man and beast, the hallowed ground, Lest her new grave the parson's cattle raze, For both his horse and cow the church-yard graze. _Fifth Pastoral._ EARL RICHARD. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. _There are two Ballads in Mr_ HERD'S _MSS. upon the following Story, in one of which the unfortunate Knight is termed_ YOUNG HUNTIN. _A Fragment, containing from the sixth to the tenth verse, has been repeatedly published. The best verses are here selected from both copies, and some trivial alterations have been adopted from tradition._ "O lady, rock never your young son young, "One hour langer for me; "For I have a sweetheart in Garlioch Wells, "I love far better than thee. "The very sole o' that ladye's foot "Than thy face is far mair white."-- "But, nevertheless, now, Erl Richard, "Ye will bide in ray bower a' night?" She birled[A] him with the ale and wine, As they sat down to sup; A living man he laid him down, But I wot he ne'er rose up. Then up and spak the popinjay, That flew aboun her head; "Lady! keep weel your green cleiding "Frae gude Erl Richard's bleid." "O better I'll keep my green cleiding "Frae gude Erl Richard's bleid, "Than thou canst keep thy clattering toung, "That trattles in thy head." She has call'd upon her bower maidens, She has call'd them ane by ane; "There lies a deid man in my bour: "I wish that he were gane!" They hae booted him, and spurred him, As he was wont to ride;-- A hunting-horn tied round his waist, A sharp sword by his side; And they hae had him to the wan water, For a' men call it Clyde. Then up and spak the popinjay, That sat upon the tree-- "What hae ye done wi' Erl Richard? "Ye were his gay ladye." "Come down, come down, my bonny bird, "And sit upon my hand; "And thou sall hae a cage o' gowd, "Where thou hast but the wand." "Awa! awa! ye ill woman: "Nae cage o' gowd for me; "As ye hae dune to Erl Richard, "Sae wad ye do to me." She hadna cross'd a rigg o' land, A rigg, but barely ane; When she met wi' his auld father, Came riding all alane. "Where hae ye been, now, ladye fair, "Where hae ye been sae late?" "We hae been seeking Erl Richard, "But him we canna get." "Erl Richard kens a' the fords in Clyde, "He'll ride them ane by ane, "And though the night was ne'er sae mirk, "Erl Richard will he hame." O it fell anes, upon a day, The king was boun' to ride; And he has mist him, Erl Richard, Should hae ridden on his right side. The ladye turn'd her round about, Wi' meikle mournfu' din-- "It fears me sair o' Clyde water, "That he is drown'd therein." "Gar douk, gar douk,"[B] the king he cried, "Gar douk for gold and fee; "O wha will douk for Erl Richard's sake, "Or wha will douk for me?" They douked in at ae weil-head,[C] And out ay at the other; "We can douk nae mair for Erl Richard, "Although he were our brother." It fell that, in that ladye's castle, The king was boun' to bed; And up and spake the popinjay, That flew abune his head. "Leave off your douking on the day, "And douk upon the night; "And where that sackless[D] knight lies slain, "The candles will burn bright." "O there's a bird within this bower, "That sings baith sad and sweet; "O there's a bird within your bower, "Keeps me frae my night's sleep." They left the douking on the day, And douked upon the night; And, where that sackless knight lay slain, The candles burned bright. The deepest pot in a' the linn, They fand Erl Richard in; A grene turf tyed across his breast, To keep that gude lord down. Then up and spake the king himsell, When he saw the deadly wound-- "O wha has slain my right-hand man, "That held my hawk and hound?" Then up and spake the popinjay, Says--"What needs a' this din? "It was his light lemman took his life, "And hided him in the linn." She swore her by the grass, sae grene, Sae did she by the corn, She had na' seen him, Erl Richard, Since Moninday at morn. "Put na the wite on me," she said; "It was my may Catherine." Then they hae cut baith fern and thorn, To burn that maiden in. It wadna take upon her cheik, Nor yet upon her chin; Nor yet upon her yellow hair, To cleanse the deadly sin. The maiden touched the clay-cauld corpse, A drap it never bled; The ladye laid her hand on him, And soon the 'ground was red. Out they hae ta'en her, may Catherine, And put her mistress in: The flame tuik fast upon her cheik, Tuik fast upon her chin, Tuik fast upon her faire bodye-- She burn'd like hollins green.[E] [Footnote A: _Birled_--Plied.] [Footnote B: _Douk_--Dive.] [Footnote C: _Weil-heid_--Eddy.] [Footnote D: _Sackless_--Guiltless.] [Footnote E: _Hollins green_--Green holly.] NOTES ON EARL RICHARD. _The candles burned bright._--P. 403. v. 4. These are unquestionably the corpse lights, called in Wales _Canhwyllan Cyrph_, which are sometimes seen to illuminate the spot where a dead body is concealed. The editor is informed, that, some years ago, the corpse of a man, drowned in the Ettrick, below Selkirk, was discovered by means of these candles. Such lights are common in church-yards, and are probably of a phosphoric nature. But rustic superstition derives them from supernatural agency, and supposes, that, as soon as life has departed, a pale flame appears at the window of the house, in which the person had died, and glides towards the church-yard, tracing through every winding the route of the future funeral, and pausing where the bier is to rest. This and other opinions, relating to the "tomb-fires' livid gleam," seem to be of Runic extraction. _The deepest pot in a' the linn._--P. 403. v. 5. The deep holes, scooped in the rock by the eddies of a river, are called _pots;_ the motion of the water having there some resemblance to a boiling cauldron. _Linn_, means the pool beneath a cataract. _The maiden touched the clay-cauld corpse, A drop it never bled._--P. 405. v. I. This verse, which is restored from tradition, refers to a superstition formerly received in most parts of Europe, and even resorted to, by judicial authority, for the discovery of murder. In Germany, this experiment was called _bahr-recht_, or the law of the bier; because, the murdered body being stretched upon a bier, the suspected person was obliged to put one hand upon the wound, and the other upon the mouth of the deceased, and, in that posture, call upon heaven to attest his innocence. If, during this ceremony, the blood gushed from the mouth, nose, or wound, a circumstance not unlikely to happen in the course of shifting or stirring the body, it was held sufficient evidence of the guilt of the party. The same singular kind of evidence, although reprobated by Mathaeus and Carpzovius, was admitted in the Scottish criminal courts, at the short distance of one century. My readers may be amused by the following instances: "The laird of Auchindrane (Muir of Auchindrane, in Ayrshire) was accused of a horrid and private murder, where there were no witnesses, and which the Lord had witnessed from heaven, singularly by his own hand, and proved the deed against him. The corpse of the man being buried in Girvan church-yard, as a man cast away at sea, and cast out there, the laird of Colzean, whose servant he had been, dreaming of him in his sleep, and that he had a particular mark upon his body, came and took up the body, and found it to be the same person; and caused all that lived near by come and touch the corpse, as is usual in such cases. All round the place came but Auchindrane and his son, whom nobody suspected, till a young child of his, Mary Muir, seeing the people examined, came in among them; and, when she came near the dead body, it sprang out in bleeding; upon which they were apprehended, and put to the torture."--WODROW'S _History_, Vol. I. p. 513. The trial of Auchindrane happened in 1611. He was convicted and executed.--HUME'S _Criminal Law_, Vol. I. p. 428. A yet more dreadful case was that of Philip Standfield, tried upon the 30th November, 1687, for cursing his father (which, by the Scottish law, is a capital crime, _Act 1661, Chap_. 20), and for being accessory to his murder. Sir James Standfield, the deceased, was a person of melancholy temperament; so that, when his body was found in a pond near his own house of Newmilns, he was at first generally supposed to have drowned himself. But, the body having been hastily buried, a report arose that he had been strangled by ruffians, instigated by his son Philip, a profligate youth, whom be had disinherited on account of his gross debauchery. Upon this rumour, the Privy Council granted warrant to two surgeons of character, named Crawford and Muirhead, to dig up the body, and to report the state in which they should find it. Philip was present on this occasion, and the evidence of both surgeons bears distinctly, that he stood for some time at a distance from the body of his parent; but, being called upon to assist in stretching out the corpse, he put his hand to the head, when the mouth and nostrils instantly gushed with blood. This circumstance, with the evident symptoms of terror and remorse, exhibited by young Standfield, seem to have had considerable weight with the jury, and are thus stated in the indictment: "That his (the deceased's) nearest relations being required to lift the corpse into the coffin, after it had been inspected, upon the said Philip Standfield touching of it (_according to God's usual mode of discovering murder_), it bled afresh upon the said Philip; and that thereupon he let the body fall, and fled from it in the greatest consternation, crying, Lord have mercy upon me!" The prisoner was found guilty of being accessory to the murder of his father, although there was little more than strong presumptions against him. It is true, he was at the same time separately convicted of the distinct crimes of having cursed his father, and drank damnation to the monarchy and hierarchy. His sentence, which was to have his tongue cut out, and hand struck off, previous to his being hanged, was executed with the utmost rigour. He denied the murder with his last breath. "It is," says a contemporary judge, "a dark case of divination, to be remitted to the great day, whether he was guilty or innocent. Only it is certain he was a bad youth, and may serve as a beacon to all profligate persons."--FOUNTAINHALL'S _Decisions_, Vol. I. p. 483. While all ranks believed alike the existence of these prodigies, the vulgar were contented to refer them to the immediate interference of the Deity, or, as they termed it, God's revenge against murder. But those, who, while they had overleaped the bounds of superstition, were still entangled in the mazes of mystic philosophy, amongst whom we must reckon many of the medical practitioners, endeavoured to explain the phenomenon, by referring to the secret power of sympathy, which even Bacon did not venture to dispute. To this occult agency was imputed the cure of wounds, effected by applying salves and powders, not to the wound itself, but to the sword or dagger, by which it had been inflicted; a course of treatment, which, wonderful as it may at first seem, was certainly frequently attended with signal success.[A] This, however, was attributed to magic, and those, who submitted to such a mode of cure, were refused spiritual assistance. [Footnote A: The first part of the process was to wash the wound clean, and bind it up so as to promote adhesion, and exclude the air. Now, though the remedies, afterwards applied to the sword, could hardly promote so desirable an issue, yet it is evident the wound stood a good chance of healing by the operation of nature, which, I believe, medical gentlemen call a cure by the first intention.] The vulgar continue to believe firmly in the phenomenon of the murdered corpse bleeding at the approach of the murderer. "Many (I adopt the words of an ingenious correspondent) are the proofs advanced in confirmation of the opinion, against those who are so hardy as to doubt it; but one, in particular, as it is said to have happened in this place, I cannot help repeating. "Two young men, going a fishing in the river Yarrow, fell out; and so high ran the quarrel, that the one, in a passion, stabbed the other to the heart with a fish spear. Astonished "at the rash act, he hesitated whether to fly, give himself up to justice, or conceal the crime; and, in the end, fixed on the latter expedient, burying the body of his friend very deep in the sands. As the meeting had been accidental, he was never from gaiety to a settled melancholy. Time passed on for the space of fifty years, when a smith, fishing near the same place, discovered an uncommon and curious bone, which he put in his pocket, and afterwards showed to some people in his smithy. The murderer being present, now an old white-headed man, leaning on his staff, desired a sight of the little bone; but how horrible was the issue! no sooner had he touched it, than it streamed with purple blood. Being told where it was found, he confessed the crime, was condemned, but was prevented, by death, from suffering the punishment due to his crime. "Such opinions, though reason forbids us to believe them, a few moments reflection on the cause of their origin will teach us to revere. Under the feudal system which prevailed, the rights of humanity were too often violated, and redress very hard to be procured; thus an awful deference to one of the leading attributes of Omnipotence begat on the mind, untutored by philosophy, the first germ of these supernatural effects; which was, by superstitious zeal, assisted, perhaps, by a few instances of sudden remorse, magnified into evidence of indisputable guilt." THE LASS OF LOCHROYAN. NOW FIRST PUBLISHED IN A PERFECT STATE. Lochroyan, whence this ballad probably derives its name, lies in Galloway. The lover, who, if the story be real, may be supposed to have been detained by sickness, is represented, in the legend, as confined by Fairy charms in an enchanted castle situated in the sea. The ruins of ancient edifices are still visible on the summits of most of those small islands, or rather insulated rocks, which lie along the coast of Ayrshire and Galloway; as Ailsa and Big Scaur. This edition of the ballad obtained is composed of verses selected from three MS. copies, and two from recitation. Two of the copies are in Herd's MSS.; the third in that of Mrs Brown of Falkland. A fragment of the original song, which is sometimes denominated _Lord Gregory_, or _Love Gregory_, was published in Mr Herd's Collection, 1774, and, still more fully, in that of Laurie and Symington, 1792. The story has been celebrated both by Burns and Dr Wolcott. THE LASS OF LOCHROYAN. "O wha will shoe my bonny foot? "And wha will glove my hand? "And wha will lace my middle jimp "W' a lang lang linen band? "O wha will kame my yellow hair "With a new made silver kame? "And wha will father my young son "Till Lord Gregory come hame?" "Thy father will shoe thy bonny foot, "Thy mother will glove thy hand, "Thy sister will lace thy middle jimp, "Till Lord Gregory come to land. "Thy brother will kame thy yellow hair "With a new made silver kame, "And God will be thy bairn's father "Till Lord Gregory come hame." "But I will get a bonny boat, "And I will sail the sea; "And I will gang to Lord Gregory, "Since he canna come hame to me." Syne she's gar'd build a bonny boat, To sail the salt salt sea: The sails were o' the light-green silk, The tows[A] o' taffety. She hadna sailed but twenty leagues, But twenty leagues and three, When she met wi' a rank robber, And a' his company. "Now whether are ye the queen hersell, "(For so ye weel might be) "Or are ye the lass of Lochroyan, "Seekin' Lord Gregory?" "O I am neither the queen," she said, "Nor sic I seem to be; "But I am the lass of Lochroyan, "Seekin' Lord Gregory." "O see na thou yon bonny bower? "Its a' covered o'er wi' tiu: "When thou hast sailed it round about, "Lord Gregory is within." And when she saw the stately tower Shining sae clear and bright, Whilk stood aboon the jawing[B] wave, Built on a rock of height; Says--"Row the boat, my mariners, "And bring me to the land! "For yonder I see my love's castle "Close by the salt sea strand." She sailed it round, and sailed it round, And loud, loud, cried she-- "Now break, now break, ye Fairy charms, "And set my true love free!" She's ta'en her young son in her arms, And to the door she's gane; And long she knocked, and sair she ca'd, But answer got she nane. "O open the door, Lord Gregory! "O open, and let me in! "For the wind blaws through my yellow hair, "And the rain drops o'er my chin." "Awa, awa, ye ill woman! "Ye're no come here for good! "Ye're but some witch, or wil warlock, "Or mermaid o' the flood." "I am neither witch, nor wil warlock, "Nor mermaid o' the sea; "But I am Annie of Lochroyan; "O open the door to me!" "Gin thou be Annie of Lochroyan, "(As I trow thou binna she) "Now tell me some o' the love tokens "That past between thee and me." "O dinna ye mind, Lord Gregory, "As we sat at the wine, "We chang'd the rings frae our fingers, "And I can shew thee thine? "O your's was gude, and gude enough, "But ay the best was mine; "For your's was o' the gude red gowd, "But mine o' the diamond fine. "And has na thou mind, Lord Gregory, "As we sat on the hill, "Thou twin'd me o' my maidenheid "Right sair against my will? "Now, open the door, Lord Gregory! "Open the door, I pray! "For thy young son is in my arms, "And will be dead ere day." "If thou be the lass of Lochroyan, "(As I kenna thou be) "Tell me some mair o' the love tokens "Past between me and thee." Fair Annie turned her round about-- "Weel! since that it be sae, "May never woman, that has borne a son, "Hae a heart sae fu' o' wae! "Take down, take down, that mast o' gowd! "Set up a mast o' tree! "It disna become a forsaken lady. "To sail sae royallie." When the cock had crawn, and the day did dawn. And the sun began to peep, Then up and raise him, Lord Gregory, And sair, sair did he weep. "O I hae dreamed a dream, mother, "I wish it may prove true! "That the bonny lass of Lochroyan "Was at the yate e'en now. "O I hae dreamed a dream, mother, "The thought o't gars me greet! "That fair Annie o' Lochroyan "Lay cauld dead at my feet." "Gin it be for Annie of Lochroyan "That ye make a' this din, "She stood a' last night at your door, "But I trow she wanna in." "O wae betide ye, ill woman! "An ill deid may ye die! "That wadna open the door to her, "Nor yet wad waken me." O he's gane down to yon shore side As fast as he could fare; He saw fair Annie in the boat, But the wind it tossed her sair. "And hey Annie, and how Annie! "O Annie, winna ye bide!" But ay the mair he cried Annie, The braider grew the tide. "And hey Annie, and how Annie! "Dear Annie, speak to me!" But ay the louder he cried Annie, The louder roared the sea. The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough, And dashed the boat on shore; Fair Annie floated through the faem, But the babie raise no more. Lord Gregory tore his yellow hair, And made a heavy moan; Fair Annie's corpse lay at his feet, Her bonny young son was gone. O cherry, cherry was her cheek, And gowden was her hair; But clay-cold were her rosy lips-- Nae spark o' life was there. And first he kissed her cherry cheek, And syne he kissed her chin, And syne he kissed her rosy lips-- There was nae breath within. "O wae betide my cruel mother! "An ill death may she die! "She turned my true love frae my door, "Wha came sae far to me. "O wae betide my cruel mother! "An ill death may she die! "She turned fair Annie frae my door, "Wha died for love o' me." [Footnote A: _Tows_--Ropes.] [Footnote B: _Jawing_--Dashing.] ROSE THE RED AND WHITE LILLY. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. _This legendary Tale is given chiefly from Mrs_ BROWN'S _MS. Accordingly, many of the rhymes arise from the Northern mode of pronunciation; as_ dee _for_ do, _and the like.--Perhaps the Ballad may have originally related to the history of the celebrated_ ROBIN HOOD; _as mention is made of Barnisdale, his favourite abode._ O Rose the Red, and White Lilly, Their mother deir was dead: And their father has married an ill woman, Wished them twa little guid. But she had twa as gallant sons As ever brake man's bread; And the tane o' them lo'ed her, White Lilly, And the tother Rose the Red. O bigged hae they a bigly bour, Fast by the roaring strand; And there was mair mirth in the ladyes' bour, Nor in a' their father's land. But out and spake their step-mother, As she stood a little forebye-- "I hope to live and play the prank, "Sall gar your loud sang lie." She's call'd upon her eldest son; "Cum here, my son, to me: "It fears me sair, my bauld Arthur, "That ye maun sail the sea." "Gin sae it maun be, my deir mother, "Your bidding I maun dee; "But, be never waur to Rose the Red, "Than ye hae been to me." She's called upon her youngest son; "Cum here, my son, to me: "It fears me sair, my Brown Robin, "That ye maun sail the sea." "Gin it fear ye sair, my mother deir, "Your bidding I sall dee; But, be never waur to White Lilly, "Than ye hae been to me." "Now hand your tongues, ye foolish boys! "For small sall be their part: "They ne'er again sall see your face, "Gin their very hearts suld break." Sae Bauld Arthur's gane to our king's court, His hie chamberlain to be; But Brown Robin, he has slain a knight, And to grene-wood he did flee. When Rose the Red, and White Lilly, Saw their twa loves were gane, Sune did they drop the loud loud sang, Took up the still mourning. And out then spake her White Lilly; "My sister, we'll be gane: "Why suld we stay in Barnisdale, "To mourn our hour within?" O cutted hae they their green cloathing, A little abune their knee; And sae hae they their yellow hair, A little abune their bree. And left hae they that bonny hour, To cross the raging sea; And they hae ta'en to a holy chapel, Was christened by Our Ladye. And they hae changed their twa names, Sae far frae ony toun; And the tane o' them's hight Sweet Willie, And the tother's Rouge the Rounde. Between the twa a promise is, And they hae sworn it to fulfill; Whenever the tane blew a bugle-horn, The tother suld cum her till. Sweet Willy's gane to the king's court, Her true love for to see; And Rouge the Rounde to gude grene-wood, Brown Robin's man to be. O it fell anes, upon a time, They putted at the stane; And seven foot ayont them a', Brown Robin's gar'd it gang. She lifted the heavy putting-stane, And gave a sad "O hon!" Then out bespake him, Brown Robin, "But that's a woman's moan!" "O kent ye by my rosy lips? "Or by my yellow hair? "Or kent ye by my milk-white breast, "Ye never yet saw bare?" "I kent na by your rosy lips, "Nor by your yellow hair; "But, cum to your bour whaever likes, "They'll find a ladye there." "O gin ye come my bour within, "Through fraud, deceit, or guile, "Wi' this same brand, that's in my hand, "I vow I will thee kill." "Yet durst I cum into your bour, "And ask nae leave," quo' he; "And wi' this same brand, that's in my hand, "Wave danger back on thee." About the dead hour o' the night, The ladye's bour was broken; And, about the first hour o' the day, The fair knave bairn was gotten. When days were gane, and months were come, The ladye was sad and wan; And aye she cried for a bour woman, For to wait her upon. Then up and spake him, Brown Robin, "And what needs this?" quo' he; "Or what can woman do for you, "That canna be done by me?" "'Twas never my mother's fashion," she said, "Nor shall it e'er be mine, "That belted knights should e'er remain "While ladyes dree'd their pain. "But, gin ye take that bugle-horn, "And wind a blast sae shrill, "I hae a brother in yonder court, "Will cum me quickly till." "O gin ye hae a brother on earth, "That ye lo'e mair than me, "Ye may blaw the horn yoursell," he says, "For a blast I winna gie." She's ta'en the bugle in her hand, And blawn baith loud and shrill; Sweet William started at the sound, And cam her quickly till. O up and starts him, Brown Robin, And swore by Our Ladye, "No man shall cum into this hour, "But first maun fight wi' me." O they hae fought the wood within, Till the sun was going down; And drops o' blood, frae Rose the Red, Came pouring to the ground. She leant her back against an aik, Said--"Robin, let me be: "For it is a ladye, bred and born, "That has fought this day wi' thee." O seven foot he started back. Cried--"Alas and woe is me! "For I wished never, in all my life, "A woman's bluid to see: "And that all for the knightly vow "I swore to Our Ladye; "But mair for the sake o' ae fair maid, "Whose name was White Lilly." Then out and spake her, Rouge the Rounde, And leugh right heartilie, "She has been wi' you this year and mair, "Though ye wistna it was she." Now word has gane through all the land, Before a month was gane, That a forester's page, in gude grene-wood, Had borne a bonny son. The marvel gaed to the king's court, And to the king himsell; "Now, by my fay," the king did say, "The like was never heard tell!" Then out and spake him, Bauld Arthur, And laugh'd right loud and hie-- "I trow some may has plaid the lown,[A] "And fled her ain countrie." "Bring me my steid!" the king can say; "My bow and arrows keen; "And I'll gae hunt in yonder wood, "And see what's to be seen." "Gin it please your grace," quo' Bauld Arthur, "My liege, I'll gang you wi'; "And see gin I can meet a bonny page, "That's stray'd awa frae me." And they hae chaced in gude grene-wood, The buck but and the rae, Till they drew near Brown Robin's hour, About the close o' day. Then out and spake the king himsell, Says--"Arthur, look and see, "Gin you be not your favourite page, "That leans against yon tree." O Arthur's ta'en a bugle-horn, And blawn a blast sae shrill; Sweet Willie started to her feet, And ran him quickly till. "O wanted ye your meat, Willie, "Or wanted ye your fee? "Or gat ye e'er an angry word, "That ye ran awa frae me?" "I wanted nought, my master dear; "To me ye aye was good: "I cam to see my ae brother, "That wons in this grene-wood." Then out bespake the king again,-- "My boy, now tell to me, "Who dwells into yon bigly bour, "Beneath yon green aik tree?" "O pardon me," said Sweet Willy; "My liege I dare na tell; "And gang na near yon outlaw's bour, "For fear they suld you kill." "O hand your tongue, my bonny boy! "For I winna be said nay; "But I will gang yon hour within, "Betide me weal or wae." They have lighted frae their milk-white steids, And saftly entered in; And there they saw her, White Lilly, Nursing her bonny young son. "Now, by the mass," the king he said, "This is a comely sight; "I trow, instead of a forester's man, "This is a ladye bright!" O out and spake her, Rose the Red, And fell low on her knee:-- "O pardon us, my gracious liege, "And our story I'll tell thee. "Our father is a wealthy lord, "Lives into Barnisdale; "But we had a wicked step-mother, "That wrought us meikle bale. "Yet had she twa as fu' fair sons, "As e'er the sun did see; "And the tane o' them lo'ed my sister deir, "And the tother said he lo'ed me." Then out and cried him, Bauld Arthur, As by the king he stood,-- "Now, by the faith of my body, "This suld be Rose the Red! The king has sent for robes o' grene, And girdles o' shining gold; And sae sune have the ladyes busked themselves, Sae glorious to behold. Then in and came him, Brown Robin, Frae hunting o' the king's deer, But when he saw the king himsell, He started back for fear. The king has ta'en Robin by the hand, And bade him nothing dread, But quit for aye the gude grene wood, And cum to the court wi' speed. The king has ta'en White Lilly's son, And set him on his knee; Says--"Gin ye live to wield a brand, "My bowman thou sall be." They have ta'en them to the holy chapelle, And there had fair wedding; And when they cam to the king's court, For joy the bells did ring. [Footnote A: _Lown_--Rogue.] END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. 
35602	----	[Illustration: THE ROMANTIC SCOTTISH BALLADS: THEIR EPOCH AND AUTHORSHIP. ROBERT CHAMBERS. 1849] THE ROMANTIC SCOTTISH BALLADS: THEIR EPOCH AND AUTHORSHIP. Percy's _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, 1765; David Herd's _Scottish Songs_, 1769; Scott's _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, 1802; and Jamieson's _Popular Ballads and Songs_, 1806, have been chiefly the means of making us acquainted with what is believed to be the ancient traditionary ballad literature of Scotland; and this literature, from its intrinsic merits, has attained a very great fame. I advert particularly to what are usually called the Romantic Ballads, a class of compositions felt to contain striking beauties, almost peculiar to themselves, and consequently held as implying extraordinary poetical attributes in former generations of the people of this country. There have been many speculations about the history of these poems, all assigning them a considerable antiquity, and generally assuming that their recital was once the special business of a set of wandering _conteurs_ or minstrels. So lately as 1858, my admired friend, Professor Aytoun, in introducing a collection of them, at once ample and elegant, to the world, expressed his belief that they date at least from before the Reformation, having only been modified by successive reciters, so as to modernise the language, and, in some instances, bring in the ideas of later ages. There is, however, a sad want of clear evidence regarding the history of our romantic ballads. We have absolutely no certain knowledge of them before 1724, when Allan Ramsay printed one called _Sweet William's Ghost_, in his _Tea-table Miscellany_. There is also this fact staring us in the face, that, while these poems refer to an ancient state of society, they bear not the slightest resemblance either to the minstrel poems of the middle ages, or to the well-known productions of the Henrysons, the Dunbars, the Douglases, the Montgomeries, who flourished in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Neither in the poems of Drummond, and such other specimens of verse--generally wretched--as existed in the seventeenth century, can we trace any feature of the composition of these ballads. Can it be that all editors hitherto have been too facile in accepting them as ancient, though modified compositions? that they are to a much greater extent modern than has hitherto been supposed? or wholly so? Though in early life an editor of them, not less trusting than any of my predecessors, I must own that a suspicion regarding their age and authorship has at length entered my mind. In stating it--which I do in a spirit of great deference to Professor Aytoun and others--I shall lead the reader through the steps by which I arrived at my present views upon the subject. In 1719, there appeared, in a folio sheet, at Edinburgh, a heroic poem styled _Hardyknute_, written in affectedly old spelling, as if it had been a contemporary description of events connected with the invasion of Scotland by Haco, king of Norway, in 1263. A corrected copy was soon after presented in the _Evergreen_ of Allan Ramsay, a collection professedly of poems written before 1600, but into which we know the editor admitted a piece written by himself. _Hardyknute_ was afterwards reprinted in Percy's _Reliques_, still as an ancient composition; yet it was soon after declared to be the production of a Lady Wardlaw of Pitreavie, who died so lately as 1727. Although, to modern taste, a stiff and poor composition, there is a nationality of feeling about it, and a touch of chivalric spirit, that has maintained for it a certain degree of popularity. Sir Walter Scott tells us it was the first poem he ever learned by heart, and he believed it would be the last he should forget. It is necessary to present a few brief extracts from this poem. In the opening, the Scottish king, Alexander III., is represented as receiving notice of the Norwegian invasion: The king of Norse, in summer pride, Puffed up with power and micht, Landed in fair Scotland, the isle, With mony a hardy knicht. The tidings to our gude Scots king Came as he sat at dine, With noble chiefs in brave array, Drinking the blude-red wine. 'To horse, to horse, my royal liege; Your faes stand on the strand; Full twenty thousand glittering spears The king of Norse commands.' 'Bring me my steed, page, dapple-gray,' Our good king rose and cried; 'A trustier beast in a' the land A Scots king never tried.' Hardyknute, summoned to the king's assistance, leaves his wife and daughter, 'Fairly fair,' under the care of his youngest son. As to the former lady-- ... first she wet her comely cheeks, And then her bodice green, Her silken cords of twirtle twist, Well plet with silver sheen; And apron, set with mony a dice Of needle-wark sae rare, Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess, But that of Fairly fair. In his journey, Hardyknute falls in with a wounded and deserted knight, to whom he makes an offer of assistance: With smileless look and visage wan, The wounded knight replied: 'Kind chieftain, your intent pursue, For here I maun abide. 'To me nae after day nor nicht Can e'er be sweet or fair; But soon beneath some dropping tree, Cauld death shall end my care.' A field of battle is thus described: In thraws of death, with wallowit cheek, All panting on the plain, The fainting corps[1] of warriors lay, Ne'er to arise again; Ne'er to return to native land, Nae mair, with blithesome sounds, To boast the glories of the day, And shaw their shining wounds. On Norway's coast, the widowed dame May wash the rock with tears, May lang look o'er the shipless seas, Before her mate appears. 'Cease, Emma, cease to hope in vain; Thy lord lies in the clay; The valiant Scots nae rievers thole[2] To carry life away.' [1] A Scotticism, plural of corp, a body. [2] Permit no robbers, &c. I must now summon up, for a comparison with these specimens of the modern antique in ballad lore, the famous and admired poem of _Sir Patrick Spence_. It has come to us mainly through two copies--one comparatively short, published in Percy's _Reliques_, as 'from two manuscript copies transmitted from Scotland;' the other, containing more details, in Scott's _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, also 'from two manuscript copies,' but 'collated with several verses recited by the editor's friend, Robert Hamilton, Esq., advocate.' It is nowhere pretended that any _ancient_ manuscript of this poem has ever been seen or heard of. It acknowledgedly has come to us from modern manuscripts, as it might be taken down from modern reciters; although Percy prints it in the same quasi antique spelling as that in which _Hardyknute_ had appeared, where being _quhar_; sea, _se_; come, _cum_; year, _zeir_; &c. It will be necessary here to reprint the whole ballad, as given originally by Percy, introducing, however, within brackets the additional details of Scott's copy:[3] The king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine: 'O whar will I get a gude sailòr, To sail this ship of mine?' Up and spak an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee: 'Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailòr That sails upon the sea.' The king has written a braid letter, And signed it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand. ['To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis thou maun bring her hame.'] The first line that Sir Patrick read, A loud lauch lauched he: The next line that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his ee. 'O wha is this hae done this deed, This ill deed done to me; To send me out this time o' the year, To sail upon the sea? ['Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame.' They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway, Upon a Wodensday. They had na been a week, a week, In Noroway, but twae, When that the lords of Noroway Began aloud to say: 'Ye Scottish men spend a' our king's gowd, And a' our queenis fee.' 'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud, Fu' loud I hear ye lie. 'For I hae broucht as much white monie As gane[4] my men and me, And I broucht a half-fou o' gude red gowd, Out ower the sea wi' me.'] 'Mak haste, mak haste, my merry men a', Our gude ship sails the morn.' 'O say na sae, my master dear,[5] For I fear a deadly storm. 'Late, late yestreen, I saw the new moon Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And I fear, I fear, my master dear, That we will come to harm.' [They had na sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, It was sic a deadly storm, And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn.] O our Scots nobles were richt laith To weet their cork-heeled shoon; But lang ere a' the play was played, Their hats they swam aboon.[6] [And mony was the feather-bed That flattered on the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam hame. The ladies wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair, A' for the sake of their true loves, For them they'll see nae mair.] O lang, lang may the ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Or ere they see Sir Patrick Spence Come sailing to the land. O lang, lang may the ladies stand, Wi' their gold kames in their hair, Waiting for their ain dear lords, For they'll see them nae mair. Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,[7] It's fifty fathom deep; And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spence Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. [3] Only omitting the five verses supplied by Mr Hamilton, as they appear redundant. [4] Serve. [5] Variation in Scott: Now ever alak_e_, my master dear. [6] Variation in Scott: They wet their hats aboon. [7] Variation in Scott: O forty miles off Aberdeen. Percy, at the close of his copy of _Sir Patrick Spence_, tells us that 'an ingenious friend' of his was of opinion that 'the author of _Hardyknute_ has borrowed several expressions and sentiments from the foregoing [ballad], and other old Scottish songs in this collection.' It does not seem to have ever occurred to the learned editor, or any friend of his, however 'ingenious,' that perhaps _Sir Patrick Spence_ had no superior antiquity over _Hardyknute_, and that the parity he remarked in the expressions was simply owing to the two ballads being the production of one mind. Neither did any such suspicion occur to Scott. He fully accepted _Sir Patrick Spence_ as a historical narration, judging it to refer most probably to an otherwise unrecorded embassy to bring home the Maid of Norway, daughter of King Eric, on the succession to the Scottish crown opening to her in 1286, by the death of her grandfather, King Alexander III., although the names of the ambassadors who did go for that purpose are known to have been different.[8] The want of any ancient manuscript, the absence of the least trait of an ancient style of composition, the palpable modernness of the diction--for example, 'Our ship must sail the faem,' a glaring specimen of the poetical language of the reign of Queen Anne--and, still more palpably, of several of the things alluded to, as cork-heeled shoon, hats, fans, and feather-beds, together with the inapplicableness of the story to any known event of actual history, never struck any editor of Scottish poetry, till, at a recent date, Mr David Laing intimated his suspicions that _Sir Patrick Spence_ and _Hardyknute_ were the production of the same author.[9] To me it appears that there could not well be more remarkable traits of an identity of authorship than what are presented in the extracts given from _Hardyknute_ and the entire poem of _Sir Patrick_--granting only that the one poem is a considerable improvement upon the other. Each poem opens with absolutely the same set of particulars--a Scottish king sitting--drinking the blude-red wine--and sending off a message to a subject on a business of importance. Norway is brought into connection with Scotland in both cases. Sir Patrick's exclamation, 'To Noroway, to Noroway,' meets with an exact counterpart in the 'To horse, to horse,' of the courtier in _Hardyknute_. The words of the ill-boding sailor in _Sir Patrick_, 'Late, late yestreen, I saw the new moon'--a very peculiar expression, be it remarked--are repeated in _Hardyknute_: 'Late, late the yestreen I weened in peace, To end my lengthened life.' [8] There is one insuperable objection to Sir Walter's theory, which I am surprised should not have occurred to himself, or to some of those who have followed him. In his version of the ballad, the design to bring home the daughter of the king of Norway is expressed by the king of Scotland himself. Now, there was no occasion for Alexander III. sending for his infant granddaughter; nor is it conceivable that, in his lifetime, such a notion should have occurred or been entertained on either his side or that of the child's father. It was not till after the death of Alexander had made the infant Norwegian princess queen of Scotland--four years after that event, indeed--that the _guardians of the kingdom_, in concert with Edward I. of England, sent for her by Sir David Wemyss of Wemyss and Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie, who actually brought her home, but in a dying state. For these reasons, on the theory of the ballad referring to a real occurrence, it must have been to the bringing home of some Norwegian princess to be wedded to a king of Scotland that it referred. _But there is no such event in Scottish history._ Professor Aytoun alters a verse of the ballad as follows: To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter _to_ Noroway, It's thou maun tak her hame. And he omits the verse in which Sir Patrick says: The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame. Thus making the ballad referrible to the expedition in 1281 for taking Alexander's daughter to be married to the king of Norway. But I apprehend such liberties with an old ballad are wholly unwarrantable. [9] Notes to Johnson's _Scots Musical Museum_, 1839. The grief of the ladies at the catastrophe in _Sir Patrick Spence_, is equally the counterpart of that of the typical Norse lady with regard to the fate of her male friend at Largs. I am inclined, likewise, to lay some stress on the localities mentioned in _Sir Patrick Spence_--namely, Dunfermline and Aberdour--these being places in the immediate neighbourhood of the mansions where Lady Wardlaw spent her maiden and her matron days. A poet, indeed, often writes about places which he never saw; but it is natural for him to be most disposed to write about those with which he is familiar; and some are first inspired by the historical associations connected with their native scenes. True, as has been remarked, there is a great improvement upon _Hardyknute_ in the 'grand old ballad of _Sir Patrick Spence_,' as Coleridge calls it, yet not more than what is often seen in compositions of a particular author at different periods of life. It seems as if the hand which was stiff and somewhat puerile in _Hardyknute_, had acquired freedom and breadth of style in _Sir Patrick Spence_. For all of these reasons, I feel assured that _Sir Patrick_ is a modern ballad, and suspect, or more than suspect, that the author is Lady Wardlaw.[10] [10] Professor Aytoun says: 'It is true that the name [of Sir Patrick Spence] ... is not mentioned in history: but I am able to state that tradition has preserved it. In the little island of Papa Stronsay, one of the Orcadian group, lying over against Norway, there is a large grave or tumulus, which has been known to the inhabitants from time immemorial as "The grave of Sir Patrick Spence." The Scottish ballads were not early current in Orkney, a Scandinavian country; to it is very unlikely that the poem could have originated the name.' I demur to this unlikelihood, and would require some proof to convince me that the grave of Sir Patrick Spence in Papa Stronsay is not a parallel geographical phenomenon to the island of Ellen Douglas in Loch Katrine. Probably, by this time, the reader will desire to know what is now to be known regarding Lady Wardlaw. Unfortunately, this is little, for, as she shrank from the honours of authorship in her lifetime, no one thought of chronicling anything about her. We learn that she was born Elizabeth Halket, being the second daughter of Sir Charles Halket of Pitfirran, Baronet, who was raised to that honour by Charles II., and took an active part, as a member of the Convention of 1689, in settling the crown upon William and Mary. Her eldest sister, Janet, marrying Sir Peter Wedderburn of Gosford, was the progenitress of the subsequent Halkets, baronets of Pitfirran, her son being Sir Peter Halket, colonel of the 44th regiment of foot, who died in General Braddock's unfortunate conflict at Monongahela in 1755. A younger sister married Sir John Hope Bruce of Kinross, baronet, who died, one of the oldest lieutenant-generals in the British service, in 1766. Elizabeth, the authoress of _Hardyknute_, born on the 15th of April 1677, became, in June 1696, the wife of Sir Henry Wardlaw of Pitreavie (third baronet of the title), to whom she bore a son, subsequently fourth baronet, and three daughters.[11] [11] Playfair's _Brit. Fam. Antiquity_, viii., 170, lxviii. The ballad of _Hardyknute_, though printed in a separate brochure by James Watson in 1719, had been previously talked of or quoted, for the curiosity of Lord Binning was excited about it, apparently in a conversation with Sir John Hope Bruce, the brother-in-law of Lady Wardlaw. Pinkerton received from Lord Hailes, and printed, an extract from a letter of Sir John to Lord Binning, as follows: 'To perform my promise, I send you a true copy of the manuscript I found a few weeks ago in a vault at Dunfermline. It is written on vellum, in a fair Gothic character, but so much defaced by time as you'll find the tenth part not legible.' Sir John, we are told by Pinkerton, transcribed in this letter 'the whole fragment first published, save one or two stanzas, marking several passages as having perished, from being illegible in the old manuscript.'[12] [12] _Ancient Scottish Poems_, 2 vols. (1786), i. p. cxxvii. Here is documentary evidence that _Hardyknute_ came out through the hands of Lady Wardlaw's brother-in-law, with a story about its discovery as an old manuscript, so transparently fictitious, that one wonders at people of sense having ever attempted to obtain credence for it--which consequently forms in itself a presumption as to an authorship being concealed. Pinkerton rashly assumed that Sir John Bruce was the author of the poem, and on the strength of that assumption, introduced his name among the Scottish poets. The first hint at the real author came out through Percy, who, in his second edition of the _Reliques_ (1767), gives the following statement: 'There is more than reason to suspect that it [_Hardyknute_] owes most of its beauties (if not its whole existence) to the pen of a lady within the present century. The following particulars may be depended on. Mrs [mistake for Lady] Wardlaw, whose maiden name was Halket ... pretended she had found this poem, written on shreds of paper, employed for what is called the bottoms of clues. A suspicion arose that it was her own composition. Some able judges asserted it to be modern. The lady did in a manner acknowledge it to be so. Being desired to show an additional stanza, as a proof of this, she produced the two last, beginning with "There's nae light, &c.," which were not in the copy that was first printed. The late Lord President Forbes and Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto (late Lord Justice-clerk for Scotland), who had believed it ancient, contributed to the expense of publishing the first edition, in folio, 1719. This account was transmitted from Scotland by Sir David Dalrymple (Lord Hailes),[13] who yet was of opinion that part of the ballad may be ancient, but retouched and much enlarged by the lady above mentioned. Indeed, he had been informed that the late William Thomson, the Scottish musician, who published the _Orpheus Caledonius_, 1733, declared he had heard fragments of it repeated in his infancy before Mrs Wardlaw's copy was heard of.' [13] It is rather remarkable that Percy was not informed of these particulars in 1765; but in 1767--_Sir John Hope Bruce having died in the interval_ (June 1766)--they were communicated to him. It looks as if the secret had hung on the life of this venerable gentleman. The question as to the authorship of _Hardyknute_ was once more raised in 1794, when Sir Charles Halket, grandson of Mary, third daughter of Lady Wardlaw, wrote a letter to Dr Stenhouse of Dunfermline, containing the following passage: 'The late Mr Hepburn of Keith often declared he was in the house with Lady Wardlaw when she wrote _Hardyknute_.' He also gave the following particulars in a manuscript account of his family, as reported by George Chalmers (_Life of Allan Ramsay_, 1800): 'Miss Elizabeth Menzies, daughter of James Menzies, Esq., of Woodend, in Perthshire, by Elizabeth, the daughter of Sir Henry Wardlaw [second baronet], wrote to Sir Charles Halket that her mother, who was sister-in-law to Lady Wardlaw, told her that Lady Wardlaw was the real authoress of _Hardyknute_; that Mary, the wife of Charles Wedderburn, Esq., of Gosford, told Miss Menzies that her mother, Lady Wardlaw, wrote _Hardyknute_. Sir Charles Halket and Miss Elizabeth Menzies concur in saying that Lady Wardlaw was a woman of elegant accomplishments, _who wrote other poems_, and practised drawing, and cutting paper with her scissors, and _who had much wit and humour_, with great sweetness of temper.' In the middle of the last century appeared two editions of a brochure containing the now well-known ballad of _Gil Morrice_; the date of the second was 1755. Prefixed to both was an advertisement setting forth that the preservation of this poem was owing 'to a lady, who favoured the printers with a copy, as it was carefully collected from the mouths of old women and nurses;' and 'any reader that can render it more correct or complete,' was desired to oblige the public with such improvements. Percy adopted the poem into his collection, with four additional verses, which meanwhile had been 'produced and handed about in manuscript,' but which were in a florid style, glaringly incongruous with the rest of the piece. He at the same time mentioned that there existed, in his folio manuscript, (supposed) of Elizabeth's time, an imperfect copy of the same ballad, under the title of _Child Maurice_. This early ballad of _Child Maurice_, which Mr Jamieson afterwards printed from Percy's manuscript, gives the same story of a gentleman killing, under jealousy, a young man, who proved to be a son of his wife by a former connection. But it is a poor, bald, imperfect composition, in comparison with _Gil Morrice_. It was evident to Percy that there had been a '_revisal_' of the earlier poem, attended by '_considerable improvements_.' Now, by whom had this improving revisal been effected? Who was the 'lady' that favoured the printers with the copy? I strongly suspect that the reviser was Lady Wardlaw, and that the poem was communicated to the printers either by her or by some of her near relations. The style of many of the verses, and even some of the particular expressions, remind us strongly of _Sir Patrick Spence_; while other verses, again, are more in the stiff manner of _Hardyknute_. The poem opens thus: Gil Morrice was an earl's son, His name it waxed wide; It was na for his great riches, Nor yet his mickle pride; But it was for a lady gay, That lived on Carron side. 'Whar sall I get a bonny boy, That will win hose and shoon; That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha', And bid his lady come? 'And ye maun rin my errand, Willie, And ye may rin wi' pride, When other boys gae on their foot, On horseback ye sall ride.' 'O no! O no! my master dear, I dare nae for my life; I'll ne gae to the bauld baron's, For to tryst forth his wife.' 'O say na sae, my master dear, For I fear a deadly storm.' What next follows is like _Hardyknute_: 'But, O my master dear,' he cried, In green wood ye're your lane; Gie ower sic thoughts, I wad ye reid, For fear ye should be tane.' 'Haste, haste! I say, gae to the ha'; Bid her come here wi' speed: If ye refuse my heigh command, I'll gar your body bleed.' When the boy goes in and pronounces the fatal message before Lord Barnard: Then up and spak the wily nurse, The bairn upon her knee: 'If it be come frae Gil Morrice, It's dear welcome to me.' Compare this with the second verse of _Sir Patrick Spence_: O up and spak an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee, &c. The messenger replies to the nurse: 'Ye lied, ye lied, ye filthy nurse, Sae loud I heard ye lie,' &c. Identical with Sir Patrick's answer to the taunt of the Norwegian lords: 'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud, Fu' loud I hear ye lie.' When the youth has been slain by Lord Barnard, the lady explains that he was her son, and exclaims: 'To me nae after days nor nichts Will e'er be saft or kind; I'll fill the air wi' heavy sighs, And greet till I am blind.' How nearly is this the same with the doleful complaint of the wounded knight in _Hardyknute_! 'To me nae after day nor night Can e'er be sweet or fair,' &c. Lord Barnard pours out his contrition to his wife: 'With waefu' wae I hear your plaint, Sair, sair I rue the deed, That e'er this cursed hand of mine Had garred his body bleed.' 'Garred his body bleed' is a quaint and singular expression: it occurs in _Hardyknute_, and nowhere else: 'To lay thee low as horse's hoof, My word I mean to keep:' Syne with the first stroke e'er he strake, He garred his body bleed. Passages and phrases of one poem appear in another from various causes--plagiarism and imitation; and in traditionary lore, it is easy to understand how a number of phrases might be in general use, as part of a common stock. But the parallel passages above noted are confined to a particular group of ballads--they are not to such an extent _beauties_ as to have been produced by either plagiarism or imitation; it is submitted that they thus appear by an overwhelmingly superior likelihood as the result of a common authorship in the various pieces. Having so traced a probable common authorship, and that modern, from _Hardyknute_ to _Sir Patrick Spence_, and from these two to the revised and improved edition of _Gil Morrice_, I was tempted to inquire if there be not others of the Scottish ballads liable to similar suspicion as to the antiquity of their origin? May not the conjectured author of these three have written several of the remainder of that group of compositions, so remarkable as they likewise are for their high literary qualities? Now, there is in Percy a number of Scottish ballads equally noteworthy for their beauty, and for the way in which they came to the hands of the editor. There is _Edward, Edward_, 'from a manuscript copy transmitted from Scotland;' the _Jew's Daughter_, 'from a manuscript copy sent from Scotland;' _Gilderoy_, 'from a written copy that appears to have received some modern corrections;' likewise, _Young Waters_, 'from a copy printed not long since at Glasgow, in one sheet octavo,' for the publication of which the world was 'indebted to Lady Jean Home, sister to the Earl of Home;' and _Edom o' Gordon_, which had been put by Sir David Dalrymple to Foulis's press in 1755, 'as it was preserved in the memory of a lady that is now dead'--Percy, however, having in this case improved the ballad by the addition of a few stanzas from a fragment in his folio manuscript. Regarding the _Bonny Earl of Murray_, the editor tells us nothing beyond calling it 'a Scottish song.' Of not one of these seven ballads, as published by Percy, has it ever been pretended that any ancient manuscript exists, or that there is any proof of their having had a being before the eighteenth century, beyond the rude and dissimilar prototypes (shall we call them?) which, _in two instances_, are found in the folio manuscript of Percy. No person was cited at first as having been accustomed to recite or sing them; and they have not been found familiar to the common people since. Their style is elegant, and free from coarsenesses, while yet exhibiting a large measure of the ballad simplicity. In all literary grace, they are as superior to the generality of the homely traditionary ballads of the rustic population, as the romances of Scott are superior to a set of chap-books. Indeed, it might not be very unreasonable to say that these ballads have done more to create a popularity for Percy's _Reliques_ than all the other contents of the book. There is a community of character throughout all these poems, both as to forms of expression and style of thought and feeling--jealousy in husbands of high rank, maternal tenderness, tragic despair, are prominent in them, though not in them all. In several, there is the same kind of obscure and confused reference to known events in Scottish history, which editors have thought they saw in _Sir Patrick Spence_. Let us take a cursory glance at these poems. _Young Waters_ is a tale of royal jealousy. It is here given entire. About Yule, when the wind blew cool, And the round tables began, A! there is come to our king's court Mony a well-favoured man. The queen looked ower the castle-wa', Beheld baith dale and down, And then she saw Young Waters Come riding to the town. His footmen they did rin before, His horsemen rade behind, Ane mantel o' the burning gowd Did keep him frae the wind. Gowden graithed his horse before, And siller shod behind; The horse Young Waters rade upon Was fleeter than the wind. But then spak a wily lord, Unto the queen said he: 'O tell me wha's the fairest face Rides in the company?' 'I've seen lord, and I've seen laird, And knights of high degree; But a fairer face than Young Waters Mine een did never see.' Out then spak the jealous king, And an angry man was he: 'O if he had been twice as fair, You might have excepted me.' 'You're neither lord nor laird,' she says, 'But the king that wears the crown; There's not a knight in fair Scotland, But to thee maun bow down.' For a' that she could do or say, Appeased he wadna be, But for the words which she had said, Young Waters he maun dee. They hae tane Young Waters, and Put fetters to his feet; They hae tane Young Waters, and Thrown him in dungeon deep. Aft hae I ridden through Stirling town, In the wind but and the weet, But I ne'er rade through Stirling town Wi' fetters at my feet. Aft hae I ridden through Stirling town, In the wind both and the rain, But I ne'er rade through Stirling town Ne'er to return again. They hae tane to the heading-hill His young son in his cradle; They hae tane to the heading-hill His horse both and his saddle. They hae tane to the heading-hill His lady fair to see; And for the words the queen had spoke, Young Waters he did dee. Now, let the parallel passages be here observed. In verse second, the lady does exactly like the mother of Gil Morrice, of whom it is said: The lady sat on the castle-wa', Beheld baith dale and down, And there she saw Gil Morrice' head Come trailing to the town. Dale and down, let it be observed in passing, are words never used in Scotland; they are exotic English terms. The mantle of the hero in verse third recalls that of Gil Morrice, which was 'a' gowd but the hem'--a specialty, we may say, not likely to have occurred to a male mind. What the wily lord does in verse fifth is the exact counterpart of the account of the eldern knight in _Sir Patrick Spence_: Up and spak an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee. Observe the description of the king's jealous rage in _Young Waters_; how perfectly the same is that of the baron in _Gil Morrice_: Then up and spak the bauld baron, An angry man was he * * 'Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gil Morrice, My lady lo'es thee weel, The fairest part of my bodie Is blacker than thy heel.' Even in so small a matter as the choice of rhymes, especially where there is any irregularity, it may be allowable to point out a parallelism. Is there not such between those in the verse descriptive of Young Waters's fettering, and those in the closing stanza of _Sir Patrick Spence_? It belongs to the idiosyncrasy of an author to make _feet_ rhyme twice over to _deep_. Finally, let us observe how like the tone as well as words of the last lines of _Young Waters_ to a certain verse in _Hardyknute_: The fainting corps of warriors lay, Ne'er to rise again. Percy surmised that _Young Waters_ related to the fate of the Earl of Moray, slain by the Earl of Huntly in 1592, not without the concurrence, as was suspected, of the king, whose jealousy, it has been surmised, was excited against the young noble by indiscreet expressions of the queen. To the same subject obviously referred the ballad of the _Bonny Earl of Murray_, which consists, however, of but six stanzas, the last of which is very like the second of _Young Waters_: O lang will his lady Look ower the Castle Downe, Ere she see the Earl of Murray Come sounding through the town. _Edom o' Gordon_ is only a modern and improved version of an old ballad which Percy found in his folio manuscript under the name of _Captain Adam Carre_. It clearly relates to a frightful act of Adam Gordon of Auchindown, when he maintained Queen Mary's interest in the north in 1571--the burning of the house of Towie, with the lady and her family within it. All that can be surmised here is that the revision was the work of the same pen with the pieces here cited--as witness, for example, the opening stanzas: It fell about the Martinmas, When the wind blew shrill and cauld,[14] Said Edom o' Gordon to his men: 'We maun draw till a hauld. 'And what a hauld shall we draw till, My merry men and me? We will gae to the house o' Rodes, To see that fair ladye.' The lady stood on her castle-wa', Beheld baith dale and down; There she was 'ware of a host of men Come riding towards the town.[15] 'O see ye not, my merry men a',[16] O see ye not what I see?' &c. In the _Jew's Daughter_ there is much in the general style to remind us of others of this group of ballads; but there are scarcely any parallel expressions. One may be cited: She rowed him in a cake of lead, Bade him lie still and sleep, She cast him in a deep draw-well, Was fifty fadom deep. [14] _Young Waters_ opens in the same manner: About Yule, when the wind blew cool. [15] We have seen the same description in both _Young Waters_ and the _Bonny Earl of Murray_. [16] Compare this with _Sir Patrick Spence_: 'Mak haste, mak haste, my merry men a'.' This must remind the reader of _Sir Patrick Spence_: Half ower, half ower to Aberdour, It's fifty fathom deep. _Gilderoy_, in the version printed by Percy, is a ballad somewhat peculiar, in a rich dulcet style, and of very smooth versification, but is only an improved version of a rude popular ballad in the same measure, which was printed in several collections long before,[17] and was probably a street-ditty called forth by the hanging of the real robber, Patrick Macgregor, commonly called Gilderoy,[18] in 1636. The concluding verses of the refined version recall the peculiar manner of the rest of these poems: [17] In a _Collection of Old Ballads_, printed for J. Roberts, London, 1723; also in Thomson's _Orpheus Caledonius_, 1733. [18] The appellative, Gilderoy, means the ruddy-complexioned lad. Gif Gilderoy had done amiss, He might hae banished been; Ah what sair cruelty is this, To hang sic handsome men: To hang the flower o' Scottish land, Sae sweet and fair a boy; Nae lady had sae white a hand As thee, my Gilderoy. Of Gilderoy sae 'fraid they were, They bound him mickle strong; Till Edinburgh they led him there, And on a gallows hung: They hung him high aboon the rest, He was sae trim a boy; There died the youth whom I lo'ed best, My handsome Gilderoy. Thus having yielded up his breath, I bare his corpse away; With tears that trickled for his death, I washed his comely clay. And sicker in a grave sae deep, I laid the dear-lo'ed boy; And now for ever maun I weep My winsome Gilderoy. If any one will compare the Percy version of this ballad with the homely and indecorous ones printed before, he will not be the more disposed to go back to antiquity and a humble grade of authorship for what is best in the Scottish ballads.[19] [19] Professor Aytoun says of this ballad, that 'it was adapted from the original by Sir Alexander Halket--at least, such was the general understanding until lately, when it became a mania with some literary antiquaries [a glance at the opinions of the present writer] to attribute the authorship of the great bulk of the Scottish ballads to Sir Alexander's sister, Lady Wardlaw, on the single ground that she was the composer of _Hardyknute_.' My learned friend is here very unlucky, for Lady Wardlaw had no brother, nor does any Sir Alexander Halket appear in her family history. This, however, is not all. It was a song to the _tune of Gilderoy_ which was attributed to Sir Alexander Halket (Johnson's _Scots Musical Museum_)--namely, the well-known _Ah, Chloris_, which turns out to be a composition of Sir Charles Sedley, inserted by him in a play entitled the _Mulberry Garden_, which was acted in 1668. _Edward, Edward_, which Percy received from Sir David Dalrymple, and placed among his oldest pieces, in affectedly old spelling, is a striking melodramatic composition: 'Why does your brand sae drap wi' bluid, Edward, Edward? Why does your brand sae drap wi' bluid, And why sae sad gang ye, O?' 'O, I hae killed my hawk sae guid, Mother, mother: O, I hae killed my hawk sae guid, And I had nae mair but he, O.' 'Your hawk's bluid was never sae reid, Edward, Edward; Your hawk's bluid was never sae reid, My dear son, I tell ye, O.' 'O, I hae killed my reid-roan steed, Mother, mother; O, I hae killed my reid-roan steed, That erst was sae fair and free, O.' 'Your steed was auld, and ye hae gat mair, Edward, Edward; Your steed was auld, and ye hae gat mair, Some other dool ye drie, O.' 'O, I hae killed my father dear, Mother, mother; O, I hae killed my father dear, Alas, and wae is me, O.' 'And whaten penance will ye drie for that, Edward, Edward? And whaten penance will ye drie for that, My dear son, now tell me, O?' 'I'll set my feet in yonder boat, Mother, mother; I'll set my feet in yonder boat, And I'll fare over the sea, O.' * * * 'And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, When ye gang over the sea, O?' 'The warld's room, let them beg through life, Mother, mother; The warld's room, let them beg through life, For them never mair will I see, O.' 'And what will ye leave to your ain mother dear, Edward, Edward; And what will ye leave to your ain mother dear, My dear son, now tell me, O?' 'The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear, Mother, mother; The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear, Sic counsels ye gave me, O.' It seems unaccountable how any editor of Percy's discernment could ever have accepted this as old poetry. There is certainly none prior to 1700 which exhibits this kind of diction. Neither did any such poetry at any time proceed from a rustic uneducated mind. When we continue our search beyond the bounds of Percy's _Reliques_, we readily find ballads passing as old, which are not unlike the above, either in regard to their general beauty, or special strains of thought and expression. There are five which seem peculiarly liable to suspicion on both grounds--namely, _Johnie of Bradislee_, _Mary Hamilton_, the _Gay Gos-hawk_, _Fause Foodrage_, and the _Lass o' Lochryan_. In _Johnie o' Bradislee_, the hero is a young unlicensed huntsman, who goes out to the deer-forest against his mother's advice, and has a fatal encounter with seven foresters. Observe the description of the youth: His cheeks were like the roses red, His neck was like the snaw; He was the bonniest gentleman My eyes they ever saw. His coat was o' the scarlet red, His vest was o' the same; His stockings were o' the worset lace, And buckles tied to the same. The shirt that was upon his back Was o' the Holland fine; The doublet that was over that Was o' the Lincoln twine. The buttons that were upon his sleeve Were o' the gowd sae guid, &c. This is mercery of the eighteenth, and no earlier century. Both Gilderoy and Gil Morrice are decked out in a similar fashion; and we may fairly surmise that it was no man's mind which revelled so luxuriously in the description of these three specimens of masculine beauty, or which invested them in such elegant attire. Johnie kills the seven foresters, but receives a deadly hurt. He then speaks in the following strain: 'O is there a bird in a' this bush Would sing as I would say, Go home and tell my auld mother That I hae won the day? 'Is there ever a bird in a' this bush Would sing as I would say, Go home and tell my ain true love To come and fetch Johnie away? 'Is there a bird in this hale forest Would do as mickle for me, As dip its wing in the wan water, And straik it ower my ee-bree?' The starling flew to his mother's bower-stane, It whistled and it sang; And aye the owerword o' its tune Was, 'Johnie tarries lang.' The mother says in conclusion: 'Aft hae I brought to Bradislee The less gear and the mair; But I ne'er brought to Bradislee What grieved my heart sae sair.' Now, first, is not the literary beauty of the above expressions of the young huntsman calculated to excite suspicion? It may be asked, is there anything in the older Scottish poets comparable to them? Second, how like is the verse regarding the starling to one in _Gil Morrice_! Gil Morrice sat in guid green wood, He whistled and he sang; 'O what mean a' the folk coming? My mother tarries lang.' Then, as to the last verse, how like to one in _Young Waters_! Aft hae I ridden through Stirling town, In the wind both and the rain, But I ne'er rade through Stirling town Ne'er to return again. _Mary Hamilton_ describes the tragic fate of an attendant on Queen Mary, brought to the gallows for destroying her own infant. The reflections of the heroine at the last sad moment are expressed in the same rich strain of sentiment as some of the passages of other ballads already quoted, and with remarkable parallelisms in terms: 'O aften hae I dressed my queen, And put gowd in her hair; But now I've gotten for my reward The gallows tree to share. * * * 'I charge ye all, ye mariners, When ye sail ower the faem, Let neither my father nor mother get wit But that I 'm coming hame. * * * 'O little did my mother think That day she cradled me, What lands I was to travel ower, What death I was to die!' The Scottish ladies sit bewailing the loss of Sir Patrick Spence's companions, 'wi' the gowd kaims in their hair.' Sir Patrick tells his friends before starting on his voyage, 'Our ship must sail the faem;' and in the description of the consequences of his shipwreck, we find 'Mony was the feather-bed that flattered on the faem.' No old poet would use foam as an equivalent for the sea; but it was just such a phrase as a poet of the era of Pope would love to use in that sense. The first of the above verses is evidently a cast from the same mould of thought as Bradislee's mother's concluding lament, and Young Waters's last words just quoted. The resemblance is not of that kind which arises from the use of literary commonplaces or stock phrases: the expressions have that identity which betrays their common source in one mind, a mind having a great command of rich and simple pathos. In the _Gay Gos-hawk_, a gentleman commissions the bird to go on a mission to his mistress, who is secluded from him among her relations, and tell her how he dies by long waiting for her; whereupon she returns an answer by the same messenger, to the effect that she will presently meet him at Mary's Kirk for the effecting of their nuptials. The opening of the poem is just a variation of Bradislee's apostrophe to _his_ bird-messenger: 'O waly, waly, my gay gos-hawk, Gin your feathering be sheen!' 'And waly, waly, my master dear, Gin ye look pale and lean! 'Oh, have ye tint at tournament Your sword, or yet your spear? Or mourn ye for the southern lass, Whom ye may not win near?' 'I have not tint at tournament My sword, nor yet my spear; But sair I mourn for my true love, Wi' mony a bitter tear. 'But weel's me on you, my gay gos-hawk, Ye can both speak and flie; Ye sall carry a letter to my love, Bring an answer back to me.' _Hardyknute_, _Sir Patrick Spence_, and _Gil Morrice_, all open, it will be recollected, with the sending away of a message. Here is a fourth instance, very like one artist's work, truly. The lover describes his mistress in terms recalling _Bradislee_: 'The red that is on my true love's cheek Is like blood-draps on the snaw; The white that is on her breast bare, Like the down o' the white sea-maw.' The bird arrives at the lady's abode: And first he sang a low, low note, And syne he sang a clear; And aye the owerword o' the sang Was, 'Your love can no win here.' _Gil Morrice_ has: Aye the owerword o' his sang Was, 'My mother tarries lang.' The lady feigns death, after the device of Juliet: Then up and rose her seven brethren, And hewed to her a bier; They hewed frae the solid aik, Laid it ower wi' silver clear. Then up and gat her seven sisters, And sewed to her a kell; And every steek that they put in Sewed to a silver bell. Here we have the same style of luxurious description of which we have already seen so many examples--so different from the usually bald style of the real homely ballads of the people. It is, further, very remarkable that in _Clerk Saunders_ it is seven brothers of the heroine who come in and detect her lover; and in the _Douglas Tragedy_, when the pair are eloping, Lord William spies his mistress's ... seven brethren bold Come riding o'er the lee. Both of these ballads, indeed, shew a structure and a strain of description and sentiment justifying the strongest suspicions of their alleged antiquity, and pointing to the same source as the other pieces already noticed. The ballad of _Fause Foodrage_, which Sir Walter Scott printed for the first time, describes a successful conspiracy by Foodrage and others against King Honour and his queen. The king being murdered, the queen is told, that if she brings forth a son, it will be put to death likewise; so she escapes, and, bringing a male child into the world, induces the lady of Wise William to take charge of it as her own, while she herself takes charge of the lady's daughter. The unfortunate queen then arranges a future conduct for both parties, in language violently figurative: 'And ye maun learn my gay gos-hawk, Right weel to breast a steed; And I sall learn your turtle-dow As weel to write and read. 'And ye maun learn my gay gos-hawk, To wield both bow and brand; And I sall learn your turtle-dow To lay gowd wi' her hand. 'At kirk and market, when we meet, We'll dare make nae avowe, But--Dame, how does my gay gos-hawk? Madam, how does my dow?' When the royal youth grows up, Wise William reveals to him his history, and how his mother is still in confinement in Foodrage's hands. 'The boy stared wild like a gray gos-hawk' at hearing the strange intelligence, but soon resolves on a course of action: He has set his bent bow to his breast, And leapt the castle-wa', And soon he has seized on Fause Foodrage, Wha loud for help 'gan ca'. The slaying of Foodrage and marriage of the turtle-dow wind up the ballad. Now, is not the adoption of the term, 'gay gos-hawk' in this ballad, calculated to excite a very strong suspicion as to a community of authorship with the other, in which a gay gos-hawk figures so prominently? But this is not all. 'The boy stared wild like a gray gos-hawk,' is nearly identical with a line of _Hardyknute_: Norse e'en like gray gos-hawk stared wild. Scott was roused by this parallelism into suspicion of the authenticity of the ballad, and only tranquillised by finding a lady of rank who remembered hearing in her infancy the verses which have here been quoted. He felt compelled, he tells us, 'to believe that the author of _Hardyknute_ copied from the old ballad, if the coincidence be not altogether accidental.' Finally, the young prince's procedure in storming the castle, is precisely that of Gil Morrice in gaining access to that of Lord Barnard: And when he cam to Barnard's yett, He would neither chap nor ca', But set his bent bow to his breast, And lightly lap the wa'. It may fairly be said that, in ordinary literature, coincidences like this are never 'accidental.' It may be observed, much of the narration in _Fause Foodrage_ is in a stiff and somewhat hard style, recalling _Hardyknute_. It was probably one of the earlier compositions of its author. The _Lass o' Lochryan_ describes the hapless voyage of a maiden mother in search of her love Gregory. In the particulars of sea-faring and the description of the vessel, _Sir Patrick Spence_ is strongly recalled. She has garred build a bonny ship; It's a' covered o'er wi' pearl; And at every needle-tack was in't There hung a siller bell. Let the reader revert to the description of the bier prepared for the seeming dead lady in the _Gay Gos-hawk_. She had na sailed a league but twa, Or scantly had she three, Till she met wi' a rude rover, Was sailing on the sea. The reader will remark in _Sir Patrick_: They had na sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, &c. The rover asks: 'Now, whether are ye the queen hersel, Or ane o' her Maries three, Or are ye the Lass o' Lochryan, Seeking love Gregory?'[20] [20] The above three verses are in the version printed in Lawrie and Symington's collection, 1791. The queen's Maries are also introduced in _Mary Hamilton_, who, indeed, is represented as one of them: Yestreen the queen she had four Maries; The night, she has but three; There was Mary Seton and Mary Beaton, And Mary Carmichael and me. On arriving at love Gregory's castle, beside the sea, the lady calls: 'Oh, open the door, love Gregory; Oh, open and let me in; For the wind blaws through my yellow hair, And the rain draps o'er my chin.' He being in a dead sleep, his mother answers for him, and turns from the door the forlorn applicant, who then exclaims: 'Tak down, tak down the mast o' gowd; Set up a mast o' tree; It disna become a forsaken lady To sail sae royallie. 'Tak down, tak down the sails o' silk; Set up the sails o' skin; Ill sets the outside to be gay, When there's sic grief within.' Gregory then awakes: O quickly, quickly raise he up, And fast ran to the strand, And there he saw her, fair Annie, Was sailing frae the land. * * * The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough, And dashed the boat on shore; Fair Annie floated on the faem, But the babie raise no more. * * * And first he kissed her cherry cheek, And syne he kissed her chin; And syne he kissed her rosy lips-- There was nae breath within. The resemblance of these verses to several of the preceding ballads,[21] and particularly to _Sir Patrick Spence_, and their superiority in delicacy of feeling and in diction to all ordinary ballad poetry, is very striking. It chances that there is here, as in _Sir Patrick_, one word peculiarly _detective_--namely, strand, as meaning the shore. In the Scottish language, strand means a rivulet, or a street-gutter--never the margin of the sea. [21] A passage in _Hardyknute_ maybe quoted as bearing a marked resemblance to one of the above verses: Take aff, take aff his costly jupe, Of gold well was it twined, &c. There is a considerable number of other ballads which are scarcely less liable to suspicion as modern compositions, and which are all marked more or less by the peculiarities seen in the above group. Several of them are based, like the one just noticed, on irregular love, which they commonly treat with little reproach, and usually with a romantic tenderness. _Willie and May Margaret_[22] describes a young lover crossing the Clyde in a flood to see his mistress, and as denied access by her mother in a feigned voice, after which he is drowned in recrossing the river; the ballad being thus a kind of counterpart of the _Lass of Lochryan_. In _Young Huntin_, otherwise called _Earl Richard_, the hero is killed in his mistress's bower through jealousy, and we have then a verse of wonderful power--such as no rustic and unlettered bard ever wrote, or ever will write: [22] Called, in Professor Aytoun's collection, _The Mother's Malison_; and in Mr Buchan's, _The Drowned Lovers_. 'O slowly, slowly wanes the night, And slowly daws the day: There is a dead man in my bower, I wish he were away.' One called _Fair Annie_ relates how a mistress won upon her lover, and finally gained him as a husband, by patience, under the trial of seeing a new bride brought home.[23] In the latter, the behaviour of the patient mistress is thus described: [23] A ballad named _Burd Ellen_, resembling _Fair Annie_ in the general cast of the story, is a Scottish modification of the ballad of _Child Waters_, published by Percy, from his folio manuscript, 'with some corrections.' It probably came through the same mill as _Gil Morrice_, though with less change--a conjecture rendered the more probable, for reasons to be seen afterwards, from its having been obtained by Mr Jamieson from Mrs Brown of Falkland. O she has served the lang tables Wi' the white bread and the wine; And aye she drank the wan water, To keep her colour fine. The expression, the wan water, occurs in several of this group of ballads. Thus, in _Johnie of Bradislee_: Is there ever a bird in this hale forest Will do as mickle for me, As dip its wing in the wan water, And straik it o'er my ee-bree? And in the _Douglas Tragedy_: O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light o' the moon, Until they cam to yon wan water, And there they lighted down. See further in _Young Huntin_: And they hae ridden along, along, All the long summer's tide, Until they came to the wan water, The deepest place in Clyde. The circumstance is very suspicious, for we find this phrase in no other ballads. In _Clerk Saunders_, the hero is slain in his mistress's bower, by the rage of one of her seven brothers, whose act is described in precisely the same terms as the slaughter of _Gil Morrice_ by the bold baron: He's ta'en out his trusty brand, And straikt it on the strae, And through and through Clerk Saunders' side He's gart it come and gae.[24] _Sweet William's Ghost_, a fine superstitious ballad, first published in Ramsay's _Tea-table Miscellany_, 1724, is important as the earliest printed of all the Scottish ballads after the admittedly modern _Hardyknute_: There came a ghost to Margaret's door, With many a grievous groan; And aye he tirled at the pin, But answer made she none. * * * 'O sweet Margaret! O dear Margaret! I pray thee, speak to me; Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, As I gave it to thee.' 'Thy faith and troth thou 's never get, Nor yet will I thee lend, Till that thou come within my bower, And kiss my cheek and chin.'[25] 'If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man; And should I kiss thy rosy lips, Thy days will not be lang. * * * 'My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard, Afar beyond the sea; And it is but my spirit, Margaret, That's now speaking to thee.' She stretched out her lily hand, And for to do her best, 'Ha'e there's your faith and troth, Willie; God send your soul good rest.' Now she has kilted her robes of green A piece below her knee, And a' the live-lang winter night, The dead corp followed she. 'Is there any room at your head, Willie, Or any room at your feet? Or any room at your side, Willie, Wherein that I may creep?' 'There's no room at my head, Margaret; There's no room at my feet; There's no room at my side, Margaret; My coffin's made so meet.'[26] Then up and crew the red, red cock, And up then crew the gray, ''Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margaret, That you were going away.' * * * [24] Now he has ta'en his trusty brand, And slait it on the strae, And through Gil Morrice's fair bodie He garred cauld iron gae.--_Gil Morrice._ [25] And first he kissed her cherry cheek, And syne he kissed her chin; And syne he kissed her rosy lips-- There was nae breath within.--_Lass o' Lochryan._ To kiss cheek and chin in succession is very peculiar; and it is by such peculiar ideas that identity of authorship is indicated. [26] That is, so exactly measured. So far, the ballad appears as composed in the style of those already noticed--a style at once simple and poetical--neither shewing the rudeness of the common peasant's ballad, nor the formal refinement of the modern English poet. But next follow two stanzas, which manifestly have been patched on by some contemporary of Ramsay: No more the ghost to Margaret said, But with a grievous groan Evanished in a cloud of mist, And left her all alone, &c. No such conclusion, perhaps, was needed, for it may be suspected that the verse here printed _sixth_ is the true _finale_ of the story, accidentally transferred from its proper place. There is a slight affinity between the above and a ballad entitled _Tam Lane_, to which Scott drew special attention in his _Border Minstrelsy_, by making it a peg for eighty pages of prose dissertation _On the Fairies of Popular Superstition_. It describes a lover as lost to his mistress, by being reft away into fairy-land, and as recovered by an effort of courage and presence of mind on her part. It opens thus: O I forbid ye maidens a', That wear gowd in your hair, To come or gae by Carterhaugh, For the young Tam Lane is there. It may be remarked how often before we have seen maidens described as wearing gold in their hair. One maiden defies the prohibition: Janet has kilted her green kirtle A little aboon her knee, And she has braided her yellow hair A little aboon her bree. This, it will be observed, is all but the very same description applied to Margaret in the preceding ballad. The narrative goes on: She had na pu'd a red, red rose, A rose but barely three, Till up and starts a wee, wee man At Lady Janet's knee. Remember Sir Patrick's voyage: They had na sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three. Let it also here be noted that the eldern knight in that ballad sits 'at the king's knee,' and the nurse in _Gil Morrice_ is not very necessarily described as having 'the bairn upon her knee.' Why the knee on these occasions, if not a habitual idea of one poet?[27] [27] In _Childe Maurice_, in Percy's folio manuscript, the hero says: '... come hither, thou little foot-page, That runneth lowly by my knee.' The author of _Sir Patrick Spence_, and the other ballads in question, might have known this version, and from it caught this expression. The consequences of the visit having been fatal to Lady Janet's health and peace, she goes back to see her elfin lover, Tam Lane, who instructs her how to recover him from his bondage to the queen of fairy-land. 'The night it is good Halloween, When fairy folk will ride; And they that wad their true love win, At Miles Cross they maun bide.' 'But how shall I thee ken, Tam Lane, Or how shall I thee knaw, Amang so many unearthly knights, The like I never saw?' 'The first company that passes by, Say na, and let them gae; The next company that passes by, Say na, and do right sae; The third company that passes by, Then I'll be ane o' thae. 'First let pass the black, Janet, And syne let pass the brown; But grip ye to the milk-white steed, And pu' the rider down.' Compare the first two of these stanzas with the queries put by the gay gos-hawk to his master: 'But how shall I your true love find, Or how suld I her know? I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spoke, An eye that ne'er her saw.' 'O weel sall ye my true love ken, Sae sore as ye her see,' &c. As to the latter three stanzas, they exhibit a formula of description, which appears in several of the suspected ballads, consisting of a series of nearly identical statements, apparently for the sake of amplitude. For example, the progress of the seeming funeral of the lady in the _Gay Gos-hawk_: At the first kirk of fair Scotland, They gart the bells be rung; At the second kirk of fair Scotland, They gart the mass be sung. At the third kirk of fair Scotland, They dealt gold for her sake; And the fourth kirk of fair Scotland, Her true love met them at. Or the following, in _Sweet Willie and Fair Annie_, which is almost the same incident and relation of circumstances as the said seeming funeral; only the lady in this case is dead: The firsten bower that he cam till, There was right dowie wark; Her mother and her sisters three Were making to Annie a sark. The next bower that he cam till, There was right dowie cheer; Her father and her seven brethren Were making to Annie a bier. The lasten bower that he cam till, O heavy was his care; The waxen lights were burning bright, And fair Annie streekit there. In Scott's version of _Tam Lane_ there are some stanzas of so modern a cast as to prove that this poem has been at least tampered with. For example, the account of fairy life: 'And all our wants are well supplied From every rich man's store, Who thankless sins the gifts he gets, And vainly grasps for more.' Without regard, however, to such manifest patches, the general structure and style of expression must be admitted to strongly recall the other ballads which have been already commented on. Only a wish to keep this dissertation within moderate bounds forbids me to analyse a few other ballads, as the _Douglas Tragedy_, _Sweet Willie and Fair Annie_, _Lady Maiery_, the _Clerk's Two Sons of Owsenford_, and a Scotch _Heir of Linne_ lately recovered by Mr J. H. Dixon, all of which, besides others which must rest unnamed, bear traces of the same authorship with the ballads already brought under notice. It is now to be remarked of the ballads published by the successors of Percy, as of those which he published, that there is not a particle of positive evidence for their having existed before the eighteenth century. Overlooking the one given by Ramsay in his _Tea-table Miscellany_, we have neither print nor manuscript of them before the reign of George III. They are not in the style of old literature. They contain no references to old literature. As little does old literature contain any references to them. They wholly escaped the collecting diligence of Bannatyne. James Watson, who published a collection of Scottish poetry in 1706-1711, wholly overlooks them. Ramsay, as we see, caught up only one. Even Herd, in 1769, only gathered a few fragments of some of these poems. It was reserved for Sir Walter Scott and Robert Jamieson, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, to obtain copies of the great bulk of these poems--that is, the ballads over and above the few published by Percy--from A LADY--a certain 'Mrs Brown of Falkland,' who seems to have been the wife of the Rev. Andrew Brown, minister of that parish in Fife--is known to have been the daughter of Professor Thomas Gordon, of King's College, Aberdeen--and is stated to have derived her stores of legendary lore from the memory of her aunt, a Mrs Farquhar, the wife of a small proprietor in Braemar, who had spent the best part of her life among flocks and herds, but lived latterly in Aberdeen. At the suggestion of Mr William Tytler, a son of Mrs Brown wrote down a parcel of the ballads which her aunt had heard in her youth from the recitation of nurses and old women.[28] Such were the external circumstances, none of them giving the least support to the assumed antiquity of the pieces, but rather exciting some suspicion to the contrary effect. [28] _Minstrelsy Scot. Border_, I. cxxvi. When we come to consider the internal evidence, what do we find? We find that these poems, in common with those published by Percy, are composed in a style of romantic beauty and elevation distinguishing them from all other remains of Scottish traditionary poetry. They are quite unlike the palpably old historical ballads, such as the _Battle of Otterbourne_ and the _Raid of the Reidswire_. They are unlike the Border ballads, such as _Dick o' the Cow_, and _Jock o' the Syde_, commemorating domestic events of the latter part of the sixteenth century. They are strikingly unlike the _Burning of Frendraught_, the _Bonny House o' Airly_, and the _Battle of Bothwell Bridge_, contemporaneous metrical chronicles of events of the seventeenth century. Not less different are they from a large mass of ballads, which have latterly been published by Mr Peter Buchan and others, involving romantic incidents, it is true, or eccentricities in private life, but in such rude and homely strains as speak strongly of a plebeian origin. In the ballads here brought under question, the characters are usually persons of condition, generally richly dressed, often well mounted, and of a dignified bearing towards all inferior people. The page, the nurse, the waiting-woman, the hound, the hawk, and other animals connected with the pageantry of high life, are prominently introduced. Yet the characters and incidents are alike relieved from all clear connection with any particular age: they may be said to form a world of their own, of no particular era, wherein the imagination of the reader may revel, as that of the author has done. It may be allowably said, there is a tone of _breeding_ throughout these ballads, such as is never found in the productions of rustic genius. One marked feature--the pathos of deep female affections--the sacrifice and the suffering which these so often involve--runs through nearly the whole. References to religion and religious ceremonies and fanes are of the slightest kind. We hear of bells being rung and mass sung, but only to indicate a time of day. Had they been old ballads continually changing in diction and in thought, as passed down from one reciter to another, they could not have failed to involve some considerable trace of the intensely earnest religious life of the seventeenth century; but not the slightest tincture of this enthusiastic feeling appears in them, a defect the more marked, as they contain abundant allusion to the superstitions which survived into the succeeding time of religious indifference, and indeed some of their best _effects_ rest in a dexterous treatment of these weird ideas. There is but one exception to what has been observed on the obscurity of the epoch pointed to for the incidents--the dresses, properties, and decorations, are sometimes of a modern cast. The writer--if we may be allowed to speculate on a single writer--seems to have been unable to resist an inclination to indulge in description of the external furnishings of the heroes and heroines, or rather, perhaps, has been desirous of making out _effect_ from these particulars; but the finery of the court of Charles II. is the furthest point reached in the retrospect--although, I must admit, this is in general treated with a vagueness that helps much to conceal the want of learning. Another point of great importance in the matter of internal evidence, is the isolatedness of these ballads in respect of English traditionary literature. The Scottish muse has not always gone hand in hand with the English in point of time, but she has done so in all other respects. Any literature we had from the beginning of the seventeenth century downwards, was always sensibly tinged by what had immediately before been in vogue in the south. Nor is it easy to see how a people occupying part of the same island, and speaking essentially the same language, should have avoided this communion of literary taste; but the ballads in question are wholly unlike any English ballads. Look over Percy, Evans, or Mr Collier's suite of _Roxburghe Ballads_, giving those which were popular in London during the seventeenth century, and you find not a trace of the style and manner of these Scottish romantic ballads. Neither, it would appear, had one of them found its way into popularity in England before the time of Percy; for, had it been otherwise, he would have found them either in print or in the mouths of the people.[29] [29] Robert Jamieson found in the _Koempe Viser_, a Danish collection of ballads published in 1695, one resembling the Scottish ballad of _Fair Annie_ (otherwise called _Lady Jane_), and on this ground he became convinced that many of our traditionary ballads were of prodigious antiquity, though they had been intermediately subjected to many alterations. Mr Jamieson's belief seems remarkably ill supported, and as it has never obtained any adherents among Scottish ballad editors, I feel entitled to pass it over with but this slight notice. Upon all of these considerations, I have arrived at the conclusion, that the high-class romantic ballads of Scotland are not ancient compositions--are not older than the early part of the eighteenth century--and are mainly, if not wholly, the production of one mind. Whose was this mind, is a different question, on which no such confident decision may for the present be arrived at; but I have no hesitation in saying that, from the internal resemblances traced on from _Hardyknute_ through _Sir Patrick Spence_ and _Gil Morrice_ to the others, there seems to me a great _likelihood_ that the whole were the composition of the authoress of that poem--namely, Elizabeth Lady Wardlaw of Pitreavie. It may be demanded that something should be done to verify, or at least support, the allegation here made as to the peculiar literary character of the suspected ballads. This is, of course, a point to be best made out by a perusal of the entire body of this class of compositions, and scarcely by any other means. Still, it is a difference so striking, that even to present one typical ballad of true rustic origin, could not fail to make a considerable impression on the reader, after he has read specimens of those which are here attributed to a higher source. Be it observed, when an uneducated person speaks of knights, lords, and kings, or of dames and damosels, he reduces all to one homely level. He indulges in no diplomatic periphrases. It is simply, the king said this, and the lord said that--this thing was done, and that thing was done--the catastrophe or _dénouement_ comes by a single stroke. This we find in the true stall-ballads. A vulgar, prosaic, and drawling character pervades the whole class, with few exceptions--a fact which ought to give no surprise, for does not all experience shew, that literature of any kind, to have effect, requires for its production a mind of some cultivation, and really good verse flowing from an uninstructed source is what never was, is not now, and never will be? With these remarks, I usher in a typical ballad of the common class--one taken down many years ago from the singing of an old man in the south of Scotland: JAMES HATELIE. It fell upon a certain day, When the king from home he chanced to be, The king's jewels they were stolen all, And they laid the blame on James Hatelie. And he is into prison cast, And I wat he is condemned to _dee_; For there was not a man in all the court To speak a word for James Hatelie. But the king's eldest daughter she loved him well, But known her love it might not be; And she has stolen the prison keys, And gane in and discoursed wi' James Hatelie. 'Oh, did you steal them, James?' she said; 'Oh, did not you steal them, come tell to me? For I'll make a vow, and I'll keep it true, You's never be the worse of me.' 'I did not steal them,' James he said; 'And neither was it intended by me, For the English they stole them themselves, And I wat they've laid the blame on me.' Now she has hame to her father gane, And bowed her low down on her knee, 'I ask--I ask--I ask, father,' she said, 'I ask--I ask a boon of thee; I never asked one in my life, And one of them you must grant to me.' 'Ask on, ask on, daughter,' he said; 'And aye weel answered ye shall be; For if it were my whole estate, Naysaid, naysaid you shall not be.' 'I ask none of your gold, father, As little of your white monie; But all the asken that I do ask, It is the life of James Hatelie.' 'Ask on, ask on, daughter,' he said; 'And aye weel answered ye shall be; For I'll mak a vow, and keep it true-- James Hatelie shall not hanged be.' 'Another asken I ask, father; Another asken I ask of thee-- Let Fenwick and Hatelie go to the sword, And let them try their veritie.' 'Ask on, ask on, daughter,' he said; 'And aye weel answered you shall be; For before the morn at twelve o'clock, They both at the point of the sword shall be.' James Hatelie was eighteen years of age, False Fenwick was thirty years and three; He lap about, and he strack about, And he gave false Fenwick wounds three. 'Oh, hold your hand, James Hatelie,' he said; 'And let my breath go out and in; Were it not for the spilling of my noble blood And the shaming of my noble kin. 'Oh, hold your hand, James Hatelie,' he said; Oh, hold your hand, and let me be; For I'm the man that stole the jewels, And a shame and disgrace it was to me.' Then up bespoke an English lord, I wat but he spoke haughtilie: 'I would rather have lost all my lands, Before they had not hanged James Hatelie.' Then up bespoke a good Scotch lord, I wat a good Scotch lord was he: 'I would rather have foughten to the knees in blood, Than they had hanged James Hatelie.' Then up bespoke the king's eldest son: 'Come in, James Hatelie, and dine with me; For I'll make a vow, and I'll keep it true-- You'se be my captain by land and sea.' Then up bespoke the king's eldest daughter: 'Come in, James Hatelie, and dine with me; For I'll make a vow, and I'll keep it true-- I'll never marrie a man but thee.' Here is love, and here is innocence in difficulties--two things of high moral interest; yet how homely is the whole narration; how unlike the strains of the ballads which have been passed before the reader's view! And be it observed, the theory as to our ballads is, that they have been transmitted from old time, undergoing modifications from the minds of nurses, and other humble reciters, as they came along. If so, they ought to have presented the same plebeian strain of ideas and phraseology as _James Hatelie_; but we see they do not: they are, on the contrary, remarkably poetical, pure, and dignified. Here I may, once for all, in opposition to Professor Aytoun and others, express my belief that the ballads in question are for the most part printed nearly, and, in some instances, entirely, in the condition in which they were left by the author. In _Edward_, I question if a line has been corrupted or a word altered. _Sir Patrick Spence_ and _Gilderoy_ are both so rounded and complete, so free, moreover, from all vulgar terms, that I feel nearly equally confident about them. All those which Percy obtained in manuscripts from Scotland, are neat finished compositions, as much so as any ballad of Tickell or Shenstone. Those from Mrs Brown's manuscript have also an author's finish clearly impressed on them. It is a mere assumption that they have been sent down, with large modifications, from old times. Had it been true, the ballads would have been full of vulgarisms, as we find to be the condition of certain of them which Peter Buchan picked up among the common people, after (shall we say) seventy or eighty years of traditionary handling. Now, no such depravation appears in the versions printed by Percy, Scott, and Jamieson. It may be objected to the arguments founded on the great number of parallel passages, that these are but the stock phraseology of all ballad-mongers, and form no just proof of unity of authorship. If this were true, it might be an objection of some force; but it is not true. The _formulæ_ in question are to be found hardly at all in any of the rustic or homely ballads. They are not to be found in any ballads which there is good reason to believe so old as the early part of the seventeenth century. They are to be found in no ballads which may even doubtfully be affiliated to England. All this, of course, can only be fully ascertained by a careful perusal of some large collection of ballads. Yet, even in such a case, a few examples may be viewed with interest, and not unprofitably. Of the plebeian ballads, a specimen has just been adduced. Let us proceed, then, to exemplify the ballads of the seventeenth century. First, take _Fair Margaret and Sweet William_, which Percy brought forward from a stall copy as, apparently, the ballad quoted in Fletcher's _Knight of the Burning Pestle_; though subjected to some alteration during the intermediate century and a half. It is as follows: As it fell out on a long summer day, Two lovers they sat on a hill; They sat together that long summer day, And could not take their fill. 'I see no harm by you, Margaret, And you see none by me; Before to-morrow at eight o'clock, A rich wedding you shall see.' Fair Margaret sat in her bouir window, Combing her yellow hair; There she spied sweit William and his bride, As they were a-riding near. Then doun she layed her ivorie combe, And braided her hair in twain: She went alive out of her bouir, But never cam alive in't again. When day was gone, and nicht was come, And all men fast asleip, Then came the spirit of fair Margaret, And stood at William's feet. 'Are you awake, sweit William?' she said; 'Or, sweit William, are you asleip? God give you joy of your gay bride-bed, And me of my winding-sheet!' When day was come, and nicht was gone, And all men waked from sleip, Sweit William to his lady said: 'My deir, I have cause to weep. 'I dreimt a dreim, my dear ladye; Such dreims are never good: I dreimt my bouir was full of red swine, And my bride-bed full of blood.' 'Such dreims, such dreims, my honoured sir, They never do prove good; To dreim thy bouir was full of red swine, And thy bride-bed full of blood.' He called up his merry-men all, By one, by two, and by three; Saying: 'I'll away to fair Margaret's bouir, By the leave of my ladye.' And when he came to fair Margaret's bouir, He knockit at the ring; And who so ready as her seven brethren To let sweit William in. Then he turned up the covering sheet: 'Pray, let me see the deid; Methinks, she looks all pale and wan; She hath lost her cherry red. 'I'll do more for thee, Margaret, Than any of thy kin, For I will kiss thy pale wan lips, Though a smile I cannot win.' With that bespake the seven brethren, Making most piteous moan: 'You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, And let our sister alone.' 'If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, I do but what is right; I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse, By day nor yet by night. 'Deal on, deal on, my merry-men all; Deal on your cake and your wine: For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine.' Fair Margaret died to-day, to-day, Sweit William died to-morrow; Fair Margaret died for pure true love, Sweit William died for sorrow. Margaret was buried in the lower chancel, And William in the higher; Out of her breast there sprang a rose, And out of his a brier. They grew till they grew unto the church-top, And then they could grow no higher; And there they tied in a true lovers' knot, Which made all the people admire. Then came the clerk of the parish, As you the truth shall hear, And by misfortune cut them down, Or they had now been there. Here, it will be observed, beyond the expression, 'my merry-men all,' there is no trace of the phraseology so marked in the group of ballads under our notice. Take, also, a ballad which, from the occurrences referred to, may be considered as antecedent to the epoch of _Hardyknute_, and we shall observe an equal, if not more complete, absence of the phraseology and manner of this class of ballads. It relates to a tragic love-story of 1631, as ascertained from the grave-stone of the heroine in the kirk-yard of Fyvie, Aberdeenshire: Lord Fyvie had a trumpeter, His name was Andrew Lammie; He had the art to gain the heart Of Mill-o'-Tifty's Annie. * * * She sighed sore, but said no more, Alas, for bonny Annie! She durst not own her heart was won By the trumpeter of Fyvie. At night when they went to their beds, All slept full sound but Annie; Love so opprest her tender breast, Thinking on Andrew Lammie. 'Love comes in at my bed-side, And love lies down beyond me, Love has possessed my tender breast, And wastes away my body. 'At Fyvie yetts there grows a flower, It grows baith braid and bonny; There is a daisy in the midst o' it. And it's ca'd by Andrew Lammie. 'O gin that flower were in my breast, For the love I bear the laddie, I wad kiss it, and I wad clap it, And daut it for Andrew Lammie. 'The first time I and my love met Was in the woods of Fyvie; His lovely form and speech so sweet Soon gained the heart of Annie. 'Oh, up and down, in Tifty's den, Where the burns run clear and bonny, I've often gone to meet my love, My bonny Andrew Lammie. 'He kissed my lips five thousand times, And aye he ca'd me bonny; And a' the answer he gat frae me, Was, "My bonny Andrew Lammie!"' But now, alas! her father heard That the trumpeter of Fyvie Had had the art to gain the heart Of Tifty's bonny Annie. And he has syne a letter wrote, And sent it on to Fyvie, To tell his daughter was bewitched By his servant, Andrew Lammie. When Lord Fyvie this letter read, O dear, but he was sorry; 'The bonniest lass in Fyvie's land Is bewitched by Andrew Lammie.' Then up the stair his trumpeter He called soon and shortly; 'Pray tell me soon what's this you've done To Tifty's bonny Annie?' 'In wicked art I had no part, Nor therein am I canny; True love alone the heart has won Of Tifty's bonny Annie. 'Woe betide Mill-o'-Tifty's pride, For it has ruined many; He'll no hae't said that she should wed The trumpeter of Fyvie.' * * * 'Love, I maun gang to Edinburgh; Love, I maun gang and leave thee.' She sighed sore, and said no more, But, 'Oh, gin I were wi' ye!' 'I'll buy to thee a bridal goun; My love, I'll buy it bonny!' 'But I'll be dead, ere ye come back To see your bonny Annie.' 'If you'll be true, and constant too, As my name's Andrew Lammie, I shall thee wed when I come back, Within the kirk of Fyvie.' 'I will be true, and constant too, To thee, my Andrew Lammie; But my bridal-bed will ere then be made In the green kirk-yard of Fyvie.' He hied him hame, and having spieled To the house-top of Fyvie, He blew his trumpet loud and shrill, 'Twas heard at Mill-o'-Tifty. Her father locked the door at night, Laid by the keys fu' canny; And when he heard the trumpet sound, Said: 'Your cow is lowing, Annie.' 'My father, dear, I pray forbear, And reproach no more your Annie; For I'd rather hear that cow to low Than hae a' the kine in Fyvie. 'I would not for your braw new gown, And a' your gifts sae many, That it were told in Fyvie's land How cruel you are to me.' Her father struck her wondrous sore, As also did her mother; Her sisters always did her scorn, As also did her brother. Her brother struck her wondrous sore, With cruel strokes and many; He brak her back in the hall-door, For loving Andrew Lammie. 'Alas, my father and mother dear, Why are you so cruel to Annie? My heart was broken first by love, Now you have broken my bodie. 'Oh, mother dear, make ye my bed, And lay my face to Fyvie; There will I lie, and thus will die, For my love, Andrew Lammie.' Her mother she has made her bed, And laid her face to Fyvie; Her tender heart it soon did break, And she ne'er saw Andrew Lammie. When Andrew home from Edinburgh came, With mickle grief and sorrow: 'My love has died for me to-day, I'll die for her to-morrow.' He has gone on to Tifty's den, Where the burn runs clear and bonny; With tears he viewed the Bridge of Heugh, Where he parted last with Annie. Then he has sped to the church-yard, To the green church-yard of Fyvie; With tears he watered his true love's grave, And died for Tifty's Annie. Let me repeat my acknowledgment that, while these extracts occupy more space than can well be spared, they form an imperfect means of establishing the negative evidence required in the case. But let the reader peruse the ballads of Buchan's collection known to relate to incidents of the seventeenth century, and he will find that they are all alike free from the favourite expressions of the unknown, or dimly known ballad-writer in question. Let it never be objected that, if any one person living in the reigns of Queen Anne and George I. had composed so many fine poems, he or she could not have remained till now all but unknown. In the first half of the present century, there appeared in Scotland a series of fugitive pieces--songs--which attained a great popularity, without their being traced to any author. Every reader will remember _The Land of the Leal_, _Caller Herring_, _The Laird o' Cockpen_, _The Auld House_, and _He's ower the Hills that I lo'e weel_. It was not till after many years of fame that these pieces were found to be the production of a lady of rank, Carolina Baroness Nairn, who had passed through a life of seventy-nine years without being known as a song-writer to more than one person. It was the fate of this songstress to live in days when there was an interest felt in such authorships, insuring that she should sooner or later become known; but, had she lived a hundred years earlier, she might have died and left no sign, as I conjecture to have been the case with the author of this fine group of ballads; and future Burnses might have pondered over her productions, with endless regret that the names of their _authors_ were 'buried among the wreck of things that were.' If there be any truth or force in this speculation, I shall be permitted to indulge in the idea that a person lived a hundred years before Scott, who, with his feeling for Scottish history, and the features of the past generally, constructed out of these materials a similar romantic literature. In short, Scotland appears to have had a Scott a hundred years before the actual person so named. And we may well believe that if we had not had the first, we either should not have had the second, or he would have been something considerably different, for, beyond question, Sir Walter's genius was fed and nurtured on the ballad literature of his native country. From his _Old Mortality_ and _Waverley_, back to his _Lady_ _of the Lake and Marmion_; from these to his _Lay of the Last Minstrel_; from that to his _Eve of St John_ and _Glenfinlas_; and from these, again, to the ballads which he collected, mainly the produce (as I surmise) of an individual precursor, is a series of steps easily traced, and which no one will dispute. Much significance there is, indeed, in his own statement, that _Hardyknute_ was the first poem he ever learned, and the last he should forget. Its author--if my suspicion be correct--was his literary foster-mother, and we probably owe the direction of his genius, and all its fascinating results, primarily to her. 
37031	----	public domain works from the University of Michigan Digital Libraries.) Transcriber's Notes: 1. Greek text has been replaced by a transliteration and indicated by [Grk: ...]. In "Constantine and Arete" the same transliteration scheme has been used for modern Greek text as is customary for ancient Greek. 2. Footnotes have been relocated following the paragraph or section where the anchor occurs. Footnote anchors are in the form [A], [B] etc. 3. Linenotes have been grouped at the end of each ballad. Linenote anchors in the form [L##] have been added to the text (they are not in the original but alert the reader to the presence of a note referring to line number ##). Ballad line numbers have been regularised to multiples of five and re-positioned or added where necessary. 4. [z] has been used to represent the yogh character. 5. Italic typeface is represented by _underscores_. 6. Archaic, unusual and inconsistent spelling or punctuation has generally been retained as in the original. Where changes have been made to the text these are listed in Transcriber's Notes at the end of the book. * * * * * ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH BALLADS. EDITED BY FRANCIS JAMES CHILD. Sum bethe of wer, and sum of wo, Sum of joie and mirthe also; And sum of trecherie and of gile, Of old aventours that fel while; And sum of bourdes and ribaudy; And many ther beth of fairy; Of all thinges that men seth;-- Maist o love forsothe thai beth. _Lay le Freine._ VOLUME I. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY. M.DCCC.LX. * * * * * Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H.O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. CONTENTS OF VOLUME FIRST. Page PREFACE vii List of Collections of Ballads and Songs xiii BOOK I. 1. The Boy and the Mantle 3 2. The Horn of King Arthur 17 3. The Marriage of Sir Gawaine 28 4. King Arthur's Death 40 5. The Legend of King Arthur 50 6. Sir Lancelot du Lake 55 7. The Legend of Sir Guy 61 8. St. George and the Dragon 69 9. The Seven Champions of Christendom 83 10a. Thomas of Ersseldoune 95 10b. Thomas the Rhymer 109 11. The Young Tamlane 114 12. The Wee Wee Man 126 13. The Elfin Knight 128 14a. The Broomfield Hill 131 14b. Lord John 134 15a. Kempion 137 15b. Kemp Owyne 143 16. King Henry 147 17a. Cospatrick 152 17b. Bothwell 158 18. Willie's Ladye 162 19. Alison Gross 168 20. The Earl of Mar's Daughter 171 21a. Young Akin 179 21b. Young Hastings the Groom 189 22. Clerk Colvill, or, The Mermaid 192 23a. Lady Isabel and the Elf-Knight 195 23b. The Water O'Wearie's Well 198 24a. The Dæmon Lover 201 24b. James Herries 205 25. The Knight's Ghost 210 26. The Wife of Usher's Well 213 27. The Suffolk Miracle 217 28. Sir Roland 223 APPENDIX. Fragment of the Ballad of King Arthur and the King of Cornwall 231 Fragment of Child Rowland and Burd Ellen 245 Rosmer Hafmand, or, The Merman Rosmer 253 Tama-a-Line 258 Tom Linn 267 Burd Ellen and Young Tamlane 271 Als Y yod on ay Mounday 273 The Elphin Knight 277 The Laidley Worm of Spindlestonheugh 281 Lord Dingwall 288 Fragment of Hynde Etin 294 Sir Oluf and the Elf-King's Daughter 298 Fragment of the Dæmon Lover 302 Constantine and Arete 304 Translation of the Same 307 The Hawthorn Tree 311 St. Stephen and Herod 315 GLOSSARY 319 PREFACE. These volumes have been compiled from the numerous collections of Ballads printed since the beginning of the last century. They contain all but two or three of the _ancient_ ballads of England and Scotland, and nearly all those ballads which, in either country, have been gathered from oral tradition,--whether ancient or not. Widely different from the true popular ballads, the spontaneous products of nature, are the works of the professional ballad-maker, which make up the bulk of Garlands and Broadsides. These, though sometimes not without grace, more frequently not lacking in humor, belong to artificial literature,--of course to an humble department.[A] As many ballads of this second class have been admitted as it was thought might be wished for, perhaps I should say tolerated, by the "benevolent reader." No words could express the dulness and inutility of a collection which should embrace all the Roxburghe and Pepys broadsides--a scope with which this publication was most undeservedly credited by an English journal. But while the broadside ballads have been and must have been gleaned, the popular ballads demand much more liberal treatment. Many of the older ones are mutilated, many more are miserably corrupted, but as long as any traces of their originals are left, they are worthy of attention and have received it. When a ballad is extant in a variety of forms, all the most important versions are given.--Less than this would have seemed insufficient for a collection intended as a complement to an extensive series of the British Poets. To meet the objections of readers for pleasure, all those pieces which are wanting in general interest are in each volume inserted in an appendix. [A] This distinction is not absolute, for several of the ancient ballads have a sort of literary character, and many broadsides were printed from oral tradition. The only _popular_ ballads excluded from this selection that require mention, are _The Bonny Hynd_, _The Jolly Beggar_, _The Baffled Knight_, _The Keach in the Creel_, and _The Earl of Errol_. These ballads, in all their varieties, may be found by referring to the general Index at the end of the eighth volume. To extend the utility of this index, references are also given to many other ballads which, though not worth reprinting, may occasionally be inquired for. The ballads are grouped in eight Books, nearly corresponding to the division of volumes. The arrangement in the several Books may be called chronological, by which is meant, an arrangement according to the probable antiquity of the story, not the age of the actual form or language. Exceptions to this rule will be observed, partly the result of oversight, partly of fluctuating views; the most noticeable case is in the First Book, where the ballads that stand at the beginning are certainly not so old as some that follow. Again, it is very possible that some pieces might with advantage be transferred to different Books, but it is believed that the general disposition will be found practically convenient. It is as follows:-- BOOK I. contains Ballads involving Superstitions of various kinds,--as of Fairies, Elves, Water-spirits, Enchantment, and Ghostly Apparitions; and also some Legends of Popular Heroes. BOOK II. Tragic Love-ballads. BOOK III. Other Tragic Ballads. BOOK IV. Love-ballads not Tragic. BOOK V. Ballads of Robin Hood, his followers, and compeers. BOOK VI. Ballads of other Outlaws, especially Border Outlaws, of Border Forays, Feuds, &c. BOOK VII. Historical Ballads, or those relating to public characters or events. BOOK VIII. Miscellaneous Ballads, especially Humorous, Satirical, Burlesque; also some specimens of the Moral and Scriptural, and all such pieces as had been overlooked in arranging the earlier volumes. For the Texts, the rule has been to select the most authentic copies, and to reprint them as they stand in the collections, restoring readings that had been changed without grounds, and noting all deviations from the originals, whether those of previous editors or of this edition, in the margin. Interpolations acknowledged by the editors have generally been dropped. In two instances only have previously printed texts been superseded or greatly improved: the text of _The Horn of King Arthur_, in the first volume, was furnished from the manuscript, by J.O. Halliwell, Esq., and _Adam Bel_, in the fifth volume, has been amended by a recently discovered fragment of an excellent edition, kindly communicated by J.P. Collier, Esq. The Introductory Notices prefixed to the several ballads may seem dry and somewhat meagre. They will be found, it is believed, to comprise what is most essential even for the less cursory reader to know. These prefaces are intended to give an account of all the printed forms of each ballad, and references to the books in which they were first published. In many cases also, the corresponding ballads in other languages, especially in Danish, Swedish, and German, are briefly pointed out. But these last notices are very imperfect. Fascinating as such investigations are, they could not be allowed to interfere with the progress of the series of Poets of which this collection of Ballads forms a part, nor were the necessary books immediately at hand. At a more favorable time the whole subject may be resumed, unless some person better qualified shall take it up in the interim. While upon this point let me make the warmest acknowledgments for the help received from Grundtvig's Ancient Popular Ballads of Denmark (_Danmarks Gamle Folkeviser_), a work which has no equal in its line, and which may in every way serve as a model for collections of National Ballads. Such a work as Grundtvig's can only be imitated by an English editor, never equalled, for the material is not at hand. All Denmark seems to have combined to help on his labors; schoolmasters and clergymen, in those retired nooks where tradition longest lingers, have been very active in taking down ballads from the mouths of the people, and a large number of old manuscripts have been placed at his disposal.--We have not even the Percy Manuscript at our command, and must be content to take the ballads as they are printed in the _Reliques_, with all the editor's changes. This manuscript is understood to be in the hands of a dealer who is keeping it from the public in order to enhance its value. The greatest service that can now be done to English Ballad-literature is to publish this precious document. Civilization has made too great strides in the island of Great Britain for us to expect much more from tradition. Certain short romances which formerly stood in the First Book, have been dropped from this second Edition, in order to give the collection a homogeneous character. One or two ballads have been added, and some of the prefaces considerably enlarged. F.J.C. _May_, 1860. LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL COLLECTIONS OF ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH BALLADS AND SONGS. [This list does not include (excepting a few reprints) the collections of Songs, Madrigals, "Ballets," &c., published in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,--the titles of most of which are to be seen in Rimbault's _Bibliotheca Madrigaliana_. On the other hand, it does include a few useful books connected with ballad-poetry which would not properly come into a list of collections. The relative importance of the works in this list is partially indicated by difference of type. When two or more editions are mentioned, those used in this collection are distinguished by brackets. A few books which we have not succeeded in finding--all of slight or no importance--are marked with a star.] "A Choise Collection of Comic and Serious Scots Poems. Both Ancient and Modern. By several Hands. Edinburgh. Printed by James Watson." Three Parts, 1706, 1709, 1710. [1713, 1709, 1711.] "Miscellany Poems, containing a variety of new Translations of the Ancient Poets, together with several original poems. By the most eminent hands." Ed. by Dryden. 6 vols. 1st ed. 1684-1708. Ed. of 1716* contains ballads not in the earlier ones. "Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy; being a Collection of the best Merry Ballads and Songs, Old and New. Fitted to all Humours, having each their proper Tune for either Voice or Instrument: most of the Songs being new set." By Thomas D'Urfey. 6 vols. London. 1719-20. "A COLLECTION OF OLD BALLADS. Corrected from the best and most ancient Copies extant. With Introductions Historical, Critical, or Humorous." 3 vols. London. 1st and 2d vol. 1723, 3d vol. 1725. "The Evergreen. Being a Collection of Scots Poems, Wrote by the Ingenious before 1600. Published by Allan Ramsay." 2 vols. Edinburgh, 1724. [Edinburgh. Printed for Alex. Donaldson, 1761.] "The Tea-Table Miscellany: A Collection of Choice Songs, Scots and English." Edinburgh. 1724. 4 vols. [Glasgow, R. & A. Foulis. 1768. 2 vols.] "Orpheus Caledonius, or a Collection of Scots Songs, Set to Musick by W. Thomson." London, 1725, fol. [1733, 2 vols. 8vo.] "The Hive. A Collection of the most celebrated Songs." In Four Volumes. 4th ed. London. 1732. "The British Musical Miscellany, or The Delightful Grove, being a collection of celebrated English and Scottish Songs." London. 1733-36. "RELIQUES OF ANCIENT ENGLISH POETRY: Consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, and other Pieces of our Earlier Poets; together with some few of later date. By THOMAS PERCY, Lord Bishop of Dromore." 3 vols. 1st ed. London, 1765. [4th ed. (improved) 1794.--London, L.A. Lewis, 1839.] "ANCIENT AND MODERN SCOTTISH SONGS, Heroic Ballads, &c." By DAVID HERD. 2 vols. Edinburgh, 1769. 2d ed. 1776. [3d ed. Printed for Lawrie and Symington, 1791.] "Ancient Scottish Poems. Published from the MS. of George Bannatyne, MDLXVIII." By Sir David Dalrymple, Lord Hailes. Edinburgh, 1770. "The Choice Spirit's Chaplet: or a Poesy from Parnassus, being a Select Collection of Songs from the most approved authors: many of them written and the whole compiled by George Alexander Slovens, Esq." Whitehaven, 1771. "A Collection of English Songs in score for three or four Voices. Composed about the year 1500. Taken from MSS. of the same age. Revised and digested by John Stafford Smith." London, 1779. "Scottish Tragic Ballads." John Pinkerton. London, 1781. "Two Ancient Scottish Poems; The Gaberlunzie-Man and Christ's Kirk on the Green. With Notes and Observations. By John Callender, Esq. of Craigforth." Edinburgh, 1782. "The Charmer: A Collection of Songs, chiefly such as are eminent for poetical merit; among which are many originals, and others that were never before printed in a songbook." 2 vols. 4th ed. Edinburgh, 1782. "Select Scottish Ballads." 2 vols. John Pinkerton. London, 1783. Vol. I. Tragic Ballads, Vol. II. Comic Ballads. "A Select Collection of English Songs, with their Original Airs, and an Historical Essay on the Origin and Progress of National Song." By J. Ritson. 1788. 2d ed. with Additional Songs and Occasional Notes, by Thomas Park. London, 1813. 3 vols. "The Poetical Museum. Containing Songs and Poems on almost every subject. Mostly from Periodical Publications." George Caw. Hawick, 1784. "The Bishopric Garland or Durham Minstrel." Edited by Ritson. Stockton, 1784. Newcastle, 1792. [London, 1809.] See "Northern Garlands," p. xix. *"The New British Songster. A Collection of Songs, Scots and English, with Toasts and Sentiments for the Bottle." Falkirk, 1785. "Ancient Scottish Poems, never before in print, but now published from the MS. collections of Sir Richard Maitland," &c. John Pinkerton. 2 vols. London, 1786. "The Works of James I., King of Scotland." To which are added "Two Ancient Scotish Poems, commonly ascribed to King James V." (The Gaberlunzie-Man and the Jollie Beggar.) Morrison's Scotish Poets. Poets. Perth, 1786. "THE SCOTS MUSICAL MUSEUM. In six volumes. Consisting of Six Hundred Scots Songs, with proper Basses for the Piano Forte," &c. By James Johnson. Edinburgh, 1787-1803. [3d ed. "with copious Notes and Illustrations of the Lyric Poetry and Music of Scotland, by the late Wiliam Stenhouse," and "with additional Notes and Illustrations," by David Laing. 4 vols. Edinburgh and London, 1853.] "The Yorkshire Garland." Edited by Ritson. York, 1788. See "Northern Garlands," p. xix. *"A Select Collection of Favourite Scottish Ballads." 6 vols. R. Morison & Son. Perth, 1790. "Pieces of Ancient Popular Poetry: From Authentic Manuscripts and Old Printed Copies. By Joseph Ritson, Esq." London, 1791. [Second Edition, London, 1833.] "Ancient Songs and Ballads, from the Reign of King Henry the Second to the Revolution. Collected by Joseph Ritson, Esq." 2 vols. Printed 1787, dated 1790, published 1792. [London, 1829.] "Scottish Poems, reprinted from scarce editions, with three pieces before unpublished." Collected by John Pinkerton. 8 vols. London, 1792. *"The Melodies of Scotland, &c. The Poetry chiefly by Burns. The whole collected by George Thomson." Lond. & Edin. 6 vols. 1793-1841. See p. xx., last title but one. "The Northumberland Garland." Edited by Ritson. Newcastle, 1793. [London, 1809.] See "Northern Garlands," p. xix. "SCOTISH SONG. In two volumes." JOSEPH RITSON. London, 1794. "ROBIN HOOD: A Collection of all the Ancient Poems, Songs and Ballads, now extant, relative to that celebrated English Outlaw. To which are prefixed Historical Anecdotes of his Life, By JOSEPH RITSON. Esq." 2 vols. 1795. [Second Edition, London, 1832.] "A Collection of English Songs, with an Appendix of Original Pieces." London, 1798. Lord Hailes. *"An Introduction to the History of Poetry in Scotland, &c., by Alexander Campbell, to which are subjoined Songs of the Lowlands of Scotland, carefully compared with the original editions." Edinburgh, 1798. 4to. "Tales of Wonder; Written and collected by M.G. Lewis, Esq., M.P." 2 vols. London, 1800. [New-York, 1801.] "Scottish Poems of the Sixteenth Century." Ed. by J.G. Dalzell. Edinburgh, 1801. 2 vols. (Contains "Ane Compendious Booke of Godly and Spirituall Songs, collectit out of sundrie Partes of the Scripture, with sundrie of other Ballates, changed out of Prophaine Sanges for avoyding of Sinne and Harlotrie, with Augmentation of sundrie Gude and Godly Ballates, not contained in the first Edition. Newlie corrected and amended by the first Originall Copie. Edinburgh, printed by Andro Hart.") "The Complaynt of Scotland. Written in 1548. With a Preliminary Dissertation and Glossary." By John Leyden. Edinburgh, 1801. "Chronicle of Scottish Poetry; from the Thirteenth Century to the Union of the Crowns." By J. Sibbald. 4 vols. Edinburgh, 1802. "The North-Country Chorister." Edited by J. Ritson. Durham, 1802. [London, 1809.] See "Northern Garlands," p. xix. "MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER: Consisting of Historical and Romantic Ballads, collected in the Southern Counties of Scotland; with a few of modern date founded upon local tradition." 1st and 2d vols. 1802, 3d 1803. [Poetical Works of SIR WALTER SCOTT, vols. 1-4. Cadell, Edinburgh, 1851.] "The Wife of Auchtermuchty. An ancient Scottish Poem, with a translation into Latin Rhyme." Edinburgh, 1803. "A Collection of Songs, Moral, Sentimental, Instructive, and Amusing." By James Plumtre. 4to. Cambridge, 1805. London, 1824. 3 vols. "POPULAR BALLADS AND SONGS, from Tradition, Manuscripts, and scarce Editions; with translations of similar pieces from the ancient Danish language, and a few originals by the Editor. By ROBERT JAMIESON." 2 vols. Edinburgh, 1806. "Ancient (!) Historic Ballads." Newcastle, 1807. "Scottish Historical and Romantic Ballads, chiefly ancient." By John Finlay. 2 vols. Edinburgh 1808. "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song," &c. By R.H. Cromek. London, 1810. "Old Ballads, Historical and Narrative, with some of modern date: collected from Rare Copies and MSS." By Thomas Evans. 2 vols. 1777. 4 vols. 1784. [New edition, revised and enlarged by R.H. Evans. 4 vols. London, 1810.] "Select Scottish Songs, Ancient and Modern, with Critical and Biographical Notices, by Robert Burns. Edited by R.H. Cromek." London. 1810. 2 vols. "Essay on Song-Writing; with a Selection of such English Songs as are most eminent for poetical merit. By John Aiken. A new edition, with Additions and Corrections, and a Supplement by R.H. Evans." London, 1810. "Northern Garlands." London, 1810. (Contains The Bishopric, Yorkshire, and Northumberland Garlands, and The North-Country Chorister, before mentioned.) "Bibliographical Miscellanies, being a Collection of Curious Pieces in Verse and Prose." By Dr. Bliss. Oxford, 1813. "Illustrations of Northern Antiquities, from the earlier Teutonic and Scandinavian Romances, &c., with translations of Metrical Tales from the Old German, Danish, Swedish, and Icelandic Languages." 4to. By Weber, Scott, and Jamieson. Edinburgh, 1814. "Pieces of ancient Poetry, from unpublished Manuscripts and scarce Books." Fry. Bristol, 1814. "A Collection of Ancient and Modern Scottish Ballads, Tales, and Songs: with explanatory Notes and Observations." By John Gilchrist. 2 vols. Edinburgh, 1815. "Heliconia. Comprising a Selection of the Poetry of the Elizabethan age, written or published between 1575 and 1604." Edited by T. Park. 3 vols. London, 1815. *"Albyn's Anthology." By Alexander Campbell. Edinburgh, 1816. "The Pocket Encyclopedia of Song." 2 vols. Glasgow, 1816. "Calliope: A Selection of Ballads, Legendary and Pathetic." London, 1816. Facetiæ. Musarum Deliciæ (1656), Wit Restor'd (1658), and Wits Recreations (1640). 2 vols. London, 1817. "The Suffolk Garland: or a Collection of Poems, Songs, Tales, Ballads, Sonnets, and Elegies, relative to that county." Ipswich, 1818. "The Jacobite Relics of Scotland: being the Songs, Airs, and Legends of the adherents to the House of Stuart. Collected and illustrated by James Hogg." 2 vols. Edinburgh, 1819 and 1821. "The Harp of Caledonia: A Collection of Songs, Ancient and Modern, chiefly Scottish," &c. By John Struthers. 3 vols. Glasgow, 1819. "The New Notborune Mayd." Roxburghe Club. London, 1820. "The Scottish Minstrel, a Selection from the Vocal Melodies of Scotland, Ancient and Modern, arranged for the Piano-Forte by R.A. Smith." 6 vols. 1820-24. *"The British Minstrel, a Selection of Ballads, Ancient and Modern; with Notes, Biographical and Critical. By John Struthers." Glasgow, 1821. "Scarce Ancient Ballads, many never before published." Aberdeen. Alex. Laing, 1822. "The Select Melodies of Scotland, interspersed with those of Ireland and Wales," &c. By George Thomson. London. 6 vols. 1822-25. "Select Remains of the Ancient Popular Poetry of Scotland." By David Laing. Edinburgh, 1822. "The Beauties of English Poetry." London, 1823. "The Thistle of Scotland; a Selection of Ancient Ballads, with Notes. By Alexander Laing." Aberdeen, 1823. "Some ancient Christmas Carols, with the tunes to which they were formerly sung in the West of England; together with two ancient Ballads, a Dialogue, &c. Collected by Davies Gilbert." The Second Edition. London, 1823. "A Collection of Curious Old Ballads and Miscellaneous Poetry." David Webster. Edinburgh, 1824. "A Ballad Book." By Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe. 1824. (30 copies printed.) "A North Countrie Garland." By James Maidment. Edinburgh, 1824. (30 copies printed.) "The Common-Place Book of Ancient and Modern Ballad and Metrical Legendary Tales. An Original Selection, including many never before published." Edinburgh, 1824. *"The Scottish Caledonian Encyclopædia; or, the Original, Antiquated, and Natural Curiosities of the South of Scotland, interspersed with Scottish Poetry." By John Mactaggart. London, 1824. "Gleanings of Scotch, English, and Irish scarce Old Ballads, chiefly Tragical and Historical." By Peter Buchan. Peterhead, 1825. "The Songs of Scotland, Ancient and Modern; with an Introduction and Notes," &c. By Allan Cunningham. 4 vols. London, 1825. "Early Metrical Tales." By David Laing. Edinburgh, 1826. "ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLADS, recovered from Tradition, and never before published: with Notes, Historical and Explanatory, and an Appendix, containing the Airs of several of the Ballads." By GEORGE R. KINLOCH. Edinburgh, 1827. "MINSTRELSY, ANCIENT AND MODERN, with an Historical Introduction and Notes. By WILLIAM MOTHERWELL." Glasgow, 1827. "The Ballad-Book." By George R. Kinloch. Edinburgh, 1827. (30 copies printed.) "Ancient Ballads and Songs, chiefly from Tradition, Manuscripts, and Scarce Works," &c. By Thomas Lyle. London, 1827. "The Knightly Tale of Golagrus and Gawane, and other Ancient Poems. Printed at Edinburgh, by W. Chepman and A. Myllar in the year M.D. VIII. Reprinted MD.CCC.XXVII." "Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland, hitherto unpublished." By Peter Buchan. 2 vols. Edinburgh, 1828. "Jacobite Minstrelsy, with Notes illustrative of the Text, and containing Historical Details in Relation to the House of Stuart from 1640 to 1784." Glasgow, 1829. "The Scottish Ballads; Collected and Illustrated by Robert Chambers." Edinburgh, 1829. "The Scottish Songs; Collected and Illustrated by Robert Chambers." 2 vols. Edinburgh, 1829. "Ancient Metrical Tales: printed chiefly from Original Sources." By C.H. Hartshorne. London, 1829. "Christmas Carols, Ancient and Modern, including the most popular in the West of England, and the airs to which they were sung," &c. By W. Sandys. London, 1833. "The Bishoprick Garland, or a collection of Legends, Songs, Ballads, &c., belonging to the County of Durham." By Sir Cuthbert Sharp. London, 1834. "The Universal Songster, or Museum of Mirth, forming the most complete, extensive, and valuable collection of Ancient and Modern Songs in the English language." 3 vols. London. 1834. "Hugues de Lincoln, Recueil de Ballades, Anglo-Normande et Ecossoises, relatives an meurtre de cet enfant," &c. Francisque Michel. Paris, 1834. "Ballads and other Fugitive Poetical Pieces, chiefly Scottish; from the collections of Sir James Balfour." Edinburgh, 1834. Ed. by James Maidment. "Lays and Legends of Varions Nations." By W.J. Thoms. London, 1834. 5 parts. "The Songs of England and Scotland." By Peter Cunningham. 2 vols. London, 1835. "Songs and Carols. Printed from a Manuscript in the Sloane Collection in the British Museum." By T. Wright. London, 1836. "The Nutbrown Maid. From the earliest edition of Arnold's Chronicle." By T. Wright, London, 1836. "The Turnament of Totenham, and The Feest. Two early Ballads, printed from a Manuscript preserved in the Public Library of the University of Cambridge." By T. Wright. London, 1836. "A Little Book of Ballads." Newport, 1836. Printed by E.V. Utterson for the Roxburghe Club. "Ancient Scotish Melodies, from a Manuscript of the Reign of King James VI., with an Introductory Enquiry illustrative of the History of Music in Scotland." By William Dauncy. Edinburgh, 1838. "Syr Gawayne; a collection of Ancient Romance-Poems, by Scotish and English authors, relating to that celebrated Knight of the Round Table, with an Introduction, Notes, and a Glossary." By Sir Fred. Madden. Bannatyne Club. London, 1839. *"Frühlingsgabe für Freunde älterer Literatur." By Th. G. v. Karajan. Vienna, 1839. (Contains English ballads.) "The Political Songs of England, from the Reign of John to that of Edward II. Edited and translated by Thomas Wright." London, 1839. Camden Society. "A Collection of National English Airs, consisting of Ancient Song, Ballad, and Dance Tunes, interspersed with Remarks and Anecdote, and preceded by an Essay on English Minstrelsy." By W. Chappell. 2 vols. London, 1838-1840. (see _post_.) "The Latin Poems commonly attributed to Walter Mapes, collected and edited by Thomas Wright." London, 1841. Camden Society. PUBLICATIONS OF THE PERCY SOCIETY, (1840-1852.) Vol. I. "Old Ballads, from Early Printed Copies of the Utmost Rarity." By J. Payne Collier. 1840. "A Collection of Songs and Ballads relative to the London Prentices and Trades, and to the Affairs of London generally, during the 14th, 15th, and 16th centuries." By Charles Mackay. 1841. "The Historical Songs of Ireland: illustrative of the Revolutionary Struggle between James II. and William III. By T. Crofton Croker. 1841. "The King and a Poor Northern Man. From the edition of 1640." 1841. Vol. II. "The Early Naval Ballads of England. Collected and edited by J.O. Halliwell." 1841. "The Mad Pranks and Merry Jests of Robin Goodfellow. Reprinted from the edition of 1628." By J. Payne Collier. 1841. Vol. III. "Political Ballads published in England during the Commonwealth." By Thomas Wright. 1841. "Strange Histories: consisting of Ballads and other Poems, principally by Thomas Deloney. From the edition of 1607." 1841. "The History of Patient Grisel. Two early Tracts in Black-letter." 1842. Vol. IV. "The Nursery Rhymes of England, collected principally from oral Tradition." By J.O. Halliwell. 1842. Vol. VI. "Ancient Poetical Tracts of the Sixteenth Century." Reprinted from unique Copies. By E.F. Rimbault 1842. "The Crown Garland of Golden Roses: Consisting of Ballads and Songs. By Richard Johnson." Part I. From the edition of 1612. 1842. [Part II., from the edition of 1659, in vol. xv.] Vol. IX. "Old Ballads illustrating the great Frost of 1683-4, and the Fair on the Thames." Collected and edited by E.F. Rimbault. 1844. Vol. XIII. "Six Ballads with Burdens." By James Goodwin. 1844. "Lyrical Poems selected from Musical Publications between the years 1589 and 1600." By J.P. Collier. 1844. Vol. XV. "The Crown Garland of Golden Roses. Part II. From the edition of 1659." 1845. Vol. XVII. "Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads." [From a MS. of Buchan's.] Edited by James Henry Dixon. 1845. "Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England, taken down from oral recitation, and transcribed from private manuscripts, rare broadsides, and scarce publications. Collected and edited by James Henry Dixon." 1846. Vol. XIX. "The Civic Garland. A Collection of Songs from London Pageants." By F.W. Fairholt. 1845. Vol. XXI. "Popular Songs illustrative of the French Invasions of Ireland." By T. Crofton Croker. 1845. Vol. XXIII. "Songs and Carols, now first printed from a manuscript of the Fifteenth Century." By Thomas Wright, 1847. "Festive Songs, principally of the 16th and 17th centuries: with an Introduction." By William Sandys. 1848. Vol. XXVII. "Satirical Songs and Poems on Costume: from the 13th to the 19th century." By F.W. Fairholt. 1848. Vol. XXIX. "The Loyal Garland: a Collection of Songs of the 17th century. Reprinted from a black-letter copy supposed to be unique." By J.O. Halliwell. 1850. "Poems and Songs relating to George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, and his assassination by John Felton." By F.W. Fairholt. Vol. XXX. "The Garland of Goodwill, by Thomas Deloney." From the edition of 1678. By J.H. Dixon. 1852. "Popular Rhymes, Fireside Stories, and Amusements of Scotland." By Robert Chambers, Edinburgh. 1842. [Earlier edition in 1826.] "Selections from the Early Ballad Poetry of England and Scotland. Edited by Richard John King." London, 1842. "The Book of British Ballads." By S.C. Hall. 2 vols. 1842. 1844. "The Book of Scottish Song: collected and illustrated with Historical and Critical Notices, and an Essay on the Song-Writers of Scotland." By Alex. Whitelaw. 1843. [Glasgow, Edinburgh and London, 1855.] "A New Book of Old Ballads." By James Maidment. Edinburgh, 1844. [60 copies printed.] *Twelve Romantic Scottish Ballads, with Music. Chambers, 1844. Publications of the Shakespeare Society: "The Shakespeare Society Papers." Vol. I. 1844. Vol. IV. 1849. "Illustrations of the Fairy Mythology of A Midsummer Night's Dream." By J.O. Halliwell. 1845. "The Moral Play of Wit and Science, and Early Poetical Miscellanies from an Unpublished Manuscript." By J.O. Halliwell. 1848. "Extracts from the Registers of the Stationers' Company, of Works entered for publication between the years 1557 and 1570. With Notes and Illustrations by J. Payne Collier." 1848. Vol. II. [1570-1587.] 1849. "The Book of Scottish Ballads; collected and illustrated with Historical and Critical Notices. By Alex. Whitelaw." Glasgow, Edinburgh & London. 1845. "Reliquiæ Antiquæ." Wright & Halliwell. 2 vols. London, 1845. "Essays on Subjects connected with the Literature, Popular Superstitions, and History of England in the Middle Ages." By Thomas Wright. 2 vols. London, 1846. "The Borderer's Table Book: or Gatherings of the Local History and Romance of the English and Scottish Border. By M.A. Richardson." 8 vols. Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 1846. "The Ballads and Songs of Ayrshire," &c. By James Paterson and Captain Charles Gray. 2 vols. Ayr, 1846-1847. "The Minstrelsy of the English Border. Being a Collection of Ballads, Ancient, Remodelled, and Original, founded on well-known Border Legends. With Illustrative Notes." By Frederick Sheldon. London, 1847. "A Book of Roxburghe Ballads. Edited by John Payne Collier." London, 1847. "Bibliotheca Madrigaliana. A Bibliographical Account of the Musical and Poetical Works published in England during the 16th and 17th centuries, under the titles of Madrigals, Ballots, Ayres, Canzonets," &c. By E.F. Rimbault. 1847. "A Lytell Geste of Robin Hode, with other Ancient and Modern Ballads and Songs relating to this celebrated Yeoman," &c. By John Mathew Gutch. 2 vols. London. 1847. "Sir Hugh of Lincoln: or an Examination of a curious tradition respecting the Jews, with a Notice of the Popular Poetry connected with it. By the Rev. Abraham Hume." London, 1849. "Ballads and Poems respecting Hugh of Lincoln." J.O. Halliwell. Brixton Hill, 1849. "The Ballad of Edwin and Emma. By David Mallet." With Notes and Illustrations by Frederick T. Dinsdale. London, 1849. "Musical Illustrations of Bishop Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. A Collection of Old Ballad Tunes, etc. chiefly from rare MSS. and early Printed Books," &c. By Edward F. Rimbault. London, 1850. "The Fairy Mythology. Illustrative of the Romance and Superstition of various Countries." By Thomas Keightley. London, 1850. "Palatine Anthology. A Collection of ancient Poems and Ballads relating to Lancashire and Cheshire. The Palatine Garland. Being a Selection of Ballads and Fragments supplementary to the Palatine Anthology." By J.O. Halliwell. 1850. [Privately printed.] "A New Boke about Shakespeare and Stratford-on-Avon." By J.O. Halliwell. 1850. [Privately printed.] "A Little Book of Songs and Ballads, gathered from Ancient Musick Books, MS. and Printed." By E.F. Rimbault. London, 1851. "The Sussex Garland. A collection of Ballads, Sonnets, Tales, Elegies, Songs, Epitaphs, &c. illustrative of the County of Sussex." By James Taylor. Newick, 1851. "The Yorkshire Anthology. A Collection of Ancient and Modern Ballads, Poems and Songs, relating to the County of Yorkshire. Collected by J.O. Halliwell." London, 1851. [Privately printed.] "The Norfolk Anthology. A Collection of Poems, Ballads, and Rare Tracts, relating to the County of Norfolk." Collected by J.O. Halliwell. 1852. [Privately printed.] "The Illustrated Book of English Songs. From the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Century." Illustrated London Library. London, (about) 1852. "The Illustrated Book of Scottish Songs. From the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Century." Illustrated London Library. London, (about) 1852. "The Great Hero of the Ancient Minstrelsy of England, Robin Hood," &c. By Joseph Hunter. London, 1852. "The Literature and Romance of Northern Europe, &c.; with copious specimens of the most celebrated Histories, Romances, Popular Legends and Tales, old Chivalrous Ballads," &c. By William & Mary Howitt. 2 vols. London, 1852. "The Pictorial Book of Ancient Ballad Poetry of Great Britain, Historical, Traditional, and Romantic: to which are added a Selection of Modern Imitations, and some Translations." By J.S. Moore. London, 1853. "The Songs of Scotland adapted to their appropriate Melodies," &c. Illustrated with Historical, Biographical, and Critical Notices. By George Farquhar Graham. 8 vols. Edinburgh, 1854-6. "Songs from the Dramatists." Edited by Robert Bell. Annotated Edition of the English Poets. London, 1854. "Popular Music of the Olden Time; a Collection of Ancient Songs, Ballads, and Dance Tunes, illustrative of the National Music of England. With short introductions to the different reigns, and notices of the airs from writers of the 16th and 17th centuries. Also a short account of the Minstrels." By W. Chappell. London. Begun, 1855. Complete in 2 vols. "Reliques of Ancient Poetry, &c. (Percy's.) To which is now added a Supplement of many curious Historical and Narrative Ballads, reprinted from Rare Copies." Philadelphia, 1855. "Early Ballads illustrative of History, Traditions and Customs." By R. Bell. Annotated Edition of the English Poets. London, 1856. "Ballads and Songs. By David Mallet. A new Edition, with Notes and Illustrations and a Memoir of the Author." By Frederick Dinsdale. London, 1857. "Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England. Edited by Robert Bell." London, 1857. "The Ballads of Scotland. Edited by William Edmondstoune Aytoun." 2 vols. Edinburgh and London, 1858. 2d ed., 1859. "The Romantic Scottish Ballads: Their Epoch and Authorship. Edinburgh Papers. By Robert Chambers." Lond. &. Ed. 1859. "The Romantic Scottish Ballads and the Lady Wardlaw Heresy. By Norval Clyne." Aberdeen, 1859. "Political Poems and Songs relating to English History, composed during the Period from the Accession of Edward III. to that of Richard III." By Thomas Wright. Vol. I. London, 1869. (Published by the British Government.) The Ballads and Songs of Yorkshire. By C.J.D. Ingledew. (Announced.) The Jacobite Minstrelsy of Scotland. By Charles Mackay (Announced.) The Gentleman's Magazine, *The Scots Magazine, The Retrospective Review, The British Bibliographer, Censura Literara, Restituta, Notes and Queries, &c. The full titles of the principal collections of ballad-poetry in other languages, referred to in these volumes, are as follows:-- "Udvalgte Danske Viser fra Middelalderen; efter A.S. Vedels og P. Syvs trykte Udgaver og efter haandskrevne Samlinger udgivne paa ny af Abrahamson, Nyerup, og Rahbek." Copenhagen, 1812-1814. 5 vols. DANMARKS GAMLE FOLKEVISER, UDGIVNE AF SVEND GRUNDTVIG. 2 vols., and the first part of the third. Copenhagen, 1853-58. "Svenska Folk-Visor fran Forntiden, samlade och utgifne af Er. Gust. Geijer och Arv. Aug. Afzelius." Stockholm, 1814-1816. 3 vols. "Svenska Fornsånger. En Samling af Kämpavisor, Folk-Visor, Lekar och Dansar, samt Barn- och Vall-Sånger. Utgifne af Adolf Iwar Arwidsson." Stockholm, 1834-1842. 3 vols. "Altdänische Heldenlieder, Balladen, und Mährchen, übersetzt von Wilhelm Carl Grimm." Heidelberg, 1811. "Des Knaben Wunderhorn. Alte dentsche Lieder." Arnim & Brentano. 3 vols. Heidelberg, 1806-8. 2d ed. of first part in 1819. "Die Volkslieder der Deutschen, etc. Herausgegeben durch Friedrich Karl Freiherrn von Erlach." Mannheim, 1834-36. 5 vols. "Versuch einer geschichtlichen Charakteristik der Volkslieder Germanischer Nationen, mit einer Uebersicht der Lieder aussereuropäischer Völkerschaften." Von Talvj. Leipzig, 1840. "Schlesische Volkslieder mit Melodien. Aus dem Munde des Volks gesammelt und herausgegeben von Hoffmann von Fallersleben und Ernst Richter." Leipzig, 1842. "Alte hoch- und niederdeutsche Volkslieder, in Fünf Büchern, herausgegeben von Ludwig Uhland." 2 vols. Stuttgart, 1844-5. "Deutsther Liederhort. Auswahl der vorzüglichern deutschen Volkslieder aus der Vorzeit und der Gegenwart mit ihren eigenthümlichen Melodien." Von Ludwig Erk. Berlin, 1856. "Niederländische Volkslieder. Gesammelt und erläutert von Hoffmann von Fallersleben." 2d ed. Hannover, 1856. * * * * * BOOK I. THE BOY AND THE MANTLE. No incident is more common in romantic fiction, than the employment of some magical contrivance as a test of conjugal fidelity, or of constancy in love. In some romances of the Round Table, and tales founded upon them, this experiment is performed by means either of an enchanted horn, of such properties that no dishonoured husband or unfaithful wife can drink from it without spilling, or of a mantle which will fit none but chaste women. The earliest known instances of the use of these ordeals are afforded by the _Lai du Corn_, by Robert Bikez, a French minstrel of the twelfth or thirteenth century, and the _Fabliau du Mantel Mautaillé_, which, in the opinion of a competent critic, dates from the second half of the thirteenth century, and is only the older lay worked up into a new shape. (Wolf, _Ueber die Lais_, 327, sq., 342, sq.) We are not to suppose, however, that either of these pieces presents us with the primitive form of this humorous invention. Robert Bikez tells us that he learned his story from an abbot, and that "noble ecclesiast" stood but one further back in a line of tradition which curiosity will never follow to its source. We shall content ourselves with noticing the most remarkable cases of the use of these and similar talismans in imaginative literature. In the _Roman de Tristan_, a composition of unknown antiquity, the frailty of nearly all the ladies at the court of King Marc is exposed by their essaying a draught from the marvellous horn, (see the English _Morte Arthur_, Southey's ed. i. 297.) In the _Roman de Perceval_, the knights, as well as the ladies, undergo this probation. From some one of the chivalrous romances Ariosto adopted the wonderful vessel into his _Orlando_, (xlii. 102, sq., xliii. 31, sq.,) and upon his narrative La Fontaine founded the tale and the comedy of _La Coupe Enchantée_. In German, we have two versions of the same story,--one, an episode in the _Krone_ of Heinrich vom Türlein, thought to have been borrowed from the _Perceval_ of Chrétien de Troyes, (_Die Sage vom Zauberbecher_, in Wolf, _Ueber die Lais_, 378,) and another, which we have not seen, in Bruns, _Beiträge zur kritischen Bearbeitung alter Handschriften_, ii. 139; while in English, it is represented by the highly amusing "bowrd," which we are about to print, and which we have called _The Horn of King Arthur_. The forms of the tale of the Mantle are not so numerous. The _fabliau_ already mentioned was reduced to prose in the sixteenth century, and published at Lyons, (in 1577,) as _Le Manteau mal taillé_, (Legrand's _Fabliaux_, 3d ed., i. 126,) and under this title, or that of _Le Court Mantel_, is very well known. An old fragment (_Der Mantel_) is given in Haupt and Hoffmann's _Altdeutsche Blätter_, ii. 217, and the story is also in Bruns _Beiträge_. Lastly, we find the legends of the horn and the mantle united, as in the German ballad _Die Ausgleichung_, (_Des Knaben Wunderhorn_, i. 389,) and in the English ballad of _The Boy and The Mantle_, where a magical knife is added to the other curiosities. All three of these, by the way, are claimed by the Welsh as a part of the _insignia_ of Ancient Britain, and the special property of Tegau Eurvron, the wife of Caradog with the strong arm. (Jones, _Bardic Museum_, p. 49.) In other departments of romance, many other objects are endowed with the same or an analogous virtue. In Indian and Persian story, the test of innocence is a red lotus-flower; in _Amadis_, a garland, which fades on the brow of the unfaithful; in _Perceforest_, a rose. The _Lay of the Rose_ in _Perceforest_, is the original (according to Schmidt) of the much-praised tale of Senecé, _Camille, ou la Manière de filer le parfait Amour_, (1695,)--in which a magician presents a jealous husband with a portrait in wax, that will indicate by change of color the infidelity of his wife,--and suggested the same device in the twenty-first novel of Bandello, (Part First,) on the translation of which in Painter's _Palace of Pleasure_, (vol. ii. No. 28,) Massinger founded his play of _The Picture_. Again, in the tale of _Zeyn Alasman and the King of the Genii_, in the _Arabian Nights_, the means of proof is a mirror, that reflects only the image of a spotless maiden; in that of the carpenter and the king's daughter, in the _Gesta Romanorum_, (c. 69,) a shirt, which remains clean and whole as long as both parties are true; in _Palmerin of England_, a cup of tears, which becomes dark in the hands of an inconstant lover; in the _Fairy Queen_, the famous girdle of Florimel; in _Horn and Rimnild_ (Ritson, _Metrical Romances_, iii. 301,) as well as in one or two ballads in this collection, the stone of a ring; in a German ballad, _Die Krone der Königin von Afion_, (Erlach, _Volkslieder der Deutschen_, i. 132,) a golden crown, that will fit the head of no incontinent husband. Without pretending to exhaust the subject, we may add three instances of a different kind: the Valley in the romance of _Lancelot_, which being entered by a faithless lover would hold him imprisoned forever; the Cave in _Amadis of Gaul_, from which the disloyal were driven by torrents of flame; and the Well in _Horn and Rimnild_, (_ibid._) which was to show the shadow of Horn, if he proved false. In conclusion, we will barely allude to the singular anecdote related by Herodotus, (ii. 111,) of Phero, the son of Sesostris, in which the experience of King Marc and King Arthur is so curiously anticipated. In the early ages, as Dunlop has remarked, some experiment for ascertaining the fidelity of women, in defect of evidence, seems really to have been resorted to. "By the Levitical law," (_Numbers_ v. 11-31,) continues that accurate writer, "there was prescribed a mode of trial, which consisted in the suspected person drinking water in the tabernacle. The mythological fable of the trial by the Stygian fountain, which disgraced the guilty by the waters rising so as to cover the laurel wreath of the unchaste female who dared the examination, probably had its origin in some of the early institutions of Greece or Egypt. Hence the notion was adopted in the Greek romances, the heroines of which were invariably subjected to a magical test of this nature, which is one of the few particulars in which any similarity of incident can be traced between the Greek novels and the romances of chivalry." See DUNLOP, _History of Fiction_, London, 1814, i. 239, sq.; LEGRAND, _Fabliaux_, 3d ed., i. 149, sq., 161; SCHMIDT, _Jahrbücher der Literatur_, xxix. 121; WOLF, _Ueber die Lais_, 174-177; and, above all, GRAESSE'S _Sagenkreise des Mittelalters_, 185, sq. _The Boy and the Mantle_ was "printed verbatim" from the Percy MS., in the _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, iii. 38. In the third day of May, To Carleile did come A kind curteous child, That cold much of wisdome. A kirtle and a mantle 5 This child had uppon, With brouches[L7] and ringes Full richelye bedone. He had a sute of silke About his middle drawne; 10 Without he cold of curtesye, He thought itt much shame. "God speed thee, King Arthur, Sitting at thy meate: And the goodly Queene Guénever 15 I cannott her forgett, "I tell you, lords, in this hall, I hett[L18] you all to heede, Except you be the more surer, Is you for to dread." 20 He plucked out of his poterner,[L21] And longer wold not dwell; He pulled forth a pretty mantle, Betweene two nut-shells. "Have thou here, King Arthur, 25 Have thou heere of mee; Give itt to thy comely queene, Shapen as itt is alreadye. Itt shall never become that wiffe, That hath once done amisse:"-- 30 Then every knight in the kings court Began to care for his[L32]. Forth came dame Guénever; To the mantle shee her hied[L34]; The ladye shee was newfangle, 35 But yett shee was affrayd. When shee had taken the mantle, She stoode as shee had beene madd: It was from the top to the toe, As sheeres had itt shread. 40 One while was it gule[L41], Another while was itt greene; Another while was it wadded; Ill itt did her beseeme. Another while was it blacke, 45 And bore the worst hue: "By my troth," quoth King Arthur, "I think thou be not true." She threw down the mantle, That bright was of blee; 50 Fast, with a rudd redd, To her chamber can shee flee. She curst the weaver and the walker That clothe that had wrought, And bade a vengeance on his crowne 55 That hither hath itt brought. "I had rather be in a wood, Under a greene tree, Then in King Arthurs court Shamed for to bee." 60 Kay called forth his ladye, And bade her come neere; Saies, "Madam, and thou be guiltye, I pray thee hold thee there." Forth came his ladye, 65 Shortlye and anon; Boldlye to the mantle Then is shee gone. When she had tane the mantle, And cast it her about, 70 Then was shee bare 'Before all the rout.' Then every knight, That was in the kings court, Talked, laughed,[L75] and showted 75 Full oft att that sport. Shee threw downe the mantle, That bright was of blee; Fast, with a red rudd, To her chamber can shee flee. 80 Forth came an old knight, Pattering ore a creede, And he proferred to this litle boy Twenty markes to his meede, And all the time of the Christmasse, 85 Willinglye to ffeede; For why, this mantle might Doe his wiffe some need. When she had tane the mantle, Of cloth that was made, 90 Shee had no more left on her, But a tassell and a threed: Then every knight in the kings court Bade evill might shee speed. Shee threw downe the mantle, 95 That bright was of blee; And fast, with a redd rudd, To her chamber can shee flee. Craddocke called forth his ladye, And bade her come in; 100 Saith, "Winne this mantle, ladye, With a little dinne. Winne this mantle, ladye, And it shal be thine, If thou never did amisse 105 Since thou wast mine." Forth came Craddockes ladye, Shortlye and anon; But boldlye to the mantle Then is shee gone. 110 When she had tane the mantle, And cast it her about, Upp at her great toe It began to crinkle and crowt: Shee said, "Bowe downe, mantle, 115 And shame me not for nought. Once I did amisse, I tell you certainlye, When I kist Craddockes mouth Under a greene tree; 120 When I kist Craddockes mouth Before he marryed mee." When shee had her shreeven, And her sines shee had tolde, The mantle stoode about her 125 Right as shee wold, Seemelye of coulour, Glittering like gold: Then every knight in Arthurs court Did her behold. 130 Then spake dame Guénever To Arthur our king; "She hath tane yonder mantle Not with right[L134], but with wronge. See you not yonder woman, 135 That maketh her self soe 'cleane'[L136]? I have seene tane out of her bedd Of men fiveteene; Priests, clarkes, and wedded men From her, bydeene: 140 Yett shee taketh the mantle, And maketh her self cleane." Then spake the little boy, That kept the mantle in hold; Sayes, "King, chasten thy wiffe, 145 Of her words shee is to bold: Shee is a bitch and a witch, And a whore bold: King, in thine owne hall Thou art a cuckold." 150 The little boy stoode Looking out a dore; 'And there as he was lookinge He was ware of a wyld bore.' He was ware of a wyld bore, 155 Wold have werryed a man: He pulld forth a wood kniffe, Fast thither that he ran: He brought in the bores head, And quitted him like a man. 160 He brought in the bores head, And was wonderous bold: He said there was never a cuckolds kniffe Carve itt that cold. Some rubbed their knives 165 Uppon a whetstone: Some threw them under the table, And said they had none. King Arthur and the child Stood looking them upon; 170 All their knives edges Turned backe againe. Craddocke had a little knive Of iron and of steele; He britled[L175] the bores head 175 Wonderous weele, That every knight in the kings court Had a morssell. The little boy had a horne, Of red gold that ronge: 180 He said there was "noe cuckolde Shall drinke of my horne, But he shold it sheede, Either behind or beforne." Some shedd on their shoulder, 185 And some on their knee; He that cold not hitt his mouthe, Put it in his eye: And he that was a cuckold Every man might him see. 190 Craddocke wan the horne, And the bores head: His ladie wan the mantle Unto her meede. Everye such a lovely ladye 195 God send her well to speede. MS. Ver. 7, branches. V. 18, heate. V. 21, poterver. MS. V. 32, his wiffe. V. 34, bided. V. 41, gaule. MS. Ver. 75, lauged. MS. Ver. 134, wright. V. 136, cleare. MS. V. 175, Or birtled. THE HORN OF KING ARTHUR. MS. Ashmole, 61, fol. 59 to 62. This amusing piece was first published entire in Hartshorne's _Ancient Metrical Tales_, p. 209, but with great inaccuracies. It is there called _The Cokwolds Daunce_. A few extracts had previously been given from the MS., in the Notes to _Orfeo and Heurodis_, in Laing's _Early Popular Poetry of Scotland_. Mr. Wright contributed a corrected edition to Karajan's _Frühlingsgabe für Freunde älterer Literatur_. That work not being at the moment obtainable, the Editor was saved from the necessity of reprinting or amending a faulty text, by the kindness of J.O. Halliwell, Esq., who sent him a collation of Hartshorne's copy with the Oxford manuscript. All that wyll of solas lere, Herkyns now, and [z]e schall here, And [z]e kane vnderstond; Off a bowrd I wyll [z]ou schew, That ys full gode and trew, 5 That fell some tyme in Ynglond. Kynge Arthour was off grete honour, Off castellis and of many a toure, And full wyde iknow; A gode ensample I wyll [z]ou sey, 10 What chanse befell hym one a dey; Herkyn to my saw! Cokwoldes he louyd, as I [z]ou ply[z]t; He honouryd them, both dey and nyght, In all maner of thyng; 15 And as I rede in story, He was kokwold sykerly; Ffor sothê it is no lesyng. Herkyne, seres, what I sey; Her may [z]e here solas and pley, 20 Iff [z]e wyll take gode hede; Kyng Arthour had a bugyll horn, That ever mour stod hym be forn, Were so that ever he [z]ede. Ffor when he was at the bord sete, 25 Anon the horne schuld be fette[L26], Ther off that he myght drynk; Ffor myche crafte he couth thereby, And ofte tymes the treuth he sey; Non other couth he thynke. 30 Iff any cokwold drynke of it, Spyll he schuld, withouten lette; Therfor thei wer not glade; Gret dispyte thei had therby, Because it dyde them vilony, 35 And made them oft tymes sade. When the kyng wold hafe solas, The bugyll was fett[L38] into the plas, To make solas and game; And then changyd the cokwoldes chere; 40 The kyng them callyd ferre and nere, Lordynges, by ther name. Than men myght se game inow[z]e, When every cokwold on other leu[z]e, And [z]it thei schamyd sore: 45 Where euer the cokwoldes wer sought, Befor the kyng thei were brought, Both lesse and more. Kyng Arthour than, verament, Ordeynd, throw hys awne assent, 50 Ssoth as I [z]ow sey, The tabull dormounte withouten lette; Ther at the cokwoldes wer sette, To have solas and pley. Ffor at the bord schuld be non other 55 Bot euery cokwold and his brother[L56]; To tell treuth I must nedes; And when the cokwoldes wer sette, Garlandes of wylos sculd be fette, And sett vpon ther hedes. 60 Off the best mete, withoute lesyng, That stode on bord befor the kyng, Both ferr and nere, To the cokwoldes he sente anon, And bad them be glad euerychon, 65 Ffor his sake make gode chere. And seyd, "Lordyngs, for [z]our lyues, Be neuer the wrother with [z]our wyues, Ffor no manner of nede: Off women com duke and kyng; 70 I [z]ow tell without lesyng, Of them com owre manhed. So it befell sertenly, The duke off Glosseter com in hy[z]e, To the courte with full gret my[z]ht; 75 He was reseyued at the kyngs palys, With mych honour and grete solas, With lords that were well dyg[z]ht. With the kyng ther dyde he dwell, Bot how long I can not tell, 80 Therof knaw I non name; Off kyng Arthour a wonder case, Frendes, herkyns how it was, Ffor now begynes game. Vppon a dey, withouten lette, 85 The duke with the kyng was sette, At mete with mykill pride; He lukyd abowte wonder faste, Hys syght on euery syde he caste To them that sate besyde. 90 The kyng aspyed the erle anon, And fast he low[z]he the erle vpon, And bad he schuld be glad; And yet, for all hys grete honour, Cokwold was Kyng Arthour, 95 Ne galle non he had. So at the last, the duke he brayd, And to the kyng thes wordes sayd[L98]; He myght no longer forbere; "Syr, what hath thes men don, 100 That syche garlondes thei were vpon? That skyll wold I lere." The kyng seyd the erle to, "Syr, non hurte they haue do, Ffor this was thru[z]h a chans. 105 Sertes thei be fre men all, Ffor non of them hath no gall; Therfor this is ther penans. "Ther wyves hath ben merchandabull, And of ther ware compenabull; 110 Methinke it is non herme; A man of lufe that wold them craue, Hastely he schuld it haue, Ffor thei couth not hym wern. "All theyr wyves, sykerlyke, 115 Hath vsyd the backefysyke[L116], Whyll thes men were oute; And ofte they haue draw that draught, To vse well the lechers craft, With rubyng of ther toute. 120 "Syr," he seyd, "now haue I redd; Ete we now, and make vs glad, And euery man fle care;" The duke seyd to hym anon, "Than be thei cokwoldes, everychon;" 125 The kyng seyd, "hold the there." The kyng than, after the erlys word, Send to the cokwolds bord, To make them mery among, All manner of mynstralsy, 130 To glad the cokwolds by and by With herpe, fydell, and song: And bad them take no greffe, Bot all with loue and with leffe, Euery man ...[L135] with other; 135 Ffor after mete, without distans, The cockwolds schuld together danse, Euery man with hys brother. Than began a nobull game: The cockwolds together came 140 Befor the erle and the kyng; In skerlet kyrtells over one, The cokwoldes stodyn euerychon, Redy vnto the dansyng. Than seyd the kyng in hye, 145 "Go fyll my bugyll hastely, And bryng it to my hond. I wyll asey with a gyne All the cokwolds that her is in; To know them wyll I fond." 150 Than seyd the erle, "for charyte, In what skyll, tell me, A cokwold may I know?" To the erle the kyng ansuerd, "Syr, be myn hore berd, 155 Thou schall se within a throw." The bugyll was brought the kyng to hond. Then seyd the kyng, "I vnderstond, Thys horne that [z]e here se, Ther is no cockwold, fer ne nere, 160 Here of to drynke hath no power, As wyde as Crystiante, "Bot he schall spyll on euery syde; Ffor any cas that may betyde, Schall non therof avanse." 165 And [z]it, for all hys grete honour, Hymselfe, noble kyng Arthour, Hath forteynd syche a chans. "Syr erle," he seyd, "take and begyn." He seyd; "nay, be seynt Austyn, 170 That wer to me vylony; Not for all a reme to wyn, Befor you I schuld begyn, Ffor honour off my curtassy." Kyng Arthour ther he toke the horn, 175 And dyde as he was wont beforn, Bot ther was [z]it gon a gyle: [L178]He wend to haue dronke of the best, Bot sone he spyllyd on hys brest, Within a lytell whyle. 180 The cokwoldes lokyd iche on other, And thought the kyng was their own brother, And glad thei wer of that: "He hath vs scornyd many a tyme, And now he is a cokwold fyne, 185 To were a cokwoldes hate." The quene was therof schamyd sore; Sche changyd hyr colour lesse and more, And wold haue ben a wey. Therwith the kyng gan hyr behold, 190 And seyd he schuld neuer be so bold, The soth agene to sey. "Cokwoldes no mour I wyll repreue, Ffor I ame ane, and aske no leue, Ffor all my rentes and londys. 195 Lordyngs, all now may [z]e know That I may dance in the cokwold row, And take [z]ou by the handes." Than seyd thei all at a word, That cokwoldes schuld begynne the bord, 200 And sytt hyest in the halle. "Go we, lordyngs, all [and] same, And dance to make vs gle and game, Ffor cokwolds have no galle." And after that sone anon, 205 The kyng causyd the cokwolds ychon To wesch withouten les; Ffor ought that euer may betyde, He sett them by hys awne syde, Vp at the hy[z]e dese. 210 The kyng hymselff a gurlond fette; Uppon hys hede he it sette, Ffor it myght be non other, And seyd, "Lordyngs, sykerly, We be all off a freyry; 215 I ame [z]our awne brother. "Be Jhesu Cryst that is aboffe, That man aught me gode loffe That ley by my quene: I wer worthy hym to honour, 220 Both in castell and in towre, With rede, skerlet and grene. "Ffor him he helpyd, when I was forth, To cher my wyfe and make her myrth; Ffor women louys wele pley; 225 And therfor, serys, have [z]e no dowte Bot many schall dance in the cokwoldes rowte, Both by nyght and dey. "And therefor, lordyngs, take no care; Make we mery; for nothing spare; 230 All brether in one rowte." Than the cokwoldes wer full blythe, And thankyd God a hundred syth, Ffor soth withouten dowte. Every cokwold seyd to other, 235 "Kyng Arthour is our awne brother, Therfor we may be blyth:" The erle off Glowsytur verament, Toke hys leve, and home he wente, And thankyd the kyng fele sythe. 240 Kyng Arthour lived at Karlyon[L241], With hys cokwolds euerychon, And made both gam and gle: * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *[L243] A knyght ther was withouten les, That seruyd at the kyngs des, 245 Syr Corneus hyght he; He made this gest in hys gam, And named it after hys awne name, In herpyng or other gle. And after, nobull kyng Arthour 250 Lyued and dyed with honour, As many hath don senne, Both cokwoldes and other mo: God gyff vs grace that we may go To heuyn! Amen, Amen. 26, sette. See 59, 211. 38, sett. 56, brothers. 98, spake. 115, MS. baskefysyke. 135, word wanting. 178, Bot he. 241, left at Skarlyon. 243, Three lines omitted in MS. FRAGMENT OF THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. From Percys _Reliques_, iii. 403. This is one of the few ballads contained in the Percy MS., which we have the pleasure of possessing as it is there written. Having first submitted an improved copy, "with large conjectural supplements and corrections," Percy added this old fragment at the end of the volume: "literally and exactly printed, with all its defects, inaccuracies, and errata," in order, as he triumphantly remarks, "that such austere antiquaries as complain that the ancient copies have not been always rigidly adhered to, may see how unfit for publication many of the pieces would have been, if all the blunders, corruptions, and nonsense of illiterate reciters and transcribers had been superstitiously retained, without some attempt to correct and amend them." "This ballad," the Editor of the _Reliques_ goes on to say, "has most unfortunately suffered by having half of every leaf in this part of the MS. torn away; and, as about nine stanzas generally occur in the half-page now remaining, it is concluded that the other half contained nearly the same number of stanzas." The story may be seen, unmutilated and in an older form, in Madden's _Syr Gawayne_, p. 298, _The Weddynge of Syr Gawen and Dame Ragnell_. The transformation on which the story turns is found also in Chaucer's _Wife of Bath's Tale_, in Gower's tale of _Florent and the King of Sicily's Daughter_; (_Confessio Amantis_, Book I.) in the ballad of _King Henry_ (page 147 of this volume); and in an Icelandic saga of the Danish king Helgius, quoted by Scott in his illustrations to _King Henry, Minstrelsy_, iii. 274. Voltaire has employed the same idea in his _Ce qui plaît aux Dames_, but whence he borrowed it we are unable to say. Worked over by some ballad-monger of the sixteenth century, and of course reduced to dish-water, this tale has found its way into _The Crown Garland of Golden Roses_, Part I. p. 68 (Percy Society, vol. vi.), _Of a Knight and a Faire Virgin_. Kinge Arthur liues in merry Carleile, And seemely is to see; And there he hath with him Queene Genever, That bride so bright of blee. And there he hath with him Queene Genever, 5 That bride soe bright in bower; And all his barons about him stoode, That were both stiffe and stowre. The King kept a royall Christmasse, Of mirth & great honor; 10 ... when ... [_About nine stanzas wanting._] "And bring me word what thing it is That women[L13] most desire; This shalbe thy ransome, Arthur," he sayes, "For Ile haue no other hier." 15 King Arthur then held vp his hand, According thene as was the law; He tooke his leaue of the baron there, And homword can he draw. And when he came to merry Carlile, 20 To his chamber he is gone; And ther came to him his cozen, Sir Gawaine, As he did make his mone. And there came to him his cozen, Sir Gawaine[L24], That was a curteous knight; 25 "Why sigh you soe sore, vnckle Arthur," he said, "Or who hath done thee vnright?" "O peace! o peace! thou gentle Gawaine, That faire may thee beffall; For if thou knew my sighing soe deepe, 30 Thou wold not meruaile att all. "Ffor when I came to Tearne-wadling, A bold barron there I fand; With a great club vpon his backe, Standing stiffe & strong. 35 "And he asked me wether I wold fight Or from him I shold be gone; Or else[L38] I must him a ransome pay, And soe depart him from. "To fight with him I saw noe cause, 40 Me thought it was not meet; For he was stiffe and strong with all; His strokes were nothing sweete. "Therefor this is my ransome, Gawaine, I ought to him to pay; 45 I must come againe, as I am sworne, Vpon the Newyeers day. "And I must bring him word what thing it is [_About nine stanzas wanting._] Then King Arthur drest him for to ryde, In one soe riche array, 50 Towards the foresaid Tearne-wadling, That he might keepe his day. And as he rode over a more, Hee see a lady, where shee sate, Betwixt an oke and a greene hollen; 55 She was clad in red scarlett. Then there as shold have stood her mouth, Then there was sett her eye; The other was in her forhead fast, The way that she might see. 60 Her nose was crooked, & turnd outward, Her mouth stood foule a-wry; A worse formed lady then shee was, Neuer man saw with his eye. To halch vpon him, King Arthur, 65 This lady was full faine; But King Arthur had forgott his lesson, What he shold say againe. "What knight art thou," the lady sayd, "That wilt not speake to me? 70 Of me [be] thou nothing dismayd, Tho I be vgly to see. "For I haue halched you curteouslye, And you will not me againe; Yett I may happen, Sir knight," shee said, 75 "To ease thee of thy paine." "Giue thou ease me, lady," he said, "Or helpe me any thing, Thou shalt haue gentle Gawaine, my cozen, And marry him with a ring." 80 "Why if I helpe thee not, thou noble King Arthur, Of thy owne hearts desiringe, Of gentle Gawaine.... [_About nine stanzas wanting._] And when he came to the Tearne-wadling, The baron there cold he finde[L85]; 85 With a great weapon on his backe, Standinge stiffe and stronge. And then he tooke King Arthurs letters in his hands, And away he cold them fling; And then he puld out a good browne sword, 90 And cryd himselfe a king. And he sayd, "I haue thee, & thy land, Arthur, To doe as it pleaseth me; For this is not thy ransome sure, Therfore yeeld thee to me." 95 And then bespoke him noble Arthur, And bade him hold his hand[L97]; "And give me leave to speake my mind, In defence of all my land." He said, "as I came over a[L100] more, 100 I see a lady, where shee sate, Betweene an oke & a green hollen; Shee was clad in red scarlette. "And she says a woman will haue her will, And this is all her cheef desire; 105 Doe me right, as thou art a baron of sckill, This is thy ransome, & all thy hyer." He sayes, "an early vengeance light on her! She walkes on yonder more; It was my sister, that told thee this, 110 She is a misshapen hore. "But heer Ile make mine avow to God, To do her an euill turne; For an euer I may thate fowle theefe get, In a fyer I will her burne." 115 [_About nine stanzas wanting._] THE SECOND PART. Sir Lancelott, & Sir Steven, bold, They rode with them that day; And the formost of the company, There rode the steward Kay. Soe did Sir Banier, & Sir Bore, 120 Sir Garrett with them, soe gay; Soe did Sir Tristeram, that gentle knight, To the forrest, fresh & gay. And when he came to the greene forrest, Vnderneath a greene holly tree, 125 Their sate that lady in red scarlet, That vnseemly was to see. Sir Kay beheld this ladys face, And looked vppon her suire,-- "Whosoeuer kisses this lady," he sayes, 130 "Of his kisse he stands in feare!" Sir Kay beheld the lady againe, And looked vpon her snout; "Whosoeuer kisses this lady," he saies, "Of his kisse he stands in doubt!" 135 "Peace, cozen Kay," then said Sir Gawaine, "Amend thee of thy life; For there is a knight amongst us all, That must marry her to his wife." "What! wedd her to wiffe," then said Sir Kay, 140 "In the diuells name anon, Get me a wiffe whereere I may, For I had rather be slaine!" Then some[L144] tooke vp their hawkes in hast, And some tooke vp their hounds; 145 And some sware they wold not marry her, For citty nor for towne. And then bespake him noble King Arthur, And sware there, "by this day, For a litle foule sight & misliking, 150 [_About nine stanzas wanting._] Then shee said, "choose thee, gentle Gawaine, Truth as I doe say; Wether thou wilt haue me in this liknesse, In the night, or else in the day." And then bespake him gentle Gawaine, 155 With one soe mild of moode; Sayes, "well I know what I wold say, God grant it may be good! "To haue thee fowle in the night, When I with thee shold play-- 160 Yet I had rather, if I might, Haue thee fowle in the day." "What, when lords goe with ther feires[L163]," shee said, "Both to the ale and wine; Alas! then I must hyde my selfe, 165 I must not goe withinne." And then bespake him gentle Gawaine, Said, "Lady, thats but a skill; And because thou art my owne lady, Thou shall haue all thy will." 170 Then she said, "blessed be thou, gentle Gawaine, This day that I thee see; For as thou see me att this time, From hencforth I wil be. "My father was an old knight, 175 And yett it chanced soe, That he married a younge lady, That brought me to this woe. "Shee witched me, being a faire young lady, To the greene forrest to dwell; 180 And there I must walke in womans liknesse, Most like a feeind of hell. "She witched my brother to a carlist b.... [_About nine stanzas wanting._] That looked soe foule, and that was wont On the wild more to goe. 185 "Come kisse her, brother Kay," then said Sir Gawaine, "And amend the of thy liffe; I sweare this is the same lady That I marryed to my wiffe." Sir Kay kissed that lady bright, 190 Standing vpon his ffeete; He swore, as he was trew knight, The spice was neuer soe sweete. "Well, cozen Gawaine," sayes Sir Kay, "Thy chance is fallen arright; 195 For thou hast gotten one of the fairest maids, I euer saw with my sight." "It is my fortune," said Sir Gawaine; "For my vnckle Arthurs sake, I am glad as grasse wold be of raine, 200 Great joy that I may take." Sir Gawaine tooke the lady by the one arme, Sir Kay tooke her by the tother; They led her straight to King Arthur, As they were brother and brother. 205 King Arthur welcomed them there all, And soe did lady Geneuer, his queene; With all the knights of the Round Table, Most seemly to be seene. King Arthur beheld that lady faire, 210 That was soe faire & bright; He thanked Christ in Trinity For Sir Gawaine, that gentle knight. Soe did the knights, both more and lesse, 220 Rejoyced all that day, For the good chance that hapened was To Sir Gawaine and his lady gay. 13, Y^e a woman. 24, Cawaine. 38, O else. 85, srinde. 97, hands. 100, The. 144, soome. 163, seires. KING ARTHUR'S DEATH. A FRAGMENT. _Reliques of English Poetry_, iii, 67. "The subject of this ballad is evidently taken from the old romance _Morte Arthur_, but with some variations, especially in the concluding stanzas; in which the author seems rather to follow the traditions of the old Welsh Bards, who 'believed that King Arthur was not dead, but conveied awaie by the Fairies into some pleasant place, where he should remaine for a time, and then returne againe and reign in as great authority as ever.' (Holinshed, B. 5, c. 14.) Or, as it is expressed in an old chronicle printed at Antwerp, 1493, by Ger. de Leew: 'The Bretons supposen, that he [King Arthur] shall come yet and conquere all Bretaigne, for certes this is the prophicye of Merlyn, He sayd, that his deth shall be doubteous; and sayd soth, for men thereof yet have doubte, and shullen for ever more,--for men wyt not whether that he lyveth or is dede.' See more ancient testimonies in Selden's Notes on Polyolbion, Song 3. "This fragment, being very incorrect and imperfect in the original MS., hath received some conjectural emendations, and even a supplement of three or four stanzas composed from the romance of _Morte Arthur_." PERCY. * * * * * On Trinitye Mondaye in the morne, This sore battayle was doom'd to bee, Where manye a knighte cry'd, Well-awaye! Alacke, it was the more pittìe. Ere the first crowinge of the cocke, 5 When as the kinge in his bed laye, He thoughte Sir Gawaine[L7] to him came, And there to him these wordes did saye. "Nowe, as you are mine unkle deare, And as you prize your life, this daye 10 O meet not with your foe in fighte; Putt off the battayle, if yee maye. "For Sir Launcelot is nowe in Fraunce, And with him many an hardye knighte: Who will within this moneth be backe, 15 And will assiste yee in the fighte." The kinge then call'd his nobles all, Before the breakinge of the daye; And tolde them howe Sir Gawaine came, And there to him these wordes did saye. 20 His nobles all this counsayle gave, That earlye in the morning, hee Shold send awaye an herauld at armes, To aske a parley faire and free. Then twelve good knightes King Arthur chose, The best of all that with him were, 25 To parley with the foe in field, And make with him agreement faire. The king he charged all his hoste, In readinesse there for to bee; 30 But noe man sholde noe weapon sturre, Unlesse a sword drawne they shold see. And Mordred, on the other parte, Twelve of his knights did likewise bringe, The beste of all his companye, 35 To holde the parley with the kinge. Sir Mordred alsoe charged his hoste, In readinesse there for to bee; But noe man sholde noe weapon sturre, But if a sworde drawne they shold see. 40 For he durste not his unkle[L41] truste, Nor he his nephewe[L42], sothe to tell; Alacke! it was a woefulle case, As ere in Christentye befelle. But when they were together mette, 45 And both to faire accordance broughte, And a month's league betweene them sette, Before the battayle sholde be foughte, An addere crept forth of a bushe, Stunge one o' the king's knightes on the knee; 50 Alacke! it was a woefulle chance, As ever was in Christentìe. When the knighte found him wounded sore, And sawe the wild-worme hanginge there, His sworde he from his scabberde drewe; 55 A piteous case, as ye shall heare. For when the two hostes sawe the sworde, They joyned battayle instantlye; Till of so manye noble knightes, On one side there were left but three. 60 For all were slaine that durst abide, And but some fewe that fled awaye: Ah mee! it was a bloodye fielde, As ere was foughte on summer's daye. Upon King Arthur's own partyè, 65 Onlye himselfe escaped there, And Lukyn Duke of Gloster free, And the king's butler Bedevere. And when the king beheld his knightes All dead and scattered on the molde, 70 The teares fast trickled downe his face; That manlye face in fight so bolde. "Nowe reste yee all, brave knights," he said, "Soe true and faithful to your trust: And must yee then, yee valiant hearts, 75 Be lefte to moulder into dust! "Most loyal have yee been to mee, Most true and faithful unto deathe: And, oh! to rayse yee up againe, How freelye could I yield my breathe! 80 "But see, the traitor's yet alive! Lo where hee stalkes among the deade! Nowe bitterlye he shall abye, And vengeance fall upon his head." "O staye, my liege," then sayd the duke; 85 "O staye for love and charitìe; Remember what the vision spake, Nor meete your foe, if it may bee." "O staye mee not, thou worthye wight, This debt my loyal knights I owe: 90 Betide me life, betide me death, I will avenge them of their foe." Then straite he grasp'd his trustye speare, And on his horse then mounted hee: As his butler holpe him to his horse, 95 His bowels gushed to his knee. "Alas!" then sayd the noble king, "That I should live this sight to see! To see this good knight here be slaine, All for his love in helping mee!" 100 He put his speare into his reste, And to Sir Mordred loud gan crye; "Nowe sette thyself upon thy guarde, For, traitor, nowe thy death is nye." Sir Mordred lifted up his sworde, 105 And fierce to meet the king ran hee: The king his speare he through him thrust, A fathom thorow his bodìe. When Mordered felt the stroke of death, And found that he was wounded soe, 110 He thruste himselfe upon the speare, And strucke the king a deadlye blowe. Then grimmlye dyed Sir Mordered, Presentlye upon that tree: And bloody streames ranne from the kinge, 115 Ere to the duke returned hee. Sir Lukyn then he thus bespake: "Sir knighte, thou hast been faithfulle tryde; Nowe take my sword Excalibar[L119], That hangs so freelye by my syde, 120 "O take my sword Excalibar, And there into the river throwe: For here, henceforth, benethe this tree, All use of weapons I foregoe. "And fare thee well, thou trustye sword, 125 A better neer had valiant knighte; With thee full ofte, and many a daye, Have I withstood my foe in fighte. "With this good fauchion in my hande, Oft have I reapd the bloody feelde: 130 But nowe the fatalle houre is come, That never more I may thee weelde." The duke to the river side he went, And there his owne sword in threwe he; But he kept back Excalibar, 135 He kept it back in privitie. For all of coleyne was the blade, And all the hilte of precious stone: "And ever alacke!" then sayd the knighte, "Must such a sword awaye be throwne?" 140 Then backe he came unto the kinge, Who sayd, "Sir Lukyn, what did yee see?" "Nothing, my liege, save that the winde Blewe oer the waters faire and free." "O goe againe," then said the kinge, 145 "O good Sir Lukyn, goe againe: Into the rivere throwe my sword, Nor keepe me lingering here in paine." The duke then to the river went, And the kings scabbard in threwe hee; 150 But hee kept backe Excalibar, And hid it undernethe a tree. Then backe he came to tell the kinge, Who sayde, "Sir Lukyn, sawe ye oughte?" "Nothinge, my liege, save that the winde 155 Nowe with the angrye waters fought." "O Lukyn, Lukyn," said the kinge, "Twice haste thou dealt deceytfullye: Alacke, whom may wee ever truste, When suche a knighte soe false can bee! 160 "Saye, wouldst thou have thy master dead, All for a sword that wins thine eye? Now goe againe, and throwe it in, Or here the one of us shall dye." The duke, all shent with this rebuke, 165 No aunswere made unto the kinge; But to the rivere tooke the sworde, And threwe it far as he coulde flinge. A hande and an arme did meete the sworde, And flourishd three times in the air; 170 Then sunke benethe the renninge streme, And of the duke was seene noe mair. All sore astonied stood the duke, He stood as still, as still mote bee; Then hastend backe to tell the kinge, 175 But he was gone from under the tree. But to what place, he cold not tell, For never after hee did him see; But hee sawe a barge goe from the land, And hee heard ladyes howle and crye. 180 And whether the kinge were there, or not, Hee never knewe, nor ever colde; For from that sad and direfulle daye, Hee never more was seene on molde. 7. Sir Gawaine had been killed at Arthur's landing on his return from abroad. See the next ballad, ver. 73. P. 41, 42, the folio MS. reads father ... sonne. 119. More commonly called _Caliburn_. In the folio MS. _Escalberd_. P. THE LEGEND OF KING ARTHUR. _Reliques of English Poetry_, iii. 76. "We have here a short summary of King Arthur's History as given by Jeff. of Monmouth and the old Chronicles, with the addition of a few circumstances from the romance _Morte Arthur_.--The ancient chronicle of Ger. de Leew (quoted above in p. 40,) seems to have been chiefly followed: upon the authority of which we have restored some of the names which were corrupted in the MS., and have transposed one stanza, which appeared to be misplaced: _viz._, that beginning at v. 49, which in the MS. followed v. 36. "Printed from the Editor's ancient folio MS." PERCY. Of Brutus'[L1] blood, in Brittaine borne, King Arthur I am to name; Through Christendome and Heathynesse Well knowne is my worthy fame. In Jesus Christ I doe beleeve; 5 I am a Christyan bore; The Father, Sone, and Holy Gost, One God, I doe adore. In the four hundred ninetieth yeere[L9], Oer Brittaine I did rayne, 10 After my Savior Christ his byrth, What time I did maintaine The fellowshipp of the Table Round, Soe famous in those dayes; Whereatt a hundred noble knights 15 And thirty sat alwayes: Who for their deeds and and martiall feates, As bookes done yett record, Amongst all other nations Wer feared through the world. 20 And in the castle off Tyntagill King Uther mee begate, Of Agyana[L23], a bewtyous ladye, And come of 'hie'[L24] estate. And when I was fifteen yeere old, 25 Then was I crowned kinge: All Brittaine, that was att an upròre, I did to quiett bringe; And drove the Saxons from the realme, Who had opprest this land; 30 All Scotland then, throughe manly feates, I conquered with my hand. Ireland, Denmarke, Norwaye, These countryes wan I all; Iseland, Gotheland, and Swetheland; 35 And made their kings my thrall. I conquered all Gallya, That now is called France; And slew the hardye Froll in feild[L39], My honor to advance. 40 And the ugly gyant Dynabus[L41], Soe terrible to vewe, That in Saint Barnards mount did lye, By force of armes I slew. And Lucyus, the emperour of Rome, 45 I brought to deadly wracke; And a thousand more of noble knightes For feare did turne their backe. Five kinges of Pavye I did kill[L49] Amidst that bloody strife; 50 Besides the Grecian emperour, Who alsoe lost his liffe. Whose carcasse I did send to Rome, Cladd poorlye on a beere; And afterward I past Mount-Joye 55 The next approaching yeere. Then I came to Rome, where I was mett Right as a conquerour, And by all the cardinalls solempnelye I was crowned an emperour. 60 One winter there I made abode, Then word to mee was brought, Howe Mordred had oppressed the crowne, What treason he had wrought Att home in Brittaine with my queene: 65 Therfore I came with speede To Brittaine backe, with all my power, To quitt that traitorous deede; And soone at Sandwiche I arrivde, Where Mordred me withstoode: 70 But yett at last I landed there, With effusion of much blood. For there my nephew Sir Gawaine dyed, Being wounded in that sore The whiche Sir Lancelot in fight 75 Had given him before. Thence chased I Mordered away, Who fledd to London right, From London to Winchester, and To Cornewalle tooke his flyght. 80 And still I him pursued with speed, Till at last wee mett; Wherby an appointed day of fight Was there agreed and sett: Where we did fight, of mortal life 85 Eche other to deprive, Till of a hundred thousand men Scarce one was left alive. There all the noble chivalrye Of Brittaine tooke their end: 90 O see how fickle is their state That doe on fates[L92] depend! There all the traiterous men were slaine, Not one escapte away; And there dyed all my vallyant knightes 95 Alas! that woefull day! Two and twenty yeere I ware the crowne In honor and great fame, And thus by death was suddenlye Deprived of the same. 100 1. MS., Bruitehis. 9, He began his reign A.D. 515, according to the Chronicles. 23, She is named _Igerna_ in the old Chronicles. 24, his, MS. 39, Froland field, MS. Froll, according to the Chronicles, was a Roman knight, governor of Gaul. 41, Danibus, MS. 49, see p. 134, v. 55. 92, feates, MS. SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE. This ballad first occurs in the _Garland of Good Will_, and is attributed to Thomas Deloney, whose career as a song-writer extends from about 1586 to 1600. It is merely a rhymed version of a passage in the _Morte D'Arthur_, (Book vi. ch. 7, 8, 9, of Southey's ed.) The first two lines are quoted in the Second Part of Henry IV., A. ii. sc. 4. The present text is nearly that of the _Garland of Good Will_ (Percy Society, vol. xxx. p. 38), and differs considerably from that of Percy, (_Reliques_, i. 215.) The same, with very trifling variations, is found in _Old Ballads_, (1723,) ii. 21; Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, ii. 188; Evans's _Old Ballads_, ii. 5. When Arthur first in court began, And was approvèd king, By force of arms great victories won, And conquests home did bring; Then into Britain straight he came, 5 Where fifty good and able Knights then repairèd unto him, Which were of the Round Table; And many justs and tournaments Before them there were drest, 10 Where valiant knights did then excel, And far surmount the rest. But one Sir Lancelot du Lake, Who was approvèd well, He in his fights and deeds of arms, 15 All others did excel. When he had rested him a while, To play, to game, and sport, He thought he would go try himself, In some adventurous sort. 20 He armèd rode in forest wide, And met a damsel fair, Who told him of adventures great, Whereto he gave good ear. "Why should I not?" quoth Lancelot tho, 25 "For that cause I came hither." "Thou seem'st," quoth she, "a goodly knight, And I will bring thee thither "Whereas a[L29] mighty knight doth dwell, That now is of great fame; 30 Therefore tell me what knight thou art, And then what is your name." "My name is Lancelot du Lake." Quoth she, "it likes me than; Here dwells a knight that never was 35 O'ermatch'd[L36] with any man; "Who has in prison threescore knights And four, that he has bound; Knights of King Arthur's court they be, And of his Table Round." 40 She brought him to a river side, And also to a tree, Whereon a copper bason hung, His fellows[L44] shields to see. He struck so hard, the bason broke: 45 When Tarquin heard the sound, He drove a horse before him straight, Whereon a knight lay bound. "Sir knight," then said Sir Lancelot, "Bring me that horse-load hither, 50 And lay him down, and let him rest; We'll try our force together. "And as I understand, thou hast, So far as thou art able, Done great despite and shame unto 55 The knights of the Round Table." "If thou be of the Table Round" (Quoth Tarquin, speedilye), "Both thee and all thy fellowship I utterly defie." 60 "That's overmuch," quoth Lancelot tho; "Defend thee by and by." They put their spurs unto their steeds, And each at other fly. They coucht their spears, and horses ran 65 As though there had been thunder; And each struck them amidst the shield, Wherewith they broke in sunder. Their horses backs brake under them. The knights were both astound; 70 To void their horses they made great haste, To light upon the ground. They took them to their shields full fast, Their swords they drew out than; With mighty strokes most eagerly 75 Each one at other ran. They wounded were, and bled full sore, For breath they both did stand, And leaning on their swords awhile, Quoth Tarquin, "Hold thy hand, 80 "And tell to me what I shall ask;" "Say on," quoth Lancelot tho; "Thou art," quoth Tarquin, "the best knight That ever I did know; "And like a knight that I did hate; 85 So that thou be not he, I will deliver all the rest, And eke accord with thee." "That is well said," quoth Lancelot then; "But sith it must be so, 90 What is the knight thou hatest thus?[L91] I pray thee to me show." "His name is Lancelot du Lake, He slew my brother dear; Him I suspect of all the rest; 95 I would I had him here." "Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknown; I am Lancelot du Lake! Now knight of Arthur's Table Round, King Ban's son of Benwake;[L100] 100 "And I desire thee do thy worst." "Ho! ho!" quoth Tarquin tho, "One of us two shall end our lives, Before that we do go. "If thou be Lancelot du Lake, 105 Then welcome shalt thou be; Wherefore see thou thyself defend, For now defie I thee." They buckled then together so, Like two wild boars rashing, 110 And with their swords and shields they ran At one another slashing.[L112] The ground besprinkled was with blood, Tarquin began to faint; For he gave back, and bore his shield 115 So low, he did repent. This soon espied[L117] Sir Lancelot tho; He leapt upon him then, He pull'd him down upon his knee, And rushed[L120] off his helm. 120 And then he struck his neck in two; And when he had done so, From prison, threescore knights and four Lancelot delivered tho. 29, the. 36, E'er match'd. 44, fellow. 92, so. 100, Kind Haud's son of Seuwake. 112, flashing. 117, 'spied. 120, rushing. THE LEGEND OF SIR GUY. (Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 143.) "Published from an ancient MS. copy in the Editor's old folio volume, collated with two printed ones, one of which is in black-letter in the Pepys collection." PERCY. An inferior copy is printed in Ritson's _Ancient Songs and Ballads_, ii. 193. From an essay on the romance of Sir Guy, read by Mr. Wright before the British Archæological Association during its meeting at Warwick, we extract the following remarks in illustration of the history of the present ballad, and other similar popular heroic traditions. "As the Teutonic tribes progressed in their migrations, and settled in new lands--and especially when they received a new faith, and made advances in civilization,--the mythic romances of their forefathers underwent remarkable modifications to adapt them to new sentiments and new manners. Among people who had forgotten the localities to which they referred, they received a new location and became identified with places and objects with which people were better acquainted, and in this manner they underwent a new historical interpretation. It would be no uninteresting task to point out how many romantic tales that are soberly related of individuals of comparatively modern history, are merely new applications of these early myths. "Among the romances of the Anglo-Danish cycle by no means the least celebrated is that of GUY OF WARWICK. It is one, of the few, which has been preserved in its Anglo-Norman form, since which it has gone through an extraordinary number of versions, and Chaucer enumerated it among the _romances of pris_, or those which in the fourteenth century were held in the highest estimation. It is doubtless one of those stories in which an ancient mythic romance has undergone the series of modifications I have been describing; a legend which had become located by popular traditions in the neighbourhood we are now visiting, in which the contests between northern chieftains are changed into tilts and tournaments, but in which the combats with dragons and giants are still preserved. Whatever may have been the name of the original hero, that which he now bears, Guy, is a French name, and could not have been given till Norman times. "From the Anglo-Norman poem, so great was its popularity, two or three different English metrical versions were made, which are still found in manuscripts, and the earliest of which, that of the well-known Auchinlech manuscript, has been printed in a very expensive form by one of the Scottish Antiquarian clubs. It was next transformed into French prose, and in that form was popular in the fifteenth century, and was printed by some of the earlier printers. It was finally reduced to a popular chap-book in prose and a broadside ballad in verse, and in these forms was hawked about the streets until a very recent period. Such has in general been the fate of the romantic literature of the middle ages; a remarkable proof of the tenacity with which it has kept its hold on the popular mind." _Gentleman's Magazine_, Sept. 1847, p. 300. Was ever knight for ladyes sake Soe tost in love, as I, Sir Guy, For Phelis fayre, that lady bright As ever man beheld with eye? She gave me leave myself to try, 5 The valiant knight with sheeld and speare, Ere that her love she would grant me; Which made mee venture far and neare. Then proved I a baron bold,[L9] In deeds of armes the doughtyest knight 10 That in those dayes in England was, With sworde and speare in feild to fight. An English man I was by birthe: In faith of Christ a christyan true: The wicked lawes of infidells 15 I sought by prowesse to subdue. 'Nine' hundred twenty yeere and odde[L17] After our Saviour Christ his birth, When King Athelstone wore the crowne, I lived heere upon the earth. 20 Sometime I was of Warwicke erle, And, as I sayd, of very truth A ladyes love did me constraine To seeke strange ventures in my youth; To win me fame by feates of armes 25 In strange and sundry heathen lands; Where I atchieved for her sake Right dangerous conquests with my hands. For first I sayled to Normandye, And there I stoutlye wan in fight 30 The emperours daughter of Almaine, From manye a vallyant worthye knight. Then passed I the seas to Greece, To helpe the emperour in his right, Against the mightye souldans hoaste 35 Of puissant Persians for to fight: Where I did slay of Sarazens, And heathen pagans, manye a man; And slew the souldans cozen deere, Who had to name doughtye Coldràn. 40 Eskeldered, a famous knight, To death likewise I did pursue: And Elmayne, King of Tyre, alsoe, Most terrible in fight to viewe. I went into the souldans hoast, 45 Being thither on embassage sent, And brought his head awaye with mee; I having slaine him in his tent. There was a dragon in that land Most fiercelye mett me by the waye, 50 As hee a lyon did pursue, Which I myself did alsoe slay. Then soon I past the seas from Greece, And came to Pavye land aright; Where I the duke of Pavye killed, 55 His hainous treason to requite. To England then I came with speede, To wedd faire Phelis, lady bright; For love of whome I travelled farr To try my manhood and my might. 60 But when I had espoused her, I stayd with her but fortye dayes, Ere that I left this ladye faire, And went, from her beyond the seas. All cladd in gray, in pilgrim sort, 65 My voyage from her I did take Unto the blessed Holy-Land, For Jesus Christ my Saviours sake. Where I Erle Jonas did redeeme, And all his sonnes, which were fifteene, 70 Who with the cruell Sarazens In prison for long time had beene. I slew the gyant Amarant In battel fiercelye hand to hand, And doughty Barknard killed I, 75 A treacherous knight of Pavye land. Then I to England came againe, And here with Colbronde fell I fought; An ugly gyant, which the Danes Had for their champion hither brought. 80 I overcame him in the feild, And slewe him soone right valliantlye; Wherebye this land I did redeeme From Danish tribute utterlye. And afterwards I offered upp 85 The use of weapons solemnlye At Winchester, whereas I fought, In sight of manye farr and nye. 'But first,' neare Winsor, I did slaye A bore of passing might and strength; 90 Whose like in England never was For hugenesse both in bredth and length. Some of his bones in Warwicke yett Within the castle there doth lye; One of his sheeld-bones to this day 95 Hangs in the citye of Coventrye. On Dunsmore heath I alsoe slewe A monstrous wyld and cruell beast, Calld the Dun-cow of Dunsmore heath; Which manye people had opprest. 100 Some of her bones in Warwicke yett Still for a monument doth lye, And there exposed to lookers viewe, As wondrous strange, they may espye. A dragon in Northumberland 105 I alsoe did in fight destroye, Which did bothe man and beast oppresse, And all the countrye sore annoye. At length to Warwicke I did come, Like pilgrim poore, and was not knowne; 110 And there I lived a hermitts life A mile and more out of the towne. Where with my hands I hewed a house Out of a craggy rocke of stone, And lived like a palmer poore 115 Within that cave myself alone: And daylye came to begg my bread Of Phelis att my castle gate; Not knowne unto my loved wiffe, Who dailye mourned for her mate. 120 Till att the last I fell sore sicke, Yea, sicke soe sore that I must dye; I sent to her a ring of golde, By which shee knew me presentlye. Then shee repairing to the cave, 125 Before that I gave up the ghost, Herself closd up my dying eyes; My Phelis faire, whom I lovd most. Thus dreadful death did me arrest, To bring my corpes unto the grave, 130 And like a palmer dyed I, Wherby I sought my soule to save. My body that endured this toyle, Though now it be consumed to mold, My statue, faire engraven in stone, 135 In Warwicke still you may behold. 9, The proud Sir Guy, PC. 17, Two hundred, MS. and PC. ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. (From Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 278.) The following rhymed legend, which, like several other pieces in this Book, can be called a ballad only by an objectionable, though common, extension of the term, was printed by Percy (with some alterations) from two "ancient" black-letter copies in the Pepys collection. Real popular ballads on St. George's victory over the Dragon exist in several languages, though not in English.[B] Such a ballad is known to have been sung by the Swedes at the battle of Brunkeberg in 1471, and one is still sung by the people both of Denmark and Sweden. Grundtvig gives three copies of the Danish ballad, two of the 16th and 17th centuries, and one of the present. Four versions of the Swedish have been published, of various ages (e.g. _Svenska Folkvisor_, ii. 252). A German ballad is given by Meinert, _Altdeutsche Volkslieder_, p. 254; after him by Erlach, iv. 258; and Haupt and Schmaler have printed two widely different versions of the ballad in Wendish, _Volkslieder der Wenden_, vol. i. No. 285, ii. No. 195. These are all the proper traditional ballads upon this subject which are known to be preserved, unless we include a piece called _Jürg Drachentödter_ in Zuccalmaglio's _Deutsche Volkslieder_, No. 37, which is of suspicious authenticity. The piece called _Ritter St. Georg_, in _Des Knaben Wunderhorn_, i. 151, is not a proper ballad, but a rhymed legend, like the one here printed, though intended to be sung. [B] What follows is abridged from Grundtvig, _Danmarks Gamle Folkeviser_, ii. 554. The hero of these ballads, St. George of Cappadocia, is said to have suffered martyrdom during the persecution in Syria, in the year 303. In the 6th century he was a recognized saint both in the western and the eastern churches, and his reputation was limited to this character until the 13th. Reinbot von Dorn, (1231-53,) in his poem _Der Heilige Georg_, (Von der Hagen and Büsching's _Deutsche Gedichte des Mittelalters_,) and Vincent de Beauvais (died 1262) in his _Speculum Historiale_ (XII. 131-32), content themselves with recounting his martyrdom, and appear to know nothing about his fight with the Dragon. The first known writer who attributes this exploit to St. George is Jacobus a Voragine (died 1298), in the _Golden Legend_. Of course it does not follow that the story originated there. It is probable that the legend of the Dragon arose at the time of the Crusades, and indeed was partly occasioned by them, though we ought not hastily to admit, what has been suggested, that it was founded upon some tradition which the Crusaders heard in Syria. The Byzantians had long before ascribed various miracles to St. George, but it was the Normans, who, so to say, first pressed him into active military service. It was he that commanded the heavenly host that came to the help of the Crusaders against the Turks, under the walls of Antioch, in the year 1098, on which occasion he was seen on his white horse, bearing the white banner with the red cross. He manifested himself again at the storming of Jerusalem in the following year, and a hundred years later was seen to fight in the front rank against the Moors in Spain, and for Frederic Barbarossa, in his crusade in 1190. But though he had entered into the service of the German emperor, this did not prevent his aiding the orthodox William of Holland in taking Aix-la-Chapelle from the excommunicated Emperor Frederic in 1248.--The most various races have contended for his protection. His feast was in 1222 ordered to be kept as a holiday throughout all England: from the beginning of the 14th century, or since the Mongol dominion was shaken off, he has been one of the guardian saints of Russia: in 1468, the Emperor Frederic III. founded the Austrian Order of St. George for the protection of the Empire against the Turks, and a few years later, in 1471, at the momentous battle of Brunkeberg, his name was the war-cry of both parties, Swedes and Danes. That the subjugation of the Dragon (a symbolical mode of representing the extinction of Evil common to all times and peoples) should be attributed to St. George, would seem to be sufficiently explained by his having become the Christian Hero of the Middle Ages. A special reason may, however, be alleged for his connection with such a legend. Long before the Crusades, he was depicted by the artists of the Oriental Church as the Great Martyr, with the Dragon (Anti-Christ or the Devil) at his feet, and a crowned virgin (the Church) at his side. In like manner had Constantine the Great had himself drawn, and many other saints are represented in the same way, as Theodore, Victor, and Margaret. This symbolic representation would naturally lead to the Crusaders making St. George the hero in an achievement which was well known in connection with other names: and it would then not be too much to assume that the Normans (who, as already said, were the first to recognize his presence in battle),--the same Normans who were properly the creators of the romantic poetry of the Middle Ages,--were also the first to connect St. George with the conquest of the Dragon. But however we may account for St. George's being introduced into such a legend, so much is sure; that from the 14th century on, the story and the hero have been inseparable: all the legendaries and all the pictures of him exhibit him as the conqueror of the Dragon: his martyrdom is nearly lost sight of, and in ballads is entirely forgotten.--As to the place which was the scene of the fight, there are many opinions. Some have fixed it in Cappadocia, others in Lybia, others in Syria, and some European nations have assigned the adventure to a locality within their own bounds. Thus the Wallachians lay the scene at Orwoza, one of the Wendish ballads at Berlin, the Germans at Leipsic, the Dutch at Oudenarde, and--the people of the island of Funen at Svendborg! Of Hector's deeds did Homer sing, And of the sack of stately Troy, What griefs fair Helena did bring, Which was Sir Paris' only joy: And by my pen I will recite 5 St. George's deeds, an English knight. Against the Sarazens so rude Fought he full long and many a day, Where many gyaunts he subdu'd, In honour of the Christian way; 10 And after many adventures past, To Egypt land he came at last. Now, as the story plain doth tell, Within that countrey there did rest A dreadful dragon, fierce and fell, 15 Whereby they were full sore opprest: Who by his poisonous breath each day Did many of the city slay. The grief whereof did grow so great Throughout the limits of the land, 20 That they their wise men did intreat To shew their cunning out of hand; What way they might this fiend destroy, That did the countrey thus annoy. The wise men all before the king, 25 This answer fram'd incontinent: The dragon none to death might bring By any means they could invent; His skin more hard than brass was found, That sword nor spear could pierce nor wound. 30 When this the people understood, They cryed out most piteouslye, The dragon's breath infects their blood, That every day in heaps they dye; Among them such a plague is bred, 35 The living scarce could bury the dead. No means there were, as they could hear, For to appease the dragon's rage, But to present some virgin clear, Whose blood his fury might asswage; 40 Each day he would a maiden eat, For to allay his hunger great. This thing by art the wise men found, Which truly must observed be; Wherefore, throughout the city round, 45 A virgin pure of good degree Was, by the king's commission, still Taken up to serve the dragon's will. Thus did the dragon every day Untimely crop some virgin flowr, 50 Till all the maids were worn away, And none were left him to devour; Saving the king's fair daughter bright, Her father's only heart's delight. Then came the officers to the king, 55 That heavy message to declare, Which did his heart with sorrow sting; "She is," quoth he, "my kingdom's heir: O let us all be poisoned here, Ere she should die, that is my dear." 60 Then rose the people presently, And to the king in rage they went; They said his daughter dear should dye, The dragon's fury to prevent: "Our daughters all are dead," quoth they, 65 "And have been made the dragon's prey; "And by their blood we rescued were, And thou hast sav'd thy life thereby; And now in sooth it is but faire, For us thy daughter so should die." 70 "O save my daughter," said the king, "And let ME feel the dragon's sting." Then fell fair Sabra on her knee, And to her father dear did say, "O father, strive not thus for me, 75 But let me be the dragon's prey; It may be, for my sake alone This plague upon the land was thrown. "'Tis better I should dye," she said, "Than all your subjects perish quite; 80 Perhaps the dragon here was laid, For my offence to work his spite, And after he hath suckt my gore, Your land shall feel the grief no more." "What hast thou done, my daughter dear, 85 For to deserve this heavy scourge? It is my fault, as may appear, Which makes the gods our state to purge; Then ought I die, to stint the strife, And to preserve thy happy life." 90 Like mad-men, all the people cried, "Thy death to us can do no good; Our safely only doth abide In making her the dragon's food." "Lo! here I am, I come," quoth she, 95 "Therefore do what you will with me." "Nay stay, dear daughter," quoth the queen, "And as thou art a virgin bright, That hast for vertue famous been, So let me cloath thee all in white; 100 And crown thy head with flowers sweet, An ornament for virgins meet." And when she was attired so, According to her mother's mind, Unto the stake then did she go, 105 To which her tender limbs they bind; And being bound to stake a thrall, She bade farewell unto them all. "Farewell, my father dear," quoth she, "And my sweet mother, meek and mild; 110 Take you no thought nor weep for me, For you may have another child; Since for my country's good I dye, Death I receive most willinglye." The king and queen and all their train 115 With weeping eyes went then their way, And let their daughter there remain, To be the hungry dragon's prey: But as she did there weeping lye, Behold St. George came riding by. 120 And seeing there a lady bright So rudely tyed unto a stake, As well became a valiant knight, He straight to her his way did take: "Tell me, sweet maiden," then quoth he, 125 "What caitif thus abuseth thee? "And, lo! by Christ his cross I vow, Which here is figured on my breast, I will revenge it on his brow, And break my lance upon his chest:" 130 And speaking thus whereas he stood, The dragon issued from the wood. The lady, that did first espy The dreadful dragon coming so, Unto St. George aloud did cry, 135 And willed him away to go; "Here comes that cursed fiend," quoth she, "That soon will make an end of me." St. George then looking round about, The fiery dragon soon espy'd, 140 And like a knight of courage stout, Against him did most fiercely ride; And with such blows he did him greet, He fell beneath his horse's feet. For with his launce, that was so strong, 145 As he came gaping in his face, In at his mouth he thrust along; For he could pierce no other place: And thus within the lady's view This mighty dragon straight he slew. 150 The savour of his poisoned breath Could do this holy knight no harm; Thus he the lady sav'd from death, And home he led her by the arm; Which when King Ptolemy did see, 155 There was great mirth and melody. When as that valiant champion there Had slain the dragon in the field, To court he brought the lady fair, Which to their hearts much joy did yield, 160 He in the court of Egypt staid Till he most falsely was betray'd. That lady dearly lov'd the knight, He counted her his only joy; But when their love was brought to light, 165 It turn'd unto their great annoy. Th' Morocco king was in the court, Who to the orchard did resort; Dayly, to take the pleasant air; For pleasure sake he us'd to walk; 170 Under a wall he oft did hear St. George with Lady Sabra talk; Their love he shew'd unto the king, Which to St. George great woe did bring. Those kings together did devise 175 To make the Christian knight away: With letters him in curteous wise They straightway sent to Persia, But wrote to the sophy him to kill, And treacherously his blood to spill. 180 Thus they for good did him reward With evil, and most subtilly, By such vile meanes, they had regard To work his death most cruelly; Who, as through Persia land he rode, 185 With zeal destroy'd each idol god. For which offence he straight was thrown Into a dungeon dark and deep; Where, when he thought his wrongs upon, He bitterly did wail and weep: 190 Yet like a knight of courage stout, At length his way he digged out. Three grooms of the King of Persia By night this valiant champion slew, Though he had fasted many a day, 195 And then away from thence he flew On the best steed the sophy had; Which when he knew he was full mad. Towards Christendom he made his flight, But met a gyant by the way, 200 With whom in combat he did fight Most valiantly a summer's day: Who yet, for all his bats of steel, Was forc'd the sting of death to feel. Back o'er the seas, with many bands 205 Of warlike souldiers soon he past, Vowing upon those heathen lands To work revenge; which at the last, Ere thrice three years were gone and spent, He wrought unto his heart's content. 210 Save onely Egypt land he spar'd, For Sabra bright her only sake, And, ere for her he had regard, He meant a tryal kind to make: Meanwhile the king, o'ercome in field, 215 Unto Saint George did quickly yield. Then straight Morocco's king he slew, And took fair Sabra to his wife, But meant to try if she were true, Ere with her he would lead his life; 220 And, tho' he had her in his train, She did a virgin pure remain. Toward England then that lovely dame The brave St. George conducted strait, An eunuch also with them came, 225 Who did upon the lady wait. These three from Egypt went alone: Now mark St. George's valour shown. When as they in a forest were, The lady did desire to rest: 230 Meanwhile St. George to kill a deer For their repast did think it best: Leaving her with the eunuch there, Whilst he did go to kill the deer. But lo! all in his absence came 235 Two hungry lyons, fierce and fell, And tore the eunuch on the same In pieces small, the truth to tell; Down by the lady then they laid, Whereby they shew'd she was a maid. 240 But when he came from hunting back, And did behold this heavy chance, Then for his lovely virgin's sake His courage strait he did advance, And came into the lions sight, 245 Who ran at him with all their might. Their rage did him no whit dismay, Who, like a stout and valiant knight, Did both the hungry lyons slay Within the Lady Sabra's sight: 250 Who all this while, sad and demure, There stood most like a virgin pure. Now when St. George did surely know This lady was a virgin true, His heart was glad, that erst was woe, 255 And all his love did soon renew: He set her on a palfrey steed, And towards England came with speed. Where being in short space arriv'd Unto his native dwelling place, 260 Therein with his dear love he liv'd, And fortune did his nuptials grace: They many years of joy did see, And led their lives at Coventry. THE SEVEN CHAMPIONS OF CHRISTENDOM. _The Famous Historie of the Seven Champions of Christendom_, is the work of Richard Johnson, a ballad maker of some note at the end of the 16th and beginning of the 17th century. All that is known of him may be seen in Chappel's Introduction to the _Crown Garland of Golden Roses_, of which Johnson was the compiler or the author. (Percy Society, vol. vi.) "The Story of St. George and the Fair Sabra," says Percy, "is taken almost verbatim from the old poetical legend of Sir Bevis of Hampton." The _Seven Champions_ is twice entered on the Stationers' Registers in the year 1596. It is here reprinted from _A Collection of Old Ballads_, 1723, vol. i. 28. The same copy is in Evans's collection, i. 372. Now of the Seven Champions here My purpose is to write, To show how they with sword and spear Put many foes to flight; Distressed ladies to release, 5 And captives bound in chains, That Christian glory to increase Which evermore remains. First, I give you to understand That great Saint George by name, 10 Was the true champion of our land; And of his birth and fame, And of his noble mother's dream, Before that he was born, The which to her did clearly seem 15 Her days would be forlorn. This was her dream; that she did bear A dragon in her womb; Which griev'd this noble lady fair, 'Cause death must be her doom. 20 This sorrow she could not conceal, So dismal was her fear, So that she did the same reveal Unto her husband dear; Who went for to inquire straight 25 Of an enchanteress; When, knocking at her iron gate, Her answer it was this: "The lady shall bring forth a son, By whom, in tract of time, 30 Great noble actions shall be done; He will to honour climb. "For he shall be in banners wore; This truth I will maintain; Your lady, she shall die before 35 You see her face again." His leave he took, and home he went; His wife departed lay; But that which did his grief augment, The child was stole away. 40 Then did he travel in despair, Where soon with grief he died; While the young child, his son and heir, Did constantly abide With the wise lady of the grove, 45 In her enchanted cell; Amongst the woods he oft did rove, His beauty pleased her well. Blinded with love, she did impart, Upon a certain day, 50 To him her cunning magic art, And where six Champions lay Within a brazen castle strong, By an enchanted sleep, And where they had continued long; 55 She did the castle keep. She taught and show'd him every thing Through being free and fond; Which did her fatal ruin bring; For with a silver wand 60 He clos'd her up into a rock, By giving one small stroke; So took possession of her stock, And the enchantment broke. Those Christian Champions being freed 65 From their enchanted state, Each mounted on his prancing steed, And took to travel straight; Where we will leave them to pursue Kind fortune's favours still, 70 To treat of our own champion, who Did courts with wonders fill. For as he came to understand, At an old hermit's cell, How, in the vast Egyptian land, 75 A dragon fierce and fell Threatened the ruin of them all, By his devouring jaws, His sword releas'd them from that thrall, And soon remov'd the cause. 80 This dreadful dragon must destroy A virgin every day, Or else with stinks he'll them annoy, And many thousands slay. At length the king's own daughter dear, 85 For whom the court did mourn, Was brought to be devoured here, For she must take her turn. The king by proclamation said, If any hardy knight 90 Could free this fair young royal maid, And slay the dragon quite, Then should he have her for his bride, And, after death, likewise His crown and kingdom too beside: 95 Saint George he won the prize. When many hardy strokes he'd dealt, And could not pierce his hide, He run his sword up to the hilt In at the dragon's side; 100 By which he did his life destroy, Which cheer'd the drooping king; This caused an universal joy, Sweet peals of bells did ring. The daughter of a king, for pride 105 Transformed into a tree Of mulberries, Saint Denis[L107] spied, And being hungery, Of that fair fruit he ate a part, And was transformed likewise 110 Into the fashion of a hart, For seven years precise. At which he long bewail'd the loss Of manly shape: then goes To him his true and trusty horse, 115 And brings a blushing rose, By which the magic spell was broke, And both were fairly freed From the enchanted heavy yoke: They then in love agreed. 120 Now we come to Saint James of Spain, Who slew a mighty boar, In hopes that he might honour gain, But he must die therefore: Who was allow'd his death to choose, 125 Which was by virgins' darts, But they the same did all refuse, So tender were their hearts. The king's daughter at length, by lot, Was doomed to work his woe; 130 From her fair hands a fatal shot, Out of a golden bow, Must put a period to the strife; At which grief did her seize. She of her father begg'd his life 135 Upon her bended knees; Saying, "my gracious sovereign Lord, And honoured father dear, He well deserves a large reward; Then be not so severe. 140 Give me his life!" He grants the boon, And then without delay, This Spanish champion, ere 'twas noon, Rid with her quite away. Now come we to Saint Anthony, 145 A man with valour fraught, The champion of fair Italy, Who many wonders wrought. First, he a mighty giant slew, The terror of mankind: 150 Young ladies fair, pure virgins too, This giant kept confined Within his castle walls of stone, And gates of solid brass, Where seven ladies made their moan, 155 But out they could not pass. Many brave lords, and knights likewise, To free them did engage, Who fell a bleeding sacrifice To this fierce giant's rage. 160 Fair daughters to a royal king! Yet fortune, after all, Did our renowned champion bring To free them from their thrall. Assisted by the hand of heaven, 165 He ventured life and limb: Behold the fairest of the seven, She fell in love with him. That champion good, bold Saint Andrew, The famous Scottish knight, 170 Dark gloomy deserts travelled through, Where Phoebus gave no light. Haunted with spirits, for a while His weary course he steers, Till fortune blessed him with a smile, 175 And shook off all his fears. This Christian champion travell'd long, Till at the length he came Unto the giant's castle strong, Great Blanderon by name, 180 Where the king's daughters were transform'd Into the shape of swans: Though them he freed, their father storm'd, But he his malice shuns. For though five hundred armed knights 185 Did straight beset him round, Our Christian champion with them fights, Till on the heathen ground Most of those Pagans bleeding lay; Which much perplexed the king; 190 The Scottish champion clears the way, Which was a glorious thing. Saint Patrick too, of Ireland, That noble knight of fame, He travelled, as we understand, 195 Till at the length he came Into a grove where satyrs dwelt, Where ladies he beheld, Who had their raged fury felt, And were with sorrow fill'd. 200 He drew his sword, and did maintain A sharp and bloody fray, Till the ring-leader he had slain; The rest soon fled away. This done, he asked the ladies fair, 205 Who were in silks array'd, From whence they came, and who they were. They answered him and said: "We are all daughters to a king, Whom a brave Scottish knight 210 Did out of tribulation bring: He having took his flight, Now after him we are in quest." Saint Patrick then replies, "He is my friend, I cannot rest 215 Till I find him likewise. "So, ladies, if you do intend To take your lot with me, This sword of mine shall you defend From savage cruelty." 220 The ladies freely gave consent To travel many miles; Through shady groves and woods they went, In search of fortune's smiles. The Christian champion David, went 225 To the Tartarian court, Where at their tilt and tournament, And such like royal sport, He overthrew the only son Of the Count Palatine; 230 This noble action being done His fame began to shine. The young Count's sad and sudden death Turn'd all their joys to grief; He bleeding lay, bereaved of breath, 235 The father's son in chief; But lords and ladies blazed the fame Of our brave champion bold; Saying, they ought to write his name In characters of gold. 240 Here have I writ a fair account Of each heroic deed, Done by these knights, which will surmount All those that shall succeed. The ancient chronicles of kings, 245 Ere since the world begun, Can't boast of such renowned things As these brave knights have done. Saint George he was for England, Saint Dennis was for France, 250 Saint James for Spain, whose valiant hand Did Christian fame advance: Saint Anthony for Italy, Andrew for Scots ne'er fails, Patrick too stands for Ireland, 255 Saint David was for Wales. Thus have you those stout champions names In this renowned song: Young captive ladies bound in chains, Confined in castles strong, 260 They did by knightly prowess free, True honour to maintain: Then let their lasting memory From age to age remain. 107, which Dennis. THOMAS OF ERSSELDOUNE. This beautiful tale is transferred to these pages from Mr. Laing's _Select Remains of the Ancient Popular Poetry of Scotland_. The two "fytts" of prophecies which accompany it in the manuscripts, are omitted here, as being probably the work of another, and an inferior, hand. From the exordium by which the story is introduced, it might be concluded that the author was an Englishman. Indeed, all the poems and prophecies attributed to Thomas the Rhimer which remain to us, are preserved in English manuscripts and an English dress; but, in the judgment of Mr. Jamieson, the internal evidence still almost amounts to proof that the romance itself was of Scottish origin, although no indubitably Scottish copy is now known to be in existence. The hero of this legend is believed to have lived through nearly the whole of the 13th century. He derived his territorial appellation from the village of Erceldoune, in the county of Berwick, lying on the river Leader, about two miles above its junction with the Tweed. The Huntly bank on which the meeting of Thomas with the Queen of Fairy took place, is situated, according to Mr. Laing, on one of the Eldoun hills, but the same distinction is claimed for another place of like name, which, together with an adjoining ravine, called from time immemorial the _Rymer's Glen_, was included in the domain of Abbotsford. (See _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iv. 110. v. 1.) "During the 14th, 15th, and 16th centuries, to get up a prophecy in the name of Thomas the Rhymer appears to have been found a good stroke of policy on many occasions. Thus was his authority employed to countenance the views of Edward III. against Scottish independence, to favor the ambitious views of the Duke of Albany in the minority of James V., and to sustain the spirits of the nation under the harassing invasions of Henry VIII. A small volume containing a collection of the rhymes thus put into circulation was published by Andro Hart in Edinburgh, in 1615."--CHAMBERS, _Pop. Rhymes of Scotland_, p. 6. "This poem," says Mr. Laing, "is preserved in three ancient manuscripts, each of them in a state more or less mutilated, and varying in no inconsiderable degree from the others. A portion of it was first printed in the _Border Minstrelsy_, [iv. 122,] from the fragment in the British Museum, among the Cotton MSS.; and the one which Mr. Jamieson adopted in his collection of _Popular Ballads and Songs_ [ii. 11,] was carefully deciphered from a volume of no ordinary curiosity, in the University Library, Cambridge, written in a very illegible hand, about the middle of the 15th century. It is now printed from the other copy, as it occurs in a volume, compiled at a still earlier period, which is preserved in the Cathedral Library of Lincoln. On comparison, it will be readily perceived, that the text is in every respect preferable to that of either of the other manuscripts.... An endeavor has been made to fill up the defective parts from the Cambridge copy, though in some instances, as will be seen, without success."--Mr. Halliwell has republished the Cambridge text in his _Fairy Mythology_, (p. 58,) and he cites a fourth manuscript, which, however, appears to be of slight importance. THOMAS OF ERSSELDOUNE. Lystnys, lordyngs, bothe grete and smale, And takis gude tente what I will say: I sall yow telle als trewe a tale, Als euer was herde by nyghte or daye: And the maste meruelle fforowttyn naye, 5 That euer was herde byfore or syen, And therfore pristly I yow praye, That ye will of youre talkyng blyn. It es an harde thyng for to saye, Of doghety dedis that hase bene done; 10 Of felle feghtyngs and batells sere; And how that knyghtis hase wonne thair schone. Bot Jhesu Christ, that syttis in trone, Safe Ynglysche men bothe ferre and nere; And I sall telle yow tyte and sone, 15 Of battells done sythen many a yere; And of batells that done sall bee; In whate place, and howe and whare; And wha sall hafe the heghere gree; And whethir partye sall hafe the werre; 20 [Transcriber's note: one stanza missing here, lines 21-24] Wha sall take the flyghte and flee; 25 And wha sall dye and byleue thare: Bot Jhesu Christ, that dyed on tre, Saue Inglysche men whare so thay fare. * * * * * Als I me wente this endres-daye, Full faste in mynd makane my mone, In a mery mornynge of May, By Huntle bankkes my selfe allone, I herde the jaye, and the 'throstelle,'[L5] 5 The mawys menyde of hir songe, The wodewale beryde als a belle, That all the wode abowte me ronge. Allone in longynge, thus als I laye, Vndre nethe a semely tre, 10 'Saw I' whare a lady gaye, 'Came ridand' ouer a longe lee. If I suld sytt to Domesdaye, With my tonge, to wrebbe and wrye, Certanely that lady gaye, 15 Neuer bese scho askryede for mee. Hir palfraye was a dappill graye; Swilke one I saghe ne neuer none: Als dose the sonne, on someres daye, That faire lady hir selfe scho schone. 20 Hir selle[L21] it was of reele bone, Full semely was that syghte to see! Stefly sett with precyous stones, And compaste all with crapotee, Stones of Oryence, grete plente. 25 Hir hare abowte hir hede it hange; Scho rode ouer that lange lee; A whylle scho blewe, a nother scho sange. Hir garthes of nobyll sylke they were; The bukylls were of berelle stone; 30 Hir steraps were of crystalle clere, And all with perelle ouer bygone. Hir payetrelle was of iralle fyne; Hir cropoure was of orfaré; And als clere golde hir brydill it schone; 35 One aythir syde hange bellys three. 'Scho led seuen grew houndis in a leeshe;' And seuen raches by hir they rone; Scho bare a horne abowte hir halse; And vnder hir belte full many a flone. 40 Thomas laye and sawe that syghte, Vnder nethe ane semly tree; He sayd, "yone es Marye most of myghte, That bare that childe that dyede for mee. "But if I speke with yone lady bryghte, 45 I hope myn herte will bryste in three; Now sall I go with all my myghte, Hir for to mete at Eldoun tree." Thomas rathely vpe he rase, And he rane ouer that mountayne hye; 50 Gyff it be als the storye sayes, He hir mette at Eldone tree. He knelyde down appon his knee, Vndir nethe that grenwode spraye:-- And sayd, "lufly ladye! rewe one mee; 55 Qwene of heuen, als thu wele maye!" Then spake that lady milde of thoghte:-- "Thomas, late swylke wordes bee; Qwene of heuenne, am I noghte, For I tuke neuer so heghe degre. 60 "Bot I ame of ane other contree, If I be payrelde moste of prysse; I ryde aftyre this wylde fee; My raches rynnys at my devyse." "If thu be parelde moste of prysse, 65 And here rydis thus in thy folye, Of lufe, lady, als thu art wysse, Thou gyffe me leue to lye the bye." Scho sayde, "thu man, that ware folye; I praye the, Thomas, thu lat me bee; 70 Ffor I saye the full sekirlye, That syne will fordoo all my beaute." "Now lufly ladye rewe on mee, And I will euer more with the duelle; Here my trouthe I 'plyghte to thee,' 75 Wethir thu will in heuen or helle." "Mane of molde, thu will me marre, But yitt thu sall hafe all thy will; And trowe it wele, thu chewys the werre, Ffor alle my beaute will thu spylle." 80 Down than lyghte that lady bryghte, Vndir nethe that grene wode spraye; And, als the storye tellis full ryghte, Seuen sythis by hir he laye. Scho sayd, "man, the lykes thi playe: 85 What byrde in boure maye delle with the? Thou merrys me all this longe daye; I pray the, Thomas, late me bee." Thomas stode wpe in that stede, And he byhelde that lady gaye; 90 Hir hare it hange all ouer hir hede, Hir eghne semede owte, that are were graye. And all the riche clothynge was awaye, That he byfore sawe in that stede; Hir a schanke blake, hir other graye, 95 And all hir body lyke the lede; Thomas laye, and sawe that syghte, Vndir nethe that grenewod tree. Than sayd Thomas, "allas! allas! In faythe this es a dullfull syghte; 100 How arte thu fadyde thus in the face, That schane byfore als the sonne so bryght!" Scho sayd, "Thomas, take leve at sone and mone, And als at lefe that grewes on tree; This twelmoneth sall thu with me gone, 105 And medill-erthe thu sall non see." He knelyd downe appon his knee, Vndir nethe that grenewod spraye; And sayd, "Lufly lady![L109] rewe on mee, Mylde qwene of heuen, als thu beste maye." 110 "Allas!" he sayd, "and wa es mee, I trewe my dedis will wirke me care; My saulle, Jhesu, byteche I the, Whedir come that euer my banes sall fare." Scho ledde hym in at Eldone hill, 115 Vndir nethe a derne lee; Whare it was dirk as mydnyght myrke, And euer the water till his knee. The montenans of dayes three, He herd bot swoghyne of the flode; 120 At the laste, he sayde, "full wa es mee! Almaste I dye, for fawte of fude." Scho lede hym in till a faire herbere, Whare frwte was 'growyng in gret plentee;' Pers and appill, bothe rype thay were, 125 The date, and als the damasee; The fygge, and als so the wyne-berye; The nyghtyngales lyggande on thair neste; The papeioyes faste abowte gan flye; And throstylls sange, wolde hafe no reste. 130 He pressede to pulle frowte with his hande, Als man for fude that was nere faynt; Scho sayd, "Thomas, thu late tham stande, Or ells the fende the will atteynt. "If thu it plokk, sothely to say, 135 Thi saule gose to the fyre of helle; It comes neuer owte or Domesdaye, Bot ther in payne ay for to duelle. "Thomas, sothely, I the hyghte, Come lygge thyn hede down on my knee, 140 And 'thou' sall se the fayreste syghte, That euer sawe man of thi contree." He did in hye als scho hym badde; Appone hir knee his hede he layde, Ffor hir to paye he was full glade, 145 And than that lady to him sayde-- "Seese thu nowe yone faire waye, That lyggis ouer yone heghe montayne?-- Yone es the waye to heuen for aye, When synfull sawles are passed ther payne. 150 "Seese thu nowe yone other waye, That lygges lawe by nethe yone rysse? Yone es the waye, the sothe to saye, Vnto the joye of paradyse. "Seese thu yitt yone third waye, 155 That ligges vnder yone grene playne? Yone es the waye, with tene and traye, Whare synfull saulis suffiris thare payne. "Bot seese thu nowe yone forthe waye, That lygges ouer yone depe delle? 160 Yone es the way, so waylawaye, Vnto the byrnande fyre of hell. "Seese thu yitt yone faire castelle, That standes vpone yone heghe hill? Of towne and towre, it beris the belle; 165 In erthe es none lyk it vntill. "Ffor sothe, Thomas, yone es myn awenn, And the kynges of this countree; Bot me ware leuer hanged and drawen, Or that he wyste thou laye me by. 170 "When thu commes to yone castelle gay, I pray the curtase man to bee; And whate so any man to the saye, Luke thu answere none bott mee. "My lorde es seruede at ylk a mese, 175 With thritty knyghttis faire and free; I sail saye, syttande at the dasse, I tuke thi speche byyonde the see." Thomas still als stane he stude. And he byhelde that lady gaye; 180 Scho come agayne als faire and gude, And al so ryche one hir palfraye. Hir grewe hundis fillide with dere blode; Hir rachis couplede, by my faye; Scho blewe hir horne with mayne and mode, 185 Vnto the castelle scho tuk the waye. In to the haulle sothely scho went; Thomas foloued at hir hande; Than ladyes come, bothe faire and gent, With curtassye to hit knelande. 190 Harpe and fethill bothe thay fande, Getterne, and als so the sawtrye; Lutte and rybybe, bothe gangande, And all manere of mynstralsye. The most meruelle that Thomas thoghte, 195 When that he stode appon the flore; Ffor feftty hertes in were broghte, That were bothe 'largely' grete and store. Raches laye lapande in the blode, Cokes come with dryssynge knyfe; 200 They brittened tham als thay were wode; Reuelle amanges thame was full ryfe. Knyghtis dawnsede by three and three, Thare was revelle, gamen, and playe, Lufly ladyes, faire and free, 205 That satte and sange one riche araye. Thomas duellide in that solace More than I yowe save, perde; Till one a daye, so hafe I grace, My lufly lady sayde to mee: 210 "Do busk the, Thomas,--the busk agayne,[L211] Ffor thu may here no lengare be; Hye the faste, with myghte and mayne; I sall the brynge till Eldone tree." Thomas sayde than with heuy chere; 215 "Lufly lady, nowe late me bee; Ffor certis, lady, I hafe bene here Noghte bot the space of dayes three. "Ffor sothe, Thomas, als I the telle, Thou hase bene here thre yere and more; 220 Bot langere here thu may noghte dwelle; The skylle I sall the telle wherefore. "To morne, of helle the foulle fende Amange this folke will feche his fee; And thu arte mekill man and hende, 225 I trowe full wele he wolde chese the. "Ffor all the gold that euer may bee, Ffro hethyn unto the worldis ende, Thou bese neuer betrayede for mee; Therefore with me I rede thou wende." 230 Scho broghte hym agayne to Eldone tree, Vndir nethe that grenewode spraye; In Huntlee bannkes es mery to bee, Whare fowles synges bothe nyght and daye. "Fferre owtt in yone mountane graye, 235 Thomas, my fawkon byggis a neste;-- A fawcoun is an eglis praye; Fforthi in na place may he reste. "Ffare well, Thomas; I wend my waye; Ffor me byhouys ouer thir benttis brown." 240 --Loo here a fytt: more es to saye, All of Thomas of Erselldown.-- 22, Laing, by tene. [Transcriber's note: this refers to line 22 of the first part, which is missing between pages 97 and 98.] 5, Linc. MS. throstylle cokke. 21, sette, Laing. 109, Lufly lady, i.e. Mary. 211, buse agayne. THOMAS THE RHYMER. TRADITIONAL VERSION. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, (iv. 117.) "Given from a copy obtained from a lady residing not far from Ercildoune, corrected and enlarged by one in Mrs. Brown's MSS." True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; A ferlie he spied wi' his ee; And there he saw a ladye bright, Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, 5 Her mantle o' the velvet fyne; At ilka tett of her horse's mane, Hung fifty siller bells and nine. True Thomas, he pull'd aff his cap, And louted low down to his knee: 10 "All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven! For thy peer on earth I never did see."-- "O no, O no, Thomas," she said, "That name does not belang to me; I am but the Queen of fair Elfland, 15 That am hither come to visit thee. "Harp and carp, Thomas," she said; "Harp and carp along wi' me; And if ye dare to kiss my lips, Sure of your bodie I will be."-- 20 "Betide me weal, betide me woe, That weird shall never daunton me."-- Syne he has kissed her rosy lips, All underneath the Eildon Tree. "Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said; 25 "True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me; And ye maun serve me seven years, Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be." She mounted on her milk-white steed; She's ta'en true Thomas up behind: 30 And aye, whene'er her bridle rung, The steed flew swifter than the wind. O they rade on, and farther on; The steed gaed swifter than the wind; Until they reach'd a desert wide, 35 And living land was left behind. "Light down, light down, now, true Thomas, And lean your head upon my knee; Abide and rest a little space, And I will shew you ferlies three. 40 "O see ye not yon narrow road, So thick beset with thorns and briers? That is the path of righteousness, Though after it but few enquires. "And see ye not that braid braid road, 45 That lies across that lily leven? That is the path of wickedness, Though some call it the road to heaven. "And see not ye that bonny road, That winds about the fernie brae? 50 That is the road to fair Elfland, Where thou and I this night maun gae. "But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, Whatever ye may hear or see; For, if you speak word in Elfyn land, 55 Ye'll ne'er get back to your ain countrie." O they rade on, and farther on, And they waded through rivers aboon the knee, And they saw neither sun nor moon, But they heard the roaring of the sea. 60 It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern light, And they waded through red blude to the knee; For a' the blude that's shed on earth Rins through the springs o' that countrie. Syne they came on to a garden green, 65 And she pu'd an apple frae a tree-- "Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; It will give thee the tongue that can never lie."-- "My tongue is mine ain," true Thomas said; "A gudely gift ye wad gie to me![L70] 70 I neither dought to buy nor sell, At fair or tryst where I may be. "I dought neither speak to prince or peer, Nor ask of grace from fair ladye."-- "Now hold thy peace!" the lady said, 75 "For as I say, so must it be."-- He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, And a pair of shoes of velvet green; And till seven years were gane and past, True Thomas on earth was never seen. 80 70. The traditional commentary upon this ballad informs us, that the apple was the produce of the fatal Tree of Knowledge, and that the garden was the terrestrial paradise. The repugnance of Thomas to be debarred the use of falsehood, when he might find it convenient, has a comic effect. SCOTT. THE YOUNG TAMLANE. The _Tayl of the Yong Tamlene_ is mentioned in the _Complaynt of Scotland_, (1548,) and the dance of _Thom of Lyn_ is noticed in the same work. A considerable fragment of this ballad was printed by Herd, (vol. i. 215,) under the title of _Kertonha'_, a corruption of Carterhaugh; another is furnished in Maidment's _New Book of Old Ballads_, (p. 54,) and a nearly complete version in Johnson's _Museum_, (p. 423,) which, with some alterations, was inserted in the _Tales of Wonder_, (No. 58.) The present edition, prepared by Sir Walter Scott from a collation of various copies, is longer than any other, but was originally disfigured by several supposititious stanzas here omitted. Another version, with Maidment's fragment, will be found in the Appendix to this volume. "Carterhaugh is a plain, at the conflux of the Ettrick and Yarrow in Selkirkshire, about a mile above Selkirk, and two miles below Newark Castle; a romantic ruin which overhangs the Yarrow, and which is said to have been the habitation of our heroine's father, though others place his residence in the tower of Oakwood. The peasants point out, upon the plain, those electrical rings, which vulgar credulity supposes to be traces of the Fairy revels. Here, they say, were placed the stands of milk, and of water, in which _Tamlane_ was dipped, in order to effect the disenchantment; and upon these spots, according to their mode of expressing themselves, the grass will never grow. Miles Cross, (perhaps a corruption of Mary's Cross,) where fair Janet awaited the arrival of the Fairy train, is said to have stood near the Duke of Buccleuch's seat of Bow-hill, about half a mile from Carterhaugh."--(SCOTT'S _Minstrelsy_, ii. 334, at the end of a most interesting essay, introductory to this tale, on the Fairies of Popular Superstition.) "O I forbid ye, maidens a', That wear gowd on your hair, To come or gae by Carterhaugh, For young Tamlane is there. "There's nane that gaes by Carterhaugh, 5 But maun leave him a wad, Either gowd rings, or green mantles, Or else their maidenheid. "Now gowd rings ye may buy, maidens, Green mantles ye may spin; 10 But, gin ye lose your maidenheid, Ye'll ne'er get that agen."-- But up then spak her, fair Janet, The fairest o' a' her kin; "I'll cum and gang to Carterhaugh; 15 And ask nae leave o' him."-- Janet has kilted her green kirtle, A little abune her knee; And she has braided her yellow hair, A little abune her bree. 20 And when she came to Carterhaugh, She gaed beside the well; And there she fand his steed standing, But away was himsell. She hadna pu'd a red red rose, 25 A rose but barely three; Till up and starts a wee wee man, At lady Janet's knee. Says--"Why pu' ye the rose, Janet? What gars ye break the tree? 30 Or why come ye to Carterhaugh, Withouten leave o' me?"-- Says--"Carterhaugh it is mine ain; My daddie gave it me; I'll come and gang to Carterhaugh, 35 And ask nae leave o' thee." He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, Among the leaves sae green; And what they did, I cannot tell-- The green leaves were between. 40 He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, Among the roses red; And what they did, I cannot say-- She ne'er return'd a maid. When she cam to her father's ha', 45 She looked pale and wan; They thought she'd dreed some sair sickness, Or been with some leman. She didna comb her yellow hair, Nor make meikle o'er her head; 50 And ilka thing that lady took, Was like to be her deid. It's four and twenty ladies fair Were playing at the ba'; Janet, the wightest of them anes, 55 Was faintest o' them a'. Four and twenty ladies fair Were playing at the chess; And out there came the fair Janet, As green as any grass. 60 Out and spak an auld grey-headed knight, Lay o'er the castle wa',-- "And ever, alas! for thee, Janet, But we'll be blamed a'!"-- "Now haud your tongue, ye auld grey knight! 65 And an ill deid may ye die; Father my bairn on whom I will, I'll father nane on thee."-- Out then spak her father dear, And he spak meik and mild-- 70 "And ever, alas! my sweet Janet, I fear ye gae with child."-- "And if I be with child, father, Mysell maun bear the blame; There's ne'er a knight about your ha' 75 Shall hae the bairnie's name. "And if I be with child, father, 'Twill prove a wondrous birth; For weel I swear I'm not wi' bairn To any man on earth. 80 "If my love were an earthly knight, As he's an elfin grey, I wadna gie my ain true love For nae lord that ye hae."-- She prink'd hersell and prinn'd hersell, 85 By the ae light of the moon, And she's away to Carterhaugh, To speak wi' young Tamlane. And when she came to Carterhaugh, She gaed beside the well; 90 And there she saw the steed standing, But away was himsell. She hadna pu'd a double rose, A rose but only twae, When up and started young Tamlane, 95 Says--"Lady, thou pu's nae mae! "Why pu' ye the rose, Janet, Within this garden grene, And a' to kill the bonny babe, That we got us between?" 100 "The truth ye'll tell to me, Tamlane; A word ye mauna lie; Gin e'er ye was in haly chapel, Or sained in Christentie?"-- "The truth I'll tell to thee, Janet, 105 A word I winna lie; A knight me got, and a lady me bore, As well as they did thee. "Randolph, Earl Murray, was my sire, Dunbar, Earl March, is thine; 110 We loved when we were children small, Which yet you well may mind. "When I was a boy just turn'd of nine, My uncle sent for me, To hunt, and hawk, and ride with him, 115 And keep him companie. "There came a wind out of the north, A sharp wind and a snell; And a deep sleep came over me, And frae my horse I fell. 120 "The Queen of Fairies keppit me, In yon green hill to dwell; And I'm a fairy, lyth and limb; Fair ladye, view me well. "Then would I never tire, Janet, 125 In Elfish land to dwell; But aye, at every seven years, They pay the teind to hell; And I am sae fat and fair of flesh, I fear 'twill be mysell[L130]. 130 "This night is Hallowe'en, Janet, The morn is Hollowday; And, gin ye dare your true love win, Ye hae nae time to stay. "The night it is good Hallowe'en, 135 When fairy folk will ride; And they that wad their true-love win, At Miles Cross they maun bide." "But how shall I thee ken, Tamlane? Or how shall I thee knaw, 140 Amang so many unearthly knights, The like I never saw?" "The first company that passes by, Say na, and let them gae; The next company that passes by, 145 Sae na, and do right sae; The third company that passes by, Then I'll be ane o' thae. "First let pass the black, Janet, And syne let pass the brown; 150 But grip ye to the milk-white steed, And pu' the rider down. "For I ride on the milk-white steed, And aye nearest the town; Because I was a christen'd knight, 155 They gave me that renown. "My right hand will be gloved, Janet, My left hand will be bare; And these the tokens I gie thee, Nae doubt I will be there. 160 "They'll turn me in your arms, Janet,[L161] An adder and a snake; But had me fast, let me not pass, Gin ye wad buy me maik. "They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, 165 An adder and an ask; They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, A bale that burns fast. "They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, A red-hot gad o' airn; 170 But haud me fast, let me not pass, For I'll do you no harm. "First dip me in a stand o' milk, And then in a stand o' water; But had me fast, let me not pass-- 175 I'll be your bairn's father. "And, next, they'll shape me in your arms, A tod, but and an eel; But had me fast, nor let me gang, As you do love me weel. 180 "They'll shape me in your arms, Janet, A dove, but and a swan; And, last, they'll shape me in your arms A mother-naked man: Cast your green mantle over me-- 185 I'll be myself again."-- Gloomy, gloomy, was the night, And eiry was the way, As fair Janet, in her green mantle, To Miles Cross she did gae. 190 Betwixt the hours of twelve and one, A north wind tore the bent; And straight she heard strange elritch sounds Upon that wind which went. About the dead hour o' the night, 195 She heard the bridles ring; And Janet was as glad o' that As any earthly thing. Will o' Wisp before them went, Sent forth a twinkling light; 200 And soon she saw the Fairy bands All riding in her sight. And first gaed by the black black steed, And then gaed by the brown; But fast she gript the milk-white steed, 205 And pu'd the rider down. She pu'd him frae the milk-white steed, And loot the bridle fa'; And up there raise an erlish cry-- "He's won amang us a'!"-- 210 They shaped him in fair Janet's arms,[L208] An esk, but and an adder; She held him fast in every shape-- To be her bairn's father. They shaped him in her arms at last, 215 A mother-naked man: She wrapt him in her green mantle, And sae her true love wan! Up then spake the Queen o' Fairies, Out o' a bush o' broom-- 220 "She that has borrow'd young Tamlane, Has gotten a stately groom."-- Up then spake the Queen o' Fairies, Out o' a bush o' rye-- "She's ta'en awa the bonniest knight 225 In a' my cumpanie. "But had I kenn'd, Tamlane," she says, "A lady wad borrow'd thee-- I wad ta'en out thy twa grey een, Put in twa een o' tree. 230 "Had I but kenn'd, Tamlane," she says, "Before ye came frae hame-- I wad ta'en out your heart o' flesh, Put in a heart o' stane. "Had I but had the wit yestreen 235 That I hae coft the day-- I'd paid my kane seven times to hell Ere you'd been won away!" 130, See _Thomas of Ersseldoune_, (p. 107,) v. 225, 226. V. 161-172, v. 208-214. The same process of disenchantment is found in the Danish ballad _Nattergalen_, st. 20-22, Grundtvig, No. 57 (also _Svenska Folk-visor_, No. 41). The comparison with the transformations of Proteus is curious. [Grk: amphi de cheiras ballomen; oud' ho gerôn doliês epelêtheto technês; all' êtoi prôtista leôn genet' êugeneios, autar epeita drakôn kai pordalis êde megas sus; gigneto d' hygron hydôr kai dendreon hypsipetêlon. hêmeis d' astempheôs echomen tetlêoti thymô.] _Odyssey_, iv. 454-59. Verum ubi correptum manibus vinclisque tenebis, Tum variæ eludent species atque ora ferarum: Fiet enim subito sus horridus atraque tigris, Squamosusque draco, et fulva cervice leæna, Aut acrem flammæ sonitum dabit, atque ita vinclis Excidet, aut in aquas tenues dilapsus abibit. Sed quanto ille magis formas se vertet in omnes, Tanto, nate, magis contende tenacia vincla. _Georgics_, iv. 405-12. THE WEE WEE MAN. This ballad will be found, in forms slightly varying, in Herd, (i. 156;) Caw's _Poetical Museum_, (p. 348;) Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, (p. 343;) and Buchan's _Ancient Ballads_, (i. 263.) It bears some resemblance to the beginning of the remarkable poem, _Als Y Yod on ay Mounday_, (see Appendix). The present version is from the _Poetical Museum_. As I was walking by my lane, Atween a water and a wa, There sune I spied a wee wee man, He was the least that eir I saw. His legs were scant a shathmont's length, 5 And sma and limber was his thie; Atween his shoulders was ae span,[L7] About his middle war but three. He has tane up a meikle stane, And flang't as far as I cold see; 10 Ein thouch I had been Wallace wicht, I dought na lift it to my knie. "O wee wee man, but ye be strang! Tell me whar may thy dwelling be?" "I dwell beneth that bonnie bouir, 15 O will ye gae wi me and see?" On we lap, and awa we rade, Till we cam to a bonny green; We lichted syne to bait our steid, And out there cam a lady sheen; 20 Wi four and twentie at her back, A' comely cled in glistering green; Thouch there the King of Scots had stude, The warst micht weil hae been his queen. On syne we past wi wondering cheir, 25 Till we cam to a bonny ha; The roof was o the beaten gowd, The flure was o the crystal a. When we cam there, wi wee wee knichts[L29] War ladies dancing, jimp and sma; 30 But in the twinkling of an eie, Baith green and ha war clein awa. 7. Much better in Motherwell. Between his een there was a span, Betwixt his shoulders there were ells three. 29-32. There were pipers playing in every neuk, And ladies dancing, jimp and sma'; And aye the owreturn o' their tune Was, "Our wee wee man has been lang awa!"-- MOTHERWELL. THE ELFIN KNIGHT. Reprinted from _A Collection of Curious Old Ballads and Miscellaneous Poetry_, Edinburgh. David Webster, 1824. Other versions are given in Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, (see the Appendix to this volume;) Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, (p. 145;) Buchan's _Ancient Ballads_, (ii. 296.) Similar collections of impossibilities in _The Trooper and Fair Maid_, Buchan, i. 230; _Robin's Tesment_, _id._, i. 273, or Aytoun, 2d ed. ii. 197; _As I was walking under a grove_, _Pills to purge Melancholy_, v. 370. See also _post_, vol. ii. 224, 352, vol. iv. 132, 287; and in German, _Von eitel unmöglichen Dingen_, Erk's _Liederhort_, p. 334-37; Uhland, _Eitle Dinge_, No. 4, A, B; _Wunderhorn_, ii. 410. The Elfin knight sits on yon hill, _Ba, ba, ba, lillie ba._ He blaws his horn baith loud and shrill. _The wind hath blawn my plaid awa._ He blaws it east, he blaws it west, He blaws it where he liketh best. "I wish that horn were in my kist, 5 Yea, and the knight in my arms niest." She had no sooner these words said, Than the knight came to her bed. "Thou art o'er young a maid," quoth he, "Married with me, that thou would'st be." 10 "I have a sister, younger than I, And she was married yesterday." "Married with me if thou would'st be, A curtisie thou must do to me. "It's ye maun mak a sark to me, 15 Without any cut or seam," quoth he; "And ye maun shape it, knife-, sheerless, And also sew it needle-, threedless." "If that piece of courtisie I do to thee, Another thou must do to me. 20 "I have an aiker of good ley land, Which lyeth low by yon sea strand; "It's ye maun till't wi' your touting horn, And ye maun saw't wi' the pepper corn; "And ye maun harrow't wi' a thorn, 25 And hae your wark done ere the morn; "And ye maun shear it wi' your knife, And no lose a stack o't for your life; "And ye maun stack it in a mouse hole, And ye maun thrash it in your shoe sole; 30 "And ye maun dight it in your loof, And also sack it in your glove; "And ye maun bring it over the sea,[L33] Fair, and clean, and dry to me; "And when that ye have done your wark, 35 Come back to me, and ye'll get your sark." "I'll not quite my plaid for my life; It haps my seven bairnes and my wife." "My maidenhead I'll then keep still, Let the Elfin knight do what he will. 40 "My plaid awa, my plaid away, And owre the hills and far awa, And far awa to Norowa', My plaid shall not be blawn awa." 33, thou must. THE BROOMFIELD HILL. A fragment of this ballad was printed in Herd's Collection, ("_I'll wager, I'll wager_," i. 226.) The present version is from the _Border Minstrelsy_, (iii. 28,) and we have added another from Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_. A somewhat longer copy is given in Buchan's _Ballads_, (ii. 291,) and a modernized English one, of no value, (_The West Country Wager_,) in _Ancient Poems_, &c., Percy Society, vol. xvii. p. 116. _Brume, brume on hil_, is mentioned in the _Complaynt of Scotland_, and formed part of Captain Cox's well-known collection. A Danish ballad exhibits the same theme, though differently treated: _Sövnerunerne_, Grundtvig, No. 81. There was a knight and a lady bright, Had a true tryst at the broom; The ane ga'ed early in the morning, The other in the afternoon. And aye she sat in her mother's bower door, 5 And aye she made her mane, "O whether should I gang to the Broomfield hill, Or should I stay at hame? "For if I gang to the Broomfield hill, My maidenhead is gone; 10 And if I chance to stay at hame, My love will ca' me mansworn."-- Up then spake a witch woman, Aye from the room aboon; "O, ye may gang to Broomfield hill, 15 And yet come maiden hame. "For when ye come to the Broomfield hill, Ye'll find your love asleep, With a silver belt about his head, And a broom-cow at his feet. 20 "Take ye the blossom of the broom, The blossom it smells sweet, And strew it at your true love's head, And likewise at his feet. "Take ye the rings off your fingers, 25 Put them on his right hand, To let him know, when he doth awake, His love was at his command."-- She pu'd the broom flower on Hive-hill, And strew'd on's white hals bane, 30 And that was to be wittering true, That maiden she had gane. "O where were ye, my milk-white steed, That I hae coft sae dear, That wadna watch and waken me, 35 When there was maiden here?"-- "I stamped wi' my foot, master, And gar'd my bridle ring; But nae kin' thing wald waken ye, Till she was past and gane."-- 40 "And wae betide ye, my gay goss hawk, That I did love sae dear, That wadna watch and waken me, When there was maiden here."-- "I clapped wi' my wings, master, 45 And aye my bells I rang, And aye cry'd, Waken, waken, master, Before the ladye gang."-- "But haste and haste, my gude white steed, To come the maiden till, 50 Or a' the birds of gude green wood Of your flesh shall have their fill."-- "Ye needna burst your gude white steed, Wi' racing o'er the howm; Nae bird flies faster through the wood, 55 Than she fled through the broom." LORD JOHN. From Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, (p. 195.) "I'll wager, I'll wager," says Lord John, "A hundred merks and ten, That ye winna gae to the bonnie broom-fields, And a maid return again."-- "But I'll lay a wager wi' you, Lord John, 5 A' your merks oure again, That I'll gae alane to the bonnie broom-fields, And a maid return again." Then Lord John mounted his grey steed, And his hound wi' his bells sae bricht, 10 And swiftly he rade to the bonny broom-fields, Wi' his hawks, like a lord or knicht. "Now rest, now rest, my bonnie grey steed, My lady will soon be here; And I'll lay my head aneath this rose sae red, 15 And the bonnie burn sae near." But sound, sound, was the sleep he took, For he slept till it was noon; And his lady cam at day, left a taiken and away, Gaed as licht as a glint o' the moon. 20 She strawed the roses on the ground, Threw her mantle on the brier, And the belt around her middle sae jimp, As a taiken that she'd been there. The rustling leaves flew round his head, 25 And rous'd him frae his dream; He saw by the roses, and mantle sae green, That his love had been there and was gane. "O whare was ye, my gude grey steed, That I coft ye sae dear; 30 That ye didna waken your master, Whan ye ken'd that his love was here."-- "I pautit wi' my foot, master, Garr'd a' my bridles ring; And still I cried, Waken, gude master, 35 For now is the hour and time."-- "Then whare was ye, my bonnie grey hound, That I coft ye sae dear, That ye didna waken your master, Whan ye kend that his love was here."-- 40 "I pautit wi' my foot, master, Garr'd a' my bells to ring; And still I cried, Waken, gude master, For now is the hour and time."-- "But whare was ye, my hawks, my hawks, 45 That I coft ye sae dear, That ye didna waken your master, Whan ye ken'd that his love was here."-- "O wyte na me, now, my master dear, I garr'd a' my young hawks sing, 50 And still I cried, Waken, gude master, For now is the hour and time."-- "Then be it sae, my wager gane! 'T will skaith frae meikle ill; For gif I had found her in bonnie broom-fields, 55 O' her heart's blude ye'd drunken your fill." * * * * * The stanzas below are from an American version of this ballad called _The Green Broomfield_, printed in a cheap song-book. (Graham's _Illustrated Magazine_, Sept. 1858.) "Then when she went to the green broom field, Where her love was fast asleep, With a gray _goose_-hawk and a green laurel bough, And a green broom under his feet. "And when he awoke from out his sleep, An angry man was he; He looked to the East, and he looked to the West, And he wept for his sweetheart to see. "Oh! where was you, my gray _goose_-hawk, The hawk that I loved so dear, That you did not awake me from out my sleep, When my sweetheart was so near!" KEMPION. This ballad was first printed in the _Border Minstrelsy_, (vol. iii. p. 230,) "chiefly from Mrs. Brown's MS. with corrections from a recited fragment." Motherwell furnishes a different version, from recitation, (_Minstrelsy_, p. 374,) which is subjoined to the present, and the well-known ditty of the _Laidley Worm of Spindleston-Heugh_, upon the same theme, will be found in the Appendix to this volume. "Such transformations as the song narrates," remarks Sir Walter Scott, "are common in the annals of chivalry. In the 25th and 26th cantos of the second book of the _Orlando Inamorato_, the Paladin, Brandimarte, after surmounting many obstacles, penetrates into the recesses of an enchanted palace. Here he finds a fair damsel, seated upon a tomb, who announces to him, that, in order to achieve her deliverance, he must raise the lid of the sepulchre, and kiss whatever being should issue forth. The knight, having pledged his faith, proceeds to open the tomb, out of which a monstrous snake issues forth, with a tremendous hiss. Brandimarte, with much reluctance, fulfils the _bizarre_ conditions of the adventure; and the monster is instantly changed into a beautiful Fairy, who loads her deliverer with benefits." _Jomfruen i Ormeham_, in Grundtvig's _Danmarks Gamle Folkeviser_, ii. 177, is essentially the same ballad as _Kempion_. The characteristic incident of the story (a maiden who has been transformed by her step-mother into a snake or other monster, being restored to her proper shape by the kiss of a knight) is as common in the popular fiction of the North as Scott asserts it to be in chivalrous romance. For instances, see Grundtvig, l. l., and under the closely related _Lindormen_, ii. 211. The name _Kempion_ is itself a monument of the relation of our ballads to the _Kæmpeviser_. Pollard of Pollard Hall, who slew "a venomous serpent which did much harm to man and beast," is called in the modern legend a _Champion_ Knight. "Cum heir, cum heir, ye freely feed, And lay your head low on my knee; The heaviest weird I will you read, That ever was read to gay ladye. "O meikle dolour sall ye dree, 5 And aye the salt seas o'er ye'se swim; And far mair dolour sall ye dree On Estmere crags[L8], when ye them climb. "I weird ye to a fiery beast, And relieved sall ye never be, 10 Till Kempion, the kingis son, Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss thee."-- O meikle dolour did she dree, And aye the salt seas o'er she swam; And far mair dolour did she dree 15 On Estmere crag, when she them clamb. And aye she cried for Kempion, Gin he would but come to her hand: Now word has gane to Kempion, That sicken a beast was in his land. 20 "Now, by my sooth," said Kempion, "This fiery beast I'll gang and see."-- "And by my sooth," said Segramour, "My ae brother, I'll gang wi' thee." Then bigged hae they a bonny boat, 25 And they hae set her to the sea; But a mile before they reach'd the shore, Around them she gar'd the red fire flee. "O Segramour, keep the boat afloat, And let her na the land o'er near; 30 For this wicked beast will sure gae mad, And set fire to a' the land and mair."-- Syne has he bent an arblast bow, And aim'd an arrow at her head; And swore if she didna quit the land, 35 Wi' that same shaft to shoot her dead. "O out of my stythe I winna rise, (And it is not for the awe o' thee,) Till Kempion, the kingis son, Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me."-- 40 He has louted him o'er the dizzy crag, And gien the monster kisses ane; Awa she gaed, and again she cam. The fieryest beast that ever was seen. "O out o' my stythe I winna rise, 45 (And not for a' thy bow nor thee,) Till Kempion, the kingis son, Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me."-- He's louted him o'er the Estmere crags, And he has gi'en her kisses twa: 50 Awa she gaed, and again she cam, The fieryest beast that ever you saw. "O out of my den I winna rise, Nor flee it for the fear o' thee, Till Kempion, that courteous knight, 55 Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me."-- He's louted him o'er the lofty crag, And he has gi'en her kisses three: Awa she gaed, and again she cam, The loveliest ladye e'er could be! 60 "And by my sooth," says Kempion, "My ain true love, (for this is she,) They surely had a heart o' stane, Could put thee to such misery. "O was it warwolf in the wood? 65 Or was it mermaid in the sea? Or was it man or vile woman, My ain true love, that mis-shaped thee?"-- "It wasna warwolf in the wood, Nor was it mermaid in the sea: 70 But it was my wicked step-mother, And wae and weary may she be!"-- "O, a heavier weird shall light her on, Than ever fell on vile woman; Her hair shall grow rough, and her teeth grow lang, 75 And on her four feet shall she gang. "None shall take pity her upon; In Wormeswood she aye shall won; And relieved shall she never be, Till St. Mungo come over the sea."-- 80 And sighing said that weary wight, "I doubt that day I'll never see!" 8. If by Estmere Crags we are to understand the rocky cliffs of Northumberland, in opposition to Westmoreland, we may bring our scene of action near Bamborough, and thereby almost identify the tale of _Kempion_ with that of the _Laidley Worm of Spindleston_, to which it bears so strong a resemblance.--SCOTT. But why should we seek to do this? KEMP OWYNE. Kemp Owyne, says Motherwell, "was, no doubt, the same Ewein or Owain, ap Urien the king of Reged, who is celebrated by the bards, Taliessin and Llywarch-Hen, as well as in the Welsh historical Triads. In a poem of Gruffyd Llwyd, A.D. 1400, addressed to Owain Glyndwr, is the following allusion to this warrior. 'Thou hast travelled by land and by sea in the conduct of thine affairs, like Owain ap Urien in days of yore, when with activity he encountered the black knight of the water.'[C] His mistress had a ring esteemed one of the thirteen rarities of Britain, which, (like the wondrous ring of Gyges) would render the wearer invisible." _Minstrelsy_, p. lxxxiii. [C] "On sea, on land, thou still didst brave The dangerous cliff and rapid wave; Like _Urien_, who subdued the knight, And the fell dragon put to flight, Yon moss-grown fount beside; The grim, black warrior of the flood, The dragon, gorged with human blood, The waters' scaly pride." Jones's _Welsh Bards_, i. 41. The copy of Kemp Owyne printed in Buchan's _Ancient Ballads_, (ii. 78,) is the same as the following. Her mother died when she was young, Which gave her cause to make great moan; Her father married the warst woman That ever lived in Christendom. She served her with foot and hand, 5 In every thing that she could dee; Till once, in an unlucky time, She threw her in ower Craigy's sea. Says, "Lie you there, dove Isabel, And all my sorrows lie with thee; 10 Till Kemp Owyne come ower the sea, And borrow you with kisses three, Let all the warld do what they will, Oh borrowed shall you never be." Her breath grew strang, her hair grew lang, 15 And twisted thrice about the tree, And all the people, far and near, Thought that a savage beast was she; This news did come to Kemp Owyne, Where he lived far beyond the sea. 20 He hasted him to Craigy's sea, And on the savage beast look'd he; Her breath was strang, her hair was lang, And twisted was about the tree, And with a swing she came about: 25 "Come to Craigy's sea, and kiss with me. "Here is a royal belt," she cried, "That I have found in the green sea; And while your body it is on, Drawn shall your blood never be; 30 But if you touch me, tail or fin, I vow my belt your death shall be." He stepped in, gave her a kiss, The royal belt he brought him wi'; Her breath was strang, her hair was lang, 35 And twisted twice about the tree, And with a swing she came about: "Come to Craigy's sea, and kiss with me. "Here is a royal ring," she said, "That I have found in the green sea; 40 And while your finger it is on, Drawn shall your blood never be; But if you touch me, tail or fin, I swear my ring your death shall be." He stepped in, gave her a kiss, 45 The royal ring he brought him wi'; Her breath was strang, her hair was lang, And twisted ance around the tree, And with a swing she came about: "Come to Craigy's sea, and kiss with me. 50 "Here is a royal brand," she said, "That I have found in the green sea; And while your body it is on, Drawn shall your blood never be; But if you touch me, tail or fin, 55 I swear my brand your death shall be." He stepped in, gave her a kiss, The royal brand he brought him wi'; Her breath was sweet, her hair grew short, And twisted nane about the tree; 60 And smilingly she came about, As fair a woman as fair could be. KING HENRY. A modernized copy of King Henry was published in the _Tales of Wonder_, (No 57,) under the title of _Courteous King Jamie_. It first appeared in an ancient dress in the _Border Minstrelsy_, (iii. 274,) but a version preferable in some respects was given by Jamieson in his _Popular Ballads_, (ii. 194,) which is here printed, without the editor's interpolations. For a notice of similar legends, see the _Marriage of Sir Gawaine_, at page 28 of this volume. Lat never a man a wooing wend, That lacketh thingis three; A routh o' gould, an open heart, Ay fu' o' charity. As this I speak of King Henry, 5 For he lay burd-alane; And he's doen him to a jelly hunt's ha', Was far frae ony town. He chas'd the deer now him before, And the roe down by the den, 10 Till the fattest buck in a' the flock King Henry he has slain. O he has doen him to his ha', To mak him bierly cheer; And in it cam a grisly ghost, 15 Staed stappin' i' the fleer. Her head hat the roof-tree o' the house, Her middle ye mat weel span;-- He's thrown to her his gay mantle; Says,--"Ladie, hap your lingcan." 20 Her teeth was a' like leather stakes, Her nose like club or mell; And I ken nae thing she 'pear'd to be, But the fiend that wons in hell. "Some meat, some meat, ye King Henry; 25 Some meat ye gie to me." "And what meat's in this house, Ladie? And what ha'e I to gi'e?" "Its ye do kill your berry-brown steed, And ye bring him here to me." 30 O whan he slew his berry-brown steed, Wow but his heart was sair! She ate him a' up, flesh and bane, Left naething but hide and hair. "Mair meat, mair meat, ye King Henry, 35 Mair meat ye bring to me." "And what meat's in this house, Ladie? And what hae I to gi'e?" "O ye do kill your good grey hounds, And ye bring them in to me." 40 O whan he killed his good grey hounds, Wow but his heart was sair! She ate them a' up, flesh and bane, Left naething but hide and hair. "Mair meat, mair meat, ye King Henry, 45 Mair meat ye bring to me." "And what meat's in this house, Ladie? And what hae I to gi'e?" "O ye do kill your gay goss hawks, And ye bring them here to me." 50 O whan he kill'd his gay goss hawks, Wow but his heart was sair! She ate them a' up, skin and bane, Left naething but feathers bare. "Some drink, some drink, now, King Henry; 55 Some drink ye bring to me." "O what drink's in this house, Ladie, That ye're nae welcome tee?" "O ye sew up your horse's hide, And bring in a drink to me." 60 And he's sew'd up the bloody hide, A puncheon o' wine put in; She drank it a' up at a waught, Left na ae drap ahin'. "A bed, a bed, now, King Henry, 65 A bed ye mak to me; For ye maun pu' the heather green, And mak a bed to me." And pu'd has he the heather green, And made to her a bed; 70 And up he's ta'en his gay mantle, And o'er it has he spread. "Tak aff your claiths, now, King Henry, And lye down by my side;" "O God forbid," says King Henry, 75 "That ever the like betide; That ever the fiend that wons in hell, Should streek down by my side." * * * * * Whan nicht was gane, and day was come, And the sun shone thro' the ha', 80 The fairest lady that ever was seen Lay atween him and the wa'. "O weel is me!" says King Henry; "How lang'll this last wi' me?" Then out it spake that fair lady,-- 85 "E'en till the day you die. "For I've met wi' mony a gentle knicht, That gae me sic a fill; But never before wi' a curteis knicht, That gae me a' my will." 90 COSPATRICK. (_Border Minstrelsy_, iii. 263.) This ballad, which is still very popular, is known under various other names, as _Bothwell_, _Child Brenton_, _Lord Dingwall_, _We were Sisters_, _We were Seven_, &c. Scott's version was derived principally from recitation, but some of the concluding stanzas were taken from Herd's. Herd's copy, which must be regarded as a fragment, is given in connection with the present, and Buchan's in the Appendix to this volume. Another edition, of a suspicious character, may be seen in Cromek's _Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song_, (p. 205.) All the principal incidents of the story are found in _Ingefred og Gudrune, Danske Viser_, No. 194, translated by Jamieson, _Illustrations_ p. 340. More or less imperfect versions of the same are _Riddar Olle, Svenska Folk-Visor_, ii. p. 217, 59, 56, 215, and _Herr Äster och Fröken Sissa_, p. 50. The substitution of the maid-servant for the bride, occurs also in _Torkild Trundesön, Danske V._, No. 200, or _Thorkil Troneson_, Arwidsson, No. 36. This idea was perhaps derived from _Tristan and Isold_: see Scott's _Sir Tristrem_, II. 54, 55. Cospatrick has sent o'er the faem; Cospatrick brought his ladye hame; And fourscore ships have come her wi', The ladye by the grene-wood tree. There were twal' and twal' wi' baken bread, 5 And twal' and twal' wi' gowd sae reid, And twal' and twal' wi' bouted flour, And twal' and twal' wi' the paramour. Sweet Willy was a widow's son, And at her stirrup he did run; 10 And she was clad in the finest pall, But aye she let the tears down fall. "O is your saddle set awrye? Or rides your steed for you ower high? Or are you mourning, in your tide, 15 That you suld be Cospatrick's bride?" "I am not mourning, at this tide, That I suld be Cospatrick's bride; But I am sorrowing in my mood, That I suld leave my mother good. 20 "But, gentle boy, come tell to me, What is the custom of thy countrie?"-- "The custom thereof, my dame," he says, "Will ill a gentle laydye please. "Seven king's daughters has our lord wedded, 25 And seven king's daughters has our lord bedded; But he's cutted their breasts frae their breast-bane, And sent them mourning hame again. "Yet, gin you're sure that you're a maid, Ye may gae safely to his bed; 30 But gif o' that ye be na sure, Then hire some damsell o' your bour."-- The ladye's call'd her bour maiden, That waiting was into her train; "Five thousand merks I'll gie to thee, 35 To sleep this night with my lord for me."-- When bells were rang, and mass was sayne, And a' men unto bed were gane, Cospatrick and the bonny maid, Into a chamber they were laid. 40 "Now, speak to me, blankets, and speak to me, bed, And speak, thou sheet, enchanted web; And speak up, my bonny brown sword, that winna lie, Is this a true maiden that lies by me?"-- "It is not a maid that you hae wedded, 45 But it is a maid that you hae bedded; It is a leal maiden that lies by thee, But not the maiden that it should be."-- O wrathfully he left the bed, And wrathfully his claes on did; 50 And he has ta'en him through the ha', And on his mother he did ca'. "I am the most unhappy man, That ever was in Christen land! I courted a maiden, meik and mild, 55 And I hae gotten naething but a woman wi' child."-- "O stay, my son, into this ha', And sport ye wi' your merry men a'; And I will to the secret bour, To see how it fares wi' your paramour."-- 60 The carline she was stark and sture, She aff the hinges dang the dure; "O is your bairn to laird or loun, Or is it to your father's groom?"-- "O hear me, mother, on my knee, 65 Till my sad story I tell to thee: O we were sisters, sisters seven, We were the fairest under heaven. "It fell on a summer's afternoon, When a' our toilsome task was done, 70 We cast the kevils us amang, To see which suld to the grene-wood gang. "Ohon! alas, for I was youngest, And aye my wierd it was the hardest! The kevil it on me did fa', 75 Whilk was the cause of a' my woe. "For to the grene-wood I maun gae, To pu' the red rose and the slae; To pu' the red rose and the thyme, To deck my mother's bour and mine. 80 "I hadna pu'd a flower but ane, When by there came a gallant hende, Wi' high-coll'd hose and laigh-coll'd shoon, And he seem'd to be sum kingis son. "And be I a maid, or be I nae, 85 He kept me there till the close o' day; And be I a maid, or be I nane, He kept me there till the day was done. "He gae me a lock o' his yellow hair, And bade me keep it ever mair; 90 He gae me a carknet o' bonny beads, And bade me keep it against my needs. "He gae to me a gay gold ring, And bade me keep it abune a' thing."-- "What did ye wi' the tokens rare, 95 That ye gat frae that gallant there?"-- "O bring that coffer unto me, And a' the tokens ye sall see."-- "Now stay, daughter, your bour within, While I gae parley wi' my son."-- 100 O she has ta'en her thro' the ha', And on her son began to ca'; "What did ye wi' the bonny beads I bade you keep against your needs? "What did you wi' the gay gold ring 105 I bade you keep abune a' thing?"-- "I gae them to a ladye gay, I met on grene-wood on a day. "But I wad gie a' my halls and tours, I had that ladye within my bours; 110 But I wad gie my very life, I had that ladye to my wife."-- "Now keep, my son, your ha's and tours, Ye have the bright burd in your bours; And keep, my son, your very life, 115 Ye have that ladye to your wife."-- Now, or a month was come and gane, The ladye bare a bonny son; And 'twas weel written on his breast-bane, "Cospatrick[L120] is my father's name." 120 "O row my lady in satin and silk, And wash my son in the morning milk." 120, Cospatrick, _Comes Patricius_, was the designation of the Earl of Dunbar, in the days of Wallace and Bruce.--SCOTT. BOTHWELL. From Herd's _Scottish Songs_, (i. 143.) As Bothwell was walking in the lowlands alane, _Hey down, and a down_, He met six ladies sae gallant and fine, _Hey down, and a down._ He cast his lot amang them a', 5 And on the youngest his lot did fa'. He's brought her frae her mother's bower, Unto his strongest castle and tower. But ay she cry'd and made great moan, And ay the tear came trickling down. 10 "Come up, come up," said the foremost man, "I think our bride comes slowly on." "O lady, sits your saddle awry, Or is your steed for you owre high?" "My saddle is not set awry, 15 Nor carries me my steed owre high; "But I am weary of my life, Since I maun be Lord Bothwell's wife." He's blawn his horn sae sharp and shrill, Up start the deer on every hill; 20 He's blawn his horn sae lang and loud, Up start the deer in gude green wood. His lady mother lookit owre the castle wa', And she saw them riding ane and a'. She's called upon her maids by seven, 25 To mak his bed baith saft and even: She's called upon her cooks by nine, To make their dinner fair and fine. When day was gane and night was come, "What ails my love on me to frown? 30 "Or does the wind blow in your glove, Or runs your mind on another love?" "Nor blows the wind within my glove, Nor runs my mind on another love;" "But I not maid nor maiden am, 35 For I'm wi' bairn to another man." "I thought I'd a maiden sae meek and sae mild, But I've nought but a woman wi' child." His mother's taen her up to a tower, And lockit her in her secret bower: 40 "Now doughter mine, come tell to me, Wha's bairn this is that you are wi'." "O mother dear, I canna learn Wha is the father of my bairn. "But as I walk'd in the lowlands my lane, 45 I met a gentleman gallant and fine; "He keepit me there sae late and sae lang, Frae the ev'ning late till the morning dawn; "And a' that he gied me to my propine, Was a pair of green gloves, and a gay gold ring, 50 "Three lauchters of his yellow hair, In case that we shou'd meet nae mair." His lady mother went down the stair: "Now son, now son, come tell to me, Where's the green gloves I gave to thee?" 55 "I gied to a lady sae fair and so fine, The green gloves and a gay gold ring: "But I wad gie my castles and towers, I had that lady within my bowers: "But I wad gie my very life, 60 I had that lady to be my wife." "Now keep, now keep your castles and towers, You have that lady within your bowers: "Now keep, now keep your very life, You have that lady to be your wife." 65 "O row my lady in sattin and silk, And wash my son in the morning milk." WILLIE'S LADYE. Printed from Mrs. Brown's MS., in the _Border Minstrelsy_, vol. iii. p. 170. Another copy is given in Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, (ii. 367,) and versions, enlarged and altered from the ancient, in the same work, (ii. 179,) and in _Tales of Wonder_, No. 56. This ballad bears a striking resemblance to _Sir Stig and Lady Torelild_, translated from the Danish by Jamieson, _Illustrations of Northern Antiquities_, p. 344. This is the eighth (marked H) of nine Danish ballads given by Grundtvig, under the title _Hustru og Mands Moder_, vol. ii. 404. Three Swedish versions have been printed: two in Arwidsson's _Fornsånger, Liten Kerstins Förtrollning_, ii. 252, and another (Grundtvig) in Cavallius and Stephens's _Svenska Folksagor_. "Those who wish to know how an incantation, or charm, of the distressing nature here described, was performed in classic days, may consult the story of Galanthis's Metamorphosis, in Ovid, or the following passage in Apuleius: 'Eadem (saga, scilicet, quædam) amatoris uxorem, quod in eam dicacule probrum dixerat, jam in sarcinam prægnationis, obsepto utero, et repigrato f[oe]tu, perpetua prægnatione damnavit. Et ut cuncti numerant, octo annorum onere, misella illa, velut elephantum paritura, distenditur.' APUL. _Metam._ lib. i. "There is a curious tale about a Count of Westeravia, whom a deserted concubine bewitched upon his marriage, so as to preclude all hopes of his becoming a father. The spell continued to operate for three years, till one day, the Count happening to meet with his former mistress, she maliciously asked him about the increase of his family. The Count, conceiving some suspicion from her manner, craftily answered, that God had blessed him with three fine children; on which she exclaimed, like Willie's mother in the ballad, "May heaven confound the old hag, by whose counsel I threw an enchanted pitcher into the draw-well of your palace!" The spell being found, and destroyed, the Count became the father of a numerous family. _Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels_, p. 474." SCOTT. Willie's ta'en him o'er the faem, He's wooed a wife, and brought her hame; He's wooed her for her yellow hair, But his mother wrought her meikle care; And meikle dolour gar'd her dree, 5 For lighter she can never be; But in her bower she sits wi' pain, And Willie mourns o'er her in vain. And to his mother he has gane, That vile rank witch, o' vilest kind! 10 He says--"My ladie has a cup, Wi' gowd and silver set about; This gudely gift sall be your ain, And let her be lighter o' her young bairn."-- "Of her young bairn she's never be lighter, 15 Nor in her bour to shine the brighter: But she sall die, and turn to clay, And you sall wed another may."-- "Another may I'll never wed, Another may I'll never bring hame:"-- 20 But, sighing, said that weary wight-- "I wish my life were at an end! "Yet gae ye to your mother again, That vile rank witch, o' vilest kind! And say, your ladye has a steed, 25 The like o' him's no in the land o' Leed. "For he is silver shod before, And he is gowden shod behind; At every tuft of that horse mane, There's a golden chess, and a bell to ring. 30 This gudely gift sall be her ain, And let me be lighter o' my young bairn."-- "Of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter, Nor in her bour to shine the brighter; But she sall die, and turn to clay, 35 And ye sall wed another may."-- "Another may I'll never wed, Another may I'll never bring hame:"-- But, sighing, said that weary wight-- "I wish my life were at an end!-- 40 "Yet gae ye to your mother again, That vile rank witch, o' rankest kind! And say your ladye has a girdle, It's a' red gowd to the middle; "And aye, at ilka siller hem 45 Hang fifty siller bells and ten; This gudely gift sall be her ain, And let me be lighter o' my young bairn."-- "Of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter, Nor in your bour to shine the brighter; 50 For she sall die, and turn to clay, And thou sall wed another may."-- "Another may I'll never wed, Another may I'll never bring hame;"-- But, sighing, said that weary wight-- 55 "I wish my days were at an end!"-- Then out and spak the Billy Blind,[L57] (He spak aye in good time:) "Yet gae ye to the market-place, And there do buy a loaf of wace; 60 Do shape it bairn and bairnly like, And in it twa glassen een you'll put; "And bid her your boy's christening to, Then notice weel what she shall do; And do you stand a little away, 65 To notice weel what she may say." [L67]He did him to the market-place, And there he bought a loaf[L68] o' wax; He shaped it bairn and bairnly like, And in twa glazen een he pat; 70 He did him till his mither then, And bade her to his boy's christnin; And he did stand a little forbye, And noticed well what she did say. "O wha has loosed the nine witch knots, 75 That were amang that ladye's locks? And wha's ta'en out the kaims o' care, That were amang that ladye's hair? "And wha has ta'en down that bush o' woodbine, That hung between her bour and mine? 80 And wha has kill'd the master kid,[L81] That ran beneath that ladye's bed? And wha has loosed her left foot shee, And let that ladye lighter be?" Syne, Willy's loosed the nine witch knots, 85 That were amang that ladye's locks; And Willie's ta'en out the kaims o' care, That were into that ladye's hair; And he's ta'en down the bush o' woodbine, Hung atween her bour and the witch carline; 90 And he has kill'd the master kid, That ran beneath that ladye's bed; And he has loosed her left foot shee, And latten that ladye lighter be; And now he has gotten a bonny son, 95 And meikle grace be him upon. 57. _Billy Blind_--A familiar genius, or propitious spirit, somewhat similar to the _Brownie_. 67-74. Inserted from Jamieson's copy. 68. _leaf_, Jamieson. 81. The witch's chief familiar, placed in the chamber of the sick woman in the form of a kid. ALISON GROSS. Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, ii. 187. FROM THE RECITATION OF MRS. BROWN. The beginning is to be compared with _Lindormen_, the whole ballad with _Jomfruen i Ormeham_, Grundtvig's _Folkeviser_, ii. 213, 177. O Alison Gross, that lives in yon tower, The ugliest witch in the north countrie, Has trysted me ae day up till her bower, And mony fair speech she made to me. She straiked my head, and she kembed my hair, 5 And she set me down saftly on her knee, Says,--"Gin ye will be my lemman sae true, Sae mony braw things as I would you gi'e." She shaw'd me a mantle o' red scarlet, Wi' gouden flowers and fringes fine, 10 Says "Gin ye will be my lemman sae true, This goodly gift it sall be thine." "Awa, awa, ye ugly witch, Haud far awa, and lat me be; I never will be your lemman sae true, 15 And I wish I were out of your company." She neist brocht a sark o' the saftest silk, Weel wrought wi' pearls about the band; Says,--"Gin ye will be my ain true love, This goodly gift ye sall command." 20 She shaw'd me a cup o' the good red goud, Weel set wi' jewels sae fair to see; Says,--"Gin ye will be my lemman sae true, This goodly gift I will you gie." "Awa, awa, ye ugly witch! 25 Haud far awa, and lat me be; For I wadna ance kiss your ugly mouth For a' the gifts that ye cou'd gie." She's turned her richt and round about, And thrice she blew on a grass-green horn; 30 And she sware by the moon and the stars aboon, That she'd gar me rue the day I was born. Then out has she ta'en a silver wand, And she's turned her three times round and round; She's mutter'd sic words, that my strength it fail'd, 35 And I fell down senseless on the ground. She's turn'd me into an ugly worm, And gar'd me toddle about the tree; And ay, on ilka Saturday's night, My sister Maisry came to me, 40 Wi' silver bason, and silver kemb, To kemb my headie upon her knee; But or I had kiss'd her ugly mouth, I'd rather hae toddled about the tree. But as it fell out on last Hallowe'en, 45 When the Seely Court[L46] was ridin' by, The queen lighted down on a gowan bank, Nae far frae the tree whare I wont to lye. She took me up in her milk-white hand, And she straiked me three times o'er her knee; 50 She changed me again to my ain proper shape, And I nae mair maun toddle about the tree. 46. _Seely Court_, i.e. "pleasant or happy court," or "court of the pleasant and happy people." This agrees with the ancient and more legitimate idea of Fairies. JAMIESON. See p. 120, v. 131, _et seq._ THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER. From Buchan's _Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland_, (i. 49.) It is much to be regretted that this piece has not come down to us in a purer and more ancient form. Similar ballads are found in Danish, Swedish, and Faroish. Several forms of the Danish are given by Grundtvig (_Ridderen i Fugleham_, No. 68), who also cites many popular tales which have the same basis, e.g. the Countess d'Aulnoy's fairy story of _The Blue Bird_. It was intill a pleasant time, Upon a simmer's day; The noble Earl of Mar's daughter Went forth to sport and play. As thus she did amuse hersell, 5 Below a green aik tree, There she saw a sprightly doo Set on a tower sae hie. "O Cow-me-doo, my love sae true, If ye'll come down to me, 10 Ye'se hae a cage o' guid red gowd Instead o' simple tree: "I'll put gowd hingers roun' your cage, And siller roun' your wa'; I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird 15 As ony o' them a'." But she had nae these words well spoke, Nor yet these words well said, Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower, And lighted on her head. 20 Then she has brought this pretty bird Hame to her bowers and ha'; And made him shine as fair a bird As ony o' them a'. When day was gane, and night was come, 25 About the evening tide, This lady spied a sprightly youth Stand straight up by her side. "From whence came ye, young man?" she said, "That does surprise me sair; 30 My door was bolted right secure; What way ha'e ye come here?" "O had your tongue, ye lady fair, Lat a' your folly be; Mind ye not on your turtle doo 35 Last day ye brought wi' thee?" "O tell me mair, young man," she said, "This does surprise me now; What country ha'e ye come frae? What pedigree are you?" 40 "My mither lives on foreign isles, She has nae mair but me; She is a queen o' wealth and state, And birth and high degree; "Likewise well skill'd in magic spells, 45 As ye may plainly see; And she transform'd me to yon shape, To charm such maids as thee. "I am a doo the live lang day, A sprightly youth at night; 50 This aye gars me appear mair fair In a fair maiden's sight. "And it was but this verra day That I came ower the sea; Your lovely face did me enchant,-- 55 I'll live and dee wi' thee." "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, Nae mair frae me ye'se gae." "That's never my intent, my luve, As ye said, it shall be sae." 60 "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, It's time to gae to bed." "Wi' a' my heart, my dear marrow, It's be as ye ha'e said." Then he has staid in bower wi' her 65 For sax lang years and ane, Till sax young sons to him she bare, And the seventh she's brought hame. But aye as ever a child was born, He carried them away, 70 And brought them to his mither's care, As fast as he cou'd fly. Thus he has staid in bower wi' her For twenty years and three; There came a lord o' high renown 75 To court this fair ladie. But still his proffer she refused, And a' his presents too; Says, "I'm content to live alane Wi' my bird, Cow-me-doo." 80 Her father sware a solemn oath Amang the nobles all, "The morn, or ere I eat or drink, This bird I will gar kill." The bird was sitting in his cage, 85 And heard what they did say; And when he found they were dismist, Says, "Waes me for this day! "Before that I do langer stay, And thus to be forlorn, 90 I'll gang unto my mither's bower, Where I was bred and born." Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew Beyond the raging sea; And lighted near his mither's castle 95 On a tower o' gowd sae hie. As his mither was wauking out, To see what she coud see, And there she saw her little son Set on the tower sae hie. 100 "Get dancer here to dance," she said, "And minstrells for to play; For here's my young son, Florentine, Come here wi' me to stay." "Get nae dancers to dance, mither, 105 Nor minstrells for to play; For the mither o' my seven sons, The morn's her wedding-day." "O tell me, tell me, Florentine, Tell me, and tell me true, 110 Tell me this day without a flaw, What I will do for you." "Instead of dancers to dance, mither, Or minstrells for to play, Turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men, 115 Like storks, in feathers gray; "My seven sons in seven swans, Aboon their heads to flee; And I, mysell, a gay gos-hawk, A bird o' high degree." 120 Then sichin' said the queen hersell, "That thing's too high for me;" But she applied to an auld woman, Who had mair skill than she. Instead o' dancers to dance a dance, 125 Or minstrells for to play, Four-and-twenty wall-wight men Turn'd birds o' feathers gray; Her seven sons in seven swans, Aboon their heads to flee; 130 And he, himsell, a gay gos-hawk, A bird o' high degree. This flock o' birds took flight and flew Beyond the raging sea; And landed near the Earl Mar's castle, 135 Took shelter in every tree. They were a flock o' pretty birds, Right comely to be seen; The people view'd them wi' surprise, As they danc'd on the green. 140 These birds ascended frae the tree, And lighted on the ha'; And at the last wi' force did flee Among the nobles a'. The storks there seized some o' the men, 145 They cou'd neither fight nor flee; The swans they bound the bride's best man, Below a green aik tree. They lighted next on maidens fair, Then on the bride's own head; 150 And wi' the twinkling o' an e'e, The bride and them were fled. There's ancient men at weddings been, For sixty years or more; But sic a curious wedding-day 155 They never saw before. For naething cou'd the companie do, Nor naething cou'd they say; But they saw a flock o' pretty birds That took their bride away. 160 When that Earl Mar he came to know Where his dochter did stay, He sign'd a bond o' unity, And visits now they pay. YOUNG AKIN. Mr. Kinloch printed a fragment of this ballad under the title of _Hynde Etin_. (See Appendix.) The story was afterwards given complete by Buchan, (_Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 6,) as here follows. Buchan had previously communicated to Motherwell a modernized version of the same tale, in which the Etin is changed to a Groom. (See _post_.) This ancient ballad has suffered severely in the course of its transmission to our times. Still there can be no doubt that it was originally the same as _The Maid and the Dwarf King_, which is still sung in Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and the Faroe Islands. Numerous copies of the Scandinavian ballad have been given to the world: seven Danish versions, more or less complete, four Norse, nine Swedish, one Faroish, and some other fragments (Grundtvig, ii. 37, and note, p. 655). One of the Swedish ballads (_Bergkonungen_, Afzelius, No. 35) is translated in Keightley's _Fairy Mythology_, 103, under the title of _Proud Margaret_. Closely related is _Agnete og Havmanden_, Grundtvig, ii. 48, 656, which is found in several forms in German (e.g. _Die schöne Hannele_ in Hoffmann von Fallersleben's _Schlesische Volkslieder_, No. 1), and two in Slavic. Lady Margaret sits in her bower door, Sewing at her silken seam; She heard a note in Elmond's-wood, And wish'd she there had been. She loot the seam fa' frae her side, 5 And the needle to her tae; And she is on to Elmond-wood As fast as she coud gae. She hadna pu'd a nut, a nut, Nor broken a branch but ane, 10 Till by it came a young hind chiel, Says, "Lady, lat alane. "O why pu' ye the nut, the nut, Or why brake ye the tree? For I am forester o' this wood: 15 Ye shou'd spier leave at me." "I'll ask leave at no living man, Nor yet will I at thee; My father is king o'er a' this realm, This wood belongs to me." 20 She hadna pu'd a nut, a nut, Nor broken a branch but three, Till by it came him Young Akin, And gar'd her lat them be. The highest tree in Elmond's-wood, 25 He's pu'd it by the reet; And he has built for her a bower Near by a hallow seat. He's built a bower, made it secure Wi' carbuncle and stane; 30 Tho' travellers were never sae nigh, Appearance it had nane. He's kept her there in Elmond's-wood, For six lang years and one; Till six pretty sons to him she bear, 35 And the seventh she's brought home. It fell ance upon a day, This guid lord went from home; And he is to the hunting gane, Took wi' him his eldest son. 40 And when they were on a guid way, Wi' slowly pace did walk, The boy's heart being something wae, He thus began to talk:-- "A question I wou'd ask, father, 45 Gin ye wou'dna angry be?" "Say on, say on, my bonny boy, Ye'se nae be quarrell'd by me." "I see my mither's cheeks aye weet, I never can see them dry; 50 And I wonder what aileth my mither, To mourn continually." "Your mither was a king's daughter, Sprung frae a high degree; And she might hae wed some worthy prince, 55 Had she nae been stown by me. "I was her father's cup-bearer, Just at that fatal time; I catch'd her on a misty night, Whan summer was in prime. 60 "My luve to her was most sincere, Her luve was great for me; But when she hardships doth endure, Her folly she does see." "I'll shoot the buntin' o' the bush, 65 The linnet o' the tree, And bring them to my dear mither, See if she'll merrier be." It fell upo' another day, This guid lord he thought lang, 70 And he is to the hunting gane, Took wi' him his dog and gun. Wi' bow and arrow by his side, He's aff, single, alane; And left his seven children to stay 75 Wi' their mither at hame. "O, I will tell to you, mither, Gin ye wadna angry be:" "Speak on, speak on, my little wee boy, Ye'se nae be quarrell'd by me." 80 "As we came frae the hynd hunting, We heard fine music ring:" "My blessings on you, my bonny boy, I wish I'd been there my lane." He's ta'en his mither by the hand, 85 His six brithers also, And they are on thro' Elmond's-wood, As fast as they coud go. They wistna weel where they were gaen, Wi' the stratlins o' their feet; 90 They wistna weel where they were gaen, Till at her father's yate. "I hae nae money in my pocket, But royal rings hae three; I'll gie them you, my little young son, 95 And ye'll walk there for me. "Ye'll gi'e the first to the proud porter,[L97] And he will lat you in; Ye'll gi'e the next to the butler boy, And he will show you ben; 100 "Ye'll gi'e the third to the minstrel That plays before the king; He'll play success to the bonny boy Came thro' the wood him lane." He ga'e the first to the proud porter, 105 And he open'd an' let him in; He ga'e the next to the butler boy, And he has shown him ben; He ga'e the third to the minstrel That play'd before the king; 110 And he play'd success to the bonny boy Came thro' the wood him lane. Now when he came before the king, Fell low down on his knee: The king he turned round about, 115 And the saut tear blinded his ee. "Win up, win up, my bonny boy, Gang frae my companie; Ye look sae like my dear daughter, My heart will birst in three." 120 "If I look like your dear daughter, A wonder it is none; If I look like your dear daughter, I am her eldest son." "Will ye tell me, ye little wee boy, 125 Where may my Margaret be?" "She's just now standing at your yates, And my six brithers her wi'." "O where are all my porter boys That I pay meat and fee, 130 To open my yates baith wide and braid? Let her come in to me." When she came in before the king, Fell low down on her knee: "Win up, win up, my daughter dear, 135 This day ye'll dine wi me." "Ae bit I canno' eat, father, Nor ae drop can I drink, Till I see my mither and sister dear, For lang for them I think." 140 When she came before the queen, Fell low down on her knee: "Win up, win up, my daughter dear, This day ye'se dine wi' me." "Ae bit I canno' eat, mither, 145 Nor ae drop can I drink, Until I see my dear sister, For lang for her I think." When that these two sisters met, She hail'd her courteouslie: 150 "Come ben, come ben, my sister dear, This day ye'se dine wi' me." "Ae bit I canno' eat, sister, Nor ae drop can I drink, Until I see my dear husband, 155 For lang for him I think." "O where are all my rangers bold That I pay meat and fee, To search the forest far an' wide, And bring Akin to me?" 160 Out it speaks the wee little boy,-- "Na, na, this maunna be; Without ye grant a free pardon, I hope ye'll nae him see." "O here I grant a free pardon, 165 Well seal'd by my own han'; Ye may make search for young Akin, As soon as ever you can." They search'd the country wide and braid, The forests far and near, 170 And found him into Elmond's-wood, Tearing his yellow hair. "Win up, win up, now young Akin. Win up, and boun wi' me; We're messengers come from the court; 175 The king wants you to see." "O lat him take frae me my head, Or hang me on a tree; For since I've lost my dear lady, Life's no pleasure to me." 180 "Your head will nae be touch'd, Akin, Nor hang'd upon a tree: Your lady's in her father's court, And all he wants is thee." When he came in before the king, 185 Fell low down on his knee: "Win up, win up now, young Akin, This day ye'se dine wi' me." But as they were at dinner set, The boy asked a boun; 190 "I wish we were in the good church, For to get christendoun. "We ha'e lived in guid green wood This seven years and ane; But a' this time since e'er I mind, 195 Was never a church within." "Your asking 's nae sae great, my boy, But granted it shall be; This day to guid church ye shall gang, And your mither shall gang you wi'." 200 When unto the guid church she came, She at the door did stan'; She was sae sair sunk down wi' shame, She coudna come farer ben. Then out it speaks the parish priest, 205 And a sweet smile gae he;--- "Come ben, come ben, my lily flower, Present your babes to me." Charles, Vincent, Sam, and Dick, And likewise James and John; 210 They call'd the eldest Young Akin, Which was his father's name. Then they staid in the royal court, And liv'd wi' mirth and glee; And when her father was deceas'd, 215 Heir of the crown was she. 97. The regular propitiation for the "proud porter" of ballad poetry. See, e.g. _King Arthur and the King of Cornwall_, in the Appendix, v. 49: also the note to _King Estmere_, vol. iii. p. 172. YOUNG HASTINGS THE GROOM. (Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 287.) "O well love I to ride in a mist, And shoot in a northern wind; And far better a lady to steal, That's come of a noble kind." Four-and-twenty fair ladies 5 Put on that lady's sheen; And as many young gentlemen Did lead her o'er the green. Yet she preferred before them all Him, young Hastings the Groom; 10 He's coosten a mist before them all, And away this lady has ta'en. He's taken the lady on him behind, Spared neither the grass nor corn, Till they came to the wood of Amonshaw, 15 Where again their loves were sworn. And they have lived in that wood Full many a year and day, And were supported from time to time, By what he made of prey. 20 And seven bairns, fair and fine, There she has born to him, And never was in good church door, Nor never gat good kirking. Once she took harp into her hand, 25 And harped them asleep; Then she sat down at their couch side, And bitterly did weep. Said, "Seven bairns have I born now To my lord in the ha'; 30 I wish they were seven greedy rats, To run upon the wa', And I mysel' a great grey cat, To eat them ane an' a'. "For ten long years now I have lived 35 Within this cave of stane, And never was at good church door, Nor got no good churching." O then outspak her eldest child, And a fine boy was he,-- 40 "O hold your tongue, my mother dear; I'll tell you what to dee. "Take you the youngest in your lap, The next youngest by the hand; Put all the rest of us you before, 45 As you learnt us to gang. "And go with us into some good kirk,-- You say they are built of stane,-- And let us all be christened, And you get good kirking." 50 She took the youngest in her lap, The next youngest by the hand; Set all the rest of them her before, As she learnt them to gang. And she has left the wood with them, 55 And to a kirk has gane; Where the good priest them christened, And gave her good kirking. CLERK COLVILL, OR THE MERMAID. This ballad exemplifies a superstition deeply rooted in the belief of all the northern nations,--the desire of the Elves and Water-spirits for the love of Christians, and the danger of being exposed to their fascination. The object of their fatal passion is generally a bridegroom, or a bride, on the eve of marriage. See, in the Appendix, _Sir Oluf and the Elf-King's Daughter_, for further illustrations; also the two succeeding pieces. _Clerk Colvill_ was first printed in Herd's _Scottish Songs_, (i. 217,) and was inserted, in an altered shape, in Lewis's _Tales of Wonder_, (No. 56.) Clerk Colvill and his lusty dame Were walking in the garden green; The belt around her stately waist Cost Clerk Colvill of pounds fifteen. "O promise me now, Clerk Colvill, 5 Or it will cost ye muckle strife, Ride never by the wells of Slane, If ye wad live and brook your life." "Now speak nae mair, my lusty dame, Now speak nae mair of that to me: 10 Did I ne'er see a fair woman, But I wad sin with her fair body?" He's ta'en leave o' his gay lady, Nought minding what his lady said, And he's rode by the wells of Slane, 15 Where washing was a bonny maid. "Wash on, wash on, my bonny maid, That wash sae clean your sark of silk;" "And weel fa' you, fair gentleman, Your body's whiter than the milk." 20 * * * * * Then loud, loud cry'd the Clerk Colvill, "O my head it pains me sair;" "Then take, then take," the maiden said, "And frae my sark you'll cut a gare." 25 Then she's gi'ed him a little bane-knife, And frae her sark[L27] he cut a share; She's ty'd it round his whey-white face, But ay his head it aked mair. Then louder cry'd the Clerk Colvill, 30 "O sairer, sairer akes my head;" "And sairer, sairer ever will," The maiden crys, "till you be dead." Out then he drew his shining blade, Thinking to stick her where she stood; 35 But she was vanish'd to a fish, And swam far off, a fair mermaid. "O mother, mother, braid my hair; My lusty lady, make my bed; O brother, take my sword and spear, 40 For I have seen the false mermaid." 27, his sark. LADY ISABEL AND THE ELF-KNIGHT. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 22, where it is entitled _The Gowans sae gay_, from the burden. The hero of the first of the two following ballads would seem to be an Elf, that of the second a Nix, or Merman, though the punishment awarded to each of them in the catastrophe, as the ballads now exist, is not consistent with their supernatural character. It is possible that in both instances two independent stories have been blended: but it is curious that the same intermixture should occur in Norse and German also. See Grundtvig's preface to _Noekkens Svig_, ii. p. 57. The conclusion in all these cases is derived from a ballad resembling _May Colvin_, vol. ii. p. 272. We have had the Elf-Knight introduced under the same circumstances at page 128; indeed, the first three or four stanzas are common to both pieces. Fair lady Isabel sits in her bower sewing, _Aye as the gowans grow gay_; There she heard an elf-knight blawing his horn, _The first morning in May_. "If I had yon horn that I hear blawing," 5 _Aye as the gowans grow gay_; "And yon elf-knight to sleep in my bosom," _The first morning in May_. This maiden had scarcely these words spoken, _Aye as the gowans grow gay_; 10 Till in at her window the elf-knight has luppen, _The first morning in May_. "Its a very strange matter, fair maiden," said he, _Aye as the gowans grow gay_, "I canna' blaw my horn, but ye call on me," 15 _The first morning in May_. "But will ye go to yon greenwood side," _Aye as the gowans grow gay_? "If ye canna' gang, I will cause you to ride," _The first morning in May_. 20 He leapt on a horse, and she on another, _Aye as the gowans grow gay_; And they rode on to the greenwood together, _The first morning in May_. "Light down, light down, lady Isabel," said he, 25 _Aye as the gowans grow gay_; "We are come to the place where ye are to die," _The first morning in May_. "Ha'e mercy, ha'e mercy, kind sir, on me," _Aye as the gowans grow gay_; 30 "Till ance my dear father and mother I see," _The first morning in May_. "Seven king's-daughters here hae I slain," _Aye as the gowans grow gay_; "And ye shall be the eight o' them," 35 _The first morning in May_. "O sit down a while, lay your head on my knee," _Aye as the gowans grow gay_; "That we may hae some rest before that I die," _The first morning in May_. 40 She stroak'd him sae fast, the nearer he did creep, _Aye as the gowans grow gay_; Wi' a sma' charm she lull'd him fast asleep, _The first morning in May_. "Wi' his ain sword belt sae fast as she ban' him, 45 _Aye as the gowans grow gay_; With his ain dag-durk sae sair as she dang him, _The first morning in May_. "If seven kings' daughters here ye ha'e slain," _Aye as the gowans grow gay_, 50 "Lye ye here, a husband to them a'," _The first morning in May_. THE WATER O' WEARIE'S WELL. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 201. Repeated in Scottish _Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads_, Percy Society, xvii. 63. The three ballads which follow, diverse as they may now appear, after undergoing successive corruptions, were primarily of the same type. In the first (which may be a compound of two ballads, like the preceding, the conclusion being taken from a story of the character of _May Colvin_ in the next volume) the Merman or Nix may be easily recognized: in the second he is metamorphosed into the Devil; and in the third, into a ghost. Full details upon the corresponding Scandinavian, German, and Slavic legends, are given by Grundtvig, in the preface to _Noekkens Svig, Danmarks G. Folkeviser_, ii. 57: translated by Jamieson, i. 210, and by Monk Lewis, _Tales of Wonder_, No. 11. There came a bird out o' a bush, On water for to dine; And sighing sair, says the king's daughter, "O waes this heart o' mine!" He's taen a harp into his hand, 5 He's harped them all asleep; Except it was the king's daughter, Who ae wink cou'dna get. He's luppen on his berry-brown steed, Taen her on behind himsell; 10 Then baith rade down to that water, That they ca' Wearie's well. "Wide in, wide in, my lady fair, Nae harm shall thee befall; Aft times hae I water'd my steed, 15 Wi' the water o' Wearie's well." The first step that she stepped in, She stepped to the knee; And sighing sair, says this lady fair, "This water's nae for me." 20 "Wide in, wide in, my lady fair, Nae harm shall thee befall; Aft times hae I water'd my steed, Wi' the water o' Wearie's well." The next step that she stepped in, 25 She stepped to the middle; And sighing, says, this lady fair, "I've wat my gowden girdle." "Wide in, wide in, my lady fair, Nae harm shall thee befall; 30 Aft times hae I water'd my steed, Wi' the water o' Wearie's well." The niest step that she stepped in, She stepped to the chin; And sighing, says, this lady fair, 35 "They shou'd gar twa loves twine." "Seven king's-daughters I've drown'd there, In the water o' Wearie's well; And I'll make you the eight o' them, And ring the common bell." 40 "Sin' I am standing here," she says, "This dowie death to die; Ae kiss o' your comely mouth I'm sure wou'd comfort me." He louted him ower his saddle bow, 45 To kiss her cheek and chin; She's taen him in her arms twa, And thrown him headlang in. "Sin' seven king's daughters ye've drown'd there, In the water o' Wearie's well, 50 I'll make you bridegroom to them a', An' ring the bell mysell." And aye she warsled, and aye she swam, Till she swam to dry land; Then thanked God most cheerfully, 55 The dangers she'd ower came. THE DÆMON LOVER. This ballad was communicated to Sir Walter Scott, (_Minstrelsy_, iii. 195,) by Mr. William Laidlaw, who took it down from recitation. A fragment of the same legend, recovered by Motherwell, is given in the Appendix to this volume, and another version, in which the hero is not a dæmon, but the ghost of an injured lover, is placed directly after the present. The Devil (Auld _Nick_) here takes the place of the Merman (Nix) of the ancient ballad. See p. 198, and the same natural substitution noted in _K.u.H._--_Märchen_, 3d ed. iii. 253. "O where have you been, my long, long love, This long seven years and more?"-- "O I'm come to seek my former vows Ye granted me before."-- "O hold your tongue of your former vows, 5 For they will breed sad strife; O hold your tongue of your former vows, For I am become a wife." He turn'd him right and round about, And the tear blinded his ee; 10 "I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground, If it had not been for thee. "I might hae had a king's daughter, Far, far beyond the sea; I might have had a king's daughter, 15 Had it not been for love o' thee."-- "If ye might have had a king's daughter, Yer sell ye had to blame; Ye might have taken the king's daughter, For ye kend that I was nane."-- 20 "O faulse are the vows of womankind, But fair is their faulse bodie; I never wad hae trodden on Irish ground, Had it not been for love o' thee."-- "If I was to leave my husband dear, 25 And my two babes also, O what have you to take me to, If with you I should go?"-- "I hae seven ships upon the sea, The eighth brought me to land; 30 With four-and-twenty bold mariners, And music on every hand." She has taken up her two little babes, Kiss'd them baith cheek and chin; "O fair ye weel, my ain two babes, 35 For I'll never see you again." She set her foot upon the ship, No mariners could she behold; But the sails were o' the taffetie, And the masts o' the beaten gold. 40 She had not sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three, When dismal grew his countenance, And drumlie grew his ee. The masts that were like the beaten gold, 45 Bent not on the heaving seas; But the sails, that were o' the taffetie, Fill'd not in the east land breeze.-- They had not sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, 50 Until she espied his cloven foot, And she wept right bitterlie. "O hold your tongue of your weeping," says he, "Of your weeping now let me be; I will show you how the lilies grow 55 On the banks of Italy."-- "O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills, That the sun shines sweetly on?"-- "O yon are the hills of heaven," he said, "Where you will never win."-- 60 "O whaten a mountain is yon," she said, "All so dreary wi' frost and snow?"-- "O yon is the mountain of hell," he cried, "Where you and I will go." And aye when she turn'd her round about, 65 Aye taller he seem'd for to be; Until that the tops o' that gallant ship Nae taller were than he. The clouds grew dark, and the wind grew loud, And the levin fill'd her ee; 70 And waesome wail'd the snaw-white sprites Upon the gurlie sea. He strack the tap-mast wi' his hand, The fore-mast wi' his knee; And he brake that gallant ship in twain, 75 And sank her in the sea. JAMES HERRIES. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, (i. 214.) (See the preface to the last ballad but one.) "O are ye my father, or are ye my mother? Or are ye my brother John? Or are ye James Herries, my first true love, Come back to Scotland again?" "I am not your father, I am not your mother, 5 Nor am I your brother John; But I'm James Herries, your first true love, Come back to Scotland again." "Awa', awa', ye former lovers, Had far awa' frae me; 10 For now I am another man's wife, Ye'll ne'er see joy o' me." "Had I kent that ere I came here, I ne'er had come to thee; For I might hae married the king's daughter, 15 Sae fain she wou'd had me. "I despised the crown o' gold, The yellow silk also; And I am come to my true love, But with me she'll not go." 20 "My husband he is a carpenter, Makes his bread on dry land, And I hae born him a young son,-- Wi' you I will not gang." "You must forsake your dear husband, 25 Your little young son also, Wi' me to sail the raging seas, Where the stormy winds do blow." "O what hae you to keep me wi', If I should with you go? 30 If I'd forsake my dear husband, My little young son also?" "See ye not yon seven pretty ships, The eighth brought me to land; With merchandize and mariners, 35 And wealth in every hand?" She turn'd her round upon the shore, Her love's ships to behold; Their topmasts and their mainyards Were cover'd o'er wi' gold. 40 Then she's gane to her little young son, And kiss'd him cheek and chin; Sae has she to her sleeping husband, And dune the same to him. "O sleep ye, wake ye, my husband, 45 I wish ye wake in time; I woudna for ten thousand pounds, This night ye knew my mind." She's drawn the slippers on her feet, Were cover'd o'er wi' gold; 50 Well lined within wi' velvet fine, To had her frae the cold. She hadna sailed upon the sea A league but barely three, Till she minded on her dear husband, 55 Her little young son tee. "O gin I were at land again, At land where I wou'd be, The woman ne'er shou'd bear the son, Shou'd gar me sail the sea." 60 "O hold your tongue, my sprightly flower, Let a' your mourning be; I'll show you how the lilies grow On the banks o' Italy." She hadna sailed on the sea 65 A day but barely ane, Till the thoughts o' grief came in her mind, And she lang'd for to be hame. "O gentle death, come cut my breath, I may be dead ere morn; 70 I may be buried in Scottish ground, Where I was bred and born." "O hold your tongue, my lily leesome thing, Let a' your mourning be; But for a while we'll stay at Rose Isle, 75 Then see a far countrie. "Ye'se ne'er be buried in Scottish ground, Nor land ye's nae mair see; I brought you away to punish you, For the breaking your vows to me. 80 "I said ye shou'd see the lilies grow On the banks o' Italy; But I'll let you see the fishes swim, In the bottom o' the sea." He reached his band to the topmast, 85 Made a' the sails gae down; And in the twinkling o' an e'e, Baith ship and crew did drown. The fatal flight o' this wretched maid Did reach her ain countrie; 90 Her husband then distracted ran, And this lament made he:-- "O wae be to the ship, the ship, And wae be to the sea, And wae be to the mariners, 95 Took Jeanie Douglas frae me! "O bonny, bonny was my love, A pleasure to behold; The very hair o' my love's head Was like the threads o' gold. 100 "O bonny was her cheek, her cheek, And bonny was her chin; And bonny was the bride she was, The day she was made mine!" * * * * * *** The following stanzas from a version of this ballad printed at Philadelphia (and called _The House Carpenter_) are given in Graham's _Illustrated Magazine_, Sept. 1858. "I might have married the king's daughter dear;" "You might have married her," cried she, "For I am married to a House Carpenter, And a fine young man is he." "Oh dry up your tears, my own true love, And cease your weeping," cried he; "For soon you'll see your own happy home, On the banks of old Tennessee." THE KNIGHT'S GHOST. From _Buchan's ballads of the North of Scotland_, (i. 227.) "There is a fashion in this land, And even come to this country, That every lady should meet her lord, When he is newly come frae sea: "Some wi' hawks, and some wi' hounds, 5 And other some wi' gay monie; But I will gae myself alone, And set his young son on his knee." She's ta'en her young son in her arms, And nimbly walk'd by yon sea strand; 10 And there she spy'd her father's ship, As she was sailing to dry land. "Where hae ye put my ain gude lord, This day he stays sae far frae me?" "If ye be wanting your ain gude lord, 15 A sight o' him ye'll never see." "Was he brunt, or was he shot? Or was he drowned in the sea? Or what's become o' my ain gude lord, That he will ne'er appear to me?" 20 "He wasna brunt, nor was he shot, Nor was he drowned in the sea; He was slain in Dumfermling, A fatal day to you and me." "Come in, come in, my merry young men, 25 Come in and drink the wine wi' me; And a' the better ye shall fare, For this gude news ye tell to me." She's brought them down to yon cellar, She brought them fifty steps and three; 30 She birled wi' them the beer and wine, Till they were as drunk as drunk could be. Then she has lock'd her cellar door, For there were fifty steps and three; "Lie there wi' my sad malison, 35 For this bad news ye've tauld to me." She's ta'en the keys intill her hand, And threw them deep, deep in the sea; "Lie there wi' my sad malison, Till my gude lord return to me." 40 Then she sat down in her own room, And sorrow lull'd her fast asleep; And up it starts her own gude lord, And even at that lady's feet. "Take here the keys, Janet," he says, 45 "That ye threw deep, deep in the sea; And ye'll relieve my merry young men, For they've nane o' the swick o' me. "They shot the shot, and drew the stroke, And wad in red bluid to the knee; 50 Nae sailors mair for their lord coud do, Nor my young men they did for me." "I hae a question at you to ask, Before that ye depart frae me; You'll tell to me what day I'll die, 55 And what day will my burial be?" "I hae nae mair o' God's power Than he has granted unto me; But come to heaven when ye will, There porter to you I will be. 60 "But ye'll be wed to a finer knight Than ever was in my degree; Unto him ye'll hae children nine, And six o' them will be ladies free. "The other three will be bold young men, 65 To fight for king and countrie; The ane a duke, the second a knight, And third a laird o' lands sae free." THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 258. That the repose of the dead is disturbed by the immoderate grief of those they have left behind them, is a belief which finds frequent expression in popular ballads. Obstinate sorrow rouses them from their grateful slumber; every tear that is shed for them wets their shroud; they can get no rest, and are compelled to revisit the world they would fain forget, to rebuke and forbid the mourning that destroys their peace. "Ice-cold and bloody, a lead-weight of sorrow, falls on my breast each tear that you shed," says the ghost of Helgi in the _Edda_ to his lamenting wife (_Helgak. Hundingsb._ II.) The same idea is found in the German ballad, _Der Vorwirth_, Erk's _Liederhort_, No. 46, 46 a, and in various tales, as _Das Todtenhemdchen_, (_K.u.H. Märchen_, No. 109, and note), etc. In like manner Sir Aage, in a well-known Danish ballad (Grundtvig, No. 90), and the corresponding _Sorgens Magt, Svenska F.V._, No. 6. "Every time thou weepest for me, Thy heart makest sad, Then all within, my coffin stands full Of clotted blood." Rarely is the silence of the grave broken for purposes of consolation. Yet some cases there are, as in a Lithuanian ballad cited by Wackernagel, _Altd. Blätter_, i. 176, and a Spanish ballad noticed by Talvj, _Versuch_, p. 141. The present ballad seems to belong to the latter class rather than the former, but it is so imperfect that its true character cannot be determined. Chambers maintains, we think erroneously, that this ballad is a fragment of _The Clerk's Twa Sons o' Owsenford_. See the second volume of this collection, page 63. There lived a wife at Usher's Well, And a wealthy wife was she, She had three stout and stalwart sons, And sent them o'er the sea. They hadna been a week from her, 5 A week but barely ane, When word came to the carline wife, That her three sons were gane. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely three, 10 When word came to the carline wife, That her sons she'd never see. "I wish the wind may never cease, Nor fishes[L14] in the flood, Till my three sons come hame to me, 15 In earthly flesh and blood."-- It fell about the Martinmas, When nights are lang and mirk, The carline wife's three sons came hame, And their hats were o' the birk. 20 It neither grew in syke nor ditch, Nor yet in ony sheugh; But at the gates o' Paradise, That birk grew fair eneugh. * * * * * "Blow up the fire, my maidens! 25 Bring water from the well! For a' my house shall feast this night, Since my three sons are well."-- And she has made to them a bed, She's made it large and wide; 30 And she's ta'en her mantle her about, Sat down at the bed-side. * * * * * Up then crew the red red cock, 35 And up and crew the gray; The eldest to the youngest said, "'Tis time we were away."-- The cock he hadna craw'd but once, And clapp'd his wings at a', 40 Whan the youngest to the eldest said, "Brother, we must awa.-- "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin' worm doth chide; Gin we be mist out o' our place, 45 A sair pain we maun bide. "Fare ye weel, my mother dear! Fareweel to barn and byre! And fare ye weel, the bonny lass, That kindles my mother's fire." 50 14. Should we not read, for _fishes_ here, _fashes_-- i. e. troubles?--LOCKHART. THE SUFFOLK MIRACLE: _Or, a relation of a young man, who, a month after his death, appeared to his sweetheart, and carried her on horseback behind him for forty miles in two hours, and was never seen after but in his grave._ From _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 266. In Moore's _Pictorial Book of Ancient Ballad Poetry_ (p. 463) is a copy from a broadside in the Roxburghe collection. _The Suffolk Miracle_ has an external resemblance to several noble ballads, but the likeness does not extend below the surface. It is possible that we have here the residuum of an old poem, from which all the beauty and spirit have been exhaled in the course of tradition; but as the ballad now exists, it is a vulgar ghost-story, without any motive. Regarding the external form alone, we may place by its side the Breton ballad, _Le Frère de Lait_, in Villemarqué's _Chants Populaires de la Bretagne_, vol. i. No. 22 (translated by Miss Costello, _Quart. Review_, vol. 68, p. 75), the Romaic ballad of _Constantine and Arete_, in Fauriel's _Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne_, p. 406 (see Appendix), and the Servian ballad (related to the Romaic, and perhaps derived from it), _Jelitza and her Brothers_, Talvj, _Volkslieder der Serben_, i. 160, all of them among the most beautiful specimens in this kind of literature; and also Bürger's _Lenore_. It has been once or twice most absurdly suggested that _Lenore_ owed its existence to this _Suffolk Miracle_. The difference, indeed, is not greater than between a "Chronicle History" and _Macbeth_; it is however certain that Bürger's ballad is all his own, except the hint of the ghostly horseman and one or two phrases, which he took from the description of a Low German ballad. The editors of the _Wunderhorn_ claim to give this ballad, vol. ii. p. 19. An equivalent prose tradition is well known in Germany. Most of the ballads relating to the return of departed spirits are brought together in an excellent article by Wackernagel in the _Altdeutsche Blätter_, i. 174. A wonder stranger ne'er was known Than what I now shall treat upon. In Suffolk there did lately dwell A farmer rich and known full well. He had a daughter fair and bright, 5 On whom he placed his chief delight; Her beauty was beyond compare, She was both virtuous and fair. There was a young man living by, Who was so charmed with her eye, 10 That he could never be at rest; He was by love so much possest. He made address to her, and she Did grant him love immediately; But when her father came to hear, 15 He parted her and her poor dear. Forty miles distant was she sent, Unto his brother's, with intent That she should there so long remain, Till she had changed her mind again. 20 Hereat this young man sadly grieved, But knew not how to be relieved; He sighed and sobbed continually That his true love he could not see. She by no means could to him send, 25 Who was her heart's espoused friend; He sighed, he grieved, but all in vain, For she confined must still remain. He mourned so much, that doctor's art Could give no ease unto his heart, 30 Who was so strangely terrified, That in short time for love he died. She that from him was sent away Knew nothing of his dying day, But constant still she did remain, 35 And loved the dead, although in vain. After he had in grave been laid A month or more, unto this maid He came in middle of the night, Who joyed to see her heart's delight. 40 Her father's horse, which well she knew, Her mother's hood and safe-guard too, He brought with him to testify Her parents order he came by. Which when her uncle understood, 45 He hoped it would be for her good, And gave consent to her straightway, That with him she should come away. When she was got her love behind, They passed as swift as any wind, 50 That in two hours, or little more, He brought her to her father's door. But as they did this great haste make, He did complain his head did ake; Her handkerchief she then took out, 55 And tied the same his head about. And unto him she thus did say: "Thou art as cold as any clay; When we come home a fire we'll have;" But little dreamed he went to grave. 60 Soon were they at her father's door, And after she ne'er saw him more; "I'll set the horse up," then he said, And there he left this harmless maid. She knocked, and straight a man he cried, 65 "Who's there?" "'Tis I," she then replied; Who wondred much her voice to hear, And was possessed with dread and fear. Her father he did tell, and then He stared like an affrighted man: 70 Down stairs he ran, and when he see her, Cried out, "My child, how cam'st thou here?" "Pray, sir, did you not send for me, By such a messenger?" said she: Which made his hair stare on his head, 75 As knowing well that he was dead. "Where is he?" then to her he said; "He's in the stable," quoth the maid. "Go in," said he, "and go to bed; I'll see the horse well littered." 80 He stared about, and there could he No shape of any mankind see, But found his horse all on a sweat; Which made him in a deadly fret. His daughter he said nothing to, 85 Nor none else, (though full well they knew That he was dead a month before,) For fear of grieving her full sore. Her father to the father went Of the deceased, with full intent 90 To tell him what his daughter said; So both came back unto this maid. They ask'd her, and she still did say 'Twas he that then brought her away; Which when they heard they were amazed, 95 And on each other strangely gazed. A handkerchief she said she tied About his head, and that they tried; The sexton they did speak unto, That he the grave would then undo. 100 Affrighted then they did behold His body turning into mould, And though he had a month been dead, This handkerchief was about his head. This thing unto her then they told, 105 And the whole truth they did unfold; She was thereat so terrified And grieved, that she quickly died. Part not true love, you rich men, then; But, if they be right honest men 110 Your daughters love, give them their way, For force oft breeds their lives decay. SIR ROLAND. From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 124. This fragment, Motherwell tells us, was communicated to him by an ingenious friend, who remembered having heard it sung in his youth. He does not vouch for its antiquity, and we have little or no hesitation in pronouncing it a modern composition. Whan he cam to his ain luve's bouir, He tirled at the pin, And sae ready was his fair fause luve To rise and let him in. "O welcome, welcome, Sir Roland," she says, 5 "Thrice welcome thou art to me; For this night thou wilt feast in my secret bouir, And to-morrow we'll wedded be." "This night is hallow-eve," he said, "And to-morrow is hallow-day; 10 And I dreamed a drearie dream yestreen, That has made my heart fu' wae. "I dreamed a drearie dream yestreen, And I wish it may cum to gude: I dreamed that ye slew my best grew hound, 15 And gied me his lappered blude." * * * * * "Unbuckle your belt, Sir Roland," she said, "And set you safely down." "O your chamber is very dark, fair maid, And the night is wondrous lown." 20 "Yes, dark, dark is my secret bowir, And lown the midnight may be; For there is none waking in a' this tower, But thou, my true love, and me." * * * * * She has mounted on her true love's steed, 25 By the ae light o' the moon; She has whipped him and spurred him, And roundly she rade frae the toun. She hadna ridden a mile o' gate, Never a mile but ane, 30 Whan she was aware of a tall young man, Slow riding o'er the plain. She turned her to the right about, Then to the left turn'd she; But aye, 'tween her and the wan moonlight, 35 That tall knight did she see. And he was riding burd alane, On a horse as black as jet; But tho' she followed him fast and fell, No nearer could she get. 40 "O stop! O stop! young man," she said, "For I in dule am dight; O stop, and win a fair lady's luve, If you be a leal true knight." But nothing did the tall knight say, 45 And nothing did he blin; Still slowly rode he on before, And fast she rade behind. She whipped her steed, she spurred her steed, Till his breast was all a foam; 50 But nearer unto that tall young knight, By Our Ladye, she could not come. "O if you be a gay young knight, As well I trow you be, Pull tight your bridle reins, and stay 55 Till I come up to thee." But nothing did that tall knight say, And no whit did he blin, Until he reached a broad river's side, And there he drew his rein. 60 "O is this water deep," he said, "As it is wondrous dun? Or it is sic as a saikless maid And a leal true knight may swim?" "The water it is deep," she said, 65 "As it is wondrous dun; But it is sic as a saikless maid And a leal true knight may swim." The knight spurred on his tall black steed, The lady spurred on her brown; 70 And fast they rade unto the flood, And fast they baith swam down. "The water weets my tae," she said, "The water weets my knee; And hold up my bridle reins, sir knight, 75 For the sake of Our Ladye." "If I would help thee now," he said, "It were a deadly sin; For I've sworn neir to trust a fair may's word, Till the water weets her chin." 80 "O the water weets my waist," she said, "Sae does it weet my skin; And my aching heart rins round about, The burn maks sic a din. "The water is waxing deeper still, 85 Sae does it wax mair wide; And aye the farther that we ride on, Farther off is the other side. "O help me now, thou false, false knight, Have pity on my youth; 90 For now the water jawes owre my head, And it gurgles in my mouth." The knight turned right and round about, All in the middle stream, And he stretched out his head to that lady, 95 But loudly she did scream. "O this is hallow-morn," he said, "And it is your bridal day; But sad would be that gay wedding, If bridegroom and bride were away. 100 "And ride on, ride on, proud Margaret! Till the water comes o'er your bree; For the bride maun ride deep, and deeper yet, Wha rides this ford wi' me. "Turn round, turn round, proud Margaret! 105 Turn ye round, and look on me; Thou hast killed a true knight under trust, And his ghost now links on with thee." APPENDIX. FRAGMENT OF THE BALLAD OF KING ARTHUR AND THE KING OF CORNWALL. Printed from the celebrated Percy MS. in Madden's _Syr Gawayne_, p. 275. The editor has added the following note. "It has no title, and the first line has been cut away by the ignorant binder to whom the volume was intrusted, but both are supplied from the notice given of the ballad in the Dissertation prefixed to vol. iii. of the _Reliques_, p. xxxvii. Dr. Percy has added in the margin of the MS. these words: "To the best of my remembrance, this was the first line, before the binder cut it." The poem is very imperfect, owing to the leaves having been half torn away to light fires (!) as the Bishop tells us, but I am bound to add, previous to its coming into his possession. The story is so singular, that it is to be hoped an earlier and complete copy of it may yet be recovered. On no account perhaps is it more remarkable, than the fact of its close imitation of the famous _gabs_ made by Charlemagne and his companions at the court of King Hugon, which are first met with in a romance of the twelfth century, published by M. Michel from a MS. in the British Museum, 12mo., London, 1836, and transferred at a later period to the prose romance of _Galien Rethoré_, printed by Verard, fol., 1500, and often afterwards. In the absence of other evidence, it is to be presumed that the author of the ballad borrowed from the printed work, substituting Arthur for Charlemagne, Gawayne for Oliver, Tristram for Roland, etc., and embellishing his story by converting King Hugon's spy into a "lodly feend," by whose agency the _gabs_ are accomplished. It is further worthy of notice, that the writer seems to regard Arthur as the sovereign of Little Britain, and alludes to an intrigue between the King of Cornwall and Queen Guenever, which is nowhere, as far as I recollect, hinted at in the romances of the Round Table." "Come here my cozen, Gawain, so gay; My sisters sonne be yee; For you shall see one of the fairest Round Tables, That ever you see with your eye." Then bespake [the] Lady Queen Guenever, 5 And these were the words said shee: "I know where a Round Table is, thou noble king, Is worth thy Round Table and other such three. "The trestle that stands under this Round Table," she said, "Lowe downe to the mould, 10 It is worth thy Round Table, thou worthy king, Thy halls, and all thy gold. "The place where this Round Table stands in, It is worth thy castle, thy gold, thy fee; And all good Litle Britaine,"-- 15 "Where may that table be, lady?" quoth hee, "Or where may all that goodly building be?" "You shall it seeke," shee sayd, "till you it find, For you shall never gett more of me." Then bespake him noble King Arthur, 20 These were the words said hee; "Ile make mine avow to God, And alsoe to the Trinity, "Ile never sleepe one night, there as I doe another, Till that Round Table I see; 25 Sir Marramiles and Sir Tristeram, Fellowes that ye shall bee. "Weele be clad in palmers weede, Five palmers we will bee; There is noe outlandish man will us abide, 30 Nor will us come nye." Then they rived east and they rived west,[L32] In many a strange country. Then they travelled[L34] a litle further, They saw a battle new sett; 35 "Now, by my faith," saies noble King Arthur, [_Half a page is here torn away._] But when he came that castle to, And to the palace gate, Soe ready was ther a proud porter, And met him soone therat. 40 Shooes of gold the porter had on, And all his other rayment was unto the same; "Now, by my faith," saies noble King Arthur, "Yonder is a minion swaine." Then bespake noble King Arthur, 45 These were the words says hee: "Come hither, thou proud porter, I pray thee come hither to me. "I have two poor rings of my finger, The better[L50] of them Ile give to thee; 50 [To] tell who may be lord of this castle," he saies, "Or who is lord in this cuntry?" "Cornewall King," the porter sayes, "There is none soe rich as hee; Neither in Christendome, nor yet in heathennest, 55 None hath soe much gold as he." And then bespake him noble King Arthur, These were the words sayes hee: "I have two poore rings of my finger, The better of them Ile give thee, 60 If thou wilt greete him well, Cornewall King, And greete him well from me. "Pray him for one nights lodging, and two meales meate, For his love that dyed uppon a tree; A bue[L65] ghesting, and two meales meate, 65 For his love that dyed uppon a tree. "A bue[L67] ghesting, and two meales meate, For his love that was of virgin borne, And in the morning that we may scape away, Either without scath or scorne." 70 Then forth is gone[L71] this proud porter, As fast as he cold hye; And when he came befor Cornewall King, He kneeled downe on his knee. Sayes, "I have beene porter, man, at thy gate, 75 [_Half a page is wanting._] ... our Lady was borne, Then thought Cornewall King these palmers had beene in Britt. Then bespake him Cornewall King, These were the words he said there: "Did you ever know a comely King, 80 His name was King Arthur?" And then bespake him noble King Arthur, These were the words said hee: "I doe not know that comly King, But once my selfe I did him see." 85 Then bespake Cornwall King againe, These were the words said he. Sayes, "Seven yeere I was clad and fed, In Litle Brittaine, in a bower; I had a daughter by King Arthurs wife, 90 It now is called my flower; For King Arthur, that kindly cockward, Hath none such in his bower. "For I durst sweare, and save my othe, That same lady soe bright, 95 That a man that were laid on his death-bed Wold open his eyes on her to have sight." "Now, by my faith," sayes noble King Arthur, "And thats a full faire wight!" And then bespoke Cornewall [King] againe, 100 And these were the words he said:[L101] "Come hither, five or three of my knights, And feitch me downe my steed; King Arthur, that foule cockeward, Hath none such, if he had need. 105 "For I can ryde him as far on a day, As King Arthur can doe any of his on three. And is it not a pleasure for a King, When he shall ryde forth on his journey? "For the eyes that beene in his head, 110 They[L111] glister as doth the gleed;"-- "Now, by my faith," says noble King Arthur, [_Half a page is wanting._] No body.... But one thats learned to speake. Then King Arthur to his bed was brought, 115 A greeived man was hee; And soe were all his fellowes with him, From him they[L118] thought never to flee. Then take they did that lodly boome,[L119] And under thrubchandler[L120] closed was hee; 120 And he was set by King Arthurs bed-side, To heere theire talke, and theire com'nye; That he might come forth, and make proclamation, Long before it was day; It was more for King Cornwalls pleasure, 125 Then it was for King Arthurs pay. And when King Arthur on his bed was laid, These were the words said hee: "Ile make mine avow to God, And alsoe to the Trinity, 130 That Ile be the bane of Cornwall Kinge Litle Brittaine or ever I see!" "It is an unadvised vow," saies Gawaine the gay, "As ever king hard make I; But wee that beene five christian men, 135 Of the christen faith are wee; And we shall fight against anoynted King, And all his armorie." And then he spake him noble Arthur, And these were the words said he: 140 "Why, if thou be afraid, Sir Gawaine the gay, Goe home, and drinke wine in thine owne country." 32, the rived west. 34, tranckled. 50, They better. 65, bue, _sic_. 67, bue, _sic_; of two. 71, his gone. 101, said he. 111, The. 118, the. 119, goome? 120, thrubchadler. THE THIRD PARTE. And then bespake Sir Gawaine the gay, And these were the words said hee: "Nay, seeing you have made such a hearty vow, 145 Here another vow make will I. "Ile make mine avow to God, And alsoe to the Trinity, That I will have yonder faire lady To Litle Brittaine with mee. 150 "Ile hose her hourly to my hart,[L151] And with her Ile worke my will; [_Half a page is wanting._] These were the words sayd hee: "Befor I wold wrestle with yonder feend, It is better be drowned in the sea." 155 And then bespake Sir Bredbeddle, And these were the words said he: "Why, I will wrestle with yon lodly feend, God! my governor thou shalt bee." Then bespake him noble Arthur, 160 And these were the[L161] words said he: "What weapons wilt thou have, thou gentle knight? I pray thee tell to me." He sayes, "Collen brand Ile have in my hand, And a Millaine knife fast be my knee; 165 And a Danish axe fast in my hands, That a sure weapon I thinke wilbe." Then with his Collen brand, that he had in his hand, The bunge of the trubchandler he burst in three. What that start out a lodly feend, 170 With seven heads, and one body. The fyer towards the element flew, Out of his mouth, where was great plentie; The knight stoode in the middle, and fought, That it was great joy to see. 175 Till his Collaine brand brake in his hand, And his Millaine knife burst on his knee; And then the Danish axe burst in his hand first, That a sur weapon he thought shold be. But now is the knight left without any weapone, 180 And alacke! it was the more pitty; But a surer weapon then had he one, Had never Lord in Christentye: And all was but one litle booke, He found it by the side of the sea. 185 He found it at the sea-side, Wrucked upp in a floode; Our Lord had written it with his hands, And sealed it with his bloode. [_Half a page is wanting._] "That thou doe.... 190 But ly still in that wall of stone; Till I have beene with noble King Arthur, And told him what I have done." And when he came to the King's chamber, He cold of his curtesie 195 Saye, "Sleep you, wake you, noble King Arthur? And ever Jesus watch yee!" "Nay, I am not sleeping, I am waking," These were the words said hee: "For thee I have car'd; how hast thou fared? 200 O gentle knight, let me see." The knight wrought the King his booke, Bad him behold, reede, and see; And ever he found it on the backside of the leafe, As noble Arthur wold wish it to be. 205 And then bespake him King Arthur, "Alas! thou gentle knight, how may this be, That I might see him in the same licknesse, That he stood unto thee?" And then bespake him the Greene Knight,[L210] 210 These were the words said hee: "If youle stand stifly in the battell stronge, For I have won all the victory." Then bespake him the King againe, And these were the words said hee: 215 "If we stand not stifly in this battell strong, Wee are worthy to be hanged all on a tree." Then bespake him the Greene Knight, These were the words said hee: Saies, "I doe coniure thee, thou fowle feend, 220 In the same licknesse thou stood unto me." With that start out a lodly feend, With seven heads, and one body; The fier towarde the element flaugh, Out of his mouth, where was great plenty. 225 The knight stood in the middle.... [_Half a page is wanting._] ... the space of an houre, I know not what they did. And then bespake him the Greene Knight, And these were the words said he: 230 Saith, "I coniure thee, thou fowle feend, That thou feitch downe the steed that we see." And then forth is gone Burlow-beanie, As fast as he cold hie; And feitch he did that faire steed, 235 And came againe by and by. Then bespake him Sir Marramile, And these were the words said hee: "Riding of this steed, brother Bredbeddle, The mastery belongs to me." 240 Marramiles tooke the steed to his hand, To ryd him he was full bold; He cold noe more make him goe, Then a child of three yeere old. He laid[L245] uppon him with heele and hand, 245 With yard that was soe fell; "Helpe! brother Bredbeddle," says Marramile, "For I thinke he be the devill of hell. "Helpe! brother Bredbeddle," says Marramile. "Helpe! for Christs pittye; 250 For without thy help, brother Bredbeddle, He will never be rydden for me."[L252] Then bespake him Sir Bredbeddle, These were the words said he: "I coniure thee, thou Burlow-beane,[L255] 255 Thou tell me how this steed was riddin in his country." He saith, "There is a gold wand, Stands in King Cornwalls study windowe. "Let him take that wand in that window, And strike three strokes on that steed; 260 And then he will spring forth of his hand, As sparke doth out of gleede." Then bespake him the Greene Knight, [_Half a page is wanting._] A lowd blast.... And then bespake Sir Bredbeddle, 265 To the feend these words said hee: Says, "I coniure thee, thou Burlow-beanie, The powder-box thou feitch me." Then forth is gone Burlow-beanie, As fast as he cold hie; 270 And feich he did the powder-box, And came againe by and by. Then Sir Tristeram tooke powder forth of that box, And blent it with warme sweet milke; And there put it unto the horne, 275 And swilled it about in that ilke. Then he tooke the horne in his hand, And a lowd blast he blew; He rent the horne up to the midst, All his fellowes this they knew.[L280] 280 Then bespake him the Greene Knight, These were the words said he: Saies. "I coniure thee, thou Burlow-beanie, That thou feitch me the sword that I see." Then forth is gone Burlow-beanie, 285 As fast as he cold hie; And feitch he did that faire sword, And came againe by and by. Then bespake him Sir Bredbeddle, To the king these words said he: 290 "Take this sword in thy hand, thou noble King, For the vowes sake that thou made Ile give it thee; And goe strike off King Cornewalls head, In bed where he doth lye."[L294] Then forth is gone noble King Arthur, 295 As fast as he cold hye; And strucken he hath King Cornwalls head, And came againe by and by. He put the head upon a swords point, [_The poem terminates here abruptly._] 151, hurt. 161, they words. 210, The Greene Knight is Sir Bredbeddle. 245, sayed. 252, p' me, _i.e._ pro or per. 255, Burlow-leane. 280, the knew. 294, were. FRAGMENT OF CHILD ROWLAND AND BURD ELLEN. It is not impossible that this ballad should be the one quoted by Edgar in _King Lear_, (Act iii. sc. 4:) "Child Rowland to the dark tower came." We have extracted the fragment given by Jamieson, with the breaks in the story filled out, from _Illustrations of Northern Antiquities_, p. 397; and we have added his translation of the Danish ballad of _Rosmer Hafmand_, which exhibits a striking similarity to _Child Rowland_, from _Popular Ballads and Songs_, ii. 202. The tale of the _Red Etin_, as given in Chamber's _Pop. Rhymes of Scotland_, p. 56, has much resemblance to Jamieson's story, and, like it, is interspersed with verse. The occurrence of the name Merlin is by no means a sufficient ground for connecting this tale, as Jamieson would do, with the cycle of King Arthur. For Merlin, as Grundtvig has remarked (_Folkeviser_, ii. 79), did not originally belong to that cycle, and again, his name seems to have been given in Scotland to any sort of wizard or prophet. * * * * * ["King Arthur's sons o' merry Carlisle] Were playing at the ba'; And there was their sister Burd Ellen, I' the mids amang them a'. "Child Rowland kick'd it wi' his foot, 5 And keppit it wi' his knee; And ay, as he play'd out o'er them a', O'er the kirk he gar'd it flee. "Burd Ellen round about the isle To seek the ba' is gane; 10 But they bade lang and ay langer, And she camena back again. "They sought her east, they sought her west, They sought her up and down; And wae were the hearts [in merry Carlisle,] 15 For she was nae gait found!" At last her eldest brother went to the Warluck Merlin, (_Myrddin Wyldt_,) and asked if he knew where his sister, the fair Burd Ellen, was. "The fair Burd Ellen," said the Warluck Merlin, "is carried away by the fairies, and is now in the castle of the king of Elfland; and it were too bold an undertaking for the stoutest knight in Christendom to bring her back." "Is it possible to bring her back?" said her brother, "and I will do it, or perish in the attempt." "Possible indeed it is," said the Warluck Merlin; "but woe to the man or mother's son who attempts it, if he is not well instructed beforehand of what he is to do." Influenced no less by the glory of such an enterprise, than by the desire of rescuing his sister, the brother of the fair Burd Ellen resolved to undertake the adventure; and after proper instructions from Merlin, (which he failed in observing,) he set out on his perilous expedition. "But they bade lang and ay langer, Wi' dout and mickle maen; And wae were the hearts [in merry Carlisle,] For he camena back again." 20 The second brother in like manner set out; but failed in observing the instructions of the Warluck Merlin; and "They bade lang and ay langer, Wi' mickle dout and maen; And wae were the hearts [in merry Carlisle,] For he camena back again." Child Rowland, the youngest brother of the fair Burd Ellen, then resolved to go; but was strenuously opposed by the good queen, [Gwenevra,] who was afraid of losing all her children. At last the good queen [Gwenevra] gave him her consent and her blessing; he girt on (in great form, and with all due solemnity of sacerdotal consecration,) his father's good _claymore_, [Excalibar,] that never struck in vain, and repaired to the cave of the Warluck Merlin. The Warluck Merlin gave him all necessary instructions for his journey and conduct, the most important of which were, that he should kill every person he met with after entering the land of Fairy, and should neither eat nor drink of what was offered him in that country, whatever his hunger or thirst might be; for if he tasted or touched in Elfland, he must remain in the power of the Elves, and never see _middle eard_ again. So Child Rowland set out on his journey, and travelled "on and ay farther on," till he came to where (as he had been forewarned by the Warluck Merlin,) he found the king of Elfland's horse-herd feeding his horses. "Canst thou tell me," said Child Rowland to the horse-herd, "where the king of Elfland's castle is?"--"I cannot tell thee," said the horse-herd; "but go on a little farther, and thou wilt come to the cow-herd, and he, perhaps, may tell thee." So Child Rowland drew the good claymore, [Excalibar,] that never struck in vain, and hewed off the head of the horse-herd. Child Rowland then went on a little farther, till he came to the king of Elfland's cow-herd, who was feeding his cows. "Canst thou tell me," said Child Rowland to the cow-herd, "where the king of Elfland's castle is?"--"I cannot tell thee," said the cow-herd; "but go on a little farther, and thou wilt come to the sheep-herd, and he perhaps may tell thee." So Child Rowland drew the good claymore, [Excalibar,] that never struck in vain, and hewed off the head of the cow-herd. He then went on a little farther, till he came to the sheep-herd. * * * * [_The sheep-herd, goat-herd, and swine-herd are all, each in his turn, served in the same manner; and lastly he is referred to the hen-wife._] "Go on yet a little farther," said the hen-wife, "till thou come to a round green hill surrounded with rings (_terraces_) from the bottom to the top; go round it three times _widershins_, and every time say, "Open, door! open, door! and let me come in; and the third time the door will open, and you may go in." So Child Rowland drew the good claymore, [Excalibar,] that never struck in vain, and hewed off the head of the hen-wife. Then went he three times _widershins_ round the green hill, crying, "Open, door! open, door! and let me come in;" and the third time the door opened, and he went in. It immediately closed behind him; and he proceeded through a long passage, where the air was soft and agreeably warm like a May evening, as is all the air of Elfland. The light was a sort of twilight or gloaming; but there were neither windows nor candles, and he knew not whence it came, if it was not from the walls and roof, which were rough, and arched like a grotto, and composed of a clear transparent rock, incrusted with _sheeps-silver_ and spar, and various bright stones. At last he came to two wide and lofty folding-doors, which stood a-jar. He opened them, and entered a large and spacious hall, whose richness and brilliance no tongue can tell. It seemed to extend the whole length and height of the hill. The superb Gothic pillars by which the roof was supported, were so large and so lofty, (said my seannachy,) that the pillars of the Chanry Kirk,[D] or of Pluscardin Abbey, are no more to be compared to them, than the Knock of Alves is to be compared to Balrinnes or Ben-a-chi. They were of gold and silver, and were fretted like the west window of the Chanry Kirk, with wreaths of flowers composed of diamonds and precious stones of all manner of beautiful colors. The key-stones of the arches above, instead of coats of arms and other devices, were ornamented with clusters of diamonds in the same manner. And from the middle of the roof, where the principal arches met, was hung by a gold chain, an immense lamp of one hollowed pearl, perfectly transparent, in the midst of which was suspended a large carbuncle, that by the power of magic continually turned round, and shed over all the hall a clear and mild light like the setting sun; but the hall was so large, and these dazzling objects so far removed, that their blended radiance cast no more than a pleasing lustre, and excited no more than agreeable sensations in the eyes of Child Rowland. [D] The cathedral of Elgin naturally enough furnished similes to a man who had never in his life been twenty miles distant from it. The furniture of the hall was suitable to its architecture; and at the farther end, under a splendid canopy, seated on a gorgeous sofa of velvet, silk, and gold, and "kembing her yellow hair wi' a silver kemb," "There was his sister burd Ellen; 25 She stood up him before." Says, "'God rue on thee, poor luckless fode! What has thou to do here? "'And hear ye this, my youngest brither, Why badena ye at hame? 30 Had ye a hundur and thousand lives, Ye canna brook ane o' them. "'And sit thou down; and wae, O wae That ever thou was born; For come the King o' Elfland in, 35 Thy leccam is forlorn!'" A long conversation then takes place; Child Rowland tells her the news [of merry Carlisle,] and of his own expedition; and concludes with the observation, that, after this long and fatiguing journey to the castle of the king of Elfland, he is _very hungry_. Burd Ellen looked wistfully and mournfully at him, and shook her head, but said nothing. Acting under the influence of a magic which she could not resist, she arose, and brought him a golden bowl full of bread and milk, which she presented to him with the same timid, tender, and anxious expression of solicitude. Remembering the instructions of the Warluck Merlin, "Burd Ellen," said Child Rowland, "I will neither taste nor touch till I have set thee free!" Immediately the folding-doors burst open with tremendous violence, and in came the king of Elfland, "With '_fi_, _fi_, _fo_, and _fum_! I smell the blood of a Christian man! Be he dead, be he living, wi' my brand I'll clash his harns frae his harn-pan!'" 40 "Strike, then, Bogle of Hell, if thou darest!" exclaimed the undaunted Child Rowland, starting up, and drawing the good claymore, [Excalibar,] that never struck in vain. A furious combat ensued, and the king of Elfland was felled to the ground; but Child Rowland spared him on condition that he should restore to him his two brothers, who lay in a trance in a corner of the hall, and his sister, the fair burd Ellen. The king of Elfland then produced a small crystal phial, containing a bright red liquor, with which he anointed the lips, nostrils, eye-lids, ears, and finger-ends of the two young men, who immediately awoke as from a profound sleep, during which their souls had quitted their bodies, and they had seen, &c., &c., &c. So they all four returned in triumph to [merry Carlisle.] Such was the rude outline of the romance of Child Rowland, as it was told to me when I was about seven or eight years old, by a country tailor then at work in my father's house. He was an ignorant and dull good sort of honest man, who seemed never to have questioned the truth of what he related. Where the _et cæteras_ are put down, many curious particulars have been omitted, because I was afraid of being deceived by my memory, and substituting one thing for another. It is right also to admonish the reader, that the Warluck Merlin, Child Rowland, and Burd Ellen, were the only _names_ introduced in _his_ recitation; and that the others, inclosed within brackets, are assumed upon the authority of the locality given to the story by the mention of _Merlin_. In every other respect I have been as faithful as possible. ROSMER HAFMAND, OR, THE MER-MAN ROSMER. The ballad of _Rosmer_ is found in Danish, Swedish, Faroish, and Norse. All the questions bearing upon its origin, and the relations of the various _forms_ in which the story exists, are amply discussed by Grundtvig, vol. ii. p. 72. Three versions of the Danish ballad are given by Vedel, all of which Jamieson has translated. The following is No. 31 in Abrahamson. There dwalls a lady in Danmarck, Lady Hillers lyle men her ca'; And she's gar'd bigg a new castell, That shines o'er Danmarck a'. Her dochter was stown awa frae her; 5 She sought for her wide-whare; But the mair she sought, and the less she fand,-- That wirks her sorrow and care. And she's gar'd bigg a new ship, Wi' vanes o' flaming goud, 10 Wi' mony a knight and mariner, Sae stark in need bestow'd. She's followed her sons down to the strand, That chaste and noble fre; And wull and waif for eight lang years 15 They sail'd upon the sea. And eight years wull and waif they sail'd, O' months that seem'd sae lang; Syne they sail'd afore a high castell, And to the land can gang. 20 And the young lady Svanè lyle, In the bower that was the best, Says, "Wharfrae cam thir frem swains, Wi' us this night to guest?" Then up and spak her youngest brither, 25 Sae wisely ay spak he; "We are a widow's three poor sons, Lang wilder'd on the sea. "In Danmarck were we born and bred, Lady Hillers lyle was our mither; 30 Our sister frae us was stown awa, We findna whare or whither." "In Danmarck were ye born and bred? Was Lady Hillers your mither? I can nae langer heal frae thee, 35 Thou art my youngest brither. "And hear ye this, my youngest brither: Why bade na ye at hame? Had ye a hunder and thousand lives, Ye canna brook ane o' them." 40 She's set him in the weiest nook She in the house can meet; She's bidden him for the high God's sake Nouther to laugh ne greet. Rosmer hame frae Zealand came, 45 And he took on to bann: "I smell fu' weel, by my right hand, That here is a Christian man." "There flew a bird out o'er the house, Wi' a man's bane in his mouth; 50 He coost it in, and I cast it out, As fast as e'er I couth." But wilyly she can Rosmer win; And clapping him tenderly, "It's here is come my sister-son;-- 55 Gin I lose him, I'll die. "It's here is come, my sister-son, Frae baith our fathers' land; And I ha'e pledged him faith and troth, That ye will not him bann." 60 "And is he come, thy sister-son, Frae thy father's land to thee? Then I will swear my highest aith, He's dree nae skaith frae me." 'Twas then the high king Rosmer, 65 He ca'd on younkers twae: "Ye bid proud Svanè lyle's sister-son To the chalmer afore me gae." It was Svanè lyle's sister-son, Whan afore Rosmer he wan, 70 His heart it quook, and his body shook, Sae fley'd, he scarce dow stand. Sae Rosmer took her sister-son, Set him upon his knee; He clappit him sae luifsomely, 75 He turned baith blue and blae. And up and spak she, Svanè lyle; "Sir Rosmer, ye're nae to learn That your ten fingers arena sma, To clap sae little a bairn." 80 There was he till, the fifthen year, He green'd for hame and land: "Help me now, sister Svanè lyle, To be set on the white sand." It was proud Lady Svanè lyle, 85 Afore Rosmer can stand: "This younker sae lang in the sea has been, He greens for hame and land." "Gin the younker sae lang in the sea has been, And greens for hame and land, 90 Then I'll gie him a kist wi' goud, Sae fitting till his hand." "And will ye gi'e him a kist wi' goud, Sae fitting till his hand? Then hear ye, my noble heartis dear, 95 Ye bear them baith to land." Then wrought proud Lady Svanè lyle What Rosmer little wist; For she's tane out the goud sae red, And laid hersel i' the kist. 100 He's ta'en the man upon his back; The kist in his mouth took he; And he has gane the lang way up Frae the bottom o' the sea. "Now I ha'e borne thee to the land; 105 Thou seest baith sun and moon; Namena Lady Svanè for thy highest God, I beg thee as a boon." Rosmer sprang i' the saut sea out, And jawp'd it up i' the sky; 110 But whan he cam till the castell in, Nae Svanè lyle could he spy. Whan he came till the castell in, His dearest awa was gane; Like wood he sprang the castell about, 115 On the rock o' the black flintstane. Glad they were in proud Hillers lyle's house, Wi' welcome joy and glee; Hame to their friends her bairns were come, That had lang been in the sea. 120 TAM-A-LINE, THE ELFIN KNIGHT. (See page 114.) From _Scottish Traditionary Versions of Ancient Ballads_, Percy Society, xvii. p. 11. Take warnin', a' ye ladyes fair, That wear gowd on your hair; Come never unto Charter-woods, For Tam-a-line he's there. Even about that knicht's middle 5 O' siller bells are nine; Nae ane comes to Charter-woods, And a may returns agen. Ladye Margaret sits in her bouir door, Sewing at her silken seam; 10 And she lang'd to gang to Charter woods, To pou the roses green. She hadna pou'd a rose, a rose, Nor braken a branch but ane, Till by it came him true Tam-a-line, 15 Says, "Layde, lat alane. "O why pou ye the rose, the rose? Or why brake ye the tree? Or why come ye to Charter-woods, Without leave ask'd of me?" 20 "I will pou the rose, the rose, And I will brake the tree; Charter-woods are a' my ain, I'll ask nae leave o' thee." He's taen her by the milk-white hand, 25 And by the grass-green sleeve; And laid her low on gude green wood, At her he spier'd nae leave. When he had got his will o' her, His will as he had ta'en, 30 He's ta'en her by the middle sma', Set her to feet again. She turn'd her richt and round about, To spier her true love's name, But naething heard she, nor naething saw, 35 As a' the woods grew dim. Seven days she tarried there, Saw neither sun nor muin; At length, by a sma' glimmerin' licht, Came thro' the wood her lane. 40 When she came to her father's court, Was fine as ony queen; But when eight months were past and gane, Got on the gown o' green. Then out it speaks an eldren knicht, 45 As he stood at the yett; "Our king's dochter, she gaes wi' bairn, And we'll get a' the wyte." "O haud your tongue, ye eldren man, And bring me not to shame; 50 Although that I do gang wi' bairn, Yese naeways get the blame. "Were my love but an earthly man, As he's an elfin knicht, I wadna gie my ain true luve, 55 For a' that's in my sicht." Then out it speaks her brither dear, He meant to do her harm, "There is an herb in Charter-woods Will twine you an' the bairn." 60 She's taen her mantle her about, Her coiffer by the band; And she is on to Charter-woods, As fast as she coud gang. She hadna poud a rose, a rose, 65 Nor braken a branch but ane, Till by it came him, Tam-a-Line, Says, "Ladye, lat alane." "O! why pou ye the pile, Margaret, The pile o' the gravil green, 70 For to destroy the bonny bairn That we got us between? "O! why pou ye the pile, Margaret, The pile o' the gravil gray, For to destroy the bonny bairn 75 That we got in our play? "For if it be a knave bairn, He's heir o' a' my land; But if it be a lass bairn, In red gowd she shall gang." 80 "If my luve were an earthly man, As he's an elfin grey, I coud gang bound, luve, for your sake, A twalmonth and a day." "Indeed your luve's an earthly man, 85 The same as well as thee; And lang I've haunted Charter-woods, A' for your fair bodie." "O! tell me, tell me, Tam-a-Line, O! tell, an' tell me true; 90 Tell me this nicht, an' mak' nae lee, What pedigree are you?" "O! I hae been at gude church-door, An' I've got christendom; I'm the Earl o' Forbes' eldest son, 95 An' heir ower a' his land. "When I was young, o' three years old, Muckle was made o' me; My stepmither put on my claithes, An' ill, ill, sained she me. 100 "Ae fatal morning I gaed out, Dreading nae injurie; And thinking lang, fell soun asleep, Beneath an apple tree. "Then by it came the Elfin Queen, 105 And laid her hand on me; And from that time since e'er I mind, I've been in her companie. "O Elfin it's a bonny place, In it fain wad I dwell; 110 But aye at ilka seven years' end, They pay a tiend to hell, And I'm sae fou o' flesh an blude, I'm sair fear'd for mysell." "O tell me, tell me, Tam-a-Line, 115 O tell, an' tell me true; Tell me this nicht, an' mak' nae lee, What way I'll borrow you?" "The morn is Hallowe'en nicht, The Elfin court will ride, 120 Through England, and thro' a' Scotland, And through the warld wide. "O they begin at sky sett in, Ride a' the evenin' tide; And she that will her true love borrow, 125 At Miles-cross will him bide. "Ye'll do ye down to Miles-cross, Between twall hours and ane; And full your hands o' holie water, And cast your compass roun'. 130 "Then the first ane court that comes you till, Is published king and queen; The neist ane court that comes you till, It is maidens mony ane. "The neist ane court that comes you till, 135 Is footmen, grooms, and squires; The neist ane court that comes you till, Is knichts; and I'll be there. "I Tam-a-Line, on milk-white steed, A gowd star on my crown; 140 Because I was an earthly knicht, Got that for a renown. "And out at my steed's right nostril, He'll breathe a fiery flame; Ye'll loot you low, and sain yoursel, 145 And ye'll be busy then. "Ye'll tak' my horse then by the head, And lat the bridal fa'; The Queen o' Elfin she'll cry out, 'True Tam-a-Line's awa'.' 150 "Then I'll appear into your arms Like the wolf that ne'er wad tame; Ye'll haud me fast, lat me not gae, Case we ne'er meet again. "Then I'll appear into your arms 155 Like fire that burns sae bauld; Ye'll haud me fast, lat me not gae, I'll be as iron cauld. "Then I'll appear into your arms Like the adder an' the snake; 160 Ye'll haud me fast, lat me not gae, I am your warld's maike. "Then I'll appear into your arms Like to the deer sae wild; Ye'll haud me fast, lat me not gae, 165 And I'll father your child. "And I'll appear into your arms Like to a silken string; Ye'll haud me fast, lat me not gae, Till ye see the fair mornin'. 170 "And I'll appear into your arms Like to a naked man; Ye'll haud me fast, lat me not gae, And wi' you I'll gae hame." Then she has done her to Miles-cross, 175 Between twal hours an' ane; And filled her hands o' holie water, And kiest her compass roun'. The first ane court that came her till, Was published king and queen; 180 The niest ane court that came her till, Was maidens mony ane. The niest ane court that came her till, Was footmen, grooms, and squires; The niest ane court that came her till, 185 Was knichts; and he was there! True Tam-a-Line, on milk-white steed, A gowd star on his crown; Because he was an earthly man, Got that for a renown. 190 And out at the steed's right nostril, He breath'd a fiery flame; She loots her low, an' sains hersel, And she was busy then. She's taen the horse then by the head, 195 And loot the bridle fa'; The Queen o' Elfin she cried out,-- "True Tam-a-Line's awa'." "Stay still, true Tam-a-Line," she says, "Till I pay you your fee;" 200 "His father wants not lands nor rents, He'll ask nae fee frae thee." "Gin I had kent yestreen, yestreen, What I ken weel the day, I shou'd hae taen your fu' fause heart, 205 Gien you a heart o' clay." Then he appeared into her arms Like the wolf that ne'er wad tame; She held him fast, lat him not gae, Case they ne'er met again. 210 Then he appeared into her arms Like the fire burning bauld; She held him fast, lat him not gae, He was as iron cauld. And he appeared into her arms 215 Like the adder an' the snake; She held him fast, lat him not gae, He was her warld's maike. And he appeared into her arms Like to the deer sae wild; 220 She held him fast, lat him not gae, He's father o' her child. And he appeared into her arms Like to a silken string; She held him fast, lat him not gae, 225 Till she saw fair mornin'. And he appeared into her arms Like to a naked man; She held him fast, lat him not gae, And wi' her he's gane hame. 230 These news hae reach'd thro' a' Scotland, And far ayont the Tay, That ladye Margaret, our king's dochter, That nicht had gain'd her prey. She borrowed her love at mirk midnicht, 235 Bare her young son ere day; And though ye'd search the warld wide, Ye'll nae find sic a may. TOM LINN. (See p. 114.) This fragment was taken down from the recitation of an old woman. Maidment's _New Book of Old Ballads_, p. 54. O all you ladies young and gay, Who are so sweet and fair, Do not go into Chaster's wood, For Tomlinn will be there. * * * * * Fair Margaret sat in her bonny bower, 5 Sewing her silken seam, And wished to be in Chaster's wood, Among the leaves so green. She let the seam fall to her foot, The needle to her toe, 10 And she has gone to Chaster's wood, As fast as she could go. When she began to pull the flowers; She pull'd both red and green; Then by did come, and by did go, 15 Said, "Fair maid, let abene! "O why pluck you the flowers, lady, Or why climb you the tree? Or why come ye to Chaster's wood, Without the leave of me?" 20 "O I will pull the flowers," she said, "Or I will break the tree; For Chaster's wood it is my own, I'll ask no leave at thee." He took her by the milk-white hand, 25 And by the grass-green sleeve; And laid her down upon the flowers, At her he ask'd no leave. The lady blush'd and sourly frown'd, And she did think great shame; 30 Says, "If you are a gentleman, You will tell me your name." "First they call me Jack," he said, "And then they call'd me John; But since I liv'd in the Fairy court, 35 Tomlinn has always been my name. "So do not pluck that flower, lady, That has these pimples gray; They would destroy the bonny babe That we've gotten in our play." 40 "O tell to me, Tomlinn," she said, "And tell it to me soon; Was you ever at a good church door, Or got you christendom?" "O I have been at good church door, 45 And oft her yetts within; I was the Laird of Foulis's son, The heir of all his land. "But it fell once upon a day, As hunting I did ride, 50 As I rode east and west yon hill, Then woe did me betide. "O drowsy, drowsy as I was, Dead sleep upon me fell; The Queen of Fairies she was there, 55 And took me to hersel. "The morn at even is Hallowe'en, Our Fairy court will ride, Through England and through Scotland both, Through all the world wide; 60 And if that ye would me borrow, At Rides Cross ye may bide. "You may go into the Miles Moss, Between twelve hours and one; Take holy water in your hand, 65 And cast a compass round. "The first court that comes along, You'll let them all pass by; The next court that comes along, Salute them reverently. 70 "The next court that comes along, Is clad in robes of green; And it's the head court of them all, For in it rides the Queen. "And I upon a milk-white steed, 75 With a gold star in my crown; Because I am an earthly man, I'm next the Queen in renown. "Then seize upon me with a spring, Then to the ground I'll fa'; 80 And then you'll hear a rueful cry, That Tomlinn is awa'. "Then I'll grow in your arms two, Like to a savage wild; But hold me fast, let me not go, 85 I'm father of your child. "I'll grow into your arms two Like an adder, or a snake; But hold me fast, let me not go, I'll be your earthly maik. 90 "I'll grow into your arms two Like ice on frozen lake; But hold me fast, let me not go, Or from your goupen break. "I'll grow into your arms two, 95 Like iron in strong fire; But hold me fast, let me not go, Then you'll have your desire." And its next night into Miles Moss, Fair Margaret has gone; 100 When lo she stands beside Rides Cross, Between twelve hours and one. There's holy water in her hand, She casts a compass round; And presently a Fairy band 105 Comes riding o'er the mound. * * * * * This seems to be the most appropriate connection for a short fragment from Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, (p. 21.) It was taken down from the recitation of a lady who had heard it sung in her childhood. BURD ELLEN AND YOUNG TAMLANE. Burd Ellen sits in the bower windowe, _With a double laddy double, and for the double dow_, Twisting the red silk and the blue, _With the double rose and the May-hay_. And whiles she twisted, and whiles she twan, 5 _With a double_, &c. And whiles the tears fell down amang, _With the double_, &c. Till once there by cam young Tamlane, _With a double_, &c. 10 "Come light, oh light, and rock your young son!" _With the double_, &c. "If you winna rock him, you may let him rair, _With a double_, &c. For I hae rockit my share and mair." 15 _With the double_, &c. * * * * * Young Tamlane to the seas he's gane, _With a double laddy double, and for the double dow,_ And a' women's curse in his company's gane, _With the double rose and the May-hay_. 20 ALS Y YOD ON AY MOUNDAY. (See p. 126.) In the manuscript from which these verses are taken, they form the preface to a long strain of incomprehensible prophecies of the same description as those which are appended to _Thomas of Ersyldoune_. Whether the two portions belong together, or not, (and it will be seen that they are ill enough joined,) the first alone requires to be cited here for the purpose of comparison with the _Wee Wee Man_. The whole piece has been twice printed, first by Finlay, in his _Scottish Ballads_, (ii. 163,) and afterwards, by a person who was not aware that he had been anticipated, in the _Retrospective Review_, Second Series, vol. ii. p. 326. Both texts are in places nearly unintelligible, and are evidently full of errors, part of which we must ascribe to the incompetency of the editors. Finlay's is here adopted as on the whole the best, but it has received a few corrections from the other, and one or two conjectural emendations. Als y yod on ay Mounday Bytwene Wyltinden and Wall, The ane after brade way, Ay litel man y mette with alle, The leste yat ever y, sathe to say, 5 Oither in bowr, oither in halle; His robe was noither grene na gray, Bot alle yt was of riche palle. On me he cald, and bad me bide; Well stille y stode ay litel space; 10 Fra Lanchestre the parke syde Yeen he come, wel fair his pase. He hailsed me with mikel pride; Ic haved wel mykel ferly wat he was; I saide,--"Wel mote the betyde, 15 That litel man with large face." I beheld that litel man Bi the strete als we gon gae; His berd was syde ay large span, And glided als the fether of pae; 20 His heved was wyte als ony swan, His hegehen was gret and grai als so; Brues lange, wel I the can Merk it to fize inches and mae. Armes scort, for sothe I saye, 25 Ay span seemed thaem to bee: Handes brade vytouten nay, And fingeres lange, he scheued me. Ay stane he tok op thar it lay, And castit forth that I moth see; 30 Ay merk-soot of large way Bifore me strides he castit three. Wel stille I stod als did the stane, To loke him on thouth me nouth lang; His robe was alle gold begane, 35 Wel craftelike[L36] maked, I understande; Botones asurd, everlk ane, Fra his elbouthe ontil his hande; Erdelik[L39] man was he nane; That in myn hert ich onderstande. 40 Til him I sayde ful sone on ane, For forthirmar I wald him fraine, "Gladli wald[L43] I wit thi name, And I wist wat me mouthe gaine; Thou ert so litel of fleshe and bane, 45 And so mikel of mith and mayne, War vones thou, litel man, at hame? Wit of thee I wald ful faine." "Thoth I be litel and lith, Am y noth wytouten wane; 50 Ferli frained thou wat hi hith, That[L52] thou salt noth wit my name; My wonige stede ful wel es dyght,[L53] Nou sone thou salt se at hame." Til him I sayde, "For Godes mith, 55 Let me forth myn erand gane." "The thar noth of thin erand lette, Thouth thou come ay stonde wit me, Forther salt thou noth bi sette, Bi miles twa noyther bi three." 60 Na linger durst I for him lette, But forth y funded wyt that free; Stintid vs brok no beck; Ferlich me thouth hu so mouth bee. He vent forth, als y you say, 65 In at ay yate, y vnderstande; In til ay yate wvndouten nay; It to se thouth me nouth[L68] lang. The bankers on the binkes lay, And fair lordes sett y fonde; 70 In ilka ay hirn y herd ay lay, And leuedys soth meloude sange. [Here there seems to be a break, and a new start made, with a tale told not on a _Monday_, but on a _Wednesday_.] Lithe, bothe zonge and alde: Of ay worde y will you saye, Ay litel tale that me was tald Erli on ay Wedenesdaye. A mody barn, that was ful bald, My friend that y frained aye, Al my gesing he me tald, And galid me als we went bi waye. "Miri man, that es so wyth, Of ay thing gif me answere: For him that mensked man wyt mith, Wat sal worth of this were?" &c. Finlay, 36, crustlike. 39, Clidelik. 43, Glalli wild. 52, That, qy. Yat?; with. 53, dygh. 68, south. THE ELPHIN KNIGHT. (See p. 128.) "The following transcript is a literal copy from the original in the Pepysian library, Cambridge." Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, Appendix, p. i. "A Proper New Ballad, entituled, _The Wind hath blown my Plaid away, or, A Discourse betwixt a young Maid and the Elphin-Knight_; To be sung with its own pleasant New Tune." The Elphin Knight site on yon hill, _Ba, ba, ba, lilli ba,_ He blowes his horn both loud and shril, _The wind hath blown my plaid awa_. He blowes it East, he blowes it West, 5 _Ba, ba_, &c. He blowes it where he lyketh best. _The wind_, &c. "I wish that horn were in my kist, _Ba, ba_, &c. 10 Yea, and the knight in my armes two." _The wind_, &c. She had no sooner these words said, _Ba, ba_, &c. When that the knight came to her bed. 15 _The wind_, &c. "Thou art over young a maid," quoth he, _Ba, ba_, &c. "Married with me thou il wouldst be." _The wind_, &c. 20 "I have a sister younger than I, _Ba, ba_, &c. And she was married yesterday." _The wind_, &c. "Married with me if thou wouldst be, 25 _Ba, ba_, &c. A courtesie thou must do to me. _The wind_, &c. "For thou must shape a sark to me, _Ba, ba_, &c. 30 Without any cut or heme," quoth he. _The wind_, &c. "Thou must shape it needle- and sheerlesse, _Ba, ba_, &c. And also sue it needle-threedlesse." 35 _The wind_, &c. "If that piece of courtesie I do to thee, _Ba, ba_, &c. Another thou must do to me. _The wind_, &c. 40 "I have an aiker of good ley-land, _Ba, ba_, &c. Which lyeth low by yon sea-strand. _The wind_, &c. "For thou must cure it with thy horn, 45 _Ba, ba_, &c. So thou must sow it with thy corn. _The wind_, &c. "And bigg a cart of stone and lyme, _Ba, ba_, &c. 50 Robin Redbreast he must trail it hame. _The wind_, &c. "Thou must barn it in a mouse-holl, _Ba, ba_, &c. And thrash it into thy shoes' soll. 55 _The wind_, &c. "And thou must winnow it in thy looff, _Ba, ba_, &c. And also seck it in thy glove. _The wind_, &c. 60 "For thou must bring it over the sea, _Ba, ba_, &c. And thou must bring it dry home to me. _The wind_, &c. "When thou hast gotten thy turns well done, 65 _Ba, ba_, &c. Then come to me and get thy sark then. _The wind_, &c." "I'l not quite my plaid for my life, _Ba, ba_, &c. 70 It haps my seven bairns and my wife. _The wind shall not blow my plaid awa._" "My maidenhead I'l then keep still, _Ba, ba_, &c. Let the Elphin Knight do what he will. 75 _The wind's not blown my plaid awa._" "_My plaid awa, my plaid awa, And o'er the hill and far awa, And far awa, to Norrowa, My plaid shall not be blown awa._" THE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON-HEUGH. See p. 137. "A song above 500 years old, made by the old mountain-bard, Duncan Frasier, living on Cheviot, A.D. 1270." This ballad, first published in Hutchinson's _History of Northumberland_, was the composition of Mr. Robert Lambe, vicar of Norham. Several stanzas are, however, adopted from some ancient tale. It has been often printed, and is now taken from Ritson's _Northumberland Garland_. The similar story of _The Worme of Lambton_, versified by the Rev. J. Watson (compare _Ormekampen_ and the cognate legends, Grundtvig, i. 343, also vol. viii. p. 128, of this collection), may be seen in Richardson's _Borderer's Table-Book_, viii. 129, or in Moore's _Pictorial Book of Ancient Ballad Poetry_, page 784. With the tale of the _Lambton Worm of Durham_ agrees in many particulars that of the _Worm of Linton_ in Roxburghshire. (See Scott's introduction to _Kempion_, and Sir C. Sharpe's _Bishopric Garland_, p. 21.) It is highly probable that the mere coincidence of sound with _Linden-Worm_ caused this last place to be selected as the scene of such a story. The king is gone from Bambrough Castle, Long may the princess mourn; Long may she stand on the castle wall, Looking for his return. She has knotted the keys upon a string, 5 And with her she has them ta'en, She has cast them o'er her left shoulder, And to the gate she is gane. She tripped out, she tripped in, She tript into the yard; 10 But it was more for the king's sake, Than for the queen's regard. It fell out on a day, the king Brought the queen with him home; And all the lords in our country 15 To welcome them did come. "O welcome father!" the lady cries, "Unto your halls and bowers; And so are you, my step-mother, For all that's here is yours." 20 A lord said, wondering while she spake,[L21] "This princess of the North Surpasses all of female kind In beauty, and in worth." The envious queen replied, "At least, 25 You might have excepted me; In a few hours, I will her bring Down to a low degree. "I will her liken to a laidley worm, That warps about the stone, 30 And not till Childy Wynd[L31] comes back, Shall she again be won." The princess stood at the bower door Laughing, who could her blame? But e'er the next day's sun went down, 35 A long worm she became. For seven miles east, and seven miles west, And seven miles north, and south, No blade of grass or corn could grow, So venomous was her mouth. 40 The milk of seven stately cows (It was costly her to keep) Was brought her daily, which she drank Before she went to sleep. At this day may be seen the cave 45 Which held her folded up, And the stone trough, the very same Out of which she did sup. Word went east, and word went west, And word is gone over the sea, 50 That a laidley worm in Spindleston-Heughs Would ruin the North Country. Word went east, and word went west, And over the sea did go; The Child of Wynd got wit of it, 55 Which filled his heart with woe. He called straight his merry men all, They thirty were and three: "I wish I were at Spindleston, This desperate worm to see. 60 "We have no time now here to waste, Hence quickly let us sail: My only sister Margaret, Something, I fear, doth ail." They built a ship without delay, 65 With masts of the rown tree, With flutring sails of silk so fine, And set her on the sea. They went on board; the wind with speed, Blew them along the deep; 70 At length they spied an huge square tower On a rock high and steep. The sea was smooth, the weather clear; When they approached nigher, King Ida's castle they well knew, 75 And the banks of Bambroughshire. The queen look'd out at her bower window, To see what she could see; There she espied a gallant ship Sailing upon the sea. 80 When she beheld the silken sails, Full glancing in the sun, To sink the ship she sent[L83] away Her witch wives every one. The spells were vain; the hags returned 85 To the queen in sorrowful mood, Crying that witches have no power Where there is rown-tree wood. Her last effort, she sent a boat, Which in the haven lay, 90 With armed men to board the ship, But they were driven away. The worm lept out, the worm lept down, She plaited round the stone; And ay as the ship came to the land 95 She banged it off again. The Child then ran out of her reach The ship on Budley-sand, And jumping into the shallow sea, Securely got to land. 100 And now he drew his berry-brown[L101] sword, And laid it on her head; And swore, if she did harm to him, That he would strike her dead. "O quit thy sword, and bend thy bow, 105 And give me kisses three; For though I am a poisonous worm, No hurt I'll do to thee. "O quit thy sword, and bend thy bow, And give me kisses three; 110 If I'm not won e'er the sun go down, Won I shall never be." He quitted his sword, and bent his bow, He gave her kisses three; She crept into a hole a worm, 115 But out stept a lady. No clothing had this lady fine, To keep her from the cold; He took his mantle from him about, And round her did it fold. 120 He has taken his mantle from him about, And in it he wrapt her in, And they are up to Bambrough castle, As fast as they can win. His absence, and her serpent shape, 125 The king had long deplored; He now rejoyced to see them both Again to him restored. The queen they wanted, whom they found All pale, and sore afraid, 130 Because she knew her power must yield To Childy Wynd's, who said, "Woe be to thee, thou wicked witch; An ill death mayest thou dee; As thou my sister hast lik'ned, 135 So lik'ned shalt thou be. "I will turn you into a toad, That on the ground doth wend; And won, won shalt thou never be, Till this world hath an end." 140 Now on the sand near Ida's tower, She crawls a loathsome toad, And venom spits on every maid She meets upon her road. The virgins all of Bambrough town 145 Will swear that they have seen This spiteful toad, of monstrous size, Whilst walking they have been. All folks believe within the shire This story to be true, 150 And they all run to Spindleston, The cave and trough to view. This fact now Duncan Frasier, Of Cheviot, sings in rhime, Lest Bambroughshire men should forget 155 Some part of it in time. v. 21-28. Compare _Young Waters_, (iii. 90,) v. 21-28, and _Young Beichan and Susie Pye_, (iv. 7,) v. 118-124. v. 31. Childy Wynd is obviously a corruption of Child Owain. 83, went. 101, berry-broad. LORD DINGWALL. (See p. 152.) From Buchan's _Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland_. (i. 204.) We were sisters, sisters seven, _Bowing down, bowing down_; The fairest women under heaven. _And aye the birks a-bowing._ They kiest kevels them amang, Wha wou'd to the grenewood gang. 5 The kevels they gied thro' the ha', And on the youngest it did fa'. Now she must to the grenewood gang, To pu' the nuts in grenewood hang. She hadna tarried an hour but ane, Till she met wi' a highlan' groom. 10 He keeped her sae late and lang, Till the evening set, and birds they sang. He ga'e to her at their parting, A chain o' gold, and gay gold ring: And three locks o' his yellow hair: 15 Bade her keep them for evermair. When six lang months were come and gane, A courtier to this lady came. Lord Dingwall courted this lady gay, And so he set their wedding-day. 20 A little boy to the ha' was sent, To bring her horse was his intent. As she was riding the way along, She began to make a heavy moan. "What ails you, lady," the boy said, 25 "That ye seem sae dissatisfied? "Are the bridle reins for you too strong? Or the stirrups for you too long?" "But, little boy, will ye tell me, The fashions that are in your countrie?" 30 "The fashions in our ha' I'll tell, And o' them a' I'll warn you well. "When ye come in upon the floor, His mither will meet you wi' a golden chair. "But be ye maid, or be ye nane, 35 Unto the high seat make ye boun. "Lord Dingwall aft has been beguil'd, By girls whom young men hae defiled. "He's cutted the paps frae their breast bane, And sent them back to their ain hame." 40 When she came in upon the floor, His mother met her wi' a golden chair. But to the high seat she made her boun': She knew that maiden she was nane. When night was come, they went to bed, 45 And ower her breast his arm he laid. He quickly jumped upon the floor, And said, "I've got a vile rank whore." Unto his mother he made his moan, Says, "Mother dear, I am undone. 50 "Ye've aft tald, when I brought them hame, Whether they were maid or nane. "I thought I'd gotten a maiden bright, I've gotten but a waefu' wight. "I thought I'd gotten a maiden clear, 55 But gotten but a vile rank whore." "When she came in upon the floor, I met her wi' a golden chair. "But to the high seat she made her boun', Because a maiden she was nane." 60 "I wonder wha's tauld that gay ladie, The fashion into our countrie." "It is your little boy I blame, Whom ye did send to bring her hame." Then to the lady she did go, 65 And said, "O Lady, let me know "Who has defiled your fair bodie? Ye're the first that has beguiled me." "O we were sisters, sisters seven, The fairest women under heaven; 70 "And we kiest kevels us amang, Wha wou'd to the grenewood gang; "For to pu' the finest flowers, To put around our summer bowers. "I was the youngest o' them a', 75 The hardest fortune did me befa'. "Unto the grenewood I did gang, And pu'd the nuts as they down hang. "I hadna stay'd an hour but ane, Till I met wi' a highlan' groom. 80 "He keeped me sae late and lang, Till the evening set, and birds they sang. "He gae to me at our parting, A chain of gold, and gay gold ring: "And three locks o' his yellow hair: 85 Bade me keep them for evermair. "Then for to show I make nae lie, Look ye my trunk, and ye will see." Unto the trunk then she did go, To see if that were true or no. 90 And aye she sought, and aye she flang, Till these four things came to her hand. Then she did to her ain son go, And said, "My son, ye'll let me know. "Ye will tell to me this thing:-- 95 What did yo wi' my wedding-ring?" "Mother dear, I'll tell nae lie: I gave it to a gay ladie. "I would gie a' my ha's and towers, I had this bird within my bowers." 100 "Keep well, keep well, your lands and strands, Ye hae that bird within your hands. "Now, my son, to your bower ye'll go: Comfort your ladie, she's full o' woe." Now when nine months were come and gane, 105 The lady she brought hame a son. It was written on his breast-bane, Lord Dingwall was his father's name. He's ta'en his young son in his arms, And aye he prais'd his lovely charms. 110 And he has gi'em him kisses three, And doubled them ower to his ladie. HYNDE ETIN. (See p. 179.) From Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 228. May Marg'ret stood in her bouer door, Kaiming doun her yellow hair; She spied some nuts growin in the wud, And wish'd that she was there. She has plaited her yellow locks 5 A little abune her bree; And she has kilted her petticoats A little below her knee; And she's aff to Mulberry wud, As fast as she could gae. 10 She had na pu'd a nut, a nut, A nut but barely ane, Till up started the Hynde Etin, Says, "Lady! let thae alane." "Mulberry wuds are a' my ain; 15 My father gied them me, To sport and play when I thought lang; And they sall na be tane by thee." And ae she pu'd the tither berrie, Na thinking o' the skaith; 20 And said, "To wrang ye, Hynde Etin, I wad be unco laith." But he has tane her by the yellow locks, And tied her till a tree, And said, "For slichting my commands, 25 An ill death shall ye dree." He pu'd a tree out o' the wud, The biggest that was there; And he howkit a cave monie fathoms deep, And put May Marg'ret there. 30 "Now rest ye there, ye saucie may; My wuds are free for thee; And gif I tak ye to mysell, The better ye'll like me." Na rest, na rest May Marg'ret took, 35 Sleep she got never nane; Her back lay on the cauld, cauld floor, Her head upon a stane. "O tak me out," May Marg'ret cried, "O tak me hame to thee; 40 And I sall be your bounden page Until the day I dee." He took her out o' the dungeon deep, And awa wi' him she's gane; But sad was the day an earl's dochter 45 Gaed hame wi' Hynde Etin. * * * * * It fell out ance upon a day, Hynde Etin's to the hunting gane; And he has tane wi' him his eldest son, For to carry his game. 50 "O I wad ask you something, father, An ye wadna angry be;"-- "Ask on, ask on, my eldest son, Ask onie thing at me." "My mother's cheeks are aft times weet, 55 Alas! they are seldom dry;"-- "Na wonder, na wonder, my eldest son, Tho' she should brast and die. "For your mother was an earl's dochter, Of noble birth and fame; 60 And now she's wife o' Hynde Etin, Wha ne'er got christendame. "But we'll shoot the laverock in the lift, The buntlin on the tree; And ye'll tak them hame to your mother, 65 And see if she'll comforted be." * * * * * "I wad ask ye something, mother, An' ye wadna angry be;"-- "Ask on, ask on, my eldest son, Ask onie thing at me." 70 "Your cheeks they are aft times weet, Alas! they're seldom dry;"-- "Na wonder, na wonder, my eldest son, Tho' I should brast and die. "For I was ance an earl's dochter, 75 Of noble birth and fame; And now I am the wife of Hynde Etin, Wha ne'er got christendame." SIR OLUF AND THE ELF-KING'S DAUGHTER. (See p. 192.) This is a translation by Jamieson (_Popular Ballads and Songs_, i. 219), of the Danish _Elveskud_ (Abrahamson, i. 237). Lewis has given a version of the same in the _Tales of Wonder_, (No. 10.) The corresponding Swedish ballad, _The Elf-Woman and Sir Olof_ (Afzelius, iii. 165) is translated by Keightley, _Fairy Mythology_, p. 84. This ballad occurs also in Norse, Faroish, and Icelandic. Of the same class are _Elfer Hill_, (from the Danish, Jamieson, i. 225; from the Swedish, Keightley, 86; through the German, _Tales of Wonder_, No. 6:) _Sir Olof in the Elve-Dance_, (Keightley, 82; _Literature and Romance of Northern Europe_, by William and Mary Howitt, i. 269:) _The Merman and Marstig's Daughter_, (from the Danish, Jamieson, i. 210; _Tales of Wonder_, No. 11:) the Breton tale of _Lord Nann and the Korrigan_, (Keightley, 433:) three Slavic ballads referred to by Grundtvig, (_Elveskud_, ii. 111:) _Sir Peter of Stauffenbergh and the Mermaid_, (from the German, Jamieson, _Illustrations of Northern Antiquities_, 257,) and the well-known _Fischer_ of Goethe. Sir Oluf the hend has ridden sae wide, All unto his bridal feast to bid. And lightly the elves, sae feat and free, They dance all under the greenwood tree! And there danced four, and there danced five; 5 The Elf-King's daughter she reekit bilive. Her hand to Sir Oluf sae fair and free: "O welcome, Sir Oluf, come dance wi' me! "O welcome, Sir Oluf! now lat thy love gae, And tread wi' me in the dance sae gay." 10 "To dance wi' thee ne dare I, ne may; The morn it is my bridal day." "O come, Sir Oluf, and dance wi' me; Twa buckskin boots I'll give to thee; "Twa buckskin boots, that sit sae fair, 15 Wi' gilded spurs sae rich and rare. "And hear ye, Sir Oluf! come dance wi' me; And a silken sark I'll give to thee; "A silken sark sae white and fine, That my mother bleached in the moonshine." 20 "I darena, I maunna come dance wi' thee; For the morn my bridal day maun be." "O hear ye, Sir Oluf! come dance wi' me, And a helmet o' goud I'll give to thee." "A helmet o' goud I well may ha'e; 25 But dance wi' thee ne dare I, ne may." "And winna thou dance, Sir Oluf, wi' me? Then sickness and pain shall follow thee!" She's smitten Sir Oluf--it strak to his heart; He never before had kent sic a smart; 30 Then lifted him up on his ambler red; "And now, Sir Oluf, ride hame to thy bride." And whan he came till the castell yett, His mither she stood and leant thereat. "O hear ye, Sir Oluf, my ain dear son, 35 Whareto is your lire sae blae and wan?" "O well may my lire be wan and blae, For I ha'e been in the elf-womens' play." "O hear ye, Sir Oluf, my son, my pride, And what shall I say to thy young bride?" 40 "Ye'll say, that I've ridden but into the wood, To prieve gin my horse and hounds are good." Ear on the morn, whan night was gane, The bride she cam wi' the bridal train. They skinked the mead, and they skinked the wine: 45 "O whare is Sir Oluf, bridegroom mine?" "Sir Oluf has ridden but into the wood, To prieve gin his horse and hounds are good." And she took up the scarlet red, And there lay Sir Oluf, and he was dead! 50 Ear on the morn, whan it was day, Three likes were ta'en frae the castle away; Sir Oluf the leal, and his bride sae fair, And his mither, that died wi' sorrow and care. And lightly the elves sae feat and free, 55 They dance all under the greenwood tree! FRAGMENT OF THE DÆMON LOVER. (See p. 201.) (Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 92.) "I have seven ships upon the sea, Laden with the finest gold, And mariners to wait us upon;-- All these you may behold. "And I have shoes for my love's feet, 5 Beaten of the purest gold, And lined wi' the velvet soft, To keep my love's feet from the cold. "O how do you love the ship," he said, "Or how do you love the sea? 10 And how do you love the bold mariners That wait upon thee and me?" "O I do love the ship," she said, "And I do love the sea; But woe be to the dim mariners, 15 That nowhere I can see." They had not sailed a mile awa', Never a mile but one, When she began to weep and mourn, And to think on her little wee son. 20 "O hold your tongue, my dear," he said, "And let all your weeping abee, For I'll soon show to you how the lilies grow On the banks of Italy." They had not sailed a mile awa', 25 Never a mile but two, Until she espied his cloven foot, From his gay robes sticking thro'. They had not sailed a mile awa', Never a mile but three, 30 When dark, dark, grew his eerie looks, And raging grew the sea. They had not sailed a mile awa', Never a mile but four, When the little wee ship ran round about, 35 And never was seen more! CONSTANTINE AND ARETE. See p. 217. We are indebted for the following recension of _Constantine and Areté_ to Mr. Sophocles of Harvard College. It is constructed from Fauriel's text, combined with a copy in Zambelios's [Grk: Aismata Dêmotika], and with a version taken down from the recitation of a Cretan woman. The translation is by the skilful hand of Professor Felton. We may notice by the way that several versions of this piece are given by Tommaseo, in his _Canti Popolari Toscani_, etc. iii. 341. [Grk: Manna me tous ennia sou huious kai me tê mia sou korê, Tên korê tê monakribê tên polyagapêmenê, Tên eiches dôdeka chronôn k' hêlios den sou tên eide, 'S ta skoteina tên êlouges, 's t' aphenga tên eplekes, 'S t' astrê kai 's ton augerino to' ephkeianes ta sgoura tês. 5 Hê geitonia den êxere pôs eiches thygatera, Kai proxenia sou pherane apo tê Babylônê. Hoi oktô aderphoi den theloune, kai ho Kôstantinos thelei; "Dos têne, manna, dos têne tên 'Aretê 's ta xena, Na 'chô k' egô parêgoria 's tê strata pou diabainô." 10 "Phrenimos eisai, Kôstantê, m' aschêm' apilogêthês; An tychê pikra gê chara, poios tha mou têne pherê?" To theo tês banei engytê kai tous hagious martyrous, An tychê pikra gê chara na paê na tês tên pherê; Kai san tên epantrepsane tên Aretê 's ta xena, 15 Erchetai chronos disephtos kai hoi ennia pethanan. Emeine hê manna monachê san kalamia 's ton kampo. 'S ta ochtô mnêmata dernetai, 's ta ochtô myrologaei, 'S tou Kôstantinou to thaphtio anespa ta mallia tês; "Sêkou, Kôstantinakê mou, tên Aretê mou thelô; 20 To theo mou 'bales engytê kai tous hagious martyrous, An tychê pikra gê chara na pas na mou tên pherês." Kai mesa 's ta mesanychta ap' to kibouri bgainei. Kanei to sygnepho alogo, kai t' astro salibari, Kai to phengari syntrophia kai paei na têne pherê. 25 Briskei tên kai chtenizountai oxou 's to phengaraki. Apomakria tên chairetaei kai apomakria tês legei. "Gia ela, Aretoula mou, kyrana mas se thelei." "Alimono, aderphaki mou, kai ti 'ne tout' hê hôra! An ên' chara 's to spiti mas, na balô ta chrysa mou, 30 Kai an pikra, aderphaki mou, na 'rthô hôs kathôs eimai." "Mêde pikra mêde chara; ela hôs kathôs eisai." 'S tê strata pou diabainane, 's tê strata pou pagainan, Akoun poulia kai kiladoun, akoun poulia kai lene; "Gia des kopela omorphê na sernê apethamenos!" 35 "Akouses, Kôstantakê mou, ti lene ta poulakia?" "Poulakia 'ne kai as kiladoun, poulakia 'ne kai as lene." Kai parakei pou pagainan kai alla poulia tous legan; "Ti blepoume ta thlibera ta paraponemena? Na perpatoun hoi zôntanoi me tous apethamenous?" 40 "Akouses, Kôstantakê mou, ti lene ta poulakia?" "Poulakia 'ne kai as kiladoun, poulakia 'ne kai as lene." "Phoboumai s' aderphaki mou, kai libanies myrizeis." "Echtes bradys epêgame katô 's ton Haïgiannê, K' ethymiase mas ho papas me to poly libani." 45 Kai parempros pou pêgane, kai alla poulia tous lene; "Ô the megalodyname, megalo thama kaneis! Tetoia panôrêa lygerê na sernê apethamenos!" T' akouse pale hê Aretê k' erragis' hê kardia tês; "Akouses, Kôstantakê mou, ti lene ta poulakia? 50 Pes mou pou 'n' ta mallakia sou, to pêgouro moustaki?" "Megalê arrôstia m' heurêke, m' errêxe tou thanatou." Briskoun to spiti kleidôto kleidomantalômeno, Kai ta spitoparathyra pou 'tan arachniasmena; "Anoixe, manna m', anoixe, kai na tên Aretê sou." 55 "An êsai Charos, diabaine, kai alla paidia den echô; Hê dolêa Aretoula mou leipei makria 's ta xena." "Anoixe, manna m', anoixe, k' egô' mai ho Kôstantês sou. To thio sou 'bala engytê kai tous agious martyrous, An tychê pikra gê chara na paô na sou tên pherô." 60 Kai hôste na 'bgê 's tên porta tês, ebgêke hê psychê tês.] CONSTANTINE AND ARETE. O mother, thou with thy nine sons, and with one only daughter, Thine only daughter, well beloved, the dearest of thy children, For twelve years thou didst keep the maid, the sun did not behold her, Whom in the darkness thou didst bathe, in secret braid her tresses, And by the starlight and the dawn, didst wind her curling ringlets, Nor knew the neighborhood that thou didst have so fair a daughter,-- When came to thee from Babylon a woer's soft entreaty: Eight of the brothers yielded not, but Constantine consented. "O mother give thine Arete, bestow her on the stranger, That I may have her solace dear when far away I wander." "Though thou art wise, my Constantine, thou hast unwisely spoken: Be woe my lot or be it joy, who will restore my daughter?" He calls to witness God above, he calls the holy martyrs, Be woe her lot, or be it joy, he would restore her daughter: And when they wedded Arete, in that far distant country, Then comes the year of sorrowing, and all the nine did perish. All lonely was the mother left, like a reed alone in the meadow; O'er the eight graves she beats her breast, o'er eight is heard her wailing, And at the tomb of Constantine, she rends her hair in anguish. "Arise, my Constantine, arise, for Arete I languish: On God to witness thou didst call, didst call the holy martyrs, Be woe my lot or be it joy, thou wouldst restore my daughter." And forth at midnight hour he fares, the silent tomb deserting, He makes the cloud his flying steed, he makes the star his bridle, And by the silver moon convoyed, to bring her home he journeys: And finds her combing down her locks, abroad by silvery moonlight, And greets the maiden from afar, and from afar bespeaks her. "Arise, my Aretula dear, for thee our mother longeth." "Alas! my brother, what is this? what wouldst at such an hour? If joy betide our distant home, I wear my golden raiment, If woe betide, dear brother mine, I go as now I'm standing." "Think not of joy, think not of woe--return as here thou standest." And while they journey on the way, all on the way returning, They hear the Birds, and what they sing, and what the Birds are saying. "Ho! see the maiden all so fair, a Ghost it is that bears her." "Didst hear the Birds, my Constantine, didst list to what they're saying?" "Yes: they are Birds, and let them sing, they're Birds, and let them chatter:" And yonder, as they journey on, still other Birds salute them. "What do we see, unhappy ones, ah! woe is fallen on us;-- Lo! there the living sweep along, and with the dead they travel." "Didst hear, my brother Constantine, what yonder Birds are saying?" "Yes! Birds are they, and let them sing, they're Birds, and let them chatter." "I fear for thee, my Brother dear, for thou dost breathe of incense." "Last evening late we visited the church of Saint Johannes, And there the priest perfumed me o'er with clouds of fragrant incense." And onward as they hold their way, still other Birds bespeak them: "O God, how wondrous is thy power, what miracles thou workest! A maid so gracious and so fair, a Ghost it is that bears her:" 'Twas heard again by Arete, and now her heart was breaking; "Didst hearken, brother Constantine, to what the Birds are saying? Say where are now thy waving locks, thy strong thick beard, where is it?" "A sickness sore has me befallen, and brought me near to dying." They find the house all locked and barred, they find it barred and bolted, And all the windows of the house with cobwebs covered over. "Unlock, O mother mine, unlock, thine Arete thou seest." "If thou art Charon, get thee gone--I have no other children: My hapless Arete afar, in stranger lands is dwelling." "Unlock, O mother mine, unlock, thy Constantine entreats thee. I called to witness God above, I called the holy martyrs, Were woe thy lot, or were it joy, I would restore thy daughter." And when unto the door she came, her soul from her departed. THE HAWTHORN TREE. Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, ii. 44. _A Mery Ballet of the Hathorne Tre_, from a MS. in the Cotton Library, Vespasian, A. xxv. The MS. has "G. Peele" appended to it, but in a hand more modern than the ballad. Mr. Dyce, with very good reason, "doubts" whether Peele is the author of the ballad, but has printed it, Peele's _Works_, ii. 256. It is given also by Evans, i. 342, and partly in Chappell's _Popular Music_, i. 64. The true character of this piece would never be suspected by one reading it in English. The same is true of the German, where the ballad is very common, and much prettier than in English, e.g. _Das Mädchen und die Hasel_, _Das Mädchen und der Sagebaum_, Erk's _Liederhort_, No. 33, five copies; Hoffmann, _Schlesische Volkslieder_, No. 100, three copies, etc. In Danish and Swedish we find a circumstantial story: _Jomfruen i Linden_, Grundtvig, No. 66; _Linden, Svenska Folkvisor_, No. 87. The tree is an enchanted damsel, one of eleven children transformed by a step-mother into various less troublesome things, and the spell can be removed only by a kiss from the king's son. By the intervention of the maiden, this rite is performed, and the beautiful linden is changed to as beautiful a young woman, who of course becomes the prince's bride. A Wendish ballad resembling the German is given by Haupt and Schmaler, and ballads akin to the Danish, are found in Slovensk and Lithuanian (see Grundtvig). It was a maide of my countrè, As she came by a hathorne-tre, As full of flowers as might be seen, 'She' merveld to se the tree so grene. At last she asked of this tre, 5 "Howe came this freshness unto the, And every branche so faire and cleane? I mervaile that you growe so grene." The tre 'made' answere by and by: "I have good causse to growe triumphantly; 10 The swetest dewe that ever be sene Doth fall on me to kepe me grene." "Yea," quoth the maid, "but where you growe, You stande at hande for every blowe; Of every man for to be seen; 15 I mervaile that you growe so grene." "Though many one take flowers from me, And manye a branche out of my tre, I have suche store they wyll not be sene, For more and more my 'twegges'[L20] growe grene." 20 "But howe and they chaunce to cut the downe, And carry thie braunches into the towne? Then will they never no more be sene To growe againe so freshe and grene." "Though that you do, yt ys no boote; 25 Althoughe they cut me to the roote, Next yere againe I will be sene To bude my branches freshe and grene. "And you, faire maide, canne not do so; For yf you let youre maid-hode goe, 30 Then will yt never no more be sene, As I with my braunches can growe grene." The maide wyth that beganne to blushe, And turned her from the hathorne-bushe; She though[t]e herselffe so faire and clene, 35 Her bewtie styll would ever growe grene. Whan that she harde this marvelous dowbte, She wandered styll then all aboute, Suspecting still what she would wene, Her maid-heade lost would never be seen. 40 Wyth many a sighe, she went her waye, To se howe she made herselff so gay, To walke, to se, and to be sene, And so out-faced the hathorne grene. Besides all that, yt put her in feare 45 To talke with companye anye where, For feare to losse the thinge that shuld be sene To growe as were the hathorne grene. But after this never could I here Of this faire mayden any where, 50 That ever she was in forest sene To talke againe of the hathorne grene. 20. twedges. ST. STEPHEN AND HEROD. Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, i. 141, Sandys's _Christmas Carols_, p. 4: from the Sloane MS., No. 2593 (temp. Hen. VI.) This curious little ballad was sung as a carol for St. Stephen's Day. Its counterpart is found in Danish (though not in an ancient form), printed in Erik Pontoppidan's book on the relics of Heathenism and Papistry in Denmark, 1736 (_Jesusbarnet, Stefan, og Herodes_ Grundtvig, No. 96). There is also a similar ballad in Faroish. Only a slight trace of the story is now left in the Swedish _Staffans Visa_ (_Svenska F.V._, No. 99), which is sung as a carol on St. Stephen's Day, as may very well have been the case with the Danish and Faroish ballads too. The miracle of the roasted cock occurs in many other legends. The earliest mention of it is in Vincent of Beauvais's _Speculum Historiale_, L. xxv. c. 64. It is commonly ascribed to St. James, sometimes to the Virgin. (See the preface to the ballad in Grundtvig, and to Southey's _Pilgrim to Compostella_.) We meet with it in another English carol called _The Carnal[E] and the Crane_, printed in Sandys's collection, p. 152, from a broadside copy, corrupt and almost unintelligible in places. The stanzas which contain the miracle are the following: There was a star in the West land, So bright it did appear Into King Herod's chamber, And where King Herod were. The Wise Men soon espied it, And told the king on high, A princely babe was born that night No king could e'er destroy. "If this be true," King Herod said, "As thou tellest unto me, This roasted cock that lies in the dish Shall crow full fences[F] three." The cock soon freshly feather'd was, By the work of God's own hand, And then three fences crowed he, In the dish where he did stand. "Rise up, rise up, you merry men all, See that you ready be; All children under two years old Now slain they all shall be." [E] crow? [F] rounds? * * * * * Seynt Stevene was a clerk in kyng Herowdes halle, And servyd him of bred and cloth, as ever kyng befalle.[L2] Stevyn out of kechon cam, wyth boris hed on honde; He saw a sterr was fayr and bryght over Bedlem stonde. He kyst[L5] adoun the bores hed, and went into the halle: 5 "I forsake the, kyng Herowdes, and thi werkes alle. "I forsak the, kyng Herowdes, and thi werkes alle: Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle." "Quhat eylyt[L9] the, Stevene? quhat is the befalle? Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk in kyng Herowdes halle?" 10 "Lakit me neyther mete ne drynk in kyng Herowdes halle: Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle." "Quhat eylyt the, Stevyn? art thu wod, or thu gynnyst to brede?[L13] Lakkyt the eythar gold or fe, or ony ryche wede?"[L14] "Lakyt 'me' neyther gold ne fe, ne non ryche wede;[L15] 15 Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born xal[L16] helpen us at our nede." "That is al so soth, Stevyn, al so soth, i-wys,[L17] As this capon crowe xal that lyth her in myn dysh." That word was not so sone seyd, that word in that halle, The capon crew, CHRISTUS NATUS EST! among the lordes alle. 20 "Rysyt up, myn turmentowres, be to[L21] and al be on, And ledyt Stevyn out of this town, and stonyt hym wyth ston." Tokyn he[L23] Stevene, and stonyd hym in the way; And therefor is his evyn on Crystes owyn day. 2. befalle, _befell_. 5. kyst, _cast_. 9. eylyt, _aileth_. 13. wod, _mad_: gynnyst to brede, _beginnest to entertain capricious fancies_, like a woman, &c. 14. fe, _wages_: wede, _clothes_. 15. ne, _nor_. 16. xall, _shall_. 17. soth, _true_: i-wys, _for a certainty_. 21. be to, _by two_. 23. he, _they_. GLOSSARY. N.B. Figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. a, _one_. a', _all_. abee, abene, _be_. aboon, abune, _above_. aby, _pay for_. ae, _only, sole_. ae, _aye, still_, ahin, _behind_. airn, _iron_. ald, _old_. all and some, _each and all_. als, _as_. als, _also_. ance, anes, _once_. appone, _upon_. araye, _order_. arblast-bow, _cross-bow_. are, _before_. arena, _are not_. arighte, _laid hold of_. armorie, 237, _band of armed men_. asey, _assay_. ask, _newt, a kind of lizard_. askryede, _described_. asurd, _azured, blue_. at, 296, _of_. atteynt, _seize_. aught, _owed_. avanse, _gain, succeed_. avow, _vow_. awa, _away_. awenn, _own_. ay, _a_. ayont, _beyond_. ba', _ball_. backefysyke, 22. bade, _prayed for_. bade, _abode, staid_. bairnly, _childlike_. bald, _bold_. bale, _blaze, fire_. bale, _harme, ruin, sorrow_. ban', _bound_. bane, _bone_. bankers, 276, _coverings for benches_. bann, _curse_. barn, _child, wight_. beck, _stream_. bedone, 8, _bedecked_. begane, _bedecked_. begynne the bord, _sit at the head of the table_. ben, _in_. ben, _prompt, ready_. bent, _plain, field_, (from the coarse grass growing on open lands); bentis, bents, _coarse grass_. beryde, 98, _cried, made a noise_. bese, _will_ or _shall be_. best man, bride's, 85, _bridesman_, (corresponding to the best maid, or bridesmaid). bestedde, _circumstanced_. bi, _be_. bierly, 148, _proper, becoming, comfortable_. bigg, _build_. bilive, _quickly_. Billy Blind, or Billy Blin, _a Brownie, or domestic fairy_. binkes, _benches_. bird, _lady_. birk, _birch_. birled, 211, _poured out drink_, or _drunk_. blae, _livid_. blee, _color, complexion_. blewe, 99, _sounded a horn_. blin, blyn, _stop, cease_. bogle, _spectre, goblin_. bone, _boon_. boome, 287. Qy. goome, _man_? bord, _table_. borrow, _stand surety for, ransom, rescue_. bouir, _chamber, dwelling_. boun, _boon_. boun, _ready_; make ye boun, 289, boun, 187, _go straightway_. bourdes, _jests_. boure, bower, _chamber_. bouted, _bolted_. bown, _ready, ready to go_. bowrd, _jest_. brade, _broad_. brae, _hill-side_. brast, _burst_. brayd, _started, turned_. braw, _brave, fine_. bree, _brow_. brening, _burning_. brent, _burnt_. brether, 26, _brethren_. bricht, _bright_. brimes, _water_. britled, 15, brittened, 106, _cut up, carved_. brok, _brook_. broom-cow, _bush of broom_. brook, _enjoy, preserve_. brues, _brows_. brunt, _burnt_. bryste, _burst_. bue, 234, 235, _fair_? bugyle, _horn_. bunge, 239? buntin, buntlin, _blackbird_; al. _wood-lark_. burd, _maid, lady_. burd-alane, _alone_. Burlow-beanie, 241, _name of a fiend or spirit_. burn, _brook_. busk, _dress, make ready_. but, 208, _and_; but and, _and also_. by and by, _straightway_. bydeene, 13, _continuously, in numbers_. byggis, _builds_. bygone, _bedecked_. byhouys, _behoves_. byleve, 98, _remain_. byrde, _lady_. byre, _cow-house_. byrnande, _burning_. byteche, _commit_. ca', _call_. can, (sometimes gan,) _used as an auxiliary with an infinitive mood, to express the past tense of a verb_. carknet, _necklace_. carline, _female of churl_, _old woman_. carlist, 37, _churlish_. carp, _talk_, _tell stories_. cast, _planned_. chalmer, _chamber_. channerin', _fretting_. chere, _countenance_. chese, _choose_. chess, _jess_, _strap_. chewys, _choosest_. chiel, _child_, _young man_. christendame, christendoun, _christening_. christentye, _christendom_. claes, _clothes_. clapping, _fondling_. clear, clere, _fair_, _morally pure_. cockward, _cuckold_. coft, _bought_. coiffer, 260, _coif_, _head-dress_, _cap?_ cold, _could, knew_; _used as an auxiliary with the infinitive to express a past tense_; e.g. he cold fling, _he flung_. coleyne, Collen, _Cologne steel_. com'nye, 237, _communing_, _discourse_. compass, _circle_, compenabull, 21, _sociable_, _admitting to participation_. coost, coosten, _cast_. couth, _could_, _knew_, _understood_. covent, _convent_. cow-me-doo, 171, like curdoo, _name for a dove_, from its cooing. craftelike, _craftily_. crapoté, 99. Qy. cramasee, _crimson?_ cropoure, _crupper_. crowt, 12, _curl up_. crystiante, _christendom_. cure, 279, _till_. dag-durk, _dagger_, _dirk_. damasee, _damson_. dang, _beat_, _struck_. dasse, _dais_, _raised platform_. daunton, _daunt_. decay, _destruction_. dee, _die_. dee, _do_. deid, _death_. dele, dell, _part_. delle, 101, _dally_. dere, _harm_. derne, _secret_. des, dese, _dais_, _elevated platform_. devyse, _direction_. deynteous, _dainty_. dight, 225, _placed_, _involved_. dight (corn), _winnow_. dinne, 12, _trouble_, _circumstance_. distans, 23, _dissension_, _strife_. done, _do_. doo, _dove_. doubt, dout, _fear_. dought, _could_, _might_; 112, _may_, _am able_. dow, _could_. dowie, _mournful_, _doleful_. dree, _suffer_. drest, _arranged_. drumlie, _troubled_, _gloomy_. dryssynge, _dressing_. dule, _sorrow_, _trouble_. dullfull, _doleful_. dyght, dygzht, _adorned_, _arrayed_, _dressed_. ear, _soon_, _early_. eerie, eiry, _fearful_, _producing superstitious dread_. eghne, _eyes_. eglis, _eagle's_. elde, eldren, _old_. Elfin, 262, _Elf-land_. elritch, _elvish_. endres-daye, 98, _past day_? _other day_? See Halliwell's _Dictionary_. "Of my fortune, how it ferde, This _endir_ day, as y forth ferde." erdelik, 275, _earthly_. (Finlay, "clidelik.") erlish, _elvish_. esk, _newt_. etin (Danish jette), _giant_. even cloth, 113, _fine cloth_? everlk, _every_. everychon, _every one_. faem, _foam_. faine, _desire_. faine, _glad_. fairest, _forest_. fand, _found_. fare, _go_. farer, _further_. fawte, _want_. fayrse, _fierce_. feat, _neat_, _dexterous_, _nimble_. fee, 100, _animals_, _deer_; 107, _rent_, _tribute_. feed, _same as_ food, fud, _creature_, _man_, _woman_, or _child_. feires, _companions_, _mates_. fele, _many_. fell, _hill_, _moor_. ferli, 275, _fairly?_ ferlie, ferly, _wonder_. ferlich, _wondrous_. fernie, _covered with fern_. fet, fette, _fetched_. fethill, _fiddle_. fforthi, _therefore_. fifthen, _fifth_. fil, _fell_. first ane, _first_. firth, (frith,) _wood_. fize, 274, _five_. flang, _flung_. flaugh, _flew_. flaw, 175, _lie_. fleer, _floor_. fley'd, _frightened_. flone, _arrow_. fode, _creature_, _child_. fond, _try_, _make trial_. fonde, _found_. forbye, _aside_. fordoo, _destroy_. foremost man, 158, (like best man), _bridesman_. forowttyn, _without_. forteynd, _happened_. forther, _further_. forthi, _therefore_. fowles, _birds_. fraine, _question_. free, 275, _lord_, 253, _lady_. free, freely, _noble_, _lovely_. frem, _strange_. freyry, _fraternity_. frowte, _fruit_. fu', _full_. fundyd, 275, _went_. fytt, _canto_, _division of a song_. gad, _bar_. gae, _gave_. gae, _go_, _going_. gait, nae, _no way_, _no where_. galid, 276, _sang?_ gangande, _going_. gar, _make_, _cause_. gare, 193, _strip_. garthes, _girths_. gate, 225, _way_. gesing, 276, _guessing_; or, _desire_, A. Sax. gitsung? getterne, _giitern_, _kind of harp_. ghesting, _lodging_, _hospitable reception_. gied, _went_. gien, _given_. gin, giue, _if_. gleed, _a burning coal_. glided, 274. Qy. _gilded?_ glint, _gleam_. gon, _begun_, _performed_. gon, _went_. goud, _gold_. goupen, _the hollow of the hand contracted to receive anything_. gowan, _flower_. gowd, _gold_. gowden, _golden_. gown of green, got on the, 259, _was with child_. gravil, 260? gree, _favor_, _prize_. green'd, _longed_. greet, _weep_. grew, _gray_. groom, _man_, _young man_. gule, _red_. gurlie, _stormy_, _surly_. gyne, _device_. ha', _hall_. had, _hold_, _keep_. hailsed, _saluted_. halch, _salute_, _embrace_. hallow, _hollow_. Hallowe'en, 120, _the eve of All-Saints' day_, supposed to be peculiarly favorable for intercourse with the invisible world, all fairies, witches, and ghosts being then abroad. hals, halse, _neck_; halsed, _greeted_. haly, _holy_. hame, _home_. hap, _cover_. harde, _heard_. harns, _brains_; harn-pan, _skull_. hate, _hat_. hat, _hit_. hand, _hold_. haved, _had_. heal, _conceal_. heathennest, heathynesse, 234, _heathendom_. hegehen, _eyes_. hegh, _high_; heghere, _higher_. hem, _them_. hende, _handsome_, _gentle_. hent, _took_. herbere, _arbor_, _orchard_. herme, _harm_. hethyn, 107, _hence_. hett, _bid_. heved, _head_. hi, 275, _I_. high-coll'd, _high-cut_. hind, _gentle_. hind, 180, _stripling_. him lane, _alone_. hingers, _hangings_. hirn, _corner_. hith, _hight, is called_. hollen, _holly_. hore, _hoar_, _hoary_. hose, 238, _clasp_. howkit, _dug_. howm, _holm_; _level, low ground on the bank of a stream_. hunt's-ha', _hunting-lodge_. hye, in, _in haste_; 23, perhaps _aloud_. hyghte, _bid_; _was called_. hynde, _youth_, _stripling_, _swain_. hy[z]e, in, 20, _in haste_, _of a sudden_. ic, _I_. iknow, _known_. ilka, _each_. ilke, _same_. inow[z]e, _enough_. intill, _into_, _upon_. iralle, 99. Qu. rialle, _royal?_ jawes, 227, _dashes_; jawp'd, 257, _dashed_, _spattered_. jelly, _jolly_, _pleasant_. jimp, _slender_, _neat_. jolly, _pretty_, _gay_. kaim, _comb_. kane, _rent_. karp, _talk_, _relate stories_. kemb, _comb_. ken, _know_. keppit, _caught_, _kept_. kevels, _lots_. kiest, _cast_. kilted, _tucked_. kin', _kind of_. kindly, 236, "_good old_"? kirk, _church_. kist, _chest_. knave-bairn, _male child_. knicht, _knight_. laidley, _loathly_, _loathsome_. laigh-coll'd, _low-cut_. laith, _loath_. lane, _alone_; joined with pronouns, as, my lane, his lane, her lane, their lane, _myself alone_, &c. lang, _to think_, originally, _to seem long_, then _to be weary_, _feel ennui_. lapande, _lapping_. lappered, _coagulated_, _clotted_. lat, latten, _let_. lauchters, _locks_. laverock, _lark_. leal, _loyal_, _chaste_. leccam, _body_. lede, _lead_. lee, _lie_. leesome, _pleasant_, _sweet_. lelfe, 22, _leave?_ lere, _lore_, _doctrine_; _learn_. les, lesyng, _lying_, _lie_. lesse and more, _smaller and greater_. lett, lette, _hinder_, _hinderance_; _delay_; withouten lette, _for a certainty_. leuedys, _ladies_. leuer, _liefer_, _rather_. leu[z]e, _laughed_. leven, 111, _lawn_. levin, _lightning_. ley-land, _lea-land_, _not ploughed_. licht, _light_. lichted, _lighted_. lift, _air_. likes, _dead bodies_. lingcam, 148, _body_, =leccam? linger, _longer_. link, _walk briskly_; _arm in arm_. lire, _face_, _countenance_. lith, 275, _supple_, _limber_. lithe, _listen_. lodlye, _loathly_. loffe, _love_. loof, _hollow of the hand_. loot, _bow_. loot, _let_. loun, _loon_. louted, _bowed_. lown, _lone_. low[z]he, _laughed_, _smiled_. luifsomely, _lovingly_. luppen, _leapt_. lygge, _lay_ lyggande, _lying_. lyle, _little_. lystnys, _listen_. lyth, _member_, _limb_. mae, _more_. maen, _moan_. maik, _mate_. makane, _making_. mane, _moan_. mansworn, _perjured_. marrow, _mate_. maste, _most_, _greatest_. maun, _must_. maunna, _may not_. mawys, mavis, _singing thrush_. may, _maid_. medill-erthe, _earth_, _the upper-world_. mekill, _great_, _large_. mell, _mallet_. meloude, _melody_. mensked, 276, _honored_. menyde, _moaned_. merks, _marks_. merk-soot, 274, _mark-shot_, _distance between bow-marks_.--Finlay. merrys, _marrest_. mese, _mess_, _meal_. micht, _might_. middle-eard, the _upper world_, placed between the nether regions and the sky. minded, _remembered_. minion, _fine_, _elegant_. mirk, _dark_. mith, _might_. mode, _passion_, _energy_. mody, _courageous_. mold, mould, _earth_, _ground_. montenans, _amount_. more, _greater_. most, _greatest_. moth, _might_. mother-naked, _naked as at one's birth_. mouthe, _might_. Mungo, St., _St. Kentigern_. my lane, _alone_. mykel, _much_. na, _not_; namena, _name not_, _&c._ nay, _denial_. neist, _next_. newfangle, 9, (_trifling_, _inconstant_), _light_, _loose_. niest, _next_, _nearest_, _close_. noth, nouth, _not_. nouther, noyther, _neither_. on, _in_. on ane, _anon_. one, _on_, _in_. onie, _any_. or, _ere_, _before_. orfaré, 99, _embroidery_. Oryence, _Orient_. oure, _over_. over one, 23, _in a company_, _together?_ See Jamieson's _Scottish Dictionary_, in v. ouer ane. owre, _over_, _too_. owreturn, _refrain_. pae, _peacock_. paines, _penance_. pall, _rich cloth_. palmer, _pilgrim_. papeioyes, _popinjays_. parde, _par dieu_. pautit, _paw_, _beat with the foot_. pay, 237, _pleasure_, _satisfaction_. paye, 104, _content_. payetrelle, 99, (otherwise, patrel, poitrail, pectorale, &c.) _a steel plate for the protection of a horse's chest_. payrelde, _apparelled_. perdé, _par dieu_. perelle, _pearl_. pile, 260, _down_, sometimes _tender leaves_. plas, 19, _place_, _palace_. ply[z]t, _plight_, _promise_. poterner, 8, _pouch_, _purse_. _Rightly corrected by Percy from_ poterver. _See_ pautonnière, pontonaria, _and_ pantonarius, _in Henschel's ed. of Ducange_. pou, _pull_. prest, _priest_. prieve, _prove_. prink'd, prinn'd, _adorned_, _drest up_, _made neat_. pristly, _earnestly_. propine, _gift_. raches, _scenting hounds_. radde, _quick_, _quickly_. rair, _roar_. rashing, _striking like a boar_. rathely, _quickly_. raught, _reached_. rauine, _beasts of chase_, _prey_. redd, 22, _explained_. rede, _counsel_. reekit, 299, _steamed_. reele bone, 99, _an unknown material, of which saddles, especially, are in the romances said to be made_; _called variously_, rewel-bone, (_Cant. Tales_, 13, 807,) rowel-bone, reuylle-bone, _and_ (_Young Bekie_, vol. iv. 12) royal-bone. reet, _root_. reme, _kingdom_. renninge, _running_. repreve, _reprove_, _deride_. rewe, _take pity_. ridand, _riding_. rived, 233, (_arrived_,) _travelled_. rought, route, rowte, _rout_, _band_, _company_. routh, _plenty_. row, _roll_, _wrap_. rown-tree, _mountain-ash_. rudd, _complexion_. rybybe, _kind of fiddle_. ryn, _run_. rysse, _rise_. safe-guard, _a riding-skirt_. saghe, _saw_. saikless, _guiltless_. sained, _crossed_, _consecrated_. sall, _shall_. same, 25, _some_, _each_. sark, _shirt_. sathe, _sooth_, _truth_. saw, _saying_, _tale_. sawtrye, _psaltery_. scathe, _damage_. schane, _shone_. scho, _she_. schone, _shoes_. scort, _short_. sculd, _should_. seannachy, _genealogist, bard, or story-teller_. seck, _sack_. sekirlye, _truly_. selle, _saddle_. senne, _since_. sere, _sore_. seres, _sires_, _sirs_. sey, 18, v. 29, _saw_. share, 193, _slip_, _strip_. shathmont, 126, [A. Sax. scæftmund,] _a measure from the top of the extended thumb to the utmost part of the palm, six inches_. shee, 166, _shoe_. sheede, _spill_. sheeld-bones, _blade-bones_, _shoulder-blades_. sheen, _bright_. sheen, _shoes_. sheep's-silver, _mica_. shent, _injured_, _abused_; 48, _shamed_. sheugh, _furrow_, _ditch_. sic, _such_. sichin', _sighing_. sicken, _such_. skaith, _harm_. skaith, [qy. skail?] 136, _save_, _keep innocent of_. skill, but a, 371, _only reasonable?_ skinked, _poured out_. sky sett in, 262, for _sunset_ or _evening_. skyll, _reason_, _manner_, _matter_. slae, _sloe_. slawe, _slain_. slichting, _slighting_. smert, _quickly_. snell, _quick_, _keen_. solace, solas, _recreation_, _sport_. sooth, soth, _truth_; sothely, _truly_. soth, 276, _sweet_. soun, _sound_. speed, 11, _fare_. spier, _ask_. spylle, _destroy_. stappin', 148, _stopping_. stark, _strong_. start, _started_. stefly, _thickly_. stered, _guided_. stern light, 112, _light of stars_. stiffe, 29, _strong_, _stout_. stinted, _stopped_. store, _big_, _strong_. stown, _stolen_. stowre, _strong_, _brave_. straiked, _stroaked_. strak, _struck_. stratlins, 183, _straddlings?_ streek, _stretch_. sture, 155, _big_, _strong_. stythe, _stead_, _place_. suire, _neck_. suld, _should_. swick, _blame_. swilled, 242, _shook, as in rinsing_. swoghyne, 103, _soughing_. swylke, _such_. syde, _long_. syen, _since_. syke, _rivulet_, _marshy bottom_. sykerly, sykerlyke, _certainly_, _truly_. syne, _then_. syth, _times_. sythen, _since_. tabull dormounte, 19, _standing table_, _the fixed table at the end of the hall_. (?) tae, _toe_. taiken, _token_. tee, _to_. teind, _tithe_. tene, _grief_, _sorrow_, _loss_, _harm_. tente, _attention_, _heed_; takis gude tente, _give good attention to_. tett, 109, _lock_ [_of hair._] thae, _those_. than, _then_ thar, _where_. thar, 275, _it needs_. then, _than_. think lang, _to be weary_, _impatient_. thir, _these_, _those_. tho, _then_. thoghte, _seemed_. thoth, thouch, thouth, _though_. thought lang, _seemed long_; _grew weary_, _felt ennui_. thouth, 274, _seemed_. throw, _short time_, _while_. thrubchandler, 237? tide, _time_. till, _to_. tirled at the pin, _trilled, or rattled, at the door-pin, or latch, to obtain admission_. tither, _the other_. tod, _fox_. toute, 22. See Chaucer. touting, _tooting_. travayle, _labor_. traye, 104, _suffering_. [dree?] tree, _wood_, _staff_. trew, _trow_. tryst, _appointment_, _assignation_. twal, _twelve_. twan, _twined_. twine, _part_, _deprive of_. tyde, _time_. tyte, _promptly_, _quick_. unco, _strangely_, _very_. vanes, _flags_. venerye, _hunting_. vent, _went_. verament, _truly_. villanye, vilony, _disgrace_. vntill, _unto_. vones, (wones,) _dwellest_. vytouten, _without_. wa', _wall_. wace, _wax_. wad, _pledge_. wad, 212, _waded_. wadded, 9, _woad-colored_, _blue_. wadna, _would not_. wae, waefu', waesome, _sorrowful_, _sad_. waif, _straying_. wald, _would_. walker, 10, _fuller_. wall-wight men, 176, _picked_ (waled) _strong men_, _warriors_: see vol. vi., p. 220, v. 15. wan afore, 255, _came before_. wane, _dwelling_. war, _where_. ware of, to be, _to perceive_. warld's maike, 264, _companion for life_. warluck, _a wizard_, _a man in league with the devil_. warsled, _wrestled_, _struggled_. warwolf, _werwolf_, _manwolf_. wat, _wet_. waught, _draught_. wauking, _walking_. waylawaye, _alas_. wee, _little_. weiest, 254, [Jamieson,] _saddest_, _darkest_. weird, _fate_. weird, _destine_. wend, _weened_. wer, were, _war_. wern, _refuse_. werre, _worse_. werryed, _worried_. wesch, _wash_. wete, weten, _knowing_. whareto, _wherefore_. wharfrae, _whence_. whereas, _where_. wi, _with_. wicht, _strong_, _nimble_, wide, 199, _wade_. widershins, _the contrary way_, _the way contrary to the course of the sun_. wide-whare, _widely_, _far and near_. wierd, _fate_. wight, _strong_, _active_, _nimble_. wilder'd, _carried astray_. win, _go to_, _attain_; win up, _get up_. win, _rescue_. wind blows in your glove, 67? winna, _will not_. wistna, _knew not_. wit, _know_, _knowledge_. wittering, _information_. witti, _intelligible_. wodewale, _woodpecker_. woe, _sad_. won, _dwell_. wonige, 275, [adj. qy. woning?] _dwelling_. wood, _mad_. worth, 276, _become_, _be the result_. worthy, I were, 26, _it would become me_. wow, _exclamation of astonishment or grief_. wpe, _up_. wrebbe, 98; _wrebbe and wrye_, _turn and twist_? wrought, 240, for raught, _reached_. wrucked up, 240, _thrown up_. wrye, 98, _wrebbe and wrye_, _turn and twist_? wud, _wood_. wull, 253, _wandering in ignorance of one's course_, _lost in error_, _bewildered_. wylos, _willow_. wyndouten, _without_. wyne-berye, _grape_. wysse, _wise_. wyt, _with_. wyte, 136, _blame_. wyth, 276, _wight_, _agile_. wytouten, _without_. yard, _staff_. yat, _that_. yate, _gate_. y-born, _born_. y-doon, _done_. ychon, _each one_. yeen, 274, _against_, _towards_. ye'se, _ye shall_, _will_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yett, _gate_ ylk, _each_. yod, _went_. yone, _yon_. yyng, _young_. zede, _went_. zonge, _young_. &c. [z]e, _ye_. [z]ede, _went_. [z]it, _yet_. &c. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Archaic, unusual and inconsistent spelling or punctuation has generally been retained as in the original. Where changes have been made to the text these are listed below: page 47 (line 148) added missing close quotation mark: Nor keepe me lingering here in paine." page 221 (lines 73, 74) moved close quotation mark: "Pray, sir, did you not send for me, By such a messenger?" said she: page 221 (line 80) deleted extraneous open quotation mark: "Go in," said he, "and go to bed; I'll see the horse well littered." page 248: added missing open quotation mark ("Go on yet a little farther," said the hen-wife, "till thou come to a round green hill ...") page 250 (line 33) added missing single quotation mark: "'And sit thou down; and wae, O wae That ever thou was born; page 259 (lines 47, 48) added missing open quotation mark: "Our king's dochter, she gaes wi' bairn, And we'll get a' the wyte." page 263 (line 150) added missing closing single quotation mark: The Queen o' Elfin she'll cry out, 'True Tam-a-Line's awa'.' page 276 added missing closing quotation mark For him that mensked man wyt mith, Wat sal worth of this were?" &c. page 288: the line numbering in Lord Dingwall is in error, but has been retained as per the original. page 295 (line 40) added missing open quotation mark: "O tak me out," May Marg'ret cried, "O tak me hame to thee; 
43825	----	generously made available by the Digital & Multimedia Center, Michigan State University Libraries.) Transcriber's Notes In this plain text version of the e-book, symbols from the Latin-1 character set are used. Italic typeface is represented by _underscores_; small caps typeface by ALL CAPS. [Asterism] represents an asterism (three stars). [gh] represents letter "yogh". [Pointing hand] denotes the symbol of a right pointing hand. Notes on the ballads are presented at the end of each ballad. The presence of a note is indicated byt a an anchor at the end of the line (not in the original text), of the style [Lxx] where xx is the line number. Minor changes to regularise ballad line numbering and indentation have been made without comment. Any other changes to the text are listed at the end of the book. * * * * * ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH BALLADS. EDITED BY FRANCIS JAMES CHILD. VOLUME VIII. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY. M.DCCC.LX. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. CONTENTS OF VOLUME EIGHTH. BOOK VIII. Page 1. King John and the Abbot of Canterbury 3 2. Captain Wedderburn's Courtship 11 3. Lay the Bent to the Bonny Broom 18 4. King Edward Fourth and the Tanner of Tamworth 21 5. The King and the Miller of Mansfield 32 6. Gernutus, the Jew of Venice 45 7. The Frolicksome Duke, or, The Tinker's Good Fortune 54 8 a. The Heir of Linne. [Percy.] 60 8 b. The Heir of Linne. [Traditional version] 70 9. The Wandering Jew 76 10. Proud Lady Margaret 83 11. Reedisdale and Wise William 87 12 a. Geordie. [Musical Museum.] 92 12 b. Geordie. [Kinloch.] 96 13. The Gaberlunzie Man 98 14. The Turnament of Totenham 101 15. The Wyf of Auchtirmuchty 116 16. The Friar in the Well 122 17. Get up and bar the Door 125 18. The Dragon of Wantley 128 APPENDIX. Kempy Kaye. [Sharpe.] 139 Kempy Kaye. [Kinloch.] 141 The Jovial Hunter of Bromsgrove 144 The Bludy Serk 147 The Wanton Wife of Bath 152 The Gentleman in Thracia 158 Sir Richard Whittington's Advancement 165 Catskin's Garland, or, The Wandering young Gentlewoman 172 The Taming of a Shrew 182 Titus Andronicus's Complaint 188 John Dory 194 Sir Eglamore 196 Jephthah, Judge of Israel 198 Samson 201 Queen Dido, or, The Wandering Prince of Troy 207 George Barnwell 213 The Duke of Athol's Nurse. [Buchan.] 228 The Duke of Athol's Nourice. [Kinloch.] 231 The Hireman Chiel 233 Armstrong and Musgrave 243 Fair Margaret of Craignargat 249 Richie Storie 255 The Farmer's Old Wife 257 The Duel of Wharton and Stuart 259 Saddle to Rags 265 The Fause Knight upon the Road 269 Gifts from over Sea 271 The Courteous Knight 272 The Northern Lord and Cruel Jew 277 Gight's Lady 285 GLOSSARY 293 INDEX 303 BOOK VIII. KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY. Stories resembling that contained in the following ballad are to be met with in the literature of most of the nations of Europe; for example, in the _Gesta Romanorum_, (No. XIX. and [XXXV.] of Madden's _Old English Versions_,) in the amusing German tale _Der Phaffe Amis_, 98-180, in _Eulenspiegel_, (Marbach, p. 28,) and the English _Owlglass_ (31st Adventure in the recent edition), in the Grimm's _Kinder-und-Haus-marchen_, No. 152, in Sacchetti's _Novels_, No. 4, the_Patrañuelo_ of Juan Timoneda, Alcala, 1576 (Ritson, _Anc. Songs_, ii. 183), the _Contes à rire_, i. 182, (_Gent. Mag._ 65, i. 35,) etc., etc. _King John and the Abbot_, says Grundtvig (ii. 650), is universally known in Denmark in the form of a prose tale; and a copy is printed in _Gamle danske Minder_ (1854) No. 111, _The King and the Miller_. Wynken de Worde, printed in 1511, a little collection of riddles, translated from the French, like those propounded by King John to the Abbot, with the title _Demaundes Joyous_. By this link the present ballad is connected with a curious class of compositions, peculiar to the Middle Ages--the Disputations, or Wit-Combats, of which the dialogues of Salomon and Marcolf (existing in many languages) are the most familiar, and those of Salomon and Saturn (in Anglo-Saxon) the oldest preserved specimens. These dialogues, in their earlier shape grave contests for superiority in knowledge and wisdom, underwent a change about the twelfth century, by which they became essentially comic. The serious element, represented by Salomon, was retained after this, merely to afford material, or contrast, for the coarse humor of Marcolf, whose part it is, under the character of a rude and clownish person, "facie deformis et turpissimus," to turn the sententious observations of the royal sage into ludicrous parodies.[1] The hint, and possibly a model, for these disputations may have been found in Jewish tradition. We learn from Josephus, (_Antiquities_, Book VIII. ch. v.) that Hiram of Tyre and Solomon sent one another sophistical puzzles and enigmas to be solved, on condition of forfeiting large sums of money in case of failure, and that Solomon's riddles were all guessed by Abdæmon of Tyre, or by Abdimus, his son, for authorities differ. This account coincides with what we read in _Chronicles_, (Book II. ch. ii. 13, 14,) of the man sent by Hiram to Solomon, who, besides a universal knowledge of the arts, was skilful "to find out every device that might be put to him" by cunning men--that is, apparently, "hard questions," such as the Queen of Sheba came to prove Solomon with, (1 Kings, x. i.) some account of which is given in the _Talmud_.--See, on the whole subject, Kemble's masterly essay on _Salomon and Saturn_, printed by the Ælfric Society: also Grässe, _Sagenkreise des Mittelalters_, p. 406-471; the Grimms' _Kinder-und-Hausmärchen_, vol. iii. p. 236, ed. 1856; F. W. V. Schmidt, _Taschenbuch deutscher Romanzen_, p. 82. Examples of the riddle-song pure and simple will be found under _Captain Wedderburn's Courtship_. [1] Among those nations who originated and developed the character of Marcolf (the German and the French) his fame has declined, but in Italy, where the legend was first introduced towards the end of the sixteenth century, his shrewd sayings, like the kindred jests of the _Eulenspiegel_ in Germany, have an undiminished popularity, and his story, both in the form of a chap-book and of a satirical epic, (the _Bertoldo_,) is circulated throughout the length and breadth of the country, whence it has also been transplanted into Greece. This ballad is taken from Percy's _Reliques_, ii. 329. The copy in Durfey's _Pills to Purge Melancholy_, iv. 29, or _A Collection of Old Ballads_, ii. 49, is vastly inferior to the present. "The common popular ballad of _King John and the Abbot_," says Percy, "seems to have been abridged and modernized about the time of James I., from one much older, entitled _King John and the Bishop of Canterbury_. The Editor's folio MS. contains a copy of this last, but in too corrupt a state to be reprinted; it however afforded many lines worth reviving, which will be found inserted in the ensuing stanzas. "The archness of the following questions and answers hath been much admired by our old ballad-makers; for besides the two copies above mentioned, there is extant another ballad on the same subject, (but of no great antiquity or merit,) entitled _King Olfrey and the Abbot_. [_Old Ball._ ii. 55.] Lastly, about the time of the civil wars, when the cry ran against the bishops, some puritan worked up the same story into a very doleful ditty, to a solemn tune, concerning _King Henry and a Bishop_; with this stinging moral: 'Unlearned men hard matters out can find, When learned bishops princes eyes do blind.' "The following is chiefly printed from an ancient black-letter copy, to the tune of _Derry-down_." An ancient story Ile tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right. And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, 5 Concerning the Abbott of Canterbùrye; How for his house-keeping and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne. An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; 10 And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about. "How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee; And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, 15 I feare thou work'st treason against my crown." "My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne I never spend nothing, but what is my owne; And I trust your grace will doe me no deere, For spending of my owne true-gotten geere." 20 "Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe. "And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead, 25 With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe. "Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole world about; 30 And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think." "O these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet: But if you will give me but three weekes space, 35 Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace." "Now three weeks space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee." 40 Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise. Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, 45 And he mett his shepheard a going to fold: "How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; What newes do you bring us from good King John?" "Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give, That I have but three days more to live; 50 For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodìe. "The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so fair on his head, Among all his liege men so noble of birth, 55 To within one penny of what he is worth. "The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole world about: And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke." 60 "Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learne a wise man witt? Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, And Ile ride to London to answere your quarrel. "Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, 65 I am like your lordship, as ever may bee; And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne." "Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave, 70 With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appear 'fore our fader the pope." "Now, welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say, "Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day: For and if thou canst answer my questions three, 75 Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. "And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crowne of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worth." 80 "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke thou art one penny worser than hee." The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,[L85] 85 "I did not think I had been worth so littel! --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about." "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same Until the next morning he riseth againe; 90 And then your grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, "I did not think it could be gone so soone! --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, 95 But tell me here truly what I do thinke." "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry; You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee." 100 The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, "Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!" "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write ne reade." "Four nobles a week, then I will give thee, 105 For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee; And tell the old abbot when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John." 85, Meaning probably St. Botolph. CAPTAIN WEDDERBURN'S COURTSHIP. The two following ballads, in connection with the foregoing, will serve as specimens of the anciently highly-popular class of riddle songs. No ballad, says Motherwell, is even now more frequently met with on the stalls than _Captain Wedderburn's Courtship_. It was first published in _The New British Songster_, Falkirk, 1785, and afterwards in Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, ii. 154, from which the present copy is taken. Chambers gives a few different readings from a copy furnished by Mr. Kinloch--_Scottish Ballads_, p. 331. A fragment of this piece is given in _Minstrelsy of the English Border_, p. 230, under the title of _The Laird of Roslin's Daughter_. Riddles like those in the following ballads are found in _Proud Lady Margaret_, p. 83 of this volume, _The Courteous Knight_, in the Appendix, and _The Bonny Hind Squire_, in _Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads_, p. 42, Percy Society, vol. xvii.--three varieties of one original: and in _Gifts from over Sea_, Appendix, p. 290. Also, in several of the ancient Norse poems; in the ancient Danish ballad _Svend Vonved_, Grundtvig, No. 18; in _Sven Svanehvit, Svenska F. V._, No. 45; Hammershaimb's _Færöiske Kvæder_, ii. No. 4; Landstad's _Norske Folkeviser_, p. 369; Erk's _Liederhort_, No. 153; Uhland, No. 1, 2, 3; Erlach, iii. 37; _Wunderhorn_, ii. 407; Tschischka and Schottky, _Oesterreichische Volksl._ p. 28; Haupt and Schmaler, _Volksl. der Wenden_, i. No. 150, ii. No. 74; Talvj, _Volksl. der Serben_, ii. 77; Goetze, _Stimmen des russischen Volkes_, p. 163; etc., etc. See especially Grundtvig, i. 237, ii. 648, from whom we have borrowed some of these references. "The following copy was furnished from Mr. Herd's MS. by the editor of the Border Minstrelsy, and the present writer has supplied a few readings of small importance from his own recollection, as it was quite familiar to him in his early youth." JAMIESON. The Lord of Roslin's daughter Walk'd thro' the wood her lane, And by came Captain Wedderburn, A servant to the king. He said unto his serving men, 5 "Were't not against the law, I would tak her to my ain bed, And lay her neist the wa'." "I am walking here alone," she says, "Amang my father's trees; 10 And you must let me walk alane, Kind sir, now, if you please; The supper bell it will be rung, And I'll be mist awa'; Sae I winna lie in your bed, 15 Either at stock or wa'." He says, "My pretty lady, I pray lend me your hand, And you shall hae drums and trumpets Always at your command; 20 And fifty men to guard you with, That well their swords can draw; Sae we'se baith lie in ae bed, And ye'se lie neist the wa'." "Haud awa frae me," she said, 25 "And pray lat gae my hand; The supper bell it will be rung, I can nae langer stand; My father he will angry be, Gin I be miss'd awa; 30 Sae I'll nae lie in your bed, Either at stock or wa'." Then said the pretty lady, "I pray tell me your name:" "My name is Captain Wedderburn, 35 A servant to the king. Tho' thy father and his men were here, Of them I'd have nae awe; But tak you to my ain bed, And lay you neist the wa'." 40 He lighted aff his milk-white steed, And set this lady on, And held her by the milk-white hand, Even as they rade along; He held her by the middle jimp, 45 For fear that she should fa', To tak her to his ain bed, And lay her neist the wa'. He took her to his lodging-house; His landlady look'd ben; 50 Says, "Mony a pretty lady In Edenbruch I've seen, But sic a lovely face as thine In it I never saw; Gae mak her down a down-bed, 55 And lay her neist the wa'." "O haud awa' frae me," she says, "I pray ye lat me be; I winna gang into your bed, Till ye dress me dishes three: 60 Dishes three ye maun dress to me, Gin I should eat them a', Afore that I lie in your bed, Either at stock or wa'. "Its ye maun get to my supper 65 A cherry without a stane; And ye maun get to my supper A chicken without a bane; And ye maun get to my supper A bird without a ga'; 70 Or I winna lie in your bed, Either at stock or wa'." "Its whan the cherry is in the flirry, I'm sure it has nae stane; And whan the chicken's in the egg, 75 I'm sure it has nae bane; And sin the flood o' Noah, The dow she had nae ga';[L78] Sae we'll baith lie in ae bed, And ye'se lie neist the wa'." 80 "O haud your tongue, young man," she says, "Nor that gait me perplex; For ye maun tell me questions yet, And that is questions six: Questions six ye tell to me, 85 And that is three times twa, Afore I lie in your bed, Either at stock or wa'. "What's greener than the greenest grass? What hicher than the trees? 90 What's war nor an ill woman's wish? What's deeper than the seas? What bird sings first? and whareupon The dew doth first down fa'? Ye sall tell afore I lay me down 95 Between you and the wa'." "Vergris is greener than the grass; Heaven's hicher than the trees; The deil's warse nor a woman's wish; Hell's deeper than the seas; 100 The cock craws first; on cedar top The dew down first doth fa'; And we'll lie baith in ae bed, And ye'se lie neist the wa'." "O haud your tongue, young man," she says, 105 "And gi'e your fleechin' o'er, Unless you'll find me ferlies, And that is ferlies four; Ferlies four ye maun find me, And that is twa and twa; 110 Or I'll never lie in your bed, Either at stock or wa'. "And ye maun get to me a plumb That in December grew; And get to me a silk mantel, 115 That waft was ne'er ca'd thro'; A sparrow's horn; a priest unborn, This night to join us twa; Or I'll nae lie in your bed, Either at stock or wa'." 120 "My father he has winter fruit That in December grew; My mither has an Indian gown, That waft was ne'er ca'd thro'; A sparrow's horn is quickly found; 125 There's ane on every claw; There's ane upon the neb o' him; Perhaps there may be twa. "The priest he's standing at the door, Just ready to come in; 130 Nae man can say that he was born, To lie it were a sin; A wild bore tore his mither's side, He out o' it did fa'; Then we'll baith lie in ae bed, 135 And thou's lie neist the wa'." Little kend Girzy Sinclair That morning whan she raise, That this wad be the hindermaist O' a' her maiden days; 140 But now there's nae within the realm, I think, a blyther twa; And they baith lie in ae bed, And she lies neist the wa'. 78. The peasants in Scotland say that the dove that was sent out of the Ark by Noah flew till she burst her gall, and that no dove since that time ever had a gall. J. LAY THE BENT TO THE BONNY BROOM. From Durfey's _Pills to Purge Melancholy_, iv. 129, with the title _A Riddle wittily expounded_. The same in Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, ii. 155, and in The Borderer's Table Book, vii. 83. A fragment of this ballad, called _The Three Sisters_, is printed in Gilbert's _Ancient Christmas Carols_, (2d ed.) p. 65, and has a different burden. It begins There were three sisters fair and bright, _Jennifer gentle and Rosemaree_, And they three loved one valiant knight, _As the dew flies over the mulberry tree_. * * * * * There was a lady in the North-country, _Lay the bent to the bonny broom_, And she had lovely daughters three, _Fa, la la la, fa, la la la ra re_. There was a knight of noble worth, Which also lived at the North. The knight, of courage stout and brave, 5 A wife he did desire to have. He knocked at the lady's gate, One evening when it was late. The eldest sister let him in,[L9] And pinn'd the door with a silver pin. 10 The second sister, she made his bed, And laid soft pillows under his head. The youngest [sister] that same night, She went to bed to this young knight. And in the morning when it was day, 15 These words unto him she did say. "Now you have had your will," quoth she, "I pray, Sir Knight, you marry me." This young brave knight to her reply'd. "Thy suit, fair maid, shall not be deny'd, 20 "If thou canst answer me questions three, This very day will I marry thee." "Kind sir, in love, O then," quoth she, "Tell me what your three questions be." "O what is longer than the way?[L25] 25 Or what is deeper than the sea? "Or what is louder than a horn? Or what is sharper than a thorn? "Or what is greener than the grass? Or what is worse than a woman was?" 30 "O love is longer than the way, And hell is deeper than the sea. "And thunder's louder than the horn, And hunger's sharper than a thorn. "And poyson's greener than the grass,[L35] 35 And the devil's worse than the woman was." When she these questions answered had, The knight became exceeding glad. And having truly try'd her wit, He much commended her for it. 40 And after, as 'tis verified, He made of her his lovely bride. So now, fair maidens all, adieu; This song I dedicate to you. I wish that you may constant prove 45 Unto the man that you do love. 9. youngest. 25. i.e. the milky way. 35. "_Vergris_ is greener than the grass." _C. W.'s Courtship_, v. 97. KING EDWARD FOURTH AND THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH. The next two ballads belong to a class of tales extremely numerous in England, in which the sovereign is represented as conversing on terms of good fellowship with one of his humbler subjects who is unacquainted with the royal person. In several of the best of these stories, the monarch is benighted in the forest, and obliged to demand hospitality of the first man he meets. He is at first viewed with suspicion and treated with rudeness, but soon wins favor by his affability and good humor, and is invited to partake of a liberal supper, composed in part of his own venison. In due time the king reveals his true character to his astonished and mortified host, who looks to be punished alike for his familiarity and for deer-stealing, but is pardoned for both, and even handsomely rewarded for his entertainment. The earliest of these stories seems to be that of King Alfred and the Neatherd, in which the herdsman's wife plays the offending part, and the peasant himself is made Bishop of Winchester. Others of very considerable antiquity are the tales of Henry II. and the Cistercian Abbot in the _Speculum Ecclesiæ_ of Giraldus Cambrensis, (an. 1220,) printed in _Reliquiæ Antiquæ_, i. 147; _King Edward and the Shepherd_, and _The King_ [Edward] _and the Hermit_, in Hartshorne's _Metrical Tales_, (p. 35, p. 293, the latter previously in _The British Bibliographer_, iv. 81;) _Rauf Coilzear, how he harbreit King Charlis_, in Laing's _Select Remains; John the Reeve_, an unprinted piece in the Percy MS., founded on an adventure between King Edward I. and one of his bailiffs, which is highly commended by Dr. Percy "for its genuine humor, diverting incidents, and faithful picture of rustic manners;" and _The King and the Barker_, the original of the present ballad. (See also the seventh and eighth fits of the _Little Gest of Robin Hood_.) More recent specimens are the two pieces here given, and others mentioned by Percy: _King Henry and the Soldier_, _King Henry VIII. and the Cobbler_, _King James I. and the Tinker_, _King William and the Forester, &c._ It is obvious that a legend of immemorial antiquity has been transferred by successive minstrels or story-tellers to the reigning monarch of their own times. An anecdote of the same character is related by Mr. Wright of Prince George of Denmark, and a poor artisan of Bristol, (_Essays_, ii. 172.) The meeting of King Richard with Friar Tuck in Ivanhoe, was suggested by the tale of _King Edward and the Hermit_. "The general tone of the story," says Scott, "belongs to all ranks and to all countries, which emulate each other in describing the rambles of a disguised sovereign, who, going in search of information or amusement into the lower ranks of life, meets with adventures diverting to the reader or hearer, from the contrast betwixt the monarch's outward appearance and his real character. The Eastern tale-teller has for his theme the disguised expeditions of Haroun Alraschid, with his faithful attendants Mesrour and Giafar, through the midnight streets of Bagdad, and Scottish tradition dwells upon the similar exploits of James V., distinguished during such excursions by the travelling name of the Goodman of Ballengeigh, as the Commander of the Faithful, when he desired to be _incognito_, was known by that of Il Bondocani." _The King and the Barker_ is printed in Ritson's _Anc. Pop. Poetry_, p. 61; the modern ballad of _King Alfred and the Shepherd_, in _Old Ballads_, i. 41; _King James and the Tinkler_, in Richardson's _Borderer's Table Book_, vii. 8, and in the Percy Soc. Publications, vol. xvii., _Ancient Poems, &c._ p. 109. "The following text is selected (with such other corrections as occurred) from two copies in black letter. The one in the Bodleian library, entitled _A merrie, pleasant, and delectable historie betweene King Edward the Fourth, and a Tanner of Tamworth, &c._, printed at London by John Danter, 1596. This copy, ancient as it now is, appears to have been modernized and altered at the time it was published; and many vestiges of the more ancient readings were recovered from another copy (though more recently printed) in one sheet folio, without date, in the Pepys collection." PERCY'S _Reliques_, ii. 87. The old copies, according to Ritson, contain a great many stanzas which Percy "has not injudiciously suppressed." _King_ Henry _the Fourth and the Tanner of Tamworth_ stands in the _Registers of the Stationers' Company_, as licensed in 1564-5. The Tanner of Tamworth is introduced into the First Part of Heywood's play of _Edward the Fourth_. In summer time, when leaves grow greene, And blossoms bedecke the tree, King Edward wolde a hunting ryde, Some pastime for to see. With hawke and hounde he made him bowne, 5 With horne, and eke with bowe; To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye, With all his lordes a rowe. And he had ridden ore dale and downe By eight of clocke in the day, 10 When he was ware of a bold tannèr, Come ryding along the waye. A fayre russet coat the tanner had on, Fast buttoned under his chin, And under him a good cow-hide, 15 And a mare of four shilling.[L16] "Nowe stande you still, my good lordes all, Under the grene wood spraye; And I will wend to yonder fellowe, To weet what he will saye. 20 "God speede, God speede thee," sayd our king, "Thou art welcome, sir," sayd hee; "The readyest waye to Drayton Basset I praye thee to shewe to mee." "To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe 25 Fro the place where thou dost stand, The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto, Turne in upon thy right hand." "That is an unreadye waye," sayd our king, "Thou doest but jest I see; 30 Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye, And I pray thee wend with mee." "Awaye with a vengeance!" quoth the tanner: "I hold thee out of thy witt: All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare, 35 And I am fasting yett." "Go with me downe to Drayton Basset, No daynties we will spare; All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best, And I will paye thy fare." 40 "Gramercye for nothing," the tanner replyde, "Thou payest no fare of mine: I trowe I've more nobles in my purse, Than thou hast pence in thine." "God give thee joy of them," sayd the king, 45 "And send them well to priefe;" The tanner wolde faine have beene away, For he weende he had beene a thiefe. "What art thou," hee sayde, "thou fine fellòwe? Of thee I am in great feare; 50 For the cloathes thou wearest upon thy backe Might beseeme a lord to weare." "I never stole them," quoth our king, "I tell you, sir, by the roode;" "Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, 55 And standest in midds of thy goode."[L56] "What tydinges heare you," sayd the kynge, "As you ryde farre and neare?" "I heare no tydinges, sir, by the masse, But that cowe-hides are deare." 60 "Cowe-hides! cowe-hides! what things are those? I marvell what they bee?" "What, art thou a foole?" the tanner reply'd; "I carry one under mee." "What craftsman art thou?" sayd the king; 65 "I praye thee tell me trowe:" "l am a barker, sir, by my trade; Nowe tell me what art thou?" "I am a poore courtier, sir," quoth he, "That am forth of service worne; 70 And faine I wolde thy prentise bee, Thy cunninge for to learne." "Marrye heaven forfend," the tanner replyde, "That thou my prentise were; Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne By fortye shilling a yere." 76 "Yet one thinge wolde I," sayd our king, "If thou wilt not seeme strange; Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare, Yet with thee I faine wold change." 80 "Why if with me thou faine wilt change, As change full well maye wee, By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellòwe, I will have some boot of thee." "That were against reason," sayd the king, 85 "I sweare, so mote I thee; My horse is better than thy mare, And that thou well mayst see." "Yea, sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild, And softly she will fare; 90 Thy horse is unrulye and wild, i-wiss, Aye skipping here and theare." "What boote wilt thou have?" our king reply'd; "Now tell me in this stound;" "Noe pence, nor half-pence, by my faye, 95 But a noble in gold so round." "Here's twentye groates of white moneyè, Sith thou wilt have it of mee;" "I would have sworne now," quoth the tanner, "Thou hadst not had one penniè. 100 "But since we two have made a change, A change we must abide; Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare, Thou gettest not my cowe-hide." "I will not have it," sayd the kynge, 105 "I sweare, so mought I thee; Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare, If thou woldst give it to mee." The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide, That of the cow was hilt, 110 And threwe it upon the king's sadèlle, That was soe fayrelye gilte. "Now help me up, thou fine fellòwe, 'Tis time that I were gone; When I come home to Gyllian my wife, 115 Sheel say I am a gentilmon." The king he tooke him up by the legge, The tanner a f** lett fall; "Nowe marrye, good fellowe," sayd the kyng, "Thy courtesye is but small." 120 When the tanner he was in the kinges sadèlle, And his foote in his stirrup was, He marvelled greatlye in his minde, Whether it were golde or brass. But when his steede saw the cows taile wagge, 125 And eke the blacke cowe-horne, He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, As the devill had him borne. The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, And held by the pummil fast; 130 At length the tanner came tumbling downe, His necke he had well-nye brast. "Take thy horse again with a vengeance," he sayd, "With mee he shall not byde;" "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe, 135 But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide. "Yet if againe thou faine woldst change, As change full well may wee, By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tannèr, I will have some boote of thee." 140 "What boote wilt thou have?" the tanner replyd, "Nowe tell me in this stounde; "Noe pence nor half-pence, sir, by my faye, But I will have twentye pound." "Here's twentye groates out of my purse, 145 And twentye I have of thine; And I have one more, which we will spend Together at the wine." The king set a bugle horne to his mouthe, And blewe both loude and shrille; 150 And soone came lords, and soone came knights, Fast ryding over the hille. "Nowe, out alas," the tanner he cryde, "That ever I sawe this daye! Thou art a strong thiefe; yon come thy fellowes 155 Will beare my cowe-hide away." "They are no thieves," the king replyde, "I sweare, soe mote I thee; But they are lords of the north country, Here come to hunt with mee." 160 And soone before our king they came, And knelt downe on the grounde; Then might the tanner have beene awaye, He had lever than twentye pounde. "A coller, a coller, here," sayd the king, 165 "A coller," he loud gan crye; Then woulde he lever then twentye pound, He had not beene so nighe. "A coller! a coller!" the tanner he sayd, "I trowe it will breed sorrowe; 170 After a coller commeth a halter; I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe." "Be not afraid, tanner," said our king; "I tell thee, so mought I thee, Lo here I make thee the best esquire 175 That is in the North countrie.[L176] "For Plumpton-parke I will give thee, With tenements faire beside,-- 'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,-- To maintaine thy good cow-hide." 180 "Gramercye, my liege," the tanner replyde; "For the favour thou hast me showne, If ever thou comest to merry Tamwòrth, Neates leather shall clout thy shoen." 16. In the reign of Edward IV. Dame Cecill, lady of Torboke, in her will dated March 7, A.D. 1466, among many other bequests, has this: "Also I will that my sonne Thomas of Torboke have 13_s._ 4_d._ to buy him an horse." Vide Harleian Catalogue, 2176, 27.--Now if 13_s._ 4_d._ would purchase a steed fit for a person of quality, a tanner's horse might reasonably be valued at four or five shillings.--PERCY. 56. i. e. hast no other wealth, but what thou carriest about thee.--PERCY. 176. This stanza is restored from a quotation of this ballad in Selden's _Titles of Honour_, who produces it as a good authority to prove, that one mode of creating Esquires at that time, was by the imposition of a collar. His words are, "Nor is that old pamphlet of the Tanner of Tamworth and King Edward the Fourth so contemptible, but that wee may thence note also an observable passage, wherein the use of making Esquires, by giving collars, is expressed." (Sub. Tit. Esquire; & vide in Spelmanni _Glossar. Armiger._) This form of creating Esquires actually exists at this day among the Sergeants at Arms, who are invested with a collar (which they wear on Collar Days) by the King himself. This information I owe to Samuel Pegge, Esq., to whom the public is indebted for that curious work, the _Curialia_, 4to.--PERCY. THE KING AND MILLER OF MANSFIELD. "The following is printed, with corrections from the Editor's folio MS. collated with an old black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, entitled _A pleasant ballad of King Henry II. and the Miller of Mansfield, &c._"--PERCY's _Reliques_, iii. 22. Other copies, slightly different, in _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 53, and Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, ii. 173. PART THE FIRST. Henry, our royall king, would ride a hunting To the greene forest so pleasant and faire; To see the harts skipping, and dainty does tripping, Unto merry Sherwood his nobles repaire: Hawke and hound were unbound, all things prepar'd 5 For the game, in the same, with good regard. All a long summers day rode the king pleasantlye, With all his princes and nobles eche one; Chasing the hart and hind, and the bucke gallantlye, Till the dark evening forc'd all to turne home. 10 Then at last, riding fast, he had lost quite All his lords in the wood, late in the night. Wandering thus wearilye, all alone, up and downe, With a rude miller he mett at the last; Asking the ready way unto faire Nottingham, 15 "Sir," quoth the miller, "I meane not to jest, Yet I thinke, what I thinke, sooth for to say; You doe not lightlye ride out of your way." "Why, what dost thou think of me," quoth our king merrily, "Passing thy judgment upon me so briefe?" 20 "Good faith," sayd the miller, "I mean not to flatter thee, I guess thee to bee but some gentleman thiefe; Stand thee backe, in the darke; light not adowne, Lest that I presentlye crack thy knaves crowne." "Thou dost abuse me much," quoth the king, "saying thus; 25 I am a gentleman; lodging I lacke." "Thou hast not," quoth th' miller, "one groat in thy purse; All thy inheritance hanges on thy backe." "I have gold to discharge all that I call; If it be forty pence, I will pay all." 30 "If thou beest a true man," then quoth the miller, "I sweare by my toll-dish, I'll lodge thee all night." "Here's my hand," quoth the king; "that was I ever." "Nay, soft," quoth the miller, "thou may'st be a sprite. Better I'll know thee, ere hands we will shake; 35 With none but honest men hands will I take." Thus they went all along unto the millers house, Where they were seething of puddings and souse; The miller first enter'd in, after him went the king; Never came hee in soe smoakye a house. 40 "Now," quoth hee, "let me see here what you are:" Quoth the king, "Looke your fill, and doe not spare." "I like well thy countenance, thou hast an honest face: With my son Richard this night thou shalt lye." Quoth his wife, "By my troth, it is a handsome youth, 45 Yet it's best, husband, to deal warilye. Art thou no run-away, prythee, youth, tell? Shew me thy passport, and all shal be well." Then our king presentlye, making lowe courtesye, With his hatt in his hand, thus he did say; 50 "I have no passport, nor never was servitor, But a poor courtyer, rode out of my way: And for your kindness here offered to mee, I will requite you in everye degree." Then to the miller his wife whisper'd secretlye, 55 Saying, "It seemeth, this youth's of good kin, Both by his apparel, and eke by his manners; To turne him out, certainlye were a great sin." "Yea," quoth hee, "you may see he hath some grace, When he doth speake to his betters in place." 60 "Well," quo' the millers wife, "young man, ye're welcome here; And, though I say it, well lodged shall be: Fresh straw will I have laid on thy bed so brave, And good brown hempen sheets likewise," quoth shee. "Aye," quoth the good man; "and when that is done, 65 Thou shalt lye with no worse than our own sonne." "Nay, first," quoth Richard, "good-fellowe, tell me true, Hast thou noe creepers within thy gay hose? Or art thou not troubled with the scabbado?" "I pray," quoth the king, "what creatures are those?" 70 "Art thou not lowsy nor scabby?" quoth he: "If thou beest, surely thou lyest not with mee." This caus'd the king, suddenlye, to laugh most heartilye, Till the teares trickled fast downe from his eyes. Then to their supper were they set orderlye, 75 With hot bag-puddings, and good apple-pyes; Nappy ale, good and stale, in a browne bowle, Which did about the board merrilye trowle. "Here," quoth the miller, "good fellowe, I drinke to thee, And to all courtnalls that courteous be." 80 "I pledge thee," quoth our king, "and thanke thee heartilye For my good welcome in everye degree: And here, in like manner, I drinke to thy sonne." "Do then," quoth Richard, "and quicke let it come." "Wife," quoth the miller, "fetch me forth lightfoote, 85 And of his sweetnesse a little we'll taste." A fair ven'son pastye brought she out presentlye, "Eate," quoth the miller, "but, sir, make no waste. Here's dainty lightfoote!" "In faith," sayd the king, "I never before eat so daintye a thing." 90 "I-wis," quoth Richard, "no daintye at all it is, For we doe eate of it everye day." "In what place," sayd our king, "may be bought like to this?" "We never pay pennye for itt, by my fay: From merry Sherwood we fetch it home here; 95 Now and then we make bold with our kings deer." "Then I thinke," sayd our king, "that it is venison." "Eche foole," quoth Richard, "full well may know that: Never are wee without two or three in the roof, Very well fleshed, and excellent fat: 100 But, prythee, say nothing wherever thou goe; We would not, for two pence, the king should it knowe." "Doubt not," then sayd the king, "my promist secresye; The king shall never know more on't for mee:" A cupp of lambs-wool they dranke unto him then, 105 And to their bedds they past presentlie. The nobles, next morning, went all up and down, For to seeke out the king in everye towne. At last, at the millers 'cott,' soone they espy'd him out, As he was mounting upon his faire steede; 110 To whom they came presently, falling down on their knee; Which made the millers heart wofully bleede; Shaking and quaking, before him he stood, Thinking he should have been hang'd, by the rood. The king perceiving him fearfully trembling, 115 Drew forth his sword, but nothing he sed: The miller downe did fall, crying before them all, Doubting the king would have cut off his head. But he his kind courtesye for to requite, Gave him great living, and dubb'd him a knight. 120 PART THE SECONDE. When as our royall king came home from Nottingham, And with his nobles at Westminster lay, Recounting the sports and pastimes they had taken, In this late progress along on the way, Of them all, great and small, he did protest, 5 The miller of Mansfields sport liked him best. "And now, my lords," quoth the king, "I am determined Against St. Georges next sumptuous feast, That this old miller, our new confirm'd knight, With his son Richard, shall here be my guest: 10 For, in this merryment, 'tis my desire To talke with the jolly knight, and the young squire." When as the noble lords saw the kinges pleasantness, They were right joyfull and glad in their hearts: A pursuivant there was sent straighte on the business, 15 The which had often-times been in those parts. When he came to the place where they did dwell, His message orderlye then 'gan he tell. "God save your worshippe," then said the messenger, "And grant your ladye her own hearts desire; 20 And to your sonne Richard good fortune and happiness, That sweet, gentle, and gallant young squire. Our king greets you well, and thus he doth say, You must come to the court on St. George's day. "Therefore, in any case, faile not to be in place." 25 "I-wis," quoth the miller, "this is an odd jest: What should we doe there? faith, I am halfe afraid." "I doubt," quoth Richard, "to be hang'd at the least." "Nay," quoth the messenger, "you doe mistake; Our king he provides a great feast for your sake." 30 Then sayd the miller, "By my troth, messenger, Thou hast contented my worshippe full well: Hold, here are three farthings, to quite thy gentleness, For these happy tydings which thou dost tell. Let me see, hear thou mee; tell to our king, 35 We'll wayt on his mastershipp in everye thing." The pursuivant smiled at their simplicitye, And making many leggs, tooke their reward, And his leave taking with great humilitye, To the kings court againe he repair'd; 40 Shewing unto his grace, merry and free, The knightes most liberall gift and bountie. When he was gone away, thus gan the miller say: "Here come expences and charges indeed; Now must we needs be brave, tho' we spend all we have, 45 For of new garments we have great need. Of horses and serving-men we must have store, With bridles and saddles, and twentye things more." "Tushe, Sir John," quoth his wife, "why should you frett or frowne? You shall ne'er be att no charges for mee; 50 For I will turne and trim up my old russet gowne, With everye thing else as fine as may bee; And on our mill-horses swift we will ride, With pillowes and pannells, as we shall provide." In this most statelye sort, rode they unto the court; 55 Their jolly sonne Richard rode foremost of all, Who set up, for good hap, a cocks feather in his cap,[L57] And so they jetted downe to the kings hall; The merry old miller with hands on his side; His wife like maid Marian did mince at that tide.[L60] 60 The king and his nobles, that heard of their coming, Meeting this gallant knight with his brave traine, "Welcome, sir knight," quoth he, "with your gay lady; Good Sir John Cockle, once welcome againe; And so is the squire of courage soe free." 65 Quoth Dicke, "A bots on you! do you know mee?" Quoth our king gentlye, "How should I forget thee? That wast my owne bed-fellowe, well it I wot." "Yea, sir," quoth Richard, "and by the same token, Thou with thy farting didst make the bed hot." 70 "Thou whore-son unhappy knave," then quoth the knight, "Speake cleanly to our king, or else go sh***." The king and his courtiers laugh at this heartily, While the king taketh them both by the hand; With the court-dames and maids, like to the queen of spades, 75 The millers wife did soe orderly stand, A milk-maids courtesye at every word; And downe all the folkes were set to the board. There the king royally, in princelye majestye, Sate at his dinner with joy and delight; 80 When they had eaten well, then he to jesting fell, And in a bowle of wine dranke to the knight: "Here's to you both, in wine, ale, and beer; Thanking you heartilye for my good cheer." Quoth Sir John Cockle, "I'll pledge you a pottle, 85 Were it the best ale in Nottinghamshire:" But then said our king, "Now I think of a thing; Some of your lightfoote I would we had here." "Ho! ho!" quoth Richard, "full well I may say it 'Tis knavery to eate it, and then to betray it." 90 "Why art thou angry?" quoth our king merrilye; "In faith, I take it now very unkind: I thought thou wouldst pledge me in ale and wine heartily." Quoth Dicke, "You are like to stay till I have din'd: You feed us with twatling dishes soe small; 95 Zounds, a blacke-pudding is better than all." "Aye, marry," quoth our king, "that were a daintye thing, Could a man get but one here for to eate:" With that Dicke straite arose, and pluckt one from his hose, Which with heat of his breech gan to sweate. The king made a proffer to snatch it away:-- 100 "'Tis meat for your master: good sir, you must stay." Thus in great merriment was the time wholly spent, And then the ladyes prepared to dance: Old Sir John Cockle, and Richard, incontinent 105 Unto their places the king did advance. Here with the ladyes such sport they did make, The nobles with laughing did make their sides ake. Many thankes for their paines did the king give them, Asking young Richard then, if he would wed; 110 "Among these ladyes free, tell me which liketh thee?" Quoth he, "Jugg Grumball, Sir, with the red head, She's my love, she's my life, her will I wed; She hath sworn I shall have her maidenhead." Then Sir John Cockle the king call'd unto him, 115 And of merry Sherwood made him o'erseer, And gave him out of hand three hundred pound yearlye: "Take heed now you steele no more of my deer; And once a quarter let's here have your view; And now, Sir John Cockle, I bid you adieu." 120 57. for good hap: i. e. for good luck; they were going on a hazardous expedition. P. 60. Maid Marian in the Morris dance, was represented by a man in woman's clothes, who was to take short steps in order to sustain the female character. P. GERNUTUS THE JEW OF VENICE. Percy's _Reliques_, i. 224. In Douce's _Illustrations of Shakespeare_, (i. 278,) and Malone's _Shakespeare_, (v. 3, 154, ed. 1821,) we are referred to a great many stories resembling that of the present ballad. Two or three of these are found in the Persian, and there can be no doubt that the original tale is of eastern invention. The oldest European forms of the story are in the _Gesta Romanorum_, (Wright's _Latin Stories_, Percy Soc. viii. 114, Madden's _Old English Versions_, p. 130,) the French romance of _Dolopathos_ (v. 7096, _et seq._), and the _Pecorone_ of Ser Giovanni Fiorentino, written in 1378, but not printed till 1558. Shakespeare's _Merchant of Venice_ is known to have been played before 1598, and there is some reason to believe that it was produced as early as 1594. The resemblance in many particulars between the play and the narrative in the _Pecorone_ is conclusive to the fact that Shakespeare was acquainted with the Italian novel, directly or by a translation. In Gosson's _School of Abuse_, (1579,) mention is made of a play called _The Jew_, in which was represented "the greediness of worldly choosers, and bloody minds of usurers." It is possible that Shakespeare may have made use of the incidents of this forgotten piece in the construction of his plot, but as our knowledge of the older play amounts literally to the description of it given by Gosson, nothing positive is to be said on that point. Silvayn's _Orator_, translated from the French by Anthony Munday in 1596, affords the earliest discovered _printed_ notice, in English, of the bond and forfeiture, in a "Declamation, Of a Jew, who would for his debt have a pound of flesh of a Christian;" and a striking coincidence between the Jew's plea for the execution of the contract, and the reasoning of Shylock before the Senate, may be regarded by some as of weight sufficient to offset the evidence presented to show that the _Merchant of Venice_ was on the stage in 1594. No dated copy of the ballad of _Gernutus_ is known. It is on the whole more likely that the ballad is older than Shakespeare's comedy, but it _may_ have been called forth by the popularity of that very piece. To judge by the first stanza alone, the writer had derived his materials from an Italian novel. We give in the Appendix another ballad, presenting considerable diversity in the incidents, which we presume to be the one mentioned by Douce under the title of _The Cruel Jews Garland_. In 1664, we are informed by Mr. Collier, Thomas Jordan made a ballad out of the story of the Merchant of Venice, in his _Royal Arbor of Loyal Poesie_, taking some liberties with the original plot. The following was printed from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, (compared with the Ashmole copy,) entitled, "A new Song, shewing the crueltie of 'Gernutus, a Jewe,' who, lending to a merchant an hundred crowns, would have a pound of his fleshe, because he could not pay him at the time appointed. To the tune of _Black and Yellow_." THE FIRST PART. In Venice towne not long agoe A cruel Jew did dwell, Which lived all on usurie, As Italian writers tell. Gernutus called was the Jew, 5 Which never thought to dye, Nor ever yet did any good To them in streets that lie. His life was like a barrow hogge, That liveth many a day, 10 Yet never once doth any good, Until men will him slay. Or like a filthy heap of dung, That lyeth in a whoard; Which never can do any good, 15 Till it be spread abroad. So fares it with the usurer, He cannot sleep in rest For feare the thiefe will him pursue, To plucke him from his nest. 20 His heart doth thinke on many a wile How to deceive the poore; His mouth is almost ful of mucke, Yet still he gapes for more. His wife must lend a shilling, 25 For every weeke a penny; Yet bring a pledge that is double worth, If that you will have any. And see, likewise, you keepe your day, Or else you loose it all: 30 This was the living of the wife, Her cow she did it call. Within that citie dwelt that time A marchant of great fame, Which being distressed in his need, 35 Unto Gernutus came: Desiring him to stand his friend For twelvemonth and a day; To lend to him an hundred crownes; And he for it would pay 40 Whatsoever he would demand of him, And pledges he should have: "No," quoth the Jew, with flearing lookes, "Sir, aske what you will have. "No penny for the loane of it 45 For one year you shall pay; You may doe me as good a turne, Before my dying day. "But we will have a merry jeast, For to be talked long: 50 You shall make me a bond," quoth he, "That shall be large and strong. "And this shall be the forfeyture,-- Of your owne fleshe a pound: If you agree, make you the bond, 55 And here is a hundred crownes." "With right good will," the marchant he says, And so the bond was made. When twelve month and a day drew on, That backe it should be payd, 60 The marchants ships were all at sea, And money came not in; Which way to take, or what to doe, To thinke he doth begin. And to Gernutus strait he comes, 65 With cap and bended knee; And sayde to him, "Of curtesie, I pray you beare with mee. "My day is come, and I have not The money for to pay; 70 And little good the forfeyture Will doe you, I dare say." "With all my heart," Gernutus sayd, "Commaund it to your minde: In thinges of bigger waight then this 75 You shall me ready finde." He goes his way; the day once past, Gernutus doth not slacke To get a sergiant presently, And clapt him on the backe. 80 And layd him into prison strong, And sued his bond withall; And when the judgement day was come, For judgement he did call. The marchants friends came thither fast, 85 With many a weeping eye, For other means they could not find, But he that day must dye. THE SECOND PART. Of the Jews crueltie; setting foorth the mercifulnesse of the Judge towards the Marchant. To the tune of _Black and Yellow_. Some offered for his hundred crownes Five hundred for to pay; And some a thousand, two or three, Yet still he did denay. And at the last ten thousand crownes 5 They offered, him to save: Gernutus sayd, "I will no gold, My forfeite I will have. "A pound of fleshe is my demand, And that shall be my hire." 10 Then sayd the judge, "Yet, good my friend, Let me of you desire "To take the fleshe from such a place, As yet you let him live: Do so, and lo! an hundred crownes 15 To thee here will I give." "No, no," quoth he, "no, judgement here; For this it shall be tride; For I will have my pound of fleshe From under his right side." 20 It grieved all the companie His crueltie to see, For neither friend nor foe could helpe But he must spoyled bee. The bloudie Jew now ready is 25 With whetted blade in hand, To spoyle the bloud of innocent, By forfeit of his bond. And as he was about to strike In him the deadly blow, 30 "Stay," quoth the judge, "thy crueltie; I charge thee to do so. "Sith needs thou wilt thy forfeit have, Which is of flesh a pound, See that thou shed no drop of bloud, 35 Nor yet the man confound. "For if thou doe, like murderer Thou here shalt hanged be: Likewise of flesh see that thou cut No more than longes to thee. 40 "For if thou take either more or lesse, To the value of a mite, Thou shalt be hanged presently, As is both law and right." Gernutus now waxt franticke mad, 45 And wotes not what to say; Quoth he at last, "Ten thousand crownes I will that he shall pay; "And so I graunt to set him free." The judge doth answere make; 50 "You shall not have a penny given; Your forfeyture now take." At the last he doth demaund But for to have his owne: "No," quoth the judge, "doe as you list, 55 Thy judgement shall be showne. "Either take your pound of flesh," quoth he, "Or cancell me your bond:" "O cruell judge," then quoth the Jew, "That doth against me stand!" 60 And so with griping grieved mind[L61] He biddeth them fare-well: Then all the people prays'd the Lord, That ever this heard tell. Good people, that doe heare this song, 65 For trueth I dare well say, That many a wretch as ill as hee Doth live now at this day; That seeketh nothing but the spoyle Of many a wealthy man, 70 And for to trap the innocent Deviseth what they can. From whome the Lord deliver me, And every Christian too, And send to them like sentence eke 75 That meaneth so to do. 61. griped, Ashmole copy. THE FROLICKSOME DUKE; OR THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE. Percy's _Reliques_, i. 255. The story of this ballad, like that of the preceding, was probably derived from the east. It is the same as the tale of _The Sleeper Awakened_ in the _Arabian Nights_, and a like incident is found also in the tale of _Xailoun_ in the _Continuation of the Arabian Nights_. Interpolations from European sources are said to have been made by the translators both of the _Arabian Nights_ and of the _Continuation_, and it has been suggested that _The Sleeper Awakened_ is one of these. (_Gent. Mag._ 64, I. 527.) It is even true that this story does not occur in the manuscript used by Galland. It _is_ found, however, in one manuscript, and is accordingly admitted into the recent version.--Marco Polo relates that Ala-eddin, "the Old Man of the Mountain," was accustomed to employ a device resembling that of the ballad, to persuade his youthful votaries of his power to transport them to Paradise. (Chap. xxi. of Marsden's translation.) A similar anecdote is told as historically true by the Arabic writer El-Is-hakee, who printed his work in the early part of the 17th century (Lane's _Thousand and One Nights_, ii. 376), while in Europe the story is related of Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy, by Heuterus, _Rerum Burgund._ lib. iv.; of the Emperor Charles the Fifth, by Sir Richard Barckley, in _A Discourse on the Felicitie of Man_, 1598; and of the Marquess of Worcester, in _The Apothegms of King James, King Charles, the Marquess of Worcester, &c._ 1658. Warton had seen among Collins's books a collection of prose tales in black-letter, dated 1570, among which was this story. It was until lately, and no doubt is still, found in the stalls, under the title of _The Frolicksome Courtier and the Jovial Tinker_. (See Douce's _Illustrations_, and Malone's _Shakespeare_.) Which of the many forms of the story was known to the author of the old play of _The Taming of a Shrew_, on which Shakespeare's comedy is founded, it would be more difficult than important to determine. Mr. Halliwell mentions a Dutch comedy, called _Dronkken Hansje_, (1657,) having the plot of the Induction to these plays. This ballad was given from a black-letter copy in the Pepys collection. Now as fame does report, a young duke keeps a court, One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport: But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest, Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest: A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground, 5 As secure in sleep as if laid in a swound. The duke said to his men, "William, Richard, and Ben, Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then." O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd: 10 Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes, and hose, And they put him to bed for to take his repose. Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt, They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt: On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown, 15 They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown. In the morning, when day, then admiring he lay, For to see the rich chamber, both gaudy and gay. Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state, Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait; 20 And the chamberlain bare, then did likewise declare, He desired to know what apparel he'd ware: The poor tinker amaz'd, on the gentleman gaz'd, And admired how he to this honour was rais'd. Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit, 25 Which he straitways put on without longer dispute, With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd, And it seem'd for to swell him 'no' little with pride; For he said to himself, "Where is Joan my sweet wife? Sure she never did see me so fine in her life." 30 From a convenient place, the right duke, his good grace, Did observe his behaviour in every case. To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait, Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great: Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view, 35 With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew. A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests; He was plac'd at the table above all the rest, In a rich chair 'or bed,' lin'd with fine crimson red, With a rich golden canopy over his head: 40 As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet, With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat. While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, Rich canary, with sherry and tent superfine. Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl, 45 Till at last he began for to tumble and roul From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore, Being seven times drunker than ever before. Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain, And restore him his old leather garments again: 50 'Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first, Then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might; But when he did waken, his joys took their flight. For his glory 'to him' so pleasant did seem, 55 That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream; Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought. But his highness he said, "Thou'rt a jolly bold blade: Such a frolick before I think never was plaid." 60 Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak, Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak, Nay, and five hundred pound, with ten acres of ground: "Thou shalt never," said he, "range the counteries round, Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend, 65 Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend." Then the tinker reply'd, "What! must Joan my sweet bride Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride? Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command? Then I shall be a squire, I well understand. 70 Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace; I was never before in so happy a case." THE HEIR OF LINNE. Percy's _Reliques_, ii. 135. "The original of this ballad," says Percy, "is found in the Editor's folio MS., the breaches and defects in which, rendered the insertion of supplemental stanzas necessary. These it is hoped the reader will pardon, as indeed the completion of the story was suggested by a modern ballad on a similar subject. From the Scottish phrases here and there discernible in this poem, it would seem to have been originally composed beyond the Tweed." The modern ballad here mentioned is probably _The Drunkards Legacy_, printed from an old chap-book, in _Ancient Poems, Ballads_, and _Songs_, p. 151, Percy Society, vol. xvii. The Scottish version of the _Heir of Linne_ is annexed to the present in the only form in which it is now to be obtained. The incident by which the hidden treasure is discovered in this ballad, occurs (as observes a writer in the _British Bibliographer_, iv. 182) in a story of Cinthio's, _Heccatomithi_, Dec. ix. nov. 8: but the argument of that story is in other respects different, being in fact the following epigram: [Greek: Chryson anêr heurôn elipe brochon; autar ho chryson, hon lipen, ouch heurôn, êpsen hon eure brochon.] Brunck's _Anthologia_, vol. i. p. 106. PART THE FIRST. Lithe and listen, gentlemen, To sing a song I will beginne: It is of a lord of faire Scotlànd, Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne. His father was a right good lord, 5 His mother a lady of high degree; But they, alas! were dead him froe, And he lov'd keeping companie. To spend the daye with merry cheare, To drinke and revell every night, 10 To card and dice from eve to morne, It was, I ween, his hearts delighte. To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, To alwaye spend and never spare, I wott, an' it were the king himselfe, 15 Of gold and fee he mote be bare. Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne Till all his gold is gone and spent; And he maun sell his landes so broad, His house, and landes, and all his rent. 20 His father had a keen stewàrde, And John o' the Scales was called hee: But John is become a gentel-man, And John has gott both gold and fee. Sayes, "Welcome, welcome, Lord of Linne, 25 Let nought disturb thy merry cheere; Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, Good store of gold Ile give thee heere." "My gold is gone, my money is spent; My lande nowe take it unto thee: 30 Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales, And thine for aye my lande shall bee." Then John he did him to record draw, And John he cast him a gods-pennie;[L34] But for every pounde that John agreed, 35 The lande, i-wis, was well worth three. He told him the gold upon the borde, He was right glad his land to winne; "The gold is thine, the land is mine, And now Ile be the lord of Linne." 40 Thus he hath sold his land soe broad, Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, All but a poore and lonesome lodge, That stood far off in a lonely glenne. For soe he to his father hight. 45 "My sonne, when I am gonne," sayd hee, "Then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad, And thou wilt spend thy gold so free. "But sweare me nowe upon the roode, That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; 50 For when all the world doth frown on thee, Thou there shalt find a faithful friend." The heire of Linne is full of golde: "And come with me, my friends," sayd hee, "Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, 55 And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee." They ranted, drank, and merry made, Till all his gold it waxed thinne; And then his friendes they slunk away; They left the unthrifty heire of Linne. 60 He had never a penny left in his purse, Never a penny left but three, And one was brass, another was lead, And another it was white monèy. "Nowe well-aday," sayd the heire of Linne, 65 "Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee, For when I was the lord of Linne, I never wanted gold nor fee. "But many a trustye friend have I, And why shold I feel dole or care? 70 Ile borrow of them all by turnes, Soe need I not be never bare." But one, i-wis, was not at home; Another had payd his gold away; Another call'd him thriftless loone, 75 And bade him sharpely wend his way. "Now well-aday," sayd the heire of Linne, "Now well-aday, and woe is me; For when I had my landes so broad, On me they liv'd right merrilee. 80 "To beg my bread from door to door, I-wis, it were a brenning shame; To rob and steal it were a sinne; To worke, my limbs I cannot frame. "Now Ile away to [the] lonesome lodge, 85 For there my father bade me wend: When all the world should frown on mee I there shold find a trusty friend." 34. i. e. earnest-money; from the French _denier à Dieu_. At this day, when application is made to the Dean and Chapter of Carlisle to accept an exchange of the tenant under one of their leases, a piece of silver is presented, by the new tenant, which is still called a God's-penny. PERCY. PART THE SECOND. Away then hyed the heire of Linne, Oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne, Untill he came to [the] lonesome lodge, That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. He looked up, he looked downe, 5 In hope some comfort for to winne; But bare and lothly were the walles; "Here's sorry cheare," quo' the heire of Linne. The little windowe, dim and darke, Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; 10 No shimmering sunn here ever shone, No halesome breeze here ever blew. No chair, ne table he mote spye, No chearful hearth, ne welcome bed, Nought save a rope with renning noose, 15 That dangling hung up o'er his head. And over it in broad lettèrs, These words were written so plain to see: "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all, And brought thyselfe to penurie? 20 "All this my boding mind misgave, I therefore left this trusty friend: Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, And all thy shame and sorrows end." Sorely shent wi' this rebuke, 25 Sorely shent was the heire of Linne; His heart, i-wis, was near to-brast With guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne. Never a word spake the heire of Linne, Never a word he spake but three: 30 "This is a trusty friend indeed, And is right welcome unto mee." Then round his necke the corde he drewe, And sprang aloft with his bodìe, When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, 35 And to the ground come tumbling hee. Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, Ne knewe if he were live or dead: At length he looked, and sawe a bille, And in it a key of gold so redd. 40 He took the bill, and lookt it on, Strait good comfort found he there: Itt told him of a hole in the wall, In which there stood three chests in-fere. Two were full of the beaten golde, 45 The third was full of white monèy; And over them in broad lettèrs These words were written so plaine to see. "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere; Amend thy life and follies past; 50 For but thou amend thee of thy life, That rope must be thy end at last." "And let it bee," sayd the heire of Linne, "And let it bee, but if I amend: For here I will make mine avow, 55 This reade shall guide me to the end." Away then went with a merry cheare, Away then went the heire of Linne; I-wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, Till John o' the Scales house he did winne. 60 And when he came to John o' the Scales, Upp at the speere then looked hee; There sate three lords upon a rowe, Were drinking of the wine so free. And John himselfe sate at the bord-head, 65 Because now lord of Linne was hee; "I pray thee," he said, "good John o' the Scales, "One forty pence for to lend mee." "Away, away, thou thriftless loone; Away, away, this may not bee: 70 For Christs curse on my head," he sayd, "If ever I trust thee one pennie." Then bespake the heire of Linne, To John o' the Scales wife then spake he: "Madame, some almes on me bestowe, 75 I pray for sweet saint Charitie." "Away, away, thou thriftless loone, I sweare thou gettest no almes of mee; For if we should hang any losel heere, The first we wold begin with thee." 80 Then bespake a good fellòwe, Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord; Sayd, "Turn againe, thou heir of Linne; Some time thou wast a well good lord. "Some time a good fellow thou hast been, 85 And sparedst not thy gold and fee; Therefore Ile lend thee forty pence, And other forty if need bee. "And ever I pray thee, John o' the Scales, To let him sit in thy companie: 90 For well I wot thou hadst his land, And a good bargain it was to thee." Up then spake him John o' the Scales, All wood he answer'd him againe: "Now Christs curse on my head," he sayd, 95 "But I did lose by that bargàine. "And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, Before these lords so faire and free, Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape By a hundred markes than I had it of thee." "I drawe you to record, lords," he said, 100 With that he cast him a gods-pennie: "Now by my fay," sayd the heire of Linne, "And here, good John, is thy monèy." And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, 105 And layd them down upon the bord; All woe begone was John o' the Scales, Soe shent he cold say never a word. He told him forth the good red gold. He told it forth [with] mickle dinne. 110 "The gold is thine, the land is mine, And now Ime againe the lord of Linne." Sayes, "Have thou here, thou good fellòwe, Forty pence thou didst lend mee: Now I am againe the lord of Linne, 115 And forty pounds I will give thee. "Ile make thee keeper of my forrest, Both of the wild deere and the tame; For but I reward thy bounteous heart, I-wis, good fellowe, I were to blame." 120 "Now welladay!" sayth Joan o' the Scales; "Now welladay, and woe is my life! Yesterday I was lady of Linne, Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife." "Now fare thee well," sayd the heire of Linne, 125 "Farewell now, John o' the Scales," said hee: "Christs curse light on mee, if ever again I bring my lands in jeopardy." THE HEIR OF LINNE. From _Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads_, p. 30, Percy Society, vol. xvii. The bonny heir, and the weel-faur'd heir, And the wearie heir o' Linne, Yonder he stands at his father's yetts, An naebody bids him come in. O see for he gangs, an' see for he stands, 5 The wearie heir o' Linne; O see for he stands on the cauld casey, And nae an' bids him come in. But if he had been his father's heir, Or yet the heir o' Linne, 10 He wou'dna stand on the cauld casey, Some an' wad taen him in. "Sing ower again that sang, nourice, The sang ye sang just noo;" "I never sang a sang i' my life, 15 But I wad sing ower to you." O see for he gangs, an' see for he stands, The wearie heir o' Linne; O see for he stands on the cauld casey, An' nae an' bids him come in. 20 But if he had been his father's heir, Or yet the heir o' Linne, He wadna stand on the cauld casye, Some ane wad taen him in. When his father's lands a sellin' were, 25 His claise lay weel in fauld, But now he wanders on the shore, Baith hungry, weet, and cauld. As Willie he gaed down the toun, The gentlemen were drinkin'; 30 Some bade gie Willie a glass, a glass, And some bade him gae nane; Some bade gie Willie a glass, a glass, The weary heir o' Linne. As Willie he cam' up the toun, 35 The fishers were a sittin'; Some bade gie Willie a fish, a fish, Some bade gie him a fin; Some bade gie him a fish, a fish, And lat the palmer gang. 40 He turned him richt and roun' about, As will as a woman's son, And taen his cane into his hand, And on his way to Linne. His nourice at her window look'd, 45 Beholding dale and doun, And she beheld this distress'd young man Come walkin' to the town. "Come here, come here, Willie," she said, "And set yoursel' wi me; 50 I hae seen you i' better days, And in jovial companie." "Gie me a sheave o' your bread, nourice, And a bottle o' your wine, And I'll pay you it a' ower again, 55 When I'm the laird o' Linne." "Ye'se got a sheave o' my bread, Willie, "And a bottle o' my wine,[L58] An' ye'll pay me when the seas gang dry, But ye'll ne'er be heir o' Linne." 60 Then he turn'd him richt and roun' about, As will as woman's son; And aff he set, and bent his way, And straightway came to Linne. But when he cam to that castle, 65 They were set doun to dine; A score o' nobles there he saw, Sat drinkin' at the wine. Then some bad' gie him beef, the beef, And some bad' gie him the bane; 70 And some bad' gie him naething at a', But lat the palmer gang. Then out it speaks the new come laird, A saucie word spak' hee; "Put roun' the cup, gie my rival a sup, 75 Lat him fare on his way." Then out it speaks Sir Ned Magnew, Ane o' young Willie's kin; "This youth was ance a sprightlie boy As ever lived in Linne." 80 He turned him richt and roun' about, As will as woman's son; Then minded him on a little wee key, That his mither left to him. His mither left him this little wee key 85 A little before she deed; And bad him keep this little wee key Till he was in maist need. Then forth he went, an' these nobles left, A' drinkin' in the room; 90 Wi' walkin' rod intill his hand, He walked the castle roun'. There he found out a little door, For there the wee key slippit in, An' there he got as muckle red gowd 95 As freed the lands o' Linne. Back through the nobles then he went, A saucie man was then; "I'll tak' the cup frae this new-come laird, For he ne'er bad me sit doun." 100 Then out it speaks the new-come laird, He spak' wi' mock an' jeer; "I'd gie a seat to the laird o' Linne, Sae be that he were here. "When the lands o' Linne a sellin' were, 105 A' men said they were free; This lad shall hae them frae me this day, If he'll gie the third pennie." "I tak' ye witness, nobles a', Gude witnesses ye'll be; 110 I'm promis'd the lands o' Linne this day, If I gie the third pennie." "Ye've taen us witnesses, Willie," they said, "Gude witnesses we'll be; Buy the lands o' Linne who likes, 115 They'll ne'er be bought by thee." He's done him to a gamin' table, For it stood fair and clean; There he tauld doun as much rich gowd As freed the lands o' Linne. 120 Thus having done, he turn'd about, A saucie man was he; "Tak' up your monie, my lad," he says, "Tak' up your third pennie. "Aft hae I gane wi' barefeet cauld, 125 Likewise wi' legs fu' bare, And mony day walk'd at these yetts Wi' muckle dool an' care. "But now my sorrow's past and gane, And joy's returned to me; 130 And here I've gowd enough forbye, Ahin this third pennie." As Willie he gaed doun the toun, There he craw'd wonderous crouse; He ca'd the may afore them a', 135 The nourice o' the house. "Come here, come here, my nurse," he says, "I'll pay your bread and wine; Seas ebb and flow as they wont to do, Yet I'm the laird o' Linne." 140 An' he gaed up the Gallowgate port, His hose aboon his shoon; But lang ere he cam down again Was convoyed by lords fifteen. 58. your wine. THE WANDERING JEW. In the year 1228, we are informed by Matthew Paris, an Armenian archbishop visited England, with letters from the Pope, to make the tour of the holy places. During a sojourn at the monastery of St. Albans, he was asked by one of the brethren if he knew anything of the famous Joseph, so much spoken of, who had been present at the crucifixion, and was still living as a witness to the truth of the Christian faith. The archbishop responded that the fact was indeed as reported, and one of his retinue added, that his master had personally known this extraordinary character, and had admitted him to his table only a short time before setting out for the West; that he had been porter to Pontius Pilate, and was named Cartaphilus; that when the Jews were dragging Christ from the judgment-hall, he had struck him in the back with his fist, saying, "Go faster, Jesus: why dost thou tarry?"--whereupon Christ turned to him and said, "I go, but thou shalt tarry till my coming." After the death of Jesus, Cartaphilus had been converted, and baptized by Ananias, under the name of Joseph. Still the sentence pronounced upon him by the Saviour was not revoked, and he remained in the world, awaiting the Lord's second advent, living in Armenia, or some other country of the East. Whenever he reached the age of a hundred, he fell into a trance, and when he revived, found himself again about thirty years old, as he had been at the epoch of Christ's suffering. This story Matthew Paris heard at St. Albans, of which monastery he was himself a brother, a few years after the memorable visit of the Armenian prelate. His contemporary, Philippe Mouskes, Bishop of Tournay, has incorporated the substance of his narrative into his rhymed chronicle, edited by the Baron de Reiffenberg, v. 25524, et seq. We hear nothing more of the Wandering Jew from this time until the middle of the 16th century, when he presents himself at Hamburgh, (in 1547,) calling himself Ahasuerus, who had been a shoemaker at Jerusalem. The ballad which follows is founded upon some narrative of this event, many of which were published. It will be noticed that in the second form of the legend, the punishment of perpetual existence, which gives rise to the old names, _Judæus non mortalis_, _Ewiger Jude_, is aggravated by a condemnation to incessant change of place, which is indicated by a corresponding name, _Wandering Jew_, _Juif Errant_, etc. It is unnecessary, and would be impossible, to specify the various times and places at which the Wandering Jew has successively reappeared. The legend being firmly believed by the vulgar throughout Christendom, an opportunity for imposture was afforded which could not fail to be improved. The last recorded apparition was at Brussels, in April, 1774, and on this occasion the wanderer had again changed his name to Isaac Laquedem. Of the origin of the tradition we know nothing. M. Lacroix has suggested that it took its rise in a grand and beautiful allegory in which the Hebrew race were personified under the figure of the Everlasting Wanderer. See Calmet's _Bible Dictionary_, Grässe, _Die Sage vom Ewigen Juden_, Dresden and Leipsic, 1844, Paul Lacroix's Bibliographical Preface to Doré's Designs, _La Légende du Juif Errant, etc._ Paris, 1856. This ballad is taken from Percy's _Reliques_, ii. 317, and was from a black-letter copy in the Pepys collection. When as in faire Jerusalem Our Saviour Christ did live, And for the sins of all the worlde His own deare life did give, The wicked Jewes with scoffes and scornes 5 Did dailye him molest, That never till he left his life, Our Saviour could not rest. When they had crown'd his head with thornes, And scourg'd him to disgrace, 10 In scornfull sort they led him forthe Unto his dying place, Where thousand thousands in the streete Beheld him passe along, Yet not one gentle heart was there, 15 That pityed this his wrong. Both old and young reviled him, As in the streete he wente, And nought he found but churlish tauntes, By every ones consente: 20 His owne deare cross he bore himselfe, A burthen far too great, Which made him in the streete to fainte, With blood and water sweat. Being weary thus, he sought for rest, 25 To ease his burthened soule, Upon a stone; the which a wretch Did churlishly controule; And sayd, "Awaye, thou King of Jewes, Thou shalt not rest thee here; 30 Pass on; thy execution place Thou seest nowe draweth neare." And thereupon he thrust him thence; At which our Saviour sayd, "I sure will rest, but thou shalt walke, 35 And have no journey stayed." With that this cursed shoemaker, For offering Christ this wrong, Left wife and children, house and all, And went from thence along. 40 Where after he had seene the bloude Of Jesus Christ thus shed, And to the crosse his bodye nail'd, Awaye with speed he fled, Without returning backe againe 45 Unto his dwelling place, And wandred up and downe the worlde, A runnagate most base. No resting could he finde at all, No ease, nor hearts content; 50 No house, nor home, nor biding place; But wandring forth he went From towne to towne in foreigne landes, With grieved conscience still, Repenting for the heinous guilt 55 Of his fore-passed ill. Thus after some fewe ages past In wandring up and downe, He much again desired to see Jerusalems renowne. 60 But finding it all quite destroyd, He wandred thence with woe, Our Saviours wordes, which he had spoke, To verifie and showe. "I'll rest," sayd hee, "but thou shalt walke;" 65 So doth this wandring Jew, From place to place, but cannot rest For seeing countries newe; Declaring still the power of him, Whereas he comes or goes; 70 And of all things done in the east, Since Christ his death, he showes. The world he hath still compast round And seene those nations strange, That hearing of the name of Christ, 75 Their idol gods doe change: To whom he hath told wondrous thinges Of time forepast and gone, And to the princes of the worlde Declares his cause of moane: 80 Desiring still to be dissolv'd, And yeild his mortal breath; But, if the Lord hath thus decreed, He shall not yet see death. For neither lookes he old nor young, 85 But as he did those times, When Christ did suffer on the crosse For mortall sinners crimes. He hath past through many a foreigne place, Arabia, Egypt, Africa, 90 Grecia, Syria, and great Thrace, And throughout all Hungaria: Where Paul and Peter preached Christ, Those blest apostles deare, There he hath told our Saviours wordes, 95 In countries far and neare. And lately in Bohemia, With many a German towne, And now in Flanders, as 'tis thought, He wandreth up and downe: 100 Where learned men with him conferre Of those his lingering dayes, And wonder much to heare him tell His journeyes and his wayes. If people give this Jew an almes, 105 The most that he will take Is not above a groat a time: Which he, for Jesus' sake, Will kindlye give unto the poore, And thereof make no spare, 110 Affirming still that Jesus Christ Of him hath dailye care. He ne'er was seene to laugh nor smile, But weepe and make great moane; Lamenting still his miseries, 115 And dayes forepast and gone. If he heare any one blaspheme, Or take God's name in vaine, He telles them that they crucifie Their Saviour Christe againe. 120 "If you had seene his death," saith he, "As these mine eyes have done, Ten thousand thousand times would yee His torments think upon, And suffer for his sake all paine 125 Of torments, and all woes:" These are his wordes, and eke his life, Whereas he comes or goes. PROUD LADY MARGARET. From _Minstrelsy of the Scotish Border_, iii. 32. This copy of the ballad is imperfect. A complete version is inserted in the Appendix from Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 91. There is another, also defective, called _The Bonny Hind Squire_, in _Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads_, p. 42, Percy Soc. vol. xvii. 'Twas on a night, an evening bright, When the dew began to fa', Lady Margaret was walking up and down, Looking o'er her castle wa'. She looked east, and she looked west, 5 To see what she could spy, When a gallant knight came in her sight, And to the gate drew nigh. "You seem to be no gentleman, You wear your boots so wide; 10 But you seem to be some cunning hunter, You wear the horn so syde." "I am no cunning hunter," he said, "Nor ne'er intend to be; But I am come to this castle 15 To seek the love of thee; And if you do not grant me love, This night for thee I'll die." "If you should die for me, sir knight, There's few for you will mane, 20 For mony a better has died for me Whose graves are growing green. "But ye maun read my riddle," she said, "And answer me questions three; And but ye read them right," she said, 25 "Gae stretch ye out and die. "Now what is the flower, the ae first flower, Springs either on moor or dale? And what is the bird, the bonnie bonnie bird, Sings on the evening gale?" 30 "The primrose is the ae first flower Springs either on moor or dale; And the thristlecock is the bonniest bird Sings on the evening gale." "But what's the little coin," she said, 35 "Wald buy my castle bound? And what's the little boat," she said, "Can sail the world all round?" "O hey, how mony small pennies Make thrice three thousand pound? 40 Or hey, how mony small fishes Swim a' the salt sea round?" "I think ye maun be my match," she said, "My match and something mair; You are the first e'er got the grant 45 Of love frae my father's heir. "My father was lord of nine castles, My mother lady of three; My father was lord of nine castles, And there's nane to heir but me. 50 "And round about a' thae castles, You may baith plow and saw, And on the fifteenth day of May The meadows they will maw." "O hald your tongue, Lady Margaret," he said, 55 "For loud I hear you lie! Your father was lord of nine castles, Your mother was lady of three; Your father was lord of nine castles, But ye fa' heir to but three. 60 "And round about a' thae castles, You may baith plow and saw, But on the fifteenth day of May The meadows will not maw. "I am your brother Willie," he said, 65 "I trow ye ken na me; I came to humble your haughty heart, Has gar'd sae mony die." "If ye be my brother Willie," she said; "As I trow weel ye be, 70 This night I'll neither eat nor drink, But gae alang wi' thee." "O hald your tongue, Lady Margaret," he said, "Again I hear you lie; For ye've unwashen hands, and ye've unwashen feet, 75 To gae to clay wi' me.[L76] "For the wee worms are my bedfellows, And cauld clay is my sheets, And when the stormy winds do blow, My body lies and sleeps." 80 REEDISDALE AND WISE WILLIAM. MOTHERWELL's _Minstrelsy_, p. 298, and Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 70: from recitation. When Reedisdale and Wise William Was drinking at the wine, There fell a roosing them amang, On one unruly time. For some of them has roosed their hawks, 5 And other some their hounds; And other some their ladies fair, And their bow'rs whare they walk'd in. When out it spak him Reedisdale, And a rash word spake he: 10 Says, "There is not a lady fair, In bower wherever she be, But I could aye her favour win, With one blink of my e'e." Then out it spak him Wise William, 15 And a rash word spak he: Says, "I have a sister of my own, In bower wherever she be, And ye will not her favour win, With three blinks of your e'e." 20 "What will you wager, Wise William? My lands I'll wad with thee:" "I'll wad my head against your land, Till I get more monie." Then Reedisdale took Wise William, 25 Laid him in prison strang; That he might neither gang nor ride, Nor no word to her send. But he has written a braid letter, Between the night and day, 30 And sent it to his own sister, By dun feather and gray. When she had read Wise William's letter, She smiled and she leuch: Said, "Very weel, my dear brother, 35 Of this I have eneuch." She looked out at her west window, To see what she could see, And there she spied him Reedisdale, Come riding o'er the lea. 40 Says, "Come to me, my maidens all, Come hitherward to me; For here it comes him Reedisdale, Who comes a-courting me." "Come down, come down, my lady fair, 45 A sight of you give me:" "Go from my yetts now, Reedisdale, For me you will not see." "Come down, come down, my lady fair, A sight of you give me; 50 And bonnie is the gowns of silk That I will give to thee." "If you have bonnie gowns of silk, O mine is bonnie tee; Go from my yetts now, Reedisdale, 55 For me you shall not see." "Come down, come down, my lady fair, A sight of you I'll see; And bonnie jewels, broaches, rings, I will give unto thee." 60 "If you have bonnie broaches, rings, O mine are bonnie tee; Go from my yetts now, Reedisdale, For me you shall not see." "Come down, come down, my lady fair, 65 One sight of you I'll see; And bonnie is the halls and bowers That I will give to thee." "If you have bonnie halls and bowers, O mine is bonnie tee; 70 Go from my yetts now, Reedisdale, For me you shall not see." "Come down, come down, my lady fair, A sight of you I'll see; And bonnie is my lands so broad 75 That I will give to thee." "If you have bonnie lands so broad, O mine is bonnie tee; Go from my yetts now, Reedisdale, For me you will not see." 80 "Come down, come down, my lady fair A sight of you I'll see; And bonnie is the bags of gold That I will give to thee." "If you have bonnie bags of gold, 85 I have bags of the same; Go from my yetts now, Reedisdale, For down I will not come." "Come down, come down, my lady fair, One sight of you I'll see; 90 Or else I'll set your house on fire, If better cannot be." Then he has set the house on fire, And all the rest it took; He turned his wight horse head about, 95 Said, "Alas! they'll ne'er get out." "Look out, look out, my maidens fair, And see what I do see; How Reedisdale has fired our house, And now rides o'er the lea. 100 "Come hitherward, my maidens fair, Come hither unto me; For through this reek, and through this smeek, O through it we must be." They took wet mantles them about, 105 Their coffers by the band; And through the reek, and through the flame, Alive they all have wan. When they had got out through the fire, And able all to stand, 110 She sent a maid to Wise William, To bruik Reedisdale's land. "Your lands is mine, now, Reedisdale, For I have won them free:" "If there is a good woman in the world, 115 Your one sister is she." 76. _Unwashen hands and unwashen feet._--Alluding to the custom of washing and dressing dead bodies. S. GEORDIE. From the _Musical Museum_, p. 357. "Geordie, an old Ballad," was first printed in Johnson's _Museum_, from a copy furnished by Burns. The occasion of the ballad has not been satisfactorily determined. In the opinion of Mr. Kinloch, it is to be found in the factions of the family of Huntly during the reign of Queen Mary. George Gordon, Earl of Huntly, having been sent by the Queen to apprehend a notorious robber, was thought not to have been faithful to his trust. He returned without accomplishing the object of his expedition, and was committed to prison because of his failure. Some of the Queen's council were in favor of banishing him to France, others of putting him to death, but he was released, on condition of paying a fine and performing certain other stipulations. Motherwell states that there is much variation in the recited copies of this piece, and mentions one styled _Geordie Luklie_. Kinloch prints a version not materially different from that of the _Museum_. Allan Cunningham has reprinted the Museum copy with less change than is customary with him; _Songs of Scotland_, ii. 186. We give in the Appendix a ballad from Buchan, called _Gight's Lady_, which contains a story widely diverse from that which follows. In Ritson's _Northumberland Garland_, p. 43, there is a "lamentable ditty" on the death of one George Stoole, which appears to be an imitation of the Scottish ballad. There was a battle in the north, And nobles there was many, And they hae kill'd Sir Charlie Hay, And they laid the wyte on Geordie. O he has written a lang letter, 5 He sent it to his lady; "Ye maun cum up to Enbrugh town, To see what word's o' Geordie." When first she look'd the letter on She was baith red and rosy, 10 But she had na read a word but twa, Till she wallow't like a lily. "Gar get to me my gude grey steed, My menzie a' gae wi' me, For I shall neither eat nor drink, 15 Till Enbrugh town shall see me." And she has mountit her gude grey steed Her menzie a' gaed wi' her; And she did neither eat nor drink, Till Enbrugh town did see her.[L20] 20 And first appear'd the fatal block, And syne the aix to head him, And Geordie cumin down the stair, And bands o' airn upon him. But tho' he was chain'd in fetters strang, 25 O' airn and steel sae heavy, There was na ane in a' the court, Sae bra' a man as Geordie. O she's down on her bended knee, I wat she's pale and weary,-- 30 "O pardon, pardon, noble king, And gie me back my dearie. "I hae born seven sons to my Geordie dear, The seventh ne'er saw his daddie; O pardon, pardon, noble king, 35 Pity a waefu' lady!" "Gar bid the headin-man mak haste," Our king reply'd fu' lordly;-- "O noble king, tak a' that's mine, But gie me back my Geordie." 40 The Gordons cam, and the Gordons ran, And they were stark and steady; And ay the word amang them a', Was, "Gordons, keep you ready." An aged lord at the king's right hand, 45 Says, "Noble king, but hear me; Gar her tell down five thousand pound, And gie her back her dearie." Some gae her marks, some gae her crowns, Some gae her dollars many; 50 And she's tell'd down five thousand pound, And she's gotten again her dearie. She blinkit blythe in her Geordie's face, Says, "Dear I've bought thee, Geordie; But there sud been bluidy bouks on the green, 55 Or I had tint my laddie." He claspit her by the middle sma', And he kist her lips sae rosy; "The fairest flower o' woman-kind, Is my sweet, bonnie lady!" 60 20. Cunningham here inserts a stanza "from the recitation of Mrs. Cunningham," which is not in the other printed copies: And soon she came to the water broad, Nor boat nor barge was ready; She turned her horse's head to the flood, And swam through at Queensferry. GEORDIE. Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 192. There was a battle in the North, And rebels there were monie; And monie ane got broken heads, And taken was my Geordie. _My Geordie O, my Geordie O,_ 5 _O the love I bear to Geordie;_ _For the very grund I walk upon,_ _Bears witness I loe Geordie._ As she gaed up the tolbooth stair, The cripples there stood monie; 10 And she dealt the red gowd them among, To pray for her love Geordie. And whan she cam into the hall, The nobles there stood monie; And ilka ane stood hat on head, 15 But hat in hand stood Geordie. Up bespak a Norlan lord, I wat he spak na bonnie,-- "If ye'll stay here a little while, Ye'll see Geordie hangit shortly." 20 Then up bespak a baron bold, And O but he spak bonnie,-- "If ye'll pay doun five hundred crowns, Ye'se get your true-love Geordie." Some lent her guineas, some lent her crowns, 25 Some lent her shillings monie; And she's paid doun five hundred crowns, And she's gotten her bonnie love Geordie. When she was mounted on her hie steed, And on ahint her Geordie, 30 Nae bird on the brier e'er sang sae clear, As the young knight and his ladie. _"My Geordie O, my Geordie O,_ _O the love I bear to Geordie;_ _The very stars in the firmament_ 35 _Bear tokens I loe Geordie."_ THE GABERLUNZIE-MAN. Tea-Table Miscellany, i. 104; _Old Ballads_, iii. 259. It is tradition that King James the Fifth of Scotland was in the habit of wandering about his dominions in disguise, and engaging in amours with country girls. One of these is thought to be described in the witty ballad of _The Jolly Beggar_, (Herd's _Scotish Songs_, ii. 164, Ritson's _Scotish Songs_, i. 168,) and another in _The Gaberlunzie-Man_, both of which are universally attributed (though without evidence) to James's pen. The character of James V., it has been remarked (_Gent. Mag._ Oct. 1794, p. 913,) resembled both in licentiousness and genius, that of the troubadour sovereign, William the Ninth, Count of Poitiers, who appears to have had the same vagrant habits. With _The Jolly Beggar_ may be compared _Der Bettelmann_, in Hoffmann's _Schlesische Volkslieder_, p. 45. The pawky auld carle came o'er the lee, Wi' many goode'ens and days to me, Saying, "Goodwife, for your courtesie, "Will you lodge a silly poor man?" The night was cauld, the carle was wat, 5 And down ayont the ingle he sat; My daughters shoulders he gan to clap, And cadgily ranted and sang. "O wow!" quo' he, "were I as free, As first when I saw this country, 10 How blyth and merry wad I be, And I wad never think lang." He grew canty, and she grew fain, But little did her auld minny ken, What thir slee twa togither were say'ng, 15 When wooing they were sae thrang. "And O!" quo' he, "ann ye were as black, As e'er the crown of my dady's hat, 'Tis I wad lay thee by my back, And awa' wi' me thou shou'd gang." 20 "And O!" quo' she, "ann I were as white, As e'er the snaw lay on the dyke, I'd clead me braw, and lady-like, And awa with thee I'd gang." Between the twa was made a plot; 25 They raise a wee before the cock, And wilily they shot the lock, And fast to the bent are they gane. Up the morn the auld wife raise, And at her leisure pat on her claise; 30 Syne to the servant's bed she gaes, To speer for the silly poor man. She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay, The strae was cauld, he was away; She clapt her hands, cry'd "Waladay! 35 For some of our gear will be gane." Some ran to coffers, and some to kists, But nought was stown that cou'd be mist: She danc'd her lane, cry'd, "Praise be blest! I have lodg'd a leal poor man. 40 "Since nathing's awa', as we can learn, The kirn's to kirn, and milk to earn; Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn, And bid her come quickly ben." The servant gade where the daughter lay, 45 The sheets was cauld, she was away; And fast to her goodwife can say, "She's aff with the gaberlunzie-man." "O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, And haste ye, find these traytors again; 50 For she's be burnt, and he's be slain, The wearifu' gaberlunzie-man." Some rade upo' horse, some ran a-fit, The wife was wood, and out o' her wit; She cou'd na gang, nor yet cou'd she sit, 55 But ay she curs'd and she ban'd. Mean time far hind out o'er the lee, Fu' snug in a glen, where nane cou'd see, The twa, with kindly sport and glee, Cut frae a new cheese a whang. 60 The priving was good, it pleas'd them baith; To lo'e her for aye he gae her his aith; Quo' she, "To leave thee, I will be laith, My winsome gaberlunzie-man. "O kend my minny I were wi' you, 65 Illfardly wad she crook her mou; Sic a poor man she'd never trow, After the gaberlunzie-man." "My dear," quo' he, "ye're yet o'er young, And ha' na lear'd the beggars tongue, 70 To follow me frae town to town, And carry the gaberlunzie on. "Wi' cauk and keel, I'll win your bread, And spindles and whorles for them wha need, Whilk is a gentil trade indeed, 75 To carry the gaberlunzie, O. I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee, And draw a black clout o'er my eye; A cripple or blind they will ca' me, While we shall be merry and sing." THE TURNAMENT OF TOTENHAM. _The Turnament of Totenham_ was first printed in the _History of Totenham_, (1631,) by the Rev. Wilhelm Bedwell, rector of the parish, who, says Percy, "so little entered into the spirit of the poem he was publishing, that he contends for its being a serious narrative of a real event, and thinks it must have been written before the time of Edward III., because turnaments were prohibited in that reign." The simple parson derived his copy from a manuscript lent him by George Withers. In the first edition of the _Reliques_, Percy reprinted Bedwell's text, with some conjectural emendations, but for the revised edition he employed a manuscript in the Harleian collection (No. 5396), pointed out to him by Tyrwhitt. This manuscript is thought to have been written in the reign of Henry VI. Since the publication of the Harleian text, the manuscript used by Bedwell has been found in the Public Library of the University of Cambridge, (Ff. 5, 48,) and a correct copy published by Mr. Wright in a miniature volume. We have given this last text, as on the whole the best, though in places it requires emendation from the Harleian copy. The Cambridge manuscript (the same as that which contains the ballad of _Robin Hood and the Monk_,) Mr. Wright believes to have been written as early as the reign of Edward II. In this MS. there is subjoined to the _Turnament_ an extravagantly burlesque account of the feast mentioned in the last stanzas. Percy's copy will be found in the _Reliques_, ii. 13. Ritson's (_Ancient English Songs_, i. 85,) is nearly identical. This ballad, it has been observed, appears to be "a burlesque upon the old feudal custom of marrying an heiress to the knight who should vanquish all his opponents, at a solemn assembly holden for that purpose." See the remarks in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for July, 1794, p. 613. Of alle these kene conqueroures to carpe is oure kynde; Off fel feghtyng folke ferly we fynde; The turnament of Totenham have I in mynde; Hit were harme sich hardynesse were holdyn behynde, In story as we rede 5 Off Hawkyn, of Harry, Off Tymkyn, of Tyrry, Off thaym that were duzty And hardy in dede. Hit befel in Totenham on a dere day, 10 Ther was made a shurtyng be the hye way; Thider come alle the men of that contray, Off Hisselton, of Hygate, and of Hakenay, And alle the swete swynkers: Ther hoppyd Hawkyn, 15 Ther dawnsid Dawkyn, Ther trumpyd Tymkyn, And [all] were true drynkers.[L18] Tille the day was gon and evesong paste, That thai shulde reckyn thaire skot and thaire counts caste: 20 Perkyn the potter in to the prees paste, And seid, "Rondill the refe, a dozter thu haste, Tibbe thi dere. Therfor fayne wete wolde I,[L24-27] Whether these felows or I, 25 Or which of alle this bachelery, Were the best worthy to wed hir to his fere." Upsterte the gadlyngs with thaire lang staves, And seid, "Rondyll the refe, lo, this lad raves; How prudly among us thy dozter he craves; 30 And we ar richer men then he, and more gode haves, Off catell and of corne." Then seid Perkyn, "To Tibbe I have hyzt, That I will be alle wey redy in my rizt, With a fleyle for to fyght, this day seven nyzt,[L35-36] 35 And thouz hit were to morne."[L36] Then seid Rondill the refe, "Ever be he waryd That aboute this carpyng lenger wolde be taryd: I wolde not my dozter that she were myskaryd, But at hir moost worship I wolde she were maryd. 40 [Ther]ffor the turnament shalle begynne[L41] This day seven nyzt, With a flayle for to fyzt: And he that is moste of myzt Shalle brok hir with wynne. 45 "He that berys hym best in the turnament, Him shal be grauntid the gre be the comyn assent,[L47] Ffor to wynne my dozter with duztynesse of dent, And Coppull, my brode hen, that was brozt out of Kent, And my donned cow. 50 Ffor no spence will I spare, Ffor no catell wille I care; He shalle have my gray mare, And my spottyd sowe." Ther was mony a bolde lad theire bodys to bede: 55 Than thei toke theire leve and hamwarde thei zede, And alle the weke afterward thei graythed her wede, Tille hit come to the day that thei shulde do thaire dede. Thei armyd theym in mattes, Thei sett on theire nolles 60 Gode blake bolles, Ffor to kepe theire pollis Ffor batteryng of battes. Thei sewed hem in schepe skynnes, for thei shuld not brest, And everilkon of hem a blac hatte in stidde of a crest,[L65] 65 A baskett or a panyer before on thaire brest, And a flayle in theire honde; for to fyzt prest, Forth con thei fare. Ther was kid mycull fors, Who shulde best fend his cors; 70 He that hade no gode hors, Borowyd hym a mare.[L72] Sich another clothyng have I not sene ofte,[L73] When alle the gret cumpany come ridand to the crofte; Tibbe on a gray mare was sett up on lofte; 75 Upon a secke full of senvye, for she shuld sitt softe, And ledde tille the gappe: Fforther wold she not than,[L78-81] For the luf of no man, Tille Coppull, hir brode hen, 80 Were brozt in to hir lappe. A gay gyrdull Tibbe hade [on], borowed for the nones,[L82] And a garland on hir hed, full of ruell bones, And a broch on hir brest, full of saphre stones, The holy rode tokynyng was writon for the nones:[L85] 85 For no spendyng they [had] spare[d].[L86] When joly Jeynken wist hir thare, He gurde so fast his gray mare, That she lete a fowkyn fare At the rerewarde. 90 "I make a vow," quod Tibbe, "Coppull is comyn of kynde;[L91-99] I shalle falle fyve in the felde, and I my flayle fynde." "I make a vow," quod Hudde, "I shalle not leve behynde; May I mete with Lyarde, or Bayarde the blynde, I wot I schalle theym greve." 95 "I make a vow," quod Haukyn, "May I mete with Daukyn, Ffor alle his rich kyn, His flayle I shalle hym reve." "I make a vow," quod Gregge, "Tib, [son] thu shal se 100 Which of alle the bachelery grauntid is the gre. I shalle skomfet hem alle, for the luf of thé, In what place that I come, thei shall have dout of me. Ffor I am armyd at the fole;[L104-108] In myn armys I ber well 105 A doz troz and a pele, A sadull withowt panele, With a flece of wole." "Now go down," quod Dudman, "and bere me bet abowte:[L109-117] I make a vow thei shall abye that I fynde owte. 110 Have I twyse or thrise riden thruz the rowte, In what place that I come, of me thei shall ha[ve] doute. Myn armys bene so clere: I bar a ridell and a rake, Poudurt with the brenyng drake, 115 And thre cantels of a cake In ilke a cornere." "I make a vow," quod Tirry, "and swere be my crede, Saw thu never yong boy forther his body bede: Ffor when thei fyzt fastest, and most er in drede, 120 I shalle take Tib be the hond and away hir lede. Then byn myn armys best:[L122-126] I ber a pilch of ermyn, Poudert with a catt skyn; The chefe is of pechmyn, 125 That stondis on the creste." "I make a vow," quod Dudman, "and swere be the stra, Whils me ys left my mer, thu gets hir not swa.[L128] For she is wel shapyn, as lizt as a ra; Ther is no capull in this myle before her will ga. 130 She wil me not begyle; I dar sothely say,[L132-3] She will be[re me] on Monday Ffro Hissiltoun to Haknay, Nozt other halfe myle." 135 "I make a vow," quod Perkyn, "thu carpis of cold rost. I wil wyrke wiselier without any boost. Ffyve of the best capuls that ar in this host, I will hem lede away be another coost:" And then lowz Tibbe. 140 "Weloo, boyes, here is he[L141] That will fyzt and not fle: Ffor I am in my jolyté: I go forth, Tibbe."[L144] When thai had thaire othes made, forth can thei hie,[L145] 145 With flayles and harnys and trumpis made of tre. Ther were all the bachilers of that contre: Thei were dizt in aray, as thaim self wolde be. Theire baner was ful bryzt, Off an olde raton fell;[L150-151] 150 The chefe was of a ploo-mell, And the schadow of a bell, Quarterd with the mone lizt.[L153] I wot it was no childer gamme when thei to geder mett, When ilke a freke in the felde on his felow bette, 155 And leid on stifly--for no thyng wold thei lett-- And fozt ferly fast, til theyre hors swett. And few wordis were spokyn. Ther were flayles al to-flaterde,[L159-161] Ther were scheldis al to-claterde, 160 Bolles and disshis al to-baterde, And mony hedis ther were brokyn. Ther was clenkyng of cart sadils, and clatering of cannes; Off fel frekis in the feeld brokyn were thaire fannes; Off sum were the hedis brokyn, of sum the brayn pannes, 165 And evel were they besene er they went thannes, With swippyng of swipylles. The laddis were so wery forfozt, That thai myzt fyzt no more on loft, But creppid aboute in the crofte, 170 As thei were crokid crypils. Perkyn was so wery that he began to lowte: "Helpe, Hudde, I am ded in this ilke rowte; An hors, for forty penys, a gode and a stoute, That I may liztly cum of my [noye] owte.[L175] 175 Ffor no cost wil I spare." He stert up as a snayle, And hent a capull be the tayle, And rauzt of Daukyn his flayle, And wan hym a mare. 180 "Perkyn wan fyve, and Hudde wan twa. Glad and blith thai were that thei had don sa; Thai wolde have thaim to Tibbe, and present hir with tha; The capuls were so wery that thei myzt not ga, But stille can thei stonde. 185 "Alas!" quod Hud, "my joye I lese: Me had lever then a ston of chese That dere Tibbe had alle these, And wist hit were my sonde." Perkyn turnyd hym aboute in that ilke throng; 190 He fouzt fresshly, for he had rest hym long.[L191-194] He was war of Tirry take Tib be the hond, And wold have lad hir away with a luf-song; And Perkyn after ran, And of his capull he hym drowe, 195 And gaf hym of his flayle inowe. Then "Te he," quod Tib, and lowe: "Ze ar a duzty man." Thus thai tuggat and thei ruggat, til hit was ny nyzt. Alle the wyves of Totenham come to se that sizt, 200 To fech home thaire husbondis that were thaym trouthe-plizt,[L201-207] With wispys and kexis, that was a rich lizt, Her husbondis home to fech. And sum they had in armys, That were febull wreches, 205 And sum on whelebarowes, And sum on criches. They gedurt Perkyn aboute on every side, And graunt hym ther the gre, the more was his pride. Tib and he with gret myrth hamward can ride, 210 And were al nyzt togedur til the morow tide. And to chirch thay went.[L212] So wel his nedis he hase spedde, That dere Tibbe he shall wedde; The chefe men that hir thider ledde[L215] 215 Were of the turnament. To that rich fest come mony for the nonys; Sum come hiphalt, and sum trippande thither on the stonys; Sum with a staffe in his honde, and sum too at onys; Of sum were the hedis brokyn, of sum the schulder bonys. 220 With sorow come they thidur. Woo was Hawkyn, wo was Harry, Woo was Tomkyn, woo was Tirry, And so was al the company,[L224-225] But zet thei come togeder. 225 At that fest were thei servyd in a rich aray:[L226] Every fyve and fyve had a cokeney. And so they sate in jolite al the long daye; Tibbe at nyzt, I trow, hade a sympull aray.[L229] Micull myrth was thaym among: 230 In every corner of the howse Was melodye deliciouse, Ffor to here preciouse, Off six mennys song. 18. _sic_ MS. Harl. according to Percy. 24-27. MS. Harl. Therfor faine wyt wold I, Whych of all thys bachelery Were best worthye To wed hur to hys fere. v. 27 should be divided into two. 35-36. MS. Harl. If that it schuld be thys day sevenyzt, Or elles zet to morn. 36. Wright. tomorowe. 41. _sic_ MS. Harl. 47. Wright, He. 65. MS. Harl. Ilk on toke a blak hat. 72. MS. Harl. He gat hym a mare. 73. MS. Harl. gadryng. 78-81. MS. Harl. For cryeng of the men, Forther wold not Tyb then, Tyl scho had hur brode hen, Set in hur lap. 82. on. MS. Harl. 85. MS. Harl. With the holy, &c. wrotyn. 86. Wolde they spare. Wright. v. 91-99. Stands thus in MS. Harl. "I wow to God," quoth Herry, "I schal not lefe behynde, May I mete wyth Bernard on Bayard the blynde. Ich man kepe hym out of my wynde, For whatsoever that he be before me I fynde, I wot I schall hym greve." "Wele sayd," quoth Hawkyn, "And I wow," quoth Dawkyn, "May I mete wyth Tomkyn, Hys flayle I schal hym reve." 104-108. Here stand vs. 113-117 in MS. Harl. 109-117. This stanza is written as follows in MS. Harl.: "I vow to God," quoth Hawkyn, "Yf he have the gowt, Al that I fynde in the felde thrustand here aboute, Have I twyes or thryes redyn thrugh the route, In ych a stede ther thay me se, of me thay schal have doute. When I begyn to play, I make a vowe that I ne schall, But yf Tybbe wyl me call, Or I be thryes don fall, Ryzt onys com away. 122-126. Here stand v. 104-108 in MS. Harl. 128. Whyls me ys left my merth. MS. Harl. Whil I am most mery. Wright. We must obviously read "mer," i. e. mare, with Percy and Ritson; otherwise the rest of the stanza is nonsense. The _th_ which is added in the MS. Harl., was caught from the _thou_ following. 132-3. MS. Harl. Sche wyl me bere, I dar say, On a lang-somerys day. 141. MS. H. wele. 144. MS. H. Wyth so forth, Gybbe. Wright. Joo forth. 145. hie, MS. Harl. te, Wright. 150-151. MS. H. Of an old rotten fell, The cheveron of a plow-mell. 153. MS. H. Poudred. 159-161. MS. H. slatred--flatred--schatred. 175. my noye. MS. H. myn one. Wright. 191-194. MS. Harl. Among those wery boyes he wrest and he wrang, He threw tham doun to the erth, and thrast them amang, When he saw Tyrry away wyth Tyb fang, And after hym ran. 201-207. Here evidently corrupted. In MS. Harl. as follows: Wyth wyspes, and kexis, and ryschys there lyzt, To fetch hom ther husbandes that were tham trouth-plyzt. And sum brozt gret harwos Ther husbandes hom to fetch, Sum on dores, and sum on hech, Sum on hyrdyllys, and sum on crech, And sum on whele-barows. 212. MS. H. And thay ifere assent. 215. MS. H. The prayse-folk that hur led. 224-5. MS. H. And so was all the bachelary, When thay met togedyr. 226. MS. H. with a ryche aray. 229. MS. H. And at the last thay went to bed with ful gret deray. N. B. The letter z in our reprint of this poem often represents the old character [gh], which has generally the force of gh (aspirated g), sometimes of y. THE WYF OF AUCHTIRMUCHTY. This ballad has been handed down, through manuscript and oral tradition, in several forms. The oldest copy is furnished by the Bannatyne MS., and this has been often printed, with more or less correctness: as in Ramsay's _Evergreen_, ii. 137; Lord Hailes's _Ancient Scotish Poems, &c._ p. 215; Herd's _Scotish Songs_, ii. 237; Pinkerton's _Select Scottish Ballads_, ii. 97. Our text is that of Laing, _Select Remains, &c._, which professes to be carefully given from the manuscript. Mr. Laing has added in the margin the most important variations of other editions. Allan Ramsay altered several verses and added others. In the Bannatyne MS. this piece is subscribed with the name of "Mofat," and on this ground the authorship has been attributed to Sir John Moffat, who is supposed to have lived in the earlier part of the 16th century. Ritson, who intended to insert the _Wife of Auchtermuchty_ in a projected volume of _Select Scotish Poems_, says in a manuscript note, "The subject of this poem seems to be borrowed from the first part of a story in the _Silva Sermonum Jucundissimorum_, Basil. 1568, 8vo. p. 116, though certainly from a more ancient authority." (Laing.) This story is cited at the end of the volume from which we print. In Wright and Halliwell's _Reliquiæ Antiquæ_, ii. 195, is the first _fit_ of an English ballad on the same subject, "from a MS. on paper, of the reign of Henry VII," (_Ballad of a Tyrannical Husband_.) _John Grumlie_ in Cunningham's _Songs of Scotland_, ii. 123, is another variety. See also _Nursery Rhymes of England_, p. 32, Per. Soc. vol. iv. In 1803, there appeared at Edinburgh a translation of Ramsay's ballad into Latin rhyme. In Auchtirmuchty thair dwelt ane man, An husband, as I hard it tauld, Quha weill could tippill owt a can, And naithir luvit hungir nor cauld. Quhill anis it fell upoun a day, 5 He yokkit his pluch upoun the plane; Gif it be trew as I hard say, The day was foull for wind and rane. He lowsit the pluche at the landis end, And draif his oxin hame at evin; 10 Quhen he come in he lukit bend, And saw the wyf baith dry and clene, And sittand at ane fyre, beik and bauld, With ane fat soup, as I hard say; The man being verry weit and cauld, 15 Betwene thay twa it was na play. Quoth he, "Quhair is my horsis corne? My ox hes naithir hay nor stray; Dame, ye mon to the pluch to morne; I salbe hussy, gif I may." 20 "Husband," quoth scho, "content am I To tak the pluche my day about, Sa ye will reull baith kavis and ky, And all the house baith in and owt. "But sen that ye will husyskep ken, 25 First ye sall sift and syne sall kned; And ay as ye gang but and ben, Luk that the bairnis dryt not the bed. Yeis lay ane soft wisp to the kill; We haif ane deir ferme on o[u]r heid; 30 And ay as ye gang furth and in, Keip weill the gaislingis fra the gled." The wyf was up richt late at evin, I pray God gif her evill to fair! Scho kyrnd the kyrne, and skumd it clene, 35 And left the gudeman bot the bledoch bair. Than in the mornyng up scho gatt, And on hir hairt laid hir disjune; Scho put als mekle in hir lap, As micht haif ser[v]d them baith at nune. 40 Sayis, "Jok, will thou be maister of wark, And thou sall had, and I sall kall; Ise promise thé ane gude new sark, Athir of round claith or of small." Scho lousit oxin aucht or nyne, 45 And hynt ane gad-staff in hir hand; And the gudman raiss eftir syne, And saw the wyf had done command. And caud the gaislingis furth to feid; Thair was bot sevensum of thame all; 50 And by thair cumis the gredy gled, And likkit up five, left him bot twa. Than out he ran in all his mane, How sune he hard the gaislingis cry; Bot than or he come in agane, 55 The calfis brak louss and sowkit the ky. The calvis and ky being met in the lone, The man ran with ane rung to red; Than by thair cumis ane ill-willy cow, And brodit his buttok quhill that it bled. 60 Than hame he ran to an rok of tow, And he satt doun to say the spynning; I trow he lowtit our neir the low, Quoth he, "This wark hes ill begynning." Than to the kyrn that he did stoure, 65 And jumlit at it quhill he swatt: Quhen he had jumlit a full lang houre, The sorrow crap of butter he gatt. Albeit na butter he could gett, Yit he wes cummerit with the kyrne, 70 And syne he het the milk our hett, And sorrow a spark of it wald yirne. Than ben thair come ane gredy sow, I trow he cund hir littil thank; For in scho schot hir mekle mow, 75 And ay scho winkit and scho drank. He cleikit up ane crukit club, And thocht to hitt the sow ane rout; The twa gaislingis the gled had left, That straik dang baith thair harnis out. 80 [He gat his foot upon the spyre,[L81-88] To have gotten the flesche doune to the pat; He fell backward into the fyre, And brack his head on the keming stock. Yit he gat the mekle pat upon the fyre, 85 And gat twa cannes, and ran to the spout; Er he came in, quhat thought ye of that? The fyre brunt aw the pat-a... out.] Than he beur kendling to the kill, But scho start all up in ane low; 90 Quhat evir he hard, quhat evir he saw, That day he had na will to mow. Then he yeid to tak up the bairnis, Thocht to haif fund thame fair and clene; The first that he gat in his armis 95 Was all bedirtin to the ene. The first that he gat in his armis, It was all dirt up to the eine; "The devill cut of thair handes," quoth he, "That fild you all sa fow this strene." 100 He trailit foull scheitis doun the gait, Thought to haif wescht thame on ane stane; The burne wes rissin grit of spait, Away fra him the scheitis hes tane. Then up he gat on ane know heid, 105 On hir to cry, on hir to schout;[L106] Scho hard him, and scho hard him not, Bot stoutly steird the stottis about. Scho draif the day unto the night, Scho lousit the pluch, and syne come hame; 110 Scho fand all wrang that sould bene richt, I trow the man thought richt grit schame. Quoth he, "My office I forsaik, For all the dayis of my lyf, For I wald put ane house to wraik, 115 Had I bene twenty dayis gudwyf." Quoth scho, "Weill mote ye bruke your place, For trewlie I will never excep it:" Quoth he, "Feind fall the lyaris face, Bot yit ye may be blyth to get it." 120 Than up scho gat ane mekle rung, And the gudman maid to the doir;[L122] Quoth he, "Dame, I sall hald my tung, For and we fecht I'ill get the woir." Quoth he, "Quhen I forsuk my pluche, 125 I trow I but forsuk my seill; And I will to my pluch agane, Ffor I and this howse will nevir do weill." 81-88. This stanza, which does not occur in the Bannatyne MS., or in the ordinary printed copies, is given by Laing from a MS. "written in a hand not much later than the year 1600." 106. MS. cray. 122. MS. dur. THE FRIAR IN THE WELL. An old story, often referred to, e. g. in Skelton's _Colyn Cloute_, v. 879. The ballad is found in various collections in the British Museum, and is cited in part from one of these, in Dyce's note to the passage in Skelton. There is a Scottish version in Kinloch's _Ballad Book_, p. 25. The following is from Durfey's _Pills to Purge Melancholy_, iii. 325 (_The Fryer and the Maid_), but as that copy is abridged, we have supplied the omitted stanzas from Chappell's _Popular Music_, p. 273. As I lay musing all alone, A merry tale I thought upon; Now listen a while, and I will you tell Of a fryer that loved a bonny lass well. He came to her when she was going to bed, 5 Desiring to have her maidenhead; But she denyed his desire, And said that she did fear hell-fire. "Tush, tush," quoth the fryer, "thou needst not doubt, If thou wert in hell, I could sing thee out:" 10 "Why then," quoth the maid, "thou shalt have thy request;" The fryer was as glad as a fox in his nest. "But one thing more I must require,[L13] More than to sing me out of hell-fire; That is, for doing of the thing, 15 An angel of money you must me bring." "Tush, tush," quoth the fryer, "we two shall agree; No money shall part thee, [my love,] and me; Before thy company I will lack, I'll pawn the grey gown off my back." 20 The maid bethought her on a wile, How she might this fryer beguile. When he was gone, the truth to tell, She hung a cloth before a well. The fryer came, as his bargain was, 25 With money unto his bonny lass; "Good morrow, fair maid;" "Good morrow," quoth she; "Here is the money I promis'd thee." She thank'd him, and she took the money: "Now lets go to't, my own dear honey:" 30 "Nay, stay awhile, some respite make; If my master should come, he would us take." "Alas!" quoth the maid, "my master doth come." "Alas!" quoth the fryer, "where shall I run?" "Behind yon cloth run thou," quoth she, 35 "For there my master cannot see." Behind the cloth the fryer went, And was in the well incontinent. "Alas!" quoth he, "I'm in the well;" "No matter," quoth she, "if thou wert in hell. 40 "Thou saidst thou could sing me out of hell: I prithee sing thyself out of the well. Sing out," quoth she, "with all thy might, Or else thou'rt like to sing there all night." The fryer sang out with a pitiful sound, 45 "O help me out, or I shall be drown'd." ["I trow," quoth she, "your courage is cool'd;" Quoth the fryer, "I never was so fool'd. "I never was served so before;" "Then take heed," quoth she, "thou com'st here no more." 50 Quoth he, "For sweet St. Francis sake, On his disciple some pity take:" Quoth she, "St. Francis never taught His scholars to tempt young maids to naught." The friar did entreat her still 55 That she would help him out of the well: She heard him make such piteous moan, She help'd him out, and bid him begone. Quoth he, "Shall I have my money again, Which from me thou hast before-hand ta'en?" 60 "Good sir," quoth she, "there's no such matter; I'll make you pay for fouling the water." The friar went along the street, Dropping wet, like a new-wash'd sheep; Both old and young commended the maid 65 That such a witty prank had play'd.] 13. request. GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR. Herd's _Scottish Songs_, ii. 63. First printed by Herd in a slightly different form, ed. 1776, ii. 159; also Johnson's _Museum_, p. 310, and Ritson's _Scottish Songs_, i. 226. The hero of this story is traditionally known as one Johnie Blunt, who lived on Crawford Moor. Several versions of a song called by his name are current among the Scottish peasantry, one of which is given in Johnson's _Museum_, p. 376.--This ballad, says Stenhouse, furnished Prince Hoare with one of the principal scenes in his musical entertainment of _No Song, no Supper_, "acted at Drury Lane in 1790, and since throughout the United Kingdom with great success." It fell about the Martinmas time, And a gay time it was than, That our gudewife had puddings to mak, And she boil'd them in the pan. The wind blew cauld frae east and north, 5 And blew into the floor; Quoth our gudeman to our gudewife, "Get up and bar the door." "My hand is in my hussyskep, Goodman, as ye may see; 10 An' it shou'dna be barr'd this hunder year, It's ne'er be barr'd by me." They made a paction 'tween them twa, They made it firm and sure, That the first word whaever spak, 15 Should rise and bar the door. Than by there came twa gentlemen, At twelve o'clock at night, Whan they can see na ither house, And at the door they light. 20 "Now whether is this a rich man's house, Or whether is it a poor?" But ne'er a word wad ane o' them speak, For barring of the door. And first they ate the white puddings, 25 And syne they ate the black: Muckle thought the gudewife to hersell, Yet ne'er a word she spak. Then ane unto the ither said, "Here, man, tak ye my knife; 30 Do ye tak aff the auld man's beard, And I'll kiss the gudewife." "But there's na water in the house, And what shall we do than?" "What ails ye at the pudding bree 35 That boils into the pan?" O up then started our gudeman, An angry man was he; "Will ye kiss my wife before my een, And scald me wi' pudding bree?" O up then started our gudewife, 40 Gied three skips on the floor; "Gudeman, you have spak the first word; Get up and bar the door." THE DRAGON OF WANTLEY. Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 350. _Old Ballads_, i. 37. This in its way most admirable ballad is clearly a parody of some ancient _K[oe]mpevise_. The armor studded with spikes connects this story with the legend of the _Worm of Lambton_ (see vol. i. p. 281, and _post_, p. 136), which, we are inclined to think with Grundtvig (i. 346), may have some radical connection with Regner Lodbrog's fight with the snake that guarded Thora's bower. The well in v. 100 corresponds to the pit in which the hero stands in _Ormekampen_, Grundtvig, i. 342.--Printed by Percy from a copy in Roman letter, in the Pepys Collection, "collated with such others as could be procured." PERCY. Old stories tell how Hercules A dragon slew at Lerna, With seven heads, and fourteen eyes, To see and well discerne-a: But he had a club, this dragon to drub, 5 Or he had ne'er done it, I warrant ye: But More of More-Hall, with nothing at all, He slew the dragon of Wantley. This dragon had two furious wings, Each one upon each shoulder; 10 With a sting in his tayl, as long as a flayl, Which made him bolder and bolder. He had long claws, and in his jaws Four and forty teeth of iron; With a hide as tough as any buff, 15 Which did him round environ. Have you not heard how the Trojan horse Held seventy men in his belly? This dragon was not quite so big, But very near, I'll tell ye. 20 Devoured he poor children three, That could not with him grapple; And at one sup he eat them up, As one would eat an apple. All sorts of cattle this dragon did eat; 25 Some say he ate up trees, And that the forests sure he would Devour up by degrees; For houses and churches were to him geese and turkies;[L29] He ate all, and left none behind, 30 But some stones, dear Jack, that he could not crack, Which on the hills you will find. In Yorkshire, near fair Rotherham, The place I know it well, Some two or three miles, or thereabouts, 35 I vow I cannot tell; But there is a hedge, just on the hill edge, And Matthew's house hard by it; O there and then was this dragon's den, You could not chuse but spy it. 40 Some say, this dragon was a witch; Some say, he was a devil; For from his nose a smoke arose, And with it burning snivel; Which he cast off, when he did cough, 45 In a well that he did stand by, Which made it look just like a brook Running with burning brandy. Hard by a furious knight there dwelt, Of whom all towns did ring, 50 For he could wrestle, play at quarter-staff, kick, cuff and huff, Call son of a w...., do any kind of thing. By the tail and the main, with his hands twain, He swung a horse till he was dead; And that which is stranger, he for very anger 55 Eat him all up but his head. These children, as I told, being eat, Men, women, girls, and boys, Sighing and sobbing, came to his lodging, And made a hideous noise; 60 "O save us all, More of More-Hall, Thou peerless knight of these woods; Do but slay this dragon, who won't leave us a rag on, We'll give thee all our goods." "Tut, tut," quoth he, "no goods I want: 65 But I want, I want, in sooth, A fair maid of sixteen, that's brisk and keen, With smiles about the mouth, Hair black as sloe, skin white as snow, With blushes her cheeks adorning, 70 To anoynt me o'er night, ere I go to fight, And to dress me in the morning." This being done, he did engage To hew the dragon down; But first he went, new armour to 75 Bespeak at Sheffield town; With spikes all about, not within but without, Of steel so sharp and strong, Both behind and before, arms, legs, and all o'er, Some five or six inches long. 80 Had you but seen him in this dress, How fierce he look'd and how big, You would have thought him for to be Some Egyptian porcupig. He frighted all, cats, dogs, and all, 85 Each cow, each horse, and each hog: For fear they did flee, for they took him to be Some strange outlandish hedge-hog. To see this fight, all people then Got up on trees and houses; 90 On churches some, and chimneys too; But these put on their trowses, Not to spoil their hose. As soon as he rose, To make him strong and mighty, He drank by the tale, six pots of ale, 95 And a quart of aqua-vitæ. It is not strength that always wins, For wit doth strength excell; Which made our cunning champion Creep down into a well, 100 Where he did think, this dragon would drink, And so he did in truth; And as he stoop'd low, he rose up and cry'd, "Boh!" And hit him in the mouth. "Oh," quoth the dragon, "pox take thee, come out! 105 Thou disturb'st me in my drink:" And then he turn'd, and s... at him; Good lack how he did stink! "Beshrew thy soul, thy body's foul, Thy dung smells not like balsam; 110 Thou son of a w...., thou stink'st so sore, Sure thy diet is unwholesome." Our politick knight, on the other side, Crept out upon the brink, And gave the dragon such a douse, 115 He knew not what to think: "By cock," quoth he, "say you so, do you see?" And then at him he let fly With hand and with foot, and so they went to't; And the word it was, Hey boys, hey! 120 "Your words," quoth the dragon, "I don't understand"; Then to it they fell at all, Like two wild boars so fierce, if I may Compare great things with small. Two days and a night, with this dragon did fight 125 Our champion on the ground; Though their strength it was great, their skill it was neat, They never had one wound. At length the hard earth began to quake, The dragon gave him a knock, 130 Which made him to reel, and straitway he thought, To lift him as high as a rock, And thence let him fall. But More of More-Hall, Like a valiant son of Mars, As he came like a lout, so he turn'd him about, And hit him a kick on the a... 136 "Oh," quoth the dragon, with a deep sigh, And turn'd six times together, Sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing, Out of his throat of leather; 140 "More of More-Hall! O thou rascàl! Would I had seen thee never; With the thing at thy foot, thou hast prick'd my a... gut, And I am quite undone forever." "Murder, murder," the dragon cry'd, 145 "Alack, alack, for grief; Had you but mist that place, you could Have done me no mischief." Then his head he shaked, trembled and quaked, And down he laid and cry'd; 150 First on one knee, then on back tumbled he, So groan'd, kickt, s..., and dy'd. 29, were to him gorse and birches. Other copies. * * * * * [Asterism] In the improved edition of the _Reliques_, a most extraordinary attempt to explain the foregoing burlesque as an allegory (!) is made in a "Key" appended to the ballad, and said to be "communicated by Godfrey Bosville, Esq., of Thorp, near Malton, in Yorkshire." "Warncliff Lodge, and Warncliff Wood (vulgarly pronounced Wantley), are in the parish of Penniston, in Yorkshire. The rectory of Penniston was part of the dissolved monastery of St. Stephen's, Westminster; and was granted to the Duke of Norfolk's family: who therewith endowed an hospital, which he built at Sheffield, for women. The trustees let the impropriation of the great tithes of Penniston to the Wortley family, who got a great deal by it, and wanted to get still more: for Mr. Nicholas Wortley attempted to take the tithes in kind, but Mr. Francis Bosville opposed him, and there was a decree in favour of the modus in 37th Eliz. The vicarage of Penniston did not go along with the rectory, but with the copyhold rents, and was part of a large purchase made by Ralph Bosville, Esq., from Queen Elizabeth, in the 2d year of her reign: and that part he sold in 12th Eliz. to his elder brother Godfrey, the father of Francis; who left it, with the rest of his estate, to his wife, for her life, and then to Ralph, third son of his uncle Ralph. The widow married Lyonel Rowlestone, lived eighteen years, and survived Ralph. "This premised, the ballad apparently relates to the lawsuit carried on concerning this claim of tithes made by the Wortley family. 'Houses and churches were to him geese and turkeys:' which are titheable things, the Dragon chose to live on. Sir Francis Wortley, the son of Nicholas, attempted again to take the tithes in kind: but the parishioners subscribed an agreement to defend their modus. And at the head of the agreement was Lyonel Rowlestone, who is supposed to be one of 'the stones, dear Jack, which the Dragon could not crack.' The agreement is still preserved in a large sheet of parchment, dated 1st of James I., and is full of names and seals, which might be meant by the coat of armour, "with spikes all about, both within and without." More of More-hall was either the attorney, or counsellor, who conducted the suit. He is not distinctly remembered, but More-hall is still extant at the very bottom of Wantley [Warncliff] Wood, and lies so low, that it might be said to be in a well: as the Dragon's den [Warncliff Lodge] was at the top of the wood 'with Matthew's house hard by it.' The keepers belonging to the Wortley family were named, for many generations, Matthew Northall: the last of them left this lodge, within memory, to be keeper to the Duke of Norfolk. The present owner of More-hall still attends Mr. Bosville's Manor Court at Oxspring, and pays a rose a year. 'More of More-Hall, with nothing at all, slew the Dragon of Wantley.' He gave him, instead of tithes, so small a modus, that it was in effect, nothing at all, and was slaying him with a vengeance. 'The poor children three,' &c., cannot surely mean the three sisters of Francis Bosville, who would have been coheiresses, had he made no will? The late Mr. Bosville had a contest with the descendants of two of them, the late Sir George Saville's father, and Mr. Copley, about the presentation to Penniston, they supposing Francis had not the power to give this part of the estate from the heirs at law; but it was decided against them. The Dragon (Sir Francis Wortley) succeeded better with his cousin Wordesworth, the freehold lord of the manor, (for it is the copyhold manor that belongs to Mr. Bosville,) having persuaded him not to join the refractory parishioners, under a promise that he would let him his tithes cheap: and now the estates of Wortley and Wordesworth are the only lands that pay tithes in the parish. "N. B. The 'two days and a night,' mentioned in ver. 125, as the duration of the combat, was probably that of the trial at law." * * * * * NOTE to p. 128, and p. 131, v. 75-80. Grundtvig, ii. 653, refers to a B[oe]otian legend in Pausanias ix. 26, 5, for an instance of a similar contrivance. The story goes, that one Menestratus, to save a friend who was about to be exposed in due course to a dragon, made himself a brazen breastplate, which had on every scale a hook with the point bent upwards. Armed in this, he went voluntarily to meet the monster, and destroyed him, though at the expense of his own life. APPENDIX. KEMPY KAYE. From Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 81. There is a resemblance in two points between this ballad and the Danish _Greve Genselin_ (Grundtvig, No. 16, translated by Jamieson, _Illustrations_, p. 310). The characters in both are giants: the smallest kemp that danced at Genselin's bridal was "fifteen ells to his knee." Secondly, the bridal in the one ballad and the wooing in the other are described in a style of extravagant parody; more gross in the English, however, than in the Danish, where it is confined to the bride's enormous appetite. This portion of _Greve Genselin_ occurs also in _Tord af Havsgaard_ (Grundtvig, No. 1), which ballad is founded upon the story of Thor's Hammer in the _Edda_. Kempy Kaye's a wooing gane, Far far ayont the sea, An' he has met with an auld auld man, His gudefather to be. "Gae scrape yeersel, and gae scart yeersel, 5 And mak your bruchty face clean,[L7, 8] For the wooers are to be here the nicht, And yeer body's to be seen. "What's the matter wi' you, my fair maiden, You luk so pale and wan? 10 I'm sure you was once the fairest maiden That ever the sun shined on." Sae they scrapit her, and they scartit her, Like the face of an assy pan, And in cam Kempy Kaye himself, 15 A clever and tall young man.[L16-20] His teeth they were like tether sticks, His nose was three feet lang; Between his shouthers was ells three, Between his een a span. 20 "I'm coming to court your dochter dear, An' some pairt of your gear:" "An' by my sooth," quo' Bengoleer, "She'll sair a man o' weir. "My dochter she's a thrifty lass; 25 She span seven year to me; An' if it war weil counted up, Full ten wobs it would be." He led his dochter by the han', His dochter ben brought he; 30 "O is she not the fairest lass That's in great Christendye?" Ilka hair intil her head Was like a heather cow, And ilka louse aninder it 35 Was like a lintseed bow.[L36] She had lauchty teeth, an' kaily lips, An' wide lugs fu' o' hair; Her pouches fu' o' pease-meal daigh, War hinging down her spare. 40 Ilka ee intil her head Was like a rotten ploom, An' down down browit was the quean, An' sairly did she gloom. Ilka nail upon her hand 45 Was like an iron rake, An' ilka teeth into her head Was like a tether stake. She gied to him a gay gravat O' the auld horse's sheet, 50 And he gied her a gay gold ring O' the auld couple reet. 7, 8. _Var_. For Kempy Kaye's to be here the nicht, Or else the morn at een. 16-20. See _King Henry_, v. 21,22, vol. i. p. 148, and _The Wee Wee Man_, vol. i. p. 126, note. Also _Carle of Carlile_, v. 177-188 in Madden's _Syr Gawayne_, p. 256. 36. _Var._ Was like a brucket yowe. KEMPY KAYE. From Kinloch's _Ballad Book_, p. 41. Kempy Kaye is a wooing gane Far far ayont the sea, And there he met wi' auld Goling, His gudefather to be, be, His gudefather to be. 5 "Whar are ye gaun, O Kempy Kaye, Whar are ye gaun sa sune?" "O I am gaun to court a wife, And think na ye that's weel dune, dune, And think na ye that's weel dune?" 10 "And ye be gaun to court a wife, As ye do tell to me, 'Tis ye sall hae my Fusome Fug, Your ae wife for to be, be, Your ae wife for to be." 15 "Rise up, rise up my Fusome Fug, And mak your foul face clean, For the brawest wooer that ere ye saw Is come develling doun the green, green, Is come develling doun the green." 20 Up then raise the Fusome Fug, To mak her foul face clean; And aye she curs'd her mither She had na water in, in, She had na water in. 25 She rampit out, and she rampit in, She rampit but and ben; The tittles and tattles that hang frae her tail Wad muck an acre o' land, land, Wad muck an acre o' land. 30 She had a neis upon her face Was like an auld pat-fit; Atween her neis bot and her mou Was inch thick deep o' dirt, dirt, Was inch thick deep o' dirt. 35 She had twa een intil her head War like twa rotten plooms; The heavy brows hung down her face, And O I vow she glooms, glooms! And O I vow she glooms! 40 Ilka hair that was on her head Was like a heather cow, And ilka louse that lookit out Was like a lintseed bow, bow, Was like a lintseed bow. 45 When Kempy Kaye cam to the house, He lookit thro' a hole, And there he saw the dirty drab Just whisking oure the coal, coal, Just whisking oure the coal. 50 He gied to her a braw silk napkin, Was made o' an auld horse brat; "I ne'er wore a silk napkin a' my life, But weel I wat Is'e wear that, that, But weel I wat Is'e wear that. 55 "He gied to her a braw gowd ring, Was made frae an auld brass pan, "I ne'er wore a gowd ring in a' my life, But now I wat I'se wear ane, ane, But now I wat Is'e wear ane." 60 Whan thir twa loves had met thegither, O kissing to tak their fill, The slaver that hang atween their twa gabs Wad hae tether'd a ten year auld bill, bill, Wad hae tether'd a ten year auld bill. 65 THE JOVIAL HUNTER OF BROMSGROVE. From _Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England_, edited by Robert Bell, p. 124. This ballad, says the editor, "has long been popular in Worcestershire and some of the adjoining counties. It was printed for the first time by Mr. Allies of Worcester, under the title of _The Jovial Hunter of Bromsgrove_; but amongst the peasantry of that county, and the adjoining county of Warwick, it has always been called _The Old Man and his Three Sons_--the name given to a fragment of the ballad still used as a nursery song in the north of England, the chorus of which slightly varies from that of the ballad: (see p. 250 of the same publication.)" Mr. Bell imagines that there is an allusion to this ballad in _As You Like It_, i. 2, where Le Beau says "There comes an old man and his three sons," and Celia replies, "I could match this beginning with an old tale." * * * * * Old Sir Robert Bolton had three sons, _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; And one of them was Sir Ryalas, _For he was a jovial hunter_. He ranged all round down by the wood side, 5 _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_, Till in a tree-top a gay lady he spied, _For he was a jovial hunter_. "O, what dost thee mean, fair lady?" said he, _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; 10 "The wild boar's killed my lord, and has thirty men gored, _And thou beest a jovial hunter_. "O what shall I do this wild boar for to see?" _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; "O, thee blow a blast, and he'll come unto thee, 15 _As thou beest a jovial hunter_. Then he blowed a blast, full north, east, west and south, _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; And the wild boar then heard him full in his den, _As he was a jovial hunter_. 20 Then he made the best of his speed unto him, _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; [Swift flew the boar, with his tusks smeared with gore,][L23] _To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter_. Then the wild boar, being so stout and so strong, 25 _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; Thrashed down the trees as he ramped him along, _To Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter_. "O what dost thee want of me?" wild boar, said he, _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; 30 "O I think in my heart I can do enough for thee, _For I am the jovial hunter_." Then they fought four hours in a long summer day, _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; Till the wild boar fain would have got him away 35 _From Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter_. Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword with might, _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; And he fairly cut the boar's head off quite, _For he was a jovial hunter_. 40 Then out of the wood the wild woman flew, _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; "O my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew, _For thou beest a jovial hunter_. "There are three things, I demand them of thee, 45 _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; "It's thy horn, and thy hound, and thy gay lady, _As thou beest a jovial hunter_." "If these three things thou dost ask of me," _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; 50 It's just as my sword and thy neck can agree, _For I am a jovial hunter_." Then into his long locks the wild woman flew, _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; Till she thought in her heart to tear him through, 55 _Though he was a jovial hunter_. Then Sir Ryalas drawed his broad sword again, _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; And he fairly split her head into twain, _For he was a jovial hunter_. 60 In Bromsgrove church, the knight he doth lie, _Wind well thy horn, good hunter_; And the wild boar's head is pictured thereby, _Sir Ryalas, the jovial hunter_. 23. Inserted by Bell. THE BLUDY SERK. _The Bludy Serk_, both story and morality, is taken from the _Gesta Romanorum_; see two forms of the tale in Madden's _Old English Versions_, &c. p. 22, p. 404. This poem is preserved in the Bannatyne Manuscript, and has been several times printed. The present copy is from Laing's _Select Remains of the Ancient Popular Poetry of Scotland_. The author is Robert Henryson, whose ballad of _Robene and Makyne_ has been given in the fourth volume of this collection. This hindir yeir I hard be tald, Thair was a worthy king; Dukis, erlis, and barronis bald, He had at his bidding. The lord was anceane and ald, 5 And sexty yeiris cowth ring; He had a dochter, fair to fald, A lusty lady ying. Off all fairheid scho bur the flour, And eik hir faderis air; 10 Off lusty laitis and he honour; Meik, bot and debonair. Scho wynnit in a bigly bour; On fold wes none so fair; Princes luvit hir, paramour, 15 In cuntries our all quhair. Thair dwelt a lyt besyde the king A fowll gyane of ane; Stollin he hes the lady ying, Away with hir is gane; 20 And kest hir in his dungering, Quhair licht scho micht se nane; Hungir and cauld and grit thristing Scho fand in to hir wame. He wes the laithliest on to luk 25 That on the grund mycht gang; His nailis wes lyk ane hellis cruk, Thairwith fyve quarteris lang. Thair wes nane that he ourtuk, In rycht or yit in wrang, 30 But all in schondir he thame schuke, The gyane wes so strang. He held the lady day and nycht Within his deip dungeoun; He wald nocht gif of hir a sicht 35 For gold nor yit ransoun, Bot gife the king mycht get a knycht To fecht with his persoun, To fecht with him, both day and nycht, Quhill ane wer dungin doun. 40 The king gart seik baith fer and neir, Beth be se and land, Off any knycht gife he micht heir, Wald fecht with that gyand. A worthy prince, that had no peir, 45 Hes tane the deid on hand, For the luve of the lady cleir, And held full trewe cunnand. That prince come prowdly to the toun, Of that gyane to heir, 50 And fawcht with him, his awin persoun, And tuke him presonier, And kest him in his awin dungeoun, Allane withouttin feir, With hungir, cawld, and confusioun, 55 As full weill worthy weir; Syne brak the bour, had hame the bricht, Vnto hir fadir he;[L58] Sa evil wondit was the knycht, That he behuvit to de. 60 Unlusum was his likame dicht, His sark was all bludy; In all the warld was thair a wicht So petyouse for to se! The lady murnyt, and maid grit mone, 65 With all her mekle micht: "I lufit nevir lufe, bot one, That dulfully now is dicht! God sen my lyfe wer fra me tone, Or I had sene yone sicht; 70 Or ellis in begging evir to gone, Furth with yone curtass knycht!" He said, "Fair lady, now mone I De, trestly ye me trow: Tak ye my sark that is bludy, 75 And hing it forrow yow: First think on it, and syne on me, Quhen men cumis yow to wow." The lady said, "Be Mary fre, Thairto I mak a wow." 80 Quhen that scho lukit to the serk, Scho thocht on the persoun, And prayit for him with all hir harte, That lowsd hir of bandoun, Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk, 85 In that deip dungéoun; And ever quhill scho wes in quert, That wass hir a lessoun. Sa weill the lady luvit the knycht, That no man wald scho tak: 90 Sa suld we do our God of micht That did all for us mak; Quhilk fullély to deid was dicht, For sinfull manis saik; Sa suld we do both day and nycht, 95 With prayaris to him mak. MORALITAS. This king is lyk the trinitie, Baith in hevin and heir: The manis saule to the lady, The gyane to Lucefeir: 100 The knycht to Chryst, that deit on tre, And coft our synnis deir: The pit to hell, with panis fell, The syn to the woweir. The lady was wowd, but scho said nay, 105 With men that wald hir wed; Sa suld we wryth all syn away, That in our breistis bred. I pray to Jesu Chryst verrey For us his blud that bled, 110 To be our help on domysday, Quhair lawis ar straitly led. The saule is Godis dochtir deir, And eik his handewerk, That was betrasit with Lucifeir, 115 Quha sittis in hell full merk. Borrowit with Chrystis angell cleir, Hend men, will ye nocht herk? For his lufe that bocht us deir, Think on the Bludy Serk! 120 58. MS. deir. THE WANTON WIFE OF BATH. Evans's _Old Ballads_, i. 277; Collection of 1723, ii. 173. This excellent ballad, to adopt the encomium of Addison, (_Spectator_, No. 247,) was admitted by Percy into the earlier editions of the _Reliques_, (iii. 146, 1st ed.) though excluded from the revised edition of 1794. The same story circulates among the peasantry of England and Scotland in the form of a penny tract or chap-book; _Notices of Popular Histories_, p. 16, Percy Soc. vol. xxiii., _Notes and Queries_, New Series, vol. iii. p. 49. The jest is an old one. Mr. Halliwell refers to a _fabliau_ in Barbazan's collection, which contains the groundwork of this piece; _Du Vilain qui conquist Paradis par Plait_, Meon's ed. iv. 114. In Bath a wanton wife did dwell, As Chaucer he doth write, Who did in pleasure spend her days, In many a fond delight. Upon a time love sick she was, 5 And at the length did die; Her soul at last at Heaven's gate Did knock most mightily. Then Adam came unto the gate: "Who knocketh there?" quoth he: 10 "I am the Wife of Bath," she said, "And fain would come to thee." "Thou art a sinner," Adam said, "And here no place shall have;" "And so art thou, I trow," quoth she, 15 "And gip, a doting knave! "I will come in in spite," she said, "Of all such churls as thee; Thou wert the causer of our woe, Our pain and misery; 20 "And first broke God's commandments, In pleasure of thy wife:" When Adam heard her tell this tale, He run away for life. Then down came Jacob at the gate, 25 And bids her pack to hell: "Thou false deceiver, why?" said she;-- "Thou mayst be there as well. "For thou deceiv'dst thy father dear, And thine own brother too:" 30 Away slunk Jacob presently, And made no more ado. She knocks again with might and main, And Lot he chides her straight: "Why then," quoth she, "thou drunken ass, 35 Who bid thee here to prate? "With thy two daughters thou didst lie, On them two bastards got:" And thus most tauntingly she chaft Against poor silly Lot. 40 "Who calleth there," quoth Judith then, "With such shrill sounding notes?" "This fine minks surely came not here," Quoth she, "for cutting throats!" Good Lord, how Judith blush'd for shame, 45 When she heard her say so! King David hearing of the same, He to the gate did go. Quoth David, "Who knocks there so loud, And maketh all this strife?" 50 "You were more kind good sir," she said, "Unto Uriah's wife. "And when thy servant thou didst cause In battle to be slain, Thou causedst then more strife than I, 55 Who would come here so fain." "The woman's mad," said Solomon, "That thus doth taunt a king;" "Not half so mad as you," she said, "I trow, in many a thing. 60 "Thou hadst seven hundred wives at once, For whom thou didst provide, And yet three hundred wh...., God wot, Thou didst maintain beside. "And those made thee forsake thy God, 65 And worship stocks and stones; Besides the charge they put thee to In breeding of young bones. "Hadst thou not been besides thy wits, Thou wouldst not thus have ventur'd; 70 And therefor I do marvel much How thou this place hast entered." "I never heard," quoth Jonas then, "So vile a scold as this;" "Thou wh...son runaway," quoth she, 75 "Thou diddest more amiss." "They say," quoth Thomas, "women's tongues Of aspen leaves are made;" "Thou unbelieving wretch," quoth she, "All is not true that's said." 80 When Mary Magdalen heard her then, She came unto the gate; Quoth she, "Good woman, you must think Upon your former state." "No sinner enters in this place," 85 Quoth Mary Magdalen then; "'Twere ill for you, fair mistress mild," She answered her again. "You for your honesty," quoth she, "Had once been ston'd to death, 90 Had not our Saviour Christ come by, And written on the earth. "It was not by your occupation You are become divine; I hope my soul, by Christ's passion, 95 Shall be as safe as thine." Then rose the good apostle Paul; Unto this wife he cried, "Except thou shake thy sins away, Thou here shalt be denied." 100 "Remember, Paul, what thou hast done All thro' a lewd desire, How thou didst persecute God's church With wrath as hot as fire." Then up starts Peter at the last, 105 And to the gate he hies; "Fond fool," quoth he, "knock not so fast; Thou weariest Christ with cries." "Peter," said she, "content thyself, For mercy may be won; 110 I never did deny my Christ As thou thyself hast done." When as our Saviour Christ heard this, With heavenly angels bright, He comes unto this sinful soul, 115 Who trembled at his sight. Of him for mercy she did crave; Quoth he, "Thou hast refused My proffer'd grace and mercy both, And much my name abused." 120 "Sore have I sinn'd, O Lord," she said, "And spent my time in vain; But bring me, like a wand'ring sheep, Into thy fold again. "O Lord my God, I will amend 125 My former wicked vice; The thief for one poor silly word Past into Paradise." "My laws and my commandments," Saith Christ, "were known to thee; 130 But of the same, in any wise, Not yet one word did ye." "I grant the same, O Lord," quoth she; "Most lewdly did I live; But yet the loving father did 135 His prodigal son forgive." "So I forgive thy soul," he said, "Through thy repenting cry; Come you therefore into my joy, I will not thee deny." 140 THE GENTLEMAN IN THRACIA. From Collier's _Roxburghe Ballads_, p. 17. This ballad is founded on a tale in the _Gesta Romanorum_, (_Old English Versions_, &c. p. 140.) Nearly the same story occurs in Barbazan's _Fabliaux_, ii. 440, and also, says Madden, in the _Contes Tartares_ of Gueulette, iii. 157, and many other places. The model for all these is of course the Judgment of Solomon, in _1 Kings_, iii. 16-27. See Douce, ii. 385. Mr. Collier remarks that this ballad is without date, but was undoubtedly written late in the sixteenth, or early in the seventeenth, century. In searching ancient chronicles, It was my chance to finde A story worth the writing out, In my conceit and mind. It is an admonition good 5 That children ought to have, With reverence for to thinke upon Their parents laid in grave. In Thracia liv'd a gentleman, Of noble progeny, 10 Who rul'd his household with great fame, And true integrity. This gentleman did take to wife A neat and gallant dame, Whose outward shew and beauty bright 15 Did many hearts inflame. The luster that came from her lookes, Her carriage and her grace, Like beauteous Cynthia did outshine Each lady in that place. 20 And being puffed up in pride, With ease and jollity, Her husband could not her content; She other men must try. Lasciviously long time she liv'd, 25 Yet bore it cunningly; For she had those that watch'd so well, That he could nought espy. With bribes and gifts she so bewitch'd The hearts of some were neere, 30 That they conceal'd her wickednesse, And kept it from her deare. Thus spending of her time away In extreme wantonesse, Her private friends, when she did please, 35 Unto her had accesse. But the all-seeing eye of heaven Such sinnes will not conceale, And by some meanes at last will he The truth of all reveale. 40 Upon a time sore sicke she fell, Yea to the very death, And her physician told her plaine She must resigne her breath. Divines did likewise visit her, 45 And holy counsell gave, And bade her call upon the Lord, That he her soule might save. Amongst the rest, she did desire They would her husband bring; 50 "I have a secret to reveale," She said, "my heart doth sting." Then he came posting presently Unto her where she lay, And weeping then he did desire, 55 What she to him would say. She did intreat that all might voyd The roome, and he would stay; "Your pardon, husband, I beseech," Unto him she did say: 60 "For I have wrong'd your marriage-bed, And plaid the wanton wife; To you the truth I will reveale, Ere I depart this life. "Foure hopefull sonnes you think you have; 65 To me it best is knowne, And three of them are none of yours; Of foure but one's your owne, And by your selfe on me begot, Which hath a wanton beene; 70 These dying teares forgivenesse beg; Let mercy then be seene." This strooke her husband in a dump, His heart was almost dead; But rouzing of his spirits up, 75 These words to her he said. "I doe forgive thee with my heart, So thou the truth wilt tell, Which of the foure is my owne sonne, And all things shall be well." 80 "O pardon me, my husband deare," Unto him she did say; "They are my children every one," And so she went away. Away he goes with heavy heart; 85 His griefes he did conceale, And like a wise and prudent man, To none did it reveale. Not knowing which to be his owne, Each of his love did share, 90 And to be train'd in vertues paths Of them he had a care. In learning great and gentle grace They were brought up and taught, Such deare affection in the hearts 95 Of parents God hath wrought. They now were growne to mens estates, And liv'd most gallantly; Each had his horse, his hawke, his hound, And did their manhood try. 100 The ancient man did joy thereat, But yet he did not know Which was his sonne amongst the foure; That bred in him much woe. At length his glasse of life was run, 105 The fates doe so decree; For poore and rich they all must dye, And death will take no fee. Unto some judges he did send, And counsell that were grave, 110 Who presently to him did come To know what he would have. They coming then to his beds side, Unto them he did say: "I know you all to be my friends, 115 Most faithfull every way; And now, before I leave the world, I beg this at your hands, To have a care which of my sonnes Shall have my goods and lands." 120 And to them all he did relate What things his wife had done. "There is but one amongst the foure That is my native sonne; And to your judgement I commit, 125 When I am laid in grave, Which is my sonne, and which is fit My lands and goods to have." He dying, they in councill sate What best were to be done; 130 For 'twas a taske of great import To judge which was his sonne. The brothers likewise were at strife, Which should the living have, When as the ancient man was dead, 135 And buried in his grave. The judges must decide the cause, And thus they did decree: The dead man's body up to take, And tye it to a tree; 140 A bow each brother he must have, And eke an arrow take, To shoot at their dead fathers corps, As if he were a stake. And he whose arrow nearest hit 145 His heart, as he did stand, They'd judge him for to be right heire, And fit to have the land. On this they all did straight agree, And to the field they went; 150 Each had a man his shaft to beare, And bow already bent. "Now," quoth the judges, "try your skill Upon your father there, That we may quickly know who shall 155 Unto the land be heire." The oldest took his bow in hand, And shaft, where as he stood, Which pierc'd so deep the dead mans brest, That it did run with blood. 160 The second brother then must shoot, Who straight did take his aime, And with his arrow made a wound, That blood came from the same. The third likewise must try his skill 165 The matter to decide; Whose shaft did make a wound most deep Into the dead man's side. Unto the fourth and youngest, then, A bow and shaft were brought; 170 Who said, "D'ee thinke that ere my heart Could harbour such a thought, To shoot at my dear father's heart, Although that he be dead, For all the kingdomes in the world 175 That farre and wide are spread?" And turning of him round about, The teares ran downe amaine: He flung his bow upon the ground, And broke his shaft in twaine. 180 The judges seeing his remorse, They then concluded all He was the right, the other three They were unnaturall. And so he straight possest the lands, 185 Being made the heire of all, And heaven by nature in this kind Unto his heart did call. His brothers they did envy him, But yet he need not care, 190 And of his wealth, in portions large, Unto them he did share. SIR RICHARD WHITTINGTON'S ADVANCEMENT. This ballad is taken from _The Crowne-Garland of Golden Roses_, p. 20, Percy Society, vol. vi. Another copy is in _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 130. A play called _The History of Whittington_ was entered on the Stationers' books in Feb. 1604, and the "famous fable of Whittington and his puss" is mentioned in _Eastward Hoe_, 1605. (Weber and Halliwell.) "There is something so fabulous," (says the editor of _Old Ballads_, following Grafton and Stow,) "or at least, that has such a romantic appearance, in the history of Whittington, that I shall not choose to relate it; but refer my credulous readers to common tradition, or to the penny histories. Certain it is that there was such a man; a citizen of London, by trade a mercer, and one who has left public edifices and charitable works enow behind him, to transmit his name to posterity. Amongst others, he founded a house of prayer; with an allowance for a master, fellows, choristers, clerks, &c., and an almshouse for thirteen poor men, called Whittington College. He entirely rebuilt the loathsome prison, which then was standing at the west gate of the city, and called it Newgate. He built the better half of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, in West-Smithfield, and the fine library in Grey-Fryars, now called Christ's Hospital: as also great part of the east end of Guildhall, with a chapel, and a library in which the records of the city might be kept.... 'Tis said of him, that he advanced a very considerable sum of money towards carrying on the war in France, under this last monarch. He married Alice, the daughter of Hugh and Molde Fitzwarren: at whose house, traditions say, Whittington lived a servant, when he got his immense riches by venturing his cat in one of his master's ships. However, if we may give credit to his own will, he was a knight's son; and more obliged to an English king and prince, than to any African monarch, for his riches. For when he founded Whittington College, and left a maintenance for so many people, as above related, they were, as Stow records it, for this maintenance bound to pray for the good estate of Richard Whittington, and Alice his wife, their founders; and for Sir William Whittington, and Dame Joan his wife; and for Hugh Fitzwarren, and Dame Molde his wife; the fathers and mothers of the said Richard Whittington and Alice his wife; for King Richard the Second, and Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester, special lords and promoters of the said Richard Whittington, &c." Richard Whittington was Sheriff of London in the 18th year of Richard the Second, 1394, was then knighted, and chosen Mayor in the 22d year of the same reign, 1398. He was again Mayor in the 9th year of Henry the Fourth, 1407, and the 8th of Henry the Fifth, 1420. Keightley has devoted a chapter of his _Tales and Popular Fictions_ (the seventh) to the legend of Whittington and his Cat. He cites two similar stories from Thiele's _Danish Popular Traditions_, another from the letters of Count Magalotti, a Florentine of the latter half of the 17th century, another from the _Facezie_ of Arlotto, a Tuscan humorist of the 15th century, another, of Venetian origin, from a German chronicle of the 13th century, and finally one from the Persian _Tarikh al Wasaf_, a work said to have been composed at the end of the 13th or the beginning of the 14th century. Mr. Halliwell adds one more of a Portuguese wrecked on the coast of Guinea, from the _Description of Guinea_, 1665. Here must I tell the praise Of worthy Whittington, Known to be in his dayes Thrice Maior of London. But of poor parentage, 5 Borne was he, as we heare, And in his tender age Bred up in Lancashire. Poorely to London than Came up this simple lad, 10 Where, with a marchant-man, Soone he a dwelling had; And in a kitchen plast, A scullion for to be, Whereas long time he past 15 In labour drudgingly. His daily service was Turning spitts at the fire; And to scour pots of brasse, For a poore scullions hire. 20 Meat and drinke all his pay, Of coyne he had no store; Therefore to run away, In secret thought he bore. So from this marchant-man, 25 Whittington secretly Towards his country ran, To purchase liberty. But as he went along, In a fair summer's morne, 30 Londons bells sweetly rung, "Whittington, back return!" Evermore sounding so, "Turn againe, Whittington; For thou in time shall grow 35 Lord-Maior of London." Whereupon back againe Whittington came with speed, A prentise to remaine, As the Lord had decreed. 40 "Still blessed be the bells; (This was his daily song) They my good fortune tells, Most sweetly have they rung. If God so favour me, 45 I will not proove unkind; London my love shall see, And my great bounties find." But see his happy chance! This scullion had a cat, 50 Which did his state advance, And by it wealth he gat. His maister ventred forth, To a land far unknowne, With marchandize of worth, 55 As is in stories showne. Whittington had no more But this poor cat as than, Which to the ship he bore, Like a brave marchant-man. 60 "Vent'ring the same," quoth he, "I may get store of golde, And Maior of London be, As the bells have me told." Whittington's marchandise, 65 Carried was to a land Troubled with rats and mice, As they did understand. The king of that country there, As he at dinner sat, 70 Daily remain'd in fear Of many a mouse and rat. Meat that in trenchers lay, No way they could keepe safe; But by rats borne away, 75 Fearing no wand or staff. Whereupon, soone they brought Whittingtons nimble cat; Which by the king was bought; Heapes of gold giv'n for that. 80 Home againe came these men With their ships loaden so, Whittingtons wealth began By this cat thus to grow. Scullions life he forsooke 85 To be a marchant good, And soon began to looke How well his credit stood. After that he was chose Shriefe of the citty heere, 90 And then full quickly rose Higher, as did appeare. For to this cities praise, Sir Richard Whittington Came to be in his dayes 95 Thrise Maior of London. More his fame to advance, Thousands he lent his king, To maintaine warres in France, Glory from thence to bring. 100 And after, at a feast Which he the king did make, He burnt the bonds all in jeast, And would no money take. Ten thousand pound he gave 105 To his prince willingly, And would not one penny have; This in kind curtesie. God did thus make him great,[L109] So would he daily see 110 Poor people fed with meat, To shew his charity. Prisoners poore cherish'd were, Widdowes sweet comfort found; Good deeds, both far and neere, 115 Of him do still resound. Whittington Colledge is One of his charities; Records reporteth this To lasting memories. 120 Newgate he builded faire, For prisoners to live in; Christs-Church he did repaire, Christian love for to win. Many more such like deedes 125 Were done by Whittington; Which joy and comfort breedes, To such as looke thereon. Lancashire, thou hast bred This flower of charity: 130 Though he be gon and dead Yet lives he lastingly. Those bells that call'd him so, "Turne again, Whittington," Call you back many moe 135 To live so in London. 109. made. CATSKIN'S GARLAND, OR, THE WANDERING YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN. Moore's _Pictorial Book of Ancient Ballad Poetry_, p. 596. Only in a very debased form is this enchanting tale preserved by English tradition. The following ballad is given, in the collection cited above, from a modern broadside, but has here received a few improvements from two other copies cited by the editor. Mr. Halliwell has printed another version of Catskin in _The Nursery Rhymes of England_, p. 48, Percy Society, vol. iv. The story is possessed by almost every nation in Europe. It is found not only among the Northern races, but among the Hungarians, Servians, Wallachians, Welsh, Italians, and French. In Germany it is current in a great variety of forms, the two most noteworthy of which are _Aschenputtel_, to which correspond _Cennerentola_ in the _Pentamerone_ (i. 6), the _Cendrillon_ of Perrault, and the _Finette Cendron_ of Madame d'Aulnoy; and _Allerlei-Rauh_, which is the same as the _Peau d'Ane_ of Perrault, the _She-Bear_ of the _Pentamerone_ (ii. 6), and the _Doralice_ of Straparola (i. 4).--See the Grimms' _Kinder-und-Haus-Märchen_, No. 21, 65, and notes in vol. iii.; also the Swedish story of _The Little Gold Shoe_, and _The Girl clad in Mouse-skin_, from the Danish, in Thorpe's _Yule Tide Stories_, pp. vii. 112, 375. PART I. You fathers and mothers, and children also, Come near unto me, and soon you shall know The sense of my ditty, for I dare to say, The like hasn't been heard of this many long day. This subject which to you I am to relate, 5 It is of a 'squire who had a large estate; And the first dear infant his wife she did bare, Was a young daughter, a beauty most fair. He said to his wife, "Had this but been a boy, It would please me better, and increase my joy; 10 If the next be of the same sort, I declare, Of what I am possessed it shall have no share." In twelve months after, this woman, we hear, Had another daughter, of beauty most clear; And when her father knew 'twas a female, 15 Into a bitter passion he presently fell. Saying, "Since this is of the same sort as the first, In my habitation she shall not be nurs'd; Pray let it be sent into the country, For where I am, truly this child shall not be." 20 With tears his dear wife unto him did say, "My dear, be contented, I'll send her away." Then into the country this child she did send, For to be brought up by an intimate friend. Altho' that her father hated her so, 25 He good education on her did bestow, And with a gold locket, and robes of the best, This slighted young damsel was commonly drest. But when unto stature this damsel was grown, And found from her father she had no love shewn, 30 She cried, "Before I will lie under his frown, I am fully resolv'd to range the world round." PART II. But now mark, good people, the cream of the jest, In what a strange manner this female was drest: Catskins into a garment she made, I declare, 35 The which for her clothing she daily did wear. Her own rich attire, and jewels beside, They up in a bundle together were ty'd; And to seek her fortune she wander'd away, And when she had wander'd a cold winter's day, 40 In the evening-tide she came to a town, Where at a knight's door she sat herself down, For to rest herself, who was weary for sure. This noble knight's lady then came to the door, And seeing this creature in such sort of dress, 45 The lady unto her these words did express, "From whence came you, or what will you have?" She said, "A night's rest in your stable I crave." The lady said to her, "I grant thy desire, Come into the kitchen, and stand by the fire;" 50 Then she thank'd the lady, and went in with haste, Where she was gaz'd on from biggest to the least. And, being warm'd, her hunger was great, They gave her a plate of good food for to eat; And then to an outhouse this damsel was led, 55 Where with fresh straw she soon made her a bed. And when in the morning the day-light she saw, Her rich robes and jewels she hid in the straw; And being very cold, she then did retire, And went into the kitchen, and stood by the fire. 60 The cook said, "My lady promis'd that thou[L61] Shouldest be a scullion to wait on me now:[L62] What say'st thou, girl, art thou willing to bide?" "With all my heart," then she to her reply'd. To work at her needle she could very well, 65 And [for] raising of paste few could her excel; She being so handy, the cook's heart did win, And then she was call'd by the name of Catskin. PART III. This knight had a son both comely and tall, Who often-times used to be at a ball, 70 A mile out of town, and one evening-tide, To see a fine dancing away he did ride. Catskin said to his mother, "Madam, let me Go after your son, this ball for to see." With that, in a passion this lady she grew, 75 And struck her with a ladle, and broke it in two. Being thus served, she then got away, And in her rich garments herself did array; Then to see this ball she then did retire, Where she danced so fine all did her admire. 80 The sport being done, this young squire did say, "Young lady, where do you live, tell me, I pray?" Her answer to him was, "Sir, that I will tell; At the sign of the Broken Ladle I dwell." She being very nimble, got home first, 'tis said, 85 And with her catskin robes she soon was arrayed; Then into the kitchen again she did go, But where she had been none of them did know. Next night the young 'squire, himself to content, To see the ball acted, away then he went. 90 She said, "Let me go this ball for to view;" She struck her with a skimmer, and broke it in two. Then out of doors she ran, being full of heaviness, And with her rich garments herself she did dress; For to see this ball she ran away with speed, 95 And to see her dancing all wonder'd indeed. The ball being ended, the 'squire said then, "Pray where do you live?" She answered again,[L98] "Sir, because you ask me, account I will give; At the sign of the Broken Skimmer I live." 100 Being dark, she left him, and home[ward] did hie, And in her catskin robes she was drest presently, And into the kitchen among them she went, But where she had been they were all innocent. [When] the 'squire came home and found Catskin there, 105 He was in amaze, and began for to swear, "For two nights at the ball has been a lady, The sweetest of beauties that e'er I did see. "She was the best dancer in all the whole place, And very much like our Catskin in the face; 110 Had she not been drest in that costly degree, I would have sworn it was Catskin's body." Next night he went to see this ball once more; Then she ask'd his mother to go as before; Who having a bason of water in hand, 115 She threw it at Catskin, as I understand. Shaking her wet ears, out of doors she did run, And dressed herself when this thing she had done; To see this ball acted she then run her ways, To see her fine dancing all gave her the praise. 120 And having concluded, the young squire he Said, "From whence do you come, pray now tell me?" Her answer was, "Sir, you shall know the same, From the sign of the Bason of Water I came." Then homeward she hurried, as fast as might be. 125 This young 'squire then was resolved to see Whereto she belong'd, then follow'd Catskin: Into an old straw-house he saw her creep in. He said, "O brave Catskin, I find it is thee, Who these three nights together has so charmed me; 130 Thou'rt the sweetest creature my eyes e'er beheld; With joy and comfort my heart it is fill'd. "Thou art the cook's scullion, but as I have life, Grant me [but] thy love, and I'll make thee my wife, And you shall have maids to wait at your call." 135 "Sir, that cannot be; I've no portion at all." "Thy beauty is portion, my joy and my dear; I prize it far better than thousands a year; And to gain my friends' consent, I've got a trick; I'll go to my bed and feign myself sick. 140 "There's none shall attend me but thee, I profess,[L141] And some day or other in thy richest dress Thou shalt be drest; if my parents come nigh, I'll tell them that for thee sick I do lie." PART IV. Having thus consulted, this couple partèd. 145 Next day this young 'squire took to his bed. When his dear parents this thing perceiv'd, For fear of his death they were heartily griev'd. To tend him they sent for a nurse presently: 149 He said, "None but Catskin my nurse now shall be." His parents said, "No." He said, "But she shall, Or else I'll have none for to nurse me at all." His parents both wonder'd to hear him say thus, That no one but Catskin must be his nurse; So then his dear parents their son to content, 155 Up into the chamber poor Catskin they sent. Sweet cordials and other rich things were prepar'd, Which betwixt this young couple was equally shar'd; And when all alone, they in each other's arms Enjoy'd one another in love's pleasant charms. 160 At length on a time poor Catskin, 'tis said, In her rich attire she then was array'd; And when his mother the chamber drew near, Then much like a goddess did Catskin appear. Which caus'd her to startle, and thus she did say; 165 "What young lady's this, son, tell me I pray?" He said, "It is Catskin, for whom I sick lie, And without I have her with speed I shall die." His mother ran down for to call the old knight, Who ran up to see this amazing great sight; 170 He said, "Is this Catskin we hold so in scorn? I ne'er saw a finer dame since I was born." The old knight said to her, "I pry'thee tell me, From whence dost thou come, and of what family." Then who was her parents she gave them to know, 175 And what was the cause of her wandering so. The young 'squire said, "If you will save my life, Pray grant this young creature may be my wife." His father reply'd, "Your life for to save, If you are agreed, my consent you shall have." 180 Next day, with great triumph and joy, as we hear, There were many coaches came far and near; She much like a goddess drest in great array, Catskin to the 'squire was married that day. For several days this great wedding did last, 185 Where was many topping and gallant rich guests; And for joy the bells rung all over the town, And bottles of claret went merrily round. When Catskin was married, her fame to raise, To see her modest carriage all gave her the praise; 190 Thus her charming beauty the squire did win, And who lives so great as he and Catskin? PART V. Now in the fifth part I'll endeavour to shew, How things with her parents and sister did go; Her mother and sister of life [are] bereft, 195 And all alone the old knight he was left. And hearing his daughter being married so brave, He said, "In my noddle a fancy I have; Drest like a poor man a journey I'll make, And see if on me some pity she'll take. 200 Then drest like a beggar he goes to the gate, Where stood his daughter, who appear'd very great; He said, "Noble lady, a poor man I be, And am now forced to crave charity." With a blush she asked him from whence he came, 205 With that then he told her, and also his name; She said, "I'm your daughter, whom you slighted so, Yet, nevertheless, to you kindness I'll shew. "Thro' mercy the Lord hath provided for me. Now, father, come in and sit down," then said she. 210 Then the best of provisions the house could afford, For to make him welcome was set on the board. She said, "Thou art welcome; feed hearty, I pray; And, if you are willing, with me you shall stay So long as you live." Then he made this reply; 215 "I am only come thy love for to try. "Thro' mercy, my child, I am rich, and not poor; I have gold and silver enough now in store; And for the love that at thy house I have found, For a portion I'll give thee ten thousand pounds." 220 So in a few days after, as I understand, This man he went home and sold off his land; And ten thousand pounds to his daughter did give, And now altogether in love they do live. 61. thee. 62. upon me. 98. answered him. 141. protest. THE TAMING OF A SHREW. Ritson's _Ancient Songs and Ballads_, ii. 242. "From one of the Sloan MSS. in the Museum, No. 1489. The writing of Charles the First's time." A far superior poem on the very popular subject of the disciplining of wives is that of _The Wife Lapped in Morels Skin_, printed in Utterson's _Select Pieces of Early Popular Poetry_, ii. 173, and as an appendix to the Shakespeare Society's edition of the old _Taming of a Shrew_. As a counterpart to these pieces may be mentioned the amusing poem called _Ane Ballad of Matrymonie_, in Laing's _Select Remains_, or, _The Honeymoon_, Aytoun's _Ballads of Scotland_, i. 284. Al you that are assembled heere, Come listen to my song, But first a pardon I must crave, For feare of further wrong; I must entreat thes good wyves al 5 They wil not angrye be, And I will sing a merrye song, If they thereto agree. Because the song I mean to sing Doth touch them most of all, 10 And loth I were that any one With me shold chide and brawle. I have anough of that at home, At boarde, and eake in bed; And once for singing this same song 15 My wyfe did breake my head. But if thes good wyves all be pleasd, And pleased be the men, Ile venture one more broken pate, To sing it once agayne. 20 But first Ile tell you what it's cald, For feare you heare no more; 'Tis calde the Taming of a Shrew, Not often sung before. And if I then shall sing the rest, 25 A signe I needs must have; Hold but your finger up to me, Or hem,--that's al I crave-- Then wil I sing it with a harte, And to it roundelye goe; 30 You know my mynde, now let me see Whether I shal sing't or no. _Hem._ Well then, I see you willing are That I shall sing the reste; To pleasure al thes good wyves heire 35 I meane to do my best. For I do see even by their lookes No hurte to me they thinke, And thus it chancte upon a tyme, (But first give me a drinke.) 40 Not long agoe a lustye lad Did woe a livelye lasse, And long it was before he cold His purpose bring to passe; Yet at the lenth it thus fell out, 45 She granted his petition, That she would be his wedded wyfe, But yet on this condicion. That she shold weare the breeches on For one yeare and a day, 50 And not to be controld of him Whatsoere she'd do or say.[L52] She rulde, shee raignd, she had hir wil Even as she wold require; But marke what fell out afterwards, 55 Good wyves I you desyre. She made him weary of his lyfe; He wisht that death wold come, And end his myserye at once, Ere that the yeare was run; 60 He thought it was the longest yeare That was since he was borne, But he cold not the matter mend, For he was thereto sworne. Yet hath the longest day his date; 65 For this we al do know, Although the day be neer soe long, To even soone wil it goe. So fell it out with hir at lenth, The yeare was now come out; 70 The sun, and moone, and all the starres, Their race had run about. Then he began to rouse himselfe, And to his wyfe he saide, "Since that your raigne is at an end, 75 Now know me for your heade." But she that had borne swaye so long Wold not be under brought, But stil hir tounge on pattens ran, Though many blowes she caught. 80 He bet hir backe, he bet hir syde, He bet hir blacke and blew; But for all this she wolde not mend, But worse and worse she grew. When that he saw she wolde not mend, 85 Another way wrought hee; He mewde hir up as men mew hawkes, Where noe light she cold see. And kept hir without meate or drinke For four dayes space and more; 90 Yet for all this she was as ill As ere she was before. When that he saw she wold not mend, Nor that she wold be quiet, Neither for stroakes nor locking up, 95 Nor yet for want of dyet, He was almost at his wits end, He knew not what to doe; So that with gentlenes againe He gane his wyfe to woo. 100 But she soone bad him holde his peace, And sware it was his best, But then he thought him of a wyle Which made him be at rest. He told a frend or two of his 105 What he had in his mynde; Who went with him into his house, And when they all had dynde, "Good wyfe," quoth he, "thes frends of myne Come hither for your good; 110 There lyes a vayne under your toung, Must now be letten blood." Then she began to use hir tearmes, And rayléd at them fast; Yet bound they hir for al hir strenth 115 Unto a poaste at laste, And let hir blood under the toung, And tho she bled full sore, Yet did she rayle at them as fast As ere she raylde before. 120 "Wel then," quoth he, "the faulte I see, She hath it from her mother; It is hir teeth infects hir toung, And it can be noe other; And since I now doe know the cause, 125 Whatsoever to me befall, Ile plucke hir teeth out of hir toung, Perhaps hir toung and all." And with a payre of pinsers strong He pluckt a great tooth out, 130 And for to plucke another thence, He quicklye went about. But then she held up both her hands, And did for mercye pray, Protesting that against his will, 135 She wold not doe nor saye. Whereat hir husband was right glad, That she had changde hir mynde, For from that tyme unto hir death She proved both good and kynde. 140 Then did he take hir from the poast, And did unbind hir then; I wold al shrews were served thus; Al good wyves say Amen. 52. she did or said. TITUS ANDRONICUS'S COMPLAINT. On the 6th of February, 1593-4, _A noble Roman Historye of Tytus Andronicus_, was entered in the Stationers' Registers, to John Danter, and also "the ballad thereof." The earliest known edition of Shakespeare's play was in 1600. The differences between this play and the ballad are thus stated by Percy. "In the ballad is no mention of the contest for the empire between the two brothers, the composing of which makes the ungrateful treatment of Titus afterwards the more flagrant: neither is there any notice taken of his sacrificing one of Tamora's sons, which the tragic poet has assigned as the original cause of all her cruelties. In the play, Titus loses twenty-one of his sons in war, and kills another for assisting Bassianus to carry off Lavinia; the reader will find it different in the ballad. In the latter she is betrothed to the Emperor's son: in the play to his brother. In the tragedy, only two of his sons fall into the pit, and the third, being banished, returns to Rome with a victorious army, to avenge the wrongs of his house: in the ballad, all three are entrapped, and suffer death. In the scene, the Emperor kills Titus, and is in return stabbed by Titus's surviving son. Here Titus kills the Emperor, and afterwards himself." * * * * * "The following is given from a copy in _The Golden Garland_, entitled as above; compared with three others, two of them in black letter in the Pepys collection, entitled _The Lamentable and Tragical History of Titus Andronicus_, &c. To the Tune of _Fortune_. Printed for E. Wright.--Unluckily, none of these have any dates." Percy's _Reliques_, i. 238. You noble minds, and famous martiall wights, That in defence of native country fights, Give eare to me, that ten yeeres fought for Rome, Yet reapt disgrace at my returning home. In Rome I lived in fame fulle threescore yeeres, 5 My name beloved was of all my peeres; Fulle five-and-twenty valiant sonnes I had, Whose forwarde vertues made their father glad. For when Romes foes their warlike forces bent, Against them stille my sonnes and I were sent; 10 Against the Goths full ten yeeres weary warre We spent, receiving many a bloudy scarre. Just two-and-twenty of my sonnes were slaine Before we did returne to Rome againe: Of five-and-twenty sonnes, I brought but three 15 Alive, the stately towers of Rome to see. When wars were done, I conquest home did bring, And did present my prisoners to the king, The queene of Goths, her sons, and eke a Moore, Which did such murders, like was nere before. 20 The emperour did make this queene his wife, Which bred in Rome debate and deadly strife; The Moore, with her two sonnes, did growe soe proud, That none like them in Rome might bee allowd. The Moore soe pleas'd this new-made empress' eie, 25 That she consented to him secretlye For to abuse her husbands marriage bed, And soe in time a blackamore she bred. Then she, whose thoughts to murder were inclinde, Consented with the Moore of bloody minde, 30 Against myselfe, my kin, and all my friendes, In cruell sort to bring them to their endes. Soe when in age I thought to live in peace, Both care and griefe began then to increase: Amongst my sonnes I had one daughter bright, 35 Which joy'd and pleased best my aged sight. My deare Lavinia was betrothed than To Cesars sonne, a young and noble man: Who, in a hunting, by the emperours wife, And her two sonnes, bereaved was of life. 40 He, being slaine, was cast in cruel wise Into a darksome den from light of skies: The cruell Moore did come that way as then With my three sonnes, who fell into the den. The Moore then fetcht the emperour with speed, 45 For to accuse them of that murderous deed; And when my sonnes within the den were found, In wrongfull prison they were cast and bound. But nowe behold what wounded most my mind: The empresses two sonnes, of savage kind, 50 My daughter ravished without remorse, And took away her honour, quite perforce. When they had tasted of soe sweete a flowre, Fearing this sweete should shortly turne to sowre, They cutt her tongue, whereby she could not tell 55 How that dishonoure unto her befell. Then both her hands they basely cutt off quite, Whereby their wickednesse she could not write, Nor with her needle on her sampler sowe The bloudye workers of her direfull woe. 60 My brother Marcus found her in the wood, Staining the grassie ground with purple bloud, That trickled from her stumpes, and bloudlesse armes: Noe tongue at all she had to tell her harmes. But when I sawe her in that woefull case, 65 With teares of bloud I wet mine aged face: For my Lavinia I lamented more Then for my two-and-twenty sonnes before. When as I sawe she could not write nor speake, With grief mine aged heart began to breake; 70 We spred an heape of sand upon the ground, Whereby those bloudy tyrants out we found. For with a staffe, without the helpe of hand, She writt these wordes upon the plat of sand: "The lustfull sonnes of the proud emperesse 75 Are doers of this hateful wickednesse." I tore the milk-white hairs from off mine head, I curst the houre wherein I first was bred; I wisht this hand, that fought for countries fame, In cradle rockt, had first been stroken lame. 80 The Moore, delighting still in villainy, Did say, to sett my sonnes from prison free, I should unto the king my right hand give, And then my three imprisoned sonnes should live. The Moore I caus'd to strike it off with speede, 85 Whereat I grieved not to see it bleed, But for my sonnes would willingly impart, And for their ransome send my bleeding heart. But as my life did linger thus in paine, They sent to me my bootlesse hand againe, 90 And therewithal the heades of my three sonnes, Which filled my dying heart with fresher moanes. Then past reliefe, I upp and downe did goe, And with my teares writ in the dust my woe: I shot my arrowes towards heaven hie, 95 And for revenge to hell often did crye. The empresse then, thinking that I was mad, Like Furies she and both her sonnes were clad, (She nam'd Revenge, and Rape and Murder they) To undermine and heare what I would say. 100 I fed their foolish veines a certaine space,[L101] Untill my friendes did find a secret place, Where both her sonnes unto a post were bound, And just revenge in cruell sort was found. I cut their throates, my daughter held the pan 105 Betwixt her stumpes, wherein the bloud it ran: And then I ground their bones to powder small, And made a paste for pyes streight therewithall. Then with their fleshe I made two mighty pyes, And at a banquet, served in stately wise, 110 Before the empresse set this loathsome meat; So of her sonnes own flesh she well did eat. Myselfe bereav'd my daughter then of life, The empresse then I slewe with bloudy knife, And stabb'd the emperour immediatelie, 115 And then myself: even soe did Titus die. Then this revenge against the Moore was found; Alive they sett him halfe in the ground, Whereas he stood untill such time he starv'd: And soe God send all murderers may be serv'd. 120 101. i. e. encouraged them in their foolish humours, or fancies. P. JOHN DORY. This ballad, formerly a very great favorite, and continually alluded to in works of the 16th and 17th centuries, is found among the "Freemen's Songs of three voices" in _Deuteromelia_, 1609; also in Playford's _Musical Companion_, 1687, and for one voice in _Wit and Mirth, or Pills to Purge Melancholy_, vol. i. 1698 and 1707. It is, however, much older than any of these books. Carew, in his _Survey of Cornwall_, 1602, p. 135, writes: "Moreover, the prowess of one Nicholas, son to a widow near Foy, is descanted upon in an old three-man's song, namely, how he fought bravely at sea with John Dory, (a Genowey, as I conjecture,) set forth by John, the French King, and, after much bloodshed on both sides, took, and slew him, in revenge of the great ravine and cruelty which he had fore committed upon the Englishmen's goods and bodies." The only King John that could be meant here is of course John II. the Good, (see v. 10,) who was taken prisoner at Poitiers, and died in 1364. No John Doria is mentioned as being in the service of John the Good.--Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, ii. 57, and Chappell's _Popular Music_, p. 67. As it fell on a holy-day, And upon 'a' holy-tide-a, John Dory bought him an ambling nag, To Paris for to ride-a. And when John Dory to Paris was come, 5 A little before the gate-a, John Dory was fitted, the porter was witted, To let him in thereat-a. The first man that John Dory did meet, Was good king John of France-a; 10 John Dory could well of his courtesie, But fell downe in a trance-a. "A pardon, a pardon, my liege and my king, For my merie men and for me-a; And all the churles in merie England, 15 Ile bring them all bound to thee-a." And Nicholl was then a Cornish man, A little beside Bohide-a, And he mande forth a good blacke barke, With fifty good oares on a side-a. 20 "Run up, my boy, unto the maine top, And looke what thou canst spie-a:" "Who ho! who ho! a goodly ship I do see, I trow it be John Dory-a." They hoist their sailes, both top and top, 25 The meisseine and all was tride-a; And every man stood to his lot, Whatever should betide-a. The roring cannons then were plide, And dub-a-dub went the drumme-a; 30 The braying trumpets lowd they cride, To courage both all and some-a. The grapling-hooks were brought at length, The browne bill and the sword-a; John Dory at length, for all his strength, 35 Was clapt fast under board-a. SIR EGLAMORE. Courage Crowned with Conquest: Or, a brief relation how that valiant knight and heroick champion, Sir Eglamore, bravely fought with, and manfully slew, a terrible huge great monstrous dragon. To a pleasant new tune. This ballad is found in _The Melancholie Knight_, by Samuel Rowlands, 1615; in the _Antidote to Melancholy_, 1661; in _Merry Drollery Complete_, 1661; in Dryden's _Miscellany Poems_, iv. 104; in the "Bagford and Roxburghe collections of Ballads," &c. (Chappell.) The various editions differ considerably. The following is from Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, (ed. 1790,) p. 211, where it was reprinted from a black-letter copy dated 1672. Sir Eglamore, that valiant knight, _With his fa, la, lanctre down dilie_, He fetcht his sword and he went to fight, _With his fa, la, lanctre, &c._ As he went over hill and dale, All cloathed in his coat of male, _With his fa, la, lanctre, &c._ A huge great dragon leapt out of his den, 5 Which had killed the Lord knows how many men; But when he saw Sir Eglamore, Good lack had ye seen how this dragon did roare! This dragon he had a plaguy hide, Which could both sword and spear abide; 10 He could not enter with hacks and cuts, Which vext the knight to the very hearts blood and guts. All the trees in the wood did shake, Stars did tremble, and men did quake; But had ye seen how the birds lay peeping, 15 'Twould have made a mans heart to fall a-weeping. But it was too late to fear, For now it was come to fight dog, fight bear; And as a yawning he did fall, He thrust his sword in, hilt and all. 20 But now as the knight in choler did burn, He owed the dragon a shrewd good turn: In at his mouth his sword he bent, The hilt appeared at his fundament. Then the dragon, like a coward, began to fly 25 Unto his den, that was hard by; And there he laid him down and roar'd; The knight was vexed for his sword. "The sword, that was a right good blade, As ever Turk or Spaniard made, 30 I for my part do forsake it, And he that will fetch it, let him take it." When all this was done, to the ale-house he went, And by and by his two pence he spent; For he was so hot with tugging with the dragon, 35 That nothing would quench him but a whole flaggon. Now God preserve our King and Queen, And eke in London may be seen As many knights, and as many more, And all so good as Sir Eglamore. 40 JEPHTHAH, JUDGE OF ISRAEL. We have thought it necessary to include in this collection one or two specimens of ballads founded on stories in the Jewish Scriptures. Besides those here selected, it may be well to refer to the following: _The Constancy of Susanna_, (cited in _Twelfth Night_,) Evans, i. 11; _David and Bathsheba_, _id._ p. 291; _Tobias_, _Old Ballads_, ii. 158; _Holofernes_, _The Garland of Goodwill_, p. 85, and _Old Ballads_, ii. 166. Every one will remember that the ballad of _Jephthah_ is quoted in _Hamlet_ (Act II. sc. 2). Percy published an imperfect copy of this piece, written down from the recollection of a lady (_Reliques_, i. 193). The following is from a black-letter copy reprinted in Evans, i. 7, which was entitled "_Jepha, Judge of Israel_." I have read that many years agoe, When Jeph[th]a, judge of Israel, Had one fair daughter and no moe,[L3] Whom he loved passing well. And as by lot, God wot, 5 It came to passe, most like it was, Great warrs there should be, And who should be the chiefe but he, but he. When Jeph[th]a was appointed now Chiefe captain of the company, 10 To God the Lord he made a vow, If he might have the victory, At his return, to burn, For his offering, the first quick thing, Should meet with him then, 15 From his house when he came agen, agen. It chanced so these warrs were done, And home he came with victory; His daughter out of doors did run To meet her father speedily: 20 And all the way did play To taber and pipe, and many a stripe, And notes full high, For joy that he was so nigh, so nigh. When Jeph[th]a did perceive and see 25 His daughter firm and formostly, He rent his cloths, and tore his haire, And shrieked out most piteously: "For thou art she," quoth he, "Hath brought me low--alas, for woe! 30 And troubled me so, That I cannot tell what to doe, to doe. "For I have made a vow," quoth he, Which must not be diminishéd; A sacrifice to God on high; 35 My promise must be finishéd." "As ye have spoke, provoke No further care, but to prepare Your will to fulfill, According to God's will, God's will. 40 "For sithence God has given you might To overcome your enemies, Let one be offer'd up, as right, For to perform all promises. And this let be," quoth she, 45 "As thou hast said; be not afraid; Although it be I, Keep promise with God on high, on high. "But father, do so much for me As let me go to wildernesse, 50 There to bewaile my virginity, Three months to bemoan my heavinesse. And let there go some moe, Like maids with me." "Content," quoth he, And sent her away, 55 To mourn till her latter day, her day. And when that time was come and gone That she should sacrificed be, This virgin sacrificed was, For to fulfill all promises. 60 As some say, for aye The virgins there, three times a year, Like sorrow fulfill For the daughter of Jeph[th]a still, still, still. 3. more SAMSON. Evans's _Old Ballads_, i. 283, from a black-letter copy. When Samson was a tall young man, His power and strength increased then, And in the host and tribe of Dan The Lord did bless him still. It chanced so upon a day, 5 As he was walking on his way, He saw a maiden fresh and gay In Timnath. With whom he fell so sore in love, That he his fancy could not move; 10 His parents therefore he did prove, And craved their good wills: "I have found out a wife," quoth he; "I pray ye, father, give her me; Though she a stranger's daughter be, 15 I pass not." Then did bespeak his parents dear, "Have we not many maidens here, Of country and acquaintance near, For thee to love and like?" 20 "O no," quoth Samson presently, "Not one so pleasant in my eye, Whom I could find so faithfully To fancy." At length they granted their consent, 25 And so with Samson forth they went; To see the maid was their intent, Which was so fair and bright. But as they were a-going there, A lion put them in great fear, 30 Whom Samson presently did tear In pieces. When they were come unto the place, They were agreed in the case; The wedding day appointed was, 35 And when the time was come, As Samson went for beauty's fees, The lion's carcass there he sees, Wherein a sort of honey bees Had swarmed. 40 Then closely Samson went his way, And not a word thereof did say, Untill the merry feasting-day, Unto the company. "A riddle I will shew," quoth he; 45 "The meaning if you tell to me, Within seven days I will give ye Great riches. "But if the meaning you do miss, And cannot shew me what it is, 50 Then shall you give to me i-wiss So much as I have said." "Put forth the riddle then," quoth they, "And we will tell it by our day, Or we will lose, as thou dost say, 55 The wager." "Then make," quoth he, "the total sum. Out of the eater meat did come, And from the strong did sweetness run; Declare it, if you can." 60 And when they heard the riddle told, Their hearts within them waxed cold, For none of them could then unfold The meaning. Then unto Samson's wife went they, 65 And threatened her, without delay, If she would not the thing bewray, To burn her father's house. Then Samson's wife, with grief and woe, Desired him the same to shew, And when she knew, she straight did go, 70 To tell them. Then were they all full glad of this; To tell the thing they did not miss; "What stronger beast than a lion is? 75 What sweeter meat than honey?" Then Samson answered them full round, "If my heifer had not ploughed the ground, So easily you had not found My riddle. 80 Then Samson did his losses pay, And to his father went his way: But while with them he there did stay,[L83] His wife forsook him quite, And took another to her love, 85 Which Samson's anger much did move: To plague them therefore he did prove His cunning. A subtle thought he then had found, To burn their corn upon the ground; 90 Their vineyards he destroyed round, Which made them fret and fume. But when they knew that Samson he Had done them all this injury, Because his wife did him deny, 95 They killed her. And afterward they had decreed To murder Samson for that deed; Three thousand men they sent with speed, To bring him bound to them. 100 But he did break his cords apace, And with the jaw-bone of an ass A thousand men, ere he did pass, He killed. When all his foes were laid in dust, 105 Then Samson was full sore athirst; In God therefore was all his trust, To help his fainting heart: For liquor thereabout was none: The Lord therefore from the jaw-bone 110 Did make fresh water spring, alone To help him. Then Samson had a joyfull spright, And in a city lay that night, Whereas his foes, with deadly spite, 115 Did seek his life to spill: But he at midnight then awakes, And tearing down the city gates, With him away the same he takes Most stoutly. 120 Then on Delilah, fair and bright, Did Samson set his whole delight, Whom he did love both day and night, Which wrought his overthrow. For she with sweet words did entreat, 125 That for her sake he would repeat Wherein his strength, that was so great, Consisted. At length, unto his bitter fall, And through her suit, which was not small, 130 He did not let to show her all The secrets of his heart. "If that my hair be cut," quoth he, "Which now so fair and long you see, Like other men then shall I be 135 In weakness." Then through deceit which was so deep, She lulled Samson fast asleep; A man she call'd, which she did keep, To cut off all his hair. 140 Then did she call his hateful foes, Ere Samson from her lap arose, Who could not then withstand their blows, For weakness. To bind him fast they did devise, 145 Then did they put out both his eyes; In prison wofully he lies, And there he grinds the mill. But God remembered all his pain, And did restore his strength again, 150 Although that bound he did remain In prison. The Philistines now were glad of this; For joy they made a feast i-wiss, And all their princes did not miss 155 To come unto the same. And being merry bent that day, For Samson they did send straightway, That they might laugh to see him play Among them. 160 Then to the house was Samson led, And when he had their fancies fed, He pluck'd the house upon their head, And down they tumbled all. So that with grief and deadly pain, 165 Three thousand persons there were slain; Thus Samson then, with all his train, Was brained. 83. But wisht. QUEEN DIDO, OR, THE WANDERING PRINCE OF TROY. Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 240, and Ritson's _Ancient Songs and Ballads_, ii. 101. "Such is the title given in the Editor's folio MS. to this excellent old ballad, which, in the common printed copies, is inscribed, _Eneas, wandering Prince of Troy_. It is here given from that MS. collated with two different printed copies, both in black-letter, in the Pepys Collection." PERCY. As other ballads on classical subjects, may be mentioned _Constant Penelope, Reliques_, iii. 324; _Pyramus and Thisbe_, in _A Handfull of Pleasant Delites_, p. 42 (Park's _Heliconia_, vol. ii.); and _Hero and Leander_ in Collier's _Roxburghe Ballads_, p. 227, from which was formed the song, or ballad, in the _Tea-Table Miscellany_, ii. 138, Ritson's _Scotish Songs_, ii. 198, &c. When Troy towne had, for ten yeeres 'past,'[L1] Withstood the Greekes in manfull wise, Then did their foes encrease soe fast, That to resist none could suffice: Wast lye those walls, that were soe good, 5 And corne now growes where Troy towne stoode. Æneas, wandering prince of Troy, When he for land long time had sought, At length arriving with great joy, To mighty Carthage walls was brought; 10 Where Dido queene, with sumptuous feast, Did entertaine that wandering guest. And, as in hall at meate they sate, The queene, desirous newes to heare, Says, "Of thy Troys unhappy fate, 15 Declare to me, thou Trojan deare: The heavy hap and chance soe bad, That thou, poore wandering prince, hast had." And then anon this comelye knight, With words demure, as he cold well, 20 Of his unhappy ten yeares 'fight,'[L21] Soe true a tale began to tell, With wordes soe sweete, and sighes soe deepe, That oft he made them all to weepe. And then a thousand sighes he fet, 25 And every sigh brought teares amaine; That where he sate the place was wett, As though he had seene those warrs againe: Soe that the queene, with ruth therfore, Said, "Worthy prince, enough, no more." 30 And then the darksome night drew on, And twinkling starres the skye bespred, When he his dolefull tale had done, And every one was layd in bedd: Where they full sweetly tooke their rest, 35 Save only Dido's boyling brest. This silly woman never slept, But in her chamber, all alone, As one unhappye, alwayes wept, And to the walls shee made her mone; 40 That she shold still desire in vaine The thing she never must obtaine. And thus in grieffe she spent the night, Till twinkling starres the skye were fled, And Ph[oe]bus, with his glistering light, 45 Through misty cloudes appeared red; Then tidings came to her anon, That all the Trojan shipps were gone. And then the queene with bloody knife Did arme, her hart as hard as stone; 50 Yet, something loth to loose her life, In woefull wise she made her mone; And, rowling on her carefull bed, With sighes and sobbes, these words shee sayd: "O wretched Dido queene!" quoth shee, 55 "I see thy end approacheth neare; For hee is fled away from thee, Whom thou didst love and hold so deare: What, is he gone, and passed by? O hart, prepare thyselfe to dye. 60 "Though reason says thou shouldst forbeare, And stay thy hand from bloudy stroke, Yet fancy bids thee not to fear, Which fetter'd thee in Cupids yoke. Come death," quoth shee, "resolve my smart!"-- 65 And with those words shee peerced her hart. When death had pierced the tender hart Of Dido, Carthaginian queene, Whose bloudy knife did end the smart, Which shee sustain'd in mournfull teene, 70 Æneas being shipt and gone, Whose flattery caused all her mone, Her funerall most costly made, And all things finisht mournfullye, Her body fine in mold was laid, 75 Where itt consumed speedilye: Her sisters teares her tombe bestrewde, Her subjects griefe their kindnesse shewed. Then was Æneas in an ile In Grecya, where he stayd long space, 80 Whereas her sister in short while Writt to him to his vile disgrace; In speeches bitter to his mind Shee told him plaine he was unkind. "False-harted wretch," quoth shee, "thou art; 85 And traiterouslye thou hast betraid Unto thy lure a gentle hart, Which unto thee much welcome made; My sister deare, and Carthage' joy, Whose folly bred her deere annoy. 90 "Yett on her death-bed when shee lay, Shee prayd for thy prosperitye, Beseeching God, that every day Might breed thy great felicitye: Thus by thy meanes I lost a friend; 95 Heaven send thee such untimely end." When he these lines, full fraught with gall, Perused had, and wayed them right, His lofty courage then did fall; And straight appeared in his sight 100 Queene Dido's ghost, both grim and pale; Which made this valliant souldier quaile. "Æneas," quoth this ghastly ghost, "My whole delight, when I did live, Thee of all men I loved most; 105 My fancy and my will did give; For entertainment I thee gave, Unthankefully thou didst me grave. "Therfore prepare thy flitting soule To wander with me in the aire, 110 Where deadlye griefe shall make it howle, Because of me thou tookst no care: Delay not time, thy glasse is run, Thy date is past, thy life is done." "O stay a while, thou lovely sprite; 115 Be not soe hasty to convay My soule into eternall night, Where itt shall ne're behold bright day: O doe not frowne; thy angry looke Hath made my breath my life forsooke. 120 "But, woe is me! all is in vaine, And bootless is my dismall crye; Time will not be recalled againe, Nor thou surcease before I dye. O lett me live, and make amends 125 To some of thy most dearest friends. "But seeing thou obdurate art, And wilt no pittye on me show, Because from thee I did depart, And left unpaid what I did owe, 130 I must content myselfe to take What lott to me thou wilt partake." And thus, as one being in a trance, A multitude of uglye feinds About this woffull prince did dance: 135 He had no helpe of any friends: His body then they tooke away, And no man knew his dying day. 1, 21. war. MS. and pr. cop. GEORGE BARNWELL. Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 297. "The subject of this ballad is sufficiently popular from the modern play which is founded upon it. This was written by George Lillo, a jeweller of London, and first acted about 1730.--As for the ballad, it was printed at least as early as the middle of the last century. "It is here given from three old printed copies, which exhibit a strange intermixture of Roman and black-letter. It is also collated with another copy in the Ashmole Collection at Oxford, which is thus entitled: "_An excellent ballad of George Barnwell, an apprentice of London, who ... thrice robbed his master, and murdered his uncle in Ludlow_. The tune is _The Merchant_." There is another copy in Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, ii. 156. Throughout the Second Part, the first line of each stanza has, in the old editions, two superfluous syllables, which Percy ejected; and Ritson has adopted the emendation. THE FIRST PART. All youths of fair Englànd That dwell both far and near, Regard my story that I tell, And to my song give ear. A London lad I was, 5 A merchant's prentice bound; My name George Barnwell; that did spend My master many a pound. Take heed of harlots then, And their enticing trains; 10 For by that means I have been brought To hang alive in chains. As I upon a day Was walking through the street, About my master's business, 15 A wanton I did meet. A gallant dainty dame And sumptuous in attire; With smiling look she greeted me, And did my name require. 20 Which when I had declar'd, She gave me then a kiss, And said, if I would come to her I should have more than this. "Fair mistress," then quoth I, 25 "If I the place may know, This evening I will be with you; For I abroad must go, "To gather monies in, That are my master's due: 30 And ere that I do home return I'll come and visit you." "Good Barnwell," then quoth she, "Do thou to Shoreditch come, And ask for Mrs. Milwood's house, 35 Next door unto the Gun. "And trust me on my truth, If thou keep touch with me, My dearest friend, as my own heart Thou shalt right welcome be." 40 Thus parted we in peace, And home I passed right; Then went abroad, and gathered in, By six o'clock at night, An hundred pound and one: 45 With bag under my arm I went to Mrs. Millwood's house, And thought on little harm. And knocking at the door, Straightway herself came down; 50 Rustling in most brave attire, With hood and silken gown. Who, through her beauty bright, So gloriously did shine, That she amaz'd my dazzling eyes, 55 She seemed so divine. She took me by the hand, And with a modest grace, "Welcome, sweet Barnwell," then quoth she, "Unto this homely place. 60 "And since I have thee found As good as thy word to be, A homely supper, ere we part, Thou shalt take here with me." "O pardon me," quoth I, 65 "Fair mistress, I you pray; For why, out of my master's house So long I dare not stay." "Alas, good sir," she said, "Are you so strictly ty'd, 70 You may not with your dearest friend One hour or two abide? "Faith, then the case is hard; If it be so," quoth she, "I would I were a prentice bound, 75 To live along with thee. "Therefore, my dearest George, List well what I shall say, And do not blame a woman much, Her fancy to bewray. 80 "Let not affection's force Be counted lewd desire; Nor think it not immodesty, I should thy love require." With that she turn'd aside, 85 And with a blushing red, A mournful motion she bewray'd By hanging down her head. A handkerchief she had, All wrought with silk and gold, 90 Which she, to stay her trickling tears, Before her eyes did hold. This thing unto my sight Was wondrous rare and strange, And in my soul and inward thought 95 It wrought a sudden change: That I so hardy grew To take her by the hand, Saying, "Sweet mistress, why do you So dull and pensive stand?" 100 "Call me no mistress now, But Sarah, thy true friend, Thy servant, Milwood, honouring thee, Until her life hath end. "If thou wouldst here alledge 105 Thou art in years a boy; So was Adonis, yet was he Fair Venus' only joy." Thus I, who ne'er before Of woman found such grace, 110 But seeing now so fair a dame Give me a kind embrace, I supt with her that night, With joys that did abound; And for the same paid presently, 115 In mony twice three pound. An hundred kisses then, For my farewel she gave; Crying, "Sweet Barnwell, when shall I Again thy company have? 120 "O stay not hence too long; Sweet George, have me in mind:" Her words bewicht my childishness, She uttered them so kind. So that I made a vow, 125 Next Sunday, without fail, With my sweet Sarah once again To tell some pleasant tale. When she heard me say so, The tears fell from her eye; 130 "O George," quoth she, "if thou dost fail, Thy Sarah sure will dye." Though long, yet loe! at last, The appointed day was come, That I must with my Sarah meet; 135 Having a mighty sum[L136] Of money in my hand, Unto her house went I, Whereas my love upon her bed In saddest sort did lye. 140 "What ails my heart's delight, My Sarah dear?" quoth I; "Let not my love lament and grieve, Nor sighing pine and die. "But tell me, dearest friend, 145 What may thy woes amend, And thou shalt lack no means of help, Though forty pound I spend." With that she turn'd her head, And sickly thus did say: 150 "Oh me, sweet George, my grief is great; Ten pound I have to pay Unto a cruel wretch; And God he knows," quoth she, "I have it not." "Tush, rise," I said, 155 "And take it here of me. "Ten pounds, nor ten times ten, Shall make my love decay;" Then from my bag into her lap, I cast ten pound straightway. 160 All blithe and pleasant then, To banqueting we go; She proffered me to lye with her, And said it should be so. And after that same time, 165 I gave her store of coyn, Yea, sometimes fifty pound at once; All which I did purloyn. And thus I did pass on; Until my master then 170 Did call to have his reckoning in Cast up among his men. The which when as I heard, I knew not what to say: For well I knew that I was out 175 Two hundred pound that day. Then from my master straight I ran in secret sort; And unto Sarah Milwood there My case I did report. 180 _But how she used this youth, In this his care and woe, And all a strumpet's wiley ways, The second part may showe._ 136. The having a sum of money with him on Sunday, &c., shows this narrative to have been penned before the civil wars: the strict observance of the Sabbath was owing to the change of manners at that period. PERCY. THE SECOND PART. "Young Barnwell comes to thee, Sweet Sarah, my delight; I am undone, unless thou stand My faithful friend this night. "Our master to accompts 5 Hath just occasion found; And I am caught behind the hand Above two hundred pound. "And now his wrath to 'scape, My love, I fly to thee, 10 Hoping some time I may remaine In safety here with thee." With that she knit her brows, And looking all aquoy, Quoth she, "What should I have to do 15 With any prentice boy? "And seeing you have purloyn'd Your master's goods away, The case is bad, and therefore here You shall no longer stay." 20 "Why, dear, thou know'st," I said, "How all which I could get, "I gave it, and did spend it all Upon thee every whit." Quoth she, "Thou art a knave, 25 To charge me in this sort, Being a woman of credit fair, And known of good report. "Therefore I tell thee flat, Be packing with good speed; 30 I do defie thee from my heart, And scorn thy filthy deed." "Is this the friendship, that You did to me protest? Is this the great affection, which 35 You so to me exprest? "Now fie on subtle shrews! The best is, I may speed To get a lodging any where For money in my need. 40 "False woman, now farewell; Whilst twenty pound doth last, My anchor in some other haven With freedom I will cast." When she perceiv'd by this, 45 I had store of money there, "Stay, George," quoth she, "thou art too quick: Why, man, I did but jeer. "Dost think for all my speech, That I would let thee go? 50 Faith, no," said she, "my love to thee I-wiss is more than so." "You scorne a prentice boy, I heard you just now swear: Wherefore I will not trouble you:" 55 "Nay, George, hark in thine ear; "Thou shalt not go to-night, What chance soe're befall; But man, we'll have a bed for thee, Or else the devil take all." 60 So I by wiles bewitcht, And snar'd with fancy still, Had then no power to 'get' away, Or to withstand her will. For wine on wine I call'd, 65 And cheer upon good cheer; And nothing in the world I thought For Sarah's love too dear. Whilst in her company, I had such merriment, 70 All, all too little I did think, That I upon her spent. "A fig for care and thought! When all my gold is gone, In faith, my girl, we will have more, 75 Whoever I light upon. "My father's rich; why then Should I want store of gold?" "Nay, with a father, sure," quoth she, "A son may well make bold." 80 "I've a sister richly wed; I'll rob her ere I'll want." "Nay then," quoth Sarah, "they may well Consider of your scant." "Nay, I an uncle have; 85 At Ludlow he doth dwell; He is a grazier, which in wealth Doth all the rest excell. "Ere I will live in lack, And have no coyn for thee, 90 I'll rob his house, and murder him." "Why should you not?" quoth she. "Was I a man, ere I Would live in poor estate, On father, friends, and all my kin, 95 I would my talons grate. "For without money, George, A man is but a beast: But bringing money, thou shalt be Always my welcome guest. 100 "For shouldst thou be pursued With twenty hues and cryes, And with a warrant searched for With Argus' hundred eyes, "Yet here thou shalt be safe; 105 Such privy wayes there be, That if they sought an hundred years, They could not find out thee." And so carousing both Their pleasures to content, 110 George Barnwell had in little space His money wholly spent. Which done, to Ludlow straight He did provide to go, To rob his wealthy uncle there; 115 His minion would it so. And once he thought to take His father by the way, But that he fear'd his master had Took order for his stay.[L120] 120 Unto his uncle then He rode with might and main, Who with a welcome and good cheer Did Barnwell entertain. One fortnight's space he stayed, 125 Until it chanced so, His uncle with his cattle did Unto a market go. His kinsman rode with him, Where he did see right plain, 130 Great store of money he had took: When, coming home again, Sudden within a wood, He struck his uncle down, And beat his brains out of his head; 135 So sore he crackt his crown. Then seizing fourscore pound, To London straight he hyed, And unto Sarah Millwood all The cruell fact descryed. 140 "Tush, 'tis no matter, George, So we the money have To have good cheer in jolly sort, And deck us fine and brave." Thus lived in filthy sort, 145 Until their store was gone: When means to get them any more, I-wis poor George had none. Therefore in railing sort, She thrust him out of door; 150 Which is the just reward of those, Who spend upon a whore. "O do me not disgrace In this my need," quoth he: She called him thief and murderer, 155 With all the spight might be. To the constable she sent, To have him apprehended; And shewed how far, in each degree, He had the laws offended. 160 When Barnwell saw her drift, To sea he got straightway; Where fear and sting of conscience Continually on him lay. Unto the lord mayor then, 165 He did a letter write, In which his own and Sarah's fault He did at large recite. Whereby she seized was, And then to Ludlow sent, 170 Where she was judg'd, condemn'd, and hang'd, For murder incontinent. There dyed this gallant quean, Such was her greatest gains; For murder in Polonia, 175 Was Barnwell hang'd in chains. Lo! here's the end of youth That after harlots haunt, Who in the spoil of other men About the streets do flaunt. 180 120. i.e. for stopping and apprehending him at his father's. P. THE DUKE OF ATHOL'S NURSE. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 23. Annexed is a less perfect copy from Kinloch's collection. A fragment of this piece is printed in Cromek's _Select Scottish Songs by R. Burns_, (ii. 196,) with some stanzas of _Willy's drowned in Yarrow_, (vol. ii. p. 181, of this collection.) Mr. Aytoun has made up a very good ballad from several copies; _Ballads of Scotland_, 2, 236. As I gaed in yon greenwood side, I heard a fair maid singing; Her voice was sweet, she sang sae complete, That all the woods were ringing. "O I'm the Duke o' Athole's nurse, 5 My post is well becoming; But I wou'd gie a' my half-year's fee, For ae sight o' my leman." "Ye say, ye're the Duke o' Athole's nurse, Your post is well becoming; 10 Keep well, keep well your half-year's fee, Ye'se hae twa sights o' your leman." He lean'd him ower his saddle bow, And cannilie kiss'd his dearie; "Ohon, and alake! anither has my heart, 15 And I darena mair come near thee!" "Ohon, and alake! if anither hae your heart, These words hae fairly undone me; But let us set a time, tryst to meet again, Then in gude friends you will twine me!" 20 "Ye will do you down to yon tavern house, And drink till the day be dawing; And, as sure as I ance had a love for you, I'll come there and clear your lawing. "Ye'll spare not the wine, altho' it be fine, 25 Nae Malago, tho' it be rarely; But ye'll aye drink the bonnie lassie's health That's to clear your lawing fairly." Then he's done him down to yon tavern house, And drank till day was dawing; 30 And aye he drank the bonny lassie's health That was coming to clear his lawing. And aye as he birled, and aye as he drank The gude beer and the brandy, He spar'd not the wine, altho' it was fine, 35 The sack nor the sugar candy. "It's a wonder to me," the knight he did say, "My bonnie lassie's sae delaying; She promis'd, as sure as she loved me ance, She wou'd be here by the dawing." 40 He's done him to a shott window, A little before the dawing, And there he spied her nine brothers bauld, Were coming to betray him. "Where shall I rin, where shall I gang, 45 Or where shall I gang hide me? She that was to meet me in friendship this day, Has sent nine men to slay me!" He's gane to the landlady o' the house, Says, "O can you supply me? 50 For she that was to meet me in friendship this day, Has sent nine men to slay me! She gae him a suit o' her ain female claise, And set him to the baking; The bird never sang mair sweet on the bush, 55 Nor the knight sung at the baking. As they came in at the ha' door, Sae loudly as they rappit, And when they came upon the floor, Sae loudly as they chappit! 60 "O had ye a stranger here last night, Who drank till the day was dawing? Come, show us the chamber where he lyes in, We'll shortly clear his lawing." "I had nae stranger here last night, 65 That drank till the day was dawing; But ane that took a pint, and paid it ere he went, And there's naething to clear o' his lawing." A lad amang the rest, being o' a merry mood, To the young knight fell a-talking; 70 The wife took her foot, and gae him a kick, Says, "Be busy, ye jilt, at your baking." They stabbed the house, baith but and ben, The curtains they spared nae riving, And for a' that they did search and ca', 75 For a kiss o' the knight they were striving. THE DUKE OF ATHOL'S NOURICE. Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 127. As I cam in by Athol's yetts, I heard a fair maid singing; "I am the Duke o' Athol's nourice, And I wat it weel does set me; And I wad gie a' my half-year's fee, 5 For ae sicht o' my Johnie." "Keep weel, keep weel, your half-year's fee, For ye'll soon get a sicht o' your Johnie; But anither woman has my heart, And I am sorry for to leave ye." 10 "Ye'll dow ye doun to yon change-house, And drink till the day be dawing; At ilka pint's end ye'll drink the lass' health, That's coming to pay the lawing." He hied him doun to yon change-house, 15 And he drank till the day was dawing; And at ilka pint's end he drank the lass' health, That was coming to pay for his lawing. Aye he ranted, and aye he sang, And drank till the day was dawing; 20 And aye he drank the bonnie lass' health, That was coming to pay the lawing. He spared na the sack, though it was dear, The wine, nor the sugar-candy; * * * * * * * He has dune him to the shot-window, 25 To see gin she war coming; There he saw the duke and a' his merry men, That oure the hill cam rinning. He has dune him to the landlady, To see gin she wad protect him; 30 She buskit him up into woman's claise, And set him till a baking. Sae loudlie as they rappit at the yett, Sae loudlie as they war calling; "Had ye a young man here yestreen, 35 That drank till the day was dawing?" "He drank but ae pint, and he paid it or he went, And ye've na mair to do wi' the lawing." They searchit the house a' round and round, And they spared na the curtains to tear them; 40 While the landlady stood upo' the stair-head, Crying, "Maid, be busy at your baking;" They gaed as they cam, and left a' undone, And left the bonnie maid at her baking. THE HIREMAN CHIEL. From _Scarce Ancient Ballads_, p. 17. The same in Buchan, ii. 109, _The Baron turned Ploughman_. There was a knight, a barone bright, A bauld barone was he, And he had only but one son, A comely youth to see. He's brought him at schools nine, 5 So has he at schools ten, But the boy learn'd to haud the plow Among his father's men. But it fell ance upon a day The bauld barone did say, 10 "My son you maun gae court a wife, And ane o high degree. "Ye have lands, woods, rents, and bouirs, Castels and touirs three; Then go my son and seek some dame 15 To share that gift wi' thee." "Yes, I have lands and woods, father, Castels and touirs three; But what if she like my lands and rents Far more than she loves me? 20 "But I will go and seek a wife That weel can please mine ee, And I sall fairly try her love Before she gang wi me." He then took off the scarlet coat, 25 Bedeck'd wi shinin' gold, And has put on the hireman's coat, To keip him frae the cold. He then laid past the studded sword, That he could bravely draw, 30 And he's gone skipping down the stair, Swift as the bird that flaw. He took a stick into his hand, Which he could bravely wiel, And he's gane whistling o'er the lan', 35 Like a young hireman chiel. And he gaed up yon high high hill,[L37] And low down i the glen, And there he saw a gay castell, Wi turrets nine or ten. 40 And he has gone on, and farther on, Till to the yett drew he, And there he saw a lady fair, That pleas'd the young man's ee. He went streight to the greave's chamber, 45 And with humilitie, Said, "Have ye any kind of work For a hireman chiel like me?" "What is the work that ye intend, Or how can we agree? 50 Can ye plow, reap, and sow the corn, And a' for meat and fee?" "Yes, I can plow, and reap, and mow, And sow the corn too; I can weel manage horse and cow, 55 And a' for meat and fee." "If ye can haud the plow right weel, And sow the corn too, By faith and troth, my hireman chiel, We shall not part for fee." 60 He['s] put his hand in his pocket, And taen out shillings nine; Says, "Take ye that, my hireman chiel, And turn in here and dine." He acted all he took in hand, 65 His master lov'd him weel, And the young lady of the land Fell in love wi the hireman chiel. How oft she tried to drown the flame, And oft wept bitterlie; 70 But still she lov'd the hireman chiel, So well's he pleas'd her ee. She has written a broad letter, And seal'd it wi' her hand, And dropt it at the stable door, 75 Where the young man did stand. "I am in love, my hireman chiel, I'm deip in love wi thee; And if ye think me worth your love, I' the garden green meet me." 80 When he had read the letter o'er, A loud loud laugh gae he; Said, "If I manage my business well, I'm sure to get my fee." At night they met behind a tree, 85 Low in the garden green, To tell their tale among the flowers, And view the e'ening scene. Next morning by the rising sun, She, with her maries fair, 90 Walk'd to the fields to see the plow, And meet the hireman there. "Good morn, good morn, my lady gay, I wonder much at you, To rise so early in the morn, 95 While fields are wet wi dew, To hear the linnets on the thorn, And see the plow-boy plow." "But I wonder much at you, young man, I wonder much at you, 100 That ye no other station have Than hold my father's plow." "I love as weel to rise each morn As ye can your maries fair; I love as weel to hold the plow 105 As I were your father's heir. "If ye love me, as ye protest, And I trust weel ye do, The morn's night at eight o'clock, In gude green wood meet me." 110 "Yes, I love you, my hireman chiel, And that most tenderlie, But when my virgin honor's gone, I soon will slighted be." "Take ye no dread, my lady gay, 115 Lat a your folly be; If ye com a maiden to green wood, You'll return the same for me." The lady she went home again Wi a mary on every hand; 120 She was so very sick in love, She could not sit nor stand. It was a dark and cloudy night, No stars beam'd o'er the lea, When the lady and the hireman met 125 Beneath a spreading tree. He took the lady in his arms, Embraced her tenderlie, And thrice he kiss'd her rosy lips Under the green wood tree. 130 "Hold off your hands, young man, I pray; I wonder much at thee; The man that holds my father's plow, To lay his hands on me." "No harm I mean, my winsome dame, 135 No impudence at a'; I never laid a hand on you Till your libertie I saw." "It is a dark and dismal night, 140 The dew is falling down; I will go home, least I should spoil My cap and satin gown." "If you are wearied so soon, Why did ye tryst me here?" 145 "I would not weary with you, my dear, Tho this night were a year." When morning beams began to peep Among the branches green, The lovers rose, and part to meet, 150 And tell their tale again. "Ye will go home unto the plow, Where often ye hae been; I'll tak my mantle folded up, And walk i the garden green. 155 "The barone and my mother dear Will wonder what I mean; They'll think I've been disturbed sair, When I am up so soon." But this pass'd on, and farther on, 160 For two months and a day, Till word came to the bauld barone, And an angry man was he. The barone swore a solemn oath, An angry man was he, 165 "The morn, before I eat or drink, High hanged shall he be." "Farewell, my lovely maiden fair, A long adieu to thee; Your father's sworn a solemn swear 170 That hanged I shall be." "O woe's me," the lady said, "Yet do not troubled be; If e'er they touch the hair on thy head, They'll get no good of me." 175 He turn'd him right and round about, And a loud loud laugh gae he; "That man stood never in the court That dare this day hang me." The lady spake from her bouir door, 180 An angry woman was she; "What insolence in you to tryst Her to the green wood tree." "If she had not given her consent, She had not gone wi me; 185 If she came a maiden to green wood, She return'd again for me." He turn'd him right and round about, And a loud loud laugh gae he; "Ye may wed your daughter whan ye will, 190 She's none the worse for me." He has gone whistling o'er the knowe, Swift as the bird that flaw; The lady stood in her bouir door, And lout the salt tears fa. 195 But this pass'd on, and further on, A twelve month and a day, Till there came a knight and a barone bright To woo this lady gay. He soon gain'd the baronne's will, 200 Likewise the mother gay; He woo'd and won the lady's love, But by a slow degree. "O weel befa' you, daughter dear, And happy may ye be, 205 To lay your love on the grand knight, And let the hireman be." "O haud your tongue, my father dear, And speak not so to me; Far more I love the hireman chiel 210 Than a' the knights I see. The morn was come, and bells were rung, And all to church repair; But like the rose among the throng Was the lady and her maries fair. 215 But as they walked o'er the field, Among the flowers fair, Beneath a tree stood on the plain, The hireman chiel was there. "I wish you joy, my gay madam, 220 And aye well may ye be; There is a ring, a pledge of love, That ance I got from thee." "O wae befa' ye, you hireman chiel, Some ill death may ye die; 225 Ye might hae tauld to me your name, Your hame, or what countrie." "If ye luve me, my lady gay, As ye protest ye do, Then turn your love from this gay knight, 230 And reach your hand to me." Then out spake the gay baronne, And an angry man was he; "If I had known she was belov'd, She had never been lov'd by me." 235 When she was set on high horse-back, And riding thro' the glen, They saw her father posting quick, With fifty armed men. "Do for yourself, my hireman lad, 240 And for your safety flee; My father he will take me back, But married I'll never be." When they were up yon rising hill, There low down i' the glen, 245 He saw his father's gilded coach, Wi' five hundred gentlemen. "Come back, turn back, my hireman chiel, Turn back and speak wi' me; Ye've serv'd me lang for the lady's sake, 250 Come back, and get your fee." "Your blessing give us instantly, Is all we crave o' thee; These seven years I've serv'd for her sake, But now I'm paid my fee." 255 37. As. ARMSTRONG AND MUSGRAVE. From _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 175. The story of this ballad seems to be the same as that of _Lord Livingston_, in the third volume of this collection (p. 343). The whole title is as follows: A pleasant ballad shewing how two valiant knights, Sir John Armstrong and Sir Michael Musgrave, fell in love with the beautiful daughter of the Lady Dacres in the North; and of the great strife that happen'd between them for her, and how they wrought the death of one hundred men. As it fell out one Whitsunday, The blith time of the year, When every tree was clad with green, And pretty birds sing clear, The Lady Dacres took her way 5 Unto the church that pleasant day, With her fair daughter fresh and gay, A bright and bonny lass. Sir Michael Musgrave, in like sort, To church repaired then, 10 And so did Sir John Armstrong too, With all his merry men. Two greater friends there could not be, Nor braver knights for chivalry, Both batchelors of high degree, 15 Fit for a bonny lass. They sat them down upon one seat, Like loving brethren dear, With hearts and minds devoutly bent God's service for to hear; 20 But rising from their prayers tho, Their eyes a ranging strait did go, Which wrought their utter overthrow, All for one bonny lass. Quoth Musgrave unto Armstrong then, 25 "Yon sits the sweetest dame, That ever for her fair beauty Within this country came." "In sooth," quoth Armstrong presently, "Your judgment I must verify, 30 There never came unto my eye A braver bonny lass." "I swear," said Musgrave, "by this sword, Which did my knighthood win, To steal away so sweet a dame, 35 Could be no ghostly sin." "That deed," quoth Armstrong, "would be ill, Except you had her right good will, That your desire she would fulfil, And be thy bonny lass." 40 By this the service quite was done, And home the people past; They wish'd a blister on his tongue That made thereof such haste. At the church door the knights did meet, 45 The Lady Dacres for to greet, But most of all her daughter sweet, That beauteous bonny lass. Said Armstrong to the lady fair, "We both have made a vow 50 At dinner for to be your guests, If you will it allow." With that bespoke the lady free, "Sir knights, right welcome shall you be;" "The happier men therefore are we, 55 For love of this bonny lass." Thus were the knights both prick'd in love, Both in one moment thrall'd, And both with one fair lady gay, Fair Isabella call'd. 60 With humble thanks they went away, Like wounded harts chas'd all the day, One would not to the other say, They lov'd this bonny lass. Fair Isabel, on the other side, 65 As far in love was found; So long brave Armstrong she had ey'd, Till love her heart did wound; "Brave Armstrong is my joy," quoth she, "Would Christ he were alone with me, 70 To talk an hour, two, or three, With his fair bonny lass." But as these knights together rode, And homeward did repair, Their talk and eke their countenance shew'd 75 Their hearts were clogg'd with care. "Fair Isabel," the one did say, "Thou hast subdu'd my heart this day;" "But she's my joy," did Musgrave say, "My bright and bonny lass." 80 With that these friends incontinent Became most deadly foes; For love of beauteous Isabel, Great strife betwixt them rose: Quoth Armstrong, "She shall be my wife, 85 Although for her I lose my life;" And thus began a deadly strife, And for one bonny lass. Thus two years long this grudge did grow These gallant knights between, 90 While they a-wooing both did go, Unto this beauteous queen; And she who did their furies prove, To neither would bewray her love, The deadly quarrel to remove 95 About this bonny lass. But neither, for her fair intreats, Nor yet her sharp dispute, Would they appease their raging ire, Nor yet give o'er their suit. 100 The gentlemen of the North Country At last did make this good decree, All for a perfect unity About this bonny lass. The love-sick knights should be set 105 Within one hall so wide, Each of them in a gallant sort Even at a several tide; And 'twixt them both for certainty Fair Isabel should placed be, 110 Of them to take her choice full free, Most like a bonny lass. And as she like an angel bright Betwixt them mildly stood, She turn'd unto each several knight 115 With pale and changed blood; "Now am I at liberty To make and take my choice?" quoth she: "Yea," quoth the knights, "we do agree; Then chuse, thou bonny lass." 120 "O Musgrave, thou art all too hot To be a lady's love," Quoth she, "and Armstrong seems a sot, Where love binds him to prove. Of courage great is Musgrave still, 125 And sith to chuse I have my will, Sweet Armstrong shall my joys fulfil, And I his bonny lass." The nobles and the gentles both That were in present place, 130 Rejoiced at this sweet record; But Musgrave, in disgrace, Out of the hall did take his way, And Armstrong marryed was next day With Isabel his lady gay, 135 A bright and bonny lass. But Musgrave on the wedding-day, Like to a Scotchman dight, In secret sort allured out The bridegroom for the fight; 140 And he, that will not outbraved be, Unto his challenge did agree, Where he was slain most suddenly For his fair bonny lass. The news whereof was quickly brought 145 Unto the lovely bride; And many of young Armstrong's kin Did after Musgrave ride. They hew'd him when they had him got, As small as flesh into the pot; 150 Lo! thus befel a heavy lot About this bonny lass. The lady young, which did lament This cruel cursed strife, For very grief dyed that day, 155 A maiden and a wife. An hundred men that hapless day Did lose their lives in that same fray, And 'twixt those names, as many say, Is deadly strife still biding. 160 FAIR MARGARET OF CRAIGNARGAT. "Craignargat is a promontory in the Bay of Luce. Though almost surrounded by the Barony of Mochrum, it was long possessed by a branch of the family of Macdowall, which was probably our heroine's surname.--On the head of Fair Margaret's lovers, it may be remarked, that the Agnews of Lochnaw are a very ancient family, and hereditary sheriffs of Wigton. The Gordon mentioned was probably Gordon of Craighlaw, whose castle was situated about five miles from Craignargat, in the parish of Kirkcowan, considered so remote before the formation of military roads, that the local proverb says,--'Out of the world, and into Kirkcowan.' The Hays of Park dwell on the coast, about six miles from Craignargat; but it is singular that the lady is not complimented with a Dunbar as her lover, the Place of Mochrum, as the old town is called, being only two miles from her reputed residence." Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 71. Fair Marg'ret of Craignargat Was the flow'r of all her kin, And she's fallen in love with a false young man, Her ruin to begin. The more she lov'd, the more it prov'd 5 Her fatal destiny, And he that sought her overthrow Shar'd of her misery. Before that lady she was born, Her mother, as we find, 10 She dreamt she had a daughter fair, That was both dumb and blind. But as she sat in her bow'r door, A-viewing of her charms, There came a raven from the south, 15 And pluck'd her from her arms. Three times on end she dreamt this dream, Which troubled sore her mind, That from that very night and hour She could no comfort find. 20 Now she has sent for a wise woman, Liv'd nigh unto the port, Who being call'd, instantly came, That lady to comfort. To her she told her dreary dream, 25 With salt tears in her eye, Hoping that she would read the same, Her mind to satisfy. "Set not your heart on children young, Whate'er their fortune be, 30 And if I tell what shall befal, Lay not the blame on me. "The raven which ye dreamed of, He is a false young man, With subtile heart and flatt'ring tongue, 35 Your daughter to trepan. "Both night and day, 'tis you I pray For to be on your guard, For many are the subtile wyles By which youth are ensnar'd." 40 When she had read the dreary dream, It vex'd her more and more, For Craignargat, of birth and state, Liv'd nigh unto the shore. But as in age her daughter wax'd, 45 Her beauty did excel All the ladies far and near That in that land did dwell. The Gordon, Hay, and brave Agnew, Three knights of high degree, 50 Unto the dame a-courting came, All for her fair beauty. Which of these men, they ask'd her then, That should her husband be; But scornfully she did reply, 55 "I'll wed none of the three." "Since it is so, where shall we go A match for thee to find, That art so fair and beautiful, That none can suit thy mind?" 60 With scorn and pride she answer made, "You'll ne'er choice one for me, Nor will I wed against my mind, For all their high degree." The brave Agnew, whose heart was true, 65 A solemn vow did make, Never to love a woman more All for that lady's sake. To counsel this lady was deaf, To judgement she was blind, 70 Which griev'd her tender parents dear, And troubled sore their mind. From the Isle of Man a courter came, And a false young man was he, With subtile heart and flatt'ring tongue, 75 To court this fair lady. This young man was a bold outlaw, A robber and a thief, But soon he gain'd this lady's heart, Which caused all their grief. 80 "O will you wed," her mother said, "A man you do not know, For to break your parents' heart, With shame but and with woe?" "Yes, I will go with him," she said, 85 "Either by land or sea; For he's the man I've pitchéd on My husband for to be." "O let her go," her father said, "For she shall have her will; 90 My curse and mallison she's got, For to pursue her still." "Your curse, father, I don't regard, Your blessing I'll ne'er crave; To the man I love I'll constant prove, 95 And never him deceive." On board with him fair Margaret's gone, In hopes his bride to be; But mark ye well, and I shall tell Of their sad destiny. 100 They had not sail'd a league but five, Till the storm began to rise; The swelling seas ran mountains high, And dismal were the skies. In deep despair that lady fair 105 For help aloud she cries, While crystal tears like fountains ran Down from her lovely eyes. "O I have got my father's curse My pride for to subdue! 110 With sorrows great my heart will break, Alas what shall I do! "O were I at my father's house, His blessing to receive, Then on my bended knees I'd fall, 115 His pardon for to crave! "To aid my grief, there's no relief, To speak it is in vain; Likewise my loving parents dear I ne'er shall see again." 120 The winds and waves did both conspire Their lives for to devour; That gallant ship that night was lost, And never was seen more. When tidings to Craignargat came, 125 Of their sad overthrow, It griev'd her tender parent's heart; Afresh began their woe. Of the dreary dream that she had seen, And often thought upon,-- 130 "O fatal news," her mother cries, "My darling, she is gone! "O fair Marg'ret, I little thought The seas should be thy grave, When first thou left thy father's house, 135 Without thy parent's leave." May this tragedy a warning be To children while they live, That they may love their parents dear, Their blessing to receive. 140 RICHIE STORIE. "John, third Earl of Wigton, had six sons, and three daughters. The second, Lady Lillias Fleming, was so indiscreet as to marry a footman, by whom she had issue. She and her husband assigned her provision to Lieutenant-Colonel John Fleming, who discharged her renunciation, dated in October, 1673." Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 95. The Earl o' Wigton had three daughters, O braw wallie, but they were bonnie! The youngest o' them, and the bonniest too, Has fallen in love wi' Richie Storie. "Here's a letter for ye, madame, 5 Here's a letter for ye, madame; The Erle o' Home wad fain presume To be a suitor to ye, madame." "I'll hae nane o' your letters, Richie; I'll hae nane o' your letters, Richie; 10 For I've made a vow, and I'll keep it true, That I'll have nane but you, Richie." "O do not say so, madame; O do not say so, madame; For I have neither land nor rent, 15 For to maintain you o', madame. "Ribands ye maun wear, madame, Ribands ye maun wear, madame; With the bands about your neck O' the goud that shines sae clear, madame." 20 "I'll lie ayont a dyke, Richie, I'll lie ayont a dyke, Richie; And I'll be aye at your command And bidding, whan ye like, Richie." O he's gane on the braid braid road, 25 And she's gane through the broom sae bonnie, Her silken robes down to her heels, And she's awa' wi' Richie Storie. This lady gaed up the Parliament stair, Wi' pendles in her lugs sae bonnie; 30 Mony a lord lifted his hat, But little did they ken she was Richie's lady. Up then spak the Erle o' Home's lady; "Was na ye richt sorrie, Annie, To leave the lands o' bonnie Cumbernauld, 35 And follow Richie Storie, Annie?" "O what need I be sorrie, madame, O what need I be sorrie, madame? For I've got them that I like best, And was ordained for me, madame." 40 "Cumbernauld is mine, Annie, Cumbernauld is mine, Annie; And a' that's mine, it shall be thine, As we sit at the wine, Annie." THE FARMER'S OLD WIFE. _The Carl of Kellyburn Braes_, composed by Burns for Johnson's _Museum_, (p. 392,) was founded, he says, "on the old traditionary verses." These we have met with in no other form but the following, which is taken from _Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England_, edited by Robert Bell, p. 204. What is styled the original of _The Carle of Kellyburn Braes_, in Cromek's _Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song_, p. 83, is, like many of the pieces in that volume, for the most part a fabrication. The place of the burden is supplied in Sussex, says Mr. Bell, by a whistling chorus. Of the same tenor is the ballad of _The Devil and the Scold_, Collier's _Roxburghe Ballads_, p. 35. We subjoin the first stanza of Burns's ballad for the sake of the burden, which is said to be old. There lived a carl on Kellyburn braes, _Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme_, And he had a wife was the plague o' his days, _And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime_. * * * * * There was an old farmer in Sussex did dwell, And he had a bad wife, as many knew well. Then Satan came to the old man at the plough,-- "One of your family I must have now. "It is not your eldest son that I crave, 5 But it is your old wife, and she I will have." "O welcome, good Satan, with all my heart! I hope you and she will never more part." Now Satan has got the old wife on his back, And he lugged her along like a pedlar's pack. 10 He trudged away till they came to his hall-gate: Says he, "Here, take in an old Sussex chap's mate. O then she did kick the young imps about,-- Says one to the other, "Let's try turn her out." She spied thirteen imps all dancing in chains, 15 She up with her pattens, and beat out their brains. She knocked the old Satan against the wall,-- "Let's try turn her out, or she'll murder us all." Now he's bundled her up on his back amain, And to her old husband he took her again. 20 "I have been a tormentor the whole of my life, But I ne'er was tormented till I met with your wife." THE DUEL OF WHARTON AND STUART. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 77. The unhappy event upon which the following ballad is founded took place under the reign of James the VI. "The sufferers in this melancholy affair were both men of high birth, the heirs-apparent of two noble families, and youths of the most promising expectation. Sir James Stuart was a knight of the Bath, and eldest son of Walter, first Lord Blantyre, by Nicholas, daughter of Sir James Somerville of Cambusnethan. Sir George Wharton was also a knight of the Bath, and eldest son of Philip, Lord Wharton, by Frances, daughter of Henry Clifford, Earl of Cumberland. He married Anne, daughter of the Earl of Rutland, but left no issue." SCOTT. This ballad was printed in the first edition of Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, p. 199, from a black-letter copy in Major Pearson's collection, (afterwards part of the Roxburghe.) Scott's version appears to have been obtained from James Hogg. "Two verses have been added," says Sir Walter, "and one considerably improved, from Mr. Ritson's edition. These three stanzas are the fifth and ninth of Part First, and the penult verse of Part Second. I am thus particular, that the reader may be able, if he pleases, to compare the traditional ballad with the original edition. It furnishes striking evidence, that 'without characters, fame lives long.' The difference chiefly to be remarked betwixt the copies, lies in the dialect, and in some modifications applicable to Scotland; as, using the words "our Scottish Knight." The black-letter ballad, in like manner, terms Wharton "our English Knight." In this connection we may mention another ballad founded on a duel--_Sir Niel and Mac Van_, in Buchan's larger collection, ii. 16. A stall copy is called _Sir Neil and Glengyle_. PART FIRST. It grieveth me to tell you o' Near London late what did befall, 'Twixt two young gallant gentlemen; It grieveth me, and ever shall. One of them was Sir George Wharton, 5 My good Lord Wharton's son and heir; The other, James Stuart, a Scottish knight, One that a valiant heart did bear. When first to court these nobles came, One night, a-gaming, fell to words,[L10] 10 And in their fury grew so hot, That they did both try their keen swords. No manner of treating, nor advice, Could hold from striking in that place; For, in the height and heat of blood, 15 James struck George Wharton on the face. "What doth this mean," George Wharton said, "To strike in such unmanly sort? But, that I take it at thy hands, The tongue of man shall ne'er report!" 20 "But do thy worst, then," said Sir James, "Now do thy worst, appoint a day! There's not a lord in England breathes Shall gar me give an inch of way." "Ye brag right weel," George Wharton said; 25 "Let our brave lords at large alane, And speak of me, that am thy foe, For you shall find enough o' ane." "I'll interchange my glove wi' thine; I'll show it on the bed of death; 30 I mean the place where we shall fight; There ane or both maun lose life and breath!" "We'll meet near Waltham," said Sir James; "To-morrow, that shall be the day. We'll either take a single man, 35 And try who bears the bell away." Then down together hands they shook, Without any envious sign; Then went to Ludgate, where they lay, And each man drank his pint of wine. 40 No kind of envy could be seen, No kind of malice they did betray; But a' was clear and calm as death, Whatever in their bosoms lay: Till parting time; and then, indeed, 45 They show'd some rancour in their heart; "Next time we meet," says George Wharton, "Not half sae soundly we shall part!" So they have parted, firmly bent Their valiant minds equal to try: 50 The second part shall clearly show, Both how they meet, and how they die. PART SECOND. George Wharton was the first ae man Came to the appointed place that day, Where he espyed our Scots lord coming, 55 As fast as he could post away. They met, shook hands; their cheeks were pale; Then to George Wharton James did say, "I dinna like your doublet, George, It stands sae weel on you this day. 60 "Say, have you got no armour on? Have you no under robe of steel? I never saw an Englishman Become his doublet half sae weel." "Fy no! fy no!" George Wharton said, 65 "For that's the thing that mauna be, That I should come wi' armour on, And you a naked man truly." "Our men shall search our doublets, George, And see if one of us do lie; 70 Then will we prove, wi' weapons sharp, Ourselves true gallants for to be." Then they threw off their doublets both, And stood up in their sarks of lawn; "Now, take my counsel," said Sir James, 75 "Wharton, to thee I'll make it knawn: "So as we stand, so will we fight, Thus naked in our sarks," said he; "Fy no! fy no!" George Wharton says, "That is the thing that must not be. 80 "We're neither drinkers, quarrellers, Nor men that cares na for oursell, Nor minds na what we're gaun about, Or if we're gaun to heav'n or hell. "Let us to God bequeath our souls, 85 Our bodies to the dust and clay:" With that he drew his deadly sword, The first was drawn on field that day. Se'en bouts and turns these heroes had, Or e'er a drop o' blood was drawn; 90 Our Scotch lord, wond'ring, quickly cry'd, "Stout Wharton, thou still hauds thy awn!" The first stroke that George Wharton gae, He struck him thro' the shoulder-bane; The neist was thro' the thick o' the thigh; 95 He thought our Scotch lord had been slain. "O ever alack!" George Wharton cry'd, "Art thou a living man, tell me? If there's a surgeon living can, He's cure thy wounds right speedily." 100 "No more of that," James Stuart said; "Speak not of curing wounds to me! For one of us must yield our breath, Ere off the field one foot we flee." They looked oure their shoulders both, 105 To see what company was there: They both had grievous marks of death, But frae the other nane wad steer. George Wharton was the first that fell, Our Scotch lord fell immediately; 110 They both did cry to Him above To save their souls, for they boud die. 10. Sir George Wharton was quarrelsome at cards; a temper which he exhibited so disagreeably when playing with the Earl of Pembroke, that the Earl told him, "Sir George, I have loved you long; but by your manner in playing, you lay it upon me either to leave to love you, or to leave to play with you; wherefore choosing to love you still, I will never play with you any more."--LODGE'S _Illustrations_, vol. iii. p. 350. SCOTT. SADDLE TO RAGS. From _Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England_, Percy Society, vol. xvii. p. 126. The editor took this piece down from the recitation of a Yorkshire yeoman. Other ballads are popular with nearly the same plot, one of them called _The Crafty Ploughboy, or the Highwayman outwitted_. Another of a similar description is _Jock the Leg and the Merry Merchant_, (Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 165,) formed on the model of some Robin Hood ballad. This story I'm going to sing, I hope it will give you content, Concerning a silly old man That was going to pay his rent. As he was a-riding along, 5 Along all on the highway, A gentleman-thief overtook him, And thus unto him did say. "O well overtaken, old man, O well overtaken," said he; 10 "Thank you kindly, sir," says the old man, "If you be for my companie." "How far are you going this way?" It made the old man to smile; "To tell you the truth, kind sir, 15 I'm just a-going twa mile. "I am but a silly old man, Who farms a piece of ground; My half-year rent, kind sir, Just comes to forty pound. 20 "But my landlord's not been at hame,-- I've not seen him twelve month or more; It makes my rent to be large, I've just to pay him fourscore." "You should not have told any body, 25 For thieves there are ganging many; If they were to light upon you, They would rob you of every penny." "O never mind," says the old man, "Thieves I fear on no side; 30 My money is safe in my bags, In the saddle on which I ride." As they were a-riding along, And riding a-down a ghyll, The thief pulled out a pistòl, 35 And bade the old man stand still. The old man was crafty and false, As in this world are many; He flung his old saddle o'er t' hedge, And said, "Fetch it, if thou'lt have any." 40 This thief got off his horse, With courage stout and bold, To search this old man's bags, And gave him his horse to hold. The old man put foot in stirrup, 45 And he got on astride, He set the thief's horse in a gallop,-- You need not bid th' old man ride! "O stay! O stay!" says the thief, "And thou half my share shalt have:" 50 "Nay, marry, not I," quoth the old man, "For once I've bitten a knave!" This thief he was not content; He thought these must be bags; So he up with his rusty sword, 55 And chopped the old saddle to rags. The old man gallop'd and rode Until he was almost spent, Till he came to his landlord's house, And paid him his whole year's rent. 60 He opened this rogue's portmantle; It was glorious for to behold; There was five hundred pound in money, And other five hundred in gold. His landlord it made him to stare, 65 When he did the sight behold; "Where did thou get the white money, And where get the yellow gold?" "I met a fond fool by the way, I swapped horses, and gave him no boot; 70 But never mind," says the old man, "I got a fond fool by the foot." "But now you're grown cramped and old, Nor fit for to travel about;" "O never mind," says the old man, 75 "I can give these old bones a root!" As he was a-riding hame, And a-down a narrow lane, He spied his mare tied to a tree, And said, "Tib, thou'lt now gae hame." 80 And when that he got hame, And told his old wife what he'd done, She rose and she donned her clothes, And about the house did run. She sung, and she danced, and sung, 85 And she sung with a merry devotion, "If ever our daughter gets wed, It will help to enlarge her portion!" THE FAUSE KNIGHT UPON THE ROAD. Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. lxxiv. "O whare are ye gaun?" Quo' the fause knicht upon the road; "I'm gaun to the scule," Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude. "What is that upon your back?" 5 Quo' the fause knicht upon the road; "Atweel it is my bukes," Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude. "What's that ye've got on your arm?" Quo' the fause knicht, &c. 10 "Atweel it is my peit," Quo' the wee boy, &c. "Wha's aucht they sheep?" Quo' the fause knicht, &c. "They are mine and my mither's," 15 Quo' the wee boy, &c. "How monie o' them are mine?" Quo' the fause knicht, &c. "A' they that hae blue tails," Quo' the wee boy, &c. 20 "I wiss ye were on yon tree," Quo' the fause knicht, &c. "And a gude ladder under me," Quo' the wee boy, &c. "And the ladder for to break," 25 Quo' the fause knicht, &c. "And you for to fa' doun," Quo' the wee boy, &c. "I wiss ye were in yon sie," Quo' the fause knicht, &c. 30 "And a gude bottom under me," Quo' the wee boy, &c. "And the bottom for to break," Quo' the fause knicht upon the road; "And ye to be drowned," 35 Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude. GIFTS FROM OVER SEA. Appendix to p. 11. Wright's _Songs and Carols, printed from a MS. in the Sloane Collection_, No. 8. I have a zong suster fer bezondyn the se, Many be the drowryis that [s]che sente me. [S]che sente me the cherye withoutyn ony ston, And so [s]che dede [the] dowe withoutyn ony bon: Sche sente me the brere withoutyn ony rynde, Sche bad me love my lemman withoute longgyng. How xuld ony cherye be withoute ston? And how xuld ony dowe ben withoute bon? How xuld any brere ben withoute rynde? How xuld I love myn lemman without longyng? Quan the cherye was a flour, than hadde it non ston: Quan the dowe was an ey, than hadde it non bon: Quan the brere was on-bred, than hadde it non rynd: Quan the mayden hazt that [s]che louth, [s]che is without longyng. THE COURTEOUS KNIGHT. Appendix to p. 11, p. 83. From _Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 91. There was a knight, in a summer's night, Appear'd in a lady's hall, As she was walking up and down, Looking o'er her castle wall. "God make you safe and free, fair maid, 5 God make you safe and free!" "O sae fa' you, ye courteous knight; What are your wills wi' me? "My wills wi' you are not sma', lady, My wills wi' you nae sma'; 10 And since there's nane your bower within, Ye'se ha'e my secrets a'. "For here am I a courtier, A courtier come to thee; And if ye winna grant your love, 15 All for your sake I'll dee." "If that ye dee for me, sir knight, Few for you will make meen; For mony gude lord's done the same, Their graves are growing green." 20 "O winna ye pity me, fair maid, O winna ye pity me? O winna ye pity a courteous knight, Whose love is laid on thee?" "Ye say ye are a courteous knight, 25 But I think ye are nane; I think ye're but a millar bred, By the color o' your claithing. "You seem to be some false young man, You wear your hat sae wide; 30 You seem to be some false young man, You wear your boots sae side." "Indeed I am a courteous knight, And of great pedigree; Nae knight did mair for a lady bright 35 Than I will do for thee. "O I'll put smiths in your smithy, To shoe for you a steed; And I'll put tailors in your bower, To make you for a weed. 40 "I will put cooks in your kitchen, And butlers in your ha'; And on the tap o' your father's castle, I'll big gude corn and saw." "If ye be a courteous knight, 45 As I trust not ye be, Ye'll answer some o' the sma' questions That I will ask at thee. "What is the fairest flower, tell me, That grows in muir or dale?[L50] 50 Likewise, which is the sweetest bird Sings next the nightingale? Or what's the finest thing," she says, "That king or queen can wale?[L54] "The primrose is the fairest flower 55 That grows in muir or dale;[L56] The mavis is the sweetest bird Next to the nightingale; And yellow gowd's the finest thing That king or queen can wale. 60 "Ye ha'e asked many questions, lady, I've you as many told;" "But, how many pennies round Make a hundred pounds in gold? "How many of the small fishes, 65 Do swim the salt seas round? Or, what's the seemliest sight you'll see Into a May morning?" "Berry-brown ale, and a birken speal, And wine in a horn green; 70 A milk-white lace in a fair maid's dress, Looks gay in a May morning." "Mony's the questions I've ask'd at thee, And ye've answer'd them a'; Ye are mine, and I am thine, 75 Amo' the sheets sae sma'." "You may be my match, kind sir, You may be my match and more; There ne'er was ane came sic a length, Wi' my father's heir before. 80 "My father's lord o' nine castles, My mother she's lady ower three, And there is nane to heir them all, No never a ane but me; Unless it be Willie, my ae brother, 85 But he's far ayont the sea." "If your father's laird o' nine castles, Your mother lady ower three; I am Willie your ae brother, Was far beyond the sea." 90 "If ye be Willie, my ae brother, As I doubt sair ye be; But if it's true ye tell me now, This night I'll gang wi' thee." "Ye've ower ill washen feet, Janet, 95 And ower ill washen hands, And ower coarse robes on your body, Alang wi' me to gang. "The worms they are my bed-fellows, And the cauld clay my sheet; 100 And the higher that the wind does blaw, The sounder I do sleep. "My body's buried in Dumfermline, And far beyond the sea; But day nor night, nae rest cou'd get, 105 All for the pride o' thee. "Leave aff your pride, jelly Janet," he says, "Use it not ony mair; Or when ye come where I hae been, You will repent it sair. 110 "Cast aff, cast aff, sister," he says, "The gowd lace fray your crown; For if ye gang where I ha'e been, Ye'll wear it laigher down. "When ye're in the gude church set, 115 The gowd pins in your hair, Ye take mair delight in your feckless dress Than ye do in your morning prayer. "And when ye walk in the church-yard, And in your dress are seen, 120 There is nae lady that sees your face But wishes your grave were green. "You're straight and tall, handsome withall, But your pride owergoes your wit; But if ye do not your ways refrain, 125 In Pirie's chair ye'll sit. "In Pirie's chair you'll sit, I say, The lowest seat o' hell; If ye do not amend your ways, It's there that ye must dwell." 130 Wi' that he vanish'd frae her sight, Wi' the twinkling o' an eye; Naething mair the lady saw, But the gloomy clouds and sky. 50, 56, mire. 54, wile. THE NORTHERN LORD AND CRUEL JEW. Appendix to p. 46. This ballad, which has some features of resemblance to _Cymbeline_, as well as to the _Merchant of Venice_, is taken from Buchan's _Gleanings of Scotch, English, and Irish scarce old Ballads_, p. 105. Another copy is in Mr. Halliwell's _New Boke about Shakspeare_, p. 19. A noble lord of high renown, Two daughters had, the eldest brown, The youngest beautiful and fair: By chance a noble knight came there. Her father said, "Kind sir, I have 5 Two daughters: which do you crave?" "One that is beautiful," he cried; The noble knight he then replied: "She's young, she's beautiful and gay, And is not to be given away, 10 But as jewels are bought and sold; She shall bring me her weight in gold. "The price I think ye need not grudge, Since I will freely give as much With her one sister, if I can 15 Find out some other nobleman." With that bespoke the noble knight, "I'd sooner have the beauty bright, At that vast rate, renownèd lord, Than the other with a vast reward." 20 So then the bargain it was made; But ere the money could be paid, He had it of a wealthy Jew; The sum so large, the writings drew That if he failed, or miss'd the day, 25 So many ounces he should pay Of his own flesh, instead of gold; All was agreed, the sum was told. So he returned immediately Unto the lord, where he did buy 30 His daughter fine, I do declare, And paid him down the money there. He bought her there, it is well known Unto mankind; she was his own; By her a son he did enjoy, 35 A sweet and comely handsome boy. At length the time of pay drew near, When the knight did begin to fear; He dreaded much the cruel Jew, Because the money it was due. 40 His lady asked him why he grieved: He said, "My jewel, I received Such sum of money of a Jew, And now the money it is due. "And now the day of payment's come, 45 I'm sure I cannot pay the sum; He'll have my flesh, weight for weight, Which makes my grief and sorrow great." "Hush, never fear him," she replied; "We'll cross the raging ocean wide, 50 And so secure you from the fate:" To her request he yielded straight. Then having pass'd the raging seas, They travelled on, till by degrees Unto the German court they came, 55 The knight, his son, and comely dame. Unto the Emperor he told His story of the sum of gold That he had borrowed of a Jew, And that for fear of death he flew. 60 The Emperor he did erect A court for them, and show'd respect Unto his guests, because they came From Britain, that blest land of fame. As here he lived in delight, 65 A Dutch lord told our English knight, That he a ton of gold would lay, He could enjoy his lady gay. From her, the lord he was to bring A rich and costly diamond ring, 70 That was to prove and testify How he did with his lady lie. He tries, but never could obtain Her favour, but with high disdain She did defy his base intent; 75 So to her chambermaid he went, And told her if she would but steal Her lady's ring, and to conceal The same, and bring it to him straight, She should enjoy a fine estate. 80 In hopes of such a fine reward, The ring she stole; then the Dutch lord Did take it to the noble knight, Who almost swooned at the sight. Home he goes to the lady straight; 85 Meeting her at the palace gate, He flung her headlong into the mote, And left her there to sink or float. Soon after that, in clothes of green, She like a warlike knight was seen, 90 And in most gallant gay deport She rode unto the Emperor's court. Now when the Emperor beheld Her brave deportment, he was fill'd With admiration at the sight, 95 Who call'd herself an English knight. The Emperor then did reply, "We have an English knight to die For drowning of his lady gay;" Quoth she, "I'd see him, if I may." 100 'Twas granted; so to him she came, And calling of him by his name, She said, "Kind sir, be of good cheer; Your friend I'll be, you need not fear." She to the Emperor did ride, 105 And said, "Now let this cause be tried Once more, for I've a mind to save This noble gallant from the grave." It being done, the court was set; The Dutch lord came, seeming to fret, 110 About the ring seeming to fear, How truth would make his shame appear. And so it did, and soon they call The maid, who on her knees did fall Before the court, and did confess 115 The Dutch lord's unworthiness. The court repliéd, "Is it so? The lady, too, for ought we know, May be alive; therefore we'll stay The sentence till another day." 120 Now the Dutch lord gave him a ton Of gold, which he had justly won, And so he did with shame and grief, And thus the knight obtain'd relief. The Dutch lord to revenge the spite 125 Upon our noble English knight, Did send a letter out of hand, And so the Jew did understand, How he was in a German court; So here upon this good report, 130 The Jew has cross'd the ocean wide, Resolving to be satisfied. Soon as e'er he fixed his eyes, Unto the knight in wrath he cries, "Your hand and seal I pray behold; 135 Your flesh I'll have instead of gold." [Then] said the noble knight in green, "May not your articles be seen?" "Yes, that they may," replied the Jew, "And I'm resolved to have my due." 140 So then the knight began to read; At length she said, "I find, indeed, Nothing but flesh you are to have;" Answers the Jew, "That's all I crave." The poor distressed knight was brought; 145 The bloody-minded Jew he thought That day to be reveng'd on him, And part his flesh from every limb. The knight in green said, "Mr. Jew, There's nothing else but flesh your due; 150 Then see no drop of blood you shed, For if you do, off goes your head. "Pray take your due, with all my heart, But with his blood I will not part." With that the Jew sneaked away, 155 And had not one word more to say. No sooner were these troubles past, But his wife's father came at last, Resolving for to have his life, For drowning his beloved wife. 160 Over the seas her father brought Many brave horses; one was bought By the pretended knight in green, Which was the best that e'er was seen. So to the German court he came, 165 Declaring, such a one by name Had drowned his fair daughter dear, And ought to die a death severe. They brought him from the prison then, Guarded by many armed men, 170 Unto the place where he must die, And the young knight was standing by. Then from her side her sword she drew, And run her gelding through and through. Her father said, "Why do you so?" 175 "I may; it is my own, you know. "You sold your gelding, 'tis well known; I bought it, making it my own, And may do what I please with it;" And then to her he did submit. 180 "Here is a man arraign'd and cast, And brought to suffer death at last, Because your daughter dear he slew; Which if he did, what's that to you? "You had your money, when you sold 185 Your daughter for her weight in gold; Wherefore he might, it is well known, Do what he pleased with his own." So having chang'd her garments green, And dress'd herself like a fair queen, 190 Her father and her husband straight Both knew her, and their joys were great. Soon they did carry the report Unto the famous German court, How the renowned English knight 195 Had found his charming lady bright. So the Emperor and the lords of fame, With cheerful hearts they did proclaim An universal joy, to see His lady's life at liberty. GIGHT'S LADY. Appendix to p. 93. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 133. Buchan complains that all other editions of this ballad "have been deprived of their original beauty and catastrophe" by officious and sacrilegious hands, and adds that his copy "is quite at variance with all its printed predecessors." In this last remark he is certainly correct, but as for his affirmation that the ballad "recounts an affair which actually took place in the reign, or rather minority, of King James VI.," we ask for some authority beyond his note to the ballad. In another copy mentioned by Motherwell, Geordie, from jealousy, ungratefully drowns his deliverer in the sea. "First I was lady o' Black Riggs, And then into Kincraigie; Now I am the Lady o' Gight, And my love he's ca'd Geordie. "I was the mistress o' Pitfan, 5 And madam o' Kincraigie; But now my name is Lady Anne, And I am Gight's own lady. "We courted in the woods o' Gight, Where birks and flow'rs spring bonny; 10 But pleasures I had never one, But sorrows thick and mony. "He never own'd me as his wife, Nor honour'd me as his lady, But day by day he saddles the grey, 15 And rides to Bignet's lady." When Bignet he got word of that, That Gight lay wi' his lady, He's casten him in prison strong, To ly till lords were ready. 20 "Where will I get a little wee boy, That is baith true and steady, That will run on to bonny Gight, And bring to me my lady?" "O here am I, a little wee boy, 25 That is baith true and steady, That will run to the yates o' Gight, And bring to you your lady." "Ye'll bid her saddle the grey, the grey, The brown rode ne'er so smartly; 30 Ye'll bid her come to Edinbro' town, A' for the life of Geordie." The night was fair, the moon was clear, And he rode by Bevany, And stopped at the yates o' Gight, 35 Where leaves were thick and mony. The lady look'd o'er castle wa', And dear but she was sorry! "Here comes a page frae Edinbro' town; A' is nae well wi' Geordie. 40 "What news, what news, my little boy? Come tell me soon and shortly;" "Bad news, bad news, my lady," he said, "They're going to hang your Geordie." "Ye'll saddle to me the grey, the grey, 45 The brown rade ne'er so smartly; And I'll awa' to Edinbro' town, Borrow the life o' Geordie." When she came near to Edinbro' town, I wyte she didna tarry; 50 But she has mounted her grey steed, And ridden the queen's berry. When she came to the boat of Leith, I wat she didna tarry; She gae the boatman a guinea o' gowd, 55 To boat her ower the ferry. When she came to the pier o' Leith, The poor they were sae many; She dealt the gowd right liberallie, And bade them pray for Geordie. 60 When she gaed up the tolbooth stair, The nobles there were many: And ilka ane stood hat on head, But hat in hand stood Geordie. She gae a blink out ower them a', 65 And three blinks to her Geordie; But when she saw his een fast bound, A swoon fell in this lady. "Whom has he robb'd? What has he stole? Or has he killed ony? 70 Or what's the crime that he has done, His foes they are sae mony?" "He hasna brunt, he hasna slain, He hasna robbed ony; But he has done another crime, 75 For which he will pay dearly." Then out it speaks Lord Montague, (O wae be to his body!) "The day we hang'd young Charles Hay, The morn we'll head your Geordie." 80 Then out it speaks the king himsell, Vow, but he spake bonny! "Come here, young Gight, confess your sins, Let's hear if they be mony. "Come here, young Gight, confess your sins, 85 See ye be true and steady; And if your sins they be but sma', Then ye'se win wi' your lady." "Nane have I robb'd, nought have I stown, Nor have I killed ony; 90 But ane o' the king's best brave steeds, I sold him in Bevany." Then out it speaks the king again, Dear, but he spake bonny! "That crime's nae great; for your lady's sake, 95 Put on your hat now, Geordie." Then out it speaks Lord Montague, O wae be to his body! "There's guilt appears in Gight's ain face, Ye'll cross examine Geordie." 100 "Now since it all I must confess, My crime's baith great and mony: A woman abused, five orphan babes, I kill'd them for their money." Out it speaks the king again, 105 And dear but he was sorry! "Your confession brings confusion, Take aff your hat now, Geordie." Then out it speaks the lady hersell, Vow, but she was sorry! 110 "Now all my life I'll wear the black, Mourn for the death o' Geordie." Lord Huntly then he did speak out, O fair mot fa' his body! "I there will fight doublet alane, 115 Or ony thing ails Geordie." Then out it speaks the king again, Vow, but he spake bonny! "If ye'll tell down ten thousand crowns, Ye'll buy the life o' Geordie." 120 She spread her mantle on the ground, Dear, but she spread it bonny! Some gae her crowns, some ducadoons, And some gae dollars mony. Then she tauld down ten thousand crowns,-- 125 "Put on your hat, my Geordie." Then out it speaks Lord Montague, Wae be to his body! "I wisht that Gight wanted the head; I might enjoy'd his lady." 130 Out it speaks the lady hersell, "Ye need ne'er wish my body; O ill befa' your wizzen'd snout! Wou'd ye compare wi' Geordie?" When she was in her saddle set, 135 Riding the leys sae bonny, The fiddle and fleet play'd ne'er sae sweet, As she behind her Geordie. "O Geordie, Geordie, I love you well, Nae jealousie cou'd move me; 140 The birds in air, that fly in pairs, Can witness how I love you. "Ye'll call for one, the best o' clerks, Ye'll call him soon and shortly; As he may write what I indite, 145 A' this I've done for Geordie." He turn'd him right and round about, And high, high looked Geordie; "A finger o' Bignet's lady's hand Is worth a' your fair body." 150 "My lands may a' be masterless, My babes may want their mother; But I've made a vow, will keep it true, I'll be bound to no other." These words they caus'd a great dispute, 155 And proud and fierce grew Geordie; A sharp dagger he pulled out, And pierc'd the heart o's lady. The lady's dead, and Gight he's fled, And left his lands behind him; 160 Altho' they searched south and north, There were nane there cou'd find him. Now a' that liv'd into Black Riggs, And likewise in Kincraigie, For seven years were clad in black, 165 To mourn for Gight's own lady. GLOSSARY. [Pointing hand] Figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. aboon, _above_. abye, _pay a penalty for_, _suffer_. ae, _one_. a-fit, _afoot_. ahin, ahint, _behind_, _besides_. airn, _iron_. anceane, _ancient_, _aged_. ane, 148? aneath, _beneath_. angel, _a coin worth from 6s. 8d. to 10s._ aninder, _under_. anis, _once_. aquoy, _coy_, _averse._ a-rowe, _in a row_. assy-pan, 140, _ash-pan_. astonyd, _confounded_. athir, _either_. atweel, _well_, _very well_. atween, _between_. avow, _vow_. aw, _all_. ayont, _beyond_, _on the other side of_. ban'd, _execrated_. bandoun, 150, _captivity_. barker, _tanner_, from the bark used in his business. barrow-hogge, 47, _a gelded hog_. battes, _cudgels_, or _blows_. bauld, 117, _bold_, _self-complacent_. bayarde, _bay-horse_, _horse in general_: "blind Bayard" was a proverb. be, _by_. bede, 105, _put forward_, _offer_. behuvit, _behoved_, _must_. beik, 117, _warm_. ben, bend, _in_. bent, _coarse grass_, _field_. berry, 285, corrupt? besene, wel, _appearing well_, _well dressed_, _&c._ bet, _beat_. bet, _better_. beth, _both_. betrasit, _betrayed_. beur, _bore_. big, 279, _cultivate_. bigly, _spacious_, _commodious_. bill, _bull_. bill, _halbert_. birk, _birch_. birled, _poured out drink_, _drank_. blanne, _stopped_. bledoch, _buttermilk_. blink, _smile_; blinkit, 95, _looked kindly_. bolles, _bowls_. borrow, borrowit, _ransom_, _ransomed_. bot and, _but also_. boud, 264, _behoved_, _must needs_. bouks, _bodies_. bour, bower, _chamber_, _dwelling_. bowne, _ready_. brast, _burst_. brat, _cloth_. bra', braw, _brave_, _handsome_; braw wallie, _fair fortune_, exclamation of pleasure or admiration. brayn-pannes, _skulls_. bred, _breed_. bree, _soup_, _broth_. brenning, _burning_; brenyng drake, _fire-drake_, _fiery dragon_. brest, _burst_. bricht, the, 149, _the fair one_. brode-hen, 105, _brood-hen_, _sitting-hen_? brodit, _pierced_. brok, bruik, bruke, _have possession of_, _enjoy_, _keep_. bruchty, _spotted_, or _streaked_ with dirt; brucket yowe, 140, _speckled ewe_. brunt, _burnt_. bur, _bore_. burne, _brook_. buskit, _dressed_. but and ben, _out and in_. ca'd, _called_; 16, _driven_. cadgily, _merrily_. can, could, used as auxiliaries to form the perfect and pluperfect tenses. cannilie, _softly_. cantels, _pieces_. canty, _merry_. capull, _horse_. carle, _fellow_. carpe, _to talk_, _discourse_, _tell stories_. casey, _causeway_. caud, _called_. cauk, _chalk_. chappit, _tapped_, _knocked_. cheape, _bargain_. chefe, cheveron, _upper part of the escutcheon_. chiel, _young man_, _servant_. childer-gamme, _children's game_. choice, _choose_. Christendye, _Christendom_. claise, _clothes_. clead, _clad_. cleikit, _caught_. cleir, _bright_. clenkyng, _clinking_. coffer, _head-dress_, _cap_. coft, _bought_, _redeemed_. cokeney, 115, "seems to be a diminutive for cook," says Percy. The word more probably denotes some kind of _lean or common meat_. See Wright's note. cold, _could_. comyn, _come_. con, see can. confound, _destroy_. coost, 110, _region_, _direction_. could of courtesie, _knew what was good manners_. cors, _body_. couple, _rafter_. courtnalls, a disrespectful (?) name for _courtiers_. cow, _twig_. cowth ring, 148, _had reigned_; see can. crap, _crop_, _yield_. crech, _creek_, _crutch_. creppid, _crept_. crook (my knee), _make lame_. They say in the North, "the horse crooks," _i. e._ goes lame. Percy. crouse, _brisk_, _merry_. cummerit, _vexed_, _bothered_. cund hir thank, _gave her thanks_. cunnand, _covenant_, _engagement_. curtass, _courteous_. daigh, _dough_. dang, _knocked_. dawing, _dawning_. de, dee, _die_; deed, _died_. denay, _refuse_. dent, _blow_. deport, 274, _array_. deray, _ruin_, _confusion_. descryed, _described_, _related_. develling, 142, _sauntering_. dicht, 150, _circumstanced_: dicht to deid, 151, _done_ or _put to death_. disjune, _breakfast_. dizt, (dight), _dressed_. do, dow, you down, _take yourself down_. dole, dool, _grief_. donned, 105, _dun_. douse, _blow_. doute, _fear_. dow, _dove_. down-browit, _scowling_. doz troz, _dough trough_. drake, _dragon_. drowryis, _love-gifts_. dryt, _dirt_. ducadoons, _ducats_. (?) dulfully, _dolefully_, _sadly_. dun feather and gray, by, 88, _by a carrier pigeon_. dungin down, _beat down_, _overcame_. duzty, _doughty_; duztynesse, _doughtiness_. dyke, _ditch_ or _wall_. earn, 100, _curdle_. ee, ene, _eye_, _eyes_. eftir syne, _afterwards_. eneuch, _enough_. ey, _egg_. fa', _fall_, _befall_. fain, _glad_, _pleased_, _enamored_. fairheid, _beauty_. fald, 148, _fold_, _embrace_. falle, _fell_. fancy, _love_. fand, _found_. fang, _grasp_ (_and carry off_). fannes, 111, _winnowing fans_. fare, _go_. fauld, _fold_. fay, _faith_. fecht, _fight_. feckless, 282, _poor_, _miserable_. fee, _property_. feind fall, _the devil take_. fel, 102, 111, _many_. (?) fell, _hide_. fere, _mate_. ferly, _wonder_, _miracle_; _wonderfully_. fet, _fetched_. ffor, 105, _from_, _against_. firm, 199, _first_? Qy. corrupt? firstae, _first one_, _first_. fitted, 195, _disposed_? flatred, _flattened_, _broken_? fleechin, _wheedling_. fleet, _flute_. flirry, _blossom_. fold, 148, _ground_, _world_. fole, _full_. fond, _foolish_. forbye, _over and above_. forfend, _forbid_. forfozt, _worn out with fighting_. forrow, _before_. fow, _full_. fowkyn, _crepitus ventris_. Percy. fre, _free_, _noble_. freke, _man_, _fellow_. fullily, _foully_. fusome, _fulsome_. ga, _go_. ga', _gall_. gaberlunzie, _a wallet_; gaberlunzie-man, _a man that carries a wallet_, _beggar_. gabs, _mouths_. gadlyngs, _idle lads_. gait, _path_, _way_. gane, _gone_. gappe, 106, _entrance of the lists_. gar, _cause_, _make_. gaun, _going_. gear, geere, _property_. gedurt, _gathered_. gife, gin, _if_. gip, 153, like gup, _get up_, _be off_, _&c._ gled, _kite_. gloamin', _twilight_. gloom, _frown_. goud, _gold_. gowt, 108, v. 109, MS. Harl., should perhaps be, "_yf I_ have," &c. grate, _scratch_. gravat, _cravat_. graythid, _made ready_. gre, 105, _prize_. greave, _manager of a farm_. grit, _great_. gudefather, _father-in-law_. gurde, _struck_. gyand, gyane, _giant_. had, _hold_. hairt, _heart_. hard, _heard_. harnis, _brains_. harnys, 110, _horns_. harwos, _harrows_. haud, _hold_, _keep_. he, _high_, _noble_. heck, _hatch_, _small-door_. heid, _head_. hellis-cruk, 148, _a crook by which vessels are hung over the fire_. hend, 152, _gentle_; Aytoun reads, "hain'd," _spared_, _saved_. hent, _took_. het, _heated_. hicher, _higher_. hight, _promised_. hilt, _taken_. hindir, 148, _hundred_. hiphalt, _lame in the hip_. hireman chiel, _man-servant_. hit, _it_. holt, _grove_; sometimes, _hill_. horse-brat, _horse-cloth_. husband, _husbandman_. hussy, _housewife_; husyskep, _housekeeping_. hynt, _took_. hyzt, _promised_. ifere, _together_. ilka, _each_. ill-fardly, _ill-favoredly_, _uglily_. ill-willy, _ill-natured_. in-fere, _together_. ingle, _fire_. intil, _in_. i-wiss, _surely_, _for a certainty_; sometimes seems to be ignorantly employed for I wot, _I know_. jetted, 41, _went proudly_. jimp, _slender_. jumlit, 119, _stirred rapidly_, used of the motion of churning. kaily, _cabbage-like_. kall, _drive_. kavis, _calves_. keel, _red ochre_. keming-stock, _back of a chimney grate_. kest, _cast_. kexis, _dried stalks of hemlock_. kid, _displayed_. kill, _kiln_. kind, _nature_. kirn, _churn_. kists, _chests_. kned, _kneed_. know, _knoll_. ky, _cows_. kynde, _nature_, _habit_; comyn of kynde, 107, _come of a good strain_? kyrne, _churn_; kyrnd, _churned_. laigher, _lower_. laith, _loath_; laithliest, _loathsomest_. laitis, lusty, _pleasant manners_. lambs-wool, _a beverage made of ale and roasted apples_. lane, her, _alone by herself_. lauchty, 141, _pale_, _white_? lawing, _scot_, _tavern-reckoning_. leal, _honest_. lear'd, _learned_. led, 151, (of laws) _carried out_. (?) lenth, _length_. lese, _lose_. let, _desist_, _omit_. leuch, _laughed_. lever, _rather_. leys, _leas_. lightlye, _without good reason_. likame, _body_. lintseed bow, _the globule which contains the seed of flax_. lizt, _light_. lone, in the, 119, "_an opening between fields of corn, for driving the cattle homeward, or milking cows_." losel, _worthless fellow_. lout, _let_. louz, lowe, _laughed_. low, _flame_. lowte, _bow_; lowtit, _bent_. lugs, _ears_. lyarde, _gray horse_, _horse in general_. lyt, _little_, _a little while_. mane, _moan_. maries, _maid-servants_. maun, _must_. mavis, _song-thrush_. may, _maid_. meen, _moan_. meisseine, 195, _mizzen-sail_. mekle, _much_. menzie, _many_, _retinue_. merk, _dark_, _sad_. micht, _might_. micull, _great_. minny, _mother_. moe, _more_. mone, _man_. mot, mought, _may_. mou, mow, _mouth_. muckle, _much_. muir, _moor_. myskaryd, 104, _miscarried_, _disadvantageously disposed of_. nappy (of ale), _strong_. native, 162, _true-born_. neb, _nose_, _beak_. nedis hase spedde, _succeeded in what he wanted_. neis, _nose_. neist, _next_. nolles, _heads_. nones, _nonce_. nourice, _nurse_. nozt, _nought_. ohon, _alas_. on loft, 112, _aloft_, i. e. _standing up_, or _on horseback_. onys, _once_. other, 110, _or_? our, ower, _over_, _too_; our all quhair, 148, _everywhere_. ourtuk, _overtook_. pairt, _part_. palmer, _pilgrim_, _vagabond_. panis, _pains_. pannell, panele, 41, 108, _a rustic saddle_, _a pad_, _without frame or bow_. paramour, 148, _passionately_. partake, 212, _impart_, _assign_. pass, _care_. pat-fit, _pot-foot_. pawky, _sly_. pechmyn, _parchment_. peit, 269, _whip_. pele, _long-handled baker's shovel_. pendles, _ear-rings_. Pirie's chair, 282? ploo-mell, plow-mell, _"a small wooden hammer occasionally fixed to the plough_." Percy. ploom, _plum_. pluch, _plough_. pollis, _polls_. porcupig, _porcupine_. poudurt, _powdered_. prayse-folk, 114? prees, _press_, _crowd_. prest, _ready_, _eager_. priefe, _prove_. priving, _proof_. progeny, 158, _descent_. quert, 150, _high spirits_, _hilarity_. quha, _&c. who_, _&c._ quhill, _till_. ra, _roe_. ramped, rampit, _rushed violently_, _pranced about in bad humor_. rant, _make merry_, _riot_. rarely, 229, _dear_. raton, _rat_. rauzt, _reft_, _took away_. reade, _advice_. record, 247, _avowal_; draw to record, _take to witness_. red, 119, to part (them). reet, 141, _root_. refe, _steward_, _bailiff_. remorse, 164, _tenderness of feeling_. renning, _running_. reve, _take from_. richt, _right_. ridand, _riding_. ring, 148, _reign_. rok, _distaff_. roose, 87, _boast of_, _commend_. root, 268, rout, i. e. _stretch_, or _tramp_? rost, thu carpis of cold, 110, (proverb), _thou speakest to no purpose_? round claith and small, 118? rout, _blow_. rowte, _crowd_. rowe, a-, upon a row, _in a row_. ruell bones, see Gloss. to vol. i. ruggut, _pulled violently_. rung, _cudgel_, _staff_. ryschys, _rushes_. ryzt, _right_. sa, _so_. sair, _suit_, _satisfy_. sark, _shirt_. say, _essay_. scart, _scratch_. scho, _she_. schondir, in, _asunder_. se'en, _seven_. sen, _since_. sen, _send_, _grant_. senvye, _mustard-seed_. serk, _shirt_. set, _suit_. sevensum, _seven_. sheave, _slice_. shent, 66, _shamed_. shott-window, _projecting window_. shouthers, _shoulders_. shriefe, _sheriff_. shurtyng, 103, _sport_, _pastime_. sic, siccan, _such_. sicht, _sight_. side, _long_. sith, sithence, _since_. six-mennys song, _song for six voices_. skomfet, _discomfit_. skumd, _skimmed_. slatred, _broken_, _cracked_. slee, _sly_. smeek, _smoke_. sonde, _sending_. sooth, _truth_, _troth_. sorrow, _devil a bit_. sort, _style_; _company_, _swarm_ (of bees). sot, 247, _fool_. sould, _should_. sowkit, _sucked_. spait, _flood_, _freshet_. spare, 141, _opening in a gown or petticoat_. speal, 280, _chip_ or _shaving_. The sense? speer, _ask for_. speere, 67, "an aperture in the wall, shot-window." Aytoun. (?) spence, _expense_. spright, sprite, _spirit_. spyre, _a post or pillar, supporting a shelf on which victuals are put_. See _Gloss._ to Jamieson's _Pop. Ball._ stark, _stiff_, _strong_. sted, stede, _place_. steer, _stir_. stert, _started_. stock, _the forepart of a bed further from the wall_. stollin, _stolen_. stondis, _stands_. stottis, _oxen_. stound, _time_. stoure, 119, _hurry_. stown, _stolen_. strae, _straw_. strene, this, 120, _yesternight_. stripe, 199, _measure_. swa, _so_. swear, _oath_. swete, 103, qy. sweté, _sweaty?_ swippyng, _striking fast_, as in threshing. swipylles, 112; "a swepyl is _that staff of the flail with which the corn is beaten out_, vulgarly a supple," Percy: _swingle_. swynkers, _laborers_. syde, _long_. syne, _then_. tald, _told_. tee, _too_. teene, _sorrow_, _suffering_. tent, 58, "_a kind of Alicant, a general name for Spanish wines, except white_." Halliwell. tha, _then_. than, _then_. thannes, _thence_. thee, _thrive_. then, _than_. think lang, _suffer from ennui_. thir, _these_. tho, _then_. thouz, _though_. thrang, _close_. thristing, _thirsting_. thristlecock, _throstle_, _thrush_. thrustand, _thrusting_, _pressing_. tide, _time_. tint, _lost_. tittles and tattles, "_clots of dirt such as hang on a cow's tail_." to-brast, _burst in pieces_. to-claterde, 111, _beaten in_ (with noise)? to-flaterde, 111, _broken to pieces?_ tokynyng, 107, _token_, _sign_. tolbooth, _prison_. tone, _taken_. trestly, _truly_, _confidently_. trippande, _tripping_. tryst, _an appointment to meet_; _to make such an appointment_. tuggut, _tugged_. twatling, 43, _small_, _piddling_. twine, _part_ (_from_). unhappy, 42, _ill-conditioned_. unlusum, _unlovely_, _revolting_; was his likame dicht, 150, _unlovely was the condition into which his body was brought_. up, _upon_; upon lofte, _on high_. verrey, _very_, _true_. vow, _exclamation of admiration_. wa', _wall_. wad, _would_. wad, _wager_. waft, _weft_, _woof_. wale, _choose_. wallow't, _became pale_. wame, _belly_, _stomach_. wan, 91, _come_, _got_. war, _worse_. ware, _aware_. waryd, _cursed_. wat, _know_. wearifu', _causing pain or trouble_. wede, _dress_. weel-faurd, _well-favored_, _fair_. weet, _know_. weir, _war_. weir, 149, _were_. weloo, interjection of grief. we'se, _we shall or will_. wha's aucht, _who is it owns?_ whang, _slice_. whereas, _where that_, _where_. white moneye, _silver_. whoard, _hoard_, _keep_. whorles and spindles, 101, "_instruments used in Scotland for spinning instead of spinning-wheels_." Percy. wicht, _wight_, _creature_. wiel, _wield_. wight, _quick_. will, _uncertain how to proceed_, _distracted_. win, _go_. winna, _will not_. winsome, _gay_, _comely_, _pleasant_. withouttin, _without_. witted, 195, _endowed with wit?_ wo, woo, _sad_. wobs, _webs_. woir, _worse_. wood, _frantic_. wow, _woe_. wow, _vow_; exclamation of admiration. woweir, _wooer_, _suitor_. wraik, _wreck_. wrest and wrang, 113, _writhed and twisted_. wryth away, _put aside_. wynne, _joy_. wynnit, _dwelt_. wyspys, _wisps_. wyte, _blame_. wyte, for wot, _know_. yates, _gates_. ycha, _every_. yeersel, _yourself_. yeid, _went_. ye'se, _you shall or will_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yetts, _gates_. ying, _young_. yirne, _curdle_. ze, _ye_. zede, _went_. zet, _yet_. zong, _young_. INDEX. The titles by which ballads are designated in this collection are here printed in Roman letters; other titles, whether of ballads included in this collection, or not, and in general, all other references, in Italic. In looking for a title, the articles, both the definite and the indefinite, are to be dropped. "O. B." denotes the often-referred-to Collection of 1723: "P. S." Percy Society Publications: = signifies that two pieces are equivalent. * * * * * _Aage og Else_, Danish bal. 2, 145. Adam Bel, Clym of the Cloughe, and Wyllyam of Cloudeslé. 5, 124, 1. _Adam Gordon_ (the freebooter). 6, 149: 5, xix. _Adventures of Faravla_, &c., Irish Fairy tale. 8, 284. _Agnete og Havmanden_, Danish ballad. 1, 179. Alison Gross. 1, 168. Allerlei-Rauh, German tale. 8, 172. _Alphonso and Ganselo_ (or, _Faithful Friendship_), Garl. G. Will, p. 60, P. S. xxx: O. B. 2, 145: Evans, 1, 354. Als y yod on ay Mounday. 1, 273, 126. _Amadis._ 1, 5, 6. Andrew Lammie. 2, 190. Annan Water. 2, 186. _Apuleius, Metam._ 1, 162. _Arabian Nights._ 1, 5; 8, 54. Archie of Ca'field. 6, 88, 81. _Arden of Feversham._ Evans, 3, 217. _Armenian Lady's Love_, Wordsworth's. 4, 202. Armstrong's Good-Night. 6, 40. Armstrong and Musgrave. 8, 243. _Artèmire_, Voltaire's. 3, 242. As I came from Walsingham. 4, 191. _As I was walking under a grove_. 1, 128. _As You Like It_. 5, xxv: 8, 144. _Aschenputtel_, German tale. 8, 172. _Audam and Doorkhaunee_, Afghan tale. 2, 120. Auld Maitland. 6, 217. _Ausgleichung_, German ballad. 1, 5. _Babe Nourice_. 2, 40. Babylon, or, The Bonnie Banks o' Fordie. 2, 277. _Baffled Knight_. Percy, 2, 362: = _Too Courteous Knight_, Ritson, Anc. Songs, 2, 54: Durfey, 3, 37: = _The Shepherd's Son_, Herd, 2, 267: = _Jock Sheep_, Kinloch, Ballad Book, p. 17: = _Blow the Winds, Heigh Ho_, Anc. Poems, &c., p. 123, P. S. xvii. Bell, _id._ p. 82. Bailiff's Daughter of Islington. 4, 158. _Ballad of Matrymonie_. 8, 182. _Bandello_. 3, 242, 370; 6, 209. Barbara Allen's Cruelty. 2, 158. Barbara Livingston. 4, 270. _Baron (or Laird) o' Leys_. Buchan, 2, 144; Kinloch, B. B. 74. Baron of Brackley. 6, 188, 192. _Baron turned Ploughman_. 8, 233. _Bateman's Tragedy_. O. B. 1, 261. Ritson, Anc. Songs, 2, 95. Battle of Alford. 7, 238. Battle of Balrinnes. 7, 214. Battle of Bothwell Bridge. 7, 148, 149. Battle of Corichie. 7, 210. Battle of Glenlivet. 7, 214. Battle of Harlaw. 7, 181, 317. Battle of Killiecrankie. 7, 152. Battle of Loudon Hill. 7, 144. Battle of Otterbourne. 7, 3, 19, 29, 177. Battle of Pentland Hills. 7, 240. Battle of Philiphaugh. 7, 131. Battle of _Sherramoor_ (Burns). 6, 157. Battle of Sheriff-Muir. 7, 156, 260. Battle of _Strath-aven_. 7, 214, 217. Battle of Tranent-Muir, or Preston-Pans. 7, 167. _Beautiful Lady of Kent_. Bal. of Peasantry, P. S. xvii. 130; Bell, _id._ 84. _Bent Sae Brown_. 2, 57. _Bergkonungen_, Swedish bal. 1, 179. _Berkshire Lady's Garland_. Bal. of Peasantry, P. S. xvii. 138; Moore, 456. Bessie Bell and Mary Gray. 3, 126. _Betrayed Lady_. 4, 180. _Bettelman_, German bal. 8, 98. Billie Archie. 6, 94. _Binnorie_. 2, 231. Birth of Robin Hood. 5, 170, 392. [_de la_] _Blanca Niña_, Spanish ballad. ii. 319. Blancheflour and Jellyflorice. 4, 295. Blind Beggar's Daughter of Bednall Green. 4, 161. Blood-Stained Son (_Der blutige Sohn_, translated). 2, 350. _Blow the Winds, Heigh Ho = Baffled Knight_. Bludy Serk. 8, 147. _Blue Beard_, 2, 272. _Blue Bird_, fairy tale. 1, 171. _Bold Burnett's Daughter = Bonny Hynd_. Bold Pedlar and Robin Hood. 5, 248. _Bold Rankin_. 3, 95. Bondsey and Maisry. 2, 379, 298. Bonnie Annie. 3, 47. Bonnie Banks o' Fordie. 2, 277. Bonnie George Campbell. 3, 92. Bonnie House o' Airly. 6, 183, 186. _Bonnie Lass of Anglesey_. Herd, 2, 190: Buchan, 2, 63. _Bonnie Susie Cleland_. 2, 78. Bonny Baby Livingston. 4, 38. Bonny Barbara Allan. 2, 155. Bonny Bee-Ho'm. 3, 57: 2, 215. _Bonny Birdy_. 2, 22. Bonny Bows o' London. 2, 360. Bonny Earl of Murray. 7, 119, 121: 3, 88. _Bonny Hind Squire_. 8, 11, 83. _Bonny Hynd_. Scott's _Minstrelsy_, 3, 307: = _Lizie Wan_, Herd, ed. 1776, 1, 91: = The _Broom blooms bonnie_, &c. Motherwell, lxxxiv. 189: = _Castle Ha's Daughter_, Buchan, 1, 241. Also called _Lady Jean_, Motherwell, Appendix, p. xxi., and _Bold Burnett's Daughter_, Buchan, 1, 315. Bonny John Seton. 7, 230. _Bonny May_. 4, 45. Bothwell. 1, 158, 152. _Bothwell Lines_. 7, 149. Boy and the Mantle. 1, 3. Boyne Water. 7, 253. Braes o' Yarrow. 3, 69: Logan's, 2, 182. Brave Earl Brand and the King of England's Daughter. 2, 388, 114. Brave Lord Willoughby. 7, 114. Bride's Testament = Cruel Brother. _Broom blooms bonnie_, &c. = _Bonny Hynd_. Broom of Cowdenknows. 4, 45. Broomfield Hill. 1, 131. Brown Adam. 4, 60. _Brown Robin._ 2, 9. Buchan, 2, 299. _Brume_, _brume on hil_. 1, 131. Burd Ellen. 3, 213, 205, 269. Burd Ellen and Young Tamlane. 1, 271. _Burd Helen._ 3, 192. Burning of Auchindown, see Willie Mackintosh. By Landsdale hey ho. 5, 431. _Camille, ou la Manière de filer le parfait Amour._ 1, 5. Captain Car. 6, 147. Captain Wedderburn's Courtship. 8, 11, 5. _Carl of Kellyburn Braes._ 8, 257. _Carle of Carlile._ 8, 140. _Carnal and the Crane._ 1, 315. _Castle Ha's Daughter_ = _Bonny Hynd_. Catherine Johnstone. 4, 34. Catskin's Garland, (or, The Wandering Young Gentlewoman.) 8, 172. _Ce qui plaît aux Dames_, Voltaire's. 1, 29. _Cendrillon_, _Cennerentola_. 8, 172. _[du] Chevalier qui fist sa Fame confesse, fabliau_. 6, 209. Chevy-Chace. 7, 43, 25. Chil Ether. 4, 299. _Child Brenton._ 1, 152. Child Noryce. 2, 40. Child of Elle. 3, 224, 220; 2, 114. Child Rowland and Burd Ellen. 1, 245. Child Waters. 3, 205, 269. Childe Maurice, _Chield Morice_. 2, 313, 30. Childe Vyet. 2, 72. Children in the Wood. 3, 128. Child's Last Will. 2, 366. _Cinthio's Heccatomithi._ 8, 60. Clerk Colvill. 1, 192; 2, 271. _Clerk of Oxenford's Tale_, Chaucer's. 4, 207. Clerk Saunders. 2, 45, 318, 53, 57, 82. Clerk's Twa Sons o' Owsenford. 2, 63; 1, 214. Clerk Tamas. 3, 349. _Cokwolds Daunce._ 1, 17. _Conde de Barcelona y la Emperatriz de Alemania._ 3, 242. Constance of Cleveland. 4, 225. _Constancy of Susanna._ 8, 198. _Constant Penelope._ 8, 207. Constantine and Areté. 1, 304, 307, 217. _Contes à rire._ 8, 3. _Corn, lai du._ 1, 3. Cospatrick. 1, 152. _Countess of Errol_, see _Errol_. _Coupe Enchantée._ 1, 4. _Court Mantel._ 1, 4. _Courteous King Jamie._ 1, 147. Courteous Knight. 8, 272, 11. _Covering Blue_ = _Keach in the Creel_. _Crafty Lover, or, The Lawyer outwitted._ Bell, Ball. of Peasantry, 110. _Crafty Ploughboy, or, The Highwayman outwitted_. 8, 265. Croodlin Doo. 2, 363. Cruel Black. 3, 370. Cruel Brother, or, The Bride's Testament. 2, 251, 257, 265. _Cruel Brother_, Swedish bal. 2, 46. _Cruel Jew's Garland._ 8, 46. _Cruel Knight._ 2, 291. Cruel Mother. 2, 267, 269, 372, 257. Cruel Sister. 2, 231. _Cunning Clerk_ = _Keach in the Creel_. _Cymbeline._ 8, 277. Dæmon Lover. 1, 201, 302. _David and Bathsheba._ 8, 198. _Dead Man's Song of Heaven and Hell._ Evans, 1, 297; Ritson, Anc. Songs, old ed., p. 286; Brit. Bibliog. 2, 136, &c. _Death of John Seton._ 7, 230. _Death of Keeldar._ 6, 140. Death of Parcy Reed. 6, 179. Death of Queen Jane. 7, 77. _Decameron._ 2, 382; 4, 207; 6, 209. _Demaundes Joyous._ 8, 3. _Devil and the Scold._ 8, 257. Dialogue between Will Lick-Ladle and Tom Clean-Cogue. 7, 260, 157. Dick o' the Cow. 6, 67. _Dolopathos._ 8, 45. _Donald of the Isles._ 4, 68, 76. _Doralice._ 8, 172. _Douglas_, Home's. 2, 28. Douglas Tragedy. 2, 114; 3, 220, 223; 5, 334. _Dowie Den._ 3, 65. Dowie Dens of Yarrow. 3, 63. Dragon of Wantley. 8, 128. _Dronken Hansje._ 8, 55. Drowned Lovers. 2, 175. _Drunkard's Legacy._ 8, 60. Duchess of Suffolk's Calamity. 7, 298, 115. Duel of Wharton and Stuart. 8, 259. _Duke Hamilton._ Smith's Scot. Mins., 2, 58. _Duke of Argyle's Courtship._ Buchan, 2, 148. Duke of Athol. 4, 94. Duke of Athol's Nurse. 8, 228, 231. Duke of Gordon's Daughter. 4, 102. Duke of Perth's Three Daughters. 2, 281. _Dumb Wife of Aberdour._ Aytoun, 2, 185. _Durham Garland._ Ritson, Bish. Gar. p. 1. _Dysmal._ 2, 382. _Earl Crawford._ Buchan, 1, 61. _Earl Lithgow._ 3, 260. _Earl Marshal._ 6, 209. _Earl of Errol_, see _Errol_. Earl of Mar's Daughter. 1, 171. Earl Richard (A). 3, 3, 10, 293. Earl Richard (B). 3, 266, 395. Earl Robert. 3, 26. _Edda._ 1, 213; 8, 139. Edom o' Gordon. 6, 147, 154; 7, 216. Edward. 2, 225, 219, 251. _Edwin and Emma_, Goldsmith's. 4, 189. _Eitle Dinge_, German ballads. 1, 128. _Elfer Hill._ 1, 298. Elfin Knight. 1, 128, 277. _Elfrida and Sir James of Perth._ 3, 73. _Elf-Woman and Sir Olof_, Swedish bal. 1, 298. _Ellen Irwin_, Wordsworth's. 2, 208. _Elveskud_, Danish bal. 1, 298. Enchanted Ring. 3, 53. Eppie Morie. 6, 260, 203. _Erle of Tolous._ 3, 242. Erlinton. 3, 220; 2, 114. _Errol_, _Earl of Errol, &c._ Sharpe, B. B., p. 89: = Kinloch, B. B., p. 31: = _Countess of Errol_, Buchan, 2, 176, and Gleanings, p. 158: = _Errol's Place_, Maidment's N. C. G., p. 31. _Eulenspiegel._ 8, 3, 4. Execution of Sir Simeon Fraser. 6, 274. _Facezie_ of Arlotto. 8, 167. _Factor's Garland._ O. B. 3, 221: = Sheldon, p. 274. _F[oe]stemanden i Graven_, Danish ballad. 2, 145. Fair Annie. 3, 191, 198. Fair Annie of Lochroyan. 2, 98. Fair Flower of Northumberland. 4, 180. Fair Helen of Kirconnell. 2, 207. Fair Janet. 2, 86, 80, 120. _Fair Mabel of Wallington_ (= _The Mild Mary_): Ritson, Northumb. Garl. p. 38. Fair Margaret and Sweet William. 2, 140, 162. Fair Margaret of Craignargat. 8, 249. _Fair Midel and Kirsten Lyle_, Danish bal. 2, 342. Fair Rosamond. 7, 283. _Fairy Queen._ 1, 5. _Faithful Friendship_, see _Alphonso and Ganselo_. False Sir John. 2, 271. [_den_] _Falske Riddaren_, Swedish bal. 2, 272. Famous Flower of Serving-Men. 4, 174; 3, 86. Farmer's Old Wife. 8, 257. Fause Foodrage. 3, 40, 159. Fause Knight upon the Road. 8, 269. Fause Lover. 4, 89. _Felon Sowe of Rokeby._ Ev. 3, 270; Moore, 187; Scott, Notes to Rokeby; Robson, Metr. Romances, p. 105, Camden Soc., No. 18, etc. _Fine Flowers i' the Valley._ 2, 257. Fine Flowers in the Valley. 2, 265. _Finette Cendron._ 8, 172. Fire of Frendraught. 6, 173. _Fischer_, Goethe's. 1, 298. _Fitchers Vogel_, German tale., 2, 272. Flemish Insurrection. 6, 269. Flodden Field. 7, 71. _Florent and the King of Sicily's Daughter_, Gower's tale., 1, 29. _Florice and Blancheflour._ 4, 295. _Flourence de Romme, Le Dit de._ 3, 159. Fray of Suport. 6, 115. _Frennet Hall._ 6, 177. _Frère de Lait_, Breton bal. 1, 217. Friar in the Well. 8, 122. _Frolicksome Courtier and Jovial Tinker._ 8, 55. Frolicksome Duke, or, The Tinker's Good Fortune. 8, 54. From Bogie Side, or, The Marquis's Raide. 7, 267, 156. _Fryer and the Maid._ 8, 122. Gaberlunzie Man. 8, 98. _Galien Rethoré._ 1, 231. Gallant Grahams. 7, 137. _Gamelyn, Cook's Tale of._ 5, xxv. 38. Gardener. 4, 92. Gay Goss-Hawk. 3, 277; 2, 10. Gentle Herdsman, tell to me. 4, 187. Gentleman in Thracia. 8, 158. Geordie, _Geordie Luklie._ 8, 92, 96, 93. George Barnwell. 8, 213. _Georgics._ 1, 125. Gernutus the Jew of Venice. 8, 45. _Gesta Romanorum._ 1, 5, 7, 276; 8, 3, 45, 147, 158. Get up and bar the door. 8, 125. Gifts from over Sea. 8, 271, 11. Gight's Lady. 8, 285, 93. Gilderoy. 6, 196. Gil Morrice. 2, 28. _Girl clad in Mouse-skin_, Swedish tale. 8, 173. Glasgerion. 2, 3. Glasgow Peggy. 4, 76. Glenkindie. 2, 3. Glenlogie. 4, 80. _Godiva. How Coventry was made free by Godina_ (sic), _Countess of Chester._ Evans, 2, 29. _Golden Glove, or, The Squire of Tamworth._ Ball. of Peas. P. S. xvii. 106; Bell, _id._ 70. _Golden Legend._ 1, 70. _Gowans sae gay._ 1, 195. Graeme and Bewick. 3, 77. _Graf Hans von Holstein und seine Schwester Annchristine_, German bal. 2, 78. _Grandmother Adder-Cook_, German bal. 2, 364. [_der_] _Grausame Bruder_, German bal. 2, 79. _Green Broom-Field._ 1, 136. Greensleeves. 4, 240. _Greve Genselin_, Danish ballad., 8, 139. _Grey Cock._ Herd, 2, 278. [_der_] _Grobe Bruder_, German bal. 2, 79. [_den_] _Grymma Brodern_, Swedish bal. 2, 319. Gude Wallace. 6, 232. _Guy of Warwick._ 1, 62. Gypsie Laddie. 4, 114. _Hakon Borkenbart_, Swedish saga. 4, 207. _Hardyknute._ 3, 40, 148. _Harpans Kraft_, Swedish and Danish bal. 2, 8. _Haughs o' Yarrow._ 3, 65. Haws of Cromdale. 7, 234. Hawthorn Tree. 1, 311. [_der_] _Heilige Georg_, German legend. 1, 70. Heir of Linne. 8, 60, 70. _Helgakvitha Hundingsbana_, II., 1, 213. _Henry and Emma_, Prior's. 4, 143. _Hero and Leander._ 8, 207. _Herodotus._ 1, 6. _Herr Aester ok Fröken Sissa_, Swedish bal. 1, 152. _Herr Halewyn_, Dutch bal. 2, 272. _Herr Malmstens Dröm_, Swedish bal. 2, 141. _Herr Medelvold_, Danish bal., 2, 342. _Herr Peder och Liten Kerstin_, Swedish bal. 2, 125. _Herr Peders Sjöresa_, Swedish bal. 3, 47. _Herr Redevall_, Swedish bal., 2, 342. _Herr Sallemand_, Danish bal., 2, 120. _Herr Truels's Döttre_, Danish bal. 2, 277. _Hertig Fröjdenborg och Fröken Adelin_, Swedish bal. 2, 120. _Hertig Nils_, Swedish bal. 2, 120. _Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels._ 1, 163. _Highwayman Outwitted_, see _Crafty Ploughboy._ _Hildebrand og Hilde_, Danish bal. 2, 115, 388. _Hilla Lilla_, Swedish bal. 2, 120. Hireman Chiel. 8, 233. Hirlanda. 3, 243. _Histoire de la Comtesse de Savoie._ 3, 242. _Histoire de Palanus, Comte de Lyon._ 3, 242. _Historia de Cataluña._ 3, 242. Hobie Noble. 6, 97, 67. _Holofernes._ 8, 198. _Honeymoon._ 8, 182. _Honour of a London Prentice._ O. B. 1, 199: Ritson, Ancient Songs, 2, 199. _Horn and Rimnild, Horn et Rimenhild._ 1, 6; 4, 17. Horn of King Arthur. 1, 17, 4. _House Carpenter._ 1, 209. Hugh of Lincoln. 3, 136. Hughie Graham (Hughie the Graeme). 6, 51, 55, 247. Hunting of the Cheviot. 7, 25, 43. [_det_] _Hurtige Svar_, Danish bal. 2, 319. _Hustru og Mands Moder_, Danish bal. 1, 162. Hynd Horn. 4, 17, 25. Hynde Etin. 1, 294, 179; 2, 271. _I'll wager, I'll wager._ 1, 131. _Ill May-Day, Story of._ Garl. Good Will, p. 39, P. S. xv: O. B. 3, 54: Evans, 3, 76. In Sherwood livde stout Robin Hood. 5, 433. _Ingefred og Gudrune_, Danish bal. 1, 152. _Jack Horner, Tale of._ Halliwell's Nursery Rhymes, p. 165, P. S. iv. James Herries. 1, 205. Jamie Douglas. 4, 287. Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead., 6, 105. Jane Shore. 7, 194. _Jean o' Bethelnie's Love for Sir G. Gordon._ 4, 80. _Jelitza and her Brothers_, Servian bal. 1, 217. Jellon Grame. 2, 285. Jephthah, Judge of Israel. 8, 198. _Jesus Barnet, Stefan, og Herodes_, Danish bal. 1, 315. Jew's Daughter. 3, 144, 331. _Jock o' Hazeldean, Jock o' Hazelgreen._ 4, 83. Jock o' the Side. 6, 80, 67, 88. _Jock Sheep_ = _Baffled Knight._ _Jock the Leg and the Merry Merchant._ 8, 265. John Dory. 8, 194. _John Grumlie._ 8, 116. John o' Hazelgreen. 4, 83. _John the Reeve._ 8, 21. John Thomson and the Turk., 3, 352. Johnie Armstrang. 6, 37, 45, 251. _Johnie Blunt._ 8, 125. Johnie _of Braidisbank_, or of Breadislee. 6, 12, 11. Johnie of Cocklesmuir, or _of Cockielaw_. 6, 16, 11. Johnie Cope. 7, 274, 168. Johnie Faa and the Countess o' Cassilis. 4, 283. Johnie Scot. 4, 50. Johny Cock, or _Johny Cox_. 6, 243, 245, 11, 12. _Jolly Beggar._ 8, 98. Jolly Goshawk. 3, 285. _Jolly Harper._ 6, 3. Jolly Pinder of Wakefield, with Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John. 5, 204. _Jomfruen i Linden_, Danish bal. 1, 311. _Jomfruen i Ormeham_, Danish ballad. 1, 138, 168. _Jomfruen og Dværgekongen_ (_Maid and the Dwarfking_), Danish ballad. 1, 179. _Jon Rimaardsöns Skriftemaal_, Danish ballad. 3, 47. Jovial Hunter of Bromsgrove. 8, 144. _Jugement de Salemon, fabliau._ 8, 158. _Jürg Drachentödter_, German ballad. 1, 70. Katharine Janfarie. 4, 29. _Keach in the Creel._ Anc. Poems, &c. p. 112, P. S. xvii: = _Covering Blue_, Kinloch, B. B., p. 61: = _Cunning Clerk_, Buchan, 1, 278. Kempion, Kemp Owyne. 1, 137, 143, 281. Kempy Kaye. 8, 139, 141. _Kertonha'._ 1, 114. _Killiecrankie._ 7, 153. _Kinder-u.-Haus-Märchen._ 1, 201; 2, 231, 272; 8, 3, 5, 173. _Kindesmörderin_, German ballads. 2, 262. _King and a Poore Northerne Man._ P. S. vol. i: Moore, p. 376. _King and the Barker._ 8, 22. _King Alfred and the Neatherd_, 8, 21; _K. A. and the Shepherd_, 5, 238; 8, 23. _King and the Hermit._ 8, 21, 22. _King and the Miller_, Danish tale. 8, 3. King and the Miller of Mansfield. 8, 32. King Arthur, and the King of Cornwall, 1, 231, 183; Legend of, 1, 50; K. A.'s Death, 1, 40. King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid. 4, 195. _King Edward and Jane Shore._ 7, 194. _King Edward and the Hermit_, 5, xxiii: _K. E. and the Shepherd_, 5, xxiii; 8, 21. King Edward the Fourth and the Tanner of Tamworth. 8, 21; 5, xxiv. _King Edward the Third and the Fair Countess of Salisbury._ O. B. 2, 68. King Estmere. 3, 159; 1, 183. King Henrie the Fifth's Conquest. 7, 190. King Henry. 1, 147, 29: 8, 140. _King Henry and a Bishop_, 8, 5: _K. H. and the Soldier_, 8, 22. _King Henry the Eighth and the Cobbler._ 8, 22. _King Henry the Second and the Cistercian Abbot._ 8, 21. _King Horn._ 4, 17. _King James the First and the Tinker._ 8, 22, 23. King John and the Abbot of Canterbury, 8, 3: _K. J. and the Bishop of Canterbury_, 8, 5. _King Lear._ 1, 245. King Leir and his Three Daughters. 7, 276. King Malcolm and Sir Colvin. 3, 378, 173. King of France's Daughter. 4, 216. King of Scots and Andrew Browne. 7, 103. _King Olfrey and the Abbot._ 8, 5. King's Disguise and Friendship with Robin Hood. 5, 376. _King Waldemar and his Sister_, Danish bal. 2, 78, 86. _King William and the Forester._ 8, 22. Kinmont Willie. 6, 58, 81. Knight and Shepherd's Daughter. 3, 260. _Knight of the Swan._ 3, 159. Knight's Ghost. 1, 210. _Kong Diderik og hans K[oe]mper_, Danish ballad. 3, 159. _Kong Valdemar og hans Söster_, Danish bal. 2, 78, 251. _Krist' Lilla och Herr Tideman_, Swedish bal. 2, 342. _Krone der Königin von Afion_. 1, 16: _K. of Heinrich vom Türlein_, 1, 4. _Ladies of Finsbury, Life and Death of the._ Crown Garland G. Roses, p. 44, P. S. xv; Evans, 3, 318. Lads of Wamphray. 6, 168. _Lady Alice._ 2, 162. Lady Anne. 2, 262. Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament. 4, 123, 129. _Lady Daisy._ 2, 382. Lady Diamond. 2, 382. Lady Elspat. 4, 308. Lady Isabel and the Elf-Knight. 1, 195; 2, 271. Lady Isabella's Tragedy. 3, 366. _Lady Jane._ 3, 192. _Lady Jean_ = _Bonny Hynd._ Lady Maisry. 2, 78, 319. Lady Margaret. 3, 390, 205. Lady Marjorie. 2, 338. _Lady's Fall, Lamentable Ballad of._ O. B. 1, 244; Percy, 3, 182; Ritson, Anc. Songs, 2, 110. _Lai du Corn._ 1, 3. _Lai le Frein._ 3, 191. Laidley Worm of Spindleston-Heugh. 1, 281, 137. _Laird o' Leys_ = _Baron o' Leys_. Laird o' Logie. 4, 109. Laird of Blackwood. 4, 290, 135. Laird of Drum. 4, 118. _Laird of Laminton._ 4, 29. _Laird of Lochnie._ 4, 45. _Laird of Ochiltree._ 4, 45. _Laird of Roslin's Daughter._ 8, 11. Laird of Waristoun. 3, 107, 110, 316. Lambert Linkin. 3, 100, 94. _Lambton Worm of Durham._ 1, 281. Lament of the Border Widow. 3, 86; 4, 174. _Lamentable Fall of the Duchess of Gloucester_. Garl. of Goodwill, p. 271, P. S. xv; O. B. 2, 90. _Lamentation of Shore's Wife_. 7, 194. Lamkin, Lammikin. 3, 94, 307. _Lancelot_. 1, 6. Lang Johnny Moir. 4, 272. Lass of Lochroyan. 2, 106. _Last Guid Night_. 6, 40. _Lawyer Outwitted_, see _Crafty Lover_. Lay the Bent to the Bonny Broom. 8, 18. _Leander on the Bay_. 2, 177. Leesome Brand. 2, 342. Lenore, Bürger's. 1, 217. _Liebesprobe_, Ger. bal. 4, 144. Life and Death of Sir Hugh of the Grime. 6, 247. Life and Death of Thomas Stukely. 7, 305. _Lilla Rosa_, Swedish bal. 2, 120. [_den_] _Lillas Testamente_, Swedish bal. 2, 366, 251. _Lind im Thale_, German bal. 4, 144. _Linden_, Swedish bal. 1, 311. _Lindormen_, Danish ballad. 1, 138, 168. _Liten Kerstins Förtrollning_. 1, 162. _Liten Kerstin och Fru Sofia_, Swedish bal. 2, 78. _Liten Kerstin Stalldräng_, Swedish bal. 4, 174. Little Gest of Robin Hood. 5, 42, 18, 376, 383; 8, 22. _Little Gold Shoe_, Swedish tale. 8, 173. Little John and the Four Beggars. 5, 325. Little Musgrave and the Lady Barnard. 2, 15. Lizae Baillie. 4, 73, 280. Lizie Lindsay. 4, 63, 68, 73. _Lizie Wan = Bonny Hynd_. _Lochinvar_. 4, 29. Lochmaben Harper. 6, 3, 7. Long Lonkin. 3, 313, 94. _Lord Aboyne_. 4, 97. Lord Barnaby. 2, 307. _Lord Bateman_. 4, 1, 2. Lord Beichan and Susie Pye. 4, 253. Lord Delaware. 7, 313. Lord Derwentwater. 7, 164: _L. D.'s Goodnight_, 7, 165. Lord Dingwall. 1, 288, 152. Lord Donald. 2, 244, 251. Lord Jamie Douglas. 4, 135, 287. Lord John. 1, 42, 134. _Lord John's Murder_. 2, 292. Lord Livingston. 3, 343; 8, 243. Lord Lovel. 2, 162, 141. _Lord Lundy_. 4, 261. Lord Maxwell's Goodnight. 6, 162. _Lord Nann and the Korrigan_, Breton bal. 1, 298; 2, 120. Lord Randal (A), 2, 22: (B), 2, 248, 244. _Lord Ronald._ 2, 248. Lord Salton and Auchanachie. 2, 165, 167. Lord Thomas and Fair Annet. 2, 125, 120, 131. Lord Thomas and Fair Ellinor. 2, 121. Lord Thomas of Winesberry and the King's Daughter. 4, 305. Lord Thomas Stuart. 3, 357. Lord Wa'yates and Auld Ingram. 2, 326. Lord William. 3, 18, 3. _Lord William._ 4, 261. Loudoun Castle. 6, 254. _Love Gregory._ 2, 98, _Lover's Complaint being forsaken of his Love._ 4, 234. Lovers Quarrel. 4, 311. Lowlands of Holland. 2, 213. Lytell Geste of Robyn Hode. 5, 42, 18, 376, 383; 8, 22. _Mackintosh was a soldier brave._ 7, 165. Macpherson's Rant (or _Lament_), 6, 263: his _Farewell_, by Burns, 6, 266. _Mädchen und der Sagebaum, Mädchen und die Hasel_, German bal. 1, 311. _Maid and the Dwarf-King_, Danish ballad. 1, 179. _Maledizione Materna_, Italian ballad. 2, 171. _Mantel_, _Mantel Mautaillé_, _Court Mantel_, &c. 1, 3, 4. _Marchioness of Douglass._ 4, 135. _Margaret's Ghost._ 2, 141. _Mari Confesseur_, La Fontaine's. 6, 209. Marquis of Huntley's Retreat, (or _The Marquis's Raide_). 7, 267, 156. Marriage of Sir Gawaine. 1, 28, 147. _Martial._ 2, 177. Mary Ambree. 7, 108, 257. Mary Hamilton. 3, 120, 324, 329. _Maudlin, the Merchant's Daughter._ 4, 328. _May-a-Row._ 2, 286. May Colvin. 2, 271; 1, 195, 198. _Memorables of the Montgomeries._ Evans, 2, 41; Bal. and Songs of Ayrshire, 1, 60. _Merchant of Venice._ 8, 45, 46, 277. Merchant's Daughter of Bristow. 4, 328. _Merchant's Garland_, see _Factor's Garland_. Mermaid (or Clerk Colvill). 1, 192. _Merman and Marstig's Daughter_, Danish bal. 1, 298. _Mery Ballet of the Hathorn Tre._ 1, 311. _Mild Mary_, see _Fair Mabel of Wallington_. Miller and the King's Daughter. 2, 357, 231. Minister's Dochter o' Newark (or _of New York_). 2, 376. _Möen paa Baalet_, Danish ballad. 2, 251. _Moral Tale of Love and Honour_, Shenstone's. 4, 202. _Morte Arthure._ 1, 4, 40, 50, 55. _Mothers Malison._ 2, 171. _Moyen de Parvenir._ 5, 187. Murder of the King of Scots. 7, 78. _Murning Maidin._ Sibbald, 1, 201. _Nattergalen_, Danish ballad. 1, 125. _New Notborune Mayd._ 4, 144. _No Song, no Supper._ 8, 125. Noble Fisherman, or, Robin Hood's Preferment. 5, 329. _Nobleman's Generous Kindness._ Bal. of Peas. p. 148, P. S. xvii: Bell, id. 98. Nökkens Svig, Danish ballad. 1, 195, 198. Northern Lass, Brome's. 4, 123. Northern Lord and Cruel Jew. 8, 277. Northumberland betrayed by Douglas. 7, 92: 6, 124. _Numbers._ 1, 6. Nutbrowne Maide. 4, 143. _O heard ye e'er of a silly blind Harper._ 6, 3. _Odyssey_, i. 125. _Of a Knight and a Faire Virgin._ 1, 29. _Of Wakefylde and a Grene._ 5, 204. _Old Abbot and King Alfred._ O. B. 2, 55. _Old Man and his Three Sons._ 8, 144. Old Robin of Portingale. 3, 34. [_den_] _Onde Svigermoder_, Danish bal. 2, 251. _Orlando Furioso_, 1, 4: _O. Inamorato_, 1, 137. _Ormekampen_, Danish ballad. 1, 281; 8, 128. _Our gudeman came home at e'en._ 2, 319. _Outlandish Knight._ 2, 272. _Owen of Carron_, Langhorne's. 2, 28. _Owlglass._ 8, 3. _Palace of Pleasure_, Painter's. 1, 5. _Palmerin of England._ 1, 5. _Patient Countess_, 4, 208; Patient Grissel, 4, 207. _Patrañuelo_ of Timoneda. 8, 3. _Pausanias_, a dragon story in. 8, 136. _Peau d'Ane._ 8, 172. _Pecorone._ 8, 45. _Peele's Chronicle Hist. of Ed. I._ 6, 209. _Pennyworth of Wit._ O. B. 2, 215. _Perceforest._ 1, 5. _Perceval._ 1, 4. _Pfalzgraf am Rhein_, German bal. 2, 79. _Phaffe Amis._ 8, 3. _Picture_, Massinger's. 1, 5. _Pilgrim to Compostella_, Southey's. 1, 315. _Prince Edward and Adam Gordon._ 5, 149. Prince Robert. 3, 22; 2, 120. Pr[oe]lium Gillicrankianum. 7, 251. Proud Lady Margaret. 8, 83, 11; 2, 319. _Proud Margaret_, Swedish bal. 1, 179. Provost's Dochter. 4, 292, 180. _Pyramus and Thisbe._ 8, 207. Queen Dido. 8, 207. Queen Eleanor's Confession. 6, 209, 213; 7, 292. Queen Eleanor's Fall. 7, 291; 6, 209. Queen Jeanie. 7, 74, 77. Queen's Marie. 3, 113. _Räthsellieder_, German. 8, 12. Raid of the Reidswire. 6, 129. Rantin Laddie. 4, 97. Rare Willy drown'd in Yarrow. 2, 181. _Rauf Coilzear._ 8, 21. _Ravengaard og Memering_, Danish bal. 3, 234, 241. Reading Skirmish. 7, 243. _Red Etin_, tale of. 1, 245. Reedisdale and Wise William. 8, 87. _Ribolt og Guldborg_, Danish bal. 2, 114. Richie Storie. 8, 255. _Riddar Olle_, (or _Olof_,) Swedish bal. 1, 152. _Ridderen i Fugleham_, Danish bal. 1, 171. Rising in the North. 7, 82; 6, 124. _Ritter Golmi mit der Herzogin auss Britanien_, Hans Sachs's. 3, 242. _Ritter St. Georg_, German legend. 1, 70. _Ritter und das Mägdlein_, German bal. 2, 141. Rob Roy. 6, 202, 257, 258. Robene and Makyne. 4, 245. ROBIN HOOD and Allin-a-Dale. 5, 278. Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne. 5, 159, 428. Robin Hood and his Huntesmen, song. 5, 434. Robin Hood and Little John. 5, 216. Robin Hood and Maid Marian. 5, 372. Robin Hood and Queen Katherine. 5, 312. Robin Hood and the Beggar. 5, 187, 251, 255, 404, 17. Robin Hood and the Bishop. 5, 298. Robin Hood and the Bishop of Hereford. 5, 294. Robin Hood and the Butcher. 5, 33, 17. Robin Hood and the Curtall Fryer. 5, 271, 420. Robin Hood and the Golden Arrow. 5, 383. Robin Hood and the Monk. 5, 1, 128. Robin Hood and the Old Man. 5, 257. Robin Hood and the Peddlers. 5, 243. Robin Hood and the Potter. 5, 17, 33, 43, 188, 420. Robin Hood and the Ranger. 5, 207. Robin Hood and the Scotchman. 5, 418. Robin Hood and the Shepherd. 5, 238. Robin Hood and the Stranger. 5, 404, 39, 188, 418. Robin Hood and the Tanner. 5, 223. Robin Hood and the Tanner's Daughter. 5, 334. Robin Hood and the Tinker. 5, 230. Robin Hood and the Valiant Knight. 5, 338, 308, 382. Robin Hood, Birth of. 5, 392, 170. Robin Hood, _Essay on._ 5, vii. Robin Hood, Lytell Geste of. 5, 42. Robin Hood, Playe of. 5, 420, 428. Robin Hood, rescuing the Three Squires. 5, 267. Robin Hood, rescuing the Widow's Three Sons. 5, 261. Robin Hood's Birth, Breeding, Valour, and Marriage. 5, 343, 125. Robin Hood's Chase. 5, 320. Robin Hood's Death and Burial. 5, 308. Robin Hood's Delight. 5, 211. Robin Hood's Golden Prize. 5, 303. Robin Hood's Preferment. 5, 329. Robin Hood's Progress to Nottingham. 5, 290. Robin Hood's Rescuing Will Stutley. 5, 283. Robin Hood, True Tale of. 5, 353. Robin Hood, Wedding of, and Little John. 5, 184. Robin Hood, Will Scadlock, and Little John. 5, 409. Robyn and Gandelyn. 5, 38. _Robin's Tesment._ 1, 128. _Röfvaren Brun, R. Rymer_, Swedish bal. 2, 272. Rookhope Ryde. 6, 121. _Roman Charity._ O. B. 2, 137; Evans, 3, 296. _Rosamonds Overthrow_, see _Unfortunate Concubine_. _Rose, Lay of the._ 1, 5. Rose the Red and White Lilly. 5, 173, 396. _Rosmer Hafmand_, Danish bal. 1, 253, 245. _Sacchetti's Novels._ 8, 3. Saddle to Rags. 8, 265. _Salomon and Saturn_ (or _Marcolf_). 8, 3. Samson. 8, 201. _St. Cunigund_, legend of. 3, 238. St. George and the Dragon. 1, 69. St. Stephen and Herod. 1, 315. Sang of the Outlaw Murray. 6, 20. _Schloss in Oesterreich_, German bal. 2, 63. _Schön Ulrich u. Rautendelein, S. U. u. Roth-Aennchen_, German bal. 2, 272. _Schöne Hannele_, German bal. 1, 179. _Scottish Squire._ 3, 277. Seven Champions of Christendom. 1, 83. _Shepherd's Son_ = _Baffled Knight_. _Silva Sermonum Jucundissimorum._ 8, 116. [_der_] _Singende Knochen_, German tale. 2, 231. Sir Aldingar. 3, 234. Sir Andrew Barton. 7, 55, 201. Sir Cauline. 3, 173. Sir Eglamore. 8, 196. Sir Guy, Legend of. 1, 61. Sir Hugh. 3, 142, 331, 335. Sir Hugh le Blond. 3, 234, 253. Sir James the Rose. 3, 73. Sir John Suckling's Campaign. 7, 128. Sir Lancelot du Lake. 1, 55. _Sir Niel and Mac Van_ (or _Glengyle_). 8, 260. _Sir Olof in the Elve-Dance_, Swedish bal. 1, 298. Sir Oluf and the Elf-King's Daughter, Danish bal. 1, 298, 192. Sir Patrick Spens. 3, 147, 152, 338. _Sir Peter of Stauffenbergh and the Mermaid._ 1, 298. Sir Richard Whittington's Advancement. 8, 165. Sir Roland. 1, 223. _Sir Stig and Lady Torelild_, Danish bal. 1, 162. _Sir Wal and Lisa Lyle_, Swedish bal. 2, 342. Sir William Wallace. 6, 237. _Skj[oe]n Anna_, Danish bal. 3, 383, 192. _Sleeper Awakened_, tale of. 8, 54. Snake-Cook, German bal. 2, 364. Son Davie. 2, 228, 219. _Song of a Beggar and a King._ 4, 195. _Sorgens Magt_, Swedish bal. 2, 145; 1, 213. _Sövnerunerne_, Danish bal. 1, 131. Spanish Lady's Love. 4, 201. Spanish Virgin. 3, 360. _Speculum Ecclesiæ._ 8, 21. _Speculum Historiale._ 1, 70, 315. _Squire of Tamworth_, see _Golden Glove_. _Staffans Visa_, Swedish carol. 1, 315. _Stepmother_, German bal. 2, 364. _Stolt Ingeborgs Forklædning_, Danish bal. 4, 174. _Stolts Botelid Stalldräng_, Swedish bal. 4, 174. _Stout Cripple of Cornwall._ Evans, 1, 97. Stukely, Life and Death of Thomas. 7, 305. _Südeli_, German bal. 3, 191. Suffolk Miracle. 1, 217. _Sven i Rosengård_, Swedish bal. 2, 347, 219. _Sven Svanehvit_, Swedish bal. 8, 12. _Svend Vonved_, Danish bal. 3, 159; 8, 11. _Sweet Song of an English Merchant._ Evans, 1, 28. Sweet William. 4, 261, 29. Sweet William and May Margaret. 2, 152, 45. Sweet William's Ghost. 2, 145, 45. Sweet Willie (a), 2, 93, 86; (b), 4, 174. Sweet Willie and Fair Annie. 2, 131. Sweet Willie and Fair Maisry. 2, 332, 86. Sweet Willie and Lady Margerie. 2, 53. [_den_] _Talende Strengeleg_, Danish bal. 2, 231. _Tarikh al Wasaf._ 8, 167. Tam-a-Line. 1, 258. Taming of a Shrew. 8, 182, 55. _Tancred and Ghismonda._ 2, 382. _Tancrède_, Voltaire's. 3, 242. _Thom of Lyn._ 1, 114. Thomas of Ersseldoune. 1, 95, 120, 273. Thomas the Rhymer. 1, 109, 120. _Thore och hans Syster_, Swedish bal. 2, 319. _Thorkil Troneson_, Swedish bal. 1, 152. _Three Brothers._ 6, 94. Three Knights. 2, 368. Three Ravens. 3, 59. _Three Sisters._ 8, 18. Tinker's Good Fortune, see Frolicksome Duke. _Titus and Gisippus._ 4, 225. Titus Andronicus's Complaint. 8, 188. _Tobias._ 8, 198. [_der_] _Todte Freier_, German bal. 2, 145. _Todtenhemdchen_, German tale. 1, 213. Tom Linn. 1, 267. _Tom Thumbe, Life and Death of._ Ritson's Anc. Pop. Poetry, p. 111. _Too Courteous Knight_ = _Baffled Knight_. _Tord af Havsgaard_, Danish bal. 8, 139. _Torkild Trundesön_, Danish and Swedish bal. 1, 152. _Tristan._ 1, 4, 152; 2, 119. _Trooper and Fair Maid._ 1, 128. True Tale of Robin Hood. 5, 353. Trumpeter of Fyvie. 2, 201. Turnament of Totenham. 8, 101. Twa Brothers. 2, 219, 353. Twa Corbies. 3, 61. Twa Sisters. 2, 238. _Tyrannical Husband, Ballad of a._ 8, 116. _Ulinger_, German bal. 2, 272. _Ulrich und Aennchen_, German bal. 2, 272. Undaunted Londonderry. 7, 247. _Unfortunate Concubine, or, Rosamond's Overthrow._ 7, 284. Up and war them a' Willie. 7, 264, 156. _Valentine and Ursine_, tale of. Percy, 3, 330. _Vendicatrice_, Italian bal. 2, 392. _Vilain qui conquist Paradis par Plait, fabliau du._ 8, 152. _Von eitel unmöglichen Dingen_, German ballads. 1, 128. _Vorwirth._ German bal. 1, 213. [_die_] _Wahrsagenden Nachtigallen_, Danish bal. 2, 342. _Wallace and his Leman._ 6, 232. Waly, waly, but love be bonny. 4, 132. Wandering Jew. 8, 76. Wandering Prince of Troy. 8, 207. _Wandering Young Gentlewoman_, see _Catskin's Garland_. Wanton Wife of Bath. 8, 152. _Warenston and the Duke of York's Daughter._ 3, 113. Water o' Wearie's Well. 1, 198; 2, 271. _We were Sisters, we were Seven._ 1, 152. Weary Coble o' Cargill. 3, 30; 2, 216. Wedding of Robin Hood and Little John. 5, 184. _Weddynge of Syr Gawen and Dame Ragnell._ 1, 29. Wee, wee Man. 1, 126, 273; 8, 140. West Country Damosel's Complaint. 2, 384. _West Country Wager._ 1, 131. _Wha will bake my bridal bread._ 3, 191. _White Doe of Rylstone_, Wordsworth's. 7, 84. _Widow of Westmoreland._ Kinloch, Bal. Book, p. 1. _Wiedergefundene Königstochter_, German bal. 3, 191. _Wife Lapped in Morel's Skin._ 8, 182. Wife of Auchtirmuchty. 8, 116. _Wife of Bath's Tale._ 1, 29. Wife of Usher's Well. 1, 213; 2, 63. _Wilkinasaga._ 5, 128. William and Marjorie. 2, 149, 45. William Guiseman. 3, 50. _Willie and Annet._ 2, 79, 86. Willie and Lady Maisry. 2, 57. Willie and May Margaret. 2, 171. Willie Mackintosh, or, The Burning of Auchindown. 6, 159. Willie Wallace. 6, 231, 237. Willie's drowned in Gamery. 2, 181. Willie's Ladye. 1, 162. Willow, Willow, Willow. 4, 234. _Willy's drowned in Yarrow._ 8, 228. _Wind hath blown my plaid away._ 1, 277. Winning of Cales. 7, 123. _Wolfdietrich._ 2, 346. Woman Warrior. 7, 257. _Wood o' Warslin._ 2, 220. _Worm of Lambton, Worm of Linton._ 1, 281; 8, 128. _Wylie Wife of the hie Town hie._ Struthers's British Minstrel, 1, xxv. _Xailoun_, tale of. 8, 54. _Young Airly._ 6, 184. Young Akin. 1, 179. _Young Allan_ (taken from Sir Patrick Spens). Buchan, 2, 11. Young Bearwell. 4, 302. Young Beichan and Susie Pye. 4, 1, 253; 1, 282. Young Bekie. 4, 10. Young Benjie. 2, 298. _Young Bondwell._ 4, 2. Young Child Dyring, Danish bal. 4, 265. _Young Cloudeslee._ 5, 124. Young Hastings the Groom. 1, 189; 2, 271. Young Hunting. 3, 295, 3. Young Johnstone. 2, 291. _Young Laird of Ochiltrie._ 4, 109. _Young Prince James._ 2, 78. _Young Ratcliffe._ 7, 165. Young Redin. 3, 13. Young Tamlane. 1, 114. Young Waters. 3, 88, 301; 1, 282; 7, 120. Youth of Rosengord, Swedish bal. 2, 347, 219. _Zauberbecher, Sage vom._ 1, 4. _Zeyn Alasman and the King of the Genii_, tale of. 1, 5. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes [Asterism] represents an asterism (three stars). [gh] represents letter "yogh". [Pointing hand] denotes the symbol of a right pointing hand. Minor changes to regularise ballad line numbering and indentation have been made without comment. The following changes have been made to the text where typographical errors have been corrected. Page iv (Index): corrected "Gentleman" to "Gentlewoman" (The Wandering young Gentlewoman) Page 123 note to line 13: changed "12" to "13" (13. request.) Page 123 Line 30: changed single to double close quotation mark ("Now lets go to't, my own dear honey:") Page 133 Line 121: added missing close quotation mark ("Your words," quoth the dragon, "I don't understand";) Page 144: added closing quotation mark (p. 250 of the same publication.)") Page 153 Line 11: changed single to double opening qoutation mark ("I am the Wife of Bath," she said,) Page 157 Line 112: deleted extraneous closing single quotation mark (As thou thyself hast done.") Page 167 Line 2: changed "Whitttington" to "Whittington" (Of worthy Whittington,) Page 196: deleted unmatched open quotation marks before "in" (This ballad is found in _The Melancholie Knight_) Page 261 Line 28: changed single to double closing quotation mark (For you shall find enough o' ane.") Page 264 Line 100: changed single to double closing quotation mark (He's cure thy wounds right speedily.") Page 270 Line 32: changed "Que'" to "Quo'" (Quo' the wee boy, &c.) Page 279 Line 50: added opening quotation mark ("We'll cross the raging ocean wide,) Page 301: changed "confidentyl" to "confidently" (trestly, _truly_, _confidently_.) Page 306: changed comma to full stop after "Sheriff-Muir" ([Battle of] Sheriff-Muir. 7, 156, 260.) Page 308: changed "rown" to "Brown" (_Brown Robin._ 2, 9. Buchan, 2, 299.) Page 308: added comma after volume number (Constance of Cleveland. 4, 225.) Page 312: changed full stop to comma after ballad name (_Herr Aester ok Fröken Sissa_, Swedish bal. 1, 152.) Page 315: changed comma to full stop after ballad name (_Krone der Königin von Afion_. 1, 16) 
38037	----	generously made available by the Digital & Multimedia Center, Michigan State University Libraries.) Transcriber's Notes Archaic, dialect and inconsistent spellings have been retained as in the original. Other than minor changes to format or punctuation, any changes to the text have been listed at the end of the book. In this Plain Text version of the e-book, symbols from the ASCII and Latin-1 character sets only are used. Italic typeface is indicated by _underscores_. Small caps typeface is represented by UPPER CASE. Superscript characters are indicated by ^{xx}. [OE] and [oe] represent the oe-ligature (upper and lower case). A pointing hand symbol is represented as [hand]. Footnotes are numbered in sequence throughout the book and presented at the end of the section or ballad in which the footnote anchor appears. Notes with reference to ballad line numbers are presented at the end of each ballad. * * * * * ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH BALLADS. EDITED BY FRANCIS JAMES CHILD. VOLUME III. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY. M.DCCC.LX. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857 by LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H.O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. CONTENTS OF VOLUME THIRD. BOOK III. (continued.) Page 11 a. Earl Richard, (A) [Scott's version] 3 11 b. Earl Richard, [Motherwell's version] 10 11 c. Young Redin 13 11 d. Lord William 18 12 a. Prince Robert 22 12 b. Earl Robert 26 13. The Weary Coble o' Cargill 30 14. Old Robin of Portingale 34 15. Fause Foodrage 40 16. Bonnie Annie 47 17. William Guiseman 50 18 a. The Enchanted Ring 53 18 b. Bonny Bee-Ho'm 57 19 a. The Three Ravens 59 19 b. The Twa Corbies, [Scott] 61 20 a. The Dowie Dens of Yarrow 63 20 b. The Braes o' Yarrow 69 21. Sir James the Rose 73 22. Græme and Bewick 77 23. The Lament of the Border Widow 86 24. Young Waters 88 25. Bonnie George Campbell 92 26 a. Lamkin 94 26 b. Lambert Linkin 100 27 a. The Laird of Waristoun, [Jamieson] 107 27 b. Laird of Wariestoun, [Kinloch] 110 28 a. The Queen's Marie 113 28 b. Mary Hamilton 120 29. Bessie Bell and Mary Gray 126 30. The Children in the Wood 128 31 a. Hugh of Lincoln 136 31 b. Sir Hugh 142 31 c. The Jew's Daughter 144 32 a. Sir Patrick Spence, [Percy] 147 32 b. Sir Patrick Spens, [Scott] 152 BOOK IV. 1. King Estmere 159 2. Sir Cauline 173 3 a. Fair Annie, [Scott] 191 3 b. Fair Annie, [Motherwell] 198 4 a. Child Waters 205 4 b. Burd Ellen 213 5 a. Erlinton 220 5 b. The Child of Elle 224 6 a. Sir Aldingar 234 6 b. Sir Hugh le Blond 253 7 a. The Knight, and Shepherd's Daughter 260 7 b. Earl Richard (B) 266 8 a. The Gay Goss-Hawk 277 8 b. The Jolly Goshawk 285 APPENDIX. Young Hunting 295 Young Waters 301 Lammikin 307 Long Lonkin 313 The Laird of Waristoun 316 Mary Hamilton, [Kinloch] 324 Mary Hamilton, [Maidment] 329 Sir Hugh, or The Jew's Daughter, [Motherwell] 331 Sir Hugh, [Hume] 335 Sir Patrick Spens 338 Lord Livingston 343 Clerk Tamas 349 John Thomson and The Turk 352 Lord Thomas Stuart 357 The Spanish Virgin 360 The Lady Isabella's Tragedy 366 The Cruel Black 370 King Malcolm and Sir Colvin 378 Ski[oe]n Anna; Fair Annie 383 Lady Margaret 390 Earl Richard (B) 395 GLOSSARY 403 BOOK III. CONTINUED. EARL RICHARD. A fragment of this gloomy and impressive romance, (corresponding to v. 21-42,) was published in Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 184, from which, probably, it was copied into Pinkerton's _Scottish Tragic Ballads_, p. 84. The entire ballad was first printed in _The Border Minstrelsy_, together with another piece, _Lord William_, containing a part of the same incidents. Of the five versions which have appeared, four are given in this place, and the remaining one in the Appendix. In the _Gentleman's Magazine_, 1794, Vol. 64, Part I. p. 553, there is a modern ballad of extremely perverted orthography and vicious style, (meant for ancient,) in which the twenty lines of Herd's fragment are interwoven with an altogether different story. It is printed as authentic in _Scarce "Ancient" Ballads_, Aberdeen, 1822. "There are two ballads in Mr. Herd's MSS. upon the following story, in one of which the unfortunate knight is termed _Young Huntin'_. [See Appendix.] The best verses are selected from both copies, and some trivial alterations have been adopted from tradition." _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 184. "O Lady, rock never your young son, young, One hour langer for me; For I have a sweetheart in Garlioch Wells, I love far better than thee. "The very sole o' that lady's foot 5 Than thy face is far mair white:" "But, nevertheless, now, Erl Richard, Ye will bide in my bower a' night?" She birled him with the ale and wine, As they sat down to sup: 10 A living man he laid him down, But I wot he ne'er rose up. Then up and spake the popinjay, That flew aboun her head; "Lady! keep weel your green cleiding 15 Frae gude Erl Richard's bleid."-- "O better I'll keep my green cleiding Frae gude Erl Richard's bleid, Than thou canst keep thy clattering toung, That trattles in thy head." 20 She has call'd upon her bower maidens, She has call'd them ane by ane; "There lies a dead man in my bour: I wish that he were gane!" They hae booted him, and spurred him, 25 As he was wont to ride;-- A hunting-horn tied round his waist, A sharpe sword by his side; And they hae had him to the wan water, For a' men call it Clyde.[L30] 30 Then up and spoke the popinjay That sat upon the tree-- "What hae ye done wi' Erl Richard? Ye were his gay ladye."-- "Come down, come down, my bonny bird, 35 And sit upon my hand; And thou sall hae a cage o' gowd, Where thou hast but the wand."-- "Awa! awa! ye ill woman! Nae cage o' gowd for me; 40 As ye hae done to Erl Richard, Sae wad ye do to me." She hadna cross'd a rigg o' land, A rigg but barely ane, When she met wi' his auld father, 45 Came riding all alane. "Where hae ye been, now, ladye fair, Where hae ye been sae late? We hae been seeking Erl Richard, But him we canna get."-- 50 "Erl Richard kens a' the fords in Clyde, He'll ride them ane by ane; And though the night was ne'er sae mirk, Erl Richard will be hame." O it fell anes, upon a day, 55 The King was boun to ride; And he has mist him, Erl Richard, Should hae ridden on his right side. The ladye turn'd her round about, Wi' mickle mournfu' din-- 60 "It fears me sair o' Clyde water, That he is drown'd therein."-- "Gar douk, gar douk," the King he cried, "Gar douk for gold and fee; O wha will douk for Erl Richard's sake, 65 Or wha will douk for me?" They douked in at ae weil-heid, And out aye at the other; "We can douk nae mair for Erl Richard, Although he were our brother." 70 It fell that, in that ladye's castle, The King was boun to bed; And up and spake the popinjay, That flew abune his head. "Leave aff your douking on the day, 75 And douk upon the night; And where that sackless knight lies slain, The candles will burn bright."-- "O there's a bird within this bower, That sings baith sad and sweet; 80 O there's a bird within your bower, Keeps me frae my night's sleep." They left the douking on the day, And douk'd upon the night; And where that sackless knight lay slain, 85 The candles burned bright.[L86] The deepest pot in a' the linn,[L87] They fand Erl Richard in; A green turf tyed across his breast, To keep that gude lord down. 90 Then up and spake the King himsell, When he saw the deadly wound-- "O wha has slain my right-hand man, That held my hawk and hound?"-- Then up and spake the popinjay, 95 Says--"What needs a' this din? It was his light leman took his life, And hided him in the linn." She swore her by the grass sae grene, Sae did she by the corn, 100 She hadna seen him, Erl Richard, Since Moninday at morn. "Put na the wite on me," she said, "It was my may Catherine:" Then they hae cut baith fern and thorn, 105 To burn that maiden in. It wadna take upon her cheik, Nor yet upon her chin; Nor yet upon her yellow hair, To cleanse the deadly sin. 110 The maiden touch'd the clay-cauld corpse, A drap it never bled; The ladye laid her hand on him, And soon the ground was red. Out they hae ta'en her, may Catherine, 115 And put her mistress in; The flame tuik fast upon her cheik, Tuik fast upon her chin; Tuik fast upon her faire body-- She burn'd like hollin-green.[L120] 120 30. _Clyde_, in Celtic, means _white_.--LOCKHART. 86. These are unquestionably the corpse-lights, called in Wales _Canhwyllan Cyrph_, which are sometimes seen to illuminate the spot where a dead body is concealed. The Editor is informed, that, some years ago, the corpse of a man, drowned in the Ettrick, below Selkirk, was discovered by means of these candles. Such lights are common in churchyards, and are probably of a phosphoric nature. But rustic superstition derives them from supernatural agency, and supposes, that, as soon as life has departed, a pale flame appears at the window of the house, in which the person had died, and glides towards the churchyard, tracing through every winding the route of the future funeral, and pausing where the bier is to rest. This and other opinions, relating to the "tomb-fires' livid gleam," seem to be of Runic extraction. SCOTT. 87. The deep holes, scooped in the rock by the eddies of a river, are called _pots_; the motion of the water having there some resemblance to a boiling caldron. _Linn_, means the pool beneath a cataract. SCOTT. 120. The lines immediately preceding, "The maiden touched," &c., and which are restored from tradition, refer to a superstition formerly received in most parts of Europe, and even resorted to by judicial authority, for the discovery of murder. In Germany, this experiment was called _bahrrecht_, or the law of the bier; because, the murdered body being stretched upon a bier, the suspected person was obliged to put one hand upon the wound and the other upon the mouth of the deceased, and, in that posture, call upon heaven to attest his innocence. If, during this ceremony, the blood gushed from the mouth, nose, or wound, a circumstance not unlikely to happen in the course of shifting or stirring the body, it was held sufficient evidence of the guilt of the party. SCOTT. EARL RICHARD. Obtained from recitation by Motherwell, and printed in his _Minstrelsy_, p. 218. Earl Richard is a hunting gone, As fast as he could ride; His hunting-horn hung about his neck, And a small sword by his side. When he came to my lady's gate, 5 He tirled at the pin; And wha was sae ready as the lady hersell To open and let him in? "O light, O light, Earl Richard," she says, "O light and stay a' night; 10 You shall have cheer wi' charcoal clear, And candles burning bright." "I will not light, I cannot light, I cannot light at all; A fairer lady than ten of thee 15 Is waiting at Richard's-wall." He stooped from his milk-white steed, To kiss her rosy cheek; She had a penknife in her hand, And wounded him so deep. 20 "O lie ye there, Earl Richard," she says, "O lie ye there till morn; A fairer lady than ten of me Will think lang of your coming home." She called her servants ane by ane, 25 She called them twa by twa: "I have got a dead man in my bower, I wish he were awa." The ane has ta'en him by the hand, And the other by the feet; 30 And they've thrown him in a deep draw well, Full fifty fathoms deep. Then up bespake a little bird, That sat upon a tree: "Gae hame, gae hame, ye fause lady, 35 And pay your maids their fee." "Come down, come down, my pretty bird, That sits upon the tree; I have a cage of beaten gold, I'll gie it unto thee." 40 "Gae hame, gae hame, ye fause lady, And pay your maids their fee; As ye have done to Earl Richard, Sae wud ye do to me." "If I had an arrow in my hand, 45 And a bow bent on a string; I'd shoot a dart at thy proud heart, Among the leaves sae green." YOUNG REDIN. "From the recitation of Miss E. Beattie, of Edinburgh, a native of Mearnsshire, who sings it to a plaintive, though somewhat monotonous air of one measure."--KINLOCH, _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 1. Young Redin's til the huntin gane, Wi' therty lords and three; And he has til his true-love gane, As fast as he could hie. "Ye're welcome here, my young Redin, 5 For coal and candle licht; And sae are ye, my young Redin, To bide wi' me the nicht." "I thank ye for your licht, ladie, Sae do I for your coal; 10 But there's thrice as fair a ladie as thee Meets me at Brandie's well." Whan they were at their supper set, And merrily drinking wine, This ladie has tane a sair sickness, 15 And til her bed has gane. Young Redin he has followed her, And a dowie man was he; He fund his true-love in her bouer, And the tear was in her ee. 20 Whan he was in her arms laid, And gieing her kisses sweet, Then out she's tane a little penknife, And wounded him sae deep. "O lang, lang, is the winter nicht, 25 And slawly daws the day; There is a slain knicht in my bouer, And I wish he war away." Then up bespak her bouer-woman, And she spak ae wi' spite:-- 30 "An there be a slain knicht in your bouer, It's yoursel that has the wyte." "O heal this deed on me, Meggy, O heal this deed on me; The silks that war shapen for me gen Pasche, They sall be sewed for thee." 35 "O I hae heal'd on my mistress A twalmonth and a day, And I hae heal'd on my mistress, Mair than I can say." 40 They've booted him, and they've spurred him, As he was wont to ride:-- A huntin horn round his neck, And a sharp sword by his side; In the deepest place o' Clyde's water, 45 It's there they've made his bed. Sine up bespak the wylie parrot, As he sat on the tree,-- "And hae ye kill'd him young Redin, Wha ne'er had love but thee!" 50 "Come doun, come doun, ye wylie parrot, Come doun into my hand; Your cage sall be o' the beaten gowd, When now it's but the wand." "I winna come doun, I canna come doun, 55 I winna come doun to thee; For as ye've dune to young Redin, Ye'll do the like to me; Ye'll thraw my head aff my hause-bane, And throw me in the sea." 60 O there cam seekin young Redin, Monie a lord and knicht; And there cam seekin young Redin, Monie a ladie bricht. And they hae til his true-love gane, 65 Thinking he was wi' her; * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "I hae na seen him, young Redin, Sin yesterday at noon; 70 He turn'd his stately steed about, And hied him through the toun. "But ye'll seek Clyde's water up and doun, Ye'll seek it out and in-- I hae na seen him, young Redin, 75 Sin yesterday at noon." Then up bespak young Redin's mither, And a dowie woman was scho;-- "There's na a place in a Clyde's water, But my son wad gae through." 80 They've sought Clyde's water up and doun, They've sought it out and in, And the deepest place o' Clyde's water They fund young Redin in. O white, white, war his wounds washen, 85 As white as a linen clout; But as the traitor she cam near, His wounds they gushed out! "It's surely been my bouer-woman, O ill may her betide; 90 I ne'er wad slain him young Redin, And thrown him in the Clyde." Then they've made a big bane-fire, The bouer-woman to brin; It tuke na on her cheek, her cheek, 95 It tuke na on her chin, But it tuke on the cruel hands That put young Redin in. Then they're tane out the bouer-woman, And put the ladie in: 100 It tuke na on her cheek, her cheek, It tuke na on her chin, But it tuke on the fause, fause arms, That young Redin lay in. LORD WILLIAM. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 23. This ballad was communicated to Sir Walter Scott by Mr. James Hogg, accompanied with the following note:-- "I am fully convinced of the antiquity of this song; for, although much of the language seems somewhat modernized, this must be attributed to its currency, being much liked, and very much sung in this neighbourhood. I can trace it back several generations, but cannot hear of its ever having been in print. I have never heard it with any considerable variation, save that one reciter called the dwelling of the feigned sweet-heart, _Castleswa_." Lord William was the bravest knight That dwalt in fair Scotland, And though renown'd in France and Spain, Fell by a ladie's hand. As she was walking maid alone, 5 Down by yon shady wood, She heard a smit o' bridle reins, She wish'd might be for good. "Come to my arms, my dear Willie, You're welcome hame to me; 10 To best o' cheer and charcoal red,[L11] And candle burning free."-- "I winna light, I darena light, Nor come to your arms at a'; A fairer maid than ten o' you 15 I'll meet at Castle-law."-- "A fairer maid than me, Willie! A fairer maid than me! A fairer maid than ten o' me Your eyes did never see."-- 20 He louted ower his saddle lap, To kiss her ere they part, And wi' a little keen bodkin, She pierced him to the heart. "Ride on, ride on, Lord William now, 25 As fast as ye can dree! Your bonny lass at Castle-law Will weary you to see."-- Out up then spake a bonny bird, Sat high upon a tree,-- 30 "How could you kill that noble lord? He came to marry thee."-- "Come down, come down, my bonny bird, And eat bread aff my hand! Your cage shall be of wiry goud, 35 Whar now it's but the wand."-- "Keep ye your cage o' goud, lady, And I will keep my tree; As ye hae done to Lord William, Sae wad ye do to me."-- 40 She set her foot on her door step, A bonny marble stane, And carried him to her chamber, O'er him to make her mane. And she has kept that good lord's corpse 45 Three quarters of a year, Until that word began to spread; Then she began to fear. Then she cried on her waiting maid, Aye ready at her ca'; 50 "There is a knight into my bower, 'Tis time he were awa."-- The ane has ta'en him by the head, The ither by the feet, And thrown him in the wan water, 55 That ran baith wide and deep. "Look back, look back, now, lady fair, On him that lo'ed ye weel! A better man than that blue corpse Ne'er drew a sword of steel."-- 60 11. _Charcoal red._ This circumstance marks the antiquity of the poem. While wood was plenty in Scotland, charcoal was the usual fuel in the chambers of the wealthy. SCOTT. PRINCE ROBERT Was first published in the _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 269, and was obtained from the recitation of Miss Christian Rutherford. Another copy, also from recitation, is subjoined. Prince Robert has wedded a gay ladye, He has wedded her with a ring: Prince Robert has wedded a gay ladye, But he darna bring her hame. "Your blessing, your blessing, my mother dear! 5 Your blessing now grant to me!"-- "Instead of a blessing ye sall have my curse, And you'll get nae blessing frae me."-- She has call'd upon her waiting-maid, To fill a glass of wine; 10 She has call'd upon her fause steward, To put rank poison in. She has put it to her roudes lip, And to her roudes chin; She has put it to her fause, fause mouth, 15 But the never a drap gaed in. He has put it to his bonny mouth, And to his bonny chin, He's put it to his cherry lip, And sae fast the rank poison ran in. 20 "O ye hae poison'd your ae son, mother, Your ae son and your heir; O ye hae poison'd your ae son, mother, And sons you'll never hae mair. "O where will I get a little boy, 25 That will win hose and shoon, To rin sae fast to Darlinton, And bid fair Eleanor come?"-- Then up and spake a little boy, That wad win hose and shoon,-- 30 "O I'll away to Darlinton, And bid fair Eleanor come."-- O he has run to Darlinton, And tirled at the pin; And wha was sae ready as Eleanor's sell 35 To let the bonny boy in. "Your gude-mother has made ye a rare dinour, She's made it baith gude and fine; Your gude-mother has made ye a gay dinour, And ye maun cum till her and dine."-- 40 It's twenty lang miles to Sillertoun town, The langest that ever were gane: But the steed it was wight, and the ladye was light, And she cam linkin' in. But when she came to Sillertoun town, 45 And into Sillertoun ha', The torches were burning, the ladies were mourning, And they were weeping a'. "O where is now my wedded lord, And where now can he be? 50 O where is now my wedded lord? For him I canna see."-- "Your wedded lord is dead," she says, "And just gane to be laid in the clay: Your wedded lord is dead," she says, 55 "And just gane to be buried the day. "Ye'se get nane o' his gowd, ye'se get nane o' his gear, Ye'se get nae thing frae me; Ye'se no get an inch o' his gude braid land, Though your heart suld burst in three."-- 60 "I want nane o' his gowd, I want nane o' his gear, I want nae land frae thee: But I'll hae the rings that's on his finger, For them he did promise to me."-- "Ye'se no get the rings that's on his finger, 65 Ye'se no get them frae me; Ye'se no get the rings that's on his finger, An your heart suld burst in three."-- She's turn'd her back unto the wa', And her face unto a rock; 70 And there, before the mother's face, Her very heart it broke. The tane was buried in Marie's kirk, The tother in Marie's quair; And out o' the tane there sprang a birk, 75 And out o' the tother a brier. And thae twa met, and thae twa plat, The birk but and the brier; And by that ye may very weel ken They were twa lovers dear. 80 EARL ROBERT. "Given," says Motherwell, "from the recitation of an old woman, a native of Bonhill, in Dumbartonshire; and it is one of the earliest songs she remembers of having heard chanted on the classic banks of the Water of Leaven."--_Minstrelsy_, p. 200. Another copy is noted by the same editor as containing the following stanzas:-- Lord Robert and Mary Florence, They wer twa children ying; They were scarce seven years of age Till luve began to spring. Lord Robert loved Mary Florence, And she lov'd him above power; But he durst not for his cruel mither Bring her intill his bower. * * * * * It's fifty miles to Sittingen's rocks, As ever was ridden or gane; And Earl Robert has wedded a wife, But he dare na bring her hame. _And Earl Robert has wedded a wife_, &c. 5 His mother, she call'd to her waiting-maid: "O bring me a pint of wine, For I dinna weel ken what hour of this day That my son Earl Robert shall dine." She's put it to her fause, fause cheek, But an' her fause, fause chin; 10 She's put it to her fause, fause lips; But never a drap went in. But he's put it to his bonny cheek, Aye and his bonny chin; He's put it to his red rosy lips, 15 And the poison went merrily down. "O where will I get a bonny boy, That will win hose and shoon,-- That will gang quickly to Sittingen's rocks, And bid my lady come?" 20 It's out then speaks a bonny boy, To Earl Robert was something akin: "Many a time have I run thy errand, But this day with the tears I'll rin." O when he cam to Sittingen's rocks, 25 To the middle of a' the ha', There were bells a ringing, and music playing, And ladies dancing a'. "What news, what news, my bonny boy, What news have ye to me? 30 Is Earl Robert in very good health, And the ladies of your countrie?" "O Earl Robert's in very good health, And as weel as a man can be; But his mother this night has a drink to be druken, 35 And at it you must be." She called to her waiting-maid, To bring her a riding weed; And she called to her stable groom, To saddle her milk-white steed. 40 But when she came to Earl Robert's bouir, To the middle of a' the ha', There were bells a ringing and sheets down hinging, And ladies murning a'. "I've come for none of his gold," she said, 45 "Nor none of his white monie; Excepting a ring of his smallest finger, If that you will grant me." "Thou'll no get none of his gold," she said. "Nor none of his white monie; 50 Thou'll no get a ring of his smallest finger, Tho' thy heart should break in three." She set her foot unto a stone, Her back unto a tree; She set her foot unto a stone, 55 And her heart did break in three! The one was buried in Mary's kirk, The other in Mary's quier; Out of the one there grew a bush, From the other a bonnie brier. 60 And thir twa grew, and thir twa threw, Till thir twa craps drew near; So all the world may plainly see That they lov'd each other dear. THE WEARY COBLE O' CARGILL. From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 230. "This local ballad, which commemorates some real event, is given from the recitation of an old woman, residing in the neighbourhood of Cambus Michael, Perthshire. It possesses the elements of good poetry, and, had it fallen into the hands of those who make no scruple of interpolating and corrupting the text of oral song, it might have been made, with little trouble, a very interesting and pathetic composition. "Kercock and Balathy are two small villages on the banks of the Tay; the latter is nearly opposite Stobhall. According to tradition, the ill-fated hero of the ballad had a leman in each of these places; and it was on the occasion of his paying a visit to his Kercock love, that the jealous dame in Balathy Toun, from a revengeful feeling, scuttled the boat in which he was to recross the Tay to Stobhall." MOTHERWELL. David Drummond's destinie, Gude man o' appearance o' Cargill; I wat his blude rins in the flude, Sae sair against his parents' will. She was the lass o' Balathy toun, 5 And he the butler o' Stobhall; And mony a time she wauked late, To bore the coble o' Cargill. His bed was made in Kercock ha', Of gude clean sheets and of the hay; 10 He wudna rest ae nicht therein, But on the prude waters he wud gae. His bed was made in Balathy toun, Of the clean sheets and of the strae; But I wat it was far better made, 15 Into the bottom o' bonnie Tay. She bored the coble in seven pairts, I wat her heart might hae been sae sair; For there she got the bonnie lad lost, Wi' the curly locks and the yellow hair. 20 He put his foot into the boat, He little thocht o' ony ill: But before that he was mid waters, The weary coble began to fill. "Woe be to the lass o' Balathy toun, 25 I wat an ill death may she die; For she bored the coble in seven pairts, And let the waters perish me! "O help, O help I can get nane, Nae help o' man can to me come!" 30 This was about his dying words, When he was choaked up to the chin. "Gae tell my father and my mother, It was naebody did me this ill; I was a-going my ain errands, 35 Lost at the coble o' bonnie Cargill." She bored the boat in seven pairts, I wat she bored it wi' gude will; And there they got the bonnie lad's corpse, In the kirk-shot o' bonnie Cargill. 40 O a' the keys o' bonnie Stobha', I wat they at his belt did hing; But a' the keys of bonnie Stobha', They now ly low into the stream. A braver page into his age 45 Ne'er set a foot upon the plain; His father to his mother said, "O sae sune as we've wanted him! "I wat they had mair luve than this, When they were young and at the scule; 50 But for his sake she wauked late, And bored the coble o' bonnie Cargill. "There's ne'er a clean sark gae on my back, Nor yet a kame gae in my hair; There's neither coal nor candle licht 55 Shall shine in my bouer for ever mair. "At kirk nor market I'se ne'er be at, Nor yet a blythe blink in my ee; There's ne'er a ane shall say to anither, That's the lassie gar'd the young man die." 60 Between the yetts o' bonnie Stobha', And the kirkstyle o' bonnie Cargill, There is mony a man and mother's son That was at my luve's burial. OLD ROBIN OF PORTINGALE. Percy's _Reliques of English Poetry_, iii. 88. "From an ancient copy in the Editor's folio MS., which was judged to require considerable corrections. "In the former edition the hero of this piece had been called Sir Robin, but that title not being in the MS. is now omitted. "Giles, steward to a rich old merchant trading to Portugal, is qualified with the title of _Sir_, not as being a knight, but rather, I conceive, as having received an inferior order of priesthood." PERCY. Let never again soe old a man Marrye soe yonge a wife, As did old Robin of Portingale; Who may rue all the dayes of his life. For the mayors daughter of Lin, God wott 5 He chose her to his wife, And thought with her to have lived in love, But they fell to hate and strife. They scarce were in their wed-bed laid, And scarce was hee asleepe, 10 But upp shee rose, and forth shee goes, To the steward, and gan to weepe. "Sleepe you, wake you, faire Sir Gyles? Or be you not within? Sleepe you, wake you, faire Sir Gyles, 15 Arise and let me inn." "O I am waking, sweete," he said, "Sweete ladye, what is your will?" "I have onbethought me of a wile[L19] How my wed lord weel spill. 20 "Twenty-four good knights," shee sayes, "That dwell about this towne, Even twenty-four of my next cozens Will helpe to dinge him downe." All that beheard his litle footepage, 25 As he watered his masters steed; And for his masters sad perille His verry heart did bleed. He mourned, sighed and wept full sore; I sweare by the holy roode, 30 The teares he for his master wept Were blent water and bloude.[L32] And that beheard his deare master As he stood at his garden pale: Sayes, "Ever alacke, my litle foot-page, 35 What causes thee to wail? "Hath any one done to thee wronge, Any of thy fellowes here? Or is any of thy good friends dead, That thou shedst manye a teare? 40 "Or, if it be my head bookes-man, Aggrieved he shal bee: For no man here within my howse Shall doe wrong unto thee." "O it is not your head bookes-man, 45 Nor none of his degree: But, on to-morrow ere it be noone[L47] All deemed to die are yee: "And of that bethank your head steward, And thank your gay ladye." 50 "If this be true, my litle foot-page, The heyre of my land thoust bee:" "If it be not true, my dear master, No good death let me die:" "If it be not true, thou litle foot-page, 55 A dead corse shalt thou bee. "O call now downe my faire ladye, O call her downe to mee; And tell my ladye gay how sicke, And like to die I bee." 60 Downe then came his ladye faire, All clad in purple and pall: The rings that were on her fingers, Cast light thorrow the hall. "What is your will, my own wed-lord? 65 "What is your will with mee?" "O see, my ladye deere, how sicke, And like to die I bee." "And thou be sicke, my own wed-lord, Soe sore it grieveth me: 70 But my five maydens and myselfe Will make the bedde for thee. "And at the waking of your first sleepe, We will a hott drinke make; And at the waking of your next sleepe,[L75] 75 Your sorrowes we will slake." He put a silk cote on his backe, And mail of manye a fold; And hee putt a steele cap on his head, Was gilt with good red gold. 80 He layd a bright browne sword by his side, And another att his feete: [And twentye good knights he placed at hand, To watch him in his sleepe.] And about the middle time of the night, 85 Came twentye-four traitours inn; Sir Giles he was the foremost man, The leader of that ginn. Old Robin with his bright browne sword, Sir Gyles head soon did winn; 90 And scant of all those twenty-four Went out one quick agenn. None save only a litle foot-page, Crept forth at a window of stone; And he had two armes when he came in, 95 And he went back with one. Upp then came that ladie gaye, With torches burning bright; She thought to have brought Sir Gyles a drinke, Butt she found her owne wedd knight. 100 The first thinge that she stumbled on It was Sir Gyles his foote; Sayes, "Ever alacke, and woe is mee! Here lyes my sweete hart-roote." The next thinge that she stumbled on 105 It was Sir Gyles his heade; Sayes, "Ever alacke, and woe is me! Heere lyes my true love deade." Hee cutt the pappes beside her brest, And didd her body spille; 110 He cutt the eares beside her heade, And bade her love her fille. He called up then up his litle foot-page, And made him there his heyre; And sayd, "Henceforth my worldlye goodes, 115 And countrie I forsweare." He shope the crosse on his right shoulder,[L117] Of the white clothe and the redde,[L118] And went him into the holy land, Wheras Christ was quicke and dead. 120 19, unbethought. MS. 32, blend. 47, or to-morrow. MS. 75, first. 117. Every person who went on a Croisade to the Holy Land usually wore a cross on his upper garment, on the right shoulder, as a badge of his profession. Different nations were distinguished by crosses of different colors: the English wore white, the French red, &c. This circumstance seems to be confounded in the ballad. PERCY. MS. 118, fleshe. FAUSE FOODRAGE. First published in _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 220. "This ballad has been popular in many parts of Scotland. It is chiefly given from Mrs. Brown of Falkland's MSS. The expression, "The boy stared wild like a gray goss-hawk," _v._ 31, strongly resembles that in _Hardyknute_, "Norse e'en like gray goss-hawk stared wild;" a circumstance which led the Editor to make the strictest inquiry into the authenticity of the song. But every doubt was removed by the evidence of a lady of high rank, who not only recollected the ballad, as having amused her infancy, but could repeat many of the verses, particularly those beautiful stanzas from the 20th to the 25th. The Editor is, therefore, compelled to believe, that the author of _Hardyknute_ copied the old ballad, if the coincidence be not altogether accidental." SCOTT. King Easter has courted her for her lands, King Wester for her fee, King Honour for her comely face, And for her fair bodie. They had not been four months married, 5 As I have heard them tell, Until the nobles of the land Against them did rebel. And they cast kevils them amang, And kevils them between; 10 And they cast kevils them amang, Wha suld gae kill the king. O some said yea, and some said nay, Their words did not agree; Till up and got him, Fause Foodrage, 15 And swore it suld be he. When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a' men bound to bed, King Honour and his gay ladye In a high chamber were laid. 20 Then up and raise him, Fause Foodrage, When a' were fast asleep, And slew the porter in his lodge, That watch and ward did keep. O four and twenty silver keys 25 Hang hie upon a pin; And aye as ae door he did unlock, He has fasten'd it him behind. Then up and raise him, King Honour, Says--"What means a' this din? 30 Or what's the matter, Fause Foodrage, Or wha has loot you in?"-- "O ye my errand weel sall learn, Before that I depart."-- Then drew a knife, baith lang and sharp, 35 And pierced him to the heart. Then up and got the Queen hersell, And fell low down on her knee, "O spare my life, now, Fause Foodrage! For I never injured thee. 40 "O spare my life, now, Fause Foodrage! Until I lighter be! And see gin it be lad or lass, King Honour has left me wi'."-- "O gin it be a lass," he says, 45 "Weel nursed it sall be; But gin it be a lad bairn, He sall be hanged hie. "I winna spare for his tender age, Nor yet for his hie, hie kin; 50 But soon as e'er he born is, He sall mount the gallows pin."-- O four-and-twenty valiant knights Were set the Queen to guard; And four stood aye at her bour door, 55 To keep both watch and ward. But when the time drew near an end, That she suld lighter be, She cast about to find a wile, To set her body free. 60 O she has birled these merry young men With the ale but and the wine, Until they were a' deadly drunk As any wild-wood swine. "O narrow, narrow is this window, 65 And big, big am I grown!"-- Yet through the might of Our Ladye, Out at it she is gone. She wander'd up, she wander'd down, She wander'd out and in; 70 And, at last, into the very swine's stythe, The Queen brought forth a son. Then they cast kevils them amang, Which suld gae seek the Queen; And the kevil fell upon Wise William, 75 And he sent his wife for him. O when she saw Wise William's wife, The Queen fell on her knee: "Win up, win up, madam!" she says: "What needs this courtesie?"-- 80 "O out o' this I winna rise, Till a boon ye grant to me; To change your lass for this lad bairn, King Honour left me wi'. "And ye maun learn my gay goss-hawk 85 Right weel to breast a steed; And I sall learn your turtle dow As weel to write and read. "And ye maun learn my gay goss-hawk To wield both bow and brand; 90 And I sall learn your turtle dow To lay gowd wi' her hand. "At kirk and market when we meet, We'll dare make nae avowe, But--'Dame, how does my gay goss-hawk?' 95 'Madame, how does my dow?'" When days were gane, and years came on, Wise William he thought lang; And he has ta'en King Honour's son A-hunting for to gang. 100 It sae fell out, at this hunting, Upon a simmer's day, That they came by a bonny castell, Stood on a sunny brae. "O dinna ye see that bonny castell, 105 Wi' halls and towers sae fair? Gin ilka man had back his ain, Of it you suld be heir." "How I suld be heir of that castell, In sooth, I canna see; 110 For it belangs to Fause Foodrage, And he is na kin to me."-- "O gin ye suld kill him, Fause Foodrage, You would do but what was right; For I wot he kill'd your father dear, 115 Or ever ye saw the light. "And gin ye suld kill him, Fause Foodrage, There is no man durst you blame; For he keeps your mother a prisoner, And she darna take ye hame."-- 120 The boy stared wild like a gray goss-hawk, Says,--"What may a' this mean?" "My boy, ye are King Honour's son, And your mother's our lawful queen." "O gin I be King Honour's son, 125 By our Ladye I swear, This night I will that traitor slay, And relieve my mother dear!"-- He has set his bent bow to his breast, And leaped the castell wa'; 130 And soon he has seized on Fause Foodrage, Wha loud for help 'gan ca'. "O haud your tongue, now, Fause Foodrage, Frae me ye shanna flee;"-- Syne pierced him through the fause, fause heart, 135 And set his mother free. And he has rewarded Wise William Wi' the best half o' his land; And sae has he the turtle dow Wi' the truth o' his right hand. 140 BONNIE ANNIE. From Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 123. "There is a prevalent belief among seafaring people, that if a person who has committed any heinous crime be on ship-board, the vessel, as if conscious of its guilty burden, becomes unmanageable, and will not sail till the offender be removed: to discover whom, they usually resort to the trial of those on board, by casting lots; and the individual upon whom the lot falls, is declared the criminal, it being believed that Divine Providence interposes in this manner to point out the guilty person."--KINLOCH. Motherwell is inclined to think this an Irish ballad, though popular in Scotland. With Bonnie Annie may be compared _Jon Rimaardsöns Skriftemaal_, _Danske Viser_, ii. 220; or, _Herr Peders Sjöresa, Svenska Folk-Visor_, ii. 31, Arwiddson, ii. 5 (translated in _Literature and Romance of Northern Europe_, 276). There was a rich lord, and he lived in Forfar, He had a fair lady, and one only dochter. O she was fair, O dear! she was bonnie, A ship's captain courted her to be his honey. There cam a ship's captain out owre the sea sailing, 5 He courted this young thing till he got her wi' bairn:-- "Ye'll steal your father's gowd, and your mother's money, And I'll mak ye a lady in Ireland bonnie." She's stown her father's gowd and her mother's money, But she was never a lady in Ireland bonnie. 10 * * * * "There's fey fowk in our ship, she winna sail for me, There's fey fowk in our ship, she winna sail for me." They've casten black bullets twice six and forty, And ae the black bullet fell on bonnie Annie. "Ye'll tak me in your arms twa, lo, lift me cannie, 15 Throw me out owre board, your ain dear Annie." He has tane her in his arms twa, lo, lifted her cannie, He has laid her on a bed of down, his ain dear Annie. "What can a woman do, love, I'll do for ye;" "Muckle can a woman do, ye canna do for me.-- Lay about, steer about, lay our ship cannie, 21 Do all you can to save my dear Annie." "I've laid about, steer'd about, laid about cannie, But all I can do, she winna sail for me. Ye'll tak her in your arms twa, lo, lift her cannie, 25 And throw her out owre board, your ain dear Annie." He has tane her in his arms twa, lo, lifted her cannie, He has thrown her out owre board, his ain dear Annie: As the ship sailed, bonnie Annie she swam, And she was at Ireland as soon as them. 30 They made his love a coffin of the gowd sae yellow, And they buried her deep on the high banks of Yarrow.[L32] 32. The last two lines are derived from Motherwell, p. xcix. The text in Kinloch is corrupt, and stands thus:-- He made his love a coffin off the Goats of Yerrow, And buried his bonnie love doun in a sea valley. WILLIAM GUISEMAN. From Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 156. "My name is William Guiseman, In London I do dwell; I have committed murder, And that is known right well; I have committed murder, 5 And that is known right well, And it's for mine offence I must die. "I lov'd a neighbour's dochter, And with her I did lie; I did dissemble with her 10 Myself to satisfy; I did dissemble with her Myself to satisfy, And it's for mine offence I must die. "Sae cunningly's I kept her, 15 Until the fields war toom; Sae cunningly's I trysted her Unto yon shade o' broom; And syne I took my wills o' her, And then I flang her doun, 20 And it's for mine offence I must die. "Sae cunningly's I killed her, Who should have been my wife; Sae cursedly's I killed her, And with my cursed knife; 25 Sae cursedly's I killed her, Who should have been my wife, And it's for mine offence I must die. "Six days she lay in murder, Before that she was found; 30 Six days she lay in murder, Upon the cursed ground; Six days she lay in murder, Before that she was found, And it's for mine offence I must die. 35 "O all the neighbours round about, They said it had been I; I put my foot on gude shipboard, The county to defy; The ship she wadna sail again, 40 But hoisted to and fro, And it's for mine offence I must die. "O up bespak the skipper-boy, I wat he spak too high; 'There's sinful men amongst us, 45 The seas will not obey;' O up bespak the skipper-boy, I wat he spak too high, And it's for mine offence I must die. "O we cuist cavels us amang, 50 The cavel fell on me; O we cuist cavels us amang, The cavel fell on me; O we cuist cavels us amang, The cavel fell on me, 55 And it's for mine offence I must die. "I had a loving mother Who of me took gret care; She wad hae gien the gold sae red, To have bought me from that snare; 60 But the gold could not be granted, The gallows pays a share, And it's for mine offence I must die." THE ENCHANTED RING Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 169. Annexed is a fragment published by Jamieson, under the title of _Bonny Bee-Ho'm_. In Lauderdale I chanc'd to walk, And heard a lady's moan, Lamenting for her dearest dear, And aye she cried, ohon! "Sure never a maid that e'er drew breath 5 Had harder fate than me; I'd never a lad but one on earth, They forc'd him to the sea. "The ale shall ne'er be brewin o' malt, Neither by sea nor land, 10 That ever mair shall cross my hause, Till my love comes to hand. A handsome lad wi' shoulders broad, Gold yellow was his hair; None of our Scottish youths on earth 15 That with him could compare. She thought her love was gone to sea, And landed in Bahome; But he was in a quiet chamber, Hearing his lady's moan. 20 "Why make ye all this moan, lady? Why make ye all this moan? For I'm deep sworn on a book, I must go to Bahome. "Traitors false for to subdue, 25 O'er seas I'll make me boun', That have trepan'd our kind Scotchmen, Like dogs to ding them down." "Weell, take this ring, this royal thing, Whose virtue is unknown; 30 As lang's this ring's your body on, Your blood shall ne'er be drawn. "But if this ring shall fade or stain, Or change to other hue, Come never mair to fair Scotland, 35 If ye're a lover true." Then this couple they did part With a sad heavy moan; The wind was fair, the ship was rare, They landed in Bahome. 40 But in that place they had not been A month but barely one, Till he look'd on his gay gold ring,[L43] And riven was the stone. Time after this was not expir'd 45 A month but scarcely three, Till black and ugly was the ring, And the stone was burst in three.[L48] "Fight on, fight on, you merry men all, With you I'll fight no more; 50 I will gang to some holy place, Pray to the King of Glore." Then to the chapel he is gone, And knelt most piteouslie, For seven days and seven nights, 55 Till blood ran frae his knee. "Ye'll take my jewels that's in Bahome, And deal them liberallie, To young that cannot, and old that mannot, The blind that does not see. 60 "Give maist to women in child-bed laid, Can neither fecht nor flee: I hope she's in the heavens high, That died for love of me." The knights they wrang their white fingers, 65 The ladies tore their hair; The women that ne'er had children born, In swoon they down fell there. But in what way the knight expir'd, No tongue will e'er declare; 70 So this doth end my mournful song, From me ye'll get nae mair. 43, they look'd. 48, And stone. BONNY BEE-HO'M. Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, i. 184, from Mrs. Brown's MS., the interpolations of the editor being omitted. By Arthur's dale as late I went, I heard a heavy moan; I heard a lady lamenting sair. And ay she cried "ohon!" "Ohon, alas! what shall I do, 5 Tormented night and day? I never loved a love but ane, And now he's gone away. "But I will do for my true love What ladies would think sair; 10 For seven years shall come and gae, Ere a kaime gae in my hair. "There shall neither a shoe gae on my foot, Nor a kaime gae in my hair, Nor ever a coal or candle light 15 Shine in my bower nae mair." She thought her love had been on sea, Fast sailing to Bee-Ho'm; But he was still in a quiet chamber, Hearing his lady's moan. 20 "Be hush'd, be hush'd, my lady dear, I pray thee moan not so; For I am deep sworn on a book To Bee-Ho'm for to go." She's gien him a chain o' the beaten goud, 25 And a ring with a ruby stone: "As lang as this chain your body binds, Your blood can never be drawn. "But gin this ring should fade or fail, Or the stone should change its hue, 30 Be sure your love is dead and gone, Or she has proved untrue." * * * * * He had not been at bonny Bee-Ho'm A twelvemonth and a day, Till looking on his gay gold ring, 35 The stone grew dark and gray. "O ye tak my riches to Bee-Ho'm, And deal them presentlie, To the young that canna, the old that manna, The blind that downa see." 40 Now Death has come intill his bower, And split his heart in twain: Sae their twa sauls flew up to heaven, And there shall ever remain. THE THREE RAVENS. From Ritson's _Ancient English Songs_, ii. 53. It is there reprinted from Ravenscroft's _Melismata_, 1611. Another copy follows, taken from Scott's _Minstrelsy_. Motherwell has recast the ballad in modern style, p. 7 of his collection. There were three ravens sat on a tree, _Downe, a downe, hay downe, hay downe_, There were three ravens sat on a tree, _With a downe_, There were three ravens sat on a tree, They were as blacke as they might be, _With a downe, derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe_. The one of them said to his mate, "Where shall we our breakefast take?"-- "Downe in yonder greene field, 5 There lies a knight slain under his shield. "His hounds they lie downe at his feete, So well they their master keepe. "His haukes they flie so eagerly, There's no fowle dare him com nie." 10 Downe there comes a fallow doe, As great with yong as she might goe. She lift up his bloudy hed, And kist his wounds that were so red. She got him up upon her backe, 15 And carried him to earthen lake. She buried him before the prime, She was dead herselfe ere even-song time. God send every gentleman, Such haukes, such houndes, and such a leman. 20 THE TWA CORBIES. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 359. It was communicated to Scott by Mr. Sharpe, as written down, from tradition, by a lady. As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane; The tane unto the t'other say, "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"-- "In behint yon auld fail dyke, 5 I wot there lies a new-slain knight; And naebody kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. "His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk, to fetch the wild-fowl hame, 10 His lady's ta'en another mate, So we may mak our dinner sweet. "Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, And I'll pick out his bonny blue een: Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair 15 We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. "Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sall ken where he is gane: O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair."-- 20 THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 143. "This ballad, which is a very great favourite among the inhabitants of Ettrick Forest, is universally believed to be founded in fact. I found it easy to collect a variety of copies; but very difficult indeed to select from them such a collated edition as might, in any degree, suit the taste of 'these more light and giddy-paced times.' "Tradition places the event, recorded in the song, very early; and it is probable that the ballad was composed soon afterwards, although the language has been gradually modernized, in the course of its transmission to us, through the inaccurate channel of oral tradition. The bard does not relate particulars, but barely the striking outlines of a fact, apparently so well known when he wrote, as to render minute detail as unnecessary as it is always tedious and unpoetical. "The hero of the ballad was a knight of great bravery, called Scott, who is said to have resided at Kirkhope, or Oakwood Castle, and is, in tradition, termed the Baron of Oakwood. The estate of Kirkhope belonged anciently to the Scotts of Harden: Oakwood is still their property, and has been so from time immemorial. The Editor was, therefore, led to suppose that the hero of the ballad might have been identified with John Scott, sixth son of the Laird of Harden, murdered in Ettrick Forest by his kinsmen, the Scotts of Gilmanscleugh. (See notes to _Jamie Telfer_.) This appeared the more probable, as the common people always affirm that this young man was treacherously slain, and that, in evidence thereof, his body remained uncorrupted for many years; so that even the roses on his shoes seemed as fresh as when he was first laid in the family vault at Hassendean. But from a passage in Nisbet's Heraldry, he now believes the ballad refers to a duel fought at Deucharswyre, of which Annan's Treat is a part, betwixt John Scott of Tushielaw and his brother-in-law, Walter Scott, third son of Robert of Thirlestane, in which the latter was slain. "In ploughing Annan's Treat, a huge monumental stone, with an inscription, was discovered; but being rather scratched than engraved, and the lines being run through each other, it is only possible to read one or two Latin words. It probably records the event of the combat. The person slain was the male ancestor of the present Lord Napier. "Tradition affirms, that the hero of the song (be he who he may) was murdered by the brother, either of his wife or betrothed bride. The alleged cause of malice was the lady's father having proposed to endow her with half of his property, upon her marriage with a warrior of such renown. The name of the murderer is said to have been Annan, and the place of combat is still called Annan's Treat. It is a low muir, on the banks of the Yarrow, lying to the west of Yarrow Kirk. Two tall unhewn masses of stone are erected, about eighty yards distant from each other; and the least child, that can herd a cow, will tell the passenger, that there lie 'the two lords, who were slain in single combat.' "It will be, with many readers, the greatest recommendation of these verses, that they are supposed to have suggested to Mr. Hamilton of Bangour, the modern ballad, beginning, 'Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride.' "A fragment, apparently regarding the story of the following ballad, but in a different measure, occurs in Mr. Herd's MS., and runs thus:-- 'When I look east, my heart is sair, But when I look west, it's mair and mair; For then I see the braes o' Yarrow, And there, for aye, I lost my marrow.'" We have added an uncollated copy from Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_. Another is furnished by Motherwell, _Minstrelsy_, p. 252. Some of Scott's verses are also found in Herd's fragment, (_Scottish Songs_, i. 202,) and Buchan's _Haughs o' Yarrow_, ii. 211. _The Dowy Den_, in Evans's collection, iii. 342, is the _caput mortuum_ of this spirited ballad. Late at e'en, drinking the wine, And ere they paid the lawing, They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawing. "O stay at hame, my noble lord, 5 O stay at hame, my marrow! My cruel brother will you betray On the dowie houms of Yarrow."-- "O fare ye weel, my ladye gaye! O fare ye weel, my Sarah! 10 For I maun gae, though I ne'er return Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow." She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, As oft she had done before, O; She belted him with his noble brand, 15 And he's away to Yarrow. As he gaed up the Tennies bank,[L17] I wot he gaed wi' sorrow, Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm'd men, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 20 "O come ye here to part your land, The bonnie Forest thorough? Or come ye here to wield your brand, On the dowie houms of Yarrow?"-- "I come not here to part my land, 25 And neither to beg nor borrow; I come to wield my noble brand, On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. "If I see all, ye're nine to ane; And that's an unequal marrow; 30 Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, On the bonnie banks of Yarrow." Four has he hurt, and five has slain, On the bloody braes of Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him behind, 35 And ran his body thorough. "Gae hame, gae hame, good-brother John, And tell your sister Sarah, To come and lift her leafu' lord; He's sleepin sound on Yarrow."-- 40 "Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream; I fear there will be sorrow! I dream'd I pu'd the heather green, Wi' my true love, on Yarrow. "O gentle wind, that bloweth south, 45 From where my love repaireth, Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, And tell me how he fareth! "But in the glen strive armed men; They've wrought me dole and sorrow; 50 They've slain--the comeliest knight they've slain-- He bleeding lies on Yarrow." As she sped down yon high high hill, She gaed wi' dole and sorrow, And in the den spied ten slain men, 55 On the dowie banks of Yarrow. She kissed his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, She searched his wounds all thorough, She kiss'd them, till her lips grew red, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 60 "Now haud your tongue, my daughter dear! For a' this breeds but sorrow; I'll wed ye to a better lord, Than him ye lost on Yarrow."-- "O haud your tongue, my father dear! 65 Ye mind me but of sorrow; A fairer rose did never bloom Than now lies cropp'd on Yarrow." 17. _The Tennies_ is the name of a farm of the Duke of Buccleuch's, a little below Yarrow Kirk. THE BRAES O' YARROW. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 203. Repeated in the xviith volume of the Percy Society Publications. Ten lords sat drinking at the wine, Intill a morning early; There fell a combat them among, It must be fought,--nae parly. "O stay at hame, my ain gude lord, 5 O stay, my ain dear marrow." "Sweetest min', I will be thine, And dine wi' you to-morrow." She's kiss'd his lips, and comb'd his hair, As she had done before, O; 10 Gied him a brand down by his side, And he is on to Yarrow. As he gaed ower yon dowie knowe, As aft he'd dune before, O; Nine armed men lay in a den, 15 Upo' the braes o' Yarrow. "O came ye here to hunt or hawk, As ye hae dune before, O? Or came ye here to wiel' your brand, Upo' the braes o' Yarrow?" 20 "I came na here to hunt nor hawk, As I hae dune before, O; But I came here to wiel' my brand, Upon the braes o' Yarrow." Four he hurt, and five he slew, 25 Till down it fell himsell, O; There stood a fause lord him behin', Who thrust him thro' body and mell, O. "Gae hame, gae hame, my brother John, And tell your sister sorrow; 30 Your mother to come take up her son, Aff o' the braes o' Yarrow." As he gaed ower yon high, high hill, As he had dune before, O; There he met his sister dear, 35 Came rinnin fast to Yarrow. "I dreamt a dream last night," she says, "I wish it binna sorrow; I dreamt I was pu'ing the heather green,[L39] Upo' the braes o' Yarrow." 40 "I'll read your dream, sister," he says, "I'll read it into sorrow; Ye're bidden gae take up your love, He's sleeping sound on Yarrow." She's torn the ribbons frae her head, 45 They were baith thick and narrow; She's kilted up her green claithing, And she's awa' to Yarrow. She's taen him in her arms twa, And gien him kisses thorough, 50 And wi' her tears she bath'd his wounds, Upo' the braes o' Yarrow. Her father looking ower his castle wa', Beheld his daughter's sorrow; "O had your tongue, daughter," he says, 55 "And let be a' your sorrow, I'll wed you wi' a better lord, Than he that died on Yarrow." "O had your tongue, father," she says, "And let be till to-morrow; 60 A better lord there cou'dna be Than he that died on Yarrow." She kiss'd his lips, and comb'd his hair, As she had dune before, O; Then wi' a crack her heart did brack, 65 Upon the braes o' Yarrow. 39. To dream of any thing green is regarded in Scotland as unlucky. SIR JAMES THE ROSE. Pinkerton first published this piece in his _Scottish Tragic Ballads_, p. 61. In a note, it is said to have been taken "from a modern edition in one sheet, 12mo. after the old copy." Motherwell gives another version "as it occurs in early stall prints," (_Minstrelsy_, p. 321,) and suspects a few conjectural emendations in Pinkerton's text. The passage from v. 51 to v. 59 is apparently defective, and has, probably, been tampered with; but Pinkerton's copy is on the whole much better than Motherwell's, or than Whitelaw's, (_Scottish Ballads_, 39,) which professes to be given chiefly from oral recitations. Michael Bruce's _Sir James the Rose_ will be found in another part of this collection. In Caw's _Museum_ (p. 290) is a ballad in the worst possible taste, styled _Elfrida and Sir James of Perth_, which seems to be a mere disfiguration of Bruce's. O heard ye o' Sir James the Rose, The young heir o' Buleighan? For he has kill'd a gallant squire, Whase friends are out to tak him. Now he has gane to the house o' Mar, 5 Whar nane might seik to find him; To see his dear he did repair, Weining she wold befreind him. "Whar are ye gaing Sir James," she said, "O whar awa are ye riding?" 10 "I maun be bound to a foreign land, And now I'm under hiding. "Whar sall I gae, whar sall I rin, Whar sall I rin to lay me? For I ha kill'd a gallant squire, 15 And his friends seik to slay me." "O gae ye down to yon laigh house, I sall pay there your lawing; And as I am your leman trew, I'll meet ye at the dawing." 20 He turned him richt and round about, And rowd him in his brechan: And laid him doun to tak a sleip, In the lawlands o' Buleighan. He was nae weil gane out o' sicht, 25 Nor was he past Milstrethen, Whan four and twenty belted knichts Cam riding owr the Leathen. "O ha ye seen Sir James the Rose, The young heir o' Buleighan? 30 For he has kill'd a gallant squire, And we are sent to tak him." "Yea, I ha seen Sir James," she said, "He past by here on Monday; Gin the steed be swift that he rides on, 35 He's past the Hichts of Lundie." But as wi speid they rade awa, She leudly cryd behind them; "Gin ye'll gie me a worthy meid, I'll tell ye whar to find him." 40 "O tell fair maid, and on our band, Ye'se get his purse and brechan." "He's in the bank aboon the mill, In the lawlands o' Buleighan." Than out and spak Sir John the Graham, 45 Who had the charge a keiping, "It's neer be said, my stalwart feres, We kill'd him whan a sleiping." They seized his braid sword and his targe, And closely him surrounded: 50 "O pardon! mercy! gentlemen," He then fou loudly sounded. "Sic as ye gae, sic ye sall hae, Nae grace we shaw to thee can." "Donald my man, wait till I fa, 55 And ye sall hae my brechan; Ye'll get my purse thouch fou o' gowd To tak me to Loch Lagan." Syne they take out his bleiding heart, And set it on a speir; 60 Then tuke it to the house o' Mar, And shawd it to his deir. "We cold nae gie Sir James's purse, We cold nae gie his brechan; But ye sall ha his bleeding heart, 65 Bot and his bleeding tartan." "Sir James the Rose, O for thy sake My heart is now a breaking, Curs'd be the day I wrocht thy wae, Thou brave heir of Buleighan!" 70 Then up she raise, and furth she gaes, And, in that hour o' tein, She wanderd to the dowie glen, And nevir mair was sein. GRÆME AND BEWICK. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 69. A single improved reading is adopted from a Newcastle chap-book. "Given, in the first edition, from the recitation of a gentleman, who professed to have forgotten some verses. These have, in the present edition, been partly restored, from a copy obtained by the recitation of an ostler in Carlisle, which has also furnished some slight alterations." "The ballad is remarkable, as containing, probably, the very latest allusion to the institution of brotherhood in arms, which was held so sacred in the days of chivalry, and whose origin may be traced up to the Scythian ancestors of Odin." SCOTT. Gude Lord Græme is to Carlisle gane, Sir Robert Bewick there met he, And arm in arm to the wine they did go, And they drank till they were baith merrie. Gude Lord Græme has ta'en up the cup, 5 "Sir Robert Bewick, and here's to thee! And here's to our twae sons at hame! For they like us best in our ain countrie."-- "O were your son a lad like mine, And learn'd some books that he could read, 10 They might hae been twae brethren bauld, And they might hae bragged the Border side. "But your son's a lad, and he is but bad, And billie to my son he canna be;" * * * * "I sent him to the schools, and he wadna learn;[L15] 15 I bought him books, and he wadna read;[L16] But my blessing shall he never earn, Till I see how his arm can defend his head."-- Gude Lord Græme has a reckoning call'd, A reckoning then called he; 20 And he paid a crown, and it went roun', It was all for the gude wine and free.[L22] And he has to the stable gane, Where there stude thirty steeds and three; He's ta'en his ain horse amang them a', 25 And hame he rade sae manfullie. "Welcome, my auld father!" said Christie Græme, "But where sae lang frae hame were ye?"-- "It's I hae been at Carlisle town, And a baffled man by thee I be. 30 "I hae been at Carlisle town, Where Sir Robert Bewick, he met me; He says ye're a lad, and ye are but bad, And billie to his son ye canna be. "I sent ye to the schools, and ye wadna learn; 35 I bought ye books, and ye wadna read; Therefore my blessing ye shall never earn, Till I see with Bewick thou save thy head." "Now, God forbid, my auld father, That ever sic a thing suld be! 40 Billie Bewick was my master, and I was his scholar,[L41] And aye sae weel as he learned me." "O hald thy tongue, thou limmer loon, And of thy talking let me be! If thou does na end me this quarrel soon, 45 There is my glove, I'll fight wi' thee." Then Christie Græme he stooped low Unto the ground, you shall understand;-- "O father, put on your glove again, The wind has blown it from your hand?" 50 "What's that thou says, thou limmer loon? How dares thou stand to speak to me? If thou do not end this quarrel soon, There's my right hand thou shalt fight with me."-- Then Christie Græme's to his chamber gane, 55 To consider weel what then should be; Whether he should fight with his auld father, Or with his billie Bewick, he. "If I suld kill my billie dear, God's blessing I shall never win; 60 But if I strike at my auld father, I think 'twald be a mortal sin. "But if I kill my billie dear, It is God's will, so let it be; But I make a vow, ere I gang frae hame, 65 That I shall be the next man's die."-- Then he's put on's back a gude auld jack, And on his head a cap of steel, And sword and buckler by his side; O gin he did not become them weel! 70 We'll leave off talking of Christie Græme, And talk of him again belive; And we will talk of bonny Bewick, Where he was teaching his scholars five. When he had taught them well to fence, 75 And handle swords without any doubt, He took his sword under his arm, And he walk'd his father's close about. He look'd atween him and the sun, And a' to see what there might be, 80 Till he spied a man in armour bright, Was riding that way most hastilie. "O wha is yon, that came this way, Sae hastilie that hither came? I think it be my brother dear, 85 I think it be young Christie Græme. "Ye're welcome here, my billie dear, And thrice ye're welcome unto me!"-- "But I'm wae to say, I've seen the day, When I am come to fight wi' thee. 90 "My father's gane to Carlisle town, Wi' your father Bewick there met he: He says I'm a lad, and I am but bad, And a baffled man I trow I be. "He sent me to schools, and I wadna learn; 95 He gae me books, and I wadna read; Sae my father's blessing I'll never earn, Till he see how my arm can guard my head." "O God forbid, my billie dear, That ever such a thing suld be! 100 We'll take three men on either side, And see if we can our fathers agree." "O hald thy tongue, now, billie Bewick, And of thy talking let me be! But if thou'rt a man, as I'm sure thou art, 105 Come o'er the dyke, and fight wi' me." "But I hae nae harness, billie, on my back,[L107] As weel I see there is on thine."-- "But as little harness as is on thy back, As little, billie, shall be on mine."-- 110 Then he's thrown aff his coat o' mail, His cap of steel away flung he; He stuck his spear into the ground, And he tied his horse unto a tree. Then Bewick has thrown aff his cloak, 115 And's psalter-book frae's hand flung he; He laid his hand upon the dyke, And ower he lap most manfullie. O they hae fought for twae lang hours; When twae lang hours were come and gane, 120 The sweat drapp'd fast frae aff them baith, But a drap of blude could not be seen. Till Græme gae Bewick an ackward stroke, Ane ackward stroke strucken sickerlie; He has hit him under the left breast, 125 And dead-wounded to the ground fell he. "Rise up, rise up, now, billie dear, Arise and speak three words to me! Whether thou's gotten thy deadly wound, Or if God and good leeching may succour thee?" 130 "O horse, O horse, now, billie Græme, And get thee far from hence with speed; And get thee out of this country, That none may know who has done the deed."-- "O I have slain thee, billie Bewick, 135 If this be true thou tellest to me; But I made a vow, ere I came frae hame, That aye the next man I wad be." He has pitch'd his sword in a moodie-hill, And he has leap'd twenty lang feet and three, 140 And on his ain sword's point he lap, And dead upon the ground fell he. 'Twas then came up Sir Robert Bewick, And his brave son alive saw he; "Rise up, rise up, my son," he said, 145 "For I think ye hae gotten the victorie." "O hald your tongue, my father dear, Of your prideful talking let me be! Ye might hae drunken your wine in peace, And let me and my billie be. 150 "Gae dig a grave, baith wide and deep, And a grave to hald baith him and me; But lay Christie Græme on the sunny side, For I'm sure he wan the victorie." "Alack! a wae!" auld Bewick cried, 155 "Alack! was I not much to blame? I'm sure I've lost the liveliest lad That e'er was born unto my name." "Alack! a wae!" quo' gude Lord Græme, "I'm sure I hae lost the deeper lack! 160 I durst hae ridden the Border through, Had Christie Græme been at my back. "Had I been led through Liddesdale, And thirty horsemen guarding me, And Christie Græme been at my back, 165 Sae soon as he had set me free! "I've lost my hopes, I've lost my joy, I've lost the key but and the lock; I durst hae ridden the world round, Had Christie Græme been at my back." 170 15, Scott, Ye sent; 16, Ye bought. 22. Newcastle C. B., and hay. 41, 42. Shall I venture my body in field to fight With a man that's faith and troth to me? N. C. B. 107-118. Instead of this passage, the Newcastle copy has the following stanzas:-- He flang his cloak from off his shoulders, His psalm-book from his pouch flang he, He clapped his hand upon the hedge, And o'er lap he right wantonly. When Graham did see his bully come, The salt tears stood long in his ee; "Now needs must I say thou art a man, That dare venture thy body to fight with me. "Nay, I have a harness on my back; I know that thou hast none on thine; But as little as thou hast on thy back, As little shall there be on mine." He flang his jacket from off his back, His cap of steel from his head flang he; He's taken his spear into his hand, He's ty'd his horse unto a tree. THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 94. This fragment was obtained from recitation in Ettrick Forest, where it is said to refer to the execution of Cockburne, of Henderland, a freebooter, hanged by James V. over the gate of his own tower. There is another version in Johnson's _Museum_, (_Oh Ono Chrio_, p. 90,) which, Dr. Blacklock informed Burns, was composed on the massacre of Glencoe. But in fact, these verses seem to be, as Motherwell has remarked, only a portion (expanded, indeed,) of _The Famous Flower of Serving Men_: see vol. iv. p. 174. There are some verbal differences between Scott's copy and the one in Chambers's _Scottish Songs_, i. 174. My love he built me a bonny bower, And clad it a' wi' lilye flour, A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, Than my true love he built for me. There came a man, by middle day, 5 He spied his sport, and went away; And brought the King that very night, Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. He slew my knight, to me sae dear; He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear; 10 My servants all for life did flee, And left me in extremitie. I sew'd his sheet, making my mane; I watch'd the corpse, myself alane; I watch'd his body, night and day; 15 No living creature came that way. I tuk his body on my back, And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat; I digg'd a grave, and laid him in, And happ'd him with the sod sae green. 20 But think na ye my heart was sair, When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair; O think na ye my heart was wae, When I turn'd about, away to gae? Nae living man I'll love again, 25 Since that my lovely knight is slain; Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair I'll chain my heart for ever mair. YOUNG WATERS. First published on an octavo sheet, by Lady Jean Home, about the middle of the last century, and from this copy reprinted in Percy's _Reliques_, (ii. 227.) Buchan has a version (i. 15) twenty-five stanzas longer than the present, which is given in our Appendix. This ballad has been supposed to refer to the fate of the Earl of Murray, (see _post_, _The Bonny Earl of Murray_.) The additional circumstances furnished by Buchan's copy, however, have led Chambers to suggest that the unfortunate hero was Walter Stuart, second son of the Duke of Albany. In support of his conjecture, he adduces "the name, which may be a corruption of Walter; the mention of the Heading (beheading) Hill of Stirling, which is known to have been the very scene of Walter Stuart's execution; the relationship which Young Waters claims with the king; and the sympathy expressed by the people, in the last verse, for the fate of the young knight, which exactly tallies with what is told us by the Scottish historians, regarding the popular feeling expressed in favour of the numerous nobles and princes of his own blood, whom the king saw it necessary to sacrifice." We do not consider these coincidences sufficient to establish the historical character of the piece. About Zule, quhen the wind blew cule, And the round tables began, A'! there is cum to our kings court Mony a well-favourd man. The queen luikt owre the castle wa', 5 Beheld baith dale and down, And then she saw zoung Waters Cum riding to the town. His footmen they did rin before, His horsemen rade behind; 10 Ane mantel of the burning gowd Did keip him frae the wind. Gowden graith'd his horse before, And siller shod behind; The horse zoung Waters rade upon 15 Was fleeter than the wind. But then spake a wylie lord, Unto the queen said he: "O tell me quha's the fairest face Rides in the company?" 20 "I've sene lord, and I've sene laird, And knights of high degree, Bot a fairer face than zoung Waters Mine eyne did never see." Out then spaek the jealous king 25 (And an angry man was he): "O if he had been twice as fair, Zou micht have excepted me." "Zou're neither laird nor lord," she says, "Bot the king that wears the crown; 30 There is not a knight in fair Scotland, Bot to thee maun bow down." For a' that she could do or say, Appeasd he wade nae bee; Bot for the words which she had said, 35 Zoung Waters he maun dee. They hae taen zoung Waters, and Put fetters to his feet; They hae taen zoung Waters, and Thrown him in dungeon deep. 40 "Aft I have ridden thro' Stirling town, In the wind bot and the weit; Bot I neir rade thro' Stirling town Wi' fetters at my feet. "Aft have I ridden thro' Stirling town, 45 In the wind bot and the rain; Bot I neir rade thro' Stirling town Neir to return again." They hae taen to the heiding-hill His zoung son in his craddle; 50 And they hae taen to the heiding-hill His horse bot and his saddle. They hae taen to the heiding-hill His lady fair to see; And for the words the queen had spoke 55 Zoung Waters he did dee. BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL. Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 44. This, says Motherwell, "is probably a lament for one of the adherents of the house of Argyle, who fell in the battle of Glenlivat, stricken on Thursday, the third day of October, 1594 years." It is printed, somewhat differently, in Smith's _Scottish Minstrel_, v. 42. Finlay gives eight lines of this ballad in the Preface to his first volume, p. xxxiii. Hie upon Hielands, And low upon Tay, Bonnie George Campbell Rade out on a day. Saddled and bridled 5 And gallant rade he; Hame cam his gude horse, But never cam he! Out cam his auld mither Greeting fu' sair, 10 And out cam his bonnie bride Rivin' her hair. Saddled and bridled And booted rade he; Toom hame cam the saddle, 15 But never cam he! "My meadow lies green, And my corn is unshorn; My barn is to big, And my babie's unborn." 20 Saddled and bridled And booted rade he; Toom hame cam the saddle, But never cam he! LAMKIN. The following is believed to be a correct account of the various printed forms of this extremely popular ballad. In the second edition of Herd's _Scottish Songs_ (1776) appeared a fragment of eighteen stanzas, called _Lammikin_, embellished in a puerile style by some modern hand. Jamieson published the story in a complete and authentic shape in his _Popular Ballads_, in 1806. Finlay's collection (1808) furnishes us with two more copies, the first of which (ii. 47) is made up in part of Herd's fragment, and the second (ii. 57) taken from a MS. "written by an old lady." Another was given, from recitation, in Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, (1827,) with the more intelligible title of _Lambert Linkin_. An English fragment, called _Long Lonkin_, taken down from the recitation of an old woman, is said to have been inserted by Miss Landon, in the _Drawing-Room Scrap-Book_, for 1837. This was republished in Richardson's _Borderer's Table-Book_, 1846, vol. viii. 410, and the editor of that miscellany, who ought to have learned to be skeptical in such matters, urges the circumstantial character of local tradition as strong evidence that the real scene of the cruel history was in Northumberland. Lastly, we have to note a version resembling Motherwell's, styled _Bold Rankin_, printed in _A New Book of Old Ballads_, (p. 73,) and in Whitelaw's _Book of Scottish Ballads_, (p. 246,) and an imperfect ballad (_Long Lankyn_) in _Notes and Queries_, New Series, ii. 324. We have printed Jamieson's, Motherwell's, the longer of Finlay's versions, and the English fragment: the last two in the Appendix. The following is from Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, i. 176. "This piece was transmitted to the Editor by Mrs. Brown." "O pay me now, Lord Wearie; Come, pay me out o' hand." "I canna pay you, Lamkin, Unless I sell my land." "O gin ye winna pay me, 5 I here sall mak a vow, Before that ye come hame again, Ye sall ha'e cause to rue." Lord Wearie got a bonny ship, To sail the saut sea faem; 10 Bade his lady weel the castle keep, Ay till he should come hame. But the nourice was a fause limmer As e'er hung on a tree; She laid a plot wi' Lamkin, 15 Whan her lord was o'er the sea. She laid a plot wi' Lamkin, When the servants were awa'; Loot him in at a little shot window, And brought him to the ha'. 20 "O whare's a' the men o' this house, That ca' me Lamkin?" "They're at the barn well thrashing, 'Twill be lang ere they come in." "And whare's the women o' this house, 25 That ca' me Lamkin?" "They're at the far well washing; 'Twill be lang ere they come in." "And whare's the bairns o' this house, That ca' me Lamkin?" 30 "They're at the school reading; 'Twill be night or they come hame." O whare's the lady o' this house, That ca's me Lamkin?" "She's up in her bower sewing, 35 But we soon can bring her down." Then Lamkin's tane a sharp knife, That hang down by his gaire, And he has gi'en the bonny babe A deep wound and a sair. 40 Then Lamkin he rocked, And the fause nourice sang, Till frae ilkae bore o' the cradle The red blood out sprang. Then out it spak the lady, 45 As she stood on the stair, "What ails my bairn, nourice, That he's greeting sae sair? "O still my bairn, nourice; O still him wi' the pap!" 50 "He winna still, lady, For this, nor for that." "O still my bairn, nourice; "O still him wi' the wand!" "He winna still, lady, 55 For a' his father's land." "O still my bairn, nourice, O still him wi' the bell!" "He winna still, lady, Till ye come down yoursel." 60 O the firsten step she steppit, She steppit on a stane; But the neisten step she steppit, She met him, Lamkin. "O mercy, mercy, Lamkin! 65 Ha'e mercy upon me! Though you've ta'en my young son's life, Ye may let mysel be." "O sall I kill her, nourice? Or sall I lat her be?" 70 "O kill her, kill her, Lamkin, For she ne'er was good to me." "O scour the bason, nourice, And mak it fair and clean, For to keep this lady's heart's blood, 75 For she's come o' noble kin." "There need nae bason, Lamkin; Lat it run through the floor; What better is the heart's blood O' the rich than o' the poor?" 80 But ere three months were at an end, Lord Wearie came again; But dowie dowie was his heart When first he came hame. "O wha's blood is this," he says, 85 "That lies in the châmer?" "It is your lady's heart's blood; 'Tis as clear as the lamer." "And wha's blood is this," he says, "That lies in my ha'?" 90 "It is your young son's heart's blood; 'Tis the clearest ava." O sweetly sang the black-bird That sat upon the tree; But sairer grat Lamkin, 95 When he was condemn'd to die. And bonny sang the mavis Out o' the thorny brake; But sairer grat the nourice, When she was tied to the stake. 100 LAMBERT LINKIN. "The present copy is given from recitation, and though it could have received additions, and perhaps improvements, from another copy, obtained from a similar source, and of equal authenticity, in his possession, the Editor did not like to use a liberty which is liable to much abuse. To some, the present set of the ballad may be valuable, as handing down both name and nickname of the revengeful builder of Prime Castle; for there can be little doubt that the epithet _Linkin_ Mr. Lambert acquired from the secrecy and address with which he insinuated himself into that notable strength. Indeed, all the names of Lammerlinkin, Lammikin, Lamkin, Lankin, Linkin, Belinkin, can easily be traced out as abbreviations of Lambert Linkin. In the present set of the ballad, Lambert Linkin and Belinkin are used indifferently, as the measure of the verse may require; in the other recited copy, to which reference has been made, it is Lammerlinkin and Lamkin; and the nobleman for whom he "built a house" is stated to be "Lord Arran." No allusion, however, is made here to the name of the owner of Prime Castle. Antiquaries, peradventure, may find it as difficult to settle the precise locality of this fortalice, as they have found it to fix the topography of Troy." Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 291. In Finlay's second copy, the murderer's name is Balcanqual, "which," observes the editor, "is an ancient Scottish surname, and is sometimes corrupted, for the more agreeable sound, into Beluncan." It is more likely that Belinkin has suggested Balcanqual, than that Balcanqual has been corrupted into Lamkin. Belinkin was as gude a mason As e'er pickt a stane; He built up Prime Castle, But payment gat nane. The lord said to his lady, 5 When he was going abroad, "O beware of Belinkin, For he lyes in the wood." The gates they were bolted, Baith outside and in; 10 At the sma' peep of a window Belinkin crap in. "Gude morrow, gude morrow," Said Lambert Linkin. "Gude morrow to yoursell, sir," 15 Said the fause nurse to him. "O whare is your gude lord?" Said Lambert Linkin. "He's awa to New England, To meet with his king." 20 "O where is his auld son?" Said Lambert Linkin. "He's awa to buy pearlings, Gin our lady ly in." "Then she'll never wear them," 25 Said Lambert Linkin. "And that is nae pity," Said the fause nurse to him. "O where is your lady?" Said Lambert Linkin. 30 "She's in her bouir sleepin'," Said the fause nurse to him. "How can we get at her?" Said Lambert Linkin. "Stab the babe to the heart 35 Wi' a silver bo'kin." "That wud be a pity," Said Lambert Linkin. "Nae pity, nae pity," Said the fause nurse to him. 40 Belinkin he rocked, And the fause nurse she sang, Till a' the tores o' the cradle[L43] Wi' the red blude down ran. "O still my babe, nurice, 45 O still him wi' the knife." "He'll no be still, lady, Tho' I lay down my life." "O still my babe, nurice, O still him wi' the kame." 50 "He'll no be still, lady, Till his daddy come hame." "O still my babe, nurice, O still him wi' the bell." "He'll no be still, lady, 55 Till ye come down yoursell." "It's how can I come doun, This cauld frosty nicht, Without e'er a coal Or a clear candle licht?" 60 "There's twa smocks in your coffer, As white as a swan; Put ane o' them about you, It will shew you licht doun." She took ane o' them about her, 65 And came tripping doun; But as soon as she viewed, Belinkin was in. "Gude morrow, gude morrow," Said Lambert Linkin. 70 "Gude morrow to yoursell, sir," Said the lady to him. "O save my life, Belinkin, Till my husband come back, And I'll gie ye as much red gold 75 As ye'll haud in your hat." "I'll not save your life, lady, Till your husband come back, Tho' you wud gie me as much red gold As I could haud in a sack. 80 "Will I kill her?" quo' Belinkin, "Will I kill her, or let her be?" "You may kill her," said the fause nurse, "She was ne'er gude to me; And ye'll be laird o' the Castle, 85 And I'll be ladye." Then he cut aff her head Fra her lily breast bane, And he hung 't up in the kitchen, It made a' the ha' shine. 90 The lord sat in England A-drinking the wine: "I wish a' may be weel Wi' my lady at hame; For the rings o' my fingers 95 They're now burst in twain!" He saddled his horse, And he came riding doun; But as soon as he viewed, Belinkin was in. 100 He hadna weel stepped Twa steps up the stair, Till he saw his pretty young son Lying dead on the floor. He hadna weel stepped 105 Other twa up the stair, Till he saw his pretty lady Lying dead in despair. He hanged Belinkin Out over the gate; 110 And he burnt the fause nurice, Being under the grate. 43. _Tores._ The projections or knobs at the corners of old-fashioned cradles, and the ornamented balls commonly found surmounting the backs of old chairs. MOTHERWELL. THE LAIRD OF WARISTOUN. Jamieson and Kinloch have each published a highly dramatic fragment of this terrible story. Both of these are here given, and in the Appendix may be seen Buchan's more extensive, but far less poetical version. With this last, we have printed Mr. Chambers's account of the events on which these ballads are founded. Jamieson's copy was taken down by Sir Walter Scott, from the recitation of his mother. _Popular Ballads_, i. 109. Down by yon garden green Sae merrily as she gaes; She has twa weel-made feet, And she trips upon her taes. She has twa weel-made feet; 5 Far better is her hand; She's as jimp in the middle As ony willow-wand. "Gif ye will do my bidding, At my bidding for to be, 10 It's I will make you lady Of a' the lands you see." * * * * * He spak a word in jest; Her answer wasna good; He threw a plate at her face, 15 Made it a' gush out o' blood. She wasna frae her chamber A step but barely three, When up and at her richt hand There stood Man's Enemy. 20 "Gif ye will do my bidding, At my bidding for to be; I'll learn you a wile Avenged for to be." The Foul Thief knotted the tether; 25 She lifted his head on hie; The nourice drew the knot That gar'd lord Waristoun die. Then word is gane to Leith, Also to Edinburgh town, 30 That the lady had kill'd the laird, The laird o' Waristoun. * * * * * "Tak aff, tak aff my hood, But lat my petticoat be; Put my mantle o'er my head; 35 For the fire I downa see. "Now, a' ye gentle maids, Tak warning now by me, And never marry ane But wha pleases your e'e. 40 "For he married me for love, But I married him for fee; And sae brak out the feud That gar'd my dearie die." LAIRD OF WARIESTOUN. Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 53. It was at dinner as they sat, And when they drank the wine, How happy were the laird and lady Of bonnie Wariestoun. The lady spak but ae word, 5 The matter to conclude; The laird strak her on the mouth, Till she spat out o' blude. She did not know the way Her mind to satisfy, 10 Till evil cam into her head All by the Enemy. * * * * * * * "At evening when ye sit And when ye drink the wine, See that ye fill the glass well up 15 To the laird o' Wariestoun." * * * * * * So at table as they sat, And when they drank the wine, She made the glass aft gae round To the laird o' Wariestoun. 20 The nurice she knet the knot, And O she knet it sicker; The ladie did gie it a twig, Till it began to wicker. But word has gane doun to Leith, 25 And up to Embro toun, That the lady she has slain the laird, The laird o' Wariestoun. Word's gane to her father, the great Duniepace, And an angry man was he; 30 Cries, "Fy! gar mak a barrel o' pikes, And row her doun some brae." She said, "Wae be to ye, Wariestoun, I wish ye may sink for ain; For I hae been your gudwife 35 These nine years, running ten; And I never loved ye sae weill As now when you're lying slain." * * * * * "But tak aff this gowd brocade, And let my petticoat be, 40 And tie a handkerchief round my face, That the people may not see." THE QUEEN'S MARIE. Of this affecting ballad different editions have appeared in Scott's _Minstrelsy_, Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 18, Kinloch's _Scottish Ballads_, and Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_. There is also a fragment in Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, which has been reprinted in Buchan's _Gleanings_, p. 164, and a very inferior version, with a different catastrophe, in Buchan's larger collection, (ii. 190,) called _Warenston and the Duke of York's Daughter_. Kinloch's copy may be found with Maidment's fragment, in the Appendix to this volume: Motherwell's immediately after the present. Sir Walter Scott conceives the ballad to have had its foundation in an event which took place early in the reign of Mary Stuart, described by Knox as follows: "In the very time of the General Assembly, there comes to public knowledge a haynous murther, committed in the court; yea, not far from the Queen's lap; for a French woman, that served in the Queen's chamber, had played the whore with the Queen's own apothecary. The woman conceived and bare a childe, whom, with common consent, the father and mother murthered; yet were the cries of a new-borne childe hearde, searche was made, the childe and the mother were both apprehended, and so were the man and the woman condemned to be hanged in the publicke street of Edinburgh. The punishment was suitable, because the crime was haynous. But yet was not the court purged of whores and whoredoms, which was the fountaine of such enormities: for it was well known that shame hasted marriage betwixt John Sempill, called the Dancer, and Mary Levingston, sirnamed the Lusty. What bruit the Maries, and the rest of the dancers of the court had, _the ballads of that age_ doe witnesse, which we for modestie's sake omit. KNOX'S _History of the Reformation_, p. 373. "Such," Sir Walter goes on to say, "seems to be the subject of the following ballad, as narrated by the stern apostle of Presbytery. It will readily strike the reader, that the tale has suffered great alterations, as handed down by tradition; the French waiting woman being changed into Mary Hamilton, and the Queen's apothecary into Henry Darnley. Yet this is less surprising, when we recollect, that one of the heaviest of the Queen's complaints against her ill-fated husband, was his infidelity, and that even with her personal attendants." Satisfactorily as the circumstances of Knox's story may agree with those of the ballads, a coincidence no less striking, and extending even to the name, is presented by an incident which occurred at the court of Peter the Great. "During the reign of the Czar Peter," observes Mr. C. K. Sharpe, "one of his Empress's attendants, a Miss Hamilton, was executed for the murder of a natural child,--not her first crime in that way, as was suspected; and the Emperor, whose admiration of her beauty did not preserve her life, stood upon the scaffold till her head was struck off, which he lifted by the ears and kissed on the lips. I cannot help thinking that the two stories have been confused in the ballad; for, if Marie Hamilton was executed in Scotland, it is not likely that her relations resided beyond seas; and we have no proof that Hamilton was really the name of the woman who made the slip with the Queen's apothecary." Scott's edition of _Mary Hamilton_, (the first ever published,) was made up by him, from various copies. See _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 294. Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane, Wi' ribbons in her hair; The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton, Than ony that were there. Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane, 5 Wi' ribbons on her breast; The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton, Than he listen'd to the priest. Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane, Wi' gloves upon her hands; 10 The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton, Than the Queen and a' her lands. She hadna been about the King's court A month, but barely one, Till she was beloved by a' the King's court, 15 And the King the only man. She hadna been about the King's court A month, but barely three, Till frae the King's court Marie Hamilton, Marie Hamilton durstna be. 20 The King is to the Abbey gane, To pu' the Abbey tree, To scale the babe frae Marie's heart; But the thing it wadna be. O she has row'd it in her apron, 25 And set it on the sea,-- "Gae sink ye, or swim ye, bonny babe, Ye's get nae mair o' me."-- Word is to the kitchen gane, And word is to the ha', 30 And word is to the noble room, Amang the ladyes a', That Marie Hamilton's brought to bed, And the bonny babe's mist and awa'. Scarcely had she lain down again, 35 And scarcely fa'en asleep, When up then started our gude Queen, Just at her bed-feet; Saying--"Marie Hamilton, where's your babe? For I am sure I heard it greet."-- 40 "O no, O no, my noble Queen! Think no such thing to be; 'Twas but a stitch into my side, And sair it troubles me."-- "Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton: 45 Get up and follow me; For I am going to Edinburgh town, A rich wedding for to see."-- O slowly, slowly raise she up, And slowly put she on; 50 And slowly rode she out the way, Wi' mony a weary groan. The Queen was clad in scarlet, Her merry maids all in green; And every town that they cam to, 55 They took Marie for the Queen. "Ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen, Ride hooly now wi' me! For never, I am sure, a wearier burd Rade in your cumpanie."-- 60 But little wist Marie Hamilton, When she rade on the brown, That she was ga'en to Edinburgh town, And a' to be put down. "Why weep ye so, ye burgess wives, 65 Why look ye so on me? O I am going to Edinburgh town, A rich wedding for to see."-- When she gaed up the tolbooth stairs, The corks frae her heels did flee; 70 And lang or e'er she cam down again, She was condemn'd to die. When she cam to the Netherbow port,[L73] She laughed loud laughters three; But when she cam to the gallows foot, 75 The tears blinded her ee. "Yestreen the Queen had four Maries, The night she'll hae but three; There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaton, And Marie Carmichael, and me.[L80] 80 "O often have I dress'd my Queen, And put gold upon her hair; But now I've gotten for my reward The gallows to be my share. "Often have I dress'd my Queen, 85 And often made her bed; But now I've gotten for my reward The gallows tree to tread. "I charge ye all, ye mariners, When ye sail ower the faem, 90 Let neither my father nor mother get wit, But that I'm coming hame. "I charge ye all, ye mariners, That sail upon the sea, Let neither my father nor mother get wit 95 This dog's death I'm to die. "For if my father and mother got wit, And my bold brethren three, O mickle wad be the gude red blude This day wad be spilt for me! 100 "O little did my mother ken, That day she cradled me, The lands I was to travel in, Or the death I was to die!" 73. The Netherbow port was the gate which divided the city of Edinburgh from the suburb, called the Canongate. S. 80. The Queen's Maries were four young ladies of the highest families in Scotland, who were sent to France in her train, and returned with her to Scotland. Keith gives us their names, p. 55. "The young Queen, Mary, embarked at Dunbarton for France, ... and with her went ... and four young virgins, all of the name of Mary, viz. Livingston, Fleming, Seatoun, and Beatoun." Neither Mary Livingston, nor Mary Fleming, are mentioned in the ballad; nor are the Mary Hamilton, and Mary Carmichael, of the ballad, mentioned by Keith. But if this corps continued to consist of young virgins, as when originally raised, it could hardly have subsisted without occasional recruits; especially if we trust our old bard, and John Knox. The Queen's Maries are mentioned in many ballads, and the name seems to have passed into a general denomination for female attendants.--SCOTT. MARY HAMILTON. From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 311. "In this set of the ballad, from its direct allusion to the use of the Savin-tree, a clue is, perhaps, afforded for tracing how the poor mediciner mentioned by Knox should be implicated in the crime of Mary Hamilton. It may also be noted as a feature in this version of the ballad, which does not occur in any heretofore printed, the unfortunate heroine's proud and indignant spurning at life after her character had been tainted by the infamy of a sentence of condemnation. In another copy of the ballad, also obtained from recitation, this sentiment is, perhaps, still more forcibly expressed; at any rate, it is more appropriate as being addressed to the King. The whole concluding verses of this copy, differing as they somewhat do from the version adopted for a text, it has been thought worth while to preserve. "But bring to me a cup," she says, "A cup bot and a can, And I will drink to all my friends, And they'll drink to me again. Here's to you, all travellers, Who travel by land or sea; Let na wit to my father nor mother The death that I must die. Here's to you, all travellers, That travel on dry land; Let na wit to my father or mother But I am coming hame. O little did my mother think, First time she cradled me, What land I was to travel on, Or what death I would die. O little did my mother think, First time she tied my head, What land I was to tread upon, Or whare I would win my bread. Yestreen Queen Mary had four Maries; This night she'll hae but three; She had Mary Seaton, and Mary Beaton, And Mary Carmichael, and me. Yestreen I wush Queen Mary's feet, And bore her till her bed; This day she's given me my reward, The gallows tree to tread. Cast aff, cast aff my gown," she said, "But let my petticoat be; And tye a napkin on my face, For that gallows I downa see." By and cam the King himsell, Look'd up wi' a pitiful ee: "Come down, come down, Mary Hamilton; This day thou wilt dine with me." "Hold your tongue, my sovereign liege, And let your folly be; An ye had had a mind to save my life, Ye should na hae shamed me here!" "The copy of the ballad from which the above extract is given, begins with this verse: "There were three ladies, they lived in a bower, And O but they were fair; The youngest o' them is to the King's court, To learn some unco lair." "There is another version in which the heroine is named Mary Myles, or Myle; but Myle is probably a corruption of the epithet 'mild,' which occurs in the fragment given in the _North Countrie Garland_." MOTHERWELL. There lived a knight into the North, And he had daughters three: The ane of them was a barber's wife, The other a gay ladie; And the youngest o' them to Scotland is gane 5 The Queen's Mary to be; And for a' that they could say or do, Forbidden she wouldna be. The prince's bed it was sae saft, The spices they were sae fine, 10 That out of it she could not lye While she was scarce fifteen. She's gane to the garden gay To pu' of the savin tree; But for a' that she could say or do, 15 The babie it would not die. She's rowed it in her handkerchief, She threw it in the sea: Says,--"Sink ye, swim ye, my bonnie babe, For ye'll get nae mair of me." 20 Queen Mary came tripping down the stair, Wi' the gold strings in her hair: "O whare's the little babie," she says, "That I heard greet sae sair?" "O hald your tongue, Queen Mary, my dame, 25 Let all those words go free; It was mysell wi' a fit o' the sair colic, I was sick just like to die." "O hald your tongue, Mary Hamilton, Let all those words go free; 30 O where is the little babie That I heard weep by thee?" "I rowed it in my handkerchief, And threw it in the sea; I bade it sink, I bade it swim, 35 It would get nae mair o' me." "O wae be to thee, Mary Hamilton, And an ill deid may you die; For if you had saved the babie's life, It might hae been an honour to thee. 40 "Busk ye, busk ye, Mary Hamilton, O busk ye to be a bride; For I am going to Edinburgh town Your gay wedding to bide. "You must not put on your robes of black, 45 Nor yet your robes of brown; But you must put on your yellow gold stuffs, To shine thro' Edinburgh town." "I will not put on my robes of black, Nor yet my robes of brown; 50 But I will put on my yellow gold stuffs, To shine thro' Edinburgh town." As she went up the Parliament Close, A riding on her horse, There she saw many a burgess' lady 55 Sit greeting at the cross. "O what means a' this greeting? I'm sure it's nae for me; For I'm come this day to Edinburgh town, Weel wedded for to be." 60 When she gade up the Parliament stair, She gied loud lauchters three; But ere that she had come down again, She was condemned to die. "O little did my mother think, 65 The day she prinned my gown, That I was to come sae far frae hame To be hanged in Edinburgh town. "O what'll my poor father think, As he comes through the town, 70 To see the face of his Molly fair Hanging on the gallows pin? "Here's a health to the mariners That plough the raging main; Let neither my mother nor father ken 75 But I'm coming hame again. "Here's a health to the sailors That sail upon the sea; Let neither my mother nor father ken That I came here to die. 80 "Yestreen the Queen had four Maries, This night she'll hae but three; There was Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton, And Mary Carmichael and me." "O hald your tongue, Mary Hamilton, 85 Let all those words go free; This night ere ye be hanged Ye shall gang hame wi' me." "O hald your tongue, Queen Mary, my dame, Let all those words go free; 90 Since I have come to Edinburgh town, It's hanged I shall be; For it shall ne'er be said that in your court I was condemned to die." BESSIE BELL AND MARY GRAY. From Lyle's _Ancient Ballads and Songs_, p. 160, where it was printed as collated "from the singing of two aged persons, one of them a native of Perthshire." There are two versions slightly differing from the present;--one in Cunningham's _Songs of Scotland_, iii. 60, obtained from Sir Walter Scott, and another in Mr. Kirkpatrick Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 62. Allan Ramsay wrote a song with the same title, beginning with the first stanza of the ballad, (_Tea Table Miscellany_, i. 70.) The story of the unfortunate heroines is thus given by Chambers: "Bessie Bell and Mary Gray were the daughters of two country gentlemen in the neighborhood of Perth; and an intimate friendship subsisted between them. Bessie Bell, daughter of the Laird of Kinnaird, happening to be on a visit to Mary Gray, at her father's house of Lynedoch, when the plague of 1666 broke out, to avoid the infection, the two young ladies built themselves a bower in a very retired and romantic spot, called the Burn-braes, about three quarters of a mile westward from Lynedoch House; where they resided for some time, supplied with food, it is said, by a young gentleman of Perth, who was in love with them both. The disease was unfortunately communicated to them by their lover, and proved fatal; when, according to custom in cases of the plague, they were not buried in the ordinary parochial place of sepulture, but in a sequestered spot, called the Dronach Haugh, at the foot of a brae of the same name, upon the banks of the River Almond." O Bessy Bell an' Mary Gray, They were twa bonnie lassies; They biggit a house on yon burn-brae, An' theekit it o'er wi' rashes. They theekit it o'er wi' birk and brume, 5 They theekit it o'er wi' heather, Till the pest cam frae the neib'rin town An' streekit them baith thegither. They were na' buried in Meffen kirk-yard, Amang the rest o' their kin; 10 But they were buried by Dornoch haugh, On the bent before the sun. Sing, Bessy Bell an' Mary Gray, They were twa bonnie lasses, Wha' biggit a bower on yon burn-brae, 15 An' theekit it o'er wi' thrashes. THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. _The Children in the Wood_ is perhaps the most popular of all English ballads. Its merit is attested by the favor it has enjoyed with so many generations, and was vindicated to a cold and artificial age by the kindly pen of Addison. The editor of the _Reliques_ thought that the subject was taken from an old play, published in 1601, "of a young child murthered in a wood by two ruffins, with the consent of his unkle," but Ritson discovered that the ballad was entered in the Stationers' Registers in 1595. The plot of the play was undoubtedly derived from the Italian, and the author of the ballad may have taken a hint from the same source. Percy's edition, (_Reliques_, iii. 218,) which we have adopted, was printed from two old copies, one of them in black-letter, in the Pepys collection. The full title is, _The Children in the Wood, or, The Norfolk Gentleman's Last Will and Testament_. _To the Tune of Rogero_, &c. Copies slightly varying from Percy's may be seen in _A Collection of Old Ballads_, (1723,) i. 221; Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, ii. 150; _The Book of British Ballads_, p. 13; and Moore's _Pictorial Book of Ancient Ballad Poetry_, p. 263. Now ponder well, you parents deare, These wordes which I shall write; A doleful story you shall heare, In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good account 5 In Norfolke dwelt of late, Who did in honour far surmount Most men of his estate. Sore sicke he was, and like to dye, No helpe his life could save; 10 His wife by him as sicke did lye, And both possest one grave. No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kinde; In love they liv'd, in love they dyed, 15 And left two babes behinde: The one a fine and pretty boy, Not passing three yeares olde; The other a girl more young than he, And fram'd in beautyes molde. 20 The father left his little son, As plainlye doth appeare, When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred poundes a yeare. And to his little daughter Jane 25 Five hundred poundes in gold, To be paid downe on marriage-day, Which might not be controll'd: But if the children chance to dye, Ere they to age should come, 30 Their uncle should possesse their wealth; For so the wille did run. "Now, brother," said the dying man, "Look to my children deare; Be good unto my boy and girl, 35 No friendes else have they here: To God and you I recommend My children deare this daye; But little while be sure we have Within this world to staye. 40 "You must be father and mother both, And uncle all in one; God knowes what will become of them, When I am dead and gone." With that bespake their mother deare, 45 "O brother kinde," quoth shee, "You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or miserie: "And if you keep them carefully, Then God will you reward; 50 But if you otherwise should deal, God will your deedes regard." With lippes as cold as any stone, They kist their children small: "God bless you both, my children deare;" 55 With that the teares did fall. These speeches then their brother spake To this sicke couple there: "The keeping of your little ones, Sweet sister, do not feare. 60 God never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children deare, When you are layd in grave." The parents being dead and gone, 65 The children home he takes, And bringes them straite unto his house, Where much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a daye, 70 But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both awaye. He bargain'd with two ruffians strong, Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young, 75 And slaye them in a wood. He told his wife an artful tale. He would the children send To be brought up in faire London, With one that was his friend. 80 Away then went those pretty babes, Rejoycing at that tide, Rejoycing with a merry minde, They should on cock-horse ride. They prate and prattle pleasantly, 85 As they rode on the waye, To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives decaye: So that the pretty speeche they had, Made Murder's heart relent: 90 And they that undertooke the deed, Full sore did now repent. Yet one of them more hard of heart, Did vowe to do his charge, Because the wretch, that hired him, 95 Had paid him very large. The other won't agree thereto, So here they fall to strife; With one another they did fight, About the childrens life: 100 And he that was of mildest mood, Did slaye the other there, Within an unfrequented wood; The babes did quake for feare! He took the children by the hand, 105 Teares standing in their eye, And bad them straitwaye follow him, And look they did not crye: And two long miles he ledd them on, While they for food complaine: 110 "Staye here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread, When I come back againe." These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and downe; But never more could see the man 115 Approaching from the towne: Their prettye lippes with blackberries, Were all besmear'd and dyed, And when they sawe the darksome night, They sat them downe and cryed. 120 Thus wandered these poor innocents, Till deathe did end their grief, In one anothers armes they died, As wanting due relief: No burial this pretty pair[L125] 125 Of any man receives, Till Robin-red-breast piously Did cover them with leaves. And now the heavy wrathe of God Upon their uncle fell; 130 Yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house, His conscience felt an hell; His barnes were fir'd, his goodes consum'd, His landes were barren made, His cattle dyed within the field, 135 And nothing with him stayd. And in the voyage of Portugal[L137] Two of his sonnes did dye; And to conclude, himselfe was brought To want and miserye: 140 He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land Ere seven years came about, And now at length this wicked act Did by this meanes come out: The fellowe, that did take in hand 145 These children for to kill, Was for a robbery judg'd to dye, Such was God's blessed will: Who did confess the very truth, As here hath been display'd: 150 Their uncle having dyed in gaol, Where he for debt was layd. You that executors be made, And overseers eke Of children that be fatherless, 155 And infants mild and meek; Take you example by this thing, And yield to each his right, Lest God with such like miserye Your wicked minds requite. 125, these ... babes, PP. 137. "A. D. 1588. Dr. Percy, not knowing that the text alludes to a particular event, has altered it to _a_ voyage _to_ Portugal." RITSON. HUGH OF LINCOLN. In the year 1255, we are told by Matthew Paris, in his account of the reign of Henry III., the Jews of Lincoln stole a boy, named Hugh, of the age of eight years, whom, after torturing for ten days, they crucified before a large council of their people, in contempt of the death of the founder of Christianity. The boy was sought by his mother in the house of a Jew, which he had been seen to enter, and his body was found in a pit. The occupant of the house being seized, acknowledged the crime, and avowed, besides, that the like was committed nearly every year by his nation. Notwithstanding the promise of impunity by which this confession had been obtained, the wretch who made it was tied to the tail of a horse and dragged to the gallows, and after a judicial investigation, eighteen of the richest and most distinguished Jews in Lincoln were hanged for participation in the murder, while many more were detained as prisoners in the Tower of London. On the other hand, the body of the child was buried with the honors of a martyr in Lincoln Cathedral, where a construction, assumed without reason to be his tomb, is still shown. The remains of a young person, found near this spot in 1791, were at once taken for granted to be those of the sainted infant, and drawings were made of the relics, which may be seen among the works of the artist Grimm in the British Museum. Several stories of the same tenor are reported by the English chroniclers. It may be doubted whether there is a grain of truth in any of them, although it would be no wonder if the atrocious injuries inflicted on the Jews should, in an instance or two, have provoked a bloody retaliation, even from that tribe whose badge has always been sufferance. The annual sacrifice of a Christian child, in mockery of the crucifixion of Jesus, is on a par for credibility with the miracles which are said to have followed the death of those innocents. The exquisite tale which Chaucer has put into the mouth of the Prioress exhibits nearly the same incidents as the following ballad. The legend of Hugh of Lincoln was widely famous. Michel has published an Anglo-Norman ballad, (_Hugo de Lincolnia_,) on the subject, which appears to be almost contemporary with the event recorded by Matthew Paris, and is certainly of the times of Henry III. The versions of the English ballad are quite numerous. We give here those of Percy, Herd, and Jamieson, and two others in the Appendix. Besides these, fragments have been printed in Sir Egerton Brydges's _Restituta_, i. 381, Halliwell's _Ballads and Poems respecting Hugh of Lincoln_, (1849,) and in _Notes and Queries_, vol. viii. 614, ix. 320, xii. 496. The most complete of all the versions is to be found in the new edition of the _Musical Museum_, vol. iv. p. 500; but that copy is evidently made up from others previously published. See, for a collection of most of the poetry, and of much curious information on the imputed cruelties of the Jews, Michel's _Hugues de Lincoln_, and Hume's _Sir Hugh of Lincoln_. The whole subject is critically examined in the _London Athenæum_ for Dec. 15, 1849. "The text of the following edition has been given _verbatim_, as the editor took it down from Mrs. Brown's recitation; and in it two circumstances are preserved, which are neither to be found in any of the former editions, nor in any of the chronicles in which the transaction is recorded; but which are perfectly in the character of those times, and tend to enhance the miracles to which the discovery is attributed. The first of these is, that, in order that the whole of this infamous sacrifice might be of a piece, and every possible outrage shown to Christianity, the Jews threw the child's body into a well dedicated to the Virgin Mary; and tradition says, that it was 'through the might of Our Ladie,' that the dead body was permitted to speak, and to reveal the horrid story to the disconsolate mother. The other is, the voluntary ringing of the bells, &c., at his funeral. The sound of consecrated bells was supposed to have a powerful effect in driving away evil spirits, appeasing storms, &c., and they were believed to be inspired with sentiments and perceptions which were often manifested in a very miraculous manner." JAMIESON'S _Popular Ballads_, i. 139-156. Four and twenty bonny boys Were playing at the ba'; And by it came him, sweet Sir Hugh, And he play'd o'er them a'. He kick'd the ba' with his right foot, 5 And catch'd it wi' his knee; And throuch-and-thro' the Jew's window, He gar'd the bonny ba' flee. He's doen him to the Jew's castell, And walk'd it round about; 10 And there he saw the Jew's daughter At the window looking out. "Throw down the ba', ye Jew's daughter, Throw down the ba' to me!" "Never a bit," says the Jew's daughter, 15 "Till up to me come ye." "How will I come up? How can I come up? How can I come to thee? For as ye did to my auld father, The same ye'll do to me." 20 She's gane till her father's garden, And pu'd an apple, red and green; 'Twas a' to wyle him, sweet Sir Hugh, And to entice him in. She's led him in through ae dark door, 25 And sae has she thro' nine; She's laid him on a dressing table, And stickit him like a swine. And first came out the thick, thick blood, And syne came out the thin; 30 And syne came out the bonny heart's blood; There was nae mair within. She's row'd him in a cake o' lead, Bade him lie still and sleep; She's thrown him in Our Lady's draw well, 35 Was fifty fathom deep. When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a' the bairns came hame, When every lady gat hame her son, The Lady Maisry gat nane. 40 She's ta'en her mantle her about, Her coffer by the hand; And she's gane out to seek her son, And wander'd o'er the land. She's doen her to the Jew's castell, 45 Where a' were fast asleep; "Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh, I pray you to me speak." She's doen her to the Jew's garden, Thought he had been gathering fruit; 50 "Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh, I pray you to me speak." She near'd Our Lady's deep draw-well, Was fifty fathom deep; "Whare'er ye be, my sweet Sir Hugh, 55 I pray you to me speak." "Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear; Prepare my winding sheet; And, at the back o' merry Lincoln, The morn I will you meet." 60 Now Lady Maisry is gane hame; Made him a winding sheet; And, at the back o' merry Lincoln, The dead corpse did her meet. And a' the bells o' merry Lincoln, 65 Without men's hands were rung; And a' the books o' merry Lincoln, Were read without man's tongue; And ne'er was such a burial Sin Adam's days begun. 70 SIR HUGH. From Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 157. A' the boys of merry Linkim War playing at the ba', An up it stands him sweet Sir Hugh, The flower among them a'. He keppit the ba' than wi' his foot, 5 And catcht it wi' his knee, And even in at the Jew's window, He gart the bonny ba' flee. "Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid, Cast out the ba' to me." 10 "Ah never a bit of it," she says, "Till ye come up to me. "Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh, Come up and get the ba';" "I winna come, I mayna come, 15 Without my bonny boys a'." "Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh, Come up and speak to me;" "I mayna come, I winna come, Without my bonny boys three." 20 She's taen her to the Jew's garden, Whar the grass grew lang and green, She's pu'd an apple red and white, To wyle the bonny boy in. She's wyled him in through ae chamber, 25 She's wyled him in through twa, She's wyled him in till her ain chamber, The flower out owr them a'. She's laid him on a dressin board, Whar she did often dine; 30 She stack a penknife to his heart, And dress'd him like a swine. She row'd him in a cake of lead, Bade him ly still and sleep, She threw him i' the Jew's draw-well, 35 It was fifty fathom deep. Whan bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a' man bound to bed, Every lady got home her son, But sweet Sir Hugh was dead. THE JEW'S DAUGHTER. From Percy's _Reliques_, i. 40; printed from a manuscript copy sent from Scotland. Mirryland toune is a corruption of Merry Lincoln, and not, as Percy conjectured, of Mailand (Milan) town. In Motherwell's copy we have Maitland town. The rain rins doun through Mirry-land toune, Sae dois it doune the Pa: Sae dois the lads of Mirry-land toune, Quhan they play at the ba'. Than out and cam the Jewis dochter, 5 Said, "Will ye cum in and dine?" "I winnae cum in, I cannae cum in, Without my play-feres nine." Scho powd an apple reid and white, To intice the zong thing in: 10 Scho powd an apple white and reid, And that the sweit bairne did win. And scho has taine out a little pen-knife, And low down by her gair; Scho has twin'd the zong thing and his life; 15 A word he nevir spak mair. And out and cam the thick thick bluid, And out and cam the thin; And out and cam the bonny herts bluid: Thair was nae life left in. 20 Scho laid him on a dressing borde, And drest him like a swine, And laughing said, "Gae nou and pley With zour sweit play-feres nine." Scho rowd him in a cake of lead, 25 Bade him lie stil and sleip; Scho cast him in a deip draw-well, Was fifty fadom deip. Quhan bells wer rung, and mass was sung, And every lady went hame, 30 Then ilka lady had her zong sonne, Bot Lady Helen had nane. Scho rowd hir mantil hir about, And sair sair gan she weip, And she ran into the Jewis castèl, 35 Quhan they wer all asleip. "My bonny Sir Hew, my pretty Sir Hew, I pray thee to me speik:" "O lady, rinn to the deip draw-well, Gin ze zour sonne wad seik." 40 Lady Helen ran to the deip draw-well, And knelt upon her kne: "My bonny Sir Hew, and ze be here, I pray thee speik to me." "The lead is wondrous heavy, mither, 45 The well is wondrous deip; A keen pen-knife sticks in my hert, A word I dounae speik. "Gae hame, gae hame, my mither deir, Fetch me my windling sheet, 50 And at the back o' Mirry-land toun, Its thair we twa sall meet." SIR PATRICK SPENCE. From Percy's _Reliques_, i. 81. The event upon which this ballad is founded, if it has been rightly ascertained, belongs to a remote period in Scottish history. Margaret, the daughter of Alexander III., was, in the year 1281, betrothed to Eric, prince of Norway. The bride was conducted to her husband by a splendid convoy of knights and nobles, and in the month of August was crowned queen. In returning from the celebration of the nuptials, many of the Scottish escort were lost at sea, and among those who perished was Sir Patrick Spence, we are to suppose. It is in conformity with this view of the origin of the ballad, (the suggestion of Motherwell,) that in Buchan's version the object of the voyage is said to be to take the king's daughter, now "a chosen queen," _to_ Norway. In Scott's edition, on the other hand, Sir Patrick is deputed _to bring home_ the king of Norway's daughter. To explain this circumstance in the story, Sir Walter is forced to suppose that an unsuccessful and unrecorded embassy was sent, when the death of Alexander III. had left the Scottish throne vacant, to bring the only daughter of Eric and Margaret, styled by historians the Maid of Norway, to the kingdom of which, after her grandfather's demise, she became the heir. That such an embassy, attended with so disastrous consequences to the distinguished persons who would compose it, should be entirely unnoticed by the chroniclers is, to say the least, exceedingly improbable. The question concerning the historical basis of the ballad would naturally lose much of its interest, were any importance attached to the arguments by which its genuineness has been lately assailed. These are so trivial as hardly to admit of a statement. The claims of the composition to a high antiquity are first disputed, (_Musical Museum_, new ed., iv. 457*,) on the ground that such a piece was never heard of till it was sent to Percy by some of his correspondents in Scotland, with other ballads of (assumed) questionable authority. But even the ballad of _Sir Hugh_ is liable to any impeachment that can be extracted from these circumstances, since it was first made known by Percy, and was transmitted to him from Scotland, (for aught we know, in suspicious company,) while its story dates also from the 13th century. Then, "an ingenious friend" having remarked to Percy that some of the phrases of _Hardyknute_ seemed to have been borrowed from _Sir Patrick Spence_ and _other_ old Scottish songs, this observation, combined with the fact that the localities of Dunfermline and Aberdour are in the neighborhood of Sir Henry Wardlaw's estate, leads to a conjecture that Lady Wardlaw may have been the author of _Sir Patrick Spence_, as she is known to have been of _Hardyknute_. It could never be deemed fair to argue from those resemblances which give plausibility to a counterfeit to the spuriousness of the original, but in fact there is _no_ resemblance in the two pieces. _Hardyknute_ is recognized at once by an ordinary critic to be a modern production, and is, notwithstanding the praise it has received, a tame and tiresome one besides. _Sir Patrick Spence_, on the other hand, if not ancient, has been always accepted as such by the most skilful judges, and is a solitary instance of a successful imitation, in manner and spirit, of the best specimens of authentic minstrelsy.[1] It is not denied that this ballad has suffered, like others, by corruption and interpolations, and it is not, therefore, maintained that hats and cork-heeld shoon are of the 13th century. We have assigned to Percy's copy the first place, because its brevity and directness give it a peculiar vigor. Scott's edition follows, made up from two MS. copies, (one of which has been printed in Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, i. 157,) collated with several verses recited by a friend. Buchan's version, obtained from recitation, is in the Appendix. The variations in recited copies are numerous: some specimens are given by Motherwell, p. xlv. [1] This controversy has been recently re-opened by R. Chambers, _The Romantic Scottish Ballads, their Epoch and Authorship_, Edin. 1859; and in reply, _The Romantic Scottish Ballads and the Lady Wardlaw Heresy_, by Norval Clyne, Aberdeen, 1859. The king sits in Dumferling[2] toune, Drinking the blude-reid wine: "O quhar will I get guid sailor, To sail this schip of mine?" Up and spak an eldern knicht, 5 Sat at the kings richt kne: "Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor, That sails upon the se." The king has written a braid letter, And signd it wi' his hand, 10 And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand. The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud lauch lauched he: The next line that Sir Patrick red, 15 The teir blinded his ee. "O quha is this has don this deid, This ill deid don to me; To send me out this time o' the zeir, To sail upon the se? 20 "Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne." "O say na sae, my master deir, For I feir a deadlie storme. "Late late yestreen I saw the new moone 25 Wi' the auld moone in hir arme; And I feir, I feir, my deir master, That we will com to harme." O our Scots nobles wer richt laith To weet their cork-heild schoone; 30 Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, Thair hats they swam aboone. O lang, lang, may their ladies sit Wi' thair fans into their hand, Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence 35 Cum sailing to the land. O lang, lang, may the ladies stand Wi' thair gold kems in their hair, Waiting for thair ain deir lords, For they'll se thame na mair. 40 Have owre, have owre to Aberdour,[L41] It's fiftie fadom deip: And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, Wi' the Scots lords at his feit. [2] The palace of Dunfermline was the favorite residence of King Alexander III. 41-44. "It is true that the name of Sir Patrick Spens is not mentioned in history; but I am able to state that tradition has preserved it. In the little island of Papa Stronsay, one of the Orcadian group, lying over against Norway, there is a large grave or tumulus, which has been known to the inhabitants, from time immemorial, as 'The grave of Sir Patrick Spens.' The Scottish ballads were not early current in Orkney, a Scandinavian country; so it is very unlikely that the poem could have originated the name. The people know nothing beyond the traditional appellation of the spot, and they have no legend to tell." Aytoun, _Ballads of Scotland_, i. 2.--This passage is cited simply as a piece of _external_ evidence to the antiquity of the legend of Sir Patrick Spens,--supposing the matter of fact to be well established, and the alleged tradition to be of long standing. SIR PATRICK SPENS. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, i. 299. In singing, the interjection O is added to the second and fourth lines. The king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine: "O whare will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship of mine?" O up and spake an eldern knight, 5 Sat at the king's right knee: "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sailed the sea." Our king has written a braid letter, And sealed it with his hand, 10 And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand. "To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 15 'Tis thou maun bring her hame!" The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud loud laughed he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blindit his e'e. 20 "O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o' me, To send us out at this time of the year, To sail upon the sea? "Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, 25 Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame." They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn Wi' a' the speed they may; 30 They hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday. They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway, but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway 35 Began aloud to say: "Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, And a' our queenis fee." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! Fu' loud I hear ye lie! 40 "For I brought as much white monie As gane my men and me,-- And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud Out o'er the sea wi' me. "Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'! 45 Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now, ever alake! my master dear, I fear a deadly storm! "I saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm; 50 And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm." They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league, but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, 55 And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves came o'er the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn. 60 "O where will I get a gude sailor, To take my helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall topmast, To see if I can spy land?" "O here am I, a sailor gude, 65 To take the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall topmast,-- But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." He hadna gane a step, a step, A step, but barely ane, 70 When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in. "Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, 75 And letna the sea come in." They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapped them roun' that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in. 80 "O laith laith were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heeled shoon! But lang or a' the play was played, They wat their hats aboon. And mony was the feather-bed 85 That flatter'd on the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam hame. The ladyes wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair; 90 A' for the sake of their true loves, For them they'll see nae mair. O lang lang may the ladyes sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 95 Come sailing to the strand! And lang lang may the maidens sit, Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves, For them they'll see nae mair. 100 O forty miles off Aberdeen 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. BOOK IV. KING ESTMERE. From _Reliques of English Poetry_, i. 65. "This romantic legend," says Percy, "is given from two copies, one of them in the Editor's folio MS., but which contained very great variations." This second copy has been conjectured to be of Percy's own making, the ballad never having been heard of by any one else, out of his manuscript. Judging from the internal evidence, the alterations made in the printed text were not very serious. King Easter and King Wester have appeared in the ballad of _Fause Foodrage_, (vol. iii. p. 40.) In another version of the same, they are called the Eastmure king and the Westmure king, (Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. lix.) There is also a tale cited in the _Complaynt of Scotland_, (i. 98,) of a king of Estmureland that married the daughter of the king of Westmureland. This is plausibly supposed by Ritson to have been a romance of Horn, in which case the two countries should mean England and Ireland. King Esmer is one of King Diderik's champions (in the Danish ballad, _Kong Diderik og hans Kæmper_), and the father of Svend Vonved (in _Svend Vonved_). In the Flemish and German romances of _The Knight of the Swan_, Essmer, or Esmerés, is one of the seven sons of Oriant, and in _Le Dit de Flourence de Romme_ (Jubinal, _Nouveau Recueil de Contes_, etc., i. 88), Esmère is a Roman prince. (Grundtvig, i. 78, 236.) For the nonce, we are told that King Estmere was an English prince, and we may, perhaps, infer from the eighth stanza that King Adland's dominions were on the same island. But no subject of inquiry can be more idle than the geography of the romances. Hearken to me, gentlemen, Come and you shall heare; Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren, That ever born y-were. The tone of them was Adler yonge, 5 The tother was kyng Estmere; They were as bolde men in their deedes As any were, farr and neare. As they were drinking ale and wine Within kyng Estmeres halle, 10 "When will ye marry a wyfe, brother, A wyfe to gladd us all?" Then bespake him kyng Estmere, And answered him hartilye: "I knowe not that ladye in any lande, 15 That is able to marry with mee." "Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother, Men call her bright and sheene; If I were kyng here in your stead, That ladye shold be queene." 20 Sayes, "Reade me, reade me, deare brother, Throughout merry England, Where we might find a messenger Betweene us two to sende." Sayes, "You shall ryde yourselfe, brother, 25 Ile beare you companee; Many throughe fals messengers are deceived,[L27] And I feare lest soe shold wee." Thus they renisht them to ryde On twoe good renisht steedes, 30 And when they came to kyng Adlands halle, Of red golde shone their weedes. And when they came to kyng Adlands halle, Before the goodlye yate, Ther they found good kyng Adland, 35 Rearing himselfe theratt. "Nowe Christ thee save, good kyng Adland, Nowe Christ thee save and see:" Sayd, "You be welcome, kyng Estmere, Right hartilye to mee." 40 "You have a daughter," sayd Adler yonge, "Men call her bright and sheene; My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe, Of Englande to be queene." "Yesterdaye was att my dere daughter 45 The king his sonne of Spayn; And then she nicked him of naye; I feare sheele do youe the same." "The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim, And 'leeveth on Mahound, 50 And pitye it were that fayre ladye Shold marrye a heathen hound." "But grant to me," sayes kyng Estmere, "For my love I you praye, That I may see your daughter dere 55 Before I goe hence awaye." "Althoughe itt is seven yeare and more Syth my daughter was in halle, She shall come downe once for your sake, To glad my guestès alle." 60 Downe then came that mayden fayre, With ladyes lacede in pall, And halfe a hondred of bolde knightes, To bring her from bowre to hall, And eke as manye gentle squieres, 65 To waite upon them all. The talents of golde were on her head sette, Hunge lowe downe to her knee; And everye rynge on her small finger Shone of the chrystall free. 70 Sayes, "Christ you save, my deare madame," Sayes, "Christ you save and see:" Sayes, "You be welcome, kyng Estmere, Right welcome unto mee. "And iff you love me, as you saye, 75 So well and hartilee, All that ever you are comen about Soone sped now itt may bee." Then bespake her father deare, "My daughter, I saye naye; 80 Remember well the kyng of Spayne, What he sayd yesterdaye. "He wold pull downe my halles and castles, And reave me of my lyfe: And ever I feare that paynim kyng, 85 Iff I reave him of his wyfe." "Your castles and your towres, father, Are stronglye built aboute; And therefore of that foule paynim Wee neede not stande in doubte. 90 "Plyght me your troth nowe, kyng Estmere, By heaven and your righte hande, That you will marrye me to your wyfe, And make me queene of your land." Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth 95 By heaven and his righte hand, That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe, And make her queene of his land. And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre, To goe to his owne countree, 100 To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes, That marryed they might bee. They had not ridden scant a myle, A myle forthe of the towne, But in did come the kynge of Spayne, 105 With kempès many a one: But in did come the kyng of Spayne, With manye a grimme barone, Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter, Tother daye to carrye her home. 110 Then shee sent after kyng Estmere, In all the spede might bee, That he must either returne and fighte, Or goe home and lose his ladye. One whyle then the page he went, 115 Another whyle he ranne; Till he had oretaken king Estmere, Iwis he never blanne. "Tydinges, tydinges, kyng Estmere!" "What tydinges nowe, my boye?" 120 "O tydinges I can tell to you, That will you sore annoye. "You had not ridden scant a myle, A myle out of the towne, But in did come the kyng of Spayne 125 With kempès many a one: "But in did come the kyng of Spayne With manye a grimme barone, Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter, Tother daye to carrye her home. 130 "That ladye fayre she greetes you well, And ever-more well by mee: You must either turne againe and fighte, Or goe home and lose your ladye." Sayes, "Reade me, reade me, deare brother, 135 My reade shall ryse at thee,[L136] Whiche way we best may turne and fighte, To save this fayre ladye." "Now hearken to me," sayes Adler yonge, "And your reade must rise at me; 140 I quicklye will devise a waye To sette thy ladye free. "My mother was a westerne woman, And learned in gramarye, And when I learned at the schole, 145 Something shee taught itt me. "There groweth an hearbe within this fielde, And iff it were but knowne, His color which is whyte and redd, It will make blacke and browne. 150 "His color which is browne and blacke, Itt will make redd and whyte; That sword is not in all Englande, Upon his coate will byte. "And you shal be a harper, brother, 155 Out of the north countree; And Ile be your boye, so faine of fighte, To beare your harpe by your knee. "And you shall be the best harper That ever tooke harpe in hand; 160 And I will be the best singer That ever sung in this land. "Itt shal be written in our forheads, All and in grammarye, That we towe are the boldest men 165 That are in all Christentye." And thus they renisht them to ryde, On towe good renish steedes; And whan they came to king Adlands hall, Of redd gold shone their weedes. 170 And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall, Untill the fayre hall yate, There they found a proud porter, Rearing himselfe theratt. Sayes, "Christ thee save, thou proud porter," 175 Sayes, "Christ thee save and see:" "Nowe you be welcome," sayd the porter, "Of what land soever ye bee." "We been harpers," sayd Adler yonge, "Come out of the northe countree; 180 We beene come hither untill this place, This proud weddinge for to see." Sayd, "And your color were white and redd, As it is blacke and browne, Ild saye king Estmere and his brother 185 Were comen untill this towne." Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,[L187] Layd itt on the porters arme: "And ever we will thee, proud porter, Thow wilt saye us no harme." 190 Sore he looked on kyng Estmere, And sore he handled the ryng, Then opened to them the fayre hall yates, He lett for no kind of thyng. Kyng Estmere he light off his steede, 195 Up att the fayre hall board; The frothe that came from his brydle bitte Light on kyng Bremors beard. Sayes, "Stable thy steede, thou proud harper, Go stable him in the stalle; 200 Itt doth not beseeme a proud harper To stable him in a kyngs halle." "My ladd he is so lither," he sayd, "He will do nought that's meete; And aye that I cold but find the man, 205 Were able him to beate." "Thou speakst proud words," sayd the paynim king, "Thou harper, here to mee; There is a man within this halle, That will beate thy lad and thee." 210 "O lett that man come downe," he sayd, "A sight of him wold I see; And whan hee hath beaten well my ladd, Then he shall beate of mee." Downe then came the kemperye man, 215 And looked him in the eare; For all the gold that was under heaven, He durst not neigh him neare. "And how nowe, kempe," sayd the kyng of Spayne, "And how what aileth thee?" 220 He sayes, "Itt is written in his forhead, All and in gramarye, That for all the gold that is under heaven, I dare not neigh him nye." Kyng Estmere then pulled forth his harpe, 225 And played thereon so sweete: Upstarte the ladye from the kynge, As hee sate at the meate. "Now stay thy harpe, thou proud harper, Now stay thy harpe, I say; 230 For an thou playest as thou beginnest, Thou'lt till my bride awaye." He strucke upon his harpe agayne, And playd both fayre and free; The ladye was so pleasde theratt, 235 She laught loud laughters three. "Nowe sell me thy harpe," sayd the kyng of Spayne, "Thy harpe and stryngs eche one, And as many gold nobles thou shalt have, As there be stryngs thereon." 240 "And what wold ye doe with my harpe," he sayd, Iff I did sell it yee?" "To playe my wiffe and me a fitt, When abed together we bee." "Now sell me," quoth hee, "thy bryde soe gay, 245 As shee sitts laced in pall, And as many gold nobles I will give, As there be rings in the hall." "And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay, Iff I did sell her yee? 250 More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye To lye by mee than thee." Hee played agayne both loud and shrille, And Adler he did syng, "O ladye, this is thy owne true love; 255 Noe harper, but a kyng. "O ladye, this is thy owne true love, As playnlye thou mayest see; And Ile rid thee of that foule paynim, Who partes thy love and thee." 260 The ladye looked, the ladye blushte, And blushte and lookt agayne, While Adler he hath drawne his brande, And hath the Sowdan slayne. Up then rose the kemperye men, 265 And loud they gan to crye: "Ah! traytors, yee have slayne our kyng, And therefore yee shall dye." Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde, And swith he drew his brand; 270 And Estmere he, and Adler yonge, Right stiffe in stour can stand. And aye their swordes soe sore can byte, Through helpe of gramarye, That soone they have slayne the kempery men, 275 Or forst them forth to flee. Kyng Estmere tooke that fayre ladye, And marryed her to his wiffe, And brought her home to merrye England, With her to leade his life. 280 27. MS. Many a man ... is. 136. MS. ryde, but see v. 140. v. 187. Then they pulled out a ryng of gold, Layd itt on the porters arme. The rings so often used in ballads to conciliate the porter would seem to be not personal ornaments, but coins. For an account of Ring Money, see the paper of Sir William Betham, in the seventeenth volume of the _Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy_. SIR CAULINE. From _Reliques of English Poetry_, i. 44. "This old romantic tale," says Percy, "was preserved in the Editor's folio MS., but in so very defective and mutilated a condition, (not from any chasm in the MS., but from great omission in the transcript, probably copied from the faulty recitation of some illiterate minstrel,) that it was necessary to supply several stanzas in the first part, and still more in the second, to connect and complete the story." Many of the interpolations acknowledged in such general terms might with some confidence be pointed out. Among them are certainly most, if not all, of the last twelve stanzas of the Second Part, which include the catastrophe to the story. It is difficult to believe that this charming romance had so tragic and so sentimental a conclusion. The first part of this ballad is preserved in Scotland, under the title of _King Malcolm and Sir Colvin_, and is printed in our Appendix from Buchan's collection. In this, Sir Colvin weds the princess after his victory over the Elrick knight. THE FIRST PART. In Ireland, ferr over the sea, There dwelleth a bonnye kinge; And with him a yong and comlye knighte, Men call him Syr Cauline. The kinge had a ladye to his daughter, 5 In fashyon she hath no peere; And princely wightes that ladye wooed To be theyr wedded feere. Syr Cauline loveth her best of all, But nothing durst he saye, 10 Ne descreeve his counsayl to no man, But deerlye he lovde this may. Till on a daye it so beffell Great dill to him was dight; The maydens love removde his mynd, 15 To care-bed went the knighte. One while he spred his armes him fro, One while he spred them nye: "And aye! but I winne that ladyes love, For dole now I mun dye." 20 And whan our parish-masse was done, Our kinge was bowne to dyne: He sayes, "Where is Syr Cauline, That is wont to serve the wyne?" Then aunswerde him a courteous knighte, 25 And fast his handes gan wringe: "Syr Cauline is sicke, and like to dye, Without a good leechinge." "Fetche me downe my daughter deere, She is a leeche fulle fine; 30 Goe take him doughe and the baken bread, And serve him with the wyne soe red: Lothe I were him to tine." Fair Christabelle to his chaumber goes, Her maydens followyng nye: 35 "O well," she sayth, "how doth my lord?" "O sicke, thou fayr ladye." "Nowe ryse up wightlye, man, for shame, Never lye soe cowardlee; For it is told in my fathers halle 40 You dye for love of mee." "Fayre ladye, it is for your love That all this dill I drye: For if you wold comfort me with a kisse, Then were I brought from bale to blisse, 45 No lenger wold I lye." "Sir knighte, my father is a kinge, I am his onlye heire; Alas! and well you knowe, syr knighte, I never can be youre fere." 50 "O ladye, thou art a kinges daughter, And I am not thy peere; But let me doe some deedes of armes, To be your bacheleere." "Some deedes of armes if thou wilt doe, 55 My bacheleere to bee, (But ever and aye my heart wold rue, Giff harm shold happe to thee,) "Upon Eldridge hill there groweth a thorne, Upon the mores brodinge; 60 And dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all nighte, Untile the fayre morninge? "For the Eldridge knighte, so mickle of mighte, Will examine you beforne; And never man bare life awaye, 65 But he did him scath and scorne. "That knighte he is a foul paynim, And large of limb and bone; And but if heaven may be thy speede, Thy life it is but gone." 70 "Nowe on the Eldridge hilles Ile walke, For thy sake, fair ladie; And Ile either bring you a ready token, Or Ile never more you see." The lady has gone to her own chaumbere, 75 Her maydens following bright; Syr Cauline lope from care-bed soone, And to the Eldridge hills is gone, For to wake there all night. Unto midnight, that the moone did rise, 80 He walked up and downe; Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe Over the bents soe browne; Quoth hee, "If cryance come till my heart, I am ffar from any good towne." 85 And soone he spyde on the mores so broad A furyous wight and fell; A ladye bright his brydle led, Clad in a fayre kyrtell: And soe fast he called on Syr Cauline, 90 "O man, I rede thee flye, For but if cryance come till thy heart,[L92] I weene but thou mun dye." He sayth, "No cryance comes till my heart,[L94] Nor, in faith, I wyll not flee; 95 For, cause thou minged not Christ before, The less me dreadeth thee." The Eldridge knighte, he pricked his steed; Syr Cauline bold abode: Then either shooke his trustye speare, 100 And the timber these two children bare Soe soone in sunder slode. Then tooke they out theyr two good swordes, And layden on full faste, Till helme and hawberke, mail and sheelde, 105 They all were well-nye brast. The Eldridge knight was mickle of might, And stiffe in stower did stande; But Syr Cauline with an aukeward stroke He smote off his right-hand; 110 That soone he, with paine and lacke of bloud, Fell downe on that lay-land. Then up Syr Cauline lift his brande All over his head so hye: "And here I sweare by the holy roode, 115 Nowe, caytiffe, thou shalt dye." Then up and came that ladye brighte, Faste ringing of her hande: "For the maydens love, that most you love, Withhold that deadlye brande: 120 "For the maydens love that most you love, Now smyte no more I praye; And aye whatever thou wilt, my lord, He shall thy hests obaye." "Now sweare to mee, thou Eldridge knighte, 125 And here on this lay-land, That thou wilt believe on Christ his laye, And therto plight thy hand: "And that thou never on Eldridge [hill] come To sporte, gamon, or playe; 130 And that thou here give up thy armes Until thy dying daye." The Eldridge knighte gave up his armes, With many a sorrowfulle sighe; And sware to obey Syr Caulines hest, 135 Till the tyme that he shold dye. And he then up, and the Eldridge knighte Sett him in his saddle anone; And the Eldridge knighte and his ladye, To theyr castle are they gone. 140 Then he tooke up the bloudy hand, That was so large of bone, And on it he founde five ringes of gold, Of knightes that had be slone. Then he tooke up the Eldridge sworde, 145 As hard as any flint; And he tooke off those ringes five, As bright as fyre and brent. Home then pricked Syr Cauline, As light as leafe on tree; 150 I-wys he neither stint ne blanne, Till he his ladye see. Then downe he knelt upon his knee, Before that lady gay: "O ladye, I have bin on the Eldridge hills; 155 These tokens I bring away." "Now welcome, welcome, Syr Cauline, Thrice welcome unto mee, For now I perceive thou art a true knighte, Of valour bolde and free." 160 "O ladye, I am thy own true knighte, Thy hests for to obaye; And mought I hope to winne thy love!"-- No more his tonge colde say. The ladye blushed scarlette redde, 165 And fette a gentill sighe: "Alas! syr knight, how may this bee, For my degree's soe highe? "But sith thou hast hight, thou comely youth, To be my batchilere, 170 Ile promise, if thee I may not wedde, I will have none other fere." Then shee held forthe her liley-white hand Towards that knighte so free; He gave to it one gentill kisse, 175 His heart was brought from bale to blisse, The teares sterte from his ee. "But keep my counsayl, Syr Cauline, Ne let no man it knowe; For, and ever my father sholde it ken, 180 I wot he wolde us sloe." From that daye forthe, that ladye fayre Lovde Syr Cauline the knighte; From that daye forthe, he only joyde Whan shee was in his sight. 185 Yea, and oftentimes they mette Within a fayre arboure, Where they, in love and sweet daliaunce, Past manye a pleasaunt houre. 92, MS. For if. 94, No inserted. THE SECOND PART. Everye white will have its blacke, And everye sweete its sowre: This founde the Ladye Christabelle In an untimely howre. For so it befelle, as Syr Cauline 5 Was with that ladye faire, The kinge, her father, walked forthe To take the evenyng aire: And into the arboure as he went To rest his wearye feet, 10 He found his daughter and Syr Cauline There sette in daliaunce sweet. The kinge hee sterted forthe, i-wys, And an angrye man was hee: "Nowe, traytoure, thou shalt hange or drawe 15 And rewe shall thy ladie." Then forthe Syr Cauline he was ledde, And throwne in dungeon deepe: And the ladye into a towre so hye, There left to wayle and weepe. 20 The queene she was Syr Caulines friend, And to the kinge sayd shee: "I praye you save Syr Caulines life, And let him banisht bee." "Now, dame, that traitor shall be sent 25 Across the salt sea fome: But here I will make thee a band, If ever he come within this land, A foule deathe is his doome." All woe-begone was that gentil knight 30 To parte from his ladye; And many a time he sighed sore, And cast a wistfulle eye: "Faire Christabelle, from thee to parte, Farre lever had I dye." 35 Fair Christabelle, that ladye bright, Was had forthe of the towre; But ever shee droopeth in her minde, As, nipt by an ungentle winde, Doth some faire lillye flowre. 40 And ever shee doth lament and weepe, To tint her lover soe: "Syr Cauline, thou little think'st on mee, But I will still be true." Manye a kinge, and manye a duke, 45 And lorde of high degree, Did sue to that fayre ladye of love; But never shee wolde them nee. When manye a daye was past and gone, Ne comforte she colde finde, 50 The kynge proclaimed a tourneament, To cheere his daughters mind. And there came lords, and there came knights, Fro manye a farre countrye, To break a spere for theyr ladyes love, 55 Before that faire ladye. And many a ladye there was sette, In purple and in palle; But faire Christabelle, soe woe-begone, Was the fayrest of them all. 60 Then manye a knighte was mickle of might, Before his ladye gaye; But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe, He wan the prize eche daye. His acton it was all of blacke, 65 His hewberke and his sheelde; Ne noe man wist whence he did come, Ne noe man knewe where he did gone, When they came out the feelde.[L69] And now three days were prestlye past 70 In feates of chivalrye, When lo, upon the fourth morninge, A sorrowfulle sight they see: A hugye giaunt stiffe and starke, All foule of limbe and lere, 75 Two goggling eyen like fire farden, A mouthe from eare to eare. Before him came a dwarffe full lowe, That waited on his knee; And at his backe five heads he bare, 80 All wan and pale of blee. "Sir," quoth the dwarffe, and louted lowe, "Behold that hend Soldain! Behold these heads I beare with me! They are kings which he hath slain. 85 "The Eldridge knight is his own cousine, Whom a knight of thine hath shent; And hee is come to avenge his wrong: And to thee, all thy knightes among, Defiance here hath sent. 90 "But yette he will appease his wrath, Thy daughters love to winne; And, but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd, Thy halls and towers must brenne. "Thy head, syr king, must goe with mee, 95 Or else thy daughter deere: Or else within these lists soe broad, Thou must finde him a peere." The king he turned him round aboute, And in his heart was woe: 100 "Is there never a knighte of my round table This matter will undergoe? "Is there never a knighte amongst yee all Will fight for my daughter and mee? Whoever will fight yon grimme Soldan, 105 Right fair his meede shall bee. "For hee shall have my broad lay-lands, And of my crowne be heyre; And he shall winne fayre Christabelle To be his wedded fere." 110 But every knighte of his round table Did stand both still and pale; For, whenever they lookt on the grim Soldan, It made their hearts to quail. All woe-begone was that fayre ladye, 115 When she sawe no helpe was nye: She cast her thought on her owne true-love, And the teares gusht from her eye. Up then sterte the stranger knighte, Sayd, "Ladye, be not affrayd; 120 Ile fight for thee with this grimme Soldan, Thoughe he be unmacklye made. "And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sworde, That lyeth within thy bowre, I truste in Christe for to slay this fiende, 125 Thoughe he be stiff in stowre." "Goe fetch him downe the Eldridge sworde," The kinge he cryde, "with speede: Nowe, heaven assist thee, courteous knighte; My daughter is thy meede." 130 The gyaunt he stepped into the lists, And sayd, "Awaye, awaye! I sweare, as I am the hend Soldan, Thou lettest me here all daye." Then forthe the stranger knight he came, 135 In his blacke armoure dight: The ladye sighed a gentle sighe, "That this were my true knighte!" And nowe the gyaunt and knight be mett Within the lists soe broad; 140 And now, with swordes soe sharpe of steele, They gan to lay on load. The Soldan strucke the knighte a stroke That made him reele asyde: Then woe-begone was that fayre ladye, 145 And thrice she deeply sighde. The Soldan strucke a second stroke, And made the bloude to flowe: All pale and wan was that ladye fayre, And thrice she wept for woe. 150 The Soldan strucke a third fell stroke, Which brought the knighte on his knee: Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart, And she shriekt loud shriekings three. The knighte he leapt upon his feete, 155 All recklesse of the pain: Quoth hee, "But heaven be now my speede, Or else I shall be slaine." He grasped his sworde with mayne and mighte, And spying a secrette part, 160 He drave it into the Soldans syde, And pierced him to the heart. Then all the people gave a shoute, Whan they sawe the Soldan falle: The ladye wept, and thanked Christ 165 That had reskewed her from thrall. And nowe the kinge, with all his barons, Rose uppe from offe his seate, And downe he stepped into the listes That curteous knighte to greete. 170 But he, for payne and lacke of bloude, Was fallen into a swounde, And there, all walteringe in his gore, Lay lifelesse on the grounde. "Come downe, come downe, my daughter deare, 175 Thou art a leeche of skille; Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes Than this good knighte sholde spille." Downe then steppeth that fayre ladye, To helpe him if she maye: 180 But when she did his beavere raise, "It is my life, my lord!" she sayes, And shriekte and swound awaye. Sir Cauline juste lifte up his eyes, When he heard his ladye crye: 185 "O ladye, I am thine owne true love; For thee I wisht to dye." Then giving her one partinge looke, He closed his eyes in death, Ere Christabelle, that ladye milde, 190 Begane to drawe her breathe. But when she found her comelye knighte Indeed was dead and gone, She layde her pale, cold cheeke to his, And thus she made her moane: 195 "O staye, my deare and onlye lord, For mee, thy faithfulle feere; 'Tis meet that I shold followe thee, Who hast bought my love so deare." Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune, 200 And with a deep-fette sighe That burst her gentle heart in twayne, Fayre Christabelle did dye. 69. "Syr Cauline here acts up to the genuine spirit of perfect chivalry. In old romances no incident is of more frequent occurrence than this, of knights already distinguished for feats of arms laying aside their wonted cognizances, and, under the semblance of stranger knights, manfully performing right worshipful and valiant deeds. How often is the renowned Arthur, in such exhibitions, obliged to exclaim, "O Jhesu, what knight is that arrayed all in grene (or as the case may be)? he justeth myghtily!" The Emperor of Almaine, in like manner, after the timely succor afforded him by Syr Gowghter, is anxious to learn the name of his modest but unknown deliverer." [So in the romance of _Roswall and Lillian_, &c.]--MOTHERWELL. FAIR ANNIE. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 252. The story of _Fair Annie_ is widely disseminated. The substance of it is found in the beautiful romance of Marie de France, the _Lai le Frein_, of which an ancient English translation is printed in Weber's _Metrical Romances_, i. 357. The Swedish and Danish ballads go under the same name of _Fair Anna_, and may be seen in Arwidsson's _Svenska Fornsånger_, i. 291; Geijer's _Svenska Folk-Visor_, i. 24; and Nyerup's _Danske Viser_, iv. 59. Jamieson has rendered the Danish ballad very skilfully, in the Scottish dialect, from Syv's edition of the _Kæmpe Viser_. In Dutch, the characters are Maid Adelhaid and King Alewijn (Hoffmann's _Holländische Volkslieder_, 164.) The story as we have found it in German is considerably changed. See _Die wiedergefundene Königstochter_, in _Des Knaben Wunderhorn_, ii. 274, and _Südeli_, Uhland's _Volkslieder_, i. 273. The Scottish versions of _Fair Annie_ are quite numerous. A fragment of eight stanzas was published in Herd's collection, (_Wha will bake my bridal bread_, ed. 1776, i. 167.) Sir Walter Scott gave a complete copy, from recitation in the _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_. Two other copies, also from oral tradition, were inserted by Jamieson in the Appendix to his _Popular Ballads_, (_Lady Jane_, ii. 371, _Burd Helen_, ii. 376,) and from these he constructed the edition of _Lady Jane_, printed at p. 73 of the same volume. Motherwell (_Minstrelsy_) affords still another variety, and Chambers has compiled a ballad from all these sources and a manuscript furnished by Mr. Kinloch, (_Scottish Ballads_, p. 186.) In this collection we have adopted the versions of Scott and Motherwell, giving Jamieson's translation of _Skj[oe]n Anna_ in our Appendix. "It's narrow, narrow, make your bed, And learn to lie your lane; For I'm gaun o'er the sea, Fair Annie, A braw bride to bring hame. Wi' her I will get gowd and gear; 5 Wi' you I ne'er got nane. "But wha will bake my bridal bread, Or brew my bridal ale? And wha will welcome my brisk bride, That I bring o'er the dale?"-- 10 "It's I will bake your bridal bread, And brew your bridal ale; And I will welcome your brisk bride, That you bring o'er the dale."-- "But she that welcomes my brisk bride 15 Maun gang like maiden fair; She maun lace on her robe sae jimp, And braid her yellow hair."-- "But how can I gang maiden-like, When maiden I am nane? 20 Have I not born seven sons to thee, And am with child again?"-- She's ta'en her young son in her arms, Another in her hand; And she's up to the highest tower, 25 To see him come to land. "Come up, come up, my eldest son, And look o'er yon sea-strand, And see your father's new-come bride, Before she come to land."-- 30 "Come down, come down, my mother dear, Come frae the castle wa'! I fear, if langer ye stand there, Ye'll let yoursell down fa'."-- And she gaed down, and farther down, 35 Her love's ship for to see; And the topmast and the mainmast Shone like the silver free. And she's gane down, and farther down, The bride's ship to behold; 40 And the topmast and the mainmast They shone just like the gold. She's ta'en her seven sons in her hand; I wot she didna fail! She met Lord Thomas and his bride, 45 As they came o'er the dale. "You're welcome to your house, Lord Thomas; You're welcome to your land; You're welcome, with your fair ladye, That you lead by the hand. 50 "You're welcome to your ha's, ladye, Your welcome to your bowers; You're welcome to your hame, ladye, For a' that's here is yours."-- "I thank thee, Annie; I thank thee, Annie; 55 Sae dearly as I thank thee; You're the likest to my sister Annie, That ever I did see. "There came a knight out o'er the sea, And steal'd my sister away; 60 The shame scoup in his company, And land where'er he gae!"-- She hang ae napkin at the door, Another in the ha'; And a' to wipe the trickling tears, 65 Sae fast as they did fa'. And aye she served the lang tables With white bread and with wine; And aye she drank the wan water, To had her colour fine. 70 And aye she served the lang tables, With white bread and with brown; And ay she turn'd her round about, Sae fast the tears fell down. And he's ta'en down the silk napkin, 75 Hung on a silver pin; And aye he wipes the tear trickling Adown her cheek and chin. And aye he turn'd him round about, And smiled amang his men, 80 Says--"Like ye best the old ladye, Or her that's new come hame?"-- When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a' men bound to bed, Lord Thomas and his new-come bride, 85 To their chamber they were gaed. Annie made her bed a little forbye, To hear what they might say; "And ever alas!" fair Annie cried, "That I should see this day! 90 "Gin my seven sons were seven young rats, Running on the castle wa', And I were a grey cat mysell, I soon would worry them a'. "Gin my seven sons were seven young hares, 95 Running o'er yon lilly lee, And I were a grew hound mysell, Soon worried they a' should be."-- And wae and sad fair Annie sat, And drearie was her sang; 100 And ever, as she sobb'd and grat, "Wae to the man that did the wrang!"-- "My gown is on," said the new-come bride, "My shoes are on my feet, And I will to fair Annie's chamber, 105 And see what gars her greet.-- "What ails ye, what ails ye, Fair Annie, That ye make sic a moan? Has your wine barrels cast the girds, Or is your white bread gone? 110 "O wha was't was your father, Annie, Or wha was't was your mother? And had you ony sister, Annie, Or had you ony brother?"-- "The Earl of Wemyss was my father, 115 The Countess of Wemyss my mother; And a' the folk about the house, To me were sister and brother."-- "If the Earl of Wemyss was your father, I wot sae was he mine; 120 And it shall not be for lack o' gowd, That ye your love sall tyne. "For I have seven ships o' mine ain, A' loaded to the brim; And I will gie them a' to thee, 125 Wi' four to thine eldest son. But thanks to a' the powers in heaven That I gae maiden hame!" FAIR ANNIE. Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 327. Obtained from recitation. "Learn to mak your bed, Annie, And learn to lie your lane; For I maun owre the salt seas gang, A brisk bride to bring hame. "Bind up, bind up your yellow hair, 5 And tye it in your neck; And see you look as maiden-like As the day that we first met." "O how can I look maiden-like, When maiden I'll ne'er be; 10 When seven brave sons I've born to thee, And the eighth is in my bodie? "The eldest of your sons, my lord, Wi' red gold shines his weed; The second of your sons, my lord, 15 Rides on a milk-white steed. "And the third of your sons, my lord, He draws your beer and wine; And the fourth of your sons, my lord, Can serve you when you dine. 20 "And the fift of your sons, my lord, He can both read and write; And the sixth of your sons, my lord, Can do it most perfyte. "And the sevent of your sons, my lord, 25 Sits on the nurse's knee: And how can I look maiden-like, When a maid I'll never be? "But wha will bake your wedding bread, And brew your bridal ale? 30 Or wha will welcome your brisk bride That you bring owre the dale?" "I'll put cooks in my kitchen, And stewards in my hall, And I'll have bakers for my bread, 35 And brewers for my ale; But you're to welcome my brisk bride That I bring owre the dale." He set his feet into his ship, And his cock-boat on the main; 40 He swore it would be year and day Or he returned again. When year and day was past and gane, Fair Annie she thocht lang; And she is up to her bower head, 45 To behold both sea and land. "Come up, come up, my eldest son, And see now what you see; O yonder comes your father dear, And your stepmother to be." 50 "Cast off your gown of black, mother, Put on your gown of brown, And I'll put off my mourning weeds, And we'll welcome him home." She's taken wine into her hand, 55 And she has taken bread, And she is down to the water side To welcome them indeed. "You're welcome, my lord, you're welcome, my lord, You're welcome home to me; 60 So is every lord and gentleman That is in your companie. "You're welcome, my lady, you're welcome, my lady, You're welcome home to me; So is every lady and gentleman 65 That's in your companie." "I thank you, my girl, I thank you, my girl, I thank you heartily; If I live seven years about this house, Rewarded you shall be." 70 She serv'd them up, she serv'd them down, With the wheat bread and the wine; But aye she drank the cauld water, To keep her colour fine. She serv'd them up, she serv'd them down, With the wheat bread and the beer; 75 But aye she drank the cauld water, To keep her colour clear. When bells were rung and mass was sung, And all were boune for rest, 80 Fair Annie laid her sons in bed, And a sorrowfu' woman she was. "Will I go to the salt, salt seas, And see the fishes swim? Or will I go to the gay green wood, 85 And hear the small birds sing?" Out and spoke an aged man, That stood behind the door,-- "Ye will not go to the salt, salt seas, To see the fishes swim; 90 Nor will ye go to the gay green wood, To hear the small birds sing: "But ye'll take a harp into your hand, Go to their chamber door, And aye ye'll harp and aye ye'll murn, 95 With the salt tears falling o'er." She's ta'en a harp into her hand, Went to their chamber door, And aye she harped and aye she murn'd, With the salt tears falling o'er. 100 Out and spak the brisk young bride, In bride-bed where she lay,-- "I think I hear my sister Annie, And I wish weel it may; For a Scotish lord staw her awa, 105 And an ill death may he die." "Wha was your father, my girl," she says, "Or wha was your mother? Or had you ever a sister dear, Or had you ever a brother?" 110 "King Henry was my father dear, Queen Esther was my mother, Prince Henry was my brother dear, And Fanny Flower my sister." "If King Henry was your father dear, 115 And Queen Esther was your mother, If Prince Henry was your brother dear, Then surely I'm your sister. "Come to your bed, my sister dear, It ne'er was wrang'd for me, 120 Bot an ae kiss of his merry mouth, As we cam owre the sea." "Awa, awa, ye forenoon bride, Awa, awa frae me; I wudna hear my Annie greet, 125 For a' the gold I got wi' thee." "There were five ships of gay red gold Cam owre the seas with me; It's twa o' them will tak me hame, And three I'll leave wi' thee. 130 "Seven ships o' white monie Came owre the seas wi' me; Five o' them I'll leave wi' thee, And twa will take me hame; And my mother will make my portion up, 135 When I return again." CHILD WATERS. First published by Percy from his folio MS., _Reliques_, iii. 94. Several traditionary versions have since been printed, of which we give _Burd Ellen_ from Jamieson's, and in the Appendix, _Lady Margaret_ from Kinloch's collection. Jamieson also furnishes a fragment, and Buchan, (_Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 30,) a complete copy of another version of _Burd Ellen_, and Chambers (_Scottish Ballads_, 193,) makes up an edition from all the copies, which we mention here because he has taken some lines from a manuscript supplied by Mr. Kinloch. Childe Waters in his stable stoode And stroakt his milke-white steede; To him a fayre yonge ladye came As ever ware womans weede. Sayes, "Christ you save, good Childe Waters," 5 Sayes, "Christ you save and see; My girdle of gold that was too longe, Is now too short for mee. "And all is with one childe of yours I feele sturre at my side; 10 My gowne of greene it is too straighte; Before, it was too wide." "If the child be mine, faire Ellen," he sayd,[L13] "Be mine, as you tell mee, Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, 15 Take them your owne to bee. "If the childe be mine, faire Ellen," he sayd, "Be mine, as you doe sweare, Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both, And make that child your heyre." 20 Shee sayes, "I had rather have one kisse, Childe Waters, of thy mouth, Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, That lye by north and southe. "And I had rather have one twinkling, 25 Childe Waters, of thine ee, Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, To take them mine owne to bee." "To morrowe, Ellen, I must forth ryde Farr into the north countree; 30 The fayrest lady that I can finde, Ellen, must goe with mee." "Thoughe I am not that ladye fayre,[L33] Yet let me go with thee: And ever I pray you, Childe Waters, 35 Your foot-page let me bee." "If you will my foot-page bee, Ellen, As you doe tell to mee, Then you must cut your gowne of greene An inch above your knee: 40 "Soe must you doe your yellowe lockes, An inch above your ee; You must tell no man what is my name; My foot-page then you shall bee." Shee, all the long daye Childe Waters rode, 45 Ran barefoote by his syde, Yet was he never soe courteous a knighte, To say, "Ellen, will you ryde?" Shee, all the long daye Childe Waters rode, Ran barefoote thorow the broome, 50 Yett was hee never soe courteous a knighte, To say, "put on your shoone." "Ride softlye," shee sayd, "O Childe Waters: Why doe you ryde so fast? The childe, which is no mans but thine, 55 My bodye itt will brast." Hee sayth, "seest thou yond water, Ellen, That flows from banke to brimme?" "I trust to God, O Childe Waters, You never will see me swimme." 60 But when shee came to the water side, She sayled to the chinne: "Now the Lord of heaven be my speede, For I must learne to swimme." The salt waters bare up her clothes, 65 Our Ladye bare up her chinne; Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord, To see faire Ellen swimme! And when shee over the water was, Shee then came to his knee: 70 Hee sayd, "Come hither, thou fayre Ellen, Loe yonder what I see. "Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? Of redd gold shines the yate: Of twenty foure faire ladyes there, 75 The fairest is my mate. "Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen? Of redd golde shines the towre: There are twenty four fayre ladyes there, The fayrest is my paramoure." 80 "I see the hall now, Childe Waters, Of redd golde shines the yate: God give you good now of yourselfe, And of your worldlye mate. "I see the hall now, Childe Waters, 85 Of redd golde shines the towre: God give you good now of yourselfe, And of your paramoure." There twenty four fayre ladyes were A playing at the ball, 90 And Ellen, the fayrest ladye there, Must bring his steed to the stall. There twenty four fayre ladyes were A playinge at the chesse, And Ellen, the fayrest ladye there, 95 Must bring his horse to gresse. And then bespake Childe Waters sister, These were the wordes sayd shee: "You have the prettyest page, brother, That ever I did see; 100 "But that his bellye it is soe bigge, His girdle stands soe hye; And ever, I pray you, Childe Waters, Let him in my chamber lye." "It is not fit for a little foot-page, 105 That has run throughe mosse and myre, To lye in the chamber of any ladye, That weares soe riche attyre. "It is more meete for a little foot-page, That has run throughe mosse and myre, 110 To take his supper upon his knee, And lye by the kitchen fyre." Now when they had supped every one, To bedd they tooke theyr waye: He sayd, "Come hither, my little foot-page, 115 And hearken what I saye. "Goe thee downe into yonder towne, And lowe into the streete; The fayrest ladye that thou canst finde, Hyre in mine armes to sleepe; 120 And take her up in thine armes twaine, For filing of her feete." Ellen is gone into the towne, And lowe into the streete; The fayrest ladye that shee colde finde, 125 She hyred in his armes to sleepe; And tooke her up in her armes twayne, For filing of her feete. "I praye you nowe, good Childe Waters, Let mee lye at your feete; For there is noe place about this house, 130 Where I may saye a sleepe." He gave her leave, and faire Ellen[L133] Down at his beds feet laye; This done the nighte drove on apace, 135 And when it was neare the daye, Hee sayd, "Rise up, my little foot-page, Give my steede corne and haye; And give him nowe the good black oats, To carry mee better awaye." 140 Up then rose the faire Ellen, And gave his steede corne and hay; And soe shee did the good black oates, To carry him the better awaye. She leaned her back to the manger side, 145 And grievouslye did groane; She leaned her back to the manger side, And there shee made her moane. And that beheard his mother deare, Shee heard her woefull woe:[L150] 150 Shee sayd, "Rise up, thou Childe Waters, And into thy stable goe. "For in thy stable is a ghost, That grievouslye doth grone; Or else some woman laboures with childe, 155 Shee is so woe-begone." Up then rose Childe Waters soone, And did on his shirte of silke; And then he put on his other clothes, On his bodye as white as milke. 160 And when he came to the stable dore, Full still there hee did stand, That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellen, Howe shee made her monand. She sayd, "Lullabye, mine own dear childe, 165 Lullabye, deare childe, deare; I wolde thy father were a kinge, Thy mothere layd on a biere." "Peace nowe," hee sayd, "good, faire Ellen, Bee of good cheere, I praye; 170 And the bridale and the churchinge bothe Shall bee upon one daye. 13, MS. be inne. 33, 34, supplied by Percy. 133, 134, supplied by Percy. 150, her woefull woe, Percy! BURD ELLEN. Printed from Mrs. Brown's recitation, in Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, i. 117. We have restored the text by omitting some interpolations of the editor, and three concluding stanzas by the same, which, contrary to all authority, gave a tragic turn to the story. Lord John stood in his stable door, Said he was boun to ride; Burd Ellen stood in her bower door, Said she'd rin by his side. He's pitten on his cork-heel'd shoon, 5 And fast awa rade he; She's clad hersel in page array, And after him ran she: Till they came till a wan water, And folks do call it Clyde; 10 Then he's lookit o'er his left shoulder, Says, "Lady, will ye ride?" "O I learnt it wi' my bower woman, And I learnt it for my weal, Whanever I cam to wan water, 15 To swim like ony eel." But the firsten stap the lady stappit, The water came till her knee; "Ochon, alas!" said the lady, "This water's o'er deep for me." 20 The nexten stap the lady stappit, The water came till her middle; And sighin says that gay lady, "I've wat my gouden girdle." The thirden stap the lady stappit, 25 The water came till her pap; And the bairn that was in her twa sides For cauld began to quake. "Lie still, lie still, my ain dear babe; Ye work your mother wae: 30 Your father rides on high horse back, Cares little for us twae." O about the midst o' Clyde's water There was a yeard-fast stane; He lightly turn'd his horse about, 35 And took her on him behin. "O tell me this now, good lord John, And a word ye dinna lie, How far it is to your lodgin, Whare we this night maun be?" 40 "O see na ye yon castell, Ellen, That shines sae fair to see? There is a lady in it, Ellen, Will sinder you and me. "There is a lady in that castell 45 Will sinder you and I"-- "Betide me weal, betide me wae, I sall gang there and try." "My dogs shall eat the good white bread, And ye shall eat the bran; 50 Then will ye sigh, and say, alas! That ever I was a man!" "O I shall eat the good white bread, And your dogs shall eat the bran; And I hope to live to bless the day, 55 That ever ye was a man." "O my horse shall eat the good white meal, And ye sall eat the corn; Then will ye curse the heavy hour That ever your love was born." 60 ["O I shall eat the good white meal, And your horse shall eat the corn;][L62] I ay sall bless the happy hour That ever my love was born." O four and twenty gay ladies 65 Welcom'd lord John to the ha', But a fairer lady than them a' Led his horse to the stable sta.' O four and twenty gay ladies Welcom'd lord John to the green; 70 But a fairer lady than them a' At the manger stood alane. When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a' men boun to meat, Burd Ellen was at the bye-table 75 Amang the pages set. "O eat and drink, my bonny boy, The white bread and the beer."-- "The never a bit can I eat or drink, My heart's sae fu' o' fear." 80 "O eat and drink, my bonny boy, The white bread and the wine."-- "O how sall I eat or drink, master, Wi' heart sae fu' o' pine?" But out and spak lord John's mother, 85 And a wise woman was she: "Whare met ye wi' that bonny boy, That looks sae sad on thee? Sometimes his cheek is rosy red, And sometimes deadly wan; 90 He's liker a woman big wi' bairn, Than a young lord's serving man." "O it makes me laugh, my mother dear, Sic words to hear frae thee; He is a squire's ae dearest son, 95 That for love has followed me. "Rise up, rise up, my bonny boy, Gi'e my horse corn and hay."-- "O that I will, my master dear, As quickly as I may." 100 She's ta'en the hay under her arm, The corn intill her hand, And she's gane to the great stable, As fast as e'er she can. "O room ye round, my bonny brown steeds, 105 O room ye near the wa'; For the pain that strikes me through my sides Full soon will gar me fa'." She lean'd her back against the wa'; Strong travel came her on; 110 And e'en amang the great horse feet Burd Ellen brought forth her son. Lord Johnis mither intill her bower Was sitting all alane, When, in the silence o' the nicht, 115 She heard Burd Ellen's mane. "Won up, won up, my son," she says, "Gae see how a' does fare; For I think I hear a woman's groans, And a bairnie greetin' sair." 120 O hastily he gat him up, Staid neither for hose nor shoon, And he's doen him to the stable door Wi' the clear light o' the moon. He strack the door hard wi' his foot, 125 Sae has he wi' his knee, And iron locks and iron bars Into the floor flung he: "Be not afraid, Burd Ellen," he says, "There's nane come in but me. 130 "Tak up, tak up my bonny young son; Gar wash him wi' the milk; Tak up, tak up my fair lady, Gar row her in the silk. "And cheer thee up, Burd Ellen," he says, 135 "Look nae mair sad nor wae; For your marriage and your kirkin too Sall baith be in ae day." 62,63, according to Jamieson, the same as vv. 54, 55, but here formed on their model, from 57, 58. ERLINTON. First published in the _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 351,--"from the collation of two copies obtained from recitation." _Erlinton_ and _The Child of Elle_ are corrupt varieties of _The Douglas Tragedy_. The passage referred to in vol. ii. p. 114, is remarked on in a note at the end of the ballad. Erlinton had a fair daughter; I wat he weird her in a great sin, For he has built a bigly bower, An' a' to put that lady in. An' he has warn'd her sisters six, 5 An' sae has he her brethren se'en, Outher to watch her a' the night, Or else to seek her morn an e'en. She hadna been i' that bigly bower, Na not a night, but barely ane, 10 Till there was Willie, her ain true love, Chapp'd at the door, cryin', "Peace within!" "O whae is this at my bower door, That chaps sae late, or kens the gin?" "O it is Willie, your ain true love, 15 I pray you rise an' let me in!" "But in my bower there is a wake, An' at the wake there is a wane; But I'll come to the green-wood the morn, Whar blooms the brier, by mornin' dawn." 20 Then she's gane to her bed again, Where she has layen till the cock crew thrice, Then she said to her sisters a', "Maidens, 'tis time for us to rise." She pat on her back her silken gown, 25 An' on her breast a siller pin, An' she's ta'en a sister in ilka hand, An' to the green-wood she is gane. She hadna walk'd in the green-wood, Na not a mile but barely ane, 30 Till there was Willie, her ain true love, Wha frae her sisters has her ta'en. He took her sisters by the hand, He kiss'd them baith, an' sent them hame, An' he's ta'en his true love him behind, 35 And through the green-wood they are gane. They hadna ridden in the bonnie green-wood, Na not a mile but barely ane, When there came fifteen o' the boldest knights, That ever bare flesh, blood, or bane. 40 The foremost was an aged knight, He wore the grey hair on his chin: Says, "Yield to me thy lady bright, An' thou shalt walk the woods within." "For me to yield my lady bright 45 To such an aged knight as thee, People wad think I war gane mad, Or a' the courage flown frae me." But up then spake the second knight, I wat he spake right boustouslie: 50 "Yield me thy life, or thy lady bright, Or here the tane of us shall die." "My lady is my warld's meed;[L53] My life I winna yield to nane; But if ye be men of your manhead, 55 Ye'll only fight me ane by ane." He lighted aff his milk-white steed, An' gae his lady him by the head, Say'n, "See ye dinna change your cheer, Untill ye see my body bleed." 60 He set his back unto an aik, He set his feet against a stane, An' he has fought these fifteen men, An' kill'd them a' but barely ane; For he has left that aged knight, 65 An' a' to carry the tidings hame. When he gaed to his lady fair, I wat he kiss'd her tenderlie: "Thou art mine ain love, I have thee bought; Now we shall walk the green-wood free." 70 53, Should we not read _warld's mate_? NOTE to v. 59, 60. "Say'n, 'See ye dinna change your cheer, Untill ye see my body bleed.'" As has been remarked (vol. ii. p. 114), _Erlinton_ retains an important, and even fundamental trait of the older forms of the story, which is not found in any other of the English versions of the _Douglas Tragedy_. It was a northern superstition that to call a man by name while he was engaged in fight was a fatal omen, and hence a phrase, "to name-to-death." To avert this danger, Ribolt, in nearly all the Scandinavian ballads, entreats Guldborg not to _pronounce his name_, even if she sees him bleeding or struck down. In her agony at seeing the last of her brothers about to be slain, Guldborg forgets her lover's injunction, calls on him by name to stop, and thus brings about the catastrophe. Ignorant reciters have either dropped the corresponding passage in the English ballad, or (as in this case) have so corrupted it, that its significance is only to be made out by comparison with the ancient copies. THE CHILD OF ELLE. "From a fragment in the Editor's folio MS., which, though extremely defective and mutilated, appeared to have so much merit, that it excited a strong desire to attempt the completion of the story. The reader will easily discover the supplemental stanzas by their inferiority, and at the same time be inclined to pardon it, when he considers how difficult it must be to imitate the affecting simplicity and artless beauties of the original." PERCY, _Reliques_, i. 113. (See vol. ii. p. 114.) It must be acknowledged that this truly modest apology was not altogether uncalled for. So extensive are Percy's alterations and additions, that the reader will have no slight difficulty in detecting the few traces that are left of the genuine composition. Nevertheless, Sir Walter Scott avers that the corrections are "in the true style of Gothic embellishment!" On yonder hill a castle standes, With walles and towres bedight, And yonder lives the Child of Elle, A younge and comely knighte. The Child of Elle to his garden wente, 5 And stood at his garden pale, Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page Come trippinge downe the dale. The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, Ywis he stoode not stille, 10 And soone he mette faire Emmelines page Come climbing up the hille. "Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page, Now Christe thee save and see! Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, 15 And what may thy tydinges bee?" "My lady shee is all woe-begone, And the teares they falle from her eyne; And aye she laments the deadlye feude Betweene her house and thine." 20 "And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe, Bedewde with many a teare, And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, Who loved thee so deare. "And here shee sends thee a ring of golde, 25 The last boone thou mayst have, And biddes thee weare it for her sake, Whan she is layde in grave. "For, ah! her gentle heart is broke, And in grave soone must shee bee, 30 Sith her father hath chose her a new, new love, And forbidde her to think of thee. "Her father hath brought her a carlish knight, Sir John of the north countraye, And within three dayes shee must him wedde, 35 Or he vowes he will her slaye." "Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And greet thy ladye from mee, And telle her that I, her owne true love, Will dye, or sette her free. 40 "Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And let thy fair ladye know, This night will I bee at her bowre-windowe, Betide me weale or woe." The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, 45 He neither stint ne stayd, Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre, Whan kneeling downe he sayd: "O ladye, Ive been with thy own true love, And he greets thee well by mee; 50 This night will he bee at thy bowre-windowe, And dye or sette thee free." Nowe daye was gone, and night was come, And all were fast asleepe, All save the ladye Emmeline, 55 Who sate in her bowre to weepe: And soone shee heard her true loves voice Lowe whispering at the walle: "Awake, awake, my deare ladye, Tis I, thy true love, call. 60 "Awake, awake, my ladye deare, Come, mount this faire palfraye: This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe, Ile carrye thee hence awaye." "Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, 65 Nowe nay, this may not bee; For aye sould I tint my maiden fame, If alone I should wend with thee." "O ladye, thou with a knight so true Mayst safelye wend alone; 70 To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, Where marriage shall make us one." "My father he is a baron bolde, Of lynage proude and hye; And what would he saye if his daughter 75 Awaye with a knight should fly? "Ah! well I wot, he never would rest, Nor his meate should doe him no goode, Till he had slayne thee, Child of Elle, And seene thy deare hearts bloode." 80 "O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And a little space him fro, I would not care for thy cruel father, Nor the worst that he could doe. "O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, 85 And once without this walle, I would not care for thy cruel father, Nor the worst that might befalle." Faire Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe: 90 At length he seizde her lilly-white hand, And downe the ladder he drewe. And thrice he claspde her to his breste, And kist her tenderlie: The teares that fell from her fair eyes, 95 Ranne like the fountayne free. Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, And her on a faire palfraye, And slung his bugle about his necke, And roundlye they rode awaye. 100 All this beheard her owne damselle, In her bed whereas shee ley; Quoth shee, "My lord shall knowe of this, Soe I shall have golde and fee. "Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! 105 Awake, my noble dame! Your daughter is fledde with the Childe of Elle, To doe the deede of shame." The baron he woke, the baron he rose, And called his merrye men all: 110 "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte; The ladye is carried to thrall." Fair Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, A mile forth of the towne, When she was aware of her fathers men 115 Come galloping over the downe. And foremost came the carlish knight, Sir John of the north countraye: "Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitoure, Nor carry that ladye awaye. 120 "For she is come of hye lynage, And was of a ladye borne, And ill it beseems thee, a false churles sonne, To carrye her hence to scorne." "Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight, 125 Nowe thou doest lye of mee; A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, Soe never did none by thee. "But light nowe downe, my ladye faire, Light downe, and hold my steed, 130 While I and this discourteous knighte Doe trye this arduous deede. "But light now downe, my deare ladye, Light downe, and hold my horse; While I and this discourteous knight 135 Doe trye our valours force." Fair Emmeline sighde, fair Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe, While twixt her love and the carlish knight Past many a baleful blowe. 140 The Child of Elle hee fought soe well, As his weapon he wavde amaine, That soone he had slaine the carlish knight, And layde him upon the plaine. And nowe the baron, and all his men 145 Full fast approached nye: Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe? Twere now no boote to flye. Her lover he put his horne to his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill, 150 And soone he saw his owne merry men Come ryding over the hill. "Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron, I pray thee, hold thy hand, Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts, 155 Fast knit in true loves band. "Thy daughter I have dearly lovde Full long and many a day; But with such love as holy kirke Hath freelye sayd wee may. 160 "O give consent shee may be mine, And blesse a faithfull paire; My lands and livings are not small, My house and lynage faire. "My mother she was an earles daughter, 165 And a noble knyght my sire----" The baron he frownde, and turnde away With mickle dole and ire. Fair Emmeline sighde, faire Emmeline wept, And did all tremblinge stand; 170 At lengthe she sprange upon her knee, And held his lifted hand. "Pardon, my lorde and father deare, This faire yong knyght and mee: Trust me, but for the carlish knyght, 175 I never had fled from thee. "Oft have you callde your Emmeline Your darling and your joye; O let not then your harsh resolves Your Emmeline destroye." 180 The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, And turnde his heade asyde, To wipe awaye the starting teare, He proudly strave to hyde. In deepe revolving thought he stoode, 185 And musde a little space; Then raisde faire Emmeline from the grounde, With many a fond embrace. "Here take her, Child of Elle," he sayd, And gave her lillye hand; 190 "Here take my deare and only child, And with her half my land. "Thy father once mine honour wrongde, In dayes of youthful pride; Do thou the injurye repayre 195 In fondnesse for thy bride. "And as thou love her and hold her deare, Heaven prosper thee and thine; And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, My lovelye Emmeline." 200 SIR ALDINGAR. Of this very remarkable ballad two copies have been printed in English, _Sir Aldingar_, from the Percy MS. (_Reliques_, ii. 53), "with conjectural emendations and the insertion of some additional stanzas," and _Sir Hugh Le Blond_, by Scott, from recitation. The corresponding Danish ballad, _Ravengaard og Memering_, first published by Grundtvig, is extant in not less than five copies, the oldest derived from a MS. of the middle of the 16th century, the others from recent recitations. With these Grundtvig has given an Icelandic version, from a MS. of the 17th century, another in the dialect of the Faroe Islands, and a third half Danish, half Faroish, both as still sung by the people. The ballad was also preserved, not long ago, in Norway.--_Danmarks Gamle Folkeviser_, i. 177-213, ii. 640-645. All these ballads contain a story one and the same in the essential features--a story which occurs repeatedly in connection with historical personages, in Germany, France, Italy, and Spain, as well as England,--and which has also furnished the theme for various modern romances, poems, and tragedies. The connection of the different forms of the legend has been investigated by the Danish editor at considerable length and with signal ability; and we shall endeavor to present the principal results of his wide research in the few pages which our narrow limits allow us to give to such questions. The names of the characters in the Danish ballads are Henry (called Duke of Brunswick and of Schleswig in the oldest), Gunild (of Spires, called also Gunder), Ravengaard, and Memering. To these correspond, in the English story, King Henry, Queen Eleanor, Sir Aldingar (the resemblance of this name to Ravengaard will be noted), and a boy, to whom no name is assigned. Eleanor, it hardly need be remarked, is a queen's name somewhat freely used in ballads (see vol. vi. 209, and vol. vii. 291), and it is possible that the consort of Henry II. is here intended, though her reputation both in history and in song hardly favors that supposition. The occurrence of Spires in the old Danish ballad would naturally induce us to look for the origin of the story in the annals of the German emperors of the Franconian line, who held their court at Spires, and are most of them buried in the cathedral at that place. A very promising clue is immediately found in the history of King (afterwards Emperor) Henry III., son of the Emperor Conrad II. Salicus. This Henry was married, in the year 1036, to Gunhild, daughter of Canute the Great. An English chronicler, William of Malmesbury, writing in the first half of the 12th century, tells us that after this princess had lived many years in honorable wedlock, she was accused of adultery. Being forced to clear herself by wager of battle, she found in all her retinue no one who was willing to risk a combat with her accuser, a man of gigantic stature, save a little boy whom she had brought with her from England. The issue of the duel established her innocence,--her diminutive champion succeeding by some miracle in ham-stringing his huge adversary; but it is alleged that the queen refused to return to her husband, and passed the rest of a long life in a monastery.[3] [3] "Although there are seven centuries between William and our times," says Grundtvig, "and the North Sea between Jutland and the land of his birth, it almost seems as if he had taken his account from the very ballad which is at this day sung on the little island of Fuur in the Lym Fiord." A Norman-French _Life of Edward the Confessor_, written about 1250, repeats this story, and adds the champion's name.[4] [4] We have substituted this paragraph instead of a later chronicle cited by Grundtvig. The translation is that of the English editor: _Lives of Edward the Confessor_ (p. 39, 193), recently published by authority of the British government. "A daughter had the king, Who was not so beautiful as clever. Gunnild her name; and he gave her To him who with love had asked for her,-- The noble Emperor Henry. She remained not long with him, Because by felons, who had no reason To blame her calumniously, She was charged with shame: To the Emperor was she accused. According to the custom of the empire, It behoved her to clear herself from shame By battle; and she takes much trouble To find one to be her champion: But finds no one, for very huge was The accuser,--as a giant. But a dwarf, whom she had brought up, Undertook the fight with him. At the first blow he hamstrung him; At the second he cut off his feet. Mimecan was the dwarf's name, Who was so good a champion, As the history, which is written, Says of him. The lady was freed from blame, But the lady the emperor No more will have as her lord." Finally, John Brompton, writing two hundred years after William of Malmesbury, repeats his account, and gives the names of _both_ the combatants,--"a youth called Mimicon, and a man of gigantic size, by name Roddyngar" (Raadengard = the Danish Ravengaard). The story of William of Malmesbury and the rest, though it is sufficiently in accordance with the Danish and English ballads, is in direct opposition to the testimony of contemporary German chroniclers, who represent Queen Gunhild as living on the best terms with her husband, and instead of growing old in God's service in a nunnery, as dying of the plague in Italy two years after her marriage, and hardly twenty years of age. It is manifest, therefore, that the English chroniclers derived their accounts from ballads current at their day,[5] which, as they were not founded on any real passages in the life of Gunhild, require us to look a little further for their origin. [5] William of Malmesbury refers to ballads which were made on the splendid nuptial procession, by which Gunhild was conducted to the ship that was to bear her to her husband, as still sung about the streets in his time. The empress Gunhild was called by the German chroniclers of her day by various names--as Cunihild, Chunihild, Chunelind, and _Cunigund_, which last name she is said to have assumed at her coronation. This change of Gunhild's name accounts for the unfounded scandals which were in circulation about her in her native land, scarcely a hundred years after her death. Cunigund, wife of Henry III., was in fact confounded with a contemporary German queen and empress, _St. Cunigund_, widow of the Emperor Henry II. This mistake, which has been made more than once, will be acknowledged to be a very natural one (especially for foreigners), when it is considered that both queens not only bore the same name, but were married each to an emperor of the same name (Henry), both of whom again were sons of Conrads.[6] [6] An argument in confirmation of what is here said is afforded by a German annalist of the 14th century, who states, under the date 1038, that the empress Cunigund died the 3d of March, and was buried at Spires. Now St. Cunigund actually did die the 3d of March, and that day is dedicated to her in the Roman calendar, but the year was 1040, and she was buried at Bamberg, while Gunhild died in 1038 (July 18), and was buried in the monastery of Limburg, near Spires. Referring now to the history of St. Cunigund, we read in the papal bull of Innocent III., by which she was canonized in the year 1200, that "she consecrated her virginity to the Lord, and preserved it intact,--so that when at one time by the instigation of the enemy of mankind a suspicion had been raised against her, she, to prove her innocence, walked with bare feet over burning ploughshares, and came off unscathed." Again, we read in a slightly more recent German chronicle, as follows: "The Devil, who hates all the righteous, and is ever seeking to bring them to shame, stirred up the Emperor against his wife, persuading him, through a certain duke, that in contempt of her husband she had committed adultery with another man. The empress offered to undergo an ordeal, and a great many bishops came to see it carried out. Whereupon seven glowing ploughshares were laid on the ground, over which the empress was forced to walk in bare feet, to attest her innocence, ... which, when the king saw, he prostrated himself before her with all his nobles." Adalbert's Life of St. Henry (which is, at the latest, of the 12th century), agreeing in all essentials with these accounts, adds an important particular, explaining how it was that the Devil brought the queen's honor into question, namely, that he was seen by many to go in and out of her private chamber, in the likeness of a handsome young man.--St. Cunigund is said to have undergone the ordeal at Bamberg, in the year 1017. The story, however, is without foundation, not being mentioned by any contemporary writers, but first appearing in various legends, towards the year 1200. But St. Cunigund is by no means the first German empress of whom the story under consideration is told. A writer contemporary with her, who has nothing to say about the miracle just recounted, relates something very similar of _another_ empress, one hundred and thirty years earlier, namely, of Richardis, wife of Charles III. The tale runs that this Charles, in the year 887, accused his queen of unlawful connection with a Bishop. Her Majesty offered to subject herself to the Judgment of God, either by duel or by the ordeal of burning ploughshares. It is not said that either test was applied, but only that the queen retired into a cloister which she had herself founded. This is the contemporary account. A century and a half later we are told that an ordeal by _water_ was actually undergone, which again is changed by later writers into an ordeal by _fire_,--the empress passing through the flames in a waxed garment, without receiving the least harm; in memory of which, a day was kept, five centuries after, in honor of St. Richardis, in the monastery to which she withdrew. Several other similar cases might be mentioned, but it will suffice to refer to only one more, more ancient than any of those already cited. Paulus Diaconus (who wrote about the year 800) relates that a Lombard queen, Gundiberg (of the 7th century), having been charged with infidelity, one of her servants asked permission of the king to fight in the lists for his mistress's honor, and conquered his antagonist in the presence of all the people. The same story is told, more in detail, by Aimoin, a somewhat more recent writer, of another Gundeberg, likewise of the 7th century. A Lombard nobleman makes insolent proposals to his queen, and meets with a most emphatic repulse. Upon this he goes to the king with a story that the queen has been three days conspiring to poison her husband, and put her accomplice in his place. The tale is believed, and the queen shut up in prison. The Frankish king, a relation of the injured woman, remonstrates on the injustice of condemnation without trial, and the king consents to submit the question to a duel. The champion of innocence is victorious, and the real criminal is condignly punished. This form of the legend, the oldest of all that have been cited, approaches very near to the Danish and English ballads. Our conclusion would therefore be, with Grundtvig, that the ballads of _Sir Aldingar_, _Ravengaard and Memering_, and the rest, are of common derivation with the legends of St. Cunigund, Gundeberg, &c., and that all these are offshoots of a story which, "beginning far back in the infancy of the Gothic race and their poetry, is continually turning up, now here and now there, without having a proper home in any definite time or assignable place." Many circumstances corroborative of this view might be added, but we must content ourselves with obviating a possible objection. An invariable feature in the story is the _judicium Dei_ by which the innocence of the accused wife is established, but there is much difference in the various forms of the legend as to the _kind_ of ordeal employed, and some minds may here find difficulty. A close observation, however, will show such a connection between the different accounts as to prove an original unity. Even the earlier legends of St. Cunigund do not agree on this point; one makes her to have walked over burning ploughshares, another to have carried red-hot iron in her hands. The Icelandic copy of the ballad has both of these: the queen "carries iron and walks on steel"; and there is also a "judgment by iron bands." All these three tests are found in the Faroe ballad, which brings in Memering besides, and thus furnishes a transition to the Danish, which says nothing about the trial by fire, and has only the duel. Finally the English ballad completes the circle with the pile at which the queen was to be burned, in case she should not be able to prove her innocence by the duel. At a time uncertain, but earlier than the 14th century, this legend was transplanted into the literature of Southern Europe. It is found in various Spanish chronicles, the earliest the _Historia de Cataluña_ of Bernardo Desclot, written about 1300; also in a Provençal and a French chronicle of the 17th century. In most of these the part of the queen's champion is assigned to the well-known Raimund Berengar, Count of Barcelona, who, in the year 1113, took Majorca from the Moors. The popularity of the story is further proved by the Spanish romance, _El Conde de Barcelona y la Emperatriz de Alemania_; the French romance _L'Histoire de Palanus, Comte de Lyon_; and a novel of Bandello, the 44th of the Second Part. This last was re-written and published in 1713, with slight changes, as an original tale, by M^{me} de Fontaines (_Histoire de la Comtesse de Savoie_), whence Voltaire borrowed materials for two of his tragedies, _Tancrède_ and _Artémire_. By the circuitous route of Spain the story returns to England in a romance of the 15th century, _The Erle of Tolous_ (Ritson, _Metr. Rom._ iii. p. 93). Nearly related with this romance is the German story-book (derived from the French) on which Hans Sachs founded his tragedy, _Der Ritter Golmi mit der Herzogin auss Britanien_. Another German popular story-book, _Hirlanda_, exhibits a close resemblance to our ballad of _Sir Aldingar_.[7] [7] In § v. of his Introduction to _Ravengaard og Memering_, Grundtvig seeks to show that this ballad, though independent in its origin, was at one time, like many others, woven into the great South-Gothic epic of Diderik of Bern, and then, having divided the legend into two portions,--the Accusation and its Cause, the Vindication and its Mode,--he, in § vi. vii. traces out with wonderful learning and penetration the extensive ramifications of the first part, taken by itself, through the romance of the Middle Ages. The whole essay is beyond praise. "This old fabulous legend is given from the editor's folio MS., with conjectural emendations, and the insertion of some additional stanzas to supply and complete the story. It has been suggested to the editor that the author of the poem seems to have had in his eye the story of Gunhilda, who is sometimes called Eleanor (?), and was married to the emperor (here called king) Henry."--PERCY. Our king he kept a false stewarde, Sir Aldingar they him call; A falser steward than he was one, Servde not in bower nor hall. He wolde have layne by our comelye queene, 5 Her deere worshippe to betraye; Our queene she was a good woman, And evermore said him naye. Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind, With her hee was never content, 10 Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse, In a fyer to have her brent. There came a lazar to the kings gate, A lazar both blinde and lame; He tooke the lazar upon his backe, 15 Him on the queenes bed has layne. "Lye still, lazar, wheras thou lyest, Looke thou goe not hence away; Ile make thee a whole man and a sound In two howers of the day." 20 Then went him forth Sir Aldingar, And hyed him to our king: "If I might have grace, as I have space, Sad tydings I could bring." "Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar, 25 Saye on the soothe to mee." "Our queene hath chosen a new, new love, And shee will have none of thee. "If shee had chosen a right good knight, The lesse had beene her shame; 30 But she hath chose her a lazar man, A lazar both blinde and lame." "If this be true, thou Aldingar, The tyding thou tellest to me, Then will I make thee a rich, rich knight, 35 Rich both of golde and fee. "But if it be false, Sir Aldingar, As God nowe grant it bee! Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood, Shall hang on the gallows tree." 40 He brought our king to the queenes chamber, And opend to him the dore: "A lodlye love," King Harry says, "For our queene," dame Elinore! "If thou were a man, as thou art none, 45 Here on my sword thoust dye; But a payre of new gallowes shall be built, And there shalt thou hang on hye." Forth then hyed our king, iwysse, And an angry man was hee, 50 And soone he found queene Elinore, That bride so bright of blee. "Now God you save, our queene, madame, And Christ you save and see! Here you have chosen a newe, newe love, 55 And you will have none of mee. "If you had chosen a right good knight, The lesse had been your shame; But you have chose you a lazar man, A lazar both blinde and lame. 60 "Therfore a fyer there shall be built, And brent all shalt thou bee."-- "Now out, alacke!" said our comly queene, "Sir Aldingar's false to mee. "Now out, alacke!" sayd our comlye queene, 65 "My heart with griefe will brast: I had thought swevens had never been true, I have proved them true at last. "I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve, In my bed wheras I laye, 70 I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast Had carryed my crowne awaye; "My gorgett and my kirtle of golde, And all my faire head-geere; And he wold worrye me with his tush, 75 And to his nest y-beare: "Saving there came a little gray hawke, A merlin him they call, Which untill the grounde did strike the grype, That dead he downe did fall. 80 "Giffe I were a man, as now I am none, A battell wold I prove, To fight with that traitor Aldingar: Att him I cast my glove. "But seeing Ime able noe battell to make, 85 My liege, grant me a knight To fight with that traitor, Sir Aldingar, To maintaine me in my right." "Now forty dayes I will give thee To seeke thee a knight therin: 90 If thou find not a knight in forty dayes, Thy bodye it must brenn." Then shee sent east, and shee sent west, By north and south bedeene; But never a champion colde she find, 95 Wolde fight with that knight soe keene. Now twenty dayes were spent and gone, Noe helpe there might be had; Many a teare shed our comelye queene, And aye her hart was sad. 100 Then came one of the queenes damselles, And knelt upon her knee: Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame, I trust yet helpe may be. "And here I will make mine avowe, 105 And with the same me binde, That never will I return to thee, Till I some helpe may finde." Then forth she rode on a faire palfraye, Oer hill and dale about; 110 But never a champion colde she finde, Wolde fighte with that knight so stout. And nowe the daye drewe on apace, When our good queene must dye; All woe-begone was that fair damselle, 115 When she found no helpe was nye. All woe-begone was that faire damselle, And the salt teares fell from her eye; When lo! as she rode by a rivers side, She met with a tinye boye. 120 A tinye boy she mette, God wot, All clad in mantle of golde; He seemed noe more in mans likenesse, Then a childe of four yeere olde. "Why grieve you, damselle faire?" he sayd, 125 "And what doth cause you moane?" The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke, But fast she pricked on. "Yet turne againe, thou faire damselle, And greete thy queene from mee; 130 When bale is at hyest, boote is nyest; Nowe helpe enoughe may bee. "Bid her remember what she dreamt, In her bedd wheras shee laye; How when the grype and the grimly beast 135 Wolde have carried her crowne awaye, "Even then there came the little gray hawke, And saved her from his clawes: Then bidd the queene be merry at hart, For heaven will fende her cause." 140 Back then rode that fair damselle, And her hart it lept for glee: And when she told her gracious dame, A gladd woman then was shee. But when the appointed day was come, 145 No helpe appeared nye; Then woeful woeful was her hart, And the teares stood in her eye. And nowe a fyer was built of wood, And a stake was made of tree; 150 And now queene Elinor forth was led, A sorrowful sight to see. Three times the herault he waved his hand, And three times spake on hye; "Giff any good knight will fende this dame, 155 Come forth, or shee must dye." No knight stood forth, no knight there came, No helpe appeared nye; And now the fyer was lighted up, Queene Elinor she must dye. 160 And now the fyer was lighted up, As hot as hot might bee; When riding upon a little white steed, The tinye boye they see. "Away with that stake, away with those brands, 165 And loose our comelye queene: I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar, And prove him a traitor keene." Forth then stood Sir Aldingar; But when he saw the chylde, 170 He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe, And weened he had been beguylde. "Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar, And eyther fighte or flee; I trust that I shall avenge the wronge, 175 Thoughe I am so small to see." The boye pulld forth a well good sworde, So gilt it dazzled the ee; The first stroke stricken at Aldingar Smote off his leggs by the knee. 180 "Stand up, stand up, thou false traitor, And fighte upon thy feete, For, and thou thrive as thou beginst, Of height wee shall be meete." "A priest, a priest," sayes Aldingar, 185 "While I am a man alive; "A priest, a priest," sayes Aldingar, "Me for to houzle and shrive. "I wolde have laine by our comlie queene, But shee wolde never consent; 190 Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge, In a fyer to have her brent. "There came a lazar to the kings gates, A lazar both blind and lame; I tooke the lazar upon my backe, 195 And on her bedd had him layne. "Then ranne I to our comlye king, These tidings sore to tell: But ever alacke!" sayes Aldingar, "Falsing never doth well. 200 "Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame, The short time I must live:" "Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar, As freely I forgive." "Here take thy queene, our King Harrye, 205 And love her as thy life, For never had a king in Christentye A truer and fairer wife." King Harrye ran to claspe his queene, And loosed her full sone; 210 Then turnd to look for the tinye boye:-- The boye was vanisht and gone. But first he had touchd the lazar man, And stroakt him with his hand; The lazar under the gallowes tree 215 All whole and sounde did stand. The lazar under the gallowes tree Was comelye, straight, and tall; King Henrye made him his head stewarde, To wayte withinn his hall. 220 SIR HUGH LE BLOND. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 51. "The tradition, upon which the ballad is founded, is universally current in the Mearns; and the Editor is informed, that, till very lately, the sword, with which Sir Hugh le Blond was believed to have defended the life and honour of the Queen, was carefully preserved by his descendants, the Viscounts of Arbuthnot. That Sir Hugh of Arbuthnot lived in the thirteenth century, is proved by his having, 1282, bestowed the patronage of the church of Garvoch upon the Monks of Aberbrothwick, for the safety of his soul.--_Register of Aberbrothwick, quoted by Crawford in Peerage._ "I was favoured with the following copy of _Sir Hugh le Blond_, by K. Williamson Burnet, Esq. of Monboddo, who wrote it down from the recitation of an old woman, long in the service of the Arbuthnot family. Of course, the diction is very much humbled, and it has, in all probability, undergone many corruptions; but its antiquity is indubitable, and the story, though indifferently told, is in itself interesting. It is believed that there have been many more verses." SCOTT. The birds sang sweet as ony bell, The world had not their make, The Queen she's gone to her chamber, With Rodingham to talk. "I love you well, my Queen, my dame, 5 'Bove land and rents so clear, And for the love of you, my Queen, Would thole pain most severe."-- "If well you love me, Rodingham, I'm sure so do I thee: 10 I love you well as any man, Save the King's fair bodye."-- "I love you well, my Queen, my dame; 'Tis truth that I do tell: And for to lye a night with you, 15 The salt seas I would sail."-- "Away, away, O Rodingham! You are both stark and stoor; Would you defile the King's own bed, And make his Queen a whore? 20 "To-morrow you'd be taken sure, And like a traitor slain; And I'd be burned at a stake, Although I be the Queen."-- He then stepp'd out at her room door, 25 All in an angry mood: Until he met a leper-man, Just by the hard way-side. He intoxicate the leper-man, With liquors very sweet: 30 And gave him more and more to drink, Until he fell asleep. He took him in his armis twa, And carried him along, Till he came to the Queen's own bed, 35 And there he laid him down. He then stepp'd out of the Queen's bower, As swift as any roe, 'Till he came to the very place Where the King himself did go. 40 The King said unto Rodingham, "What news have you to me?"-- He said, "Your Queen's a false woman, As I did plainly see."-- He hasten'd to the Queen's chamber, 45 So costly and so fine, Until he came to the Queen's own bed, Where the leper-man was lain. He looked on the leper-man, Who lay on his Queen's bed; 50 He lifted up the snaw-white sheets, And thus he to him said:-- "Plooky, plooky, are your cheeks, And plooky is your chin, And plooky are your armis twa, 55 My bonny Queen's layne in. "Since she has lain into your arms, She shall not lye in mine; Since she has kiss'd your ugsome mouth, She never shall kiss mine."-- 60 In anger he went to the Queen, Who fell upon her knee; He said, "You false, unchaste woman, What's this you've done to me?" The Queen then turn'd herself about, 65 The tear blinded her ee-- "There's not a knight in a' your court Dare give that name to me." He said, "'Tis true that I do say; For I a proof did make: 70 You shall be taken from my bower, And burned at a stake. "Perhaps I'll take my word again, And may repent the same, If that you'll get a Christian man 75 To fight that Rodingham."-- "Alas! alas!" then cried our Queen, "Alas, and woe to me! There's not a man in all Scotland Will fight with him for me."-- 80 She breathed unto her messengers, Sent them south, east, and west; They could find none to fight with him, Nor enter the contest. She breathed on her messengers, 85 She sent them to the north; And there they found Sir Hugh le Blond, To fight him he came forth. When unto him they did unfold The circumstance all right, 90 He bade them go and tell the Queen, That for her he would fight. The day came on that was to do That dreadful tragedy; Sir Hugh le Blond was not come up 95 To fight for our ladye. "Put on the fire," the monster said: "It is twelve on the bell." "'Tis scarcely ten, now," said the King; "I heard the clock mysell."-- 100 Before the hour the Queen is brought, The burning to proceed; In a black velvet chair she's set, A token for the dead. She saw the flames ascending high, 105 The tears blinded her ee: "Where is the worthy knight," she said, "Who is to fight for me?"-- Then up and spak the King himsell, "My dearest, have no doubt, 110 For yonder comes the man himsell, As bold as e'er set out."-- They then advanced to fight the duel With swords of temper'd steel, Till down the blood of Rodingham 115 Came running to his heel. Sir Hugh took out a lusty sword, 'Twas of the metal clear, And he has pierced Rodingham Till's heart-blood did appear. 120 "Confess your treachery, now," he said, "This day before you die!"-- "I do confess my treachery, I shall no longer lye: "I like to wicked Haman am, 125 This day I shall be slain."-- The Queen was brought to her chamber, A good woman again. The Queen then said unto the King, "Arbattle's near the sea; 130 Give it unto the northern knight, That this day fought for me." Then said the King, "Come here, Sir Knight, And drink a glass of wine; And, if Arbattle's not enough,[L135] 135 To it we'll Fordoun join." 135. Arbattle is the ancient name of the barony of Arbuthnot. Fordun has long been the patrimony of the same family. S. THE KNIGHT, AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER. "This ballad (given from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections) was popular in the time of Queen Elizabeth, being usually printed with her picture before it, as Hearne informs us in his preface to Gul. Neubrig, _Hist. Oxon_, 1719, 8vo. vol. i. p. lxx. It is quoted in Fletcher's comedy of the _Pilgrim_, act 4, sc. 2." PERCY'S _Reliques_, iii. 114. The Scottish ballad corresponding to Percy's has been printed by Kinloch, p. 25. Besides this, however, there are three other Scottish versions, superior to the English in every respect, and much longer. They are _Earl Richard_, Motherwell, p. 377; (also in Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 81;) a ballad with the same title in Kinloch's collection, p. 15; and _Earl Lithgow_, Buchan, ii. 91. In all these, the futile attempts of the knight to escape marrying the lady, and the devices by which she aggravates his reluctance to enter into the match, are managed with no little humour. We give Motherwell's edition a place next to Percy's, and refer the reader for Kinloch's to the Appendix. There was a shepherds daughter Came tripping on the waye, And there by chance a knighte shee mett, Which caused her to staye. "Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide," 5 These words pronounced hee; "O I shall dye this daye," he sayd, "If Ive not my wille of thee." "The Lord forbid," the maide replyd, "That you shold waxe so wode!" 10 But for all that shee could do or saye,[L11] He wold not be withstood. "Sith you have had your wille of mee, And put me to open shame, Now, if you are a courteous knighte, 15 Tell me what is your name?" "Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart, And some do call mee Jille; But when I come to the kings faire courte, They calle me Wilfulle Wille." 20 He sett his foot into the stirrup, And awaye then he did ride; She tuckt her girdle about her middle, And ranne close by his side. But when she came to the brode water, 25 She sett her brest and swamme; And when she was got out againe, She tooke to her heels and ranne. He never was the courteous knighte, To saye, "Faire maide, will ye ride?" 30 And she was ever too loving a maide To saye, "Sir knighte, abide." When she came to the kings faire courte, She knocked at the ring; So readye was the king himself 35 To let this faire maide in. "Now Christ you save, my gracious liege, Now Christ you save and see; You have a knighte within your courte This daye hath robbed mee." 40 "What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart? Of purple or of pall? Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring From off thy finger small?" "He hath not robbed mee, my liege, 45 Of purple nor of pall; But he hath gotten my maidenhead, Which grieves mee worst of all." "Now if he be a batchelor, His bodye Ile give to thee; 50 But if he be a married man, High hanged he shall bee." He called downe his merrye men all, By one, by two, by three; Sir William used to bee the first, 55 But nowe the last came hee. He brought her downe full fortye pounde, Tyed up withinne a glove: "Faire maid, Ile give the same to thee; Go, seeke thee another love." 60 "O Ile have none of your gold," she sayde, "Nor Ile have none of your fee; But your faire bodye I must have, The king hath granted mee." Sir William ranne and fetchd her then 65 Five hundred pound in golde, Saying, "Faire maide, take this to thee, Thy fault will never be tolde." "Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt," These words then answered shee, 70 "But your own bodye I must have, The king hath granted mee." "Would I had drunke the water cleare, When I did drinke the wine, Rather than any shepherds brat 75 Shold bee a ladye of mine! "Would I had drank the puddle foule, When I did drink the ale, Rather than ever a shepherds brat Shold tell me such a tale!" 80 "A shepherds brat even as I was, You mote have let mee bee; I never had come to the kings faire courte, To crave any love of thee." He sett her on a milk-white steede, 85 And himself upon a graye; He hung a bugle about his necke, And soe they rode awaye. But when they came unto the place, Where marriage-rites were done, 90 She proved herself a dukes daughter, And he but a squires sonne. "Now marrye me, or not, sir knight, Your pleasure shall be free: If you make me ladye of one good towne, 95 Ile make you lord of three." "Ah! cursed bee the gold," he sayd; "If thou hadst not been trewe, I shold have forsaken my sweet love, And have changed her for a newe." 100 And now their hearts being linked fast, They joyned hand in hande: Thus he had both purse, and person too, And all at his commande. 11, 12, Percy's. EARL RICHARD (B). Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 377. From recitation. Earl Richard once on a day, And all his valiant men so wight, He did him down to Barnisdale, Where all the land is fair and light. He was aware of a damosel, 5 I wot fast on she did her bound, With towers of gold upon her head, As fair a woman as could be found. He said, "Busk on you, fair ladye, The white flowers and the red; 10 For I would give my bonnie ship, To get your maidenhead." "I wish your bonnie ship rent and rive, And drown you in the sea; For all this would not mend the miss 15 That ye would do to me." "The miss is not so great, ladye, Soon mended it might be. "I have four-and-twenty mills in Scotland, Stands on the water Tay; 20 You'll have them, and as much flour As they'll grind in a day." "I wish your bonnie ship rent and rive, And drown you in the sea; For all that would not mend the miss 25 That ye would do for me." "The miss is not so great, lady, Soon mended it will be. "I have four-and-twenty milk-white cows, All calved in a day; 30 You'll have them, and as much hained grass As they all on can gae." "I wish your bonnie ship rent and rive, And drown ye in the sea; For all that would not mend the miss 35 That ye would do to me." "The miss is not so great, ladye, Soon mended it might be. "I have four-and-twenty milk-white steeds, All foaled in one year; 40 You'll have them, and as much red gold As all their backs can bear." She turned her right and round about, And she swore by the mold, "I would not be your love," said she, 45 "For that church full of gold." He turned him right and round about, And he swore by the mass, Says,--"Lady, ye my love shall be, And gold ye shall have less." 50 She turned her right and round about, And she swore by the moon, "I would not be your love," says she, "For all the gold in Rome." He turned him right and round about, 55 And he swore by the moon, Says,--"Lady, ye my love shall be, And gold ye shall have none." He caught her by the milk-white hand, And by the grass-green sleeve; 60 And there has taken his will of her, Wholly without her leave. The lady frowned and sadly blushed, And oh! but she thought shame: Says,--"If you are a knight at all, 65 You surely will tell me your name." "In some places they call me Jack, In other some they call me John; But when into the Queen's Court, Oh then Lithcock it is my name." 70 "Lithcock! Lithcock!" the lady said, And oft she spelt it over again; "Lithcock! it's Latin," the lady said, "Richard's the English of that name." The Knight he rode, the lady ran,[L75] 75 A live long summer's day; Till they came to the wan water That all men do call Tay. He set his horse head to the water, Just thro' it for to ride; 80 And the lady was as ready as him The waters for to wade. For he had never been as kind-hearted As to bid the lady ride; And she had never been so low-hearted 85 As for to bid him bide. But deep into the wan water There stands a great big stone; He turned his wight horse head about, Said, "Lady fair, will ye loup on?" 90 She's taken the wand was in her hand, And struck it on the foam, And before he got the middle stream, The lady was on dry land. "By help of God and our Lady, 95 My help lyes not in your hand. "I learned it from my mother dear,-- Few is there that has learned better-- When I came to a deep water, I can swim thro' like ony otter. 100 "I learned it from my mother dear,-- I find I learned it for my weel; When I came to a deep water, I can swim thro' like ony eel." "Turn back, turn back, you lady fair, 105 You know not what I see; There is a lady in that castle, That will burn you and me." "Betide me weal, betide me wae, That lady will I see." 110 She took a ring from her finger, And gave't the porter for his fee: Says, "Tak you that, my good porter, And bid the Queen speak to me." And when she came before the Queen, 115 There she fell low down on her knee: Says, "There is a knight into your court, This day has robbed me." "O has he robbed you of your gold, Or has he robbed you of your fee?" 120 "He has not robbed me of my gold, He has not robbed me of my fee; He has robbed me of my maidenhead, The fairest flower of my bodie." "There is no knight in all my court, 125 That thus has robbed thee, But you'll have the truth of his right hand, Or else for your sake he'll die, Tho' it were Earl Richard, my own brother; And oh forbid that it be!" 130 Then, sighing, said the lady fair, "I wot the samen man is he." The Queen called on her merry men, Even fifty men and three; Earl Richard used to be the first man, 135 But now the hindmost was he. He's taken out one hundred pounds, And told it in his glove: Says, "Tak you that, my lady fair, And seek another love." 140 "Oh no, oh no," the lady cried, "That's what shall never be; I'll have the truth of your right hand, The Queen it gave to me." "I wish I had drunk of your water, sister, 145 When I did drink your wine; That for a carle's fair daughter, It does gar me dree all this pine." "May be I am a carle's daughter, And may be never nane; 150 When ye met me in the green wood, Why did you not let me alane?" "Will you wear the short clothes, Or will you wear the side; Or will you walk to your wedding, 155 Or will you till it ride?" "I will not wear the short clothes, But I will wear the side; I will not walk to my wedding, But I to it will ride." 160 When he was set upon the horse, The lady him behind, Then cauld and eerie were the words The twa had them between. She said, "Good e'en, ye nettles tall, 165 Just there where ye grow at the dike; If the auld carline my mother was here, Sae weel's she would your pates pike. "How she would stap you in her poke, I wot at that she wadna fail; 170 And boil ye in her auld brass pan, And of ye mak right gude kail. "And she would meal you with millering That she gathers at the mill, And mak you thick as any daigh; 175 And when the pan was brimful, "Would mess you up in scuttle dishes, Syne bid us sup till we were fou; Lay down her head upon a poke, Then sleep and snore like any sow." 180 "Away! away! you bad woman, For all your vile words grieveth me; When ye heed so little for yourself, I'm sure ye'll heed far less for me. "I wish I had drunk your water, sister, 185 When that I did drink of your wine; Since for a carle's fair daughter, It aye gars me dree all this pine." "May be I am a carle's daughter, And may be never nane; 190 When ye met me in the good green wood, Why did you not let me alane? "Gude e'en, gude e'en, ye heather berries, As ye're growing on yon hill; If the auld carle and his bags were here, 195 I wot he would get meat his fill. "Late, late at night I knit our pokes, With even four-and-twenty knots; And in the morn at breakfast time, I'll carry the keys of an earl's locks. 200 "Late, late at night I knit our pokes, With even four-and-twenty strings; And if you look to my white fingers, They have as many gay gold rings." "Away! away! ye ill woman, 205 And sore your vile words grieveth me; When you heed so little for yourself, I'm sure ye'll heed far less for me. "But if you are a carle's daughter, As I take you to be, 210 How did you get the gay clothing, In green wood ye had on thee?" "My mother she's a poor woman, She nursed earl's children three; And I got them from a foster sister, 215 For to beguile such sparks as thee." "But if you be a carle's daughter, As I believe you be, How did ye learn the good Latin, In green wood ye spoke to me?" 220 "My mother she's a mean woman, She nursed earl's children three; I learned it from their chapelain, To beguile such sparks as ye." When mass was sung, and bells were rung, 225 And all men boune for bed, Then Earl Richard and this ladye In ane bed they were laid. He turned his face to the stock, And she hers to the stane; 230 And cauld and dreary was the luve That was thir twa between. Great was the mirth in the kitchen, Likewise intill the ha'; But in his bed lay Earl Richard, 235 Wiping the tears awa'. He wept till he fell fast asleep, Then slept till licht was come; Then he did hear the gentlemen That talked in the room: 240 Said,--"Saw ye ever a fitter match, Betwixt the ane and ither; The King o' Scotland's fair dochter, And the Queen of England's brither?" "And is she the King o' Scotland's fair dochter? 245 This day, oh, weel is me! For seven times has my steed been saddled, To come to court with thee; And with this witty lady fair, How happy must I be!" 250 75 et seq. This passage has something in common with _Child Waters_ and _Burd Ellen_. THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 151. "This Ballad is published, partly from one under this title, in Mrs. Brown's collection, and partly from a MS. of some antiquity, _penes_ Edit. The stanzas appearing to possess most merit have been selected from each copy."--SCOTT. Annexed is another version from Motherwell's collection. A third, longer than either, is furnished by Buchan, _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 245, _The Scottish Squire_. "O waly, waly, my gay goss-hawk, Gin your feathering be sheen!" "And waly, waly, my master dear, Gin ye look pale and lean! "O have ye tint, at tournament, 5 Your sword, or yet your spear? Or mourn ye for the southern lass, Whom ye may not win near?" "I have not tint, at tournament, My sword nor yet my spear; 10 But sair I mourn for my true love, Wi' mony a bitter tear. "But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk, Ye can baith speak and flee; Ye sall carry a letter to my love, 15 Bring an answer back to me." "But how sall I your true love find, Or how suld I her know? I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake, An eye that ne'er her saw." 20 "O weel sall ye my true love ken, Sae sune as ye her see; For, of a' the flowers of fair England, The fairest flower is she. "The red, that's on my true love's cheek, 25 Is like blood-drops on the snaw; The white, that is on her breast bare, Like the down o' the white sea-maw "And even at my love's bouer-door There grows a flowering birk; 30 And ye maun sit and sing thereon As she gangs to the kirk. "And four-and-twenty fair ladyes Will to the mass repair; But weel may ye my ladye ken, 35 The fairest ladye there." Lord William has written a love-letter, Put it under his pinion gray; And he is awa to southern land As fast as wings can gae. 40 And even at the ladye's bour There grew a flowering birk; And he sat down and sung thereon As she gaed to the kirk. And weel he kent that ladye fair 45 Amang her maidens free; For the flower that springs in May morning Was not sae sweet as she. He lighted at the ladye's yate, And sat him on a pin; 50 And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love, Till a' was cosh within. And first he sang a low, low note, And syne he sang a clear; And aye the o'erword o' the sang 55 Was--"Your love can no win here."-- "Feast on, feast on, my maidens a', The wine flows you amang, While I gang to my shot-window, And hear yon bonny bird's sang. 60 "Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, The sang ye sung yestreen; For weel I ken, by your sweet singing, Ye are frae my true love sen." O first he sang a merry sang, 65 And syne he sang a grave; And syne he pick'd his feathers gray, To her the letter gave. "Have there a letter from Lord William; He says he's sent ye three; 70 He canna wait your love langer, But for your sake he'll die."-- "Gae bid him bake his bridal bread, And brew his bridal ale; And I shall meet him at Mary's kirk, 75 Lang, lang ere it be stale." The lady's gane to her chamber, And a moanfu' woman was she; As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash, And were about to die. 80 "A boon, a boon, my father deir, A boon I beg of thee!"-- "Ask not that paughty Scottish lord, For him you ne'er shall see: "But, for your honest asking else, 85 Weel granted it shall be."-- "Then, gin I die in Southern land, In Scotland gar bury me. "And the first kirk that ye come to, Ye's gar the mass be sung; 90 And the next kirk that ye come to, Ye's gar the bells be rung. "And when you come to St. Mary's kirk, Ye's tarry there till night." And so her father pledg'd his word, 95 And so his promise plight. She has ta'en her to her bigly bour As fast as she could fare; And she has drank a sleepy draught, That she had mix'd wi' care. 100 And pale, pale, grew her rosy cheek, That was sae bright of blee, And she seem'd to be as surely dead As any one could be. Then spake her cruel step-minnie, 105 "Tak ye the burning lead, And drap a drap on her bosome, To try if she be dead." They took a drap o' boiling lead, They drapp'd it on her breast; 110 "Alas! alas!" her father cried, "She's dead without the priest." She neither chatter'd with her teeth, Nor shiver'd with her chin; "Alas! alas!" her father cried, 115 "There is nae breath within." Then up arose her seven brethren, And hew'd to her a bier; They hew'd it frae the solid aik, Laid it o'er wi' silver clear. 120 Then up and gat her seven sisters, And sewed to her a kell; And every steek that they put in Sewed to a siller bell. The first Scots kirk that they cam to, 125 They garr'd the bells be rung; The next Scots kirk that they cam to, They garr'd the mass be sung. But when they cam to St. Mary's kirk, There stude spearmen all on a raw; 130 And up and started Lord William, The chieftane amang them a.' "Set down, set down the bier," he said, "Let me look her upon:" But as soon as Lord William touch'd her hand, Her colour began to come. 136 She brightened like the lily flower, Till her pale colour was gone; With rosy cheek, and ruby lip, She smiled her love upon. 140 "A morsel of your bread, my lord, And one glass of your wine; For I hae fasted these three lang days, All for your sake and mine.-- "Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers, Gae hame and blaw your horn! 146 I trow ye wad hae gi'en me the skaith, But I've gi'en you the scorn. "Commend me to my grey father, That wished my saul gude rest; 150 But wae be to my cruel step-dame, Garr'd burn me on the breast."-- "Ah! woe to you, you light woman! An ill death may ye die! For we left father and sisters at hame 155 Breaking their hearts for thee." v. 26. This simile resembles a passage in a MS. translation of an Irish Fairy tale, called _The Adventures of Faravla, Princess of Scotland, and Carral O'Daly, Son of Donogho More O'Daly, Chief Bard of Ireland_. "Faravla, as she entered her bower, cast her looks upon the earth, which was tinged with the blood of a bird which a raven had newly killed: 'Like that snow,' said Faravla, 'was the complexion of my beloved, his cheeks like the sanguine traces thereon; whilst the raven recalls to my memory the colour of his beautiful locks.'" There is also some resemblance in the conduct of the story, betwixt the ballad and the tale just quoted. The Princess Faravla, being desperately in love with Carral O'Daly, despatches in search of him a faithful confidante, who, by her magical art, transforms herself into a hawk, and, perching upon the windows of the bard, conveys to him information of the distress of the Princess of Scotland. SCOTT. THE JOLLY GOSHAWK. Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 353. "O well is me, my jolly goshawk, That ye can speak and flee; For ye can carry a love-letter To my true love from me." "O how can I carry a letter to her, 5 When her I do not know? I bear the lips to her never spak, And the eyes that her never saw." "The thing of my love's face that's white Is that of dove or maw; 10 The thing of my love's face that's red Is like blood shed on snaw. "And when you come to the castel, Light on the bush of ash; And sit you there and sing our loves, 15 As she comes from the mass. "And when she gaes into the house, Sit ye upon the whin; And sit you there and sing our loves, As she goes out and in." 20 And when he flew to that castel, He lighted on the ash; And there he sat and sung their loves, As she came from the mass. And when she went into the house, 25 He flew unto the whin; And there he sat and sung their loves, As she went out and in. "Come hitherward, my maidens all, And sip red wine anon, 30 Till I go to my west window, And hear a birdie's moan." She's gane unto her west window, And fainly aye it drew; And soon into her white silk lap 35 The bird the letter threw. "Ye're bidden send your love a send, For he has sent you twa; And tell him where he can see you, Or he cannot live ava." 40 "I send him the rings from my white fingers, The garlands off my hair; I send him the heart that's in my breast: What would my love have mair? And at the fourth kirk in fair Scotland, 45 Ye'll bid him meet me there." She hied her to her father dear, As fast as gang could she: "An asking, an asking, my father dear, An asking ye grant me,-- 50 That, if I die in fair England, In Scotland gar bury me. "At the first kirk of fair Scotland, You cause the bells be rung; At the second kirk of fair Scotland, 55 You cause the mass be sung; "At the third kirk of fair Scotland, You deal gold for my sake; And at the fourth kirk of fair Scotland, Oh there you'll bury me at! 60 "And now, my tender father dear, This asking grant you me:" "Your asking is but small," he said, "Weel granted it shall be." [_The lady asks the same boon and receives a similar answer, first from her mother, then from her sister, and lastly from her seven brothers._] Then down as dead that lady drapp'd, 65 Beside her mother's knee; Then out it spak an auld witch wife, By the fire-side sat she: Says,--"Drap the het lead on her cheek, And drap it on her chin, 70 And drap it on her rose red lips, And she will speak again: For much a lady young will do, To her true love to win." They drapp'd the het lead on her cheek, 75 So did they on her chin; They drapp'd it on her red rose lips, But they breathed none again. Her brothers they went to a room, To make to her a bier; 80 The boards of it were cedar wood, And the plates on it gold so clear. Her sisters they went to a room, To make to her a sark; The cloth of it was satin fine, 85 And the steeking silken wark. "But well is me, my jolly goshawk, That ye can speak and flee; Come shew to me any love tokens That you have brought to me." 90 "She sends you the rings from her fingers, The garlands from her hair; She sends you the heart within her breast: And what would you have mair? And at the fourth kirk of fair Scotland, 95 She bids you meet her there." "Come hither, all my merry young men, And drink the good red wine; For we must on to fair England, To free my love from pine." 100 At the first kirk of fair Scotland, They gart the bells be rung; At the second kirk of fair Scotland, They gart the mass be sung. At the third kirk of fair Scotland, 105 They dealt gold for her sake; And the fourth kirk of fair Scotland Her true love met them at. "Set down, set down the corpse," he said, "Till I look on the dead; 110 The last time that I saw her face, She ruddy was and red; But now, alas, and woe is me! She's wallowed like a weed." He rent the sheet upon her face, 115 A little aboon her chin; With lily white cheek, and lemin' eyne, She lookt and laugh'd to him. "Give me a chive of your bread, my love, A bottle of your wine; 120 For I have fasted for your love, These weary lang days nine; There's not a steed in your stable, But would have been dead ere syne. "Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brothers, 125 Gae hame and blaw the horn; For you can say in the South of England, Your sister gave you a scorn. "I came not here to fair Scotland, To lye amang the meal; 130 But I came here to fair Scotland, To wear the silks so weel. "I came not here to fair Scotland, To lye amang the dead; But I came here to fair Scotland, 135 To wear the gold so red." APPENDIX. YOUNG HUNTING. See p. 3. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 118. Lady Maisry forth from her bower came, And stood on her tower head; She thought she heard a bridle ring, The sound did her heart guid. She thought it was her first true love, 5 Whom she loved ance in time; But it was her new love, Hunting, Come frae the hunting o' the hyn'. "Gude morrow, gude morrow, Lady Maisry, God make you safe and free! 10 I'm come to take my last farewell, And pay my last visit to thee." "O stay, O stay then, young Hunting, O stay with me this night; Ye shall ha'e cheer, an' charcoal clear, 15 And candles burning bright." "Have no more cheer, you lady fair, An hour langer for me; I have a lady in Garmouth town I love better than thee." 20 "O if your love be changed, my love, Since better canno' be, Nevertheless, for auld lang syne, Ye'll stay this night wi' me. "Silver, silver shall be your wage, 25 And gowd shall be your fee; And nine times nine into the year, Your weed shall changed be. "Will ye gae to the cards or dice, Or to a tavern fine? 30 Or will ye gae to a table forebye, And birl baith beer and wine?" "I winna gang to the cards nor dice, Nor to a tavern fine; But I will gang to a table forebye, 35 And birl baith beer and wine." Then she has drawn for young Hunting The beer but and the wine, Till she got him as deadly drunk As ony unhallowed swine. 40 Then she's ta'en out a trusty brand, That hang below her gare; Then she's wounded him, young Hunting, A deep wound and a sair. Then out it speaks her comrade, 45 Being in the companie: "Alas! this deed that ye ha'e done, Will ruin baith you and me." "Heal well, heal well, you Lady Katharine, Heal well this deed on me; 50 The robes that were shapen for my bodie, They shall be sewed for thee." "Tho' I wou'd heal it never sae well, And never sae well," said she, "There is a God above us baith, 55 That can baith hear and see." They booted him and spurred him, As he'd been gaun to ride; A hunting-horn about his neck, A sharp sword by his side. 60 And they rode on, and farther on, All the lang summer's tide, Until they came to wan water, Where a' man ca's it Clyde. The deepest pot in Clyde's water,[L65] 65 There they flang him in,[L66] And put a turf on his breast bane, To had young Hunting down. O out it speaks a little wee bird, As she sat on the brier: 70 "Gae hame, gae hame, ye Lady Maisry, And pay your maiden's hire." "O I will pay my maiden's hire, And hire I'll gi'e to thee; If ye'll conceal this fatal deed, 75 Ye's ha'e gowd for your fee." Then out it speaks a bonny bird, That flew aboon their head; "Keep well, keep well your green claithing Frae ae drap o' his bluid." 80 "O I'll keep well my green claithing Frae ae drap o' his bluid, Better than I'll do your flattering tongue, That flutters in your head. "Come down, come down, my bonny bird, 85 Light down upon my hand; For ae gowd feather that's in your wing, I wou'd gi'e a' my land." "How shall I come down, how can I come down, How shall I come down to thee? 90 The things ye said to young Hunting, The same ye're saying to me." But it fell out on that same day, The king was going to ride, And he call'd for him, young Hunting, 95 For to ride by his side. Then out it speaks the little young son, Sat on the nurse's knee, "It fears me sair," said that young babe, "He's in bower wi' yon ladie." 100 Then they ha'e call'd her, Lady Katharine, And she sware by the thorn, That she saw not him, young Hunting, Sin' yesterday at morn. Then they ha'e call'd her, Lady Maisry, 105 And she sware by the moon, That she saw not him, young Hunting, Sin' yesterday at noon. "He was playing him at the Clyde's water, Perhaps he has fa'en in:" 110 The king he call'd his divers all, To dive for his young son. They div'd in thro' the wan burn-bank, Sae did they out thro' the other: "We'll dive nae mair," said these young men, 115 "Suppose he were our brother." Then out it spake a little bird, That flew aboon their head: "Dive on, dive on, ye divers all, For there he lies indeed. 120 "But ye'll leave aff your day diving, And ye'll dive in the night; The pot where young Hunting lies in, The candles they'll burn bright. "There are twa ladies in yon bower, 125 And even in yon ha', And they ha'e kill'd him, young Hunting, And casten him awa'. "They booted him and spurred him, As he'd been gaun to ride; 130 A hunting horn tied round his neck, A sharp sword by his side. "The deepest pot o' Clyde's water, There they flang him in, Laid a turf on his breast bane, 135 To had young Hunting down." Now they left aff their day diving, And they dived on the night; The pot that young Hunting lay in, The candles were burning bright. 140 The king he call'd his hewers all, To hew down wood and thorn, For to put up a strong bale-fire, These ladies for to burn. And they ha'e ta'en her, Lady Katharine, 145 And they ha'e pitten her in; But it wadna light upon her cheek, Nor wou'd it on her chin, But sang the points o' her yellow hair, For healing the deadly sin. 150 Then they ha'e ta'en her, Lady Maisry, And they ha'e put her in: First it lighted on her cheek, And syne upon her chin, And sang the points o' her yellow hair, 155 And she burnt like keckle-pin. 65, And the. 66, And there. See 133, 134. YOUNG WATERS.--See p. 88. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. p. 15. It fell about the gude Yule time, When caps and stoups gaed roun', Down it came him young Waters, To welcome James, our king. The great, the great, rade a' together, 5 The sma' came a' behin'; But wi' young Waters, that brave knight, There came a gay gatherin'. The horse young Waters rade upon, It cost him hunders nine; 10 For he was siller shod before, And gowd graith had behin'. At ilka tippit o' his horse mane There hang a siller bell; The wind was loud, the steed was proud, 15 And they gae a sindry knell. The king he lay ower's castle wa', Beheld baith dale and down; And he beheld him, young Waters, Come riding to the town. 20 He turn'd him right and round about, And to the queen said he,-- "Who is the bravest man, my dame, That ever your een did see?" "I've seen lairds, and I've seen lords, 25 And knights o' high degree; But a braver man than young Waters My e'en did never see." He turn'd him right and roun' about, And ane angry man was he; 30 "O wae to you, my dame, the queen; Ye might ha'e excepted me!" "Ye are nae laird, ye are nae lord, Ye are the king that wears the crown; There's nae a lord in fair Scotland, 35 But unto you maun a' bow down." "O lady, for your love choicing, Ye shall win to your will; The morn, or I eat or drink, Young Waters I'll gar kill." 40 And nevertheless, the king cou'd say, "Ye might ha'e excepted me; Yea for yea," the king cou'd say, "Young Waters he shall die. "Likewise for your ill-wyled words 45 Ye sall ha'e cause to mourn; Gin ye hadna been sae big wi' child, Ye on a hill su'd burn." Young Waters came before the King, Fell low down on his knee; 50 "Win up, win up, young Waters, What's this I hear o' thee?" "What ails the king at me," he said, "What ails the king at me?" "It is tauld me the day, sir knight, 55 Ye've done me treasonie." "Liars will lie on sell gude men, Sae will they do on me; I wudna wish to be the man That liars on wudna lie." 60 Nevertheless, the king cou'd say, "In prison strang gang ye; O yea for yea," the king cou'd say, "Young Waters, ye shall die." Syne they ha'e ta'en him, young Waters, 65 Laid him in prison strang, And left him there wi' fetters boun', Making a heavy mane. "Aft ha'e I ridden thro' Striveling town Thro' heavy wind and weet; 70 But ne'er rade I thro' Striveling town Wi' fetters on my feet. "Aft ha'e I ridden thro' Striveling town, Thro' heavy wind and rain; But ne'er rade I thro' Striveling town 75 But thought to ridden't again." They brought him to the heading-hill, His horse, bot and his saddle; And they brought to the heading-hill His young son in his cradle. 80 And they brought to the heading-hill, His hounds intill a leish; And they brought till the heading-hill, His gos-hawk in a jess. King James he then rade up the hill, 85 And mony a man him wi', And called on his trusty page, To come right speedilie. "Ye'll do' ye to the Earl o' Mar, For he sits on yon hill; 90 Bid him loose the brand frae his bodie, Young Waters for to kill." "O gude forbid," the Earl he said, "The like su'd e'er fa' me, My bodie e'er su'd wear the brand 95 That gars young Waters die." Then he has loos'd his trusty brand, And casten't in the sea; Says, "Never lat them get a brand, Till it come back to me." 100 The scaffold it prepared was, And he did mount it hie; And a' spectators that were there, The saut tears blint their e'e. "O had your tongues, my brethren dear, 105 And mourn nae mair for me; Ye're seeking grace frae a graceless face, For there is nane to gie. "Ye'll tak' a bit o' canvas claith, And pit it ower my ee; 110 And Jack, my man, ye'll be at hand, The hour that I su'd die. "Syne aff ye'll tak' my bluidy sark, Gie it fair Margaret Grahame; For she may curse the dowie dell 115 That brought King James him hame. "Ye'll bid her mak' her bed narrow, And mak' it naeways wide; For a brawer man than young Waters Will ne'er streek by her side. 120 "Bid her do weel to my young son, And gie him nurses three; For gin he live to be a man, King James will gar him die." He call'd upon the headsman then, 125 A purse o' gowd him gae; Says, "Do your office, headsman, boy, And mak' nae mair delay." "O head me soon, O head me clean, And pit me out o' pine; 130 For it is by the king's command; Gang head me till his min'. "Tho' by him I'm condemn'd to die, I'm lieve to his ain kin; And for the truth, I'll plainly tell, 135 I am his sister's son." "Gin ye're my sister's son," he said, "It is unkent to me." "O mindna ye on your sister Bess, That lives in the French countrie?" 140 "Gin Bess then be your mither dear, As I trust well she be, Gae hame, gae hame, young Waters, Ye'se ne'er be slain by me." But he lay by his napkin fine, 145 Was saft as ony silk, And on the block he laid his neck, Was whiter than the milk. Says, "Strike the blow, ye headsman, boy, And that right speedilie; 150 It's never be said here gaes a knight, Was ance condemn'd to die." The head was ta'en frae young Waters, And mony tears for him shed; But mair did mourn for fair Margaret, 155 As raving she lyes mad. LAMMIKIN. See p. 94. Finlay's _Scottish Ballads_, ii. 47. Lammikin was as gude a mason As ever hewed a stane; He biggit Lord Weire's castle, But payment gat he nane. "Sen ye winna gie me my guerdon, lord, 5 Sen ye winna gie me my hire, This gude castle, sae stately built, I sall gar rock wi' fire. "Sen ye winna gie me my wages, lord, Ye sall hae cause to rue:" 10 And syne he brewed a black revenge, And syne he vowed a vow. The Lammikin sair wroth, sair wroth, Returned again to Downe; But or he gaed, he vow'd and vow'd, 15 The castle should sweep the ground. "O byde at hame, my gude Lord Weire, I weird ye byde at hame; Gang na to this day's hunting, To leave me a' alane. 20 "Yae night, yae night, I dreamt this bower O red, red blude was fu'; Gin ye gang to this black hunting, I sall hae cause to rue." "Wha looks to dreams, my winsome dame? 25 Nae cause hae ye to fear:" And syne he kindly kissed her cheek, And syne the starting tear. Now to the gude green-wood he's gane, She to her painted bower; 30 But first she closed the windows and doors Of the castle, ha', and tower. They steeked doors, they steeked yetts, Close to the cheek and chin; They steeked them a' but a wee wicket, 35 And Lammikin crap in. "Where are the lads o' this castle?" Says the Lammikin; "They are a' wi Lord Weire, hunting," The false nourice did sing. 40 "Where are the lasses o' this castle?" Says the Lammikin; "They are a' out at the washing," The false nourice did sing. "But where's the lady o' this castle?" 45 Says the Lammikin; "She is in her bower sewing," The false nourice did sing. "Is this the bairn o' this house?" Says the Lammikin; 50 "The only bairn Lord Weire aughts," The false nourice did sing. Lammikin nipped the bonnie babe, While loud false nourice sings; Lammikin nipped the bonnie babe, 55 Till high the red blude springs. "Still my bairn, nourice, O still him if ye can:" "He will not still, madam, For a' his father's lan'." 60 "O gentle nourice, still my bairn, O still him wi' the keys:" "He will not still, fair lady, Let me do what I please." "O still my bairn, kind nourice, 65 O still him wi' the ring:" "He will not still, my lady, Let me do any thing." "O still my bairn, gude nourice, O still him wi' the knife:" 70 "He will not still, dear mistress mine, Gin I'd lay down my life." "Sweet nourice, loud, loud cries my bairn, O still him wi' the bell:" "He will not still, dear lady, 75 Till ye cum down yoursell." The first step she stepped, She stepped on a stane, The next step she stepped, She met the Lammikin. 80 And when she saw the red, red blude, A loud skriech skrieched she: "O monster, monster, spare my child, Who never skaithed thee! "O spare, if in your bluidy breast 85 Abides not heart of stane! O spare, an' ye sall hae o' gold That ye can carry hame!" "I carena for your gold," he said, "I carena for your fee: 90 I hae been wranged by your lord, Black vengeance ye sall drie. "Here are nae serfs to guard your haa's, Nae trusty spearmen here; In yon green wood they sound the horn, 95 And chace the doe and deer. "Tho merry sounds the gude green wood Wi' huntsmen, hounds, and horn, Your lord sall rue ere sets yon sun He has done me skaith and scorn." 100 "O nourice, wanted ye your meat, Or wanted ye your fee, Or wanted ye for any thing, A fair lady could gie?" "I wanted for nae meat, ladie, 105 I wanted for nae fee; But I wanted for a hantle A fair lady could gie." Then Lammikin drew his red, red sword, And sharped it on a stane, 110 And through and through this fair ladie, The cauld, cauld steel is gane. Nor lang was't after this foul deed, Till Lord Weire cumin' hame, Thocht he saw his sweet bairn's bluid 115 Sprinkled on a stane. "I wish a' may be weel," he says, "Wi' my ladie at hame; For the rings upon my fingers Are bursting in twain." 120 But mair he look'd, and dule saw he, On the door at the trance, Spots o' his dear ladys bluid Shining like a lance. "There's bluid in my nursery, 125 There's bluid in my ha', There's bluid in my fair lady's bower, An' that's warst of a'." O sweet, sweet sang the birdie, Upon the bough sae hie, 130 But little cared false nourice for that, For it was her gallows tree. Then out he set, and his braw men Rode a' the country roun'; Ere lang they faud the Lammikin 135 Had sheltered near to Downe. They carried him a' airts o' wind, And mickle pain had he, At last before Lord Weire's gate They hanged him on the tree. 140 LONG LONKIN. See p. 94. From Richardson's _Borderer's Table-Book_, viii. 410. The lord said to his ladie, As he mounted his horse, "Beware of Long Lonkin That lies in the moss." The lord said to his ladie, 5 As he rode away, "Beware of Long Lonkin That lies in the clay." "What care I for Lonkin, Or any of his gang? 10 My doors are all shut And my windows penned in." There are six little windows, And they were all shut, But one little window, 15 And that was forgot. * * * * * * * * * * * * And at that little window Long Lonkin crept in. "Where's the lord of the hall?" Says the Lonkin; 20 "He's gone up to London," Says Orange to him. "Where's the men of the hall?" Says the Lonkin; "They're at the field ploughing," 25 Says Orange to him. "Where's the maids of the hall?" Says the Lonkin; "They're at the well washing," Says Orange to him. 30 "Where's the ladies of the hall?" Says the Lonkin; "They're up in their chambers," Says Orange to him. "How shall we get them down?" 35 Says the Lonkin; "Prick the babe in the cradle," Says Orange to him. "Rock well my cradle, And bee-ba my son; 40 Ye shall have a new gown When the lord he comes home." Still she did prick it, And bee-ba she cried; "Come down, dearest mistress, 45 And still your own child." "O still my child, Orange, Still him with a bell;" "I can't still him, ladie, Till you come down yoursell." 50 * * * * * * "Hold the gold basin, For your heart's blood to run in," * * * * * * * * * * * * "To hold the gold basin, It grieves me full sore; Oh kill me, dear Lonkin, 55 And let my mother go." * * * * * * THE LAIRD OF WARISTOUN. See p. 107. "John Kincaid, Laird of Waristoun, (an estate situated between the city of Edinburgh and the sea, towards Leith,) was murdered, on the 2d of July, 1600, by a man named Robert Weir, who was employed to do so by his wife, Jean Livingstone, daughter of the Laird of Dunipace. The unfortunate woman, who thus became implicated in a crime so revolting to humanity, was only twenty-one years of age at the time. It is probable from some circumstances, that her husband was considerably older than herself, and also that their marriage was any thing but one of love. It is only alleged, however, that she was instigated to seek his death by resentment for some bad treatment on his part, and, in particular, for a bite which he had inflicted on her arm. There was something extraordinary in the deliberation with which this wretched woman approached the awful gulf of crime. Having resolved on the means to be employed in the murder, she sent for a quondam servant of her father, Robert Weir, who lived in the neighbouring city. He came to the place of Waristoun, to see her; but, for some unexplained reason was not admitted. She again sent for him, and he again went. Again he was not admitted. At length, on his being called a third time, he was introduced to her presence. Before this time she had found an accomplice in the nurse of her child. It was then arranged, that Weir should be concealed in a cellar till the dead of night, when he should come forth and proceed to destroy the laird as he lay in his chamber. The bloody tragedy was acted precisely in accordance with this plan. Weir was brought up, at midnight, from the cellar to the hall by the lady herself, and afterwards went forward alone to the laird's bedroom. As he proceeded to his bloody work, she retired to her bed, to wait the intelligence of her husband's murder. When Weir entered the chamber, Waristoun awoke with the noise, and leant inquiringly over the side of the bed. The murderer then leapt upon him; the unhappy man uttered a great cry; Weir gave him several dreadful blows on vital parts, particularly one on the flank vein. But as the laird was still able to cry out, he at length saw fit to take more effective measures: he seized him by the throat with both hands, and compressing that part with all his force, succeeded, after a few minutes, in depriving him of life. When the lady heard her husband's first death-shout, she leapt out of bed, in an agony of mingled horror and repentance, and descended to the hall: but she made no effort to countermand her mission of destruction. She waited patiently till Weir came down to inform her that all was over. "Weir made an immediate escape from justice; but Lady Waristoun and the nurse were apprehended before the deed was half a day old. Being caught, as the Scottish law terms it, _red-hand_,--that is, while still bearing unequivocal marks of guilt, they were immediately tried by the magistrates of Edinburgh, and sentenced to be strangled and burnt at a stake. The lady's father, the Laird of Dunipace, was a favourite of King James VI., and he made all the interest he could with his majesty to procure a pardon; but all that could be obtained from the king, was an order that the unhappy lady should be executed by decapitation, and that at such an early hour in the morning as to make the affair as little of a spectacle as possible. "The space intervening between her sentence and her execution was only thirty-seven hours; yet, in that little time, Lady Waristoun contrived to become converted from a blood-stained and unrelenting murderess into a perfect saint on earth. One of the then ministers of Edinburgh has left an account of her conversion, which was lately published, and would be extremely amusing, were it not for the disgust which seizes the mind on beholding such an instance of perverted religion. She went to the scaffold with a demeanour which would have graced a martyr. Her lips were incessant in the utterance of pious exclamations. She professed herself confident of everlasting happiness. She even grudged every moment which she spent in this world, as so much taken from that sum of eternal felicity which she was to enjoy in the next. The people who came to witness the last scene, instead of having their minds inspired with salutary horror for her crime, were engrossed in admiration of her saintly behaviour, and greedily gathered up every devout word which fell from her tongue. It would almost appear from the narrative of the clergyman, that her fate was rather a matter of envy than of any other feeling. Her execution took place at four in the morning of the 5th of July, at the Watergate, near Holyroodhouse; and at the same hour her nurse was burnt on the castle-hill. It is some gratification to know, that the actual murderer, Weir, was eventually seized and executed, though not till four years after." CHAMBERS'S _Scottish Ballads_, p. 129. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 56. My mother was an ill woman, In fifteen years she married me; I hadna wit to guide a man, Alas! ill counsel guided me. O Warriston, O Warriston, 5 I wish that ye may sink for sin; I was but bare fifteen years auld, Whan first I enter'd your yates within. I hadna been a month married, Till my gude lord went to the sea; 10 I bare a bairn ere he came hame, And set it on the nourice knee. But it fell ance upon a day, That my gude lord return'd from sea; Then I did dress in the best array, 15 As blythe as ony bird on tree. I took my young son in my arms, Likewise my nourice me forebye, And I went down to yon shore side, My gude lord's vessel I might spy. 20 My lord he stood upon the deck, I wyte he hail'd me courteouslie; "Ye are thrice welcome, my lady gay, Whase aught that bairn on your knee?" She turn'd her right and round about, 25 Says, "Why take ye sic dreads o' me? Alas! I was too young married, To love another man but thee." "Now hold your tongue, my lady gay, Nae mair falsehoods ye'll tell to me; 30 This bonny bairn is not mine, You've loved another while I was on sea." In discontent then hame she went, And aye the tear did blin' her e'e; Says, "Of this wretch I'll be revenged, 35 For these harsh words he's said to me." She's counsell'd wi' her father's steward, What way she cou'd revenged be; Bad was the counsel then he gave,-- It was to gar her gude lord dee. 40 The nourice took the deed in hand, I wat she was well paid her fee; She kiest the knot, and the loop she ran, Which soon did gar this young lord dee. His brother lay in a room hard by, 45 Alas! that night he slept too soun'; But then he waken'd wi a cry, "I fear my brother's putten down. "O get me coal and candle light, And get me some gude companie;" 50 But before the light was brought, Warriston he was gart dee. They've ta'en the lady and fause nourice, In prison strong they ha'e them boun'; The nourice she was hard o' heart, 55 But the bonny lady fell in swoon. In it came her brother dear, And aye a sorry man was he; "I wou'd gie a' the lands I heir, O bonny Jean, to borrow thee." 60 "O borrow me brother, borrow me,-- O borrow'd shall I never be; For I gart kill my ain gude lord, And life is nae pleasure to me." In it came her mother dear, 65 I wyte a sorry woman was she; "I wou'd gie my white monie and gowd, O bonny Jean, to borrow thee." "Borrow me mother, borrow me,-- O borrow'd shall I never be; 70 For I gart kill my ain gude lord, And life's now nae pleasure to me." Then in it came her father dear, I wyte a sorry man was he; Says, "Ohon, alas! my bonny Jean, 75 If I had you at hame wi' me. "Seven daughters I ha'e left at hame, As fair women as fair can be; But I wou'd gi'e them ane by ane, O bonny Jean, to borrow thee." 80 "O borrow me father, borrow me,-- O borrow'd shall I never be; I that is worthy o' the death, It is but right that I shou'd dee." Then out it speaks the king himsell, 85 And aye as he steps in the fleer; Says, "I grant you your life, lady, Because you are of tender year." "A boon, a boon, my liege the king, The boon I ask, ye'll grant to me:" 90 "Ask on, ask on, my bonny Jean, Whate'er ye ask it's granted be." "Cause take me out at night, at night, Lat not the sun upon me shine; And take me to yon heading hill, 95 Strike aff this dowie head o' mine. "Ye'll take me out at night, at night, When there are nane to gaze and see; And ha'e me to yon heading hill, And ye'll gar head me speedilie." 100 They've ta'en her out at nine at night, Loot not the sun upon her shine; And had her to yon heading hill, And headed her baith neat and fine. Then out it speaks the king himsell, 105 I wyte a sorry man was he; "I've travell'd east, I've travell'd west, And sailed far beyond the sea, But I never saw a woman's face I was sae sorry to see dee. 110 "But Warriston was sair to blame, For slighting o' his lady so; He had the wyte o' his ain death, And bonny lady's overthrow." MARY HAMILTON. See p. 113. A "North Country" version from Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 252. The Editor furnishes the two following stanzas of another copy:-- My father is the Duke of Argyle, My mother's a lady gay, And I mysel am a daintie dame, And the king desired me. He shaw'd me up, he shaw'd me doun, He shaw'd me to the ha', He shaw'd me to the low cellars, And that was warst of a'. In one of Motherwell's copies, and in Buchan's, the heroine calls herself daughter of the Duke of York. "Whan I was a babe, and a very little babe, And stood at my mither's knee, Nae witch nor warlock did unfauld The death I was to dree. "But my mither was a proud woman, 5 A proud woman and a bauld; And she hired me to Queen Mary's bouer When scarce eleven years auld. "O happy, happy, is the maid, That's born of beauty free! 10 It was my dimpling rosy cheeks That's been the dule o' me; And wae be to that weirdless wicht, And a' his witcherie." Word's gane up and word's gane doun, 15 And word's gane to the ha', That Mary Hamilton was wi' bairn, And na body ken'd to wha. But in and cam the Queen hersel, Wi' gowd plait on her hair;-- 20 Says, "Mary Hamilton, whare is the babe That I heard greet sae sair?" "There is na babe within my bouer, And I hope there ne'er will be; But it's me wi' a sair and sick colic, 25 And I'm just like to dee." But they looked up, they looked down, Atween the bowsters and the wa', It's there they got a bonnie lad-bairn, But it's life it was awa'. 30 "Rise up, rise up, Mary Hamilton, Rise up, and dress ye fine, For you maun gang to Edinbruch, And stand afore the nine.[L34] "Ye'll no put on the dowie black, 35 Nor yet the dowie brown; But ye'll put on the robes o' red, To sheen thro' Edinbruch town." "I'll no put on the dowie black, Nor yet the dowie brown; 40 But I'll put on the robes o' red, To sheen thro' Edinbruch town." As they gaed thro' Edinbruch town, And down by the Nether-bow, There war monie a lady fair 45 Siching and crying, "Och how!" "O weep na mair for me, ladies, Weep na mair for me; Yestreen I killed my ain bairn, The day I deserve to dee. 50 "What need ye hech! and how! ladies, What need ye how! for me; Ye never saw grace at a graceless face,-- Queen Mary has nane to gie." "Gae forward, gae forward," the Queen she said, "Gae forward, that ye may see; 55 For the very same words that ye hae said, Sall hang ye on the gallows tree." As she gaed up the Tolbooth stairs, She gied loud lauchters three; 60 But or ever she cam down again, She was condemn'd to dee. "O tak example frae me, Maries, O tak example frae me, Nor gie your luve to courtly lords, 65 Nor heed their witchin' ee. "But wae be to the Queen hersel, She micht hae pardon'd me; But sair she's striven for me to hang Upon the gallows tree. 70 "Yestreen the Queen had four Maries, The nicht she'll hae but three; There was Mary Beatoun, Mary Seaton, And Mary Carmichael, and me. "Aft hae I set pearls in her hair, 75 Aft hae I lac'd her gown, And this is the reward I now get, To be hang'd in Edinbruch town! "O a' ye mariners, far and near, That sail ayont the faem, 80 O dinna let my father and mither ken, But what I am coming hame. "O a' ye mariners, far and near, That sail ayont the sea, Let na my father and mither ken, 85 The death I am to dee. "Sae, weep na mair for me, ladies, Weep na mair for me, The mither that kills her ain bairn, Deserves weel for to dee." 90 * * * * * * * * 34. Anciently the supreme criminal court of Scotland was composed of nine members, viz. the Justiciar, or Justice General, and his eight Deputes. KINLOCH. MARY HAMILTON. See p 113. Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, p. 19. Then down cam Queen Marie Wi' gold links in her hair, Saying, "Marie mild, where is the child, That I heard greet sair sair?" "There was nae child wi' me, madam, 5 There was nae child wi' me; It was but me in a sair cholic, When I was like to die." "I'm not deceived," Queen Marie said, "No, no, indeed, not I! 10 So Marie mild, where is the child? For sure I heard it cry." She turned down the blankets fine, Likewise the Holland sheet, And underneath, there strangled lay 15 A lovely baby sweet. "O cruel mother," said the Queen, "Some fiend possessed thee; But I will hang thee for this deed, My Marie tho' thou be!" 20 * * * * * * When she cam to the Nether-Bow Port, She laugh't loud laughters three; But when she cam to the gallows foot, The saut tear blinded her ee. "Yestreen the Queen had four Maries, 25 The night she'll hae but three; There was Marie Seton, and Marie Beaton, And Marie Carmichael and me. "Ye mariners, ye mariners, That sail upon the sea, 30 Let not my father or mother wit The death that I maun die. "I was my parents' only hope, They ne'er had ane but me; They little thought when I left hame, 35 They should nae mair me see!" SIR HUGH, OR THE JEW'S DAUGHTER. See p. 136. From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 51; taken down from recitation. Yesterday was brave Hallowday, And, above all days of the year, The schoolboys all got leave to play, And little Sir Hugh was there. He kicked the ball with his foot, 5 And kepped it with his knee, And even in at the Jew's window He gart the bonnie ba' flee. Out then came the Jew's daughter,-- "Will ye come in and dine?" 10 "I winna come in and I canna come in Till I get that ball of mine. "Throw down that ball to me, maiden, Throw down the ball to me." "I winna throw down your ball, Sir Hugh, 15 Till ye come up to me." She pu'd the apple frae the tree, It was baith red and green, She gave it unto little Sir Hugh, With that his heart did win. 20 She wiled him into ae chamber, She wiled him into twa, She wiled him into the third chamber, And that was warst o't a'. She took out a little penknife, 25 Hung low down by her spare, She twined this young thing o' his life, And a word he ne'er spak mair. And first came out the thick, thick blood, And syne came out the thin, 30 And syne came out the bonnie heart's blood,-- There was nae mair within. She laid him on a dressing table, She dress'd him like a swine, Says, "Lie ye there, my bonnie Sir Hugh, 35 Wi' ye're apples red and green!" She put him in a case of lead, Says, "Lie ye there and sleep!" She threw him into the deep draw-well Was fifty fathom deep. 40 A schoolboy walking in the garden Did grievously hear him moan, He ran away to the deep draw-well And fell down on his knee. Says, "Bonnie Sir Hugh, and pretty Sir Hugh, 45 I pray you speak to me; If you speak to any body in this world, I pray you speak to me." When bells were rung and mass was sung, And every body went hame, 50 Then every lady had her son, But Lady Helen had nane. She rolled her mantle her about, And sore, sore did she weep; She ran away to the Jew's castle, 55 When all were fast asleep. She cries, "Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh, I pray you speak to me; If you speak to any body in this world, I pray you speak to me." 60 "Lady Helen, if ye want your son, I'll tell ye where to seek; Lady Helen, if ye want your son, He's in the well sae deep." She ran away to the deep draw-well, 65 And she fell down on her knee; Saying, "Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh, I pray ye speak to me; If ye speak to any body in the world, I pray ye speak to me." 70 "Oh! the lead it is wondrous heavy, mother, The well it is wondrous deep; The little penknife sticks in my throat, And I downa to ye speak. But lift me out o' this deep draw-well, 75 And bury me in yon churchyard; "Put a Bible at my head," he says, "And a testament at my feet, And pen and ink at every side, And I'll lie still and sleep. 80 "And go to the back of Maitland town, Bring me my winding sheet; For it's at the back of Maitland town That you and I shall meet." O the broom, the bonny, bonny broom, 85 The broom that makes full sore, A woman's mercy is very little, But a man's mercy is more. SIR HUGH. See p. 136. From Hume's _Sir Hugh of Lincoln_, p. 35; obtained from recitation, in Ireland. 'Twas on a summer's morning, Some scholars were playing at ball; When out came the Jew's daughter And lean'd her back against the wall. She said unto the fairest boy, 5 "Come here to me, Sir Hugh." "No! I will not," said he, "Without my playfellows too." She took an apple out of her pocket, And trundled it along the plain; 10 And who was readiest to lift it, Was little Sir Hugh, again. She took him by the milk-white han', An' led him through many a hall, Until they came to one stone chamber, 15 Where no man might hear his call. She sat him in a goolden chair, And jagg'd him with a pin; And called for a goolden cup To houl' his heart's blood in. 20 She tuk him by the yellow hair, An' also by the feet; An' she threw him in the deep draw well, It was fifty fadom deep. Day bein' over, the night came on, 25 And the scholars all went home; Then every mother had her son, But little Sir Hugh's had none. She put her mantle about her head, Tuk a little rod in her han', 30 An' she says, "Sir Hugh, if I fin' you here, I will bate you for stayin' so long." First she went to the Jew's door, But they were fast asleep; An' then she went to the deep draw-well, 35 That was fifty fadom deep. She says, "Sir Hugh, if you be here, As I suppose you be, If ever the dead or quick arose, Arise and spake to me." 40 Yes, mother dear, I am here, I know I have staid very long; But a little penknife was stuck in my heart, Till the stream ran down full strong. And mother dear, when you go home, 45 Tell my playfellows all, That I lost my life by leaving them When playing that game of ball. And ere another day is gone, My winding-sheet prepare, 50 And bury me in the green churchyard Where the flowers are bloomin' fair. Lay my Bible at my head, My testament at my feet; The earth and worms shall be my bed, 55 Till Christ and I shall meet. SIR PATRICK SPENS. See p. 147. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 1. The King sits in Dunfermline town, A-drinking at the wine; Says, "Where will I get a good skipper Will sail the saut seas fine?" Out it speaks an eldren knight 5 Amang the companie,-- "Young Patrick Spens is the best skipper That ever sail'd the sea." The king he wrote a braid letter, And seal'd it wi' his ring; 10 Says, "Ye'll gi'e that to Patrick Spens: See if ye can him find." He sent this, not wi' an auld man, Nor yet a simple boy, But the best o' nobles in his train 15 This letter did convoy. When Patrick look'd the letter upon A light laugh then ga'e he; But ere he read it till an end, The tear blinded his e'e. 20 "Ye'll eat and drink, my merry men a', An' see ye be weell thorn; For blaw it weet, or blaw it wind, My guid ship sails the morn." Then out it speaks a guid auld man, 25 A guid death mat he dee,-- "Whatever ye do, my guid master, Tak' God your guide to bee. "For late yestreen I saw the new moon, The auld moon in her arm." 30 "Ohon, alas!" says Patrick Spens, "That bodes a deadly storm. "But I maun sail the seas the morn, And likewise sae maun you; To Noroway, wi' our king's daughter,-- 35 A chosen queen she's now. "But I wonder who has been sae base, As tauld the king o' mee: Even tho' hee ware my ae brither, An ill death mat he dee." 40 Now Patrick he rigg'd out his ship, And sailed ower the faem; But mony a dreary thought had hee, While hee was on the main. They hadna sail'd upon the sea 45 A day but barely three, Till they came in sight o' Noroway, It's there where they must bee. They hadna stayed into that place A month but and a day, 50 Till he caus'd the flip in mugs gae roun', And wine in cans sae gay. The pipe and harp sae sweetly play'd, The trumpets loudly soun'; In every hall where in they stay'd, 55 Wi' their mirth did reboun'. Then out it speaks an auld skipper, An inbearing dog was hee,-- "Ye've stay'd ower lang in Noroway, Spending your king's monie." 60 Then out it speaks Sir Patrick Spens,-- "O how can a' this bee? I ha'e a bow o' guid red gowd Into my ship wi' mee. "But betide me well, betide me wae, 65 This day I'se leave the shore; And never spend my king's monie 'Mong Noroway dogs no more." Young Patrick hee is on the sea, And even on the faem, 70 Wi' five-an-fifty Scots lords' sons, That lang'd to bee at hame. They hadna sail'd upon the sea A day but barely three, Till loud and boistrous grew the wind, 75 And stormy grew the sea. "O where will I get a little wee boy Will tak' my helm in hand, Till I gae up to my tapmast, And see for some dry land?" 80 He hadna gane to his tapmast A step but barely three; Ere thro' and thro' the bonny ship's side, He saw the green haw sea. "There are five-an-fifty feather beds 85 Well packed in ae room; And ye'll get as muckle guid canvas As wrap the ship a' roun'; "Ye'll pict her well, and spare her not, And mak' her hale and soun'." 90 But ere he had the word well spoke The bonny ship was down. O laith, laith were our guid lords' sons To weet their milk-white hands; But lang ere a' the play was ower 95 They wat their gowden bands. O laith, laith were our Scots lords' sons To weet their coal-black shoon; But lang ere a' the play was ower They wat their hats aboon. 100 It's even ower by Aberdour It's fifty fathoms deep, And yonder lies Sir Patrick Spens, And a's men at his feet. It's even ower by Aberdour, 105 There's mony a craig and fin, And yonder lies Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' mony a guid lord's son. Lang, lang will the ladyes look Into their morning weed, 110 Before they see young Patrick Spens Come sailing ower the fleed. Lang, lang will the ladyes look Wi' their fans in their hand, Before they see him, Patrick Spens, 115 Come sailing to dry land. LORD LIVINGSTON. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 39. It fell about the Lammas time, When wightsmen won their hay; A' the squires in merry Linkum, Went a' forth till a play. They play'd until the evening tide, 5 The sun was gaeing down; A lady thro' plain fields was bound, A lily leesome thing. Two squires that for this lady pledged, In hopes for a renown; 10 The one was call'd the proud Seaton, The other Livingston. "When will ye, Michaell o' Livingston, Wad for this lady gay?" "To-morrow, to-morrow," said Livingston, 15 "To-morrow, if you may." Then they hae wadded their wagers, And laid their pledges down; To the high castle o' Edinbro' They made them ready boun'. 20 The chamber that they did gang in, There it was daily dight; The kipples were like the gude red gowd, As they stood up in hight; And the roof-tree like the siller white, 25 And shin'd like candles bright. The lady fair into that ha' Was comely to be seen; Her kirtle was made o' the pa', Her gowns seem'd o' the green. 30 Her gowns seem'd like green, like green, Her kirtle o' the pa'; A siller wand intill her hand, She marshall'd ower them a'. She gae every knight a lady bright, 35 And every squire a may; Her own sell chose him, Livingston, They were a comely tway. Then Seaton started till his foot, The fierce flame in his e'e: 40 "On the next day, wi' sword in hand, On plain fields, meet ye me." When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a' man bound for bed; Lord Livingston and his fair dame 45 In bed were sweetly laid. The bed, the bed, where they lay in, Was cover'd wi' the pa'; A covering o' the gude red gowd, Lay nightly ower the twa. 50 So they lay there, till on the morn The sun shone on their feet; Then up it raise him, Livingston, To draw to him a weed. The first an' weed that he drew on, 55 Was o' the linen clear; The next an' weed that he drew on, It was a weed o' weir. The niest an' weed that he drew on, Was gude iron and steel; 60 Twa gloves o' plate, a gowden helmet, Became that hind chiel weel. Then out it speaks that lady gay, A little forbye stood she; "I'll dress mysell in men's array, 65 Gae to the fields for thee." "O God forbid," said Livingston, "That e'er I dree the shame; My lady slain in plain fields, And I coward knight at hame!" 70 He scarcely travelled frae the town A mile but barely twa, Till he met wi' a witch woman, I pray to send her wae. "This is too gude a day, my lord, 75 To gang sae far frae town; This is too gude a day, my lord, On field to make you boun'. "I dream'd a dream concerning thee, O read ill dreams to guid! 80 Your bower was full o' milk-white swans, Your bride's bed full o' bluid." "O bluid is gude," said Livingston, "To bide it whoso may; If I be frae yon plain fields, 85 Nane knew the plight I lay." Then he rade on to plain fields, As swift's his horse cou'd hie; And there he met the proud Seaton, Come boldly ower the lee. 90 "Come on to me now, Livingston, Or then take foot and flee; This is the day that we must try Who gains the victorie." Then they fought with sword in hand, 95 Till they were bluidy men; But on the point o' Seaton's sword Brave Livingston was slain. His lady lay ower castle wa', Beholding dale and down, 100 When Blenchant brave, his gallant steed, Came prancing to the town. "O where is now my ain gude lord, He stays sae far frae me?" "O dinna ye see your ain gude lord, 105 Stand bleeding by your knee?" "O live, O live, Lord Livingston, The space o' ae half hour; There's nae a leech in Edinbro' town But I'll bring to your door." 110 "Awa' wi' your leeches, lady," he said, "Of them I'll be the waur; There's nae a leech in Edinbro' town, That can strong death debar. "Ye'll take the lands o' Livingston, 115 And deal them liberallie; To the auld that may not, the young that cannot, And blind that does na see; And help young maidens' marriages, That has nae gear to gie." 120 "My mother got it in a book, The first night I was born, I wou'd be wedded till a knight, And him slain on the morn. "But I will do for my love's sake 125 What ladies woudna thole; Ere seven years shall hae an end, Nae shoe's gang on my sole. "There's never lint gang on my head, Nor kame gang in my hair, 130 Nor ever coal nor candle light, Shine in my bower mair." When seven years were near an end, The lady she thought lang; And wi' a crack her heart did brake, 135 And sae this ends my sang. CLERK TAMAS. Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 43. Clerk Tamas lov'd her, fair Annie, As well as Mary lov'd her son; But now he hates her, fair Annie, And hates the lands that she lives in. "Ohon, alas!" said fair Annie, 5 "Alas! this day I fear I'll die; But I will on to sweet Tamas, And see gin he will pity me." As Tamas lay ower his shott-window, Just as the sun was gaen down, 10 There he beheld her, fair Annie, As she came walking to the town. "O where are a' my well-wight men, I wat that I pay meat and fee, For to lat a' my hounds gang loose, 15 To hunt this vile whore to the sea!" The hounds they knew the lady well, And nane o' them they wou'd her bite; Save ane that is ca'd Gaudy-where, I wat he did the lady smite. 20 "O wae mat worth ye, Gaudy-where, An ill reward this is to me; For ae bit that I gae the lave, I'm very sure I've gi'en you three. "For me, alas! there's nae remeid, 25 Here comes the day that I maun die; I ken ye lov'd your master well, And sae, alas for me, did I!" A captain lay ower his ship window, Just as the sun was gaen down; 30 There he beheld her, fair Annie, As she was hunted frae the town. "Gin ye'll forsake father and mither, And sae will ye your friends and kin, Gin ye'll forsake your lands sae broad, 35 Then come and I will take you in." "Yes, I'll forsake baith father and mither, And sae will I my friends and kin, Yes, I'll forsake my lands sae broad, And come, gin ye will take me in." 40 Then a' thing gaed frae fause Tamas, And there was naething byde him wi'; Then he thought lang for Arrandella, It was fair Annie for to see. "How do ye now, ye sweet Tamas? 45 And how gaes a' in your countrie?" "I'll do better to you than ever I've done, Fair Annie, gin ye'll come an' see." "O Guid forbid," said fair Annie, "That e'er the like fa' in my hand; 50 Wou'd I forsake my ain gude lord, And follow you, a gae-through-land? "Yet nevertheless now, sweet Tamas, Ye'll drink a cup o' wine wi' me; And nine times in the live lang day, 55 Your fair claithing shall changed be." Fair Annie pat it till her cheek, Sae did she till her milk-white chin, Sae did she till her flattering lips, But never a drap o' wine gaed in. 60 Tamas pat it till his cheek, Sae did he till his dimpled chin; He pat it till his rosy lips, And then the well o' wine gaed in. "These pains," said he, "are ill to bide; 65 Here is the day that I maun die; O take this cup frae me, Annie, For o' the same I am weary." "And sae was I, o' you, Tamas, When I was hunted to the sea; 70 But I'se gar bury you in state, Which is mair than ye'd done to me." JOHN THOMSON AND THE TURK. From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, Appendix, p. ix. The same in Buchan's collection, ii. 159. John Thomson fought against the Turks Three years, intill a far countrie; And all that time, and something mair, Was absent from his gay ladie. But it fell ance upon a time, 5 As this young chieftain sat alane, He spied his lady in rich array, As she walk'd ower a rural plain. "What brought ye here, my lady gay, So far awa from your ain countrie? 10 I've thought lang, and very lang, And all for your fair face to see." For some days she did with him stay, Till it fell ance upon a day, "Fareweel, for a time," she said, 15 "For now I must boun hame away." He's gi'en to her a jewel fine, Was set with pearl and precious stane; Says, "My love, beware of these savages bold That's in your way as ye gang hame. 20 "Ye'll tak the road, my lady fair, That leads you fair across the lea: That keeps you from wild Hind Soldan, And likewise from base Violentrie." Wi' heavy heart thir twa did pairt, 25 She mintet as she wuld gae hame; Hind Soldan by the Greeks was slain, But to base Violentrie she's gane. When a twelvemonth had expired, John Thomson he thought wondrous lang, 30 And he has written a braid letter, And sealed it weel wi' his ain hand. He sent it with a small vessel That there was quickly gaun to sea; And sent it on to fair Scotland, 35 To see about his gay ladie. But the answer he received again,-- The lines did grieve his heart right sair: Nane of her friends there had her seen, For a twelvemonth and something mair. 40 Then he put on a palmer's weed, And took a pike-staff in his hand; To Violentrie's castell he hied; But slowly, slowly he did gang. When within the hall he came, 45 He jooked and couch'd out ower his tree: "If ye be lady of this hall, Some of your good bountith gie me." "What news, what news, palmer," she said, "And from what countrie cam ye?" 50 "I'm lately come from Grecian plains, Where lies some of the Scots armie." "If ye be come from Grecian plains, Some mair news I will ask of thee,-- Of one of the chieftains that lies there, 55 If he has lately seen his gay ladie." "It is twa months, and something mair, Since we did pairt on yonder plain; And now this knight has began to fear One of his foes he has her ta'en." 60 "He has not ta'en me by force nor slight; It was a' by my ain free will; He may tarry into the fight, For here I mean to tarry still. "And if John Thomson ye do see, 65 Tell him I wish him silent sleep; His head was not so coziely, Nor yet sae weel, as lies at my feet." With that he threw aff his strange disguise, Laid by the mask that he had on; 70 Said, "Hide me now, my lady fair, For Violentrie will soon be hame." "For the love I bore thee ance, I'll strive to hide you, if I can:" Then she put him down in a dark cellar 75 Where there lay many a new slain man. But he hadna in the cellar been, Not an hour but barely three, Then hideous was the noise he heard, When in at the gate cam Violentrie. 80 Says, "I wish you well, my lady fair, It's time for us to sit to dine; Come, serve me with the good white bread, And likewise with the claret wine. "That Scots chieftain, our mortal fae, 85 Sae aft frae the field has made us flee, Ten thousand zechins this day I'll give That I his face could only see." "Of that same gift wuld ye give me, If I wuld bring him unto thee? 90 I fairly hold you at your word;-- Come ben, John Thomson, to my lord." Then from the vault John Thomson came, Wringing his hands most piteouslie: "What would ye do," the Turk he cried, 95 "If ye had me as I hae thee?" "If I had you as ye have me, I'll tell ye what I'd do to thee; I'd hang you up in good greenwood, And cause your ain hand wale the tree. 100 "I meant to stick you with my knife For kissing my beloved ladie:" "But that same weed ye've shaped for me, It quickly shall be sewed for thee." Then to the wood they baith are gane; 105 John Thomson clamb frae tree to tree; And aye he sighed and said, "Och hone! Here comes the day that I must die." He tied a ribbon on every branch, Put up a flag his men might see; 110 But little did his false faes ken He meant them any injurie. He set his horn unto his mouth, And he has blawn baith loud and schill: And then three thousand armed men 115 Cam tripping all out ower the hill. "Deliver us our chief," they all did cry; "It's by our hand that ye must die;" "Here is your chief," the Turk replied, With that fell on his bended knee. 120 "O mercy, mercy, good fellows all, Mercy I pray you'll grant to me;" "Such mercy as ye meant to give, Such mercy we shall give to thee." This Turk they in his castel burnt, 125 That stood upon yon hill so hie; John Thomson's gay ladie they took And hanged her on yon greenwood tree. LORD THOMAS STUART. From Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, p. 1. Thomas Stuart was a lord, A lord of mickle land; He used to wear a coat of gold, But now his grave is green. Now he has wooed the young countess, 5 The Countess of Balquhin, An' given her for a morning gift, Strathboggie and Aboyne. But women's wit is aye willful, Alas! that ever it was sae; 10 She longed to see the morning gift That her gude lord to her gae. When steeds were saddled an' weel bridled, An' ready for to ride, There came a pain on that gude lord, 15 His back, likewise his side. He said, "Ride on, my lady fair, May goodness be your guide; For I'm sae sick an' weary that No farther can I ride." 20 Now ben did come his father dear, Wearing a golden band; Says, "Is there nae leech in Edinburgh, Can cure my son from wrang?" "O leech is come, an' leech is gane, 25 Yet, father, I'm aye waur; There's not a leech in Edinbro' Can death from me debar. "But be a friend to my wife, father, Restore to her her own; 30 Restore to her my morning gift, Strathboggie and Aboyne. "It had been gude for my wife, father, To me she'd born a son; He would have got my land an' rents, 35 Where they lie out an' in. "It had been gude for my wife, father, To me she'd born an heir; He would have got my land an' rents, Where they lie fine an' fair." 40 The steeds they strave into their stables, The boys could'nt get them bound; The hounds lay howling on the leech, 'Cause their master was behind. "I dreamed a dream since late yestreen, 45 I wish it may be good, That our chamber was full of swine, An' our bed full of blood. "I saw a woman come from the West, Full sore wringing her hands, 50 And aye she cried, 'Ohon alas! My good lord's broken bands.' "As she came by my good lord's bower, Saw mony black steeds an' brown; I'm feared it be mony unco lords 55 Havin' my love from town." As she came by my gude lord's bower, Saw mony black steeds an' grey; "I'm feared its mony unco lords Havin' my love to the clay." 60 THE SPANISH VIRGIN. From Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 316. The three following pieces are here inserted merely as specimens of a class of tales, horrible in their incidents but feeble in their execution, of which whole dreary volumes were printed and read about two centuries ago. They were all of them, probably, founded on Italian novels. "The subject of this ballad is taken from a folio collection of tragical stories, entitled, _The Theatre of God's Judgments, by Dr. Beard and Dr. Taylor_, 1642. Pt. 2, p. 89. The text is given (with corrections) from two copies; one of them in black-letter in the Pepys Collection. In this every stanza is accompanied with the following distich by way of burden: Oh jealousie! thou art nurst in hell: Depart from hence, and therein dwell." All tender hearts, that ake to hear Of those that suffer wrong; All you that never shed a tear, Give heed unto my song. Fair Isabella's tragedy 5 My tale doth far exceed: Alas, that so much cruelty In female hearts should breed! In Spain a lady liv'd of late, Who was of high degree; 10 Whose wayward temper did create Much woe and misery. Strange jealousies so filled her head With many a vain surmize, She thought her lord had wrong'd her bed, 15 And did her love despise. A gentlewoman passing fair Did on this lady wait; With bravest dames she might compare; Her beauty was compleat. 20 Her lady cast a jealous eye Upon this gentle maid, And taxt her with disloyaltye, And did her oft upbraid. In silence still this maiden meek 25 Her bitter taunts would bear, While oft adown her lovely cheek Would steal the falling tear. In vain in humble sort she strove Her fury to disarm; 30 As well the meekness of the dove The bloody hawke might charm. Her lord, of humour light and gay, And innocent the while, As oft as she came in his way, 35 Would on the damsell smile. And oft before his lady's face, As thinking her her friend, He would the maiden's modest grace And comeliness commend. 40 All which incens'd his lady so, She burnt with wrath extreame; At length the fire that long did glow, Burst forth into a flame. For on a day it so befell, 45 When he was gone from home, The lady all with rage did swell, And to the damsell come. And charging her with great offence And many a grievous fault, 50 She bade her servants drag her thence, Into a dismal vault, That lay beneath the common-shore,-- A dungeon dark and deep, Where they were wont, in days of yore, 55 Offenders great to keep. There never light of chearful day Dispers'd the hideous gloom; But dank and noisome vapours play Around the wretched room: 60 And adders, snakes, and toads therein, As afterwards was known, Long in this loathsome vault had bin, And were to monsters grown. Into this foul and fearful place, 65 The fair one innocent Was cast, before her lady's face; Her malice to content. This maid no sooner enter'd is, But strait, alas! she hears 70 The toads to croak, and snakes to hiss: Then grievously she fears. Soon from their holes the vipers creep, And fiercely her assail, Which makes the damsel sorely weep, 75 And her sad fate bewail. With her fair hands she strives in vain Her body to defend; With shrieks and cries she doth complain, But all is to no end. 80 A servant listning near the door, Struck with her doleful noise, Strait ran his lady to implore; But she'll not hear his voice. With bleeding heart he goes agen 85 To mark the maiden's groans; And plainly hears, within the den, How she herself bemoans. Again he to his lady hies, With all the haste he may; 90 She into furious passion flies, And orders him away. Still back again does he return To hear her tender cries; The virgin now had ceas'd to mourn, 95 Which fill'd him with surprize. In grief, and horror, and affright, He listens at the walls But finding all was silent quite, He to his lady calls. 100 "Too sure, O lady," now quoth he, "Your cruelty hath sped; Make haste, for shame, and come and see; I fear the virgin's dead." She starts to hear her sudden fate, 105 And does with torches run; But all her haste was now too late, For death his worst had done. The door being open'd, strait they found The virgin stretch'd along; 110 Two dreadful snakes had wrapt her round, Which her to death had stung. One round her legs, her thighs, her waist, Had twin'd his fatal wreath; The other close her neck embrac'd, 115 And stopt her gentle breath. The snakes being from her body thrust, Their bellies were so fill'd, That with excess of blood they burst, Thus with their prey were kill'd. 120 The wicked lady, at this sight, With horror strait ran mad; So raving dy'd, as was most right, 'Cause she no pity had. Let me advise you, ladies all, 125 Of jealousy beware: It causeth many a one to fall, And is the devil's snare. THE LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY. "This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, collated with another in the British Museum, H. 263, folio. It is there entitled, _The Lady Isabella's Tragedy, or the Step-Mother's Cruelty; being a relation of a lamentable and cruel murther, committed on the body of the Lady Isabella, the only daughter of a noble Duke, &c. To the tune of The Lady's Fall_. To some copies are annexed eight more modern stanzas, entitled, _The Dutchess's and Cook's Lamentation_." Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 199. The copy in Durfey's _Pills to Purge Melancholy_, v. 53, is nearly _verbatim_ the same. There was a lord of worthy fame, And a hunting he would ride, Attended by a noble traine Of gentrye by his side. And while he did in chase remaine, 5 To see both sport and playe, His ladye went, as she did feigne, Unto the church to praye. This lord he had a daughter deare, Whose beauty shone so bright, 10 She was belov'd, both far and neare, Of many a lord and knight. Fair Isabella was she call'd, A creature faire was shee; She was her fathers only joye; 15 As you shall after see. Therefore her cruel step-mother Did envye her so much, That daye by daye she sought her life, Her malice it was such. 20 She bargain'd with the master-cook To take her life awaye; And taking of her daughter's book, She thus to her did saye:-- "Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye, 25 Go hasten presentlie, And tell unto the master-cook These wordes that I tell thee. "And bid him dresse to dinner streight That faire and milk-white doe 30 That in the parke doth shine so bright, There's none so faire to showe." This ladye fearing of no harme, Obey'd her mothers will; And presentlye she hasted home, 35 Her pleasure to fulfill. She streight into the kitchen went, Her message for to tell; And there she spied the master-cook, Who did with malice swell. 40 "Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe, Do that which I thee tell: You needes must dresse the milk-white doe, Which you do knowe full well." Then streight his cruell bloodye hands, 45 He on the ladye layd; Who quivering and shaking stands, While thus to her he sayd: "Thou art the doe that I must dresse; See here, behold my knife; 50 For it is pointed presently To ridd thee of thy life." "O then," cried out the scullion-boye, As loud as loud might bee, "O save her life, good master-cook, 55 And make your pyes of mee! "For pityes sake do not destroye My ladye with your knife; You know shee is her father's joye; For Christes sake save her life!" 60 "I will not save her life," he sayd, "Nor make my pyes of thee; Yet if thou dost this deed bewraye, Thy butcher I will bee." Now when this lord he did come home 65 For to sitt down and eat, He called for his daughter deare, To come and carve his meat. "Now sit you downe," his ladye sayd, "O sit you downe to meat; 70 Into some nunnery she is gone; Your daughter deare forget." Then solemnlye he made a vowe Before the companie, That he would neither eat nor drinke, 75 Until he did her see. O then bespake the scullion-boye. With a loud voice so hye; "If now you will your daughter see, My lord, cut up that pye: 80 "Wherein her fleshe is minced small, And parched with the fire; All caused by her step-mother, Who did her death desire. "And cursed bee the master-cook, 85 O cursed may he bee! I proffered him my own heart's blood, From death to set her free." Then all in blacke this lord did mourne, And for his daughters sake, 90 He judged her cruell step-mother To be burnt at a stake. Likewise he judg'd the master-cook In boiling lead to stand. And made the simple scullion-boye 95 The heire of all his land. THE CRUEL BLACK. _A Collection of Old Ballads_, (1723,) ii. 152: also Evans's _Old Ballads_, iii. 232. Entered in the Stationers' _Registers, 1569-70_. A writer in the _British Bibliographer_, (iv. 182,) has pointed out that this is only one of Bandello's novels versified. The novel is the 21st of the Third Part, (London, 1792.) _A lamentable Ballad of the tragical End of a gallant Lord and virtuous Lady; together with the untimely Death of their two Children: wickedly performed by a Heathenish and Blood-thirsty Black-a-moor, their Servant; the like of which Cruelty and Murder was never before heard of._ In Rome a nobleman did wed A virgin of great fame; A fairer creature never did Dame Nature ever frame: By whom he had two children fair, 5 Whose beauty did excel; They were their parents only joy, They lov'd them both so well. The lord he lov'd to hunt the buck, The tiger, and the boar; 10 And still for swiftness always took With him a black-a-moor: Which black-a-moor within the wood His lord he did offend, For which he did him then correct, 15 In hopes he would amend. The day it grew unto an end; Then homewards he did haste, Where with his lady he did rest, Until the night was past. 20 Then in the morning he did rise, And did his servants call; A hunting he provides to go: Straight they were ready all To cause the toyl the lady did 25 Intreat him not to go: "Alas, good lady," then quoth he, "Why art thou grieved so? Content thyself, I will return With speed to thee again." 30 "Good father," quoth the little babes, "With us here still remain." "Farewel, dear children, I will go A fine thing for to buy;" But they, therewith nothing content, 35 Aloud began to cry. The mother takes them by the hand, Saying, "Come, go with me Unto the highest tower, where Your father you shall see." 40 The black-a-moor, perceiving now, Who then did stay behind, His lord to be a hunting gone, Began to call to mind: "My master he did me correct, 45 My fault not being great; Now of his wife I'll be reveng'd, She shall not me intreat." The place was moated round about; The bridge he up did draw; 50 The gates he bolted very fast; Of none he stood in awe. He up into the tower went, The lady being there; Who, when she saw his countenance grim, 55 She straight began to fear. But now my trembling heart it quakes To think what I must write; My senses all begin to fail, My soul it doth affright. 60 Yet must I make an end of this Which here I have begun, Which will make sad the hardest heart, Before that I have done. This wretch unto the lady went, 65 And her with speed did will, His lust forthwith to satisfy, His mind for to fulfil. The lady she amazed was, To hear the villain speak; 70 "Alas," quoth she, "what shall I do? With grief my heart will break." With that he took her in his arms; She straight for help did cry; "Content yourself, lady," he said, 75 "Your husband is not nigh: The bridge is drawn, the gates are shut, Therefore come lie with me, Or else I do protest and vow, Thy butcher I will be." 80 The crystal tears ran down her face, Her children cried amain, And sought to help their mother dear, But all it was in vain; For that egregious filthy rogue 85 Her hands behind her bound, And then perforce with all his might, He threw her on the ground. With that she shriek'd, her children cried, And such a noise did make, 90 That town-folks, hearing her laments, Did seek their parts to take: But all in vain; no way was found To help the lady's need, Who cried to them most piteously, 95 "O help! O help with speed!" Some run into the forest wide, Her lord home for to call; And they that stood still did lament This gallant lady's fall. 100 With speed her lord came posting home; He could not enter in; His lady's cries did pierce his heart; To call he did begin: "O hold thy hand, thou savage moor, 105 To hurt her do forbear, Or else be sure, if I do live, Wild horses shall thee tear." With that the rogue ran to the wall, He having had his will, 110 And brought one child under his arm, His dearest blood to spill. The child, seeing his father there, To him for help did call: "O father! help my mother dear, 115 We shall be killed all." Then fell the lord upon his knee, And did the moor intreat, To save the life of this poor child, Whose fear was then so great. 120 But this vile wretch the little child By both the heels did take And dash'd his brains against the wall, Whilst parent's hearts did ake: That being done, straightway he ran 125 The other child to fetch, And pluck'd it from the mother's breast, Most like a cruel wretch. Within one hand a knife he brought, The child within the other; 130 And holding it over the wall, Saying, "Thus shall die thy mother," With that he cut the throat of it; Then to the father he did call, To look how he the head did cut, 135 And down the head did fall. This done, he threw it down the wall Into the moat so deep; Which made the father wring his hands, And grievously to weep. 140 Then to the lady went this rogue, Who was near dead with fear, Yet this vile wretch most cruelly Did drag her by the hair; And drew her to the very wall, 145 Which when her lord did see, Then presently he cried out, And fell upon his knee: Quoth he, "If thou wilt save her life, Whom I do love so dear, 150 I will forgive thee all is past, Though they concern me near. "O save her life, I thee beseech; O save her, I thee pray, And I will grant thee what thou wilt 155 Demand of me this day." "Well," quoth the moor, "I do regard The moan that thou dost make: If thou wilt grant me what I ask, I'll save her for thy sake." 160 "O save her life, and then demand Of me what thing thou wilt." "Cut off thy nose, and not one drop Of her blood shall be spilt." With that the lord presently took 165 A knife within his hand, And then his nose he quite cut off, In place where he did stand. "Now I have bought my lady's life," He to the moor did call; 170 "Then take her," quoth this wicked rogue, And down he let her fall. Which when her gallant lord did see, His senses all did fail; Yet many sought to save his life, 175 But nothing could prevail. When as the moor did see him dead, Then did he laugh amain At them who for their gallant lord And lady did complain: 180 Quoth he, "I know you'll torture me, If that you can me get, But all your threats I do not fear, Nor yet regard one whit. "Wild horses shall my body tear, 185 I know it to be true, But I prevent you of that pain:" And down himself he threw. Too good a death for such a wretch, A villain void of fear! 190 And thus doth end as sad a tale As ever man did hear. BOOK IV. KING MALCOLM AND SIR COLVIN. See p. 173. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 6. There ance liv'd a king in fair Scotland, King Malcolm called by name; Whom ancient history gives record, For valour, worth, and fame. And it fell ance upon a day, 5 The king sat down to dine; And then he miss'd a favourite knight, Whose name was Sir Colvin. But out it speaks another knight, Ane o' Sir Colvin's kin; 10 "He's lyin' in bed, right sick in love, All for your daughter Jean." "O waes me," said the royal king, "I'm sorry for the same; She maun take bread and wine sae red, 15 Give it to Sir Colvin." Then gently did she bear the bread, Her page did carry the wine, And set a table at his bed;-- "Sir Colvin, rise and dine." 20 "O well love I the wine, lady, Come frae your lovely hand; But better love I your fair body, Than all fair Scotland's strand." "O hold your tongue now, Sir Colvin, 25 Let all your folly be; My love must be by honour won, Or nane shall enjoy me. "But on the head o' Elrick's hill, Near by yon sharp hawthorn, 30 Where never a man with life e'er came, Sin our sweet Christ was born;-- "O ye'll gang there and walk a' night, And boldly blaw your horn; With honour that ye do return, 35 Ye'll marry me the morn." Then up it raise him, Sir Colvin, And dress'd in armour keen; And he is on to Elrick's hill, Without light of the meen. 40 At midnight mark the meen upstarts; The knight walk'd up and down; While loudest cracks o' thunder roar'd, Out ower the bent sae brown. Then by the twinkling of an e'e 45 He spied an armed knight; A fair lady bearing his brand, Wi' torches burning bright. Then he cried high, as he came nigh, "Coward, thief, I bid you flee! 50 There is not ane comes to this hill, But must engage wi' me. "Ye'll best take road before I come, And best take foot and flee; Here is a sword baith sharp and broad, 55 Will quarter you in three." Sir Colvin said, "I'm not afraid Of any here I see; You hae not ta'en your God before; Less dread hae I o' thee." 60 Sir Colvin then he drew his sword, His foe he drew his brand; And they fought there on Elrick's hill Till they were bluidy men. The first an' stroke the knight he strake, 65 Gae Colvin a slight wound; The next an' stroke Lord Colvin strake, Brought's foe unto the ground. "I yield, I yield," the knight he said, "I fairly yield to thee; 70 Nae ane came e'er to Elrick-hill E'er gain'd such victorie. "I and my forbears here did haunt Three hundred years and more; I'm safe to swear a solemn oath, 75 We were never beat before." "An asking," said the lady gay, "An asking ye'll grant me:" "Ask on, ask on," said Sir Colvin, "What may your asking be?" 80 "Ye'll gie me hame my wounded knight, Let me fare on my way; And I'se ne'er be seen on Elrick's hill, By night, nor yet by day; And to this place we'll come nae mair, 85 Cou'd we win safe away; "To trouble any Christian one Lives in the righteous law, We'll come nae mair unto this place, Cou'd we win safe awa'." 90 "O ye'se get hame your wounded knight, Ye shall not gang alane; But I maun hae a wad o' him, Before that we twa twine." Sir Colvin being a book-learn'd man, 95 Sae gude in fencing tee, He's drawn a stroke behind his hand, And followed in speedilie. Sae fierce a stroke Sir Colvin's drawn, And followed in speedilie, 100 The knight's brand and sword hand In the air he gar'd them flee. It flew sae high into the sky, And lighted on the ground; The rings that were on these fingers 105 Were worth five hundred pound. Up he has ta'en that bluidy hand, Set it before the king; And the morn it was Wednesday, When he married his daughter Jean. 110 SKI[OE]N ANNA; FAIR ANNIE, See p. 191. Translated in Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, ii. 103, from Syv's _Kj[oe]mpe Viser_. See another copy in Nyerup's _Danske Viser_, iv. 59. The reivers they wad a stealing gang, To steal sae far frae hame; And stown ha'e they the king's daughter, Fair Annie hight by name. They've carried her into fremmit lands, 5 To a duke's son of high degree; And he has gie'n for Fair Annie Mickle goud and white money. And eight lang years o' love sae leal Had past atween them twae; 10 And now a bonny bairntime O' seven fair sons had they. That lord he was of Meckelborg land, Of princely blood and stemme; And for his worth and curtesy 15 That lord a king became. But little wist that noble king, As little his barons bald, That it was the king of England's daughter, Had sae to him been sald! 20 And eight lang years sae past and gane, Fair Annie now may rue; For now she weets in fremmit lands Anither bride he'll wooe. Fair Annie's till his mither gane; 25 Fell low down on her knee; "A boon, a boon, now lady mither, Ye grant your oys and me! "If ever ye kist, if ever ye blest, And bade them thrive and thee, 30 O save them now frae scaith and scorn, O save your oys and me! "Their father's pride may yet relent; His mither's rede he'll hear; Nor for anither break the heart 35 That ance to him was dear. "He had my love and maiden pride; I had nae mair to gi'e; He well may fa' a brighter bride, But nane that lo'es like me." 40 "A brighter bride he ne'er can fa'; A richer well he may; But daughter dearer nor Fair Annie, His mither ne'er can ha'e." That princess stood her son before: 45 "My lord the king," said she, "Fy on the lawless life ye lead, Dishonour'd as ye be! "Its Annie's gude, and Annie's fair, And dearly she lo'es thee; 50 And the brightest gems in a' your crown Your seven fair sons wad be. "Her love, her life, her maiden fame, Wi' you she shar'd them a'; Now share wi' her your bridal bed; 55 Her due she well may fa'." "To my bridal bed, my mither dear, Fair Annie ne'er can win; I coft her out of fremmit lands, Nor ken her kith or kin." 60 And he's gard write a braid letter, His wedding to ordein; And to betrothe anither bride To be his noble queen. Fair Annie up at her bower window 65 Heard a' that knight did say: "O God, my heavenly Father! gif My heart mat brast in twae!" Fair Annie stood at her bower window, And heard that knight sae bald: 70 "O God, my heavenly Father! gif I mat my dearest hald!" That lord is to Fair Annie gane: Says, "Annie, thou winsome may, O whatten a gude gift will ye gi'e 75 My bride on her bridal day?" "I'll gi'e her a gift, and a very gude gift, And a dear-bought gift to me; For I'll gi'e her my seven fair sons, Her pages for to be." 80 "O that is a gift, but nae gude gift, Frae thee, Fair Annie, I ween; And ye maun gi'e some richer gift Befitting a noble queen." "I'll gi'e her a gift, and a dear, dear gift, 85 And a gift I brook wi' care; For I'll gi'e her my dearest life, That I dow brook nae mair." "O that is a gift, but a dowie gift, Now, Annie, thou winsome may; 90 Ye maun gi'e her your best goud girdle, Her gude will for to ha'e." "Oh na, that girdle she ne'er shall fa'; That I can never bear; The luckless morn I gave you a', 95 Ye gae me that girdle to wear." That lord before his bride gan stand: "My noble bride and queen! O whatten a gift to my lemman Annie Will now by you be gi'en?" 100 "I'll gi'e her a gift, and a very gude gift, My lord the king," said she; "For I'll gi'e her my auld shoe to wear, Best fitting her base degree." "O that is a gift, but nae gude gift, 105 My noble bride and queen; And ye maun gi'e her anither gift, If you'll my favour win." "Then I'll gi'e her a very gude gift, My lord the king," said she; 110 "I'll gie her my millers seven, that lig Sae far ayont the sea. "Well are they fed, well are they clad, And live in heal and weal; And well they ken to measure out 115 The wheat, but and caneel." Fair Annie says, "My noble lord, This boon ye grant to me; Let me gang up to the bridal bower, Your young bride for to see." 120 "O gangna, Annie, gangna, there, Nor come that bower within; Ye maunna come near that bridal bower, Wad ye my favour win." Fair Annie is till his mither gane: 125 "O lady mither," said she, "May I gang to the bridal bower, My lord's new bride to see?" "That well ye may," his mither said; But see that ye're buskit bra', 130 And clad ye in your best cleading, Wi' your bower maidens a'." Fair Annie she's gaen to the bower, Wi' heart fu' sair and sad; Wi' a' her seven sons her before, 135 In the red scarlet clad. Fair Annie's taen a silver can, Afore the bride to skink; And down her cheeks the tears ay run, Upon hersell to think. 140 The bride gan stand her lord before: "Now speak, and dinna spare; Whare is this fair young lady frae? Whareto greets she sae sair?" "O hear ye now, dear lady mine, 145 The truth I tell to thee; It is but a bonny niece of mine, That is come o'er the sea." "O wae is me, my lord," she says, "To hear you say sic wrang; 150 It can be nane but your auld lemman; God rede whare she will gang!" "Then till her sorrow, and till her wae, I'll tell the truth to thee; For she was sald frae fremmit lands, 155 For mickle goud to me. "Her bairntime a' stand her before, Her seven young sons sae fair; And they maun now your pages be, That maks her heart sae sair." 160 "A little sister ance I had, A sister that hight Ann; By reivers she was stown awa', And sald in fremmit land. "She was a bairn when she was stown, 165 Yet in her tender years; And sair her parents mourn'd for her, Wi' mony sighs and tears. "Art thou fair Annie, sister mine, Thou noble violet flower? 170 Her mither never smil'd again Frae Annie left her bower! "O thou art she! a sister's heart Wants nane that tale to tell! And there he is, thy ain true lord; 175 God spare ye lang and well!" And gladness through the palace spread, Wi' mickle game and glee; And blythe were a' for fair Annie, Her bridal day to see. 180 And now untill her father's land This young bride she is gane; And her sister Annie's youngest son She hame wi' her has ta'en. LADY MARGARET. See p. 205. From Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 180. "The corn is turning ripe, Lord John, The nuts are growing fu', And ye are bound for your ain countrie; Fain wad I go wi' you." "Wi me, Marg'ret, wi me, Marg'ret, 5 What wad ye do wi' me? I've mair need o' a pretty little boy, To wait upon my steed." "It's I will be your pretty little boy, To wait upon your steed; 10 And ilka town that we come to, A pack of hounds I'll lead." "My hounds will eat o' the bread o' wheat, And ye of the bread of bran: And then you will sit and sigh, 15 That e'er ye loed a man." The first water that they cam to, I think they call it Clyde, He saftly unto her did say,-- "Lady Marg'ret, will ye ride?" 20 The first step that she steppit in, She steppit to the knee; Says, "Wae be to ye, waefu' water, For through ye I maun be." The second step that she steppit in, 25 She steppit to the middle, And sigh'd, and said, Lady Margaret, "I've stain'd my gowden girdle." The third step that she steppit in, She steppit to the neck; 30 The pretty babe within her sides, The cauld it garr'd it squake. "Lie still my babe, lie still my babe, Lie still as lang's ye may, For your father rides on horseback high, 35 Cares little for us twae." It's whan she cam to the other side, She sat doun on a stane; Says, "Them that made me, help me now, For I am far frae hame. 40 "How far is it frae your mither's bouer, Gude Lord John tell to me?" "It's therty miles, Lady Margaret, It's therty miles and three: And ye'se be wed to ane o' her serving men, 45 For ye'se get na mair o' me." Then up bespak the wylie parrot, As it sat on the tree;-- "Ye lee, ye lee, Lord John," it said, "Sae loud as I hear ye lee. 50 "Ye say it's thirty miles frae your mither's bouer, Whan it's but barely three; And she'll ne'er be wed to a serving man, For she'll be your ain ladie." * * * * * * Monie a lord and fair ladie 55 Met Lord John in the closs, But the bonniest face amang them a', Was hauding Lord John's horse. Monie a lord and gay ladie Sat dining in the ha', 60 But the bonniest face that was there, Was waiting on them a'. O up bespak Lord John's sister, A sweet young maid was she: "My brither has brought a bonnie young page, His like I ne'er did see; 66 But the red flits fast frae his cheek, And the tear stands in his ee." But up bespak Lord John's mither, She spak wi' meikle scorn: 70 "He's liker a woman gret wi' bairn, Than onie waiting-man." "It's ye'll rise up, my bonnie boy, And gie my steed the hay:"-- "O that I will, my dear master, 75 As fast as I can gae." She took the hay aneath her arm, The corn intil her hand; But atween the stable door and the staw, Lady Marg'ret made a stand. 80 * * * * * * "O open the door, Lady Margaret, O open and let me in; I want to see if my steed be fed, Or my grey hounds fit to rin." "I'll na open the door, Lord John," she said, 85 "I'll na open it to thee, Till ye grant to me my ae request, And a puir ane it's to me. "Ye'll gie to me a bed in an outhouse, For my young son and me, 90 And the meanest servant in a' the place, To wait on him and me." "I grant, I grant, Lady Marg'ret," he said, "A' that, and mair frae me, The very best bed in a' the place To your young son and thee: 95 And my mither, and my sister dear, To wait on him and thee. "And a' thae lands, and a' thae rents, They sall be his and thine; 100 Our wedding and our kirking day, They sall be all in ane." And he has tane Lady Margaret, And row'd her in the silk; And he has tane his ain young son, 105 And wash'd him in the milk. EARL RICHARD (B). See p. 260. From Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 15. There was a shepherd's dochter Kept sheep on yonder hill; Bye cam a knicht frae the king's court, And he wad hae his will. Whan he had got his wills o' her, 5 His will as he has tane; "Wad ye be sae gude and kind, As tell to me your name?" "Some ca's me Jock, some ca's me John, Some disna ken my name; 10 But whan I'm in the king's court, Mitchcock is my name." "Mitchcock! hey!" the lady did say, And spelt it oure again; "If that's your name in the Latin tongue, 15 Earl Richard is your name!" O jumpt he upon his horse, And said he wad gae ride; Kilted she her green claithing, And said she wad na bide. 20 And he was never sae discreet, As bid her loup on and ride; And she was ne'er sae meanly bred, As for to bid him bide. And whan they cam to yon water, 25 It was running like a flude; "I've learnt it in my mither's bouer, I've learnt it for my gude, That I can soum this wan water, Like a fish in a flude. 30 "I've learnt it in my father's bouer, Ive learnt it for my better, And I will soum this wan water, As tho' I was ane otter." "Jump on behind, ye weill-faur'd may, 35 Or do ye chuse to ride?" "No, thank ye, sir," the lady said, "I wad rather chuse to wyde;" And afore that he was 'mid-water, She was at the ither side. 40 "Turn back, turn back, ye weill-faur'd may, My heart will brak in three;" "And sae did mine, on yon bonnie hill-side, Whan ye wad na let me be." "Whare gat ye that gay claithing, 45 This day I see on thee?" "My mither was a gude milk-nurse, And a gude nourice was she, She nurs'd the Earl o' Stockford's ae dochter, And gat a' this to me." 50 Whan she cam to the king's court, She rappit wi' a ring; Sae ready was the king himsel' To lat the lady in. "Gude day, gude day, my liege the king, 55 Gude day, gude day, to thee;" "Gude day," quo' he, "my lady fair, What is't ye want wi' me?" "There is a knicht into your court, This day has robbed me;" 60 "O has he tane your gowd," he says, "Or has he tane your fee?" "He has na tane my gowd," she says, "Nor yet has he my fee; But he has tane my maiden-head, 65 The flow'r o' my bodie." "O gin he be a single man, His body I'll gie thee; But gin he be a married man, I'll hang him on a tree." 70 Then out bespak the queen hersel', Wha sat by the king's knee: "There's na a knicht in a' our court Wad hae dune that to thee, Unless it war my brither, Earl Richard, 75 And forbid it, it war he!" "Wad ye ken your fause love, Amang a hundred men?" "I wad," said the bonnie ladie, "Amang five hundred and ten." 80 The king made a' his merry men pass, By ane, by twa, and three; Earl Richard us'd to be the first man, But was hindmost man that day. He cam hauping on ae foot, 85 And winking wi' ae ee; "Ha! ha!" cried the bonnie ladie, "That same young man are ye." He has pou'd out a hundred pounds, Weel lockit in a glove; 90 "Gin ye be a courteous may, Ye'll chose anither love." "What care I for your hundred pounds? Nae mair than ye wad for mine; What's a hundred pounds to me, 95 To a marriage wi' a king! "I'll hae nane o' your gowd, Nor either o' your fee; But I will hae your ain bodie, The king has grantit me." 100 "O was ye gentle gotten, maid? Or was ye gentle born? Or hae ye onie gerss growin'? Or hae ye onie corn? "Or hae ye onie lands or rents 105 Lying at libertie? Or hae ye onie education, To dance alang wi' me?" "I was na gentle gotten, madam, Nor was I gentle born; 110 Neither hae I gerss growin', Nor hae I onie corn. "I hae na onie lands or rents, Lying at libertie; Nor hae I onie education, 115 To dance along wi' thee." Whan the marriage it was oure, And ilk ane took their horse,-- "It never sat a beggar's brat, At na knicht's back to be." 120 He lap on ae milk-white steed, And she lap on anither, And syne the twa rade out the way Like sister and like brither. The ladie met wi' a beggar-wife, 125 And gied her half o' crown-- "Tell a' your neebours whan ye gae hame, That Earl Richard's your gude-son." "O haud your tongue, ye beggar's brat, My heart will brak in three;" 130 "And sae did mine on yon bonnie hill-side, Whan ye wad na lat me be." Whan she cam to yon nettle-dyke-- "An my auld mither was here, Sae weill as she wad ye pou; 135 She wad boil ye weill, and butter ye weill, And sup till she war fou, Syne laye her head upo' her dish doup, And sleep like onie sow." And whan she cam to Tyne's water, 140 She wylilie did say-- "Fareweil, ye mills o' Tyne's water, With thee I bid gude-day. "Fareweil, ye mills o' Tyne's water, To you I bid gude-een; 145 Whare monie a time I've fill'd my pock, At mid-day and at een." "Hoch! had I drank the well-water, Whan first I drank the wine, Never a mill-capon 150 Wad hae been a love o' mine." Whan she cam to Earl Richard's house, The sheets war Hollan' fine; "O haud awa thae linen sheets, And bring to me the linsey clouts, 155 I hae been best used in." "O haud your tongue, ye beggar's brat, My heart will brak in three;" "And sae did mine on yon bonnie hill-side, Whan ye wadna lat me be." 160 "I wish I had drank the well-water, Whan first I drank the beer; That ever a shepherd's dochter Shou'd hae been my only dear!" "Ye'll turn about, Earl Richard, 165 And mak some mair o' me: An ye mak me lady o' ae puir plow, I can mak you laird o' three." "If ye be the Earl o' Stockford's dochter, As I've some thouchts ye be, 170 Aft hae I waited at your father's yett, But your face I ne'er could see." Whan they cam to her father's yett, She tirled on the pin; And an auld belly-blind man was sittin' there, 175 As they were entering in:-- "The meetest marriage," the belly-blind did cry, "Atween the ane and the ither; Atween the Earl o' Stockford's ae dochter, And the Queen o' England's brither." 180 GLOSSARY. [hand] Figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. aboon, aboun, abune, _above_; 151, above the surface of the water. ackward stroke, 84, 178, _cross or back stroke_. acton, _a leather jacket worn under a coat of mail_. ae, _only_. airts, _quarters_, _points of the compass_. an, _one_; an ae, _one single_. aneath, _beneath_. anes, _once_. asking, _boon_. aughts, _owns_. aukeward stroke, 178, 84, _cross or back stroke_. auld son, 102. "_Young Son_ and _Auld Son_ are phrases used only to denote the comparative ages of children. The _young son_ is perhaps the child now in the nurse's arms; the _auld son_, he who has just begun to walk without leading-strings."--_Chambers._ ava, _of all_; 287, _at all_. avowe, _vow_. ayont, _beyond_. baffled, _disgraced_. bairntime, _brood of children_. bale-fire, _bonfire_. band, _agreement_. bane-fire, _bonfire_. bedeene, 247, _immediately?_ _continuously?_ bedight, _furnished_. beforne, _before_. belive, _soon_. belly blind, 365, _stone blind_. ben, _in_. bent, _a field where the coarse grass so named grows_. big, _build_; biggit, _built_. bigly, _spacious_, _commodious_. billie, _comrade_, _brother_, _a term of affection_. binna, _be not_. birk, _birch_. birl, _drink_, _pour out drink_, _ply with drink_. blanne, _stopped_. blee, _complexion_. bleid, _blood_. blint, _blinded_. bookin, bo'kin, _bodkin_, _small dagger_. bookesman, _clerk_, _secretary_. bore, _crevice_, _hole_. borrow, _ransom_. bouer, _chamber_. boun, 334, _go_. boun, _ready_. bountith, _bounties_. boustouslie, _threateningly_. bout, _bolt_. bow, _bole_, _two bushels_. bower, _chamber_. bowne, _ready_. brae, _hill-side_. bragged, _defied_. braid letter, _an open letter_, _or_ _letter patent_. brash, _sickness_. brast, _burst_. braw, _brave_, _handsome_. breast, 44, _make a horse spring up or forward_? brechan, _tartan_, _plaid_. brenne, _burn_. bricht, _bright_. brodinge, 176, _pricking_. bully, _see_ billie. burd, _lady_. busk, _dress_, _make ready_; busk on, _put on for dress_; buskit, _dressed_. but and, _and also_. can, _used as an auxiliary with the infinitive mood_, _to form an imperfect tense_. caneel, _cinnamon_. cannie, _handily_, _gently_. caps, 301, _bowls_. carle, _churl_; carline, _feminine of churl_, _old woman_. carlish, _churlish_. châmer, _chamber_. chapp'd, _rap_, _tapped_. cheer, _countenance_. cheer, _entertainment_. chive, 290, _mouthfull_? cleiding, _clothing_. close, _enclosure_. coble, _boat_. coffer, _coif_, _head-dress_, _cap_? coft, _bought_. corbies, _ravens_. cosh, _quiet_. counsayl, _secret_. craps, _tops_. cryance, 177, _apparently for recreance_, _cowardice_. cuist cavels, _cast lots_. daigh, _dough_. darna, _dares not_. dawing, _dawn_; daws, _dawns_. decaye, 132, _destruction_. dee, _die_. deemed, _adjudged_. deid, _death_. den, _hollow_, _small valley_. descreeve, _impart_. dight, 174, _prepared for_. dill, _dole_, _grief_. dinge, _strike_. discreet, _civil_. disna, _does not_. dochter, _daughter_. dole, _grief_. doubte, _dread_. douk, _dive_. dounae, _cannot_. doup, _bottom_. dow, _can_; downa, _cannot_. dow, _dove_. dowie, _sad_. dree, drye, _bear_, _suffer_. dyne, _dinner_. eerie, 273, _dreary_, _cheerless_. eldern, _old_. Eldridge, 170, (Elriche, Elrick, &c.,) _ghostly_, _spectral_: 179, hill _seems to be omitted_. even ower, _half over_. fa', _obtain as one's lot_. faem, _foam_. fail-dyke, _a wall built of sods_. faine, _glad_; fainly, _gladly_. farden, 185, _fared_, _appeared_. fare, _go_. fecht, _fight_. fee, _possessions_, _property_. feres, _comrades_. fey fowk, 48, _people doomed to die_. ficht, _fight_. fin, 342? fitt, _strain_. flatter'd, 156, _fluttered_, _floated_. forbears, _ancestors_. forbye, _beyond_, _near_, fou, _full_. frae, 353, _from the time_. free, _noble_. fremmit, _foreign_. fund, _found_. gae, _gave_. gae-through-land, _vagabond_. gane, _suffice_. gar, _cause_, _make_. gare, below her, _below the_ [_gore in the edge of the_] _skirt_? gear, _goods_. gen, _against_. gerss, _grass_. gif, _if_. gin, _if_. gin, _trick_, _snare_; 221, _the device_ (_necessary to open the door_). girds, _hoops_. glore, _glory_. God before, _God help me!_ good-brother, 67, _brother-in-law_. gorgett, 246, _a kerchief to cover the bosom_. graith, _caparisons_; graith'd, _caparisoned_. gramarye, _grammar_, _abstruse or magical learning_. grat, _cried_, _wept_. greeting, _weeping_, _crying_. gresse, _grass_. grew, _gray_. grype, _griffin_. gude-mother, _mother-in-law_. gude-son, _son-in-law_. gurly, _troubled_, _stormy_. ha', _hall_. had, _hold_, _keep_. had, _taken_. hained, _enclosed_, _surrounded with a hedge_. half-fou, _half bushel_. hantle, _much_, _great deal_. happ'd, _covered_. hart-rote, 39, _a term of endearment_, _sweet-heart_. haud, _hold_. haugh, _low flat ground by a river-side_. hauping, _limping_. hause, _neck_. have owre, 151, _half over_. haw, _azure_. hawberke, _cuirass_, _coat of mail_. heading-hill, _beheading hill_. heal, _conceal_. heal, _health_. hech, _a forcible expiration of breath_, _as in striking a heavy blow_. heiding-hill, _the beheading hill_. hend, _gentle_. het, _hot_. hewberke, _cuirass_, _coat of mail_. hichts, _heights_. hight, _promised_. hind-chiel, _young stripling_. hinging, _hanging_. hollin, _holly_. hooly, _slowly_, _softly_. houl', _hold_. houms, _flat grounds near water_. houzle, _give the sacrament_. ilka, _each_. inbearing, _forth-putting_. iwis, iwysse, _certainly_, _truly_. jack, 81, _a coat of mail_. jagged, _pierced_. jess, _a leather strap for a hawk's leg, by which it was fastened to the leash_. jooked, _bowed_, _made obeisance_. kail, _broth_. kame, _comb_. keckle-pin, 300, should be heckle-pin, _the tooth of a heckle or flax-comb_. kell, _a dress of net-work for a woman's head_. kempes, _soldiers_; kemperye man, 169, _soldier-man_. kepped, keppit, _intercepted received when falling_. kevils, _lots_. kiest, _cast_. kilted, _tucked up_. kipples, _rafters_. kirkin, _churching_. kirk-shot, _see_ shot. knet, _knitted_. knicht, _knight_. knot, 274, _tie up_. knowe, _knoll_. lack, 85, _loss_. laigh, _low_. lake, 58, _hollow place_, _grave_? lamer, _amber_. lane, your lane, &c., _alone_. lap, _leapt_; 154, _sprang_. lauch, _laugh_. lauchters, _laughters_. lave, _rest_. lawing, _reckoning_. laye, 180, _law_. lay gowd, _embroider in gold_. lay-land, _lea-land_, _unploughed_, _green sward_. leafu', _lawful_. leal, _loyal_, _true_. leech, _leash_. leesome, _pleasant_, _lovely_. lemin, _gleaming_. lere, _countenance_. lethal, _deadly_. licht, _light_. lieve, _dear_. lift, _air_. lift, _carry off_. lig, _lie_. lighter, _delivered_. limmer, _mean_, _scoundrel_, _wretch_. linkin', _riding briskly_. linn, _the pool beneath a cataract_. lither, _lazy_, _wicked_. lodlye, _loathly_. loon, _clown_, _rascal_, _low fellow_. loot, _let_. louted, _bowed_, _bent_. make, _mate_. mane, _moan_, _lament_. mannot, _may not_. maries, _maids_. mark, _murky_. marrow, _mate_, _husband_; 67, _antagonist_, _match_. mat, _might_. mavis, _thrush_. maw, _mew_. may, _maid_. meen, _moon_. mell, 70, _milt_, _spleen_. micht, _might_. mill-capon, _a poor person who asks charity at mills from those who have grain grinding_. millering, 273, _dust of the mill_. min', _mind_. min', minnie, _mother_, _love_, _dear_. minged, 178, _named_, _mentioned_. mintet, 335, _took the direction or course_. mirk, _dark_. monand, _moaning_. moodie hill, 84, _mole-hill_. morning-gift, _the gift made a wife by her husband, the morning after marriage_. mun, _must_. nee, _nigh_. nicked of naye, 162, _denied_; should be _with naye_. niest, _next_. nurice, _nurse_. o'erword, _refrain_. ohon, _an exclamation of sorrow_, _alas_. onbethought, 35, _thought upon_. or, _before_. out o'hand, _at once_. owre, 151, _or_, _ere_. oys, _grandsons_. Pa, 144. Qy. _Is this a contraction of pall, and is pall, an alley or mall in which games of ball are played?_ pall, _a kind of rich cloth_. Pasche, _Easter_. pat, _put_. paughty, _insolent_. pearlings, _thread laces_. pict, _pitch_. pike, _pick_. pin, _summit_; gallows pin, _top of the gallows_? pine, _sorrow_. pitten, _put_. plat, _interwove_. play-feres, _play-fellows_. plight, _pledge_. plooky, _pimpled_. poin'd, _seized_. poke, _bag_. pot, _a deep place scooped in a rock or river-bed by the eddies_. pou, _pull_. prestlye, _quickly_. pricked, _rode smartly_. prime, _six o'clock_. prude, 31, _proud_? put down, putten down, _executed_, _killed_. quair, _choir_. quha, _who_. quick, _alive_. raw, _row_. reade, _advise_. reave, _deprive_. removde, 174, _stirred up_, _excited_. renish, renisht, 161, 167? rievers, _marauders_, _robbers_. rigg, _ridge_. rive, _riven_. roode, _cross_. room, 217, _make room_. roudes, _haggard_. round tables, _a game much played in the 15th & 16th century_. row, _roll_; rowd, _rolled_. sackless, _guiltless_. sald, _sold_. sark, _shirt_, _shift_. sat, _fitted_. saye, 211, _essay_, _try_. scale, _scatter_, _disperse_. scath, _injury_. scoup, 194, _go or fly_. scuttle dishes, 273, _wooden platters_. sea-maw, _sea-mew_. see, (save and see,) _protect_ sell, _good_; sell gude, _right good_. sen, 280, _sent_. sen, _since_. send, _message_. shanna, _shall not_. shaw'd, _showed_. sheen, _bright_. shent, _disgraced_, _injured_. shope, 39, _shaped_, _assumed_. shot, _plot of land_; also, _a place where fishermen let out their nets_. shot-window, _a projected_, _over-hanging window_.[8] sicker, sickerly, _sure_, _surely_. side, _long_. sindry, 301, _peculiar_. skeely, _skilful_. skink, _serve drink_. slode, _slid_, _split_. sloe, _slay_; slone, _slain_. smit, _a clashing noise_. soum, _swim_. spare, _the opening in a woman's gown_. spille, _destroy_, _perish_ sta', _stall_. staf, _stuff_. stark and stoor, 254, _strong_, _and big_; here we may say, _rough and rude_. staw, _stole_. steek, _stitch_, _thread_; steeking, _stitching_. steeked, _fastened_. step-minnie, _step-mother_. sterte, _started_. stickit, 139, _cut the throat_. stock, _the forepart of a bed_. stoups, _flagons_. stour, stower, 171, _fight_, _disturbance_. stown, _stolen_. streekit, _stretched_, _struck down_. stythe, 43, _sty_. suld, _should_. swaird, _sword_. sweven, _dream_. swith, _quickly_. syne, _then_, _afterwards_; ere syne, _before now_. [8] It "meant a certain species of aperture, generally circular, which used to be common in the stair-cases of old wooden houses in Scotland, and some specimens of which are yet to be seen in the Old Town of Edinburgh. It was calculated to save glass in those parts of the house where light was required, but where there was no necessity for the exclusion of the air."--_Chambers._ Not always certainly, since persons are sometimes said to be lying at the shot window. tee, _too_. tein, _suffering_, _grief_. thae, _these_. theek, theekit, _thatch_, _thatched_. think lang, _feel weary_, _ennuyé_. thir, _these_. thocht lang, _grew weary_, _felt ennui_. thole, _endure_. thorn, 339, (and thorn'd, ii. 335,) _refreshed with food_? thouch, _though_. thought lang, _grew weary_, _felt ennui_. thoust, _thou shouldst_. thraw, _twist_. till, 170, _entice_. till, _to_. tine, 175, _lose_; tint, _lost_. tint, 183, 227, _apparently misused by Percy_, for tine, _lose_. tippit, _lock (of hair)_. tirled at the pin, _trilled, or rattled, at the door-latch_. tolbooth, _prison_. tone, _the one_, (after the.) toom, _empty_. trattles, _prattles_, _tattles_. trysted, _made an appointment with_. twig, _twitch_. twine, _part_. tyne, _lose_. ugsome, _disgusting_, _loathsome_. unco, _strange_. unmacklye, 187, _unshapely_. wad, _wager_. wad, _would_. wae, _sad_. wake, _watch_. wale, _choose_. wallowed, 290, _withered_. waly, _alas_. wan, _dark_, _black_, _gloomy_. wand, _wicker_. wane, 221, _a number of people_. wantonly, 82, _nimbly_. wap, _wrap_. warlock, _wizard_. wat, _know_. wat, _wet_. wauked, _watched_. waur, _worse_. weary, _causing trouble_, _sad_. wed-bed, _marriage-bed_. weets, _knows_. weil-heid, _the vortex of a whirlpool_. weill-faur'd, _well-favored_. weir, _war_. weird, 220, _made liable to_, _exposed to_; 308, apparently, _foretell that it is important_. weirdless, _unlucky_. well-wight men, _picked strong men_. westlin, _westward_. whareto, _wherefore_. whin, _furze_. wicht, _wight_. wicker, _twist, from being too tightly drawn_. wight, _strong_, _active_. wightlye, _bravely_, _quickly_. wightsmen, 325, _husbandmen?_ win, _come_, _reach_; win near, _come near_; win up, _get up_. winsome, _gay_, _comely_. win hay, _dry or make_. wit, _information_. wite, _blame_. wode, _mad_. woe, _sad_. won up, 218, _get up_; should be _win up_. wrocht, _wrought_. wush, _washed_. wyde, _wade_. wyte, 317, _blame_. wyte, _know_. yate, _gate_. yeard-fast, _fixed in the earth_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yett, _gate_. ying, _young_. young son, 105, _see_ auld son. y-rode, _rode_. y-were, _were_. zechins, _sequins_. zoung, _young_. Zule, _Yule_, _Christmas_. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Page iii: changed "Kinlock" to "Kinloch" (27 b. Laird of Wariestoun, [Kinloch]) Page v: changed "Malcom" to "Malcolm" (King Malcolm and Sir Colvin) Page 29; line 62: changed "this" to "thir" (Till thir twa craps drew near;) Page 207; line 34: deleted closing quotation mark (Yet let me go with thee:) Page 226; line 34: changed "countrayc" to "countraye" (Sir John of the north countraye) Page 245; line 48: added closing quotation mark (And there shalt thou hang on hye.") Page 294; line 16: added closing quotation mark (And candles burning bright.") Page 303; lines 53, 54: added missing quotation marks ("What ails the king at me," he said, "What ails the king at me?") Page 303; line 57: added opening quotation mark ("Liars will lie on sell gude men,) Page 317: changed "Wier" to "Weir" (Weir was brought up, at midnight, from the cellar) Page 336; line 32: changed closing single quote to double quote (I will bate you for stayin' so long.") Page 345; line 71: changed "taavelled" to "travelled" (He scarcely travelled frae the town) Page 359; line 52: removed opening single quote (My good lord's broken bands.') Page 397; line 60: changed closing single quote to double (This day has robbed me;") 
39627	----	generously made available by the Digital & Multimedia Center, Michigan State University Libraries.) Transcriber's Notes Archaic, dialect and inconsistent spellings have been retained as in the original. Other than minor corrections to format or punctuation, any changes to the text have been listed at the end of the book. In this Plain Text version of the e-book, symbols from the ASCII and Latin-1 character sets only are used. Italic typeface is indicated by _underscores_. Bold typeface is indicated by =equals symbols=. Small caps typeface is represented by UPPER CASE. Superscript characters are indicated by a preceding caret (^). [OE] and [oe] represent the oe-ligature (upper and lower case). A pointing hand symbol is represented as [right pointing hand]. Footnotes are numbered in sequence throughout the book and presented at the end of the section or ballad in which the footnote anchor appears. Notes with reference to ballad line numbers are presented at the end of each ballad and the presence of a note is indicated at the end of line number ## by "[L##]". * * * * * ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH BALLADS EDITED BY FRANCIS JAMES CHILD. VOLUME V. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY M.DCCC.LX. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. CONTENTS OF VOLUME FIFTH. BOOK V. Page INTRODUCTION. Robin Hood vii 1. Robin Hood and the Monk 1 2 a. Robin Hood and the Potter 17 2 b. Robin Hood and the Butcher 33 3. Robyn and Gandelyn 38 4. A Lytell Geste of Robyn Hode 42 5. Adam Bel, Clym of the Cloughe, and Wyllyam of Cloudeslé 124 6. Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 159 7. The Birth of Robin Hood 170 8 a. Rose the Red, and White Lilly 173 8 b. The Wedding of Robin Hood and Little John 184 9 a. Robin Hood and the Beggar 187 9 b. The Jolly Pinder of Wakefield, with Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John 204 9 c. Robin Hood and the Ranger 207 9 d. Robin Hoods Delight 211 9 e. Robin Hood and Little John 216 9 f. Robin Hood and the Tanner 223 9 g. Robin Hood and the Tinker 230 9 h. Robin Hood and the Shepherd 238 9 i. Robin Hood and the Peddlers 243 9 k. The Bold Pedlar and Robin Hood 248 9 l. Robin Hood and the Beggar, Part I 251 10 a. Robin Hood and the Beggar, Part II 255 10 b. Robin Hood and the Old Man 257 10 c. Robin Hood rescuing the Widows three Sons 261 10 d. Robin Hood rescuing the three Squires 267 11. Robin Hood and the Curtall Fryer 271 12. Robin Hood and Allin-a-Dale 278 13. Robin Hoods rescuing Will Stutly 283 14. Robin Hoods Progress to Nottingham 290 15. Robin Hood and the Bishop of Hereford 294 16. Robin Hood and the Bishop 298 17. Robin Hoods Golden Prize 303 18. Robin Hoods Death and Burial 308 19. Robin Hood and Queen Katherine 312 20. Robin Hoods Chase 320 21. Little John and the Four Beggers 325 22. The Noble Fisherman, or, Robin Hoods Preferment 329 23. Robin Hood and the Tanners Daughter 334 APPENDIX. 1. Robin Hood's Birth, Breeding, Valour, and Marriage 343 2. A True Tale of Robin Hood 353 3. Robin Hood and Maid Marian 372 4. The Kings Disguise and Friendship with Robin Hood 376 5. Robin Hood and the Golden Arrow 383 6. Robin Hood and the Valiant Knight 388 7. The Birth of Robin Hood 392 8. Rose the Red, and White Lillie 396 9. Robin Hood and the Stranger 404 10. Robin Hood and the Scotchman 418 11. The Playe of Robyn Hode 420 12. Fragment of an Interlude (?) of Robin Hood 428 13. By Lands-dale hey ho 431 14. In Sherwood livde stout Robin Hood 433 15. The Song of Robin Hood and his Huntesmen 434 GLOSSARY 437 BOOK V. ROBIN HOOD. There is no one of the royal heroes of England that enjoys a more enviable reputation than the bold outlaw of Barnsdale and Sherwood. His chance for a substantial immortality is at least as good as that of stout Lion Heart, wild Prince Hal, or merry Charles. His fame began with the yeomanry full five hundred years ago, was constantly increasing for two or three centuries, has extended to all classes of society, and, with some changes of aspect, is as great as ever. Bishops sheriffs, and game-keepers, the only enemies he ever had, have relinquished their ancient grudges, and Englishmen would be almost as loath to surrender his exploits as any part of the national glory. His free life in the woods, his unerring eye and strong arm, his open hand and love of fair-play, his never-forgotten courtesy, his respect for women and devotion to Mary, form a picture eminently healthful and agreeable to the imagination, and commend him to the hearty favor of all genial minds. But securely established as Robin Hood is in popular esteem, his historical position is by no means well ascertained, and his actual existence has been a subject of shrewd doubt and discussion. "A tale of Robin Hood"[1] is an old proverb for the idlest of stories, yet all the materials at our command for making up an opinion on these questions are precisely of this description. They consist, that is to say, in a few ballads of unknown antiquity. These ballads, or others like them, are clearly the authority upon which the statements of the earlier chroniclers who take notice of Robin Hood are founded. They are also, to all appearances, the original source of the numerous and widespread traditions concerning him; which, unless the contrary can be shown, must be regarded, after what we have observed in similar cases, as having been suggested by the very legends to which, in the vulgar belief, they afford an irresistible confirmation. Various periods, ranging from the time of Richard the First to near the end of the reign of Edward the Second, have been selected by different writers as the age of Robin Hood; but (excepting always the most ancient ballads, which may possibly be placed within these limits) no mention whatever is made of him in literature before the latter half of the reign of Edward the Third. "Rhymes of Robin Hood"[2] are then spoken of by the author of _Piers Ploughman_, (assigned to about 1362,) as better known to idle fellows than pious songs, and from the manner of the allusion it is a just inference that such rhymes were at that time no novelties. The next notice is in Wyntown's Scottish Chronicle, written about 1420, where the following lines occur--without any connection, and in the form of an entry--under the year 1283. "Lytil Jhon and Robyne Hude Waythmen ware commendyd gude: In Yngilwode and Barnysdale Thai oysyd all this time thare trawale."[3] At last we encounter Robin Hood in what may be called history; first of all in a passage of the _Scotichronicon_, often quoted, and highly curious as containing the earliest theory upon this subject. The _Scotichronicon_ was written partly by Fordun, canon of Aberdeen, between 1377 and 1384, and partly by his pupil Bower, abbot of St. Columba, about 1450. Fordun has the character of a man of judgment and research, and any statement or opinion delivered by him would be entitled to respect. Of Bower, not so much can be said. He largely interpolated the work of his master, and sometimes with the absurdest fictions.[4] _Among his interpolations_,[5] and forming, it is important to observe, _no part of the original text_, is a passage translated as follows.[6] It is inserted immediately after Fordun's account of the defeat of Simon de Montfort, and the punishments inflicted on his adherents. "At this time, (_sc._ 1266,) from the number of those who had been deprived of their estates, arose the celebrated bandit Robert Hood (with Little John and their accomplices) whose achievements the foolish vulgar delight to celebrate in comedies and tragedies, while the ballads upon his adventures sung by the jesters and minstrels are preferred to all others. "Some things to his honor are also related, as appears from this. Once on a time, when, having incurred the anger of the king and the prince, he could hear mass nowhere but in Barnsdale, while he was devoutly occupied with the service, (for this was his wont, nor would he ever suffer it to be interrupted for the most pressing occasion,) he was surprised by a certain sheriff and officers of the king, who had often troubled him before, in the secret place in the woods where he was engaged in worship as aforesaid. Some of his men, who had taken the alarm, came to him and begged him to fly with all speed. This, out of reverence for the host, which he was then most devoutly adoring, he positively refused to do. But while the rest of his followers were trembling for their lives, Robert, confiding in him whom he worshipped, fell on his enemies with a few who chanced to be with him, and easily got the better of them; and having enriched himself with their plunder and ransom, he was led from that time forth to hold ministers of the church and masses in greater veneration than ever, mindful of the common saying that "God hears the man who often hears the mass." In another place Bower writes to the same effect: "In this year (1266) the dispossessed barons of England and the royalists were engaged in fierce hostilities. Among the former, Roger Mortimer occupied the Welsh marches, and John Daynil the Isle of Ely. Robert Hood was now living in outlawry among the woodland copses and thickets."[7] Mair, a Scottish writer of the first quarter of the 16th century, the next historian who takes cognizance of our hero, and the only other that requires any attention, has a passage which may be considered in connection with the foregoing. In his _Historia Majoris Brittaniæ_, he remarks, under the reign of Richard the First: "About this time [1189-99], as I conjecture, the notorious robbers Robert Hood of England and Little John lurked in the woods, spoiling the goods only of rich men. They slew nobody but those who attacked them, or offered resistance in defence of their property. Robert maintained by his plunder a hundred archers, so skilful in fight that four hundred brave men feared to attack them. He suffered no woman to be maltreated, and never robbed the poor, but assisted them abundantly with the wealth which he took from abbots." It appears then that contemporaneous history is absolutely silent concerning Robin Hood; that, excepting the casual allusion in _Piers Ploughman_, he is first mentioned by a rhyming chronicler, who wrote one hundred years after the latest date at which he can possibly be supposed to have lived, and then by two prose chroniclers, who wrote about one hundred and twenty-five years and two hundred years respectively after that date; and it is further manifest that all three of these chroniclers had no other authority for their statements than traditional tales similar to those which have come down to our day.[8] When, therefore, Thierry, relying upon these chronicles and kindred popular legends, unhesitatingly adopts the conjecture of Mair, and describes Robin Hood as the hero of the Saxon serfs, the chief of a troop of Saxon banditti that continued, even to the reign of Coeur de Lion, a determined resistance against the Norman invaders,[9] and when another able and plausible writer accepts and maintains, with equal confidence, the hypothesis of Bower, and exhibits the renowned outlaw as an adherent of Simon de Montfort, who, after the fatal battle of Evesham, kept up a vigorous guerilla warfare against the officers of the tyrant Henry the Third, and of his successor,[10] we must regard these representations which were conjectural three or four centuries ago, as conjectures still, and even as arbitrary conjectures, unless one or the other can be proved from the only _authorities_ we have, the ballads, to have a peculiar intrinsic probability. That neither of them possesses this intrinsic probability may easily be shown, but first it will be advisable to notice another theory, which is more plausibly founded on internal evidence, and claims to be confirmed by documents of unimpeachable validity. This theory has been propounded by the Rev. John Hunter, in one of his _Critical and Historical Tracts_.[11] Mr. Hunter admits that Robin Hood "lives only as a hero of song;" that he is not found in authentic contemporary chronicles; and that, when we find him mentioned in history, "the information was derived from the ballads, and is not independent of them or correlative with them." While making these admissions, he accords a considerable degree of credibility to the ballads, and particularly to the _Lytell Geste_, the last two _fits_ of which he regards as giving a tolerably accurate account of real occurrences. In this part of the story, King Edward is represented as coming to Nottingham to take Robin Hood. He traverses Lancashire and a part of Yorkshire, and finds his forests nearly stripped of their deer, but can get no trace of the author of these extensive depredations. At last, by the advice of one of his foresters, assuming with several of his knights the dress of a monk, he proceeds from Nottingham to Sherwood, and there soon encounters the object of his search. He submits to plunder as a matter of course, and then announces himself as a messenger sent to invite Robin Hood to the royal presence. The outlaw receives this message with great respect. There is no man in the world, he says, whom he loves so much as his king. The monk is invited to remain and dine; and after the repast, an exhibition of archery is ordered, in which a bad shot is to be punished by a buffet from the hand of the chieftain. Robin having once failed of the mark requests the monk to administer the penalty. He receives a staggering blow, which rouses his suspicions, recognizes the king on an attentive consideration of his countenance, entreats grace for himself and his followers, and is freely pardoned on condition that he and they shall enter into the king's service. To this he agrees, and for fifteen months resides at court. At the end of this time he has lost all his followers but two, and spent all his money, and feels that he shall pine to death with sorrow in such a life. He returns accordingly to the green wood, collects his old followers around him, and for twenty-two years maintains his independence in defiance of the power of Edward. Without asserting the literal verity of all the particulars of this narrative, Mr. Hunter attempts to show that it contains a substratum of fact. Edward the First, he informs us, was never in Lancashire after he became king, and if Edward the Third was ever there at all, it was not in the early years of his reign. But Edward the Second did make one single progress in Lancashire, and this in the year 1323. During this progress the king spent some time at Nottingham, and took particular note of the condition of his forests, and among these of the forest of Sherwood. Supposing now that the incidents detailed in the _Lytell Geste_ really took place at this time, Robin Hood must have entered into the royal service before the end of the year 1323. It is a singular, and in the opinion of Mr. Hunter a very pregnant coincidence, that, in certain Exchequer documents containing accounts of expenses in the king's household, the name of Robyn Hode (or Robert Hood) is found several times, beginning with the 24th of March, 1324, among the "porters of the chamber" of the king. He received, with Simon Hood and others, the wages of three pence a day. In August of the following year Robin Hood suffers deduction from his pay for non-attendance, his absences grow frequent, and, on the 22d of November, he is discharged with a present of five shillings, "_poar cas qil ne poait pluis travailler_".[12] It remains still for Mr. Hunter to account for the existence of a band of seven score of outlaws in the reign of Edward the Second, in or about Yorkshire. The stormy and troublous reigns of the Plantagenets make this a matter of no difficulty. Running his finger down the long list of rebellions and commotions, he finds that early in 1322 England was convulsed by the insurrection of Thomas Earl of Lancaster, the king's near relation, supported by many powerful noblemen. The Earl's chief seat was the castle of Pontefract, in the West Riding of Yorkshire. He is said to have been popular, and it would be a fair inference that many of his troops were raised in this part of England. King Edward easily got the better of the rebels and took exemplary vengeance upon them. Many of the leaders were at once put to death, and the lives of all their partisans were in danger. Is it impossible then, asks Mr. Hunter, that some who had been in the army of the Earl, secreted themselves in the woods and turned their skill in archery against the king's subjects or the king's deer; "that these were the men who for so long a time haunted Barnsdale and Sherwood, and that Robin Hood was one of them, a chief amongst them, being really of a rank originally somewhat superior to the rest?" We have then three different hypotheses concerning Robin Hood, one placing him in the reign of Richard the First, another in that of Henry the Third, and the last under Edward the Second, and all describing him as a political foe to the established government. To all of these hypotheses there are two very obvious and decisive objections. The first is that Robin Hood, as already remarked, is not so much as named in contemporary history. Whether as the unsubdued leader of the Saxon peasantry, or insurgent against the tyranny of Henry or Edward, it is inconceivable that we should not hear something of him from the chroniclers. If, as Thierry says, "he had chosen Hereward for his model," it is unexplained and inexplicable why his historical fate has been so different from that of Hereward. The hero of the Camp of Refuge fills an ample place in the annals of his day; his achievements are also handed down in a prose romance which presents many points of resemblance to the ballads of Robin Hood. It would have been no wonder if the vulgar legends about Hereward had utterly perished, but it is altogether anomalous[13] that a popular champion who attained so extraordinary a notoriety in song, a man living from one hundred to two hundred and fifty years later than Hereward, should be passed over without one word of notice from any authoritative historian.[14] That this would not be so, we are most fortunately able to demonstrate by reference to a real case which furnishes a singularly exact parallel to the present, that of the famous outlaw, Adam Gordon. In the year 1267, says the continuator of Matthew Paris, a soldier by the name of Adam Gordon, who had lost his estates with other adherents of Simon de Montfort, and refused to seek the mercy of the king, established himself with others in like circumstances near a woody and tortuous road between the village of Wilton and the castle of Farnham, from which position he made forays into the country round about, directing his attacks especially against those who were of the king's party. Prince Edward had heard much of the prowess and honorable character of this man, and desired to have some personal knowledge of him. He succeeded in surprising Gordon with a superior force, and engaged him in single combat, forbidding any of his own followers to interfere. They fought a long time, and the prince was so filled with admiration of the courage and spirit of his antagonist that he promised him life and fortune on condition of his surrendering. To these terms Gordon acceded, his estates were restored, and Edward found him ever after an attached and faithful servant.[15] The story is romantic, and yet Adam Gordon was not made the subject of ballads. _Caruit vate sacro._ The contemporary historians, however, all have a paragraph for him. He is celebrated by Wikes, the Chronicle of Dunstaple, the Waverley Annals, and we know not where else besides. But these theories are open to an objection stronger even than the silence of history. They are contradicted by the spirit of the ballads. No line of these songs breathes political animosity. There is no suggestion or reminiscence of wrong, from invading Norman, or from the established sovereign. On the contrary, Robin loved no man in the world so well as his king. What the tone of these ballads would have been, had Robin Hood been any sort of partisan, we may judge from the mournful and indignant strains which were poured out on the fall of De Montfort. We should have heard of the fatal field of Hastings, of the perfidy of Henry, of the sanguinary revenge of Edward, and not of matches at archery and encounters at quarter-staff, the plundering of rich abbots, and squabbles with the sheriff. The Robin Hood of our ballads is neither patriot under ban, nor proscribed rebel. An outlaw indeed he is, but an "outlaw for venyson," like Adam Bell, and one who superadds to deer-stealing the irregularity of a genteel highway robbery. Thus much of these conjectures in general. To recur to the particular evidence by which Mr. Hunter's theory is supported, this consists principally in the name of Robin Hood being found among the king's servants shortly after Edward II. returned from his visit to the north of his dominions. But the value of this coincidence depends entirely upon the rarity of the name.[16] Now Hood, as Mr. Hunter himself remarks, is a well-established hereditary name in the reigns of the Edwards. We find it very frequently in the indexes to the Record Publications, and this although it does not belong to the higher class of people. That Robert was an ordinary Christian name requires no proof, and if it was, the combination of Robert Hood must have been frequent also. We have taken no extraordinary pains to hunt up this combination, for really the matter is altogether too trivial to justify the expense of time; but since to some minds much may depend on the coincidence in question, we will cite several Robin Hoods in the reign of the Edwards. 28th Ed. I. Robert Hood, a citizen of London, says Mr. Hunter, supplied the king's household with beer. 30th Ed. I. Robert Hood is sued for three acres of pasture land in Throckley, Northumberland. (_Rot. Orig. Abbrev._) 7th Ed. II. Robert Hood is surety for a burgess returned for Lostwithiel, Cornwall. (_Parliamentary Writs._) 9th Ed. II. Robert Hood is a citizen of Wakefield, Yorkshire, whom Mr. Hunter (p. 47) "may be justly charged with carrying supposition too far" by striving to identify with Robin the porter. 10th Ed. III. A Robert Hood, of Howden, York, is mentioned in the _Calendarium Rot. Patent_. Adding the Robin Hood of the 17th Ed. II. we have six persons of that name mentioned within a period of less than forty years, and this circumstance does not dispose us to receive with great favor any argument that may be founded upon one individual case of its occurrence. But there is no end to the absurdities which flow from this supposition. We are to believe that the weak and timid prince that had severely punished his kinsman and his nobles, freely pardoned a yeoman, who, after serving with the rebels, had for twenty months made free with the king's deer and robbed on the highway, and not only pardoned him, but received him into service _near his person_. We are further to believe that the man who had led so daring and jovial a life, and had so generously dispensed the pillage of opulent monks, willingly entered into this service, doffed his Lincoln green for the Plantagenet plush, and _consented_ to be enrolled among royal flunkies for three pence a day. And again, admitting all this, we are finally obliged by Mr. Hunter's document to concede that the stalwart archer (who, according to the ballad, maintained himself two and twenty years in the wood) was worn out by his duties as "proud portèr" in less than two years, and was discharged a superannuated lackey, with five shillings in his pocket, "_poar cas qil ne poait pluis travailler_." To those who are well acquainted with ancient popular poetry, the adventure of King Edward and Robin Hood, will seem the least eligible portion of this circle of story for the foundation of an historical theory. The ballad of King Edward and Robin Hood is but one version of an extremely multiform legend, of which the tales of _King Edward and the Shepherd_ and _King Edward and the Hermit_ are other specimens; and any one who will take the trouble to examine will be convinced that all these stories are one and the same thing, the personages being varied for the sake of novelty, and the name of a recent or of the reigning monarch substituted in successive ages for that of a predecessor. (See _King Edward the Fourth and the Tanner of Tamworth_.) Rejecting, then, as nugatory every attempt to assign Robin Hood a definite position in history, what view shall we adopt? Are all these traditions absolute fictions, and is he himself a pure creation of the imagination? Might not the ballads under consideration have a basis in the exploits of a real person, living in the forests, _somewhere_ and at _some time_? Or, denying individual existence to Robin Hood, and particular truth to the adventures ascribed to him, may we not regard him as _the ideal of the outlaw class_, a class so numerous in all the countries of Europe in the middle ages? We are perfectly contented to form no opinion upon the subject; but if compelled to express one, we should say that this last supposition (which is no novelty) possessed decidedly more likelihood than any other. Its plausibility will be confirmed by attending to the apparent signification of the name Robin Hood. The natural refuge and stronghold of the outlaw was the woods. Hence he is termed by Latin writers _silvaticus_, by the Normans _forestier_. The Anglo-Saxon robber or highwayman is called a wood-rover, _wealdgenga_, and the Norse word for outlaw is exactly equivalent.[17] It has been often suggested that Robin Hood is a corruption, or dialectic form, of Robin of the Wood, and when we remember that _wood_ is pronounced _hood_ in some parts of England,[18] (as _whoop_ is pronounced _hoop_ everywhere,) and that the outlaw bears in so many languages a name descriptive of his habitation, this notion will not seem an idle fancy. Various circumstances, however, have disposed writers of learning to look further for a solution of the question before us. Mr. Wright propounds an hypothesis that Robin Hood was "one among the personages of the early mythology of the Teutonic peoples;" and a German scholar,[19] in an exceedingly interesting article which throws much light on the history of English sports, has endeavored to show specifically that he is in name and substance one with the god Woden. The arguments by which these views are supported, though in their present shape very far from convincing, are entitled to a respectful consideration. The most important of these arguments are those which are based on the peculiar connection between Robin Hood and the month of May. Mr. Wright has justly remarked, that either an express mention of this month, or a vivid description of the season, in the older ballads, shows that the feats of the hero were generally performed during this part of the year. Thus, the adventure of _Robin Hood and the Monk_ befell on "a morning of May." _Robin Hood and the Potter_, and _Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne_ begin, like _Robin Hood and the Monk_, with a description of the season when leaves are long, blossoms are shooting, and the small birds are singing, and this season, though called summer, is at the same time spoken of as May in _Robin Hood and the Monk_, which, from the description there given, it needs must be. The liberation of Cloudesly by Adam Bel and Clym of the Clough is also achieved "on a merry morning of May." Robin Hood is moreover intimately associated with the month of May through the games which were celebrated at that time of the year. The history of these games is unfortunately very defective, and hardly extends beyond the beginning of the 16th century. By that time their primitive character seems to have been corrupted, or at least their significance was so far forgotten, that distinct pastimes and ceremonials were capriciously intermixed. At the beginning of the 16th century the May sports in vogue were, besides a contest of archery, four _pageants_,--the Kingham, or election of a Lord and Lady of the May, otherwise called Summer King and Queen, the Morris Dance, the Hobby Horse, and the "Robin Hood." Though these pageants were diverse in their origin, they had, at the epoch of which we write, begun to be confounded; and the Morris exhibited a tendency to absorb and blend them all, as, from its character, being a procession interspersed with dancing, it easily might do. We shall hardly find the Morris pure and simple in the English May-game; but from a comparison of the two earliest representations which we have of this sport, the Flemish print given by Douce in his _Illustrations of Shakespeare_, and Tollett's celebrated painted window, (described in Johnson and Steevens's _Shakespeare_,) we may form an idea of what was essential and what adventitious in the English spectacle. The Lady is evidently the central personage in both. She is, we presume, the same as the Queen of May, who is the oldest of all the characters in the May games, and the apparent successor to the Goddess of Spring in the Roman Floralia. In the English Morris she is called simply The Lady, or more frequently Maid Marian, a name which, to our apprehension, means Lady of the May, and nothing more. A fool and a taborer seem also to have been indispensable; but the other dancers had neither names nor peculiar offices, and were unlimited in number. The Morris then, though it lost in allegorical significance, would gain considerably in spirit and variety by combining with the other shows. Was it not natural, therefore, and in fact inevitable, that the old favorites of the populace, Robin Hood, Friar Tuck, and Little John, should in the course of time displace three of the anonymous performers in the show? This they had pretty effectually done at the beginning of the 16th century, and the Lady, who had accepted the more precise designation of Maid Marian, was after that generally regarded as the consort of Robin Hood, though she sometimes appeared in the Morris without him. In like manner, the Hobby Horse was quite early adopted into the Morris, of which it formed no original part, and at last even a Dragon was annexed to the company. Under these circumstances we cannot be surprised to find the principal performers in the May pageants passing the one into the other; to find the May King, whose occupation was gone when the fascinating outlaw had supplanted him in the favor of the Lady, assuming the part of the Hobby Horse,[20] Robin Hood usurping the title of King of the May,[21] and the Hobby Horse entering into a contest with the Dragon, as St. George. We feel obliged to regard this interchange of functions among the characters in the English May pageants as fortuitous, notwithstanding the coincidence of the May King sometimes appearing on horseback in Germany, and notwithstanding our conviction that Kuhn is right in maintaining that the May King, the Hobby Horse, and the Dragon-slayer, are symbols of one mythical idea. This idea we are compelled by want of space barely to state, with the certainty of doing injustice to the learning and ingenuity with which the author has supported his views. Kuhn has shown it to be extremely probable, first, that the Christmas games, which both in Germany and England have a close resemblance to those of Spring, are to be considered as a prelude to the May sports, and that they both originally symbolized the victory of Summer over Winter,[22] which, beginning at the winter solstice, is completed in the second month of Spring; secondly, that the conquering Summer is represented by the May King, or by the Hobby Horse (as also by the Dragon-slayer, whether St. George, Siegfried, Apollo, or the Sanskrit Indras); and thirdly, that the Hobby Horse in particular represents the god Woden, who, as well as Mars[23] among the Romans, is the god at once of Spring and of Victory. The essential point, all this being admitted, is now to establish the identity of Robin Hood and the Hobby Horse. This we think we have shown cannot be done by reasoning founded on the early history of the games under consideration. Kuhn relies principally upon two modern accounts of Christmas pageants. In one of these pageants there is introduced a man on horseback, who carries in his hands a bow and arrows. The other furnishes nothing peculiar except a name: the ceremony is called a _hoodening_, and the hobby horse a _hooden_. In the rider with bow and arrows, Kuhn sees Robin Hood and the Hobby Horse, and in the name _hooden_ (which is explained by the authority he quotes to mean wooden) he discovers a provincial form of _wooden_ which connects the outlaw and the divinity.[24] It will be generally agreed that these slender premises are totally inadequate to support the weighty conclusion that is rested upon them. Why the adventures of Robin Hood should be specially assigned, as they are in the old ballads, to the month of May, remains unexplained. We have no exquisite reason to offer, but we may perhaps find reason good enough in the delicious stanzas with which some of these ballads begin. In summer when the shawès be sheen, And leavès be large and long, It is full merry in fair forèst To hear the fowlès song; To see the deer draw to the dale, And leave the hillès hee, And shadow them in the leavès green Under the green-wood tree. The poetical character of the season affords all the explanation that is required. Nor need the occurrence of exhibitions of archery and of the Robin Hood plays and pageants, at this time of the year, occasion any difficulty. Repeated statutes, from the 13th to the 16th century, enjoined practice with the bow, and ordered that the leisure time of holidays should be employed for this purpose. Under Henry the Eighth the custom was still kept up, and those who partook in this exercise often gave it a spirit by assuming the style and character of Robin Hood and his associates. In like manner the society of archers in Elizabeth's time, took the name of Arthur and his knights: all which was very natural then and would be now. None of all the merrymakings in merry England surpassed the May festival. The return of the sun stimulated the populace to the accumulation of all sorts of amusements. In addition to the traditional and appropriate sports of the season, there were, as Stowe tells us, divers warlike shows, with good archers, morris-dancers, and other devices for pastime all day long, and towards the evening stage-plays and bonfires in the streets. A Play of Robin Hood was considered "very proper for a May-game," but if Robin Hood was peculiarly prominent in these entertainments, the obvious reason would appear to be that he was the hero of that loved green-wood to which all the world resorted, when the cold obstruction of winter was broken up, "to do observance for a morn of May." We do not therefore attribute much value to the theory of Mr. Wright, that the May festival was, in its earliest form, "a religious celebration, though, like such festivals in general, it possessed a double character, that of a religious ceremony, and of an opportunity for the performance of warlike games; that, at such festivals, the songs would take the character of the amusements on the occasion, and would most likely celebrate warlike deeds--perhaps the myths of the patron whom superstition supposed to preside over them; that, as the character of the exercises changed, the attributes of the patron would change also, and he who was once celebrated as working wonders with his good axe or his elf-made sword, might afterwards assume the character of a skilful bowman; that the scene of his actions would likewise change, and the person whose weapons were the bane of dragons and giants, who sought them in the wildernesses they infested, might become the enemy only of the sheriff and his officers, under the 'grene-wode lefe.'" It is unnecessary to point out that the language we have quoted contains, beyond the statement that warlike exercises were anciently combined with religious rites, a very slightly founded surmise, and nothing more. Another circumstance which weighs much with Mr. Wright, goes but a very little way with us in demonstrating the mythological character of Robin Hood. This is the frequency with which his name is attached to mounds, wells, and stones, such as in the popular creed are connected with fairies, dwarfs, or giants. There is scarcely a county in England which does not possess some monument of this description. "Cairns on Blackdown in Somersetshire, and barrows near to Whitby in Yorkshire and Ludlow in Shropshire, are termed Robin Hood's pricks or butts; lofty natural eminences in Gloucestershire and Derbyshire are Robin Hood's hills; a huge rock near Matlock is Robin Hood's Tor; ancient boundary stones, as in Lincolnshire, are Robin Hood's crosses; a presumed loggan, or rocking-stone, in Yorkshire, is Robin Hood's penny-stone; a fountain near Nottingham, another between Doncaster and Wakefield, and one in Lancashire, are Robin Hood's wells; a cave in Nottinghamshire is his stable; a rude natural rock in Hope Dale is his chair; a chasm at Chatsworth is his leap; Blackstone Edge, in Lancashire, is his bed."[25] In fact, his name bids fair to overrun every remarkable object of the sort which has not been already appropriated to King Arthur or the Devil; with the latter of whom, at least, it is presumed that, however ancient, he will not dispute precedence. "The legends of the peasantry," quoth Mr. Wright, "are the shadows of a very remote antiquity." This proposition, thus broadly stated, we deny. Nothing is more deceptive than popular legends; and the "legends," we speak of, if they are to bear that name, have no claim to antiquity at all. They do not go beyond the ballads. They are palpably of subsequent and comparatively recent origin. It was absolutely impossible that they should arise while Robin Hood was a living reality to the people. The archer of Sherwood who could barely stand King Edward's buffet, and was felled by the Potter, was no man to be playing with rocking stones. This trick of naming must have begun in the decline of his fame, for there was a time when his popularity drooped, and his existence was just not doubted; not elaborately maintained by learned historians, and antiquarians deeply read in the Public Records. And what do these names prove? The vulgar passion for bestowing them is notorious and universal. We Americans are too young to be well provided with heroes that might serve this purpose. We have no imaginative peasantry to invent legends, no ignorant peasantry to believe them. But we have the good fortune to possess the Devil in common with the rest of the world; and we take it upon us to say, that there is not a mountain district in the land, which has been opened to summer travellers, where a "Devil's Bridge," a "Devil's Punch-bowl," or some object with the like designation, will not be pointed out.[26] We have taken no notice of the later fortunes of Robin Hood in his true and original character of a hero of romance. Towards the end of the 16th century, Anthony Munday attempted to revive the decaying popularity of this king of good fellows, who had won all his honors as a simple yeoman, by representing him in the play of _The Downfall of Robert Earl of Huntington_, as a nobleman in disguise, outlawed by the machinations of his steward. This pleasing and successful drama is Robin's sole patent to that title of Earl of Huntington, in confirmation of which, Dr. Stukeley fabricated a pedigree that transcends even the absurdities of heraldry, and some unknown forger an epitaph beneath the skill of a Chatterton. Those who desire a full acquaintance with the fabulous history of Robin Hood, will seek it in the well-known volumes of Ritson, or in those of his recent editor, Gutch, who does not make up by superior discrimination for his inferiority in other respects to that industrious antiquary. [1] "This is a tale indeed of Robin Hood, Which to beleeve might show my wits but weake." Harington's _Ariosto_, p. 391, as cited by Ritson. [2] Sloth says:-- "I kan noght parfitly my pater-noster, As the preest it syngeth, But I kan rymes of Robyn Hood, And Randolf erl of Chestre." Wright's ed. v. 3275-8. [3] A writer in the _Edinburgh Review_, (July, 1847, p. 134,) has cited an allusion to Robin Hood, of a date intermediate between the passages from Wyntown, and the one about to be cited from Bower. In the year 1439, a petition was presented to Parliament against one Piers Venables of Aston, in Derbyshire, "who having no liflode, ne sufficeante of goodes, gadered and assembled unto him many misdoers, beynge of his clothynge, and, in manere of insurrection, wente into the wodes in that countrie, like as it hadde be _Robyn Hode and his meynè_." _Rot. Parl._ v. 16. [4] "Legendis non raro incredibilibus aliisque plusquam anilibus neniis." Hearne, _Scotichronicon_, p. xxix. [5] Hearne. Mr. Hunter agrees to this. [6] Hearne, p. 774. [7] _Scotichronicon_, ed. Goodall, ii. 104. [8] A comparison of the legends concerning William Tell, as they appear in any of the recent discussions of the subject, (e.g. Ideler's _Sage von dem Schuss des Tell_, Berlin, 1836,) with those of Robin Hood and Adam Bell, will be found interesting and instructive. [9] In his _Histoire de la Conquête de l'Angleterre par les Normands_, l. xi. Thierry was anticipated in his theory by Barry, in a dissertation cited by Mr. Wright in his Essays: _Thèse de Littérature sur les Viccissitudes et les Transformations du Cycle populaire de Robin Hood._ Paris, 1832. [10] London and Westminster Review, vol. xxxiii. p. 424. [11] No. 4. _The Ballad Hero, Robin Hood._ June, 1852. [12] Hunter, p. 28, p. 35-38. [13] Mr. Hunter thinks it necessary to prove that it was formerly a usage in England to celebrate real events in popular song. We submit that it has been still more customary to celebrate them in history, when they were of public importance. The case of private and domestic stories is different. [14] Most remarkable of all would this be, should we adopt the views of Mr. Hunter, because we know from the incidental testimony of _Piers Ploughman_, that only forty years after the date fixed upon for the outlaw's submission, "rhymes of Robin Hood," were in the mouth of every tavern lounger; and yet no chronicler can spare him a word. [15] Matthew Paris, London, 1640, p. 1002. [16] Mr. Hunter had previously instituted a similar argument in the case of Adam Bell, and doubtless the reasoning might be extended to Will Scathlock and Little John. With a little more rummaging of old account-books we shall be enabled to "comprehend all vagrom men." It is a pity that the Sheriff of Nottingham could not have availed himself of the services of our "detective." The sagacity that has identified the Porter might easily, we imagine, have unmasked the Potter. [17] See Wright's _Essays_, ii. 207. "The name of Witikind, the famous opponent of Charlemagne, who always fled before his sight, concealed himself in the forests, and returned again in his absence, is no more than _witu chint_, in Old High Dutch, and signifies the _son of the wood_, an appellation which he could never have received at his birth, since it denotes an exile or outlaw. Indeed, the name Witikind, though such a person seems to have existed, appears to be the representative of all the defenders of his country against the invaders." (_Cf._ the _Three_ Tells.) [18] Thus, in Kent, the Hobby Horse is called _hooden_, i.e. wooden. It is curious that Orlando, in _As You Like It_, (who represents the outlaw Gamelyn in the _Tale of Gamelyn_, a tale which clearly belongs to the cycle of Robin Hood,) should be the son of Sir Rowland _de Bois_. Robin de Bois (says a writer in _Notes and Queries_, vi. 597) occurs in one of Sue's novels "as a well-known mythical character, whose name is employed by French mothers to frighten their children." [19] Kuhn, in _Haupt's Zeitschrift für deutsches Alterthum_, v. 472. The idea of a northern myth will of course excite the alarm of all sensible patriotic Englishmen, (e.g. Mr. Hunter, at page 3 of his tract,) and the bare suggestion of Woden will be received, in the same quarters, with an explosion of scorn. And yet we find the famous shot of Eigill, one of the mythical personages of the Scandinavians, (and perhaps to be regarded as one of the forms of Woden,) attributed in the ballad of _Adam Bel_ to William of Cloudesly, who may be considered as Robin Hood under another name. See the preface to _Adam Bel_. [20] As in Tollett's window. [21] In Lord Hailes's _Extracts from the Book of the Universal Kirk_. [22] More openly exhibited in the mock battle between Summer and Winter celebrated by the Scandinavians in honor of May, a custom still retained in the Isle of Man, where the month is every year ushered in with a contest between the Queen of Summer, and the Queen of Winter. (Brand's _Antiquities_, by Ellis, i. 222, 257.) A similar ceremony in Germany, occurring at Christmas, is noticed by Kuhn, p. 478. [23] Hence the Spring begins with March. The connection with Mars suggests a possible etymology for the Morris--which is usually explained, for want of something better, as a Morisco or Moorish dance. There is some resemblance between the Morris and the Salic dance. The Salic games are said to have been instituted by the Veian king Morrius, a name pointing to Mars, the divinity of the Salii. Kuhn, 488-493. [24] The name Robin also appears to Kuhn worthy of notice, since the horseman in the May pageant is in some parts of Germany called Ruprecht (Rupert, Robert). [25] Edinburgh Review, vol. 86, p. 123. [26] See some sensible remarks in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for March, 1793, by D. H., that is, says the courteous Ritson, by Gough, "the scurrilous and malignant editor of that degraded publication." ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK. This excellent ballad, which appears to be the oldest of the class preserved, and is possibly as old as the reign of Edward II. (see Wright's _Essays_, &c., ii. 174), is found in a manuscript belonging to the public library of the University of Cambridge (Ff. 5, 48). It was first printed by Jamieson, _Popular Ballads_, ii. 54, afterwards in Hartshorne's _Metrical Tales_, p. 179, and is here given from the second edition of Ritson's _Robin Hood_, (ii. 221,) as collated by Sir Frederic Madden. The story is nearly the same in _Adam Bel, Clym of the Cloughe, and Wyllyam of Cloudeslè_. In somer when the shawes be sheyne, And leves be large and longe, Hit is full mery in feyre foreste To here the foulys song. To se the dere draw to the dale, 5 And leve the hilles hee, And shadow hem in the leves grene, Vndur the grene-wode tre. Hit befell on Whitsontide, Erly in a may mornyng, 10 The son vp fayre can shyne, And the briddis mery can syng. "This is a mery mornyng," seid Litulle Johne, "Be hym that dyed on tre; A more mery man then I am one 15 Lyves not in Cristianté." "Pluk vp thi hert, my dere mayster," Litulle Johne can sey, "And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme In a mornynge of may." 20 "Ze on thynge greves me," seid Robyne, "And does my hert mych woo, That I may not so solem day To mas nor matyns goo. "Hit is a fourtnet and more," seyd hee, 25 "Syn I my Sauyour see; To day will I to Notyngham," seid Robyn, "With the myght of mylde Mary." Then spake Moche the mylner sune, Euer more wel hym betyde, 30 "Take xii of thi wyght zemen Well weppynd be thei side.[L32] Such on wolde thi selfe slon That xii dar not abyde." "Off alle my mery men," seid Robyne, 35 "Be my feithe I wil non haue; But Litulle Johne shall beyre my bow Til that me list to drawe. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Thou shalle beyre thin own," seid Litulle Jon,[L39] "Maister, and I wil beyre myne, 40 And we wille shete a peny," seid Litulle Jon, "Vnder the grene wode lyne." "I wil not shete a peny," seyde Robyn Hode, "In feith, Litulle Johne, with thee, But euer for on as thou shetes," seid Robyn, 45 "In feith I holde the thre." Thus shet thei forthe, these zemen too, Bothe at buske and brome, Til Litulle Johne wan of his maister V s. to hose and shone. 50 A ferly strife fel them betwene, As they went bi the way; Litull Johne seid he had won v shyllyngs, And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay. With that Robyn Hode lyed Litul Jone, 55 And smote hym with his honde; Litul John waxed wroth therwith, And pulled out his bright bronde. "Were thou not my maister," seid Litulle Johne, "Thou shuldis by hit ful sore; 60 Get the a man where thou wilt, Robyn, For thou getes me no more." Then Robyn goes to Notyngham, Hymselfe mornynge allone, And Litulle Johne to mery Scherewode, 65 The pathes he knowe alkone. Whan Robyn came to Notyngham, Sertenly withoutene layne, He prayed to God and myld Mary To brynge hym out saue agayne. 70 He gos into seynt Mary chirche, And knelyd downe before the rode; Alle that euer were the churche within Beheld wel Robyne Hode. Beside hym stode a gret-hedid munke, 75 I pray to God woo he be; Ful sone he knew gode Robyn As sone as he hym se. Out at the durre he ran Ful sone and anon; 80 Alle the zatis of Notyngham He made to be sparred euerychone. "Rise vp," he seid, "thou prowde schereff, Buske the and make the bowne; I haue spyed the kynges felone, 85 For sothe he is in this towne. "I haue spyed the false felone, As he stondes at his masse; Hit is longe of the," seide the munke, "And euer he fro vs passe. 90 "This traytur[s] name is Robyn Hode; Vnder the grene wode lynde, He robbyt me onys of a C pound,[L93] Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde." Vp then rose this prowd schereff, 95 And zade towarde hym zare; Many was the modur son To the kyrk with him can fare. In at the durres thei throly thrast With staves ful gode ilkone,[L100] 100 "Alas, alas," seid Robin Hode, "Now mysse I Litulle Johne." But Robyne toke out a too-hond sworde That hangit down be his kne; Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust, 105 Thidurward wold he. Thryes thorow at them he ran, Then for sothe as I yow say, And woundyt many a modur sone, And xii he slew that day. 110 Hys sworde vpon the schireff hed Sertanly he brake in too; "The smyth that the made," seid Robyn, "I pray God wyrke hym woo. "For now am I weppynlesse," seid Robyne, 115 "Alasse, agayn my wylle; But if I may fle these traytors fro, I wot thei wil me kylle." Robyns men to the churche ran Throout hem euerilkon; 120 Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede, And lay still as any stone. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Non of theym were in her mynde But only Litulle Jon. "Let be your dule," seid Litulle Jon,[L125] 125 "For his luf that dyed on tre; Ze that shulde be duzty men, Hit is gret shame to se. "Oure maister has bene hard bystode, And zet scapyd away; 130 Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone, And herkyn what I shal say. "He has seruyd our lady many a day, And zet wil securly; Therefore I trust in her specialy 135 No wycked deth shal he dye. "Therfor be glad," seid Litul Johne, "And let this mournyng be, And I shall be the munkes gyde, With the myght of mylde Mary. 140 "And I mete hym," seid Litull Johne, "We wille go but we too * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Loke that ze kepe wel our tristil tre Vnder the levys smale, And spare non of this venyson 145 That gose in thys vale." Forthe thei went these zemen too, Litul Johne and Moche onfere, And lokid on Moche emys hows The hyeway lay fulle nere. 150 Litul John stode at a window in the mornynge, And lokid forth at a stage; He was war wher the munke came ridynge, And with hym a litul page. "Be my feith," seid Litul Johne to Moche, 155 "I can the tel tithyngus gode; I se wher the munk comys rydyng, I know hym be his wyde hode." Thei went into the way these zemen bothe, As curtes men and hende, 160 Thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke, As thei hade bene his frende. "Fro whens come ze," seid Litul Johne; "Tel vs tithyngus, I yow pray, Off a false owtlay [called Robyn Hode], 165 Was takyn zisturday. "He robbyt me and my felowes bothe Of xx marke in serten; If that false owtlay be takyn, For sothe we wolde be fayne." 170 "So did he me," seid the munke, "Of a C pound and more; I layde furst hande hym apon, Ze may thonke me therfore." "I pray God thanke yow," seid Litulle Johne, 175 "And we wil when we may; We wil go with yow, with your leve, And brynge yow on your way. "For Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow, I telle yow in certen; 180 If thei wist ze rode this way, In feith ze shulde be slayn." As thei went talkyng be the way, The munke and Litulle Johne, Johne toke the munkes horse be the hede 185 Ful sone and anone. Johne toke the munkes horse be the hed, For sothe as I yow say, So did Muche the litulle page, For he shulde not stirre away. 190 Be the golett of the hode Johne pulled the munke downe; Johne was nothynge of hym agast, He lete hym falle on his crowne. Litulle Johne was sore agrevyd,[L195] 195 And drew out his swerde in hye; The munke saw he shulde be ded, Lowd mercy can he crye. "He was my maister," seid Litulle Johne, "That thou hase browzt in bale; 200 Shalle thou neuer cum at oure kynge For to telle hym tale." John smote of the munkes hed, No longer wolde he dwelle; So did Moche the litulle page, 205 For ferd lest he wold tell. Ther thei beryed hem both In nouther mosse nor lynge, And Litulle Johne and Muche infere Bare the letturs to oure kyng. 210 * * * * * * He kneled down vpon his kne, "God zow saue, my lege lorde, "Jesus yow saue and se. "God yow saue, my lege kyng," To speke Johne was fulle bolde; 215 He gaf hym the letturs in his hond, The kyng did hit unfold. The kyng red the letturs anon, And seid, "so mot I the, Ther was neuer zoman in mery Inglond 220 I longut so sore to see. "Wher is the munke that these shuld haue browzt?" Oure kynge gan say; "Be my trouthe," seid Litull Jone, "He dyed aftur the way." 225 The kyng gaf Moche and Litul Jon xx pound in sertan, And made theim zemen of the crowne, And bade theim go agayn. He gaf Johne the seel in hand, 230 The scheref for to bere, To brynge Robyn hym to, And no man do hym dere. Johne toke his leve at oure kyng, The sothe as I yow say; 235 The next way to Notyngham To take he zede the way. When Johne came to Notyngham The zatis were sparred ychone; Johne callid vp the porter, 240 He answerid sone anon. "What is the cause," seid Litul John, "Thou sparris the zates so fast?" "Because of Robyn Hode," seid [the] porter, In depe prison is cast. 245 "Johne, and Moche, and Wylle Scathlok, For sothe as I yow say, Thir slew oure men vpon oure wallis, And sawtene vs euery day." Litulle Johne spyrred aftur the schereff, 250 And sone he hym fonde; He oppyned the kyngus privè seelle, And gaf hym in his honde. "When the schereff saw the kyngus seelle, He did of his hode anon; 255 "Wher is the munke that bare the letturs?" He seid to Litulle Johne. "He is so fayn of hym," seid Litulle Johne, "For sothe as I yow sey, He has made hym abot of Westmynster, 260 A lorde of that abbay." The scheref made John gode chere, And gaf hym wine of the best; At nyzt thei went to her bedde, And euery man to his rest. 265 When the scheref was on-slepe Dronken of wine and ale, Litul Johne and Moche for sothe Toke the way vnto the jale.[L269] Litul Johne callid vp the jayler, 270 And bade hym ryse anon; He seid Robyn Hode had brokyn preson, And out of hit was gon. The portere rose anon sertan, As sone as he herd John calle; 275 Litul Johne was redy with a swerd, And bare hym to the walle. "Now will I be porter," seid Litul Johne, "And take the keyes in honde;" He toke the way to Robyn Hode, 280 And sone he hym vnbonde. He gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond, His hed with for to kepe, And ther as the walle was lowyst Anon down can thei lepe. 285 Be that the cok began to crow, The day began to sprynge, The scheref fond the jaylier ded, The comyn belle made he rynge. He made a crye thoroowt al the tow[n], 290 Whedur he be zoman or knave, That cowthe brynge hym Robyn Hode, His warisone he shuld haue. "For I dar neuer," said the scheref, "Cum before oure kynge, 295 For if I do, I wot serten, For sothe he wil me henge." The scheref made to seke Notyngham, Bothe be strete and stye, And Robyn was in mery Scherwode 300 As lizt as lef on lynde. Then bespake gode Litulle Johne, To Robyn Hode can he say, "I haue done the a gode turne for an euylle, Quyte me whan thou may.[L305] 305 "I haue done the a gode turne," said Litulle Johne, "For sothe as I you saie; I haue brouzt the vnder grene wode lyne; Fare wel, and haue gode day." "Nay, be my trouthe," seid Robyn Hode, 310 "So shalle hit neuer be; I make the maister," seid Robyn Hode, "Off alle my men and me." "Nay, be my trouthe," seid Litulle Johne, "So shall hit neuer be, 315 But lat me be a felow," seid Litulle Johne, "Non odur kepe I'll be." Thus Johne gate Robyn Hode out of prisone, Sertan withoutyn layne; When his men saw hym hol and sounde, 320 For sothe they were ful fayne. They filled in wyne, and made him glad, Vnder the levys smale, And zete pastes of venysone, That gode was with ale. 325 Than worde came to oure kynge, How Robyn Hode was gone, And how the scheref of Notyngham Durst neuer loke hyme vpone. Then bespake oure cumly kynge, 330 In an angur hye, "Litulle Johne hase begyled the schereff, In faith so hase he me. "Litulle Johne has begyled vs bothe, And that fulle wel I se, 335 Or ellis the schereff of Notyngham Hye hongut shuld he be. "I made hem zemen of the crowne, And gaf hem fee with my hond, I gaf hem grithe," seid oure kyng, 340 "Thorowout alle mery Inglond. "I gaf hem grithe," then seide oure kyng, "I say, so mot I the, For sothe soche a zeman as he is on In alle Ingland ar not thre. 345 "He is trew to his maister," seide oure kynge, "I sey, be swete seynt Johne; He louys bettur Robyn Hode, Then he dose vs ychone. "Robyne Hode is euer bond to him, 350 Bothe in strete and stalle; Speke no more of this matter," seid oure kynge,[L352] "But John has begyled vs alle." Thus endys the talkyng of the munke And Robyne Hode i-wysse; God, that is euer a crowned kyng, Bryng vs alle to his blisse. 32. MS. ther. 39. MS. th' now. 93. See the Fourth Fit of the _Lyttell Geste_. 100. MS. gode wone. 125. MS. rule. 195. MS. so. 269, gale. 305. MS. Quyte the. 352. MS. mere. ROBIN HOOD AND THE POTTER. From Ritson's _Robin Hood_, i. 81. "This curious, and hitherto unpublished, and even unheard of old piece," remarks that editor, "is given from a manuscript among Bishop More's collections, in the Public Library of the University of Cambridge (Ee. 4. 35). The writing, which is evidently that of a vulgar and illiterate person, appears to be of the age of Henry VII., that is, about the year 1500; but the composition (which he has irremediably corrupted) is probably of an earlier period, and much older, no doubt, than _The Play of Robyn Hode_, which seems allusive to the same story." Mr. Wright thinks the manuscript is proved to be of the time of Henry VI. by a memorandum on one page, setting forth the expenses of the feast on the marriage of the king with Margaret:--"Thys ys exspences of fflesche at the mariage of my ladey Marg'et, that sche had owt off Eynglonde." But this memorandum is more likely to apply to Margaret, daughter of Henry VII., who was married "_out_ of England," that is, in Scotland, to James IV., than to the Margaret who was married _in_ England to Henry VI. (_Ed. Rev._ lxxxvi. 126.) The adventure in the first part of this story,--the encounter between Robin Hood and a sturdy fellow who proves his match or his superior--forms the subject of a large number of this circle of ballads, the antagonist being in one case a beggar, in another a tanner, a tinker, the pinder of Wakefield, &c. (See the preface to _Robin Hood and the Beggar_, p. 188.) The story of the second part is found again in _Robin Hood and the Butcher_, and, with considerable differences, in the third fit of the _Lytell Geste_. It is in the disguise of a potter that the Saxon Hereward penetrates into the Norman court, and that Eustace the Monk eludes the vengeance of the Count of Boulogne. Eustace also drew his enemy into an ambush by nearly the same stratagem which Robin employs to entice the sheriff of Nottingham into the forest. (See the romances abridged in Wright's _Essays_, ii. 108, 133, 135, 184.) In schomer, when the leves spryng, The bloschems on every bowe, So merey doyt the berdys syng Yn wodys merey now. Herkens, god yemen, 5 Comley, corteysse, and god,[L6] On of the best that yever bar bou, Hes name was Roben Hode. Roben Hood was the yemans name, That was boyt corteys and fre; 10 For the loffe of owr ladey, All wemen werschep he.[L12] Bot as the god yemen stod on a day, Among hes mery manèy, He was war of a prowd potter, 15 Cam dryfyng owyr the ley.[L16] "Yonder comet a prod potter," seyde Roben,[L17] "That long hayt hantyd this wey; He was never so corteys a man On peney of pawage to pay." 20 "Y met hem bot at Wentbreg," seyde Lytyll John,[L21] "And therfor yeffell mot he the, Seche thre strokes he me gafe, Yet they cleffe by my seydys. "Y ley forty shillings," seyde Lytyll John, 25 "To pay het thes same day, Ther ys nat a man among hus all A wed schall make hem ley."[L28] "Her ys forty shillings," seyde Roben, "Mor, and thow dar say, 30 That y schall make that prowde potter, A wed to me schall he ley." Ther thes money they leyde, They toke het a yeman to kepe; Roben befor the potter he breyde, 35 And bad hem stond stell.[L36] Handys apon hes horse he leyde, And bad the potter stonde foll stell; The potter schorteley to hem seyde, "Felow, what ys they well?" 40 "All thes thre yer, and mor, potter," he seyde, "Thow hast hantyd thes wey, Yet wer tow never so cortys a man One peney of pauage to pay." "What ys they name," seyde the potter, 45 "For pauage thow ask of me?" "Roben Hod ys mey name, A wed schall thow leffe me." "Wed well y non leffe," seyde the potter, "Nor pavag well y non pay; 50 Awey they honde fro mey horse, Y well the tene eyls, be mey fay." The potter to hes cart he went, He was not to seke; A god to-hande staffe therowt he hent, 55 Befor Roben he lepe.[L56] Roben howt with a swerd bent, A bokeler en hes honde [therto]; The potter to Roben he went, And seyde, "Felow, let mey horse go." 60 Togeder then went thes two yemen, Het was a god seyt to se; Therof low Robyn hes men, Ther they stod onder a tre. Leytell John to hes felowhes seyde,[L65] 65 "Yend potter welle steffeley stonde:" The potter, with an acward stroke,[L67] Smot the bokeler owt of hes honde; And ar Roben meyt get hem agen[L69] Hes bokeler at hes fette, 70 The potter yn the neke hem toke, To the gronde sone he yede. That saw Roben hes men, As thay stode ender a bow; "Let us helpe owr master," seyed Lytell John, 75 "Yonder potter els well hem sclo."[L76] Thes yemen went with a breyde,[L77] To ther master they cam.[L78] Leytell John to hes master seyde, "Ho haet the wager won? 80 "Schall y haff yowr forty shillings," seyde Lytel John, "Or ye, master, schall haffe myne?" "Yeff they wer a hundred," seyde Roben, "Y feythe, they ben all theyne." "Het ys fol leytell cortesey," seyde the potter, 85 "As y haffe harde weyse men saye, Yeff a por yeman com drywyng ower the wey, To let hem of hes gorney." "Be mey trowet, thow seys soyt," seyde Roben, "Thow seys god yemenrey;[L90] 90 And thow dreyffe forthe yevery day, Thow schalt never be let for me. "Y well prey the, god potter, A felischepe well thow haffe? Geffe me they clothyng, and thow schalt hafe myne; 95 Y well go to Notynggam." "Y grant therto," seyde the potter,[L97] "Thow schalt feynde me a felow gode; Bot thow can sell mey pottes well, Come ayen as thow yode."[L100] 100 "Nay, be mey trowt," seyde Roben, "And then y bescro mey hede Yeffe y bryng eney pottes ayen, And eney weyffe well hem chepe." Than spake Leytell John, 105 And all hes felowhes heynd, "Master, be well war of the screffe of Notynggam, For he ys leytell howr frende." "Heyt war howte," seyde Roben,[L109] "Felowhes, let me alone; 110 Thorow the helpe of howr ladey, To Notynggam well y gon." Robyn went to Notynggam,[L113] Thes pottes for to sell; The potter abode with Robens men, 115 Ther he fered not eylle. Tho Roben droffe on hes wey, So merey ower the londe: Heres mor and affter ys to saye, The best ys beheynde. 120 MS. 6, cortessey. 12, ye. 16, lefe. MS. 17, 21, syde. 28, leffe. 36, A. MS. 56, leppyd. MS. 65, felow he. 67, a caward. 69, A. 76, seyde hels. 77, went yemen. 78, thes. MS. 90, yemerey. 97, grat. 100, yede. 109-112. These lines stand in the MS. in the order 3, 2, 1, 4. 113-116. This stanza is wrongly placed in the MS. after v. 96. It should he either in the place where it stands, or else begin the next fit. [THE SECOND FIT.] When Roben cam to Notynggam, The soyt yef y scholde saye, He set op hes horse anon, And gaffe hem hotys and haye. Yn the medys of the towne, 125 Ther he schowed hes war; "Pottys! pottys!" he gan crey foll sone, "Haffe hansell for the mar." Foll effen agenest the screffeys gate Schowed he hes chaffar; 130 Weyffes and wedowes abowt hem drow, And chepyd fast of hes war. Yet, "Pottys, gret chepe!" creyed Royn, "Y loffe yeffell thes to stonde;" And all that saw hem sell,[L135] 135 Seyde he had be no potter long. The pottys that wer werthe pens feyffe, He sold tham for pens thre; Preveley seyde man and weyffe, "Ywnder potter schall never the." 140 Thos Roben solde foll fast, Tell he had pottys bot feyffe; Op he hem toke of his ear, And sende hem to the screffeys weyffe. Therof sche was foll fayne, 145 "Gramarsey, sir," than seyde sche;[L146] "When ye com to thes contre ayen, Y schall bey of they pottys, so mot y the."[L148] "Ye schall haffe of the best," seyde Roben, And swar be the treneytè; 150 Foll corteysley she gan hem call,[L151] "Com deyne with the screfe and me." "Godamarsey," seyde Roben, "Yowr bedyng schalle be doyn; A mayden yn the pottys gan ber, 155 Roben and the screffe weyffe folowed anon. Whan Roben ynto the hall cam, The screffe sone he met; The potter cowed of corteysey, And sone the screffe he gret. 160 "Loketh what thes potter hayt geffe yow and me;[L161] Feyffe pottys smalle and grete!" "He ys fol wellcom," seyd the screffe, "Let os was, and go to mete."[L164] As they sat at her methe, 165 With a nobell cher, Two of the screffes men gan speke Off a gret wagèr, Was made the thother daye,[L169] Off a schotyng was god and feyne,[L170] 170 Off forty shillings, the soyt to saye, Who scholde thes wager wen. Styll than sat thes prowde potter, Thos than thowt he; "As y am a trow Cerstyn man, 175 Thes schotyng well y se." Whan they had fared of the best. With bred and ale and weyne, To the bottys they made them prest,[L179] With bowes and boltys foll feyne.[L180] 180 The screffes men schot foll fast, As archares that weren godde; Ther cam non ner ney the marke Bey halfe a god archares bowe. Stell then stod the prowde potter, 185 Thos than seyde he; "And y had a bow, be the rode, On schot scholde yow se." "Thow schall haffe a bow," seyde the screffe, "The best that thow well cheys of thre; 190 Thou semyst a stalward and a stronge,[L191] Asay schall thow be." The screffe commandyd a yeman that stod hem bey Affter bowhes to wende; The best bow that the yeman browthe 195 Roben set on a stryng. "Now schall y wet and thow be god, And polle het op to they ner;" "So god me helpe," seyde the prowde potter, "Thys ys bot rygzt weke ger." 200 To a quequer Roben went, A god bolt owthe he toke; So ney on to the marke he went, He fayled not a fothe. All they schot abowthe agen, 205 The screffes men and he; Off the marke he welde not fayle, He cleffed the preke on thre. The screffes men thowt gret schame, The potter the mastry wan; 210 The screffe lowe and made god game, And seyde, "Potter, thow art a man; Thow art worthey to ber a bowe, Yn what plas that thow gang."[L214] "Yn mey cart y haffe a bowe, 215 Forsoyt," he seyde, "and that a godde; Yn mey cart ys the bow That I had of Robyn Hode."[L218] "Knowest thow Robyn Hode?" seyde the screffe, "Potter, y prey the tell thou me;" 220 "A hundred torne y haffe schot with hem, Under hes tortyll tree." "Y had lever nar a hundred ponde," seyde the screffe, And swar be the trenitè, ["Y had lever nar a hundred ponde," he seyde,] 225 That the fals owtelawe stod be me. "And ye well do afftyr mey red," seyde the potter, "And boldeley go with me, And to morow, or we het bred, Roben Hode wel we se." 230 "Y well queyt the," kod the screffe, And swer be god of meythe;[L232] Schetyng thay left, and hom they went, Her scoper was redey deythe. Upon the morow, when het was day, 235 He boskyd hem forthe to reyde; The potter hes carte forthe gan ray, And wolde not [be] leffe beheynde. He toke leffe of the screffys wyffe, And thankyd her of all thyng: 240 "Dam, for mey loffe, and ye well thys wer, Y geffe yow her a golde ryng." "Gramarsey," seyde the weyffe, "Sir, god eylde het the;" The screffes hart was never so leythe, 245 The feyr forest to se. And when he cam ynto the foreyst, Yonder the leffes grene, Berdys ther sange on bowhes prest, Het was gret joy to sene.[L250] 250 "Her het ys merey to be," seyde Roben,[L251] "For a man that had hawt to spende; Be mey horne we schall awet Yeff Roben Hode be ner hande."[L254] Roben set hes horne to hes mowthe,[L255] 255 And blow a blast that was foll god, That herde hes men that ther stode, Fer downe yn the wodde; "I her mey master" seyde Leytell John;[L259] They ran as thay wer wode. 260 Whan thay to thar master cam, Leytell John wold not spar; "Master, how haffe yow far yn Notynggam? How haffe yow solde yowr war?" "Ye, be mey trowthe, Leytyll John,[L265] 265 Loke thow take no car; Y haffe browt the screffe of Notynggam, For all howr chaffar." "He ys foll wellcom," seyde Lytyll John, "Thes tydyng ys foll godde; 270 The screffe had lever nar a hundred ponde [He had never sene Roben Hode.] "Had I west that beforen,[L273] At Notynggam when we wer, Thow scholde not com yn feyr forest 275 Of all thes thowsande eyr." "That wot y well," seyde Roben, "Y thanke god that ye be her; Therfor schall ye leffe yowr horse with hos, And all your hother ger." 280 "That fend I godys forbode," kod the screffe, "So to lese mey godde;" "Hether ye cam on horse foll hey,[L283] And hom schall ye go on fote; And gret well they weyffe at home, 285 The woman ys foll godde. "Y schall her sende a wheyt palffrey,[L287] Het hambellet as the weynde; Ner for the loffe of yowr weyffe, Off mor sorow scholde yow seyng." 290 Thes parted Robyn Hode and the screffe, To Notynggam he toke the waye; Hes weyffe feyr welcomed hem hom, And to hem gan sche saye: "Seyr, how haffe yow fared yn grene foreyst? 295 Haffe ye browt Roben hom?" "Dam, the deyell spede him, bothe bodey and bon, Y haffe hade a foll grete skorne. "Of all the god that y haffe lade to grene wod, He hayt take het fro me, 300 All bot this feyr palffrey, That he hayt sende to the." With that sche toke op a lowde lawhyng, And swhar be hem that deyed on tre, "Now haffe yow payed for all the pottys 305 That Roben gaffe to me. "Now ye be com hom to Notynggam, Ye schall haffe god ynowe;" Now speke we of Roben Hode, And of the pottyr onder the grene bowhe.[L310] 310 "Potter, what was they pottys worthe To Notynggam that y ledde with me?" "They wer worth two nobellys," seyd he, "So mot y treyffe or the; So cowde y had for tham, 315 And y had ther be."[L316] "Thow schalt hafe ten ponde," seyde Roben, "Of money feyr and fre; And yever whan thou comest to grene wod, Wellcom, potter to me." 320 Thes partyd Robyn, the screffe, and the potter, Ondernethe the grene-wod tre; God haffe mersey on Robyn Hodys solle, And saffe all god yemanrey! MS. 135, say. 146, Gereamarsey, sir, seyde sche s'than. 148, the. 151, he. MS. 161, loseth. 164, to to. 164. This ceremony [of washing,] which, in former times, was constantly practised as well before as after meat, seems to have fallen into disuse on the introduction of forks, about the year 1620; as before that period our ancestors supplied the place of this necessary utensil with their fingers.--RITSON. 169, 170, transposed in MS. MS. 179, pottys the. 180, bolt yt. 191, senyst. MS. 214, goe. 218, Robyng gaffe me. 232, mey they. MS. 250, goy. 251, se. 254, he. 255, her. 259. For. MS. 265, I leyty. 273, He had west. 283, y. 287. The MS. repeats this line after the following: Het ambellet be mey sey. MS. 310, bowhes. 316, be ther. ROBIN HOOD AND THE BUTCHER. Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 27. Printed from an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony à Wood. The story is the same as in the second part of _Robin Hood and the Potter_. Come, all you brave gallants, and listen awhile, _With hey down, down, an a down_, That are in the bowers within; For of Robin Hood, that archer good, A song I intend for to sing. Upon a time it chancèd so, 5 Bold Robin in forrest did 'spy A jolly butcher, with a bonny fine mare, With his flesh to the market did hye. "Good morrow, good fellow," said jolly Robin, "What food hast [thou]? tell unto me; 10 Thy trade to me tell, and where thou dost dwell, For I like well thy company." The butcher he answer'd jolly Robin, "No matter where I dwell; For a butcher I am, and to Nottingham 15 I am going, my flesh to sell." "What's [the] price of thy flesh?" said jolly Robin,[L17] "Come, tell it soon unto me; And the price of thy mare, be she never so dear, For a butcher fain would I be." 20 "The price of my flesh," the butcher repli'd, "I soon will tell unto thee; With my bonny mare, and they are not too dear, Four mark thou must give unto me. "Four mark I will give thee," saith jolly Robin, 25 "Four mark it shall be thy fee; The mony come count, and let me mount, For a butcher I fain would be." Now Robin he is to Nottingham gone, His butchers trade to begin; 30 With good intent to the sheriff he went, And there he took up his inn. When other butchers did open their meat, Bold Robin he then begun; But how for to sell he knew not well, 35 For a butcher he was but young. When other butchers no meat could sell, Robin got both gold and fee; For he sold more meat for one peny Then others could do for three. 40 But when he sold his meat so fast, No butcher by him could thrive; For he sold more meat for one peny Than others could do for five. Which made the butchers of Nottingham 45 To study as they did stand, Saying, "Surely he 'is' some prodigal, That hath sold his fathers land." The butchers stepped to jolly Robin, Acquainted with him for to be; 50 "Come, brother," one said, "we be all of one trade, "Come, will you go dine with me?" "Accurst of his heart," said jolly Robin, "That a butcher doth deny; I will go with you, my brethren true, 55 As fast as I can hie." But when to the sheriffs house they came, To dinner they hied apace, And Robin Hood he the man must be Before them all to say grace. 60 "Pray God bless us all," said jolly Robin, "And our meat within this place; A cup of sack so good will nourish our blood, And so do I end my grace. "Come fill us more wine," said jolly Robin, 65 "Let us be merry while we do stay; For wine and good cheer, be it never so dear, I vow I the reck'ning will pay. "Come, 'brothers,' be merry," said jolly Robin, "Let us drink, and never give ore; 70 For the shot I will pay, ere I go my way, If it cost me five pounds and more." "This is a mad blade," the butchers then said; Saies the sheriff, "He is some prodigàl, That some land has sold for silver and gold, 75 And now he doth mean to spend all. "Hast thou any horn beasts," the sheriff repli'd, "Good fellow, to sell unto me?" "Yes, that I have, good master sheriff, I have hundreds two or three; 80 "And a hundred aker of good free land, If you please it to see: And Ile make you as good assurance of it, As ever my father made me." The sheriff he saddled his good palfrèy, 85 And, with three hundred pound in gold, Away he went with bold Robin Hood, His horned beasts to behold. Away then the sheriff and Robin did ride, To the forrest of merry Sherwood; 90 Then the sheriff did say, "God bless us this day From a man they call Robin Hood!" But when a little farther they came, Bold Robin he chancèd to spy A hundred head of good red deer, 95 Come tripping the sheriff full nigh. "How like you my horn'd beasts, good master sheriff? They be fat and fair for to see;" "I tell thee, good fellow, I would I were gone, For I like not thy company." 100 Then Robin set his horn to his mouth, And blew but blasts three; Then quickly anon there came Little John, And all his company. "What is your will, master?" then said Little John, "Good master come tell unto me;" 105 "I have brought hither the sheriff of Nottingham This day to dine with thee." "He is welcome to me," then said Little John, "I hope he will honestly pay; 110 I know he has gold, if it be but well told, Will serve us to drink a whole day." Then Robin took his mantle from his back, And laid it upon the ground: And out of the sheriffs portmantle 115 He told three hundred pound. Then Robin he brought him thorow the wood, And set him on his dapple gray; "O have me commended to your wife at home;" So Robin went laughing away. 120 17. What is price. ROBYN AND GANDELYN. This interesting ballad (derived from a manuscript of the 15th century,) belongs to the cycle of Robin Hood, as Mr. Wright remarks, "at least by its subject, if not by the person whose death it celebrates." It was first printed by Ritson in his _Ancient Songs and Ballads_, (i. 81,) and has been again printed by Mr. Wright in a little black-letter volume of _Songs and Carols_ (No. X); from which we take our copy. The similarity of the name Gandelyn to the Gamelyn of the _Cook's Tale_, attributed to Chaucer, and the affinity of that story to the Robin Hood ballads, are alluded to by the last-named editor. Is it not possible that this name reappears again in the "Young Gamwell" of _Robin Hood and the Stranger_? The dialect of this piece is proved by an incidental coincidence, says Mr. Wright, to be that of Warwickshire. I herde a carpyng of a clerk Al at zone wodes ende, Of gode Robyn and Gandeleyn Was ther non other thynge.[L4] _Robynn lyth in grene wode Bowndyn._ Stronge theuys wern tho chylderin non, 5 But bowmen gode and hende: He wentyn to wode to getyn hem fleych, If God wold it hem sende. Al day wentyn tho chylderin too, And fleych fowndyn he non, 10 Til it were ageyn euyn, The chylderin wold gon hom: Half a honderid of fat falyf der He comyn azon, And all he wern fayr and fat inow, 15 But markyd was ther non. "Be dere Gode," seyde gode [Robyn], "Hereof we xul haue on." Robyn bent his joly bowe,[L19] Therin he set a flo, 20 The fattest der of alle [the herd] The herte he clef a-to. He hadde not the der islawe Ne half out of the hyde,[L24] There cam a schrewde arwe out of the west, 25 That felde Roberts pryde. Gandeleyn lokyd hym est and west Be euery syde; "Hoo hat myn mayster slayin, Ho hat don this dede? 30 Xal I neuer out of grene wode go, Ti[l] I se [his] sydis blede." Gandeleyn lokyd hym est and lokyd west, And sowt vnder the sunne, He saw a lytil boy 35 He clepyn Wrennok of Doune: A good bowe in his hond, A brod arewe therine, And fowre and xx goode arwys Trusyd in a thrumme. 40 "Be war the, war the, Gandeleyn, Herof thu xalt han summe: "Be war the, war the, Gandeleyn, Herof thu gyst plentè." "Euere on for an other," seyde Gandeleyn, 45 "Mysaunter haue he xal fle." "Qwerat xal our marke be?" Seyde Gandeleyn: "Eueryche at otheris herte," Seyde Wrennok ageyn. 50 "Ho xal zeue the ferste schote?" Seyde Gandeleyn: "And I xal zeue thè on beforn," Seyd Wrennok ageyn. Wrennok schette a ful good schote, 55 And he schet not too hye; Throw the sanchothis of his bryk, It towchyd neyther thye. "Now hast thu zouyn me on beforn," Al thus to Wrennok seyde he, 60 "And throw the myzt of our lady[L61] A bettere I xal zeue the." Gandeleyn bent his goode bowe, And set therin a flo, He schet throw his grene certyl, 65 His herte he clef on too. "Now zalt thu neuer zelpe, Wrennok, At ale ne at wyn, That thu hast slawe goode Robyn And his knaue Gandeleyn. 70 "Now xalt thu neuer zelpe, Wrennok, At wyn ne at ale, That thu hast slawe goode Robyn And Gandeleyyn his knave."[L74] _Robyn lyzth in grene wode bow[n]dyn._ 4, MS. gynge. 19, MS. went. 24, cut of, Ritson. 61, MS. thu. 74, MS. knawe. A LYTELL GESTE OF ROBYN HODE. Three complete editions of this highly popular poem are known, all without date. The earliest, (perhaps not later than 1520,) is by Wynken de Worde, and has this title: _Here beginneth a mery geste of Robyn Hode and his meyne, and of the proude sheryfe of Notyngham_. A second is by William Copland, and is apparently made from the former. A third was printed from Copland's, for Edward White, and though without date is entered in the Stationers' Registers in 1594. Portions have been preserved of two other editions, earlier than any of these three. Ritson had in his hands a few leaves of an "old 4to. black-letter impression," by Wynken de Worde, "probably in 1489." _The Gest of Robyn Hode_ was also printed at Edinburgh, in 1508, by Chepman and Myllar, who in the same year issued a considerable number of poetical tracts. A volume of these, containing a large fragment of the piece in question, was most fortunately recovered towards the end of the last century, and has been reprinted in fac simile by the Messrs. Laing, Edinburgh, 1827. The _Lytell Geste_ is obviously to be regarded as an heroic poem, constructed, partly or entirely, out of previously existing unconnected "rhymes of Robin Hood." The earlier ballads employed for this purpose have not been handed down to us in their primitive form. Whatever this may have been, they were probably very freely treated by the rhapsodist that strung them together, who has indeed retold the ancient stories with such skill as might well cause the ruder originals to be forgotten. Nevertheless, the third fit of our little epic is indisputably of common derivation with the last part of the older ballad of _Robin Hood and the Potter_, and other portions of this tale occur separately in ballads, which, though modern in their structure, may have had a source independent of the _Lytell Geste_. It will be observed that each fit of this piece does not constitute a complete story. Mr. Hunter has correctly enough indicated the division into ballads as follows: The first ballad is comprised in the first two fits, and may be called Robin Hood and the Knight; the second ballad is the third fit, and may be called Little John and the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire; in the fourth fit we have the ballad of Robin Hood and the Monks of St. Mary; in the fifth and sixth, Robin Hood, the Sheriff of Nottingham, and the Knight; the seventh and part of the eighth contain the ballad of Robin Hood and the King; and the remaining stanzas of the eighth the Death of Robin Hood. Concerning the imagined historical foundation of the _Lytell Geste_, see the general remarks on Robin Hood prefixed to this volume. Lithe and lysten, gentylmen, That be of frebore blode; I shall you tell of a good yemàn, His name was Robyn Hode. Robyn was a proude outlawe, 5 Whyles he walked on grounde; So curteyse an outlawe as he was one Was never none yfounde. Robyn stode in Bernysdale,[L9] And lened hym to a tre, 10 And by hym stode Lytell Johan, A good yeman was he; And also dyde good Scathelock, And Much the millers sone; There was no ynche of his body, 15 But it was worthe a grome. Than bespake hym Lytell Johan All unto Robyn Hode, "Mayster, yf ye wolde dyne betyme, It wolde do you moch good." 20 Then bespake good Robyn, "To dyne I have no lest,[L22] Tyll I have some bolde baròn, Or some unketh gest, "[Or els some byshop or abbot] 25 That may paye for the best; Or some knyght or some squyere That dwelleth here by west." A good maner than had Robyn, In londe where that he were, 30 Every daye or he woulde dyne Thre messes wolde he here: The one in the worshyp of the fader, The other of the holy goost, The thyrde was of our dere lady, 35 That he loved of all other moste. Robyn loved our dere lady; For doute of dedely synne, Wolde he never do company harme That ony woman was ynne. 40 "Mayster," than sayd Lytell Johan, "And we our borde shall sprede, Tell us whether we shall gone, And what lyfe we shall lede; "Where we shall take, where we shall leve, 45 Where we shall abide behynde, Where we shall robbe, where we shall reve, Where we shall bete and bynde." "Therof no fors," said Robyn, "We shall do well ynough; 50 But loke ye do no housbonde harme That tylleth with his plough; "No more ye shall no good yemàn, That walketh by grene wode shawe, Ne no knyght, ne no squyèr, 55 That wolde be a good felawe. "These byshoppes, and thyse archebysshoppes, Ye shall them bete and bynde; The hye sheryfe of Notynghame, Hym holde in your mynde." 60 "This worde shall be holde," sayd Lytyll Johan, "And this lesson shall we lere; It is ferre dayes, god sende us a gest, That we were at our dynere." "Take thy good bowe in thy hande," said Robyn, 65 "Let Moche wende with the, And so shall Wyllyam Scathelocke, And no man abyde with me: "And walke up to the Sayles,[L69] And so to Watlynge-strete,[L70] 70 And wayte after some unketh gest, Up-chaunce ye mowe them mete. "Be he erle or ony baròn, Abbot or ony knyght, Brynge hym to lodge to me, 75 Hys dyner shall be dyght." They wente unto the Sayles, These yemen all thre, They loked est, they loked west, They myght no man see. 80 But as they loked in Barnysdale, By a derne strete, Then came there a knyght rydynge, Full sone they gan hym mete. All dreri then was his semblaunte,[L85] 85 And lytell was hys pryde, Hys one fote in the sterope stode, That other waved besyde. Hys hode hangynge over hys eyen two, He rode in symple aray; 90 A soryer man than he was one Rode never in somers-day. Lytell Johan was curteyse, And set hym on his kne: "Welcome be ye, gentyll knyght, 95 Welcome are you to me. "Welcome be thou to grene wood, Hende knyght and fre; My mayster hath abyden you fastynge, Syr, all these oures thre." 100 "Who is your mayster?" sayd the knyght. Johan sayde, "Robyn Hode." "He is a good yeman," sayd the knyght, "Of hym I have herde moch good. "I graunte," he sayd, "with you to wende, 105 My brethren, all in-fere;[L106] My purpose was to have deyned to day At Blythe or Dankastere." Forthe than went this gentyll knyght,[L109] With a carefull chere; 110 The teres out of his eyen ran, And fell downe by his lere.[L112] They brought hym unto the lodge dore; When Robyn gan hym se, Full curteysly dyde of his hode, 115 And set hym on his kne. "Welcome, syr knyght," then said Robyn, "Welcome thou arte to me, I haue abyde you fastynge, syr, All these houres thre." 120 Then answered the gentyll knyght, With wordes fayre and fre, "God the save, good Robyn, And all thy fayre meynè." They washed togyder and wyped bothe, 125 And set tyll theyr dynere; Brede and wyne they had ynough, And nombles of the dere. Swannes and fesauntes they had full good, And foules of the revere; 130 There fayled never so lytell a byrde, That ever was bred on brere. "Do gladly, syr knyght," sayd Robyn; "Gramercy, syr," sayd he, "Such a dyner had I not 135 Of all these wekes thre. "If I come agayne, Robyn, Here by this countrè, As good a dyner I shall the make, As thou hast made to me." 140 "Gramercy, knyght," sayd Robyn; "My dyner whan I have, I was never so gredy, by dere worthy god, My dyner for to crave. "But pay or ye wende," sayd Robyn, 145 "Me thynketh it is good ryght; It was never the maner, by dere worthy god, A yeman to pay for a knyght."[L148] "I have nought in my cofers," sayd the knyght, "That I may profer for shame;" 150 "Lytell Johan, go loke," sayd Robyn,[L151] "Ne let not for no blame. "Tell me trouth," sayd Robyn, "So god have parte of the;" "I have no more but ten shillings," sayd the knyght, 155 "So god have parte of me." "Yf thou have no more," sayd Robyn, "I wyll not one peny; And yf thou have nede of ony more, More shall I len the. 160 "Go now forth, Lytell Johan, The trouthe tell thou me; Yf there be no more but ten shillings, Not one peny that I se." Lytell Johan spred downe his mantell, 165 Full fayre upon the grounde, And there he found in the knyghtes cofer But even halfe a pounde. Lytyll Johan let it lye full styll, And went to his mayster full lowe: 170 "What tydynge, Johan?" sayd Robyn: "Syr, the knyght is trewe inough." "Fyll of the best wyne," sayd Robyn, "The knyght shall begynne; Moch wonder thynketh me 175 Thy clothynge is so thynne. "Tell me one worde," sayd Robyn, "And counsell shall it be; I trowe thou were made a knyght of forse,[L179] Or elles of yemanry; 180 "Or elles thou hast ben a sory housband, And leved in stroke and stryfe; An okerer, or elles a lechoure," sayd Robyn, "With wronge hast thou lede thy lyfe." "I am none of them," sayd the knyght, 185 "By god that made me; An hondreth wynter here before, Myne aunsetters knyghtes have be. "But ofte it hath befal, Robyn, A man hath be dysgrate; 190 But god that syteth in heven above May amend his state. "Within two or thre yere, Robyn," he sayd,[L193] "My neyghbores well it kende,[L194] Foure hondreth pounde of good money 195 Full wel than myghte I spende. "Now have I no good," sayd the knyght, "But my chyldren and my wyfe; God hath shapen such an ende, Tyll god may amende my lyfe."[L200] 200 "In what maner," sayd Robyn, "Hast thou lore thy richès?" "For my grete foly," he sayd, "And for my kindenesse. "I had a sone, for soth, Robyn, 205 That sholde have ben my eyre, When he was twenty wynter olde, In felde wolde juste full feyre. "He slewe a knyght of Lancastshyre,[L209] And a squyre bolde; 210 For to save hym in his ryght, My goodes beth sette and solde. "My londes beth set to wedde, Robyn, Untyll a certayne daye, To a ryche abbot here besyde, 215 Of Saynt Mary abbay." "What is the somme?" sayd Robyn, "Trouthe than tell thou me;" "Syr," he sayd, "foure hondred pounde, The abbot tolde it to me." 220 "Now, and thou lese thy londe," sayd Robyn, "What shall fall of the?" "Hastely I wyll me buske," sayd the knyght, "Over the salte see, "And se where Cryst was quycke and deed 225 On the mounte of Caluarè: Fare well, frende, and have good daye, It may noo better be."[L228] Teeres fell out of his eyen two, He wolde haue gone his waye: 230 "Farewell, frendes, and have good day, I ne have more to pay." "Where be thy friendes?" sayd Robyn:[L233] "Syr, never one wyll me know;[L234] Whyle I was ryche inow at home, 235 Grete bost then wolde they blowe. "And now they renne awaye fro me, As bestes on a rowe; They take no more heed of me Then they me never sawe." 240 For ruthe then wepte Lytell Johan, Scathelocke and Much in fere:[L242] "Fyll of the best wyne," sayd Robyn,[L243] "For here is a symple chere. "Hast thou ony frendes," sayd Robyn, 245 "Thy borowes that wyll be?" "I have none," then sayd the knyght, "But god that dyed on a tree." "Do waye thy japes," sayd Robyn, "Therof will I right none; 250 Wenest thou I wyll have god to borowe, Peter, Poule, or Johan? "Nay, by hym that me made, And shope both sonne and mone; Fynde a better borowe," sayd Robyn, 255 "Or mony getest thou none." "I have none other," sayd the knyght, "The sothe for to say, But yf it be our dere lady, She fayled me never or this day." 260 "By dere worthy god," sayd Robyn, "To seche all England thorowe, Yet founde I never to my pay A moch better borowe. "Come now forthe, Lytell Johan, 265 And goo to my tresourè, And brynge me foure hondred pounde, And loke that it well tolde be." Forthe then wente Lytell Johan, And Scathelocke went before, 270 He tolde out foure houndred pounde, By eyghtene score.[L272] "Is this well tolde?" said lytell Much. Johan sayd, "What greveth the? It is almes to helpe a gentyll knyght 275 That is fall in povertè." "Mayster," than said Lytell Johan, "His clothynge is full thynne; Ye must gyve the knyght a lyveray To lappe his body ther in.[L280] 280 "For ye have scarlet and grene, mayster, And many a ryche aray; There is no marchaunt in mery Englònde, So ryche, I dare well saye." "Take hym thre yerdes of every coloure, 285 And loke that well mete it be:" Lytell Johan toke none other mesure But his bowe tre. And of every handfull that he met He lept ouer fotes thre: 290 "What devilkyns draper," sayd litell Much, "Thynkyst thou to be?" Scathelocke stoode full styll and lough, And sayd, "By god allmyght, Johan may gyve hym the better mesure; 295 By god, it cost him but lyght." "Mayster," sayd Lytell Johan, All unto Robyn Hode, "Ye must gyve that knight an hors, To lede home al this good." 300 "Take hym a gray courser," sayd Robyn, "And a sadell newe; He is our ladyes messengere, God lene that he be true."[L304] "And a good palfraye," sayd lytell Moch, 305 "To mayntayne hym in his ryght:" "And a payre of botes," sayd Scathelocke, "For he is a gentyll knyght." "What shalt thou gyve him, Lytel Johan?" sayd Robyn. "Syr, a payre of gylte spores clene, 310 To pray for all this company: God brynge hym out of tene!" "Whan shall my daye be," sayd the knyght, "Syr, and your wyll be?" "This daye twelve moneth," sayd Robyn, 315 "Under this grene wode tre." "It were grete shame," sayd Robyn, "A knyght alone to ryde, Without squyer, yeman, or page, To walke by hys syde. 320 "I shall the lene Lytyll Johan my man, For he shall be thy knave; In a yemans steed he may the stonde, Yf thou grete nede have." 9 Barnsdale is a tract of country, four or five miles broad, in the West Riding of Yorkshire. It was, we are told, woodland until recent inclosures, and is spoken of by Leland as a "woody and famous forest" in the reign of Henry the Eighth. From the depths of this retreat to Doncaster the distance is less than ten miles, and to Nottingham, in a straight line, about fifty. A little to the north of Barnsdale is Pontefract, and a little to the northwest is Wakefield, and beyond this the Priory of Kirklees. Mr. Hunter, whom we follow here, has shown by contemporary evidence that Barnsdale was infested by robbers in the days of the Edwards. "In the last year of the reign of King Edward the First, the bishops of St. Andrew's and Glasgow, and the Abbot of Scone were conveyed, at the King's charge, from Scotland to Winchester. In this journey they had a guard, sometimes of eight archers, sometimes of twelve; but when they had got as far south as Daventry, they had no archers at all in attendance, and proceeded without a guard, in three days from thence to Winchester. But when they passed from Pontefract to Tickhill, the guard had been increased to the number of twenty archers, and the reason given in the account of the expenses of their journey, for this addition to the cost of the conveyance, is given in the two words, _propter Barnsdale_." 22. lust, Ritson. 69, 70. "The Sayles," is a place no longer known, but it is certain that there was formerly a place of the name in Barnsdale or near it. "It was a very small tenancy of the manor of Pontefract, being not more than the tenth of a knight's fee" (Hunter). Watling Street stands here for the great North Road, probably a Roman highway, which crosses Barnsdale. 85. all his. PCC. 106, so R. (ed. 1489): all three, W. C. (de Worde & Copland). 109, this, R. that, W. C. 112, ere, R. 148, to pay, R. pay, W. C. 151, Robyn, R. Robyn Hoode, W. C. 179. "This stanza is remarkable for containing a reference to one of the old grievances of the people of England. In the reign of Henry the Third, and his son, and grandson, the compelling persons, some of them of no great estate, to take upon them the honour of knighthood, or pay a large sum to be excused, was felt as a heavy oppression."--HUNTER. 193, two yere, R. 194, knowe, OCC. 200, it may amende, OCC. 209, lancasesshyre, R. 228, not W. C. 233, by W. C. 234. So R. knowe me, W. C. The fragment of de Worde's older ed. ends with v. 239. 242, also, PCC. for 'in fere.' 243. Wyme, PCC. 272. I.e. by so many score to the hundred. It is certainly a very hyperbolical expression, but he measures the cloth in the same way.--RITSON. 280, helpe, W. wrappe, C. 304. leue, W. lende, C THE SECONDE FYTTE. Nowe is the knyght went on his way,[L1] This game hym thought full good;[L2] When he loked on Bernysdale, He blyssed Robyn Hode; And whan he thought on Bernysdale, 5 On Scathelock, Much, and Johan, He blyssed them for the best company That ever he in come. Then spake that gentyll knyght, To Lytel Johan gan he saye, 10 "To-morrowe I must to Yorke toune, To Saynt Mary abbay; "And to the abbot of that place Foure hondred pounde I must pay; And but I be there upon this nyght 15 My londe is lost for ay." The abbot sayd to his covent, There he stode on grounde, "This day twelfe moneth came there a knyght And borowed foure hondred pounde. 20 "[He borowed foure hondred pounde,] Upon all his londe fre, But he come this ylke day Dysheryte shall he be." "It is full erely," sayd the pryoure,[L25] 25 "The day is not yet ferre gone; I had lever to pay an hondred pounde, And lay it downe anone. "The knight is ferre beyonde the see, In Englonde is his ryght, 30 And suffreth honger and colde, And many a sory nyght. "It were grete pytè," said the pryoure, "So to have his londe; And ye be so lyght of your conseyence, 35 Ye do to him moch wronge." "Thou art euer in my berde," sayd the abbot, "By god and saynt Rycharde;" With that cam in a fat-heded monke, The heygh selerer. 40 "He is dede or hanged," sayd the monke, "By god that bought me dere, And we shall have to spende in this place Foure hondred pounde by yere." The abbot and the hy selerer, 45 Sterte forthe full bolde, The high justyce of Englonde The abbot there dyde holde. The hye justyce and many mo Had take into their honde 50 Holy all the knyghtes det, To put that knyght to wronge. They demed the knyght wonder sore, The abbot and hys meynè: "But he come this ylke day 55 Dysheryte shall he be." "He wyll not come yet," sayd the justyce, "I dare well undertake;" But in sorowe tyme for them all The knyght came to the gate. 60 Than bespake that gentyll knyght Untyll hys meynè, "Now put on your symple wedes That ye brought fro the see." [They put on their symple wedes,] 65 And came to the gates anone; The porter was redy hymselfe, And welcomed them everychone. "Welcome, syr knyght," sayd the portèr, "My lorde to mete is he, 70 And so is many a gentyll man, For the love of the." The porter swore a full grete othe, "By god that made me, Here be the best coresed hors, 75 That ever yet sawe I me. "Lede them into the stable," he sayd, "That eased might they be:" "They shall not come therin," sayd the knyght, "By god that dyed on a tre." 80 Lordes were to mete isette In that abbotes hall; The knyght went forth and kneled downe, And salued them grete and small. "Do gladly, syr abbot," sayd the knyght, 85 "I am come to holde my day:" The fyrst word the abbot spake, "Hast thou brought my pay?" "Not one peny," sayd the knyght, "By god that maked me;" 90 "Thou art a shrewed dettour," sayd the abbot; "Syr justyce, drynke to me. "What doost thou here," sayd the abbot, "But thou haddest brought thy pay?" "For god," than sayd the knyght, 95 "To pray of a lenger daye." "Thy daye is broke," sayd the justyce, "Londe getest thou none:" "Now, good syr justyce, be my frende, And fende me of my fone." 100 "I am holde with the abbot," sayd the justyce,[L101] "Bothe with cloth and fee:" "Now, good syr sheryf, be my frende:" "Nay for god," sayd he. "Now, good syr abbot, be my frende, 105 For thy curteysè, And holde my londes in thy honde Tyll I have made the gree; "And I wyll be thy true servaunte, And trewely serve the, 110 Tyl ye have foure hondred pounde Of money good and free." The abbot sware a full grete othe, "By god that dyed on a tree, Get the londe where thou may, 115 For thou getest none of me." "By dere worthy god," then sayd the knyght, "That all this worlde wrought, But I have my londe agayne Full dere it shall be bought. 120 "God, that was of a mayden borne, Lene us well to spede![L122] For it is good to assay a frende Or that a man have nede." The abbot lothely on him gan loke, 125 And vylaynesly hym gan call;[L126] "Out," he sayd, "thou false knyght, Spede the out of my hall!" "Thou lyest," then sayd the gentyll knyght, "Abbot in thy hal; 130 False knyght was I never, By god that made us all." Up then stode that gentyll knyght, To the abbot sayd he, "To suffre a knyght to knele so longe 135 Thou canst no curteysye. "In joustes and in tournement Full ferre than have I be, And put myselfe as ferre in prees As ony that ever I se." 140 "What wyll ye gyve more," said the justyce, "And the knyght shall make a releyse? And elles dare I safly swere Ye holde never your londe in pees." "An hondred pounde," sayd the abbot; 145 The justyce said, "Gyve him two;" "Nay, be god," said the knyght, "Yet gete ye it not soo.[L148] "Though ye wolde gyve a thousande more, Yet were ye never the nere;[L150] 150 Shall there never be myn eyre, Abbot, justyse, ne frere." He sterte hym to a borde anone, Tyll a table rounde, And there he shoke out of a bagge 155 Even foure hondred pounde. "Have here thy golde, syr abbot," sayd the knyght, "Which that thou lentest me; Haddest thou ben curteys at my comynge, Rewarde sholdest thou have be." 160 The abbot sat styll, and ete no more, For all his ryall chere; He caste his hede on his sholdèr, And fast began to stare. "Take me my golde agayne," sayd the abbot, 165 "Syr justyce, that I toke the;" "Not a peny," sayd the justyce, "By god, that dyed on a tree." "Syr abbot, and ye men of lawe, Now have I holde my daye, 170 Now shall I have my londe agayne, For ought that you can saye." The knyght stert out of the dore, Awaye was all his care, And on he put his good clothynge, 175 The other he lefte there. He wente hym forthe full mery syngynge, As men have tolde in tale, His lady met hym at the gate, At home in Uterysdale.[L180] 180 "Welcome, my lorde," sayd his lady; "Syr, lost is all your good?" "Be mery, dame," sayd the knyght, "And praye for Robyn Hode, "That ever his soule be in blysse; 185 He holpe me out of my tene; Ne had not be his kyndenesse, Beggers had we ben. "The abbot and I acordyd ben, He is served of his pay, 190 The good yeman lent it me, As I came by the way." This knyght than dwelled fayre at home, The soth for to say, Tyll he had got foure hondreth pounde, 195 All redy for too paye. He purveyed hym an hondred bowes, The strenges welle [y-]dyght, An hondred shefe of arowes good, The hedes burnyshed full bryght. 200 And every arowe an elle longe, With pecocke well ydyght, Inocked all with whyte sylvèr, It was a semly syght. He purveyed hym an hondreth men, 205 Well harneysed in that stede, And hymselfe in that same sete,[L207] And clothed in whyte and rede. He bare a launsgay in his honde, And a man ledde his male, 210 And reden with a lyght songe Unto Bernysdale. As he went at brydge ther was a wrastelyng, And there taryed was he, And there was all the best yemèn, 215 Of all the west countree. A full fayre game there was upset; A whyte bull up ipyght,[L218] A grete courser with sadle and brydil, With golde burneyshed full bryght; 220 A payre of gloves, a rede golde rynge, A pype of wyne, in good fay; What man bereth him best, i-wys, The pryce shall bere away. There was a yeman in that place, 225 And best worthy was he, And for he was ferre and frend bestad, Islayne he sholde have be. The knyght had reuth of this yemàn, In place where that he stode, 230 He said that yoman sholde have no harme, For love of Robyn Hode. The knyght presed into the place, An hondred folowed hym fre,[L234] With bowes bent, and arowes sharpe, 235 For to shende that company. They sholdred all, and made hym rome, To wete what he wolde say; He toke the yeman by the honde, And gave hym all the playe. 240 He gave hym fyve marke for his wyne, There it laye on the molde, And bad it sholde be sette a broche, Drynke who so wolde. Thus longe taryed this gentyll knyght, 245 Tyll that playe was done, So longe abode Robyn fastynge, Thre houres after the none. 1, Ritson, this way. 2, hym, _sic_ Ch. & M. 25. The prior, in an abbey, was the officer immediately under the abbot; in priories and conventual cathedrals he was the superior.--RITSON. 101, 2. I.e., the Chief Justice had been retained for the abbot by robe and fee. A writer in _Notes and Queries_, (vol. vi. p. 479,) quotes statutes of Edward I. and Edward III. against maintenance, in which the abuse of robes and fees is mentioned, and cites the following clause from the oath required to be taken by justices: "And that ye will take no _fee_ so long as ye shall be justices, nor _robes_, of any man great or small, except of the king himself." 122, leue, W. Lende us, C. 126, loke (for call), W. C. 148, grete, W. get, C. 150, thou. PCC. 180. This is a place unknown. There is a forest in Lancashire, observes Ritson, of the name of Wierysdale, but it appears subsequently that the knight's castle was in Nottinghamshire. 207, sute, C. 218, I up pyght, W. up ypyght, C. 234, fere, W. in fere, C. THE THYRDE FYTTE. Lyth and lysten, gentyll men, All that now be here, Of Lytell Johan, that was the knyghtes man, Good myrthe ye shall here. It was upon a mery day, 5 That yonge men wolde go shete,[L6] Lytell Johan fet his bowe anone, And sayd he wolde them mete. Thre tymes Lytell Johan shot about, And always cleft the wande;[L10] 10 The proude sheryf of Notyngham By the markes gan stande. The sheryf swore a full grete othe, By hym that dyed on a tre, This man is the best archere 15 That yet sawe I me. "Say me now, wyght yonge man, What is now thy name? In what countre were thou born,[L19] And where is thy wonnynge wane?"[L20] 20 "In Holdernesse I was bore, I-wys all of my dame; Men call me Reynolde Grenelefe, Whan I am at hame." "Say me, Reynaud Grenelefe, 25 Wolte thou dwell with me? And every yere I wyll the gyve Twenty marke to thy fee." "I have a mayster," sayd Lytell Johan, "A curteys knight is he; 30 May ye gete leve of hym, The better may it bee." The sheryfe gate Lytell Johan Twelve monethes of the knyght; Therfore he gave him ryght anone 35 A good hors and a wyght. Now is Lytel Johan the sheryffes man, God gyve us well to spede, But alway thought Lytell Johan To quyte hym well his mede. 40 "Now so god me helpe," sayd Lytel Johan,[L41] "And be my trewe lewtè, I shall be the worste servaunte to hym That ever yet had he." It befell upon a Wednesday, 45 The sheryfe on hontynge was gone, And Lytel Johan lay in his bed, And was foryete at home. Therfore he was fastynge Tyl it was past the none; 50 "Good syr stuard, I pray the, Geve me to dyne," sayd Lytel Johan. "It is to long for Grenelefe, Fastynge so long to be; Therfore I pray the, stuarde, 55 My dyner gyve thou me." "Shalt thou never ete ne drynke," said the stuarde, "Tyll my lord be come to towne;" "I make myn avowe to god," sayd Lytell Johan, "I had lever to cracke thy crowne." 60 The butler was full uncurteys, There he stode on flore; He sterte to the buttery, And shet fast the dore. Lytell Johan gave the buteler such a rap, 65 His backe yede nygh on two; Tho he lyved an hundreth wynter, The wors he sholde go. He sporned the dore with his fote, It went up wel and fyne,[L70] 70 And there he made a large lyveray Both of ale and wyne. "Syth ye wyl not dyne," sayd Lytel Johan, "I shall gyve you to drynke, And though ye lyve an hondred wynter, 75 On Lytell Johan ye shall thynk." Lytell Johan ete, and Lytell [Johan] dronke, The whyle that he wolde; The sheryfe had in hys kechyn a coke, A stoute man and a bolde. 80 "I make myn avowe to god," sayd the coke, "Thou arte a shrewde hynde, In an householde to dwel, For to ask thus to dyne." And there he lent Lytel Johan 85 Good strokes thre; "I make myn avowe," said Lytell Johan, "These strokes lyketh well me. "Thou arte a bolde man and an hardy And so thynketh me; 90 And or I passe fro this place, Asayed better shalt thou be." Lytell Johan drewe a good swerde, The coke toke another in honde; They thought nothynge for to fle, 95 But styfly for to stonde. There they fought sore togyder, Two myle way and more; Myght neyther other harme done, The mountenaunce of an houre. 100 "I make myn avowe to god," sayd Lytell Johan, "And be my trewe lewtè, Thou art one of the best swerdemen, That ever yet sawe I me. "Coowdest thou shote as well in a bowe, 105 To grene wood thou sholdest with me, And two tymes in the yere thy clothynge Ichaunged sholde be; "And every yere of Robyn Hode Twenty marke to thy fee:" 110 "Put up thy swerde," sayd the coke, "And felowes wyll we be." Then he fette to Lytell Johan The numbles of a doo, Good brede and full good wyne; 115 They ete and dranke therto. And whan they had dronken well, Ther trouthes togyder they plyght, That they wolde be with Robyn That ylke same day at nyght. 120 They dyde them to the tresure-hous,[L121] As fast as they myght gone; The lockes, that were of good stele, They brake them everychone. They toke away the sylver vessell, 125 And all that they myght get, Peces, masars, and spones Wolde they non forgete. Also they toke the good pence, Thre hondred pounde and three, 130 And dyde them strayt to Robyn Hode, Under the grene wode tre. "God the save, my dere maystèr, And Cryst the save and se;" And than sayd Robyn to Lytell Johan, 135 "Welcome myght thou be; "And also be that fayre yemàn Thou bryngest there with the. What tydynges fro Notyngham? Lytell Johan, tell thou me." 140 "Well the greteth the proude sheryfe, And sende the here by me His coke and his sylver vessell, And thre hondred pounde and thre." "I make myn avow to god," sayd Robyn, 145 "And to the trenytè, It was never by his good wyll This good is come to me." Lytell Johan hym there bethought On a shrewed wyle;[L150] 150 Fyve myle in the forest he ran, Hym happed at his wyll. Than he met the proud sheryf, Huntynge with hounde and horne; Lytell Johan coud his curteysye, 155 And kneled hym beforne. "God the save, my dere maystèr, And Cryst the save and se;" "Raynolde Grenelefe," sayd the sheryfe, "Where hast thou nowe be?" 160 "I have be in this forest, A fayre syght can I se; It was one of the fayrest syghtes[L163] That ever yet sawe I me. "Yonder I se a ryght fayre hart, 165 His coloure is of grene; Seven score of dere upon an herde Be with hym all bedene. "His tynde are so sharp, maystèr, Of sexty and well mo, 170 That I durst not shote for drede Lest they wolde me sloo." "I make myn avowe to god," sayd the sheryf, "That syght wolde I fayn se;" "Buske you thyderwarde, my dere maystèr, 175 Anone, and wende with me." The sheryfe rode, and Lytell Johan Of fote he was full smarte; And when they came afore Robyn, "Lo, here is the mayster harte!" 180 Styll stode the proud sheryf, A sory man was he: "Wo worthe the, Raynolde Grenelefe![L183] Thou hast now betrayed me." "I make myn avowe to god," sayd Lytell Johan, 185 "Mayster, ye be to blame, I was mysserved of my dynere, When I was with you at hame." Soone he was to super sette, And served with sylver whyte; 190 And whan the sheryf se his vessell, For sorowe he myght not ete. "Make good chere," sayd Robyn Hode, "Sheryfe, for charytè, And for the love of Lytell Johan, 195 Thy lyfe is graunted to the." When they had supped well, The day was all agone, Robyn commaunded Lytell Johan To drawe of his hosen and his shone, 200 His kyrtell and his cote-a-pye, That was furred well fyne, And take him a grene mantèll, To lappe his body therin. Robyn commaunded his wyght young men, 205 Under the grene wood tre, They shall lay in that same sorte, That the sheryf myght them se. All nyght laye that proud sheryf In his breche and in his sherte; 210 No wonder--it was in grene wode,-- Tho his sydes do smerte. "Make glad chere," sayd Robyn Hode, "Sheryfe, for charytè, For this is our order i-wys, 215 Under the grene wood tre." "This is harder order," sayd the sheryfe, "Than ony anker or frere; For al the golde in mery Englonde, I wolde not longe dwell here." 220 "All these twelve monethes," sayd Robyn, "Thou shalte dwell with me; I shall the teche, proud sheryfe, An outlawe for to be." "Or I here another nyght lye," sayd the sheryfe, 225 "Robyn, nowe I pray the, Smyte of my hede rather to-morne, And I forgyve it the. "Lete me go," then sayd the sheryf, "For saynt Charytè, 230 And I wyll be the best frende That ever yet had ye."[L232] "Thou shalte swere me an othe," sayd Robyn, "On my bryght bronde, Thou shalt never awayte me scathe, 235 By water ne by londe; "And if thou fynde ony of my men, By nyght or by day, Upon thyne othe thou shalt swere To helpe them that thou may." 240 Now hathe the sheryf iswore his othe,[L241] And home he began to gone; He was as full of grene wode As ever was hepe of stone. 6, shote, W. 10, he sleste, W. 19, thou wast, C. wast thou, Wh. 20, wane, Ch. & M. wan, R. 41. He, Ritson. Ge. W. f. God. 70, Ch. & M. open. 121, hyed, C. 150, whyle, W. 163, syght, W. sightes, C. 183, wo the worth, W. 232, ye, Ch. & M. the, R. 241, have, R. hathe, Ch. & M. THE FOURTH FYTTE. The sheryf dwelled in Notynghame, He was fayne that he was gone, And Robyn and his mery men Went to wode anone. "Go we to dyner," sayd Lytell Johan; 5 Robyn Hode sayd, "Nay; For I drede our lady be wroth with me, For she sent me not my pay." "Have no dout, mayster," sayd Lytell Johan, "Yet is not the sonne at rest; 10 For I dare saye, and saufly swere, The knyght is trewe and trust." "Take thy bowe in thy hande," sayd Robyn, "Let Moche wende with the, And so shall Wyllyam Scathelock, 15 And no man abyde with me. "And walk up into the Sayles, And to Watlynge-strete, And wayte after some unketh gest;[L19] Up-chaunce ye may them mete. 20 "Whether he be messengere, Or a man that myrthes can, Or yf he be a pore man, Of my good he shall have some." Forth then stert Lytel Johan, 25 Half in tray and tene, And gyrde hym with a full good swerde, Under a mantel of grene. They went up to the Sayles, These yemen all thre; 30 They loked est, they loked west, They myght no man se. But as he loked in Bernysdale, By the hye waye, Than were they ware of two blacke monkes, 35 Eche on a good palferay. Then bespake Lytell Johan, To Much he gan say, "I dare lay my lyfe to wedde, That these monkes have brought our pay. 40 "Make glad chere," sayd Lytell Johan, "And frese our bowes of ewe, And loke your hertes be seker and sad, Your strynges trusty and trewe. "The monke hath fifty two men, 45 And seven somers full stronge; There rydeth no bysshop in this londe So ryally, I understond. "Brethern," sayd Lytell Johan, "Here are no more but we thre; 50 But we brynge them to dyner, Our mayster dare we not se. "Bende your bowes," sayd Lytell Johan, "Make all yon prese to stonde;[L54] The formost monke, his lyfe and his deth 55 Is closed in my honde. "Abyde, chorle monke," sayd Lytell Johan, "No ferther that thou gone; Yf thou doost, by dere worthy god, Thy deth is in my honde. 60 "And evyll thryfte on thy hede," sayd Lytell Johan, "Ryght under thy hattes bonde, For thou hast made our mayster wroth, He is fastynge so longe." "Who is your mayster?" sayd the monke; 65 Lytell Johan sayd "Robyn Hode;" "He is a stronge thefe," sayd the monke, "Of hym herd I never good." "Thou lyest," than sayd Lytell Johan, "And that shall rewe the; 70 He is a yeman of the forèst, To dyne he hath bode the." Much was redy with a bolte, Redly and anone, He set the monke to fore the brest, 75 To the grounde that he can gone. Of fyfty two wyght yonge men[L77] There abode not one, Saf a lytell page, and a grome, To lede the somers with Johan.[L80] 80 They brought the monke to the lodge dore, Whether he were loth or lefe, For to speke with Robyn Hode, Maugre in theyr tethe. Robyn dyde adowne his hode, 85 The monke whan that he se; The monke was not so curteyse, His hode then let he be. "He is a chorle, mayster, by dere worthy god," Than said Lytell Johan: 90 "Thereof no force," sayd Robyn, "For curteysy can he none. "How many men," sayd Robyn, "Had this monke, Johan?" "Fifty and two whan that we met, 95 But many of them be gone." "Let blowe a horne," sayd Robyn, "That felaushyp may us knowe;" Seven score of wyght yemen, Came pryckynge on a rowe. 100 And everych of them a good mantell Of scarlet and of raye; All they came to good Robyn, To wyte what he wolde say. They made the monke to washe and wype, 105 And syt at his denere, Robyn Hode and Lytel Johan They served him bothe in fere.[L108] "Do gladly, monke," sayd Robyn. "Gramercy, syr," said he. 110 "Where is your abbay, whan ye are at home, And who is your avowè?" "Saynt Mary abbay," sayd the monke, "Though I be symple here." "In what offyce?" sayd Robyn: 115 "Syr, the hye selerer." "Ye be the more welcome," sayd Robyn, "So ever mote I the: Fyll of the best wyne," sayd Robyn, "This monke shall drynke to me. 120 "But I have grete mervayle," sayd Robyn, "Of all this longe day; I drede our lady be wroth with me, She sent me not my pay." "Have no doute, mayster," sayd Lytell Johan, 125 "Ye have no nede I saye; This monke it hath brought, I dare well swere, For he is of her abbay." "And she was a borowe," sayd Robyn, "Betwene a knyght and me, 130 Of a lytell money that I hym lent, Under the grene wode tree. "And yf thou hast that sylver ibroughte, I pray the let me se; And I shall helpe the eftsones, 135 Yf thou have nede of me."[L136] The monke swore a full grete othe, With a sory chere, "Of the borowehode thou spekest to me, Herde I never ere." 140 "I make myn avowe to god," sayd Robyn, "Monke, thou art to blame; For god is holde a ryghtwys man, And so is his dame. "Thou toldest with thyn owne tonge, 145 Thou may not say nay, How thou arte her servaunt, And servest her every day. "And thou art made her messengere,[L149] My money for to pay; 150 Therefore I can the more thanke, Thou arte come at thy day. "What is in your cofers?" sayd Robyn, "Trewe than tell thou me:" "Syr," he sayd, "twenty marke, 155 Al so mote I the." "Yf there be no more," sayd Robyn, "I wyll not one peny; Yf thou hast myster of ony more, Syr, more I shall lende to the; 160 "And yf I fynde more," sayd Robyn, "I-wys thou shalte it forgone; For of thy spendynge sylver, monk, Thereof wyll I ryght none. "Go nowe forthe, Lytell Johan, 165 And the trouth tell thou me; If there be no more but twenty marke, No peny that I se." Lytell Johan spred his mantell downe, As he had done before, 170 And he tolde out of the monkes male Eyght hundreth pounde and more.[L172] Lytell Johan let it lye full styll, And went to his mayster in hast; "Syr," he sayd, "the monke is trewe ynowe, 175 Our lady hath doubled your cost." "I make myn avowe to god," sayd Robyn, "Monke, what tolde I the? Our lady is the trewest womàn That ever yet founde I me. 180 "By dere worthy god," said Robyn, "To seche all England thorowe, Yet founde I never to my pay A moche better borowe. "Fyll of the best wyne, do hym drynke," said Robyn, 185 "And grete well thy lady hende, And yf she have nede of Robyn Hode,[L187] A frende she shall hym fynde. "And yf she nedeth ony more sylvèr, Come thou agayne to me, 190 And, by this token she hath me sent, She shall have such thre." The monke was going to London ward, There to holde grete mote, The knyght that rode so hye on hors, 195 To brynge hym under fote. "Whether be ye away?" sayd Robyn. "Syr, to maners in this londe, Too reken with our reves, That have done moch wronge." 200 "Come now forth, Lytell Johan, And harken to my tale; A better yemen I knowe none, To seke a monkes male." "How much is in yonder other cofer?" said Robyn,[L205] 205 "The soth must we see:" "By our lady," than sayd the monke, "That were no curteysye, "To bydde a man to dyner, And syth hym bete and bynde." 210 "It is our olde maner," sayd Robyn, "To leve but lytell behynde." The monke toke the hors with spore, No lenger wolde he abyde: "Aske to drynke," than sayd Robyn, 215 "Or that ye forther ryde." "Nay, for god," than sayd the monke, "Me reweth I cam so nere; For better chepe I myght have dyned In Blythe or in Dankestere." 220 "Grete well your abbot," sayd Robyn, "And your pryour, I you pray, And byd hym send me such a monke To dyner every day." Now lete we that monke be styll, 225 And speke we of that knyght: Yet he came to holde his day, Whyle that it was lyght. He dyde him streyt to Bernysdale, Under the grene wode tre, 230 And he founde there Robyn Hode, And all his mery meynè. The knyght lyght downe of his good palfrày; Robyn whan he gan see, So curteysly he dyde adoune his hode, 235 And set hym on his knee. "God the save, good Robyn Hode, And al this company:" "Welcome be thou, gentyll knyght, And ryght welcome to me." 240 Than bespake hym Robyn Hode, To that knyght so fre, "What nede dryveth the to grene wode? I pray the, syr knyght, tell me. "And welcome be thou, gentyl knyght, 245 Why hast thou be so longe?" "For the abbot and the hye justyce Wolde have had my londe." "Hast thou thy londe agayne?" sayd Robyn;[L249] "Treuth than tell thou me." 250 "Ye, for god," sayd the knyght, "And that thanke I god and the. "But take not a grefe, I have be so longe;[L253] I came by a wrastelynge, And there I dyd holpe a pore yemàn, 255 With wronge was put behynde." "Nay, for god," sayd Robyn, "Syr knyght, that thanke I the; What man that helpeth a good yemàn, His frende than wyll I be." 260 "Have here foure hondred pounde," than sayd the knyght, "The whiche ye lent to me; And here is also twenty marke For your curteysy." "Nay, for god," than sayd Robyn, 265 "Thou broke it well for ay; For our lady, by her selerer, Hath sent to me my pay. "And yf I toke it twyse,[L269] A shame it were to me: 270 But trewely, gentyll knyght, Welcom arte thou to me." Whan Robyn had tolde his tale, He leugh and had good chere: "By my trouthe," then sayd the knyght. 275 "Your money is redy here." "Broke it well," sayd Robyn, "Thou gentyll knyght so fre; And welcome be thou, gentill knyght, Under my trystell tree.[L280] 280 "But what shall these bowes do?" sayd Robyn, "And these arowes ifedered fre?" "By god," than sayd the knyght, "A pore present to the." "Come now forth, Lytell Johan, 285 And go to my treasurè, And brynge me there foure hondred pounde, The monke over-tolde it me. "Have here foure hondred pounde, Thou gentyll knyght and trewe, 290 And bye hors and harnes good, And gylte thy spores all newe. "And yf thou fayle ony spendynge, Com to Robyn Hode, And by my trouth thou shalt none fayle, 295 The whyles I have any good. "And broke well thy four hundred pound, Whiche I lent to the, And make thy selfe no more so bare, By the counsell of me." 300 Thus than holpe hym good Robyn, The knyght all of his care:[L302] God, that sytteth in heven hye,[L303] Graunte us well to fare. 19, such, W. 54, you, W. Make you yonder preste, C. 77, yemen, C. 80, Lytell Johan. O. CC. 108, them bothe, O. CC. 136, to, W. 149, nade, W. not in C. 172. Eyght pounde, W. 187, to, W. 205, corser, W. courser, C. 249, gayne, W. 253. But take not a grefe, sayd the knyght, That I have be so longe. O. CC. 269. I twyse, W. 280, thi trusty, C. THE FYFTH FYTTE. Now hath the knyght his leve itake, And wente hym on his way; Robyn Hode and his mery men Dwelled styll full many a day. Lyth and lysten, gentilmen, 5 And herken what I shall say, How the proud sheryfe of Notyngham Dyde crye a full fayre play; That all the best archers of the north Sholde come upon a daye, 10 And he that shoteth altherbest[L11] The game shall bere away. He that shoteth altherbest[L13] Furthest fayre and lowe, At a payre of fynly buttes, 15 Under the grene wode shawe, A ryght good arowe he shall have, The shaft of sylver whyte, The heade and the feders of ryche rede golde, In Englond is none lyke. 20 This then herde good Robyn, Under his trystell tre: "Make you redy, ye wyght yonge men; That shotynge wyll I se. "Buske you, my mery yonge men, 25 Ye shall go with me; And I wyll wete the shryves fayth, Trewe and yf he be." Whan they had theyr bowes ibent, Theyr takles fedred fre, 30 Seven score of wyght yonge men Stode by Robyns kne. "Whan they cam to Notyngham, The buttes were fayre and longe; Many was the bolde archere 35 That shoted with bowes stronge. "There shall but syx shote with me; The other shal kepe my hede. And stande with good bowes bent, That I be not desceyved." 40 The fourth outlawe his bowe gan bende, And that was Robyn Hode, And that behelde the proude sheryfe, All by the but he stode. Thryes Robyn shot about, 45 And alway he slist the wand,[L46] And so dyde good Gylberte With the whyte hande. Lytell Johan and good Scatheloke Were archers good and fre; 50 Lytell Much and good Reynolde, The worste wolde they not be. Whan they had shot aboute, These archours fayre and good, Evermore was the best, 55 Forsoth, Robyn Hode. Hym was delyvered the goode aròw, For best worthy was he; He toke the yeft so curteysly, To grene wode wolde he. 60 They cryed out on Robyn Hode, And great hornes gan they blowe: "Wo worth the, treason!" sayd Robyn, "Full evyl thou art to knowe. "And wo be thou, thou proud sheryf, 65 Thus gladdynge thy gest; Other wyse thou behote me In yonder wylde forest. "But had I the in grene wode, Under my trystell tre, 70 Thou sholdest leve me a better wedde Than thy trewe lewtè." Full many a bowe there was bent, And arowes let they glyde, Many a kyrtell there was rent, 75 And hurt many a syde. The outlaws shot was so stronge, That no man myght them dryve, And the proud sheryfes men They fled away full blyve.[L80] 80 Robyn sawe the busshement to-broke, In grene wode he wolde have be; Many an arowe there was shot Amonge that company. Lytell Johan was hurte full sore, 85 With an arowe in his kne, That he myght neyther go nor ryde; It was full grete pytè. "Mayster," then sayd Lytell Johan, "If ever thou lovest me, 90 And for that ylke lordes love, That dyed upon a tre, "And for the medes of my servyce, That I have served the, Lete never the proude sheryf 95 Alyve now fynde me. "But take out thy browne swerde, And smyte all of my hede, And gyve me woundes dede and wyde, No lyfe on me be lefte."[L100] 100 "I wolde not that," sayd Robyn, "Johan, that thou were slawe, For all the golde in mery Englond, Though it lay now on a rawe." "God forbede," sayd lytell Much, 105 "That dyed on a tre, That thou sholdest, Lytell Johan, Parte our company." Up he toke him on his backe, And bare hym well a myle; 110 Many a tyme he layd hym downe, And shot another whyle. Then was there a fayre castèll, A lytell within the wode, Double-dyched it was about, 115 And walled, by the rode. And there dwelled that gentyll knyght, Syr Richard at the Lee, That Robyn had lent his good, Under the grene wode tree. 120 In he toke good Robyn, And all his company; "Welcome be thou, Robyn Hode, Welcome arte thou me; "And moche [I] thanke the of thy comfort, 125 And of thy curteysye, And of thy grete kyndenesse, Under the grene wode tre. "I love no man in all this worlde So much as I do the; 130 For all the proud sheryf of Notyngham, Ryght here shalt thou be. "Shyt the gates, and drawe the bridge, And let no man com in; And arme you well, and make you redy, 135 And to the walle ye wynne. "For one thyng, Robyn, I the behote, I swere by saynt Quyntyn, These twelve dayes thou wonest with me, To suppe, ete, and dyne." 140 Bordes were layed, and clothes spred, Reddely and anone; Robyn Hode and his mery men To mete gan they gone. 302, this care, W. 303, syt, W. 11. And that shoteth al ther best, W. And they that shote al of the best, C. 13, al theyre, W. al of the, C. 46, they slist, W. he clefte, C. 80, belyve, C. 100. That I after eate no bread, C. THE SYXTE FYTTE. Lythe and lysten, gentylmen, And herken unto your songe, How the proude sheryfe of Notyngham, And men of armes stronge, Full faste came to the hye sheryfe, 5 The countre up to rout, And they beset the knyghts castèll, The walles all about. The proude sheryfe loude gan crye, And sayd, "Thou traytour knyght, 10 Thou kepeste here the kynges enemye, Agayne the lawes and ryght." "Syr, I wyll avowe that I have done, The dedes that here be dyght,[L14] Upon all the londes that I have, 15 As I am a trewe knyght. "Wende forthe, syrs, on your waye, And doth do more to me, Tyll ye wytte our kynges wyll, What he woll say to the." 20 The sheref thus had his answere, With out ony leasynge; Forthe he yode to London toune, All for to tel our kynge. There he tolde hym of that knyght, 25 And eke of Robyn Hode, And also of the bolde archeres, That noble were and good. "He wolde avowe that he had done, To mayntayne the outlawes stronge, 30 He wolde be lorde, and set you at nought, In all the north londe." "I woll be at Notyngham," sayd the kynge, "Within this fourtynyght, And take I wyll Robyn Hode, 35 And so I wyll that knyght. "Go home, thou proud sheryf, And do as I bydde the,[L38] And ordayne good archeres inowe Of all the wyde countree." 40 The sheryf had his leve itake, And went hym on his way; And Robyn Hode to grene wode [went] Upon a certayn day. And Lytell Johan was hole of the arowe, 45 That shote was in his kne, And dyde hym strayte to Robyn Hode, Under the grene wode tre. Robyn Hode walked in the foreste, Under the leves grene; 50 The proud sheryfe of Notyngham, Therfore he had grete tene. The sheryf there fayled of Robyn Hode, He myght not have his pray; Then he awayted that gentyll knyght, 55 Bothe by nyght and by daye. Ever he awayted that gentyll knyght, Syr Rychard at the Lee; As he went on haukynge by the ryver syde And let his haukes flee, 60 Toke he there this gentyll knyght, With men of armes stronge, And lad hym home to Notyngham warde, Ibonde both fote and honde.[L64] The sheryf swore a full grete othe, 65 By hym that dyed on rode,[L66] He had lever than an hondrede pounde, That he had Robyn Hode. Then the lady, the knyghtes wyfe, A fayre lady and fre, 70 She set her on a gode palfrày, To grene wode anon rode she. When she came to the forèst, Under the grene wode tre, Founde she there Robyn Hode, 75 And all his fayre meynè. "God the save, good Robyn Hode,[L77] And all thy company; For our dere ladyes love,[L79] A bone graunte thou me. 80 "Let thou never my wedded lorde[L81] Shamfully slayne to be;[L82] He is fast ibounde to Notyngham warde, For the love of the." Anone then sayd good Robyn, 85 To that lady fre, "What man hath your lorde itake?" "The proude shirife," than sayd she.[L88] ["The proude sheryfe hath hym itake] Forsoth as I the say; 90 He is not yet thre myles Passed on his waye."[L92] Up then sterte good Robyn, As a man that had be wode; "Buske you, my mery young men, 95 For hym that dyed on a rode. "And he that this sorowe forsaketh, By hym that dyed on a tre, And by him that al thinges maketh,[L99] No lenger shall dwell with me."[L100] 100 Sone there were good bowes ibent, Mo than seven score, Hedge ne dyche spared they none, That was them before. "I make myn avowe to god," sayd Robyn, 105 "The sheryf wolde I fayn se,[L106] And yf I may hym take, Iquyt than shall he bee."[L108] And whan they came to Notyngham, They walked in the strete, 110 And with the proud sheryf, i-wys, Sone gan they mete. "Abyde, thou proud sheryf," he sayd, "Abyde and speake with me, Of some tydynges of our kynge, 115 I wolde fayne here of the. "This seven yere, by dere worthy god, Ne yede I so fast on fote; I make myn avowe to god, thou proude sheryfe, That is not for thy good."[L120] 120 Robyn bent a good bowe, An arrowe he drewe at his wyll, He hyt so the proud sheryf, Upon the ground he lay full styll. And or he myght up aryse, 125 On his fete to stonde, He smote of the sheryves hede, With his bryght bronde. "Lye thou there, thou proude sheryf, Evyll mote thou thryve; 130 There myght no man to the trust, The whyles thou were alyve." His men drewe out theyr bryght swerdes, That were so sharpe and kene, And layde on the sheryves men, 135 And dryved them downe bydene. Robyn stert to that knyght, And cut a two his bonde,[L138] And toke hym in his hand a bowe, And bade hym by hym stonde. 140 "Leve thy hors the behynde, And lerne for to renne; Thou shalt with me to grene wode, Through myre, mosse, and fenne. "Thou shalt with me to grene wode, 145 Without ony leasynge, Tyll that I have gete us grace Of Edwarde, our comly kynge." 14, thou, W. 38, the bydde, OCC. 64, honde and fote, W. foote and hande, C. 66, on a tre, R. rode, Ch. & M. 77. God the good Robyn, W. 79, lady, W. 81. Late. 82. Shamly I slayne be, W. 88. Forsoth as I the say, W. 92, your waye, W. You may them over take, C. 99, 100. Shall he never in grene wode be, Nor longer dwell with me. W. 106, sherif, Ch. & M. knyght, R. 108, it, W. 120. At, W. That, C. boote for good, Wh. 138, hoode, W. bande, C. THE SEVENTH FYTTE. The kynge came to Notynghame, With knyghtes in grete araye, For to take that gentyll knyght And Robyn Hode, yf he may.[L4] He asked men of that countrè, 5 After Robyn Hode, And after that gentyll knyght, That was so bolde and stout. Whan they had tolde hym the case Our kynge understonde ther tale, 10 And seased in his honde The knyghtes londes all. All the passe of Lancasshyre He went both ferre and nere; Tyll he came to Plomton parke,[L15] 15 He faylyd many of his dere. There our kynge was wont to se Herdes many one, He coud unneth fynde one dere, That bare ony good horne. 20 The kynge was wonder wroth withall, And swore by the trynytè, "I wolde I had Robyn Hode, With eyen I myght hym se. "And he that wolde smyte of the knyghtes hede, 25 And brynge it to me, He shall have the knyghtes londes, Syr Rycharde at the Le. "I gyve it hym with my chartèr, And sele it with my honde, 30 To have and holde for ever-more, In all mery Englonde." Than bespake a fayre olde knyght, That was treue in his fay, "A, my lege lorde the kynge, 35 One worde I shall you say; "There is no man in this countrè May have the knyghtes londes, Whyle Robyn Hode may ryde or gone, And bere a bowe in his hondes, 40 "That he ne shall lese his hede, That is the best ball in his hode: Give it no man, my lorde the kynge, That ye wyll any good." Half a yere dwelled our comly kynge 45 In Notyngham, and well more; Coude he not here of Robyn Hode, In what countre that he were. But alway went good Robyn By halke and eke by hyll, 50 And alway slewe the kynges dere, And welt them at his wyll. Than bespake a proude fostere, That stode by our kynges kne, "If ye wyll se good Robyn, 55 Ye must do after me. "Take fyve of the best knyghtes That be in your lede, And walk downe by yon abbay,[L59] And gete you monkes wede. 60 "And I wyll be your ledes man, And lede you the way, And or ye come to Notyngham, Myn hede then dare I lay, "That ye shall mete with good Robyn, 65 On lyve yf that he be; Or ye come to Notyngham, With eyen ye shall hym se." Full hastly our kynge was dyght, So were his knyghtes fyve, 70 Everych of them in monkes wede, And hasted them thyder blyve.[L72] Our kynge was grete above his cole, A brode hat on his crowne, Ryght as he were abbot-lyke, 75 They rode up in-to the towne. Styf botes our kynge had on, Forsoth as I you say; He rode syngynge to grene wode, The covent was clothed in graye. 80 His male hors and his grete somèrs Folowed our kynge behynde, Tyll they came to grene wode, A myle under the lynde. There they met with good Robyn, 85 Stondynge on the waye, And so dyde many a bolde archere, For soth as I you say. Robyn toke the kynges hors, Hastely in that stede, 90 And sayd, "Syr abbot, by your leve, A whyle ye must abyde. "We be yemen of this foreste, Under the grene wode tre; We lyve by our kynges dere, 95 Other shyft have not we.[L96] "And ye have chyrches and rentes both, And gold full grete plentè; Gyve us some of your spendynge, For saynt Charytè." 100 Than bespake our cumly kynge, Anone than sayd he, "I brought no more to grene wode, But forty pounde with me. "I have layne at Notyngham, 105 This fourtynyght with our kynge, And spent I have full moche good, On many a grete lordynge. "And I have but forty pounde, No more than have I me; 110 But yf I had an hondred pounde, I would geve it to the."[L112] Robyn toke the forty pounde, And departed it in two partye, Halfendell he gave his mery men, 115 And bad them mery to be. Full curteysly Robyn gan say, "Syr, have this for your spendyng; We shall mete another day." "Gramercy," than sayd our kynge; 120 "But well the greteth Edwarde our kynge, And sent to the his seale, And byddeth the com to Notyngham, Both to mete and mele." He toke out the brode tarpe,[L125] 125 And sone he lete hym se; Robyn coud his courteysy, And set hym on his kne. "I love no man in all the worlde So well as I do my kynge. 130 Welcome is my lordes seale; And, monke, for thy tydynge, "Syr abbot, for thy tydynges, To day thou shalt dyne with me, For the love of my kynge, 135 Under my trystell tre." Forth he lad our comly kynge, Full fayre by the honde; Many a dere there was slayne, And full fast dyghtande. 140 Robyn toke a full grete horne, And loude he gan blowe; Seven score of wyght yonge men Came redy on a rowe. All they kneeled on theyr kne, 145 Full fayre before Robyn: The kynge sayd hymselfe untyll, And swore by saynt Austyn, "Here is a wonder semely syght; Me thynketh, by goddes pyne, 150 His men are more at his byddynge, Then my men be at myn." Full hastly was theyr dyner idyght, And therto gan they gone; They served our kynge with al theyr myght, 155 Both Robyn and Lytell Johan. Anone before our kynge was set The fatte venyson, The good whyte brede, the good red wyne, And therto the fyne ale browne.[L160] 160 "Make good chere," said Robyn, "Abbot, for charytè; And for this ylke tydynge, Blyssed mote thou be. "Now shalte thou se what life we lede, 165 Or thou hens wende; Than thou may enfourme our kynge, Whan ye togyder lende." Up they sterte all in hast, Theyr bowes were smartly bent; 170 Our kynge was never so sore agast, He wende to have be shente. Two yerdes there were up set, There to gan they gange; By fifty pase, our kynge sayd, 175 The merkes were to longe. On every syde a rose garlonde, They shot under the lyne: "Who so fayleth of the rose garlonde," sayd Robyn, "His takyll he shall tyne, 180 "And yelde it to his mayster, Be it never so fyne; For no man wyll I spare, So drynke I ale or wyne;-- "And bere a buffet on his hede, 185 I-wys right all bare:"[L186] And all that fell in Robyns lote, He smote them wonder sare. Twyse Robyn shot aboute, And ever he cleved the wande, 190 And so dyde good Gylberte With the Whyte Hand.[L192] Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke, For nothynge wolde they spare, When they fayled of the garlonde, 195 Robyn smote them full sare. At the last shot that Robyn shot, For all his frendes fare, Yet he fayled of the garlonde, Thre fyngers and mare. 200 Than bespake good Gylberte, And thus he gan say; "Mayster," he sayd, "your takyll is lost, Stand forth and take your pay." "If it be so," sayd Robyn, 205 "That may no better be; Syr abbot, I delyver the myn arowe, I pray the, syr, serve thou me." "It falleth not for myn order," sayd our kynge, "Robyn, by thy leve, 210 For to smyte no good yemàn, For doute I sholde hym greve." "Smyte on boldely," sayd Robyn, "I give the large leve:" Anone our kynge, with that worde, 215 He folde up his sleve, And sych a buffet he gave Robyn, To grounde he yede full nere. "I make myn avowe to god," sayd Robyn, "Thou arte a stalworthe frere. 220 "There is pith in thyn arme," sayd Robyn, "I trowe thou canst well shote;" Thus our kynge and Robyn Hode Togeder than they met. Robyn behelde our comly kynge 225 Wystly in the face, So dyde syr Richarde at the Le, And kneled downe in that place; And so dyde all the wylde outlawes, Whan they se them knele: 230 "My lorde the kynge of Englonde, Now I knowe you well. "Mercy," then Robyn sayd to our kynge, Under his trystyll tre,[L234] "Of thy goodnesse and thy grace, 235 For my men and me! "Yes, for god," sayd Robyn, "And also god me save; I aske mercy, my lorde the kynge, And for my men I crave." 240 "Yes, for god," than sayd our kynge, "Thy peticion I graunt the, With that thou leve the grene wode, And all thy company; "And come home, syr, to my courte, 245 And there dwell with me."[L246] "I make myn avowe to god," sayd Robyn, "And ryght so shall it be. "I wyll come to your courte, Your servyse for to se, 250 And brynge with me of my men Seven score and thre. "But me lyke well your servyse, I come agayne full soone, And shote at the donne dere, 255 As I am wonte to done." 4, and yf, W. 15. Not in Cumberland, as Ritson states, but, says Hunter, a part of the forest of Knaresborough, in Yorkshire. 59, your, OCC. 72, blyth, Ritson. 96. Under the grene wode tre, W. 112. I vouche it halfe on the, W. 125, seale, C. 160, and browne, W. 186. A wys, W. For that shall be his fyne, C. 192, good whyte, W. lilly white, C. 234. Your, Ritson. 246. And therto sent I me, W. THE EIGHTH FYTTE. "Haste thou ony grene cloth," sayd our kynge, "That thou wylte sell now to me?" "Ye, for god," sayd Robyn, "Thyrty yerdes and thre." "Robyn," sayd our kynge, 5 "Now pray I the, To sell me some of that cloth, To me and my meynè." "Yes, for god," then sayd Robyn,[L9] "Or elles I were a fole; 10 Another day ye wyll me clothe,[L11] I trowe, ayenst the Yole."[L12] The kynge kest of his cote then, A grene garment he dyde on, And every knyght did so, i-wys,[L15] 15 They clothed them full soone.[L16] Whan they were clothed in Lyncolne grene, They kest away theyr graye; "Now we shall to Notyngham," All thus our kynge gan say. 20 Theyr bowes bente and forth they went, Shotynge all in-fere, Towarde the towne of Notyngham, Outlawes as they were. Our kynge and Robyn rode togyder, 25 For soth as I you say, And they shote plucke-buffet, As they went by the way. And many a buffet our kynge wan Of Robyn Hode that day; 30 And nothynge spared good Robyn Our kynge in his pay. "So god me helpe," sayd our kynge, "Thy game is nought to lere; I sholde not get a shote of the, 35 Though I shote all this yere." All the people of Notyngham They stode and behelde; They sawe nothynge but mantels of grene That covered all the felde. 40 Than every man to other gan say, "I drede our kynge be slone; Come Robyn Hode to the towne i-wys, On lyve he leveth not one."[L44] Full hastly they began to fle, 45 Both yemen and knaves, And olde wyves that myght evyll goo, They hypped on theyr staves. The kynge loughe full fast,[L49] And commanded theym agayne; 50 When they se our comly kynge, I-wys they were full fayne. They ete and dranke, and made them glad, And sange with notes hye; Than bespake our comly kynge 55 To syr Rycharde at the Lee. He gave hym there his londe agayne, A good man he bad hym be; Robyn thanked our comly kynge, And set hym on his kne. 60 Had Robyn dwelled in the kynges courte But twelve monethes and thre, That he had spent an hondred pounde, And all his mennes fe. In every place where Robyn came 65 Evermore he layde downe, Both for knyghtes and for squyres, To gete hym grete renowne. By than the yere was all agone He had no man but twayne, 70 Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke, Wyth hym all for to gone. Robyn sawe yonge men shote, Full fayre upon a day;[L74] "Alas!" than sayd good Robyn,[L75] 75 "My welthe is went away. "Somtyme I was an archere good, A styffe and eke a stronge; I was commytted the best archere That was in mery Englonde. 80 "Alas!" then sayd good Robyn, "Alas and well a woo! Yf I dwele lenger with the kynge, Sorowe wyll me sloo." Forth than went Robyn Hode 85 Tyll he came to our kynge; "My lorde the kynge of Englonde, Graunte me myn askynge. "I made a chapell in Bernysdale, That semely is to se, 90 It is of Mary Magdalene, And thereto wolde I be. "I myght never in this seven nyght No tyme to slepe ne wynke, Nother all these seven dayes 95 Nother ete ne drynke. "Me longeth sore to Bernysdale, I may not be therfro; Barefote and wolwarde I have hyght Thyder for to go." 100 "Yf it be so," than sayd our kynge, "It may no better be; Seven nyght I gyve the leve, No lengre, to dwell fro me." "Gramercy, lorde," then sayd Robyn, 105 And set hym on his kne; He toke his leve full courteysly, To grene wode then went he. Whan he came to grene wode, In a mery mornynge, 110 There he herde the notes small Of byrdes mery syngynge. "It is ferre gone," sayd Robyn, "That I was last here; Me lyste a lytell for to shote 115 At the donne dere." Robyn slewe a full grete harte, His horne than gan he blow, That all the outlawes of that forèst, That horne coud they knowe 120 And gadred them togyder, In a lytell throwe; Seven score of wight yonge men Came redy on a rowe, And fayre dyde of theyr hodes, 125 And set them on theyr kne: "Welcome," they sayd, "our maystèr, Under this grene wode tre." Robyn dwelled in grene wode Twenty yere and two; 130 For all drede of Edwarde our kynge, Agayne wolde he not goo. Yet he was begyled, i-wys, Through a wycked womàn, The pryoresse of Kyrkesly,[L135] 135 That nye was of hys kynne; For the love of a knyght, Syr Roger of Donkestèr,[L138] That was her owne speciall, Full evyll mote they fare.[L140] 140 They toke togyder theyr counsell Robyn Hode for to sle, And how they myght best do that dede, His banis for to be. Than bespake good Robyn, 145 In place where as he stode, "Tomorow I muste to Kyrkesley, Craftely to be leten blode." Syr Roger of Donkestere, By the pryoresse he lay, 150 And there they betrayed good Robyn Hode, Through theyr false playe. Cryst have mercy on his soule, That dyed on the rode! For he was a good outlawe, 155 And dyde pore men moch god. 9, good, OCC. 11, 12. "This alludes to the usual issue of winter robes from the king's wardrobe to the officers of his household." HUNTER. 15, had, Ritson. 16. Another had full sone, W. 44. Lefte never one, W. 49, lughe, W. 74, ferre, W. 75, commended for, C. 135. The little convent of Kirklees lay between Wakefield and Halifax. HUNTER. 138, donkesley, W. 140, the, OCC. ADAM BEL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGHE, AND WYLLYAM OF CLOUDESLÈ. This favorite and delightful ballad was printed by William Copland, without date, but probably not far from 1550. Only a single copy of this edition is known to be preserved. There is another edition by James Roberts, printed in 1605, with a second part entitled _Young Cloudeslee_, "a very inferior and servile production," says Ritson. Mr. Payne Collier has recently recovered a fragment of an excellent edition considerably older than Copland's. _Adam Bell, &c._, was also entered at Stationers' Hall in 1557-8, as licensed to John King. Another entry occurs in the same registers under 1582, and in 1586 mention is made of "A ballad of Willm. Clowdisley never printed before." No one of these three impressions is known to be extant. Percy inserted this piece in his _Reliques_, (i. 158,) following Copland's edition, with corrections from his folio manuscript. Ritson adhered to Copland's text with his usual fidelity, (_Pieces of Popular Poetry_, p. 1.) We have printed the ballad from Ritson, with some important improvements derived from a transcript of Mr. Collier's fragment most kindly furnished by that gentleman. This fragment extends from the 7th verse of the second fit to the 55th of the third, but is somewhat mutilated. "Allane Bell" is mentioned by Dunbar in company with Robin Hood, Guy of Gisborne, and others. The editor of the _Reliques_ has pointed out several allusions to the ballad in our dramatic poets, which show the extreme popularity of the story. "Shakespeare, in his comedy of _Much Ado about Nothing_, act i. makes Benedick confirm his resolves of not yielding to love, by this protestation: 'If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat, and shoot at me, and he that hits me, let him be clapt on the shoulder, and called Adam:'--meaning Adam Bell, as Theobald rightly observes, who refers to one or two other passages in our old poets, wherein he is mentioned. The Oxford editor has also well conjectured, that 'Abraham Cupid,'in _Romeo and Juliet_, act ii. sc. 1, should be 'Adam Cupid,' in allusion to our archer. Ben Jonson has mentioned Clym o' the Clough in his _Alchemist_, act i. sc. 2. And Sir William Davenant, in a mock poem of his, called _The Long Vacation in London_, describes the attorneys and proctors as making matches to meet in Finsbury Fields. 'With loynes in canvas bow-case tyde, Where arrowes stick with mickle pride; Like ghosts of Adam Bell and Clymme; Sol sits for fear they'l shoot at him.'-- _Works_, 1673, fol. p. 291." The place of residence ascribed in the present ballad to these outlaws is Englewood or Inglewood, a forest in Cumberland sixteen miles in length, and extending from Carlisle to Penrith, which, according to Wyntown, was also frequented by Robin Hood, (_Cronykil_, vii. 10, 431.) By the author of the ballad of _Robin Hood's Birth, Breeding, Valour, and Marriage_, they are made contemporary with Robin Hood's father. "The father of Robin a forrester was, And he shot in a lusty strong bow Two north-country miles and an inch at a shot, As the Pinder of Wakefield does know. For he brought Adam Bell, and Clim of the Clugh, And William of Clowdesle To shoot with our forrester for forty mark, And the forrester beat them all three." A state paper cited by Mr. Hunter exhibits a person of the name of Adam Bell in connection with another of Robin Hood's haunts, and is thought by that gentleman to afford a clue to the real history of one of the actors in the story. "King Henry the Fourth, by letters enrolled in the Exchequer, in Trinity Term, in the seventh year of his reign [1406], and bearing date the 14th day of April, granted to one Adam Bell an annuity of 4_l._ 10_s._ issuing out of the fee-farm of Clipston, in the forest of Sherwood, together with the profits and advantages of the vesture and herbage of the garden called the Halgarth, in which the manor-house of Clipston is situated. "Now, as Sherwood is noted for its connection with archery, and may be regarded also as the _patria_ of much of the ballad poetry of England, and the name of Adam Bell is a peculiar one, this might be almost of itself sufficient to show that the ballad had a foundation in veritable history. But we further find that this Adam Bell violated his allegiance by adhering to the Scots, the King's enemies; whereupon this grant was virtually resumed, and the sheriff of Nottinghamshire accounted for the rents which would have been his. In the third year of King Henry the Fifth [1416], the account was rendered by Thomas Hercy, and in the fourth year by Simon Leak. The mention of his adhesion to the Scots, leads us to the Scottish border, and will not leave a doubt in the mind of the most sceptical (!) that we have here one of the persons, some of whose deeds (with some poetical license, perhaps) are come down to us in the words of one of our popular ballads." _New Illustrations of the Life, Studies, and Writings of Shakespeare_, i. 245. It must be confessed that Mr. Hunter is easily satisfied. The Bells were one of the most notorious of the marauding tribes of the Marches, and as late as 1593, are grouped with the Graemes and Armstrongs, in a memorial of the English Warden, as among "the bad and more vagrant of the great surnames of the border." (Rymer's _F[oe]dera_, xvi. 183, 2d ed.) Adam was a very common _pr[oe]nomen_ among these people, and is borne by two other familiar ballad heroes, Adam Gordon and Adam Car. The combination of Adam Bell must have been anything but a rarity;[27] nor could it have been an unfrequent occurrence, for a Scottish freebooter who had entered into the pay of the English King, to return to his natural connections, when a tempting opportunity offered itself, or for any Border mercenary to change sides as often as this seemed to be for his interest. The rescue of William of Cloudesly by Adam Bell and Clym of the Clough, in the second fit, resembles in all the main points the rescue of Robin Hood by Little John and Much, in _Robin Hood and the Monk_. The incident of the shot at the apple, in the third fit, for a long time received as a part of the genuine history of William Tell, is of great antiquity, and may be traced northward from Switzerland through the various Gothic nations to the mythical legends of Scandinavia. The exploit is first narrated in the _Wilkina Saga_ of the archer Eigill, who, at Nidung's command, proves his skill at the bow by shooting an apple from his son's head. Eigill had selected three arrows, and on being questioned as to the purpose of the other two, replied that they were destined for Nidung in case the first had caused the death of his child. This form of the legend is of the 10th or 11th century. In the 12th century, Saxo Grammaticus tells this story of Toko and King Harald. The resemblance to Tell is in Toko's case stronger than in any; for, besides making the same speech about the reserved arrow, he distinguishes himself in a sea-storm, and shoots the king,--this last feat being historical, and dated 992. Similar achievements are ascribed in Norwegian sagas to St. Olaf (died, 1030), and to King Haraldr Sigurtharson (died, 1066), and in Schleswig Holstein, to Heming Wolf, who having, in 1472, been outlawed for taking part with a rebel against King Christian, and falling into the hands of his enemies, was obliged to exhibit his skill at the risk of his son's life. Again, in Sprenger's _Malleus Maleficarum_, a work of the 15th century, the story is related of one Puncher, a magician of the Rhine country; and finally, about two hundred years after the formation of the Swiss confederacy, this famous exploit is imputed to Tell, though early chroniclers have not a word to say either about him or his archery. (See Grimm's[28] _Deutsche Mythologie_, ed. 1842, pp. 353-5, p. 1214: Nork's _Mythologie der Volkssagen_, in Scheible's _Kloster_, vol. 9, p. 105, _seqq._ Many of the documents that bear upon this question are cited at length in Ideler's _Schuss des Tell_, Berlin, 1836.) [27] Thus, in the _Parliamentary Writs_, we have two Adam Bells (_possibly_ only one) contemporary with Mr. Hunter's Robin Hood, and both resident in Yorkshire. 1315, Adam Belle, manucaptor of a burgess for Scarborough. 1324, Adam Bele, manucaptor for citizens returned for York. [28] Grimm refers to the tradition by which Eustathius accounts for Sarpedon's being king of the Lycians, which involves a story of his two rival uncles proposing to shoot through a ring placed on the breast of a child, and of Sarpedon's being offered for that purpose by his mother; and also mentions a manuscript he had seen of travels in Turkey, which contained a picture of a man shooting at an apple placed on a child's head. Mery it was in grene forest, Amonge the leues grene, Wher that men walke east and west, With bowes and arrowes kene, To ryse the dere out of theyr denne,-- 5 Such sightes hath ofte bene sene,--[L6] As by thre yemen of the north countrey,[L7] By them it is I meane.[L8] The one of them hight Adam Bel, The other Clym of the Clough,[L10] 10 The thyrd was William of Cloudesly,[L11] An archer good ynough. They were outlawed for venyson, These yemen everechone; They swore them brethren upon a day, 15 To Englysshe-wood for to gone. Now lith and lysten, gentylmen, That of myrthes loveth to here:[L18] Two of them were single men, The third had a wedded fere. 20 Wyllyam was the wedded man, Muche more then was hys care: He sayde to hys brethren upon a day, To Carelel he would fare, For to speke with fayre Alse hys wife, 25 And with hys chyldren thre. "By my trouth," sayde Adam Bel, "Not by the counsell of me. "For if ye go to Caerlel, brother, And from thys wylde wode wende, 30 If the justice mai you take, Your lyfe were at an ende." "If that I come not tomorowe, brother, By pryme to you agayne, Truste not els but that I am take, 35 Or else that I am slayne." He toke hys leave of his brethren two, And to Carlel he is gon; There he knocked at hys owne windowe, Shortlye and anone. 40 "Where be you, fayre Alyce, my wyfe,[L41] And my chyldren three? Lyghtly let in thyne owne husbande, Wyllyam of Cloudeslè." "Alas!" then sayde fayre Alyce, 45 And syghed wonderous sore, "Thys place hath ben besette for you, Thys half yere and more." "Now am I here," sayde Cloudeslè, "I woulde that I in were:--[L50] 50 Now feche us meate and drynke ynoughe, And let us make good chere." She fetched him meat and drynke plenty, Lyke a true wedded wyfe, And pleased hym wyth that she had, 55 Whome she loved as her lyfe. There lay an old wyfe in that place, A lytle besyde the fyre, Whych Wyllyam had found, of cherytye, More then seven yere. 60 Up she rose and walked full styll, Evel mote she spede therefoore,[L62] For she had not set no fote on ground In seven yere before. She went unto the justice hall, 65 As fast as she could hye; "Thys nyght is come unto this town Wyllyam of Cloudeslè." Thereof the iustice was full fayne, And so was the shirife also; 70 "Thou shalt not travaile hether, dame, for nought,[L71] Thy meed thou shalt have or thou go." They gave to her a ryght good goune, Of scarlat it was, as I heard sayne;[L74] She toke the gyft and home she wente, 75 And couched her downe agayne. They rysed the towne of mery Carlel, In all the hast that they can, And came thronging to Wyllyames house, As fast as they myght gone. 80 Theyr they besette that good yeman, Round about on every syde, Wyllyam hearde great noyse of folkes, That heytherward they hyed. Alyce opened a shot-wyndow,[L85] 85 And loked all about, She was ware of the justice and shirife bothe, Wyth a full great route.[L88] "Alas! treason," cry'd Aleyce. "Ever wo may thou be! 90 Go into my chambre, my husband," she sayd,[L91] "Swete Wyllyam of Cloudeslè." He toke hys sweard and hys bucler, Hys bow and hy[s] chyldren thre, And wente into hys strongest chamber, 95 Where he thought surest to be. Fayre Alice folowed him as a lover true, With a pollaxe in her hande; "He shal be dead that here cometh in Thys dore, whyle I may stand." 100 Cloudeslè bent a wel good bowe, That was of trusty tre, He smot the justise on the brest, That hys arrowe brest in thre. "God's curse on his hartt," saide William, 105 "Thys day thy cote dyd on; If it had ben no better then myne, It had gone nere thy bone." "Yelde the, Cloudeslè," sayd the justise, "And thy bowe and thy arrowes the fro:" 110 "Gods curse on hys hart," sayde fair Alice, "That my husband councelleth so." "Set fyre on the house," saide the sherife, "Syth it wyll no better be, And brenne we therin William," he saide, 115 "Hys wyfe and chyldren thre." They fyred the house in many a place, The fyre flew up on hye; "Alas!" then cryed fayr Alice, "I se we here shall dy." 120 William openyd hys backe wyndow, That was in hys chambre on hye,[L122] And wyth shetes let hys wyfe downe, And hys chyldren thre. "Have here my treasure," sayde William, 125 "My wyfe and my chyldren thre, For Christes love do them no harme, But wreke you all on me." Wyllyam shot so wonderous well, Tyll hys arrowes were all ygo,[L130] 130 And the fyre so fast upon hym fell, That hys bowstryng brent in two. The spercles brent and fell hym on, Good Wyllyam of Cloudeslè! But than wax he a wofull man, 135 And sayde, "thys is a cowardes death to me. "Leuer I had," sayde Wyllyam, "With my sworde in the route to renne, Then here among myne ennemyes wode, Thus cruelly to bren." 140 He toke hys sweard and hys buckler, And among them all he ran; Where the people were most in prece, He smot downe many a man. There myght no man stand hys stroke, 145 So fersly on them he ran; Then they threw wyndowes and dores on him, And so toke that good yemàn. There they hym bounde both hande and fote, And in depe dongeon hym cast; 150 "Now, Cloudeslè," sayd the hye justice, "Thou shalt be hanged in hast." "One vow shal I make," sayd the sherife, "A payre of newe galowes shall I for the make, And the gates of Caerlel shal be shutte, 155 There shall no man come in therat. "Then shall not helpe Clim of the Cloughe, Nor yet shall Adam Bell, Though they came with a thousand mo, Nor all the devels in hell." 160 Early in the mornyng the justice uprose, To the gates first gan he gon, And commaundede to be shut full cloce Lightilè everychone. Then went he to the market place, 165 As fast as he coulde hye; A payre of new gallous there did he up set, Besyde the pyllory. A lytle boy stod them amonge, And asked what meaned that gallow tre; 170 They sayde, "to hange a good yeamàn, Called Wyllyam of Cloudeslè." That lytle boye was the towne swyne-heard, And kept fayre Alyce swyne,[L174] Oft he had seene Cloudeslè in the wodde, 175 And geuen hym there to dyne. He went out att a creves in the wall, And lightly to the wood dyd gone; There met he with these wight yonge men, Shortly and anone. 180 "Alas!" then sayde that lytle boye, "Ye tary here all to longe; Cloudeslè is taken and dampned to death, All readye for to honge." "Alas!" then sayde good Adam Bell, 185 "That ever we see thys daye! He myght her with us have dwelled, So ofte as we dyd him praye! "He myght have taryed in grene foreste, Under the shadowes sheene, 190 And have kepte both hym and us in reaste, Out of trouble and teene!" Adam bent a ryght good bow, A great hart sone had he slayne; "Take that, chylde," he sayde, "to thy dynner, 195 And bryng me myne arrowe agayne." "Now go we hence," sayed these wight yong men, "Tary we no lenger here; We shall hym borowe, by gods grace, Though we bye it full dere." 200 To Caerlel went these good yemèn,[L201] On a mery mornyng of Maye: Here is a fyt of Cloudesli, And another is for to saye. 6, as hath. 7, the. 8, as I. 10, 11. Clym of the Clough means, as Percy says, Clement of the valley; and Cloudeslè, suggests Ritson, seems to be the same with Clodsley. 18. And that. 41, your. 50, In woulde. 62, spende. 71, fore. 74, saye. _Percy reads_, Of scarlate and of graine. 85, shop. _Percy reads_ back window. 88, great full great. 91, Gy. 122, was on. 130, gon. 174, there. 201, Cyerlel. [THE SECOND FIT.] And when they came to mery Caerlell, In a fayre mornyng tyde, They founde the gates shut them untyll, Round about on every syde. "Alas!" than sayd good Adam Bell, 5 "That ever we were made men! These gates be shut so wonderly wel,[L7] That we may not come here in." Then spake him Clym of the Clough, "Wyth a wyle we wyl us in bryng; 10 Let us saye we be messengers, Streyght comen from our king."[L12] Adam said, "I have a letter written wel, Now let us wysely werke; We wyl saye we have the kinges seale,[L15] 15 I holde the portter no clerke." Then Adam Bell bete on the gate, With strokes great and strong; The porter herde suche noyse therat, And to the gate faste he throng.[L20] 20 "Who is there nowe," sayde the porter, "That maketh all thys knocking? "We be tow messengers," sayde Clim of the Clough, "Be comen streyght from our kyng."[L24] "We haue a letter," sayd Adam Bel, 25 "To the justice we must it bryng;[L26] Let us in, our messag to do, That we were agayne to our kyng." "Here commeth no man in," sayd the porter,[L29] "By hym that dyed on a tre,[L30] 30 Tyll a false thefe be hanged, Called Wyllyam of Cloudeslè." Then spake the good yeman Clym of the Clough, And swore by Mary fre, "And if that we stande longe wythout, 35 Lyke a thefe hanged shalt thou be. "Lo here we have the kynges seale; What! lordeyne, art thou wode?" The porter went it had ben so, And lyghtly dyd of hys hode. 40 "Welcome be my lordes seale," he saide, "For that ye shall come in:" He opened the gate full shortlye, An evyl openyng for him. "Now are we in," sayde Adam Bell, 45 "Thereof we are full faine, But Christ knoweth that harowed hell,[L47] How we shall com out agayne." "Had we the keys," said Clim of the Clough, "Ryght wel then shoulde we spede;[L50] 50 Then might we come out wel ynough, "When we se tyme and nede." They called the porter to a counsell,[L53] And wrange hys necke in two, And caste him in a depe dongeòn, 55 And toke hys keys hym fro. "Now am I porter," sayde Adam Bel, "Se, brother, the keys haue we here; The worst porter to merry Caerlel, That ye had thys hundred yere. 60 "And now wyll we our bowes bend, Into the towne wyll we go, For to delyver our dere brother, That lyveth in care and wo." [And thereupon] they bent theyr bowes, 65 And loked theyr stringes were round; The market place of mery Caerlel,[L67] They beset in that stound.[L68] And as they loked them besyde, A paire of new galowes ther thei see,[L71] 70 And the justice with a quest of swerers,[L72] That had judged Cloudeslè there hanged to be. And Cloudeslè hymselfe lay redy in a carte, Faste bounde both fote and hand,[L74] And a stronge rop about hys necke, 75 All readye for to be hangde.[L76] The justice called to him a ladde, Cloudeslè [s] clothes should he have, To take the measure of that good yeman,[L79] And therafter to make hys grave. 80 "I have seen as great a mearveile," said Cloudesli, "As betwyene thys and pryme, He that maketh thys grave for me, Himselfe may lye therin." "Thou speakest proudli," saide the justice, 85 "I shall the hange with my hande:" Full wel that herd hys brethren two,[L87] There styll as they dyd stande. Then Cloudeslè cast hys eyen asyde,[L89] And saw hys to brethren stande,[L90] 90 At a corner of the market place,[L91] With theyr good bows bent in ther hand.[L92] "I se good comfort," sayd Cloudeslè,[L93] "Yet hope I well to fare;[L94] If I might haue my handes at wyll, 95 Ryght lytle wolde I care." Then spake good Adam Bell, To Clym of the Clough so free, "Brother, se ye marke the justyce wel, Lo yonder ye may him see. 100 "And at the shyrife shote I wyll, Strongly with an arrowe kene;[L102] A better shote in mery Caerlel Thys seven yere was not sene." They lowsed their arrowes both at once,[L105] 105 Of no man had they dread; The one hyt the justice, the other the sheryfe, That both theyr sides gan blede.[L108] All men voyded, that them stode nye, When the justice fell downe to the grounde, 110 And the sherife fell nyghe hym by, Eyther had his deathes wounde. All the citezens fast gan flye, They durst no longer abyde; Then lyghtly they loused Cloudeslè,[L115] 115 When he with ropes lay tyde. Wyllyam sterte to an officer of the towne, Hys axe out of hys hande he wronge, On eche syde he smote them downe, Hym thought he taryed all to long. 120 Wyllyam sayde to hys brethren two,[L121] "Thys daye let us togyder lyve and dye;[L122] If ever you have nede as I have now, The same shall you fynde by me." They shot so well in that tyde, 125 For theyr stringes were of silke full sure, That they kept the stretes on every side:[L127] That batayle dyd longe endure. The[y] fought together as brethren tru, Lyke hardy men and bolde; 130 Many a man to the ground they thrue, And many a herte made colde.[L132] But when their arrowes were all gon, Men preced on them full fast;[L134] They drew theyr swordes then anone, 135 And theyr bowes from them cast. They went lyghtlye on theyr way, Wyth swordes and buclers round; By that it was the myddes of the day,[L139] They had made mani a wound.[L140] 140 There was many an out-horne in Caerlel blowen,[L141] And the belles bacward did they ryng;[L142] Many a woman sayd alas, And many theyr handes dyd wryng. The mayre of Caerlel forth com was, 145 And with hym a ful great route; These thre yemen dred him full sore,[L147] For of theyr lyues they stode in great doute. The mayre came armed a full great pace, With a pollaxe in hys hande; 150 Many a strong man with him was, There in that stowre to stande. The mayre smot at Cloudeslè with his bil, Hys bucler he brust in two; Full many a yeman with great yll,[L155] 155 "Alas, treason!" they cryed for wo. "Kepe we the gates fast" they bad, "That these traytours thereout not go." But al for nought was that they wrought, For so fast they downe were layde,[L160] 160 Tyll they all thre, that so manfulli fought, Were gotten without at a braide.[L162] "Have here your keys," sayd Adam Bel, "Myne office I here forsake; Yf you do by my councèll, 165 A new porter do ye make."[L166] He threw the keys there at theyr heads,[L167] And bad them evell to thryve, And all that letteth any good yeman To come and comfort hys wyfe. 170 Thus be these good yemen gon to the wod, As lyght as lefe on lynde;[L172] They lough and be mery in theyr mode, Theyr ennemyes were ferre behynd. When they came to Englyshe wode, 175 Under the trysty tre,[L176] There they found bowes full good,[L177] And arrowes full great plentye. "So God me help," sayd Adam Bell, And Clym of the Clough so fre, 180 "I would we were nowe in mery Caerlel,[L181] Before that fayre meyny." They set them downe and made good chere, And eate and drank full well:[L184] Here is a fet of these wyght yong men, 185 And another I shall you tell.[L186] 7, wonderous. R. (RITSON.) 12, come nowe. R. 15, seales. R. 20, R. omits faste. 24, come ryght. R. 26, me. 29, none. R. 30, Be ... upon. R. 47, knows, R. 50, shaulde. 53, a, C. (COLLIER.) 67, in, R. 68, in, C. 70, they. 71, squyers, R. 74, bounde, C. 76, to hang, R. 79, good, C. 87, that, C. 89, Claudesle. 90, brethen; Copland omits stande. 91, marked. 92. Here the old edition adds,-- 'Redy the justice for to chaunce', (chase, C.) 93, Copland omits good. 94, will. 102, an, C. 105, thre. 108, sedes. 115, then. 121, brethen. 122, togyder, C. 127, sede. 132, made many a herte. 134, on, C. 139, was myd, R. 140, had, C. 141, many, C. 142, they, C. 147, thre, C. 155, evyll, R. 160, to. 162, abraide, R. 166, we. 167, theyr keys at, R. 172, And lyghtly as, R. [THE THIRD FIT.] As they sat in Englyshe-wood, Under theyr trysty tre,[L2] Them thought they herd a woman wepe,[L3] But her they mought not se. Sore then syghed the fayre Alyce, And sayde, "Alas that ever I sawe this daye! For now is my dere husband slayne, Alas and wel a way! "Myght I have spoken wyth hys dere brethren,[L9] Or with eyther of them twayne, 10 [To let them know what him befell][L11] My hart were out of payne!"[L12] Cloudeslè walked a lytle besyde, And loked under the grenewood linde; He was ware of hys wife and chyldren thre, 15 Full wo in hart and mynde. "Welcome, wife," then sayde Wyllyam, "Under this trysty tre;[L18] I had wende yesterday, by swete saynt John, Thou shulde me never have se."[L20] 20 "Now well is me," she sayde, "that ye be here, My hart is out of wo:" "Dame," he sayde, "be mery and glad, And thank my brethren two."[L24] "Hereof to speake," sayd Adam Bell, 25 "I-wis it is no bote; The meat that we must supp withall It runneth yet fast on fote." Then went they down into a launde, These noble archares all thre, 30 Eche of them slew a hart of greece,[L31] The best they could there se. "Have here the best, Alyce my wife," Sayde Wyllyam of Cloudeslè, "By cause ye so bouldly stod by me, 35 When I was slayne full nye." Then went they to supper,[L37] Wyth suche meat as they had, And thanked God of ther fortune; They were both mery and glad. 40 And when they had supped well, Certayne without any leace, Cloudeslè sayd, "We wyll to our kyng, To get us a charter of peace. "Alyce shall be at sojournyng,[L45] 45 In a nunry here besyde; My tow sonnes shall wyth her go, And ther they shall abyde. "Myne eldest son shall go wyth me, For hym have I no care, 50 And he shall breng you worde agayn[L51] How that we do fare." Thus be these yemen to London gone, As fast as they might hye, Tyll they came to the kynges pallace, 55 Where they woulde nedes be. And whan they came to the kynges courte, Unto the pallace gate, Of no man wold they aske no leave, But boldly went in therat. 60 They preced prestly into the hall, Of no man had they dreade; The porter came after and dyd them call, And with them began to chyde. The ussher sayed, "Yemen, what wold ye haue? 65 I pray you tell me; You myght thus make offycers shent: Good syrs, of whence be ye?" "Syr, we be outlawes of the forest, Certayne without any leace, 70 And hether we be come to our kyng, To get us a charter of peace." And whan they came before the kyng, As it was the lawe of the lande, The[y] kneled downe without lettyng, 75 And eche held up his hand. The[y] sayed, "Lord, we beseche the here, That ye wyll graunt us grace, For we haue slaine your fat falow der, In many a sondry place." 80 "What be your nam[e]s?" then said our king, "Anone that you tell me: They sayd, "Adam Bel, Clim of the Clough, And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè." "Be ye those theves," then sayd our kyng, 85 "That men have tolde of to me? Here to god I make a vowe, Ye shal be hanged al thre. "Ye shal be dead without mercy, As I am kynge of this lande." 90 He commanded his officers everichone Fast on them to lay hand. There they toke these good yemen, And arested them all thre: "So may I thryve," sayd Adam Bell, 95 "Thys game lyketh not me. "But, good lorde, we beseche you now, That you graunt vs grace, Insomuche as we be to you comen, Or els that we may fro you passe, 100 "With such weapons as we have here, Tyll we be out of your place; And yf we lyve this hundreth yere, We wyll aske you no grace." "Ye speake proudly," sayd the kynge, 105 "Ye shall be hanged all thre:" "That were great pitye," then sayd the quene, "If any grace myght be. "My lorde, whan I came fyrst into this lande, To be your wedded wyfe, 110 The fyrst bowne that I wold aske, Ye would graunt it me belyfe; "And I asked never none tyll now, Therefore, good lorde, graunte it me." "Now aske it, madam," sayd the kynge, 115 "And graunted shall it be." "Then, my good lord, I you beseche, These yemen graunt ye me:" "Madame, ye myght have asked a bowne That shuld have ben worth them all thre. 120 "Ye myght have asked towres and town[es], Parkes and forestes plenty." "None so pleasaunt to mi pay," she said, "Nor none so lefe to me." "Madame, sith it is your desyre, 125 Your askyng graunted shal be; But I had lever have geven you Good market townes thre." The quene was a glad woman, And sayd, "Lord, gramarcy; 130 I dare undertake for them, That true men shal they be. "But, good lord, speke som mery word, That comfort they may se." "I graunt you grace," then said our king, 135 "Wasshe, felos, and to meate go ye." They had not setten but a whyle, Certayne without lesynge, There came messengers out of the north, With letters to our kynge. 140 And whan the[y] came before the kynge, They kneled downe vpon theyr kne, And sayd, "Lord, your offycers grete you wel, Of Caerlel in the north cuntrè." "How fare[s] my justice," sayd the kyng, 145 "And my sherife also?" "Syr, they be slayne, without leasynge, And many an officer mo." "Who hath them slayne?" sayd the kyng, "Anone thou tell me:" 150 "Adam Bel, and Clime of the Clough, And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè." "Alas for rewth!" then sayd our kynge, "My hart is wonderous sore; I had leuer [th]an a thousand pounde, 155 I had knowne of thys before. "For I have graunted them grace, And that forthynketh me, But had I knowne all thys before, They had been hanged all thre." 160 The kyng opened the letter anone, Hymselfe he red it th[r]o, And founde how these thre outlawes had slaine Thre hundred men and mo. Fyrst the justice and the sheryfe, 165 And the mayre of Caerlel towne; Of all the constables and catchipolles Alyve were left not one. The baylyes and the bedyls both, And the sergeauntes of the law, 170 And forty fosters of the fe, These outlawes had yslaw, And broke his parks, and slaine his dere; Over all they chose the best; So perelous outlawes as they were, 175 Walked not by easte nor west. When the kynge this letter had red, In hys harte he syghed sore; "Take vp the table anone," he bad, "For I may eate no more." 180 The kyng called hys best archars, To the buttes with hym to go; "I wylle se these felowes shote," he sayd, In the north have wrought this wo." The kynges bowmen buske them blyve, 185 And the quenes archers also, So dyd these thre wyght yemèn, Wyth them they thought to go. There twyse or thryse they shote about, For to assay theyr hande; 190 There was no shote these yemen shot, That any prycke might them stand. Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudeslè, "By him that for me dyed, I hold hym never no good archar 195 That shuteth at buttes so wyde." "Wherat?" then sayd our kyng,[L197] "I pray thee tell me:" "At such a but, syr," he sayd, "As men use in my countree." 200 Wyllyam went into a fyeld, And his to brethren with him, There they set vp to hasell roddes, Twenty score paces betwene. "I hold him an archar," said Cloudeslè, 205 "That yonder wande cleveth in two:" "Here is none suche," sayd the kyng, "Nor none that can so do." "I shall assaye, syr," sayd Cloudeslè, "Or that I farther go:" 210 Cloudeslè, with a bearyng arow, Clave the wand in to. "Thou art the best archer," then said the king, "Forsothe that ever I se:" "And yet for your love," said Wylliam, 215 "I wyll do more maystry. "I have a sonne is seven yere olde,[L217] He is to me full deare; I wyll hym tye to a stake, All shall se that be here; 220 "And lay an apele upon hys head, And go syxe score paces hym fro, And I myselfe, with a brode arow, Shall cleve the apple in two." "Now haste the," then sayd the kyng, 225 "By him that dyed on a tre; But yf thou do not as thou hast sayde,[L227] Hanged shalt thou be. "And thou touche his head or gowne, In syght that men may se, 230 By all the sayntes that be in heaven, I shall hange you all thre." "That I have promised," said William, "I wyl it never forsake;" And there even before the kynge, 235 In the earth he droue a stake, And bound therto his eldest sonne, And bad hym stande styll therat, And turned the childes face fro him, Because he shuld not sterte. 240 An apple upon his head he set, And then his bowe he bent; Syxe score paces they were out met, And thether Cloudeslè went. There he drew out a fayr brode arrowe, 245 Hys bowe was great and longe, He set that arrowe in his bowe, That was both styffe and stronge. He prayed the people that was there, That they would styll stande, 250 "For he that shooteth for such a wager, Behoveth a stedfast hand." Muche people prayed for Cloudeslè, That hys lyfe saved myght be, And whan he made hym redy to shote, 255 There was many a weping eye. Thus Cloudeslè clefte the apple in two, That many a man myght se;[L258] "Over gods forbode," sayde the kynge, "That thou shote at me! 260 "I geve the xviii. pence a day, And my bowe shalt thou beare, And over all the north countre, I make the chyfe rydere." "And I geve the xvii. pence a day," said the quene, 265 "By god and by my fay; Come feche thy payment when thou wylt, No man shall say the nay. "Wyllyam, I make the a gentelman, Of clothyng and of fe, 270 And thi two brethren yemen of my chambre, For they are so semely to se. "Your sonne, for he is tendre of age, Of my wyne-seller shall he be, And whan he commeth to mannes estate, 275 Better avaunced shall he be. "And, Wylliam, bring me your wife," said the quene, Me longeth her sore to se; She shal be my chefe gentelwoman, To governe my nursery." 280 The yemen thanketh them full curteously, And sayde, "To some bysshop wyl we wend, Of all the synnes that we have done To be assoyld at his hand." So forth be gone these good yemen, 285 As fast as they myght hye, And after came and dwelled with the kynge, And dyed good men all thre. Thus endeth the lives of these good yemen, God send them eternall blysse, 290 And all that with hande bowe shoteth, That of heaven may never mysse! 176, trusty, R. 177, there, C. 181, nowe, C. 184, drynke, R. 186. Another I wyll, R. 2, trusty, R. 3, they, R. 9, brethen. 11, supplied from a modern edition. 12, put out, R. 18, thus, trusty, R. 20, had. 24, brethen. 31, graece. 37, whent. 45, at our, R. 51, you breng, R. 197. At what a butte now, wold ye shot. PERCY. 227, hest. 217-258. For remarks upon this passage in the story, see the preface to the ballad. 258. His son he did not nee. PERCY. ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE. This ballad was derived from the Percy Manuscript, and is printed in the _Reliques_, i. 84 (ed. 1794), with some alterations by the Editor. "As for Guy of Gisborne," says Ritson, "the only further memorial which has occurred concerning him is in an old satirical piece by William Dunbar, a celebrated Scottish poet of the fifteenth century, on one "Schir Thomas Nory," (MS. Maitland, p. 3, MMS. More, Ll. 5, 10,) where he is named along with our hero, Adam Bell, and other worthies, it is conjectured of a similar stamp, but whose merits have not, less fortunately, come to the knowledge of posterity. "Was nevir WEILD ROBEINE under bewch, Nor yitt Roger of Clekkislewch, So bauld a bairne as he; GY OF GYSBURNE, na Allane Bell, Na Simones sones of Quhynsell, Off thocht war nevir so slie." "Gisborne is a market town in the west riding of the county of York, on the borders of Lancashire." When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre,[L1] And leaves both large and longe, Itt is merrye walkyng in the fayre forrèst, To heare the small birdes songe. The woodweele sang, and wold not cease, 5 Sitting upon the spraye, Soe lowde, he wakened Robìn Hood, In the greenwood where he lay. "Now, by my faye," sayd jollye Robìn, "A sweaven I had this night; 10 I dreamt me of tow wight yemèn,[L11] That fast with me can fight. "Methought they did mee beate and binde, And tooke my bowe mee froe; Iff I be Robin alive in this lande, 15 Ile be wroken on them towe." "Sweavens are swift, master," quoth John, "As the wind that blowes ore a hill; For iff itt be never so loude this night, To-morrow itt may be still." 20 "Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, And John shall goe with mee, For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomèn, In greenwood where they bee."[L24] Then they cast on their gownes of grene, 25 And tooke theyr bowes each one; And they away to the greene forrèst[L27] A shooting forth are gone; Until they came to the merry greenwood, Where they had gladdest bee; 30 There were they ware of a wight yeomàn,[L31] His body leaned to a tree. A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, Of manye a man the bane; And he was clad in his capull hyde, 35 Topp and tayll and mayne. "Stand you still, master," quoth Litle John, "Under this tree so grene, And I will go to yond wight yeomàn, To know what he doth meane." 40 "Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store, And that I farley finde: How offt send I my men beffore, And tarry my selfe behinde? "It is no cunning a knave to ken, 45 And a man but heare him speake; And itt were not for bursting of my bowe, John, I thy head wold breake." As often wordes they breeden bale, So they parted Robin and John; 50 And John is gone to Barnesdale; The gates he knoweth eche one. But when he came to Barnesdale, Great heavinesse there hee hadd, For he found tow of his owne fellòwes, 55 Were slaine both in a slade. And Scarlette he was flying a-foote Fast over stocke and stone, For the sheriffe with seven score men Fast after him is gone. 60 "One shoote now I will shoote," quoth John, "With Christ his might and mayne; Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast, To stopp he shall be fayne." Then John bent up his long bende-bowe, 65 And fetteled him to shoote: The bowe was made of tender boughe, And fell downe to his foote. "Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, That ere thou grew on a tree! 70 For now this day thou art my bale, My boote when thou shold bee." His shoote it was but loosely shott, Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, For itt mett one of the sheriffes men, 75 Good William a Trent was slaine. It had bene better of William a Trent To have bene abed with sorrowe, Than to be that day in the greenwood slade To meet with Little Johns arrowe. 80 But as it is said, when men be mett Fyve can doe more than three, The sheriffe hath taken Little John, And bound him fast to a tree. "Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, 85 And hanged hye on a hill;" "But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose," quoth John, "If itt be Christ his will." Lett us leave talking of Little John, And thinke of Robin Hood, 90 How he is gone to the wight yeomàn, Where under the leaves he stood. "Good morrowe, good fellowe," sayd Robin so fayre, "Good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he: Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande, 95 A good archere thou sholdst bee." "I am wilfulle of my waye," quo' the yemàn, "And of my morning tyde:" "Ile lead thee through the wood," sayd Robin, "Good, fellow, Ile be thy guide." 100 "I seeke an outlawe," the straunger sayd, "Men call him Robin Hood: Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe Than fortye pound soe good." "Now come with me, thou wight yemàn,[L105] 105 And Robin thou soone shalt see; But first let us some pastime find Under the greenwood tree. "First let us some masterye make Among the woods so even; 110 We may chance to meet with Robin Hood Here att some unsett steven." They cutt them downe two summer shroggs, That grew both under a breere, And sett them threescore rood in twaine, 115 To shoote the prickes y-fere. "Leade on, good fellowe," quoth Robin Hood, "Leade on, I do bidd thee;" "Nay, by my faith, good fellowe," hee sayd, "My leader thou shalt bee." 120 The first time Robin shot at the pricke, He mist but an inch it fro; The yeoman was an archer good, But he cold never shoote soe. The second shoote had the wighte yemàn,[L125] 125 He shote within the garlànde; But Robin he shott far better than hee, For he clave the good pricke-wande. "A blessing upon thy heart," he sayd, "Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode; 130 For an thy hart be as good as thy hand, Thou wert better then Robin Hoode. "Now tell me thy name, good fellowe," sayd he, "Under the leaves of lyne;" "Nay, by my faith," quoth bolde Robin, 135 "Till thou have told me thine." "I dwell by dale and downe," quoth hee, "And Robin to take Ime sworne; And when I am called by my right name, I am Guye of good Gisbòrne." 140 "My dwelling is in this wood," sayes Robin, "By thee I set right nought: I am Robin Hood of Barnésdale, Whom thou so long hast sought." He that had nether beene kithe nor kin 145 Might have seene a full fayre fight, To see how together these yeomen went With blades both browne and bright: To see how these yeomen together they fought Two howres of a summers day, 150 Yett neither Robin Hood nor sir Guy Them fettled to flye away. Robin was reachles on a roote, And stumbled at that tyde; And Guy was quicke and nimble withall, 155 And hitt him ore the left side. "Ah, deere Ladye," sayd Robin Hood tho, "Thou art both mother and may; I think it was never mans destinye To dye before his day." 160 Robin thought on our ladye deere, And soone leapt up againe, And strait he came with an awkwarde stroke, And he sir Guy hath slayne. He took sir Guys head by the hayre, 165 And sticked itt on his bowes end: "Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe, Which thing must have an end." Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe, And nicked sir Guy in the face, 170 That he was never on woman born Cold tell whose head it was. Sayes, "Lye there, lye there now, sir Guye, And with me be not wrothe; Iff thou have had the worse strokes at my hand, 175 Thou shalt have the better clothe." Robin did off his gowne of greene, And on sir Guy did it throwe, And hee put on that capull hyde, That cladd him topp to toe. 180 "The bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne, Now with me I will beare; For I will away to Barnésdale, To see how my men doe fare." Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth, 185 And a loud blast in it did blow: That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham, As he leaned under a lowe. "Hearken, hearken," sayd the sheriffe, "I heare nowe tydings good, 190 For yonder I heare sir Guyes horne blowe, And he hath slaine Robin Hoode. "Yonder I heare sir Guyes horne blowe, Itt blowes soe well in tyde, And yonder comes that wight yeomàn,[L195] 195 Cladd in his capull hyde. "Come hyther, come hyther, thou good sir Guy, Aske what thou wilt of mee:" "O I will none of thy gold," sayd Robin, "Nor I will none of thy fee. 200 "But now I have slaine the master," he sayes, "Let me goe strike the knave; This is all the rewarde I aske, Nor noe other will I have." "Thou art a madman," said the sheriffe, 205 "Thou sholdest have had a knights fee; But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, Well granted it shale be." When Litle John heard his master speake, Well knewe he it was his steven; 210 "Now shall I be looset," quoth Litle John, "With Christ his might in heaven." Fast Robin hee hyed him to Little John, He thought to loose him belive: The sheriffe and all his companye 215 Fast after him did drive. "Stand abacke, stand abacke," sayd Robin, "Why draw you mee soe neere? It was never the use in our countrye, Ones shrift another shold heere." 220 But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife, And losed John hand and foote, And gave him sir Guyes bow into his hand, And bade it be his boote. Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand, 225 His boltes and arrowes eche one: When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow, He fettled him to be gone. Towards his house in Nottingham towne He fled full fast away, 230 And soe did all the companye, Not one behind wold stay. But he cold neither runne soe fast, Nor away soe fast cold ryde, But Litle John with an arrowe soe broad 235 He shott him into the backe-syde. MS. 1, shales, for shaws. 11, wighty. 24, the. 27, 31, the. 105, wighty. 125, wightye. 195, wightye. THE BIRTH OF ROBIN HOOD. "The following ballad was taken down by the Editor from the recitation of Mrs. Brown, and is here given without the alteration of a single word."--_Jamieson_, _Popular Ballads_, ii. 44. Another version of the same is printed in the Appendix from Buchan's collections. O Willie's large o' limb and lith, And come o' high degree; And he is gone to Earl Richard To serve for meat and fee. Earl Richard had but ae daughter, 5 Fair as a lily flower; And they made up their love-contract Like proper paramour. It fell upon a simmers nicht, Whan the leaves were fair and green, 10 That Willie met his gay ladie Intil the wood alane. "O narrow is my gown, Willie, That wont to be sae wide; And gane is a' my fair colour, 15 That wont to be my pride. "But gin my father should get word What's past between us twa, Before that he should eat or drink, He'd hang you o'er that wa. 20 "But ye'le come to my bower, Willie, Just as the sun goes down; And kep me in your arms twa, And latna me fa' down." O whan the sun was now gane down, 25 He's doen him till her bower; And there, by the lee licht o' the moon, Her window she lookit o'er. Intill a robe o' red scarlet She lap, fearless o' harm; 30 And Willie was large o' lith and limb, And keepit her in his arm. And they've gane to the gude green-wood, And ere the night was deen, She's borne to him a bonny young son, 35 Amang the leaves sae green. Whan night was gane, and day was come, And the sun began to peep, Up and raise the Earl Richard Out o' his drowsy sleep. 40 He's ca'd upon his merry young men, By ane, by twa, and by three, "O what's come o' my daughter dear, That she's nae come to me? "I dreamt a dreary dream last night, 45 God grant it come to gude! I dreamt I saw my daughter dear Drown in the saut sea flood. "But gin my daughter be dead or sick, Or yet be stown awa, 50 I mak a vow, and I'll keep it true, I'll hang ye ane and a!" They sought her back, they sought her fore, They sought her up and down; They got her in the gude green wood, 55 Nursing her bonny young son. He took the bonny boy in his arms, And kist him tenderlie; Says, "Though I would your father hang, Your mother's dear to me." 60 He kist him o'er and o'er again; "My grandson I thee claim; And Robin Hood in gude green wood, And that shall be your name." And mony ane sings o' grass, o' grass, 65 And mony ane sings o' corn; And mony ane sings o' Robin Hood, Kens little whare he was born. It was na in the ha', the ha', Nor in the painted bower; 70 But it was in the gude green wood, Amang the lily flower. ROSE THE RED, AND WHITE LILLY. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 208. This legend and the preceding are placed in this volume solely on account of the names given to the personages who figure in them. In character they have no affinity with the recognized circle of Robin Hood ballads. The story is of a more ancient cast, and also of a type common to the northern nations, and we have no doubt that Robin Hood and Little John were in the day of their popularity made to displace heroes of immemorial prescription, in order to give eclat to an old tale. Of _Rose the Red, and White Lilly_, three versions have been published. The present is that of Scott, given "chiefly" from Mrs. Brown's manuscript. Kinloch's is subjoined, and another, furnished by Buchan, is printed in the Appendix. O Rose the Red, and White Lilly, Their mother deir was dead; And their father has married an ill woman, Wish'd them twa little guid. But she had twa as gallant sons 5 As ever brake mans bread; And the tane o' them lo'ed her, White Lilly, And the tother Rose the Red. O bigged hae they a bigly bour, Fast by the roaring strand; 10 And there was mair mirth in the ladyes bour, Nor in a' their fathers land. But out and spak their step-mother, As she stood a little forebye-- "I hope to live and play the prank 15 Sall gar your loud sang lie." She's call'd upon her eldest son, "Cum here, my son, to me: It fears me sair, my Bauld Arthur, That ye maun sail the sea." 20 "Gin sae it maun be, my deir mother, Your bidding I maun dee; But, be never waur to Rose the Red, Than ye hae been to me." She's called upon her youngest son, 25 "Cum here, my son, to me: It fears me sair, my Brown Robin, That ye maun sail the sea." "Gin it fear ye sair, my mother deir, Your bidding I shall dee; 30 But, be never waur to White Lilly, Than ye hae been to me." "Now haud your tongues, ye foolish boys, For small sall be their part: They ne'er again sall see your face, 35 Gin their very hearts suld break." Sae Bauld Arthur's gane to our king's court, His hie chamberlain to be; But Brown Robin, he has slain a knight, And to grene-woode he did flee. 40 When Rose the Red, and White Lilly, Saw their twa loves were gane, Sune did they drop the loud loud sang, Took up the still mourning. And out then spake her White Lilly; 45 "My sister, we'll be gane: Why suld we stay in Barnisdale, To mourn our bour within?" O cutted hae they their green cloathing, A little abune their knee, 50 And sae hae they their yellow hair, A little abune their bree. And left hae they that bonny bour, To cross the raging sea; And they hae ta'en to a holy chapel, 55 Was christened by Our Ladye. And they hae changed their twa names, Sae far frae ony toun; And the tane o' them's hight Sweet Willie, And the tother's Rouge the Rounde. 60 Between the twa a promise is, And they hae sworn it to fulfil; Whenever the tane blew a bugle-horn, The tother suld cum her till. Sweet Willie's gane to the kings court, 65 Her true love for to see; And Rouge the Rounde to gude grene-wood, Brown Robin's man to be. O it fell anes, upon a time, They putted at the stane; 70 And seven foot ayont them a', Brown Robin's gar'd it gang. She lifted the heavy putting-stane, And gave a sad "Ohon!" Then out bespake him, Brown Robin, 75 "But that's a woman's moan!" "O kent ye by my rosy lips? Or by my yellow hair? Or kent ye by my milk-white breast, Ye never yet saw bare?" 80 "I kent na by your rosy lips; Nor by your yellow hair; But, cum to your bour whaever likes, They'll find a ladye there." "O gin ye come my bour within, 85 Through fraud, deceit, or guile, Wi' this same brand, that's in my hand, I vow I will thee kill." "Yet durst I cum into your bour, And ask nae leave," quo' he; 90 "And wi' this same brand, that's in my hand, Wave danger back on thee." About the dead hour o' the night, The ladye's bour was broken; And, about the first hour o' the day, 95 The fair knave bairn was gotten. When days were gane, and months were come, The ladye was sad and wan; And aye she cried for a bour woman, For to wait her upon. 100 Then up and spake him, Brown Robin, "And what needs this?" quo' he; "Or what can woman do for you, That canna be done by me?" "'Twas never my mothers fashion," she said, 105 "Nor shall it e'er be mine, That belted knights should e're remain While ladyes dree'd their pain. "But gin ye take that bugle-horn, And wind a blast sae shrill, 110 I hae a brother in yonder court, Will come me quickly till." "O gin ye hae a brother on earth, That ye lo'e mair than me, Ye may blow the horn yoursell," he says, 115 "For a blast I winna gie." She's ta'en the bugle in her hand, And blawn baith loud and shrill; Sweet William started at the sound, And came her quickly till. 120 O up and starts him, Brown Robin, And swore by Our Ladye, "No man shall come into this bour, But first maun fight wi' me." O they hae fought the wood within, 125 Till the sun was going down; And drops o' blood frae Rose the Red Came pouring to the ground. She leant her back against an aik, Said, "Robin, let me be; 130 For it is a ladye, bred and born, That has fought this day wi' thee." O seven foot he started back, Cried, "Alas and woe is me! For I wished never, in all my life, 135 A woman's bluid to see: "And that all for the knightly vow I swore to Our Ladye; But mair for the sake o' ae fair maid, Whose name was White Lilly." 140 Then out and spake her Rouge the Rounde, And leugh right hertilie, "She has been wi' ye this year and mair, Though ye wistna it was she." Now word is gane through all the land, 145 Before a month was gane, That a foresters page, in gude grene-wood, Had born a bonny son. The marvel gaed to the kings court, And to the king himsell; 150 "Now, by my fae," the king did say, "The like was never heard tell!" Then out and spake him Bauld Arthur, And laugh'd right loud and hie-- "I trow some may has plaid the lown, 155 And fled her ain countrie." "Bring me my steid," the King can say, "My bow and arrows keen; And I'll gae hunt in yonder wood, And see what's to be seen." 160 "Gin it please your grace," quo' Bauld Arthur, "My liege, I'll gang you wi', And see gin I can meet a bonny page, That's stray'd awa frae me." And they hae chased in gude green-wood, 165 The buck but and the rae, Till they drew near Brown Robin's bour, About the close o' day. Then out an' spake the king himsell, Says, "Arthur, look and see, 170 Gin yon be not your favourite page, That leans against yon tree." O Arthur's ta'en a bugle-horn, And blawn a blast sae shrill; Sweet Willie started to her feet, 175 And ran him quickly till. "O wanted ye your meat, Willie, Or wanted ye your fee? Or gat ye e'er an angry word, That ye ran awa frae me?" 180 "I wanted nought, my master dear; To me ye aye was good: I cam to see my ae brother, That wons in this grene-wood." Then out bespake the King again,-- 185 "My boy, now tell to me, Who dwells into yon bigly bour, Beneath yon green aik tree?" "O pardon me," said sweet Willy, "My liege, I darena tell; 190 And gangna near yon outlaw's bour, For fear they suld you kill." "O haud your tongue, my bonny boy, For I winna be said nay; But I will gang yon bour within, 195 Betide me weal or wae." They have lighted frae their milk-white steids, And saftlie entered in; And there they saw her, White Lilly, Nursing her bonny young son. 200 "Now, by the mass," the King he said, "This is a comely sight; I trow, instead of a forester's man, This is a ladye bright!" O out and spake her, Rose the Red, 205 And fell low on her knee:-- "O pardon us, my gracious liege, And our story I'll tell thee. "Our father is a wealthy lord, Lives into Barnisdale; 210 But we had a wicked step-mother, That wrought us meikle bale. "Yet had she twa as fu' fair sons As e'er the sun did see; And the tane o' them lo'ed my sister deir, 215 And the tother said he lo'ed me." Then out and cried him Bauld Arthur, As by the King he stood,-- "Now, by the faith of my body, This suld be Rose the Red!" 220 The king has sent for robes o' green, And girdles o' shining gold; And sae sune have the ladyes busked themselves, Sae glorious to behold. Then in and came him, Brown Robin, 225 Fra hunting o' the King's deer, But when he saw the King himsell, He started back for fear. The King has ta'en Robin by the hand, And bade him nothing dread, 230 But quit for aye the gude grene-wood, And come to the court wi' speed. The King has ta'en White Lilly's son, And set him on his knee; Says, "Gin ye live to wield a brand, 235 My bowman thou sall be." Then they have ta'en them to the holy chapelle, And there had fair wedding; And when they cam to the King's court, For joy the bells did ring. 240 THE WEDDING OF ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN. From Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 69. The King has wedded an ill woman, Into some foreign land; His daughters twa, that stood in awe, They bravely sat and sang. Then in be-came their step-mother, 5 Sae stately steppin' ben; "O gin I live and bruik my life, I'll gar ye change your tune." "O we sang ne'er that sang, ladie, But we will sing again; 10 And ye ne'er boor that son, ladie, We wad lay our love on. "But we will cow our yellow locks, A little abune our bree; And we will on to gude green-wud, 15 And serve for meat and fee. "And we will kilt our gay claithing A little below the knee; And we will on the gude green-wud, Gif Robin Hood we see. 20 "And we will change our ain twa names, When we gae frae the toun,-- The tane we will call Nicholas, The tither Rogee Roun." Then they hae cow'd their yellow locks, 25 A little abune their bree; And they are on to gude green-wud To serve for meat and fee. And they hae kilt their gay claithing A little below their knee, 30 And they are on to gud green-wud, Gif Robin Hood they see. And they hae chang'd thair ain twa names, When they gaed frae the toun;-- The tane they've called Nicholas, 35 The tither Rogee Roun. And they hae staid in gude green-wud, And never a day thoucht long, Till it fell ance upon a day, That Rogee sang a sang. 40 "When we were in our fathers bouer, We sew'd the silken seam; But now we walk the gude green-wud, And bear anither name. "When we were in our fathers ha', 45 We wore the beaten gold; But now we wear the shield sae sharp, Alas! we'll die with cold!" Then up bespake him Robin Hood, As he to them drew near; 50 "Instead of boys to carry the bow, Twa ladies we've got here." So they had not been in gud green-wud, A twalmonth and a day, Till Rogee Roun was as big wi' bairn 55 As onie lady could gae. "O wae be to my stepmother, That garr'd me leave my hame, For I'm wi' bairn to Robin Hood, And near nine month is gane. 60 "O wha will be my bouer-woman? Na bouer-woman is here! O wha will be my bouer-woman, Whan that sad time draws near? * * * * * * * The tane was wedded to Robin Hood, 65 And the tither to Little John; And it was a' owing to their step-mother That garr'd them leave their hame. ROBIN HOOD AND THE BEGGAR. "Robin Hood and his fellow, Little John," says Motherwell, "were popular with the minstrels of Scotland as they were with those of England. Our early poets and historians never tired of alluding to songs current in their own times, relative to these waithmen and their merry men. Even to this day there are fragments of songs regarding them, traditionally extant in Scotland, which have not yet found their way into any printed collection of ballads commemorative of these celebrated outlaws. Were they carefully gathered they would form an interesting addition to Ritson's _Robin Hood_. In that collection, the ballad of _Robin Hood and the Beggar_ is evidently the production of a Scottish minstrel, pretty early stall copies of which were printed both at Aberdeen and Glasgow."--_Minstrelsy_, p. xliii. Ritson printed this ballad (_Robin Hood_, ii. 97,) from a modern copy printed at Newcastle. He remarks that a similar story may be found in _Le Moyen de parvenir_, (i. 304, ed. 1739, _Comment un moine se débarasse des voleurs_.) We have adopted a superior version given by Gutch, which was from an Aberdeen copy in the Ashmolean Museum, without date.--(Gutch's _Robin Hood_, ii. 233.) _Robin Hood and the Beggar_, with the nine pieces which are now immediately subjoined, the first part of the tenth, (which has the same title as the present,) and the first part of _Robin Hood and the Stranger_, in the Appendix, contains a story essentially the same with the first part of the ancient ballad of _Robin Hood and the Potter_, p. 17. Lyth and listen, gentlemen, That's come of high born blood, I'll tell you of a brave booting That befel Robin Hood. Robin Hood upon a day, 5 He went forth alone; And as he came from Barnesdale Into fair evening, He met a beggar on the way, Who sturdily could gang; 10 He had a pike-staff in his hand That was baith stark and strang. A clouted cloak about him was, That held him frae the cold; The thinnest bit of it, I guess, 15 Was more then twenty fold. His meal-pock hang about his neck, Into a leathern fang, Well fasten'd with a broad buckle, That was baith stark and strang. 20 He had three hats upon his head, Together stickèd fast, He car'd neither for wind nor weet, In lands where'er he past. Good Robin coost him in his way, 25 To see what he might be, If any beggar had monèy, He thought some part had he. "Tarry, tarry," good Robin says, "Tarry, and speak with me;" 30 He heard him as he heard him not, And fast on his way can hie. "It be's not so," says good Robin, "Nay, thou must tarry still;" "By my troth," said the bold beggar, 35 "Of that I have no will. "It is far to my lodging house, And it is growing late; If they have supt e'er I come in I will look wondrous blate." 40 "Now, by my truth," says good Robin, "I see well by thy fare, If thou chear well to thy supper, Of mine thou takes no care; "Who wants my dinner all this day, 45 And wots not where to lie, And should I to the tavern go, I want money to buy. "Sir, thou must lend me some money Till we two meet again:" 50 The beggar answer'd cankerdly, "I have no money to lend. "Thou art as young a man as I, And seems to be as sweir; If thou fast till thou get from me, 55 Thou shalt eat none this year." "Now, by my truth," says good Robin, "Since we are 'sembled so, If thou have but a small farthing, I'll have it e'er thou go. 60 "Therefore, lay down thy clouted cloak, And do no longer stand, And loose the strings of all thy pocks, I'll ripe them with my hand. "And now to thee I make a vow, 65 If thou make any din, I shall see if a broad arrow, Can pierce a beggar's skin." The beggar smil'd, and answer made, "Far better let me be; 70 Think not that I will be afraid For thy nip crooked tree. "Or that I fear thee any whit For thy curn nips of sticks; I know no use for them so meet 75 As to be pudding-pricks. "Here I defy thee to do me ill, For all thy boisterous fare; Thou'st get nothing from me but ill, Would'st thou seek evermair." 80 Good Robin bent his noble bow, He was an angery man, And in it set a broad arròw; Yet erst was drawn a span, The beggar, with his noble tree, 85 Reach'd him so round a rout, That his bow and his broad arròw In flinders flew about. Good Robin bound him to his brand, But that prov'd likewise vain, The beggar lighted on his hand With his pike-staff again. I wot he might not draw a sword For forty days and mair; Good Robin could not speak a word, 95 His heart was never so sair. He could not fight, he could not flee, He wist not what to do; The beggar with his noble tree Laid lusty flaps him to. 100 He paid good Robin back and side, And beft him up and down, And with his pike-staff still laid on hard, Till he fell in a swoon. "Fy, stand up, man," the beggar said, 105 "'Tis shame to go to rest; Stay still till thou get my money, I think it were the best. "And syne go to the tavern house, And buy both wine and ale; 110 Hereat thy friends will crack full crouse, Thou hast been at a dale." Good Robin answer'd never a word, But lay still as a stane; His cheeks were white as any clay, 115 And closed were his eyen. The beggar thought him dead but fail, And boldly bown'd away;-- I would you had been at the dale, And gotten part of the play. 120 [THE SECOND PART.] Now three of Robin's men, by chance, Came walking by the way, And found their master in a trance, On ground where he did lay. Up have they taken good Robin, 5 Making a piteous beir, Yet saw they no man there at whom They might the matter speir. They lookèd him all round about, But wounds on him saw none, 10 Yet at his mouth came bocking out The blood of a good vein. Cold water they have taken syne, And cast into his face; Then he began to lift his eyne, 15 And spake within short space. "Tell us, dear master," said his men, "How with you stands the case?" Good Robin sigh'd e'er he began To tell of his disgrace. 20 "I have been watchman in this wood Near hand this forty year, Yet I was never so hard bestead As you have found me here. "A beggar with a clouted cloak, 25 In whom I fear'd no ill, Hath with his pike-staff claw'd my back, I fear 'twill never be well. See, where he goes o'er yonder hill, With hat upon his head; 30 If e'er you lov'd your master well, Go now revenge this deed. "And bring him back again to me, If it lie in your might, That I may see, before I die, 35 Him punisht in my sight. "And if you may not bring him back, Let him not go loose on; For to us all it were great shame If he escap't again." 40 "One of us shall with you remain, Because you're ill at ease, The other two shall bring him back, To use him as you please." "Now, by my troth," says good Robin, 45 "I trow there's enough said; If he get scouth to wield his tree, I fear you'll both be paid." "Be ye not fear'd, our good master, That we two can be dung 50 With any blutter base beggar, That has nought but a rung. "His staff shall stand him in no stead; That you shall shortly see; But back again he shall be led, 55 And fast bound shall he be, To see if ye will have him slain, Or hangèd on a tree." "But cast you slily in his way, Before he be aware, 60 And on his pike-staff first hands lay, You'll speed the better far." Now leave we Robin with his man, Again to play the child, And learn himself to stand and gang 65 By haulds, for all his eild. Now pass we to the bold beggàr That rakèd o'er the hill, Who never mended his pace no more Nor he had done no ill. 70 The young men knew the country well, So soon where he would be,[L72] And they have taken another way,[L73] Was nearer by miles three. They rudely ran with all their might, 75 Spared neither dub nor mire, They started neither at laigh nor hight, No travel made them tire. Till they before the beggar wan, And coost them in his way; 80 A little wood lay in a glen, And there they both did stay. They stood up closely by a tree, In ilk side of the gate, Until the beggar came them to, 85 That thought not of such fate. And as he was betwixt them past, They leapt upon him baith; The one his pike-staff grippèd fast, They fearèd for its scaith. 90 The other he held in his sight A drawen dirk to his breast, And said, "False carl, quit thy staff, Or I shall be thy priest." His pike-staff they have taken him frae, 95 And stuck it in the green, He was full loath to let gae, If better might have been. The beggar was the feardest man Of one that ever might be; 100 To win away no way he can, Nor help him with his tree. He wist not wherefore he was tane, Nor how many was there; He thought his life-days had been gane, 105 He grew into despair. "Grant me my life," the beggar said, "For him that died on tree, And take away that ugly knife, Or then for fear I'll die. 110 "I griev'd you never in all my life, Nor late nor yet by ayre, Ye have great sin, if ye would slay A silly poor beggàr." "Thou lies, false lown," they said again, 115 "By all that may be sworn; Thou hast near slain the gentlest man That ever yet was born. "And back again thou shalt be led, And fast bound shalt thou be, 120 To see if he will have thee slain, Or hangèd on a tree." The beggar then thought all was wrong; They were set for his wrack; He saw nothing appearing then, 125 But ill upon worse back. Were he out of their hands, he thought, And had again his tree, He should not be had back for nought, With such as he did see. 130 Then he bethought him on a wile, If it could take effect, How he the young men might beguile, And give them a begeck. Thus for to do them shame or ill, 135 His beastly breast was bent; He found the wind grew something shril, To further his intent. He said, "Brave gentlemen, be good, And let the poor man be; 140 When ye have taken a beggar's blood, It helps you not a flea. "It was but in my own defence, If he hath gotten skaith; But I will make a recompense, 145 Much better for you baith. "If ye will set me safe and free, And do me no dangèr, An hundred pounds I will you give, And much more good silvèr, 150 "That I have gather'd this many years, Under this clouted cloak, And hid up [wonder] privately,[L153] In bottom of my pock." The young men to a council yeed, 155 And let the beggar gae; They wist full well he had no speed From them to run away. They thought they would the money take, Come after what so may; 160 And then they would not bring him back, But in that place him slay. By that good Robin would not know That they had gotten coin; It would content him for to show 165 That there they had him slain. They said, "False carl, soon have done, And tell forth thy monèy; For the ill turn that thou hast done 'Tis but a simple fee. 170 "And yet we will not have thee back, Come after what so may, If thou will do that which thou spake, And make us present pay." O then he loos'd his clouted cloak, 175 And spread it on the ground, And thereon laid he many a pock, Betwixt them and the wind. He took a great bag from his hase, It was near full of meal, 180 Two pecks in it at least there was, And more I wot full well. Upon his cloak he laid it down, The mouth he open'd wide, To turn the same he made him bown, 185 The young men ready spy'd. In every hand he took a nook Of that great leathern meal, And with a fling the meal he shook, Into their faces hail: 190 Wherewith he blinded them so close, A stime they could not see; And then in heart he did rejoice, And clapt his lusty tree. He thought if he had done them wrong, 195 In mealing of their cloaths, For to strike off the meal again With his pike-staff he goes. Or any of them could red their eyne, Or could a glimm'ring see, 200 Ilk one of them a dozen had Well laid on with the tree. The young men were right swift of foot, And boldly ran away, The beggar could them no more hit, 205 For all the haste he may. "What ails this haste?" the beggar said, "May ye not tarry still, Until your money be received? I'll pay you with good will. 210 "The shaking of my pocks, I fear, Hath blown into your eyne; But I have a good pike-staff here Can ripe them out full clean." The young men answer'd never a word, 215 They were dumb as a stane; In the thick wood the beggar fled, E'er they riped their eyne. And syne the night became so late, To seek him was in vain: 220 But judge ye, if they lookèd blate, When they came home again. Good Robin spear'd how they had sped; They answer'd him, "Full ill:" "That cannot be," good Robin says, 225 "Ye have been at the mill. "The mill it is a meatrif place, They may lick what they please; Most like ye have been at that art, Who would look to your cloaths." 230 They hang'd their heads, they dropèd down, A word they could not speak: Robin said, "Because I fell a-swoon, I think you'll do the like. "Tell on the matter, less or more, 235 And tell me what and how[L236] Ye have done with the bold beggàr, I sent you for right now." And when they told him to an end, As I have said before, 240 How that the beggar did them blind, What misters process more, And how he lin'd their shoulders broad[L243] With his great trenchen tree,[L244] And how in the thick wood he fled, 245 E'er they a stime could see, And how they scarcely could win home, Their bones were beft so sore, Good Robin cry'd, "Fy! out, for shame! We're sham'd for evermore." 250 Altho' good Robin would full fain Of his wrong revengèd be, He smil'd to see his merry young men Had gotten a taste of the tree. 72,73. Wanting in the original, and restored from the Aberdeen copy. GUTCH. 153, wonder. RITSON. 236, where. 243, 244. These two lines are restored from the Aberdeen ballad. G. THE JOLLY PINDER OF WAKEFIELD. WITH ROBIN HOOD, SCARLET, AND JOHN. Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 18. "From an old black-letter copy, in A. à Wood's collection, compared with two others in the British Museum, one in black-letter. "Several lines of this ballad are quoted in the two old plays of the _Downfall_ and _Death of Robert earle of Huntington_, 1601, 4to. b. l. but acted many years before. It is also alluded to in Shakespeare's _Merry Wives of Windsor_, act i. scene 1, and again in his Second Part of _King Henry IV._, act v. scene 3. "In 1557 certain 'ballets' are entered on the books of the Stationers' Company, 'to John Wallye and Mrs. Toye,' one of which is entitled _Of Wakefylde and a grene_; meaning apparently the ballad here reprinted." RITSON. In Wakefield there lives a jolly pindèr, In Wakefield all on a green, _In Wakefield all on a green_. * * * * * * * * * * "There is neither knight nor squire," said the pinder, "Nor baron that is so bold, 5 _Nor baron that is so bold_, Dare make a trespàss to the town of Wakefield, But his pledge goes to the pinfold," &c. All this beheard three wighty yeomen,[L9] 'Twas Robin Hood, Scarlet and John; 10 With that they espy'd the jolly pindèr, As he sat under a thorn. "Now turn again, turn again," said the pindèr, "For a wrong way you have gone; For you have forsaken the kings highway, 15 And made a path over the corn." "O that were a shame," said jolly Robìn, "We being three, and thou but one:" The pinder leapt back then thirty good foot, 'Twas thirty good foot and one. 20 He leaned his back fast unto a thorn, And his foot against a stone, And there he fought a long summers day, A summers day so long, Till that their swords on their broad bucklèrs, 25 Were broke fast into their hands. "Hold thy hand, hold thy hand," said bold Robin Hood, "And my merry men stand aside; For this is one of the best pindèrs,[L29] That with sword ever I tryed.[L30] 30 "And wilt thou forsake thy pinders craft, And go to the greenwood with me? Thou shalt have a livery twice in the year,[L33] Th' one greene, 'tither brown shall be."[L34] "At Michaelmas next my cov'nant comes out, 35 When every man gathers his fee, Then I'le take my blew blade all in my hand, And plod to the green-wood with thee." "Hast thou either meat or drink," said Robin Hood, "For my merry men and me?" 40 * * * * * * * * * * "I have both bread and beef," said the pinder, "And good ale of the best:" "And that is meat good enough," said Robin Hood, For such unbidden 'guest.' "O wilt thou forsake the pinder his craft, 45 And go to the green-wood with me? Thou shalt have a livery twice in the year, The one green, the other brown [shall be]." "If Michaelmas day was come and gone, And my master had paid me my fee, 50 Then would I set as little by him, As my master doth by me." 9, witty young men. RITSON 29, 30. This is the reading in one black-letter copy that has come under the Editor's notice, instead of "For this is one of the best pinders That ever I tried with sword."--GUTCH. 33, 34. From the same. ROBIN HOOD AND THE RANGER; OR, TRUE FRIENDSHIP AFTER A FIERCE FIGHT. "No ancient copy of this ballad having been met with, it is given from an edition of _Robin Hood's Garland_, printed some years since at York. The tune is _Arthur a Bland_." RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 137. When Ph[oe]bus had melted the 'sickles' of ice, _With a hey down, &c._ And likewise the mountains of snow, Bold Robin Hood he would ramble away, To frolick abroad with his bow. He left all his merry men waiting behind, 5 Whilst through the green vallies he pass'd, Where he did behold a forester bold, Who cry'd out, "Friend, whither so fast?" "I am going," quoth Robin, "to kill a fat buck, For me and my merry men all; 10 Besides, ere I go, I'll have a fat doe, Or else it shall cost me a fall." "You'd best have a care," said the forester then, "For these are his majesty's deer; Before you shall shoot, the thing I'll dispute, 15 For I am head forester here." "These thirteen long summers," quoth Robin, "I'm sure, My arrows I here have let fly, Where freely I range; methinks it is strange, You should have more power than I. 20 "This forest," quoth Robin, "I think is my own, And so are the nimble deer too; Therefore I declare, and solemnly swear, I'll not be affronted by you." The forester he had a long quarter staff, 25 Likewise a broad sword by his side; Without more ado, he presently drew, Declaring the truth should be try'd. Bold Robin Hood had a sword of the best, Thus, ere he would take any wrong, 30 His courage was flush, he'd venture a brush, And thus they fell to it ding dong. The very first blow that the forester gave, He made his broad weapon cry twang; 'Twas over the head, he fell down for dead, 35 O that was a damnable bang! But Robin he soon recovered himself, And bravely fell to it again; The very next stroke their weapons they broke. Yet never a man there was slain. 40 At quarter staff then they resolvèd to play, Because they would have the other bout; And brave Robin Hood right valiantly stood, Unwilling he was to give out. Bold Robin he gave him very hard blows, 45 The other return'd them as fast; At every stroke their jackets did smoke, Three hours the combat did last. At length in a rage the forester grew, And cudgell'd bold Robin so sore, 50 That he could not stand, so shaking his hand, He cry'd, "Let us freely give o'er. "Thou art a brave fellow; I needs must confess, I never knew any so good; Thou art fitting to be a yeoman for me, 55 And range in the merry green-wood. "Ill give thee this ring as a token of love, For bravely thou hast acted thy part; That man that can fight, in him I delight, And love him with all my whole heart. 60 Robin Hood set his bugle-horn to his mouth, A blast then he merrily blows; His yeomen did hear, and strait did appear, A hundred with trusty long bows. Now Little John came at the head of them all, 65 Cloath'd in a rich mantle of green; And likewise the rest were gloriously drest, A delicate sight to be seen. "Lo, these are my yeomen," said bold Robin Hood, "And thou shalt be one of the train; 70 A mantle and bow, and quiver also, I give them whom I entertain." The forester willingly enter'd the list, They were such a beautiful sight; Then with a long bow they shot a fat doe, 75 And made a rich supper that night. What singing and dancing was in the green wood, For joy of another new mate! With might and delight they spent all the night, And liv'd at a plentiful rate. 80 The forester ne'er was so merry before, As then he was with these brave souls, Who never would fail, in wine, beer, or ale, To take off their cherishing bowls. Then Robin Hood gave him a mantle of green, 85 Broad arrows, and curious long bow: This done, the next day, so gallant and gay, He marchèd them all on a row. Quoth he, "My brave yeomen, be true to your trust, And then we may range the woods wide:" 90 They all did declare, and solemnly swear, They would conquer, or die by his side. ROBIN HOODS DELIGHT: Or, a merry combat fought between Robin Hood, Little John, and Will Scarelock, and three stout keepers in Sheerwood Forrest. Robin was valiant and stout, So was Scarelock and John in the field, But these keepers stout did give them rout, And make them all for to yield. But after the battel ended was, Bold Robin did make them amends, For claret and sack they did not lack, So drank themselves good friends. To the tune of Robin Hood and Queen Katherine; or, Robin Hood and the Shepheard. "From an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony à Wood." RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 120. There's some will talk of lords and knights, _Doun, a doun, a doun_, And some of yeomen good, But I will tell you of Will Scarlock, Little John, and Robin Hood. _Doun, a doun, a doun, a doun._ They were outlaws, 'tis well known, 5 And men of a noble blood; And many a time was their valour shown In the forrest of merry Sheerwood. Upon a time it chanced so, As Robin Hood would have it be, 10 They all three would a walking go, The pastime for to see. And as they walked the forest along, Upon a Midsummer day, There was they aware of three keepèrs, 15 Clad all in green aray. With brave long faucheons by their sides, And forrest-bills in hand, They call'd aloud to those bold outlàws, And charged them to stand. 20 "Why, who are you," cry'd bold Robìn, "That speak so boldly here?" "We three belong to King Henry, And are keepers of his deer." "The devil you are!" sayes Robin Hood, 25 "I am sure that it is not so; We be the keepers of this forrèst, And that you soon shall know. "Come, your coats of green lay on the ground, And so will we all three, 30 And take your swords and bucklers round, And try the victory." "We be content," the keepers said, "We be three, and you no less, Then why should we be of you afraid, 35 As we never did transgress?" "Why, if you be three keepers in this forrèst, Then we be three rangers good, And will make you know before you do go, You meet with bold Robin Hood." 40 "We be content, thou bold outlàw, Our valour here to try, And will make you know, before we do go, We will fight before we will fly. "Then, come draw your swords, you bold outlàws, 45 No longer stand to prate, But let us try it out with blows, For cowards we do hate. "Here is one of us for Will Scarlock, And another for Little John, 50 And I myself for Robin Hood, Because he is stout and strong." So they fell to it hard and sore, It was on a Midsummers day; From eight of the clock till two and past, 55 They all shewed gallant play. There Robin, and Will, and Little John, They fought most manfully, Till all their winde was spent and gone, Then Robin aloud did cry: 60 "O hold, O hold," cries bold Robin, "I see you be stout men; Let me blow one blast on my bugle horn, Then Ile fight with you again." "That bargain's to make, bold Robin Hood, 65 Therefore we it deny; Thy blast upon the bugle horn Cannot make us fight or fly. "Therefore fall on, or else be gone, And yield to us the day: 70 It never shall be said that we are afraid Of thee, nor thy yeomen gay." "If that be so," cries bold Robin, "Let me but know your names, And in the forrest of merry Sheerwood, 75 I shall extol your fames." "And with our names," one of them said, "What hast thou here to do? Except that thou wilt fight it out, Our names thou shalt not know." 80 "We will fight no more," sayes bold Robin, "You be men of valour stout; Come and go with me to Nottingham, And there we will fight it out. "With a but of sack we will bang it about, 85 To see who wins the day; And for the cost, make you no doubt I have gold enough to pay. "And ever hereafter, so long as we live, We all will brethren be; 90 For I love these men with heart and hand, That will fight and never flee." So away they went to Nottingham, With sack to make amends; For three days they the wine did chase, 95 And drank themselves good friends. ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN. Being an account of their first meeting, their fierce encounter, and conquest. To which is added, their friendly agreement; and how he came to be called Little John. To the tune of _Arthur a Bland_. From _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 75. The same in RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 142. "This ballad is named in a schedule of such things under an agreement between W. Thackeray and others, in 1689 (Coll. Pepys, vol. v.)." RITSON. When Robin Hood was about twenty years old, _With a hey down, down, and a down_, He happen'd to meet Little John, A jolly brisk blade, right fit for the trade, For he was a lusty young man. Tho' he was call'd Little, his limbs they were large, 5 And his stature was seven foot high; Where-ever he came, they quak'd at his name, For soon he would make them to fly. How they came acquainted, I'll tell you in brief, If you will but listen awhile; 10 For this very jest, amongst all the rest, I think it may cause you to smile. Bold Robin Hood said to his jolly bowmèn, "Pray tarry you here in this grove; And see that you all observe well my call, 15 While thorough the forest I rove. "We have had no sport for these fourteen long days, Therefore now abroad will I go; Now should I be beat, and cannot retreat, My horn I will presently blow." 20 Then did he shake hands with his merry men all, And bid them at present good b'w'ye; Then, as near a brook his journey he took, A stranger he chanc'd to espy. They happen'd to meet on a long narrow bridge, 25 And neither of them would give way; Quoth bold Robin Hood, and sturdily stood, "I'll show you right Nottingham play." With that from his quiver an arrow he drew, A broad arrow with a goose-wing. 30 The stranger reply'd, "I'll liquor thy hide, If thou offer'st to touch the string." Quoth bold Robin Hood, "Thou dost prate like an ass, For were I to bend but my bow, I could send a dart quite thro' thy proud heart, 35 Before thou couldst strike me one blow." "Thou talk'st like a coward," the stranger reply'd; "Well arm'd with a long bow you stand, To shoot at my breast, while I, I protest, Have nought but a staff in my hand." 40 "The name of a coward," quoth Robin, "I scorn, Wherefore my long bow I'll lay by; And now, for thy sake, a staff will I take, The truth of thy manhood to try." Then Robin Hood stept to a thicket of trees, 45 And chose him a staff of ground oak; Now this being done, away he did run To the stranger, and merrily spoke: "Lo! see my staff, it is lusty and tough, Now here on the bridge we will play; 50 Whoever falls in, the other shall win The battel, and so we'll away." "With all my whole heart," the stranger reply'd; "I scorn in the least to give out;" This said, they fell to't without more dispute, 55 And their staffs they did flourish about. And first Robin he gave the stranger a bang, So hard that it made his bones ring: The stranger he said, "This must be repaid, I'll give you as good as you bring. 60 "So long as I'm able to handle my staff To die in your debt, friend, I scorn:" Then to it each goes, and follow'd their blows, As if they had been threshing of corn. The stranger gave Robin a crack on the crown, 65 Which caused the blood to appear; Then Robin enrag'd, more fiercely engag'd, And follow'd his blows more severe. So thick and so fast did he lay it on him, With a passionate fury and ire, 70 At every stroke he made him to smoke, As if he had been all on fire. O then into fury the stranger he grew, And gave him a damnable look, And with it a blow that laid him full low, 75 And tumbl'd him into the brook. "I prithee, good fellow, O where art thou now?" The stranger, in laughter, he cry'd. Quoth bold Robin Hood, "Good faith, in the flood, And floating along with the tide. 80 "I needs must acknowledge thou art a brave soul; With thee I'll no longer contend; For needs must I say, thou hast got the day, Our battel shall be at an end." Then unto the bank he did presently wade, 85 And pull'd himself out by a thorn; Which done, at the last, he blow'd a loud blast Straitway on his fine bugle-horn: The eccho of which through the vallies did fly, At which his stout bowmen appear'd, 90 All cloathed in green, most gay to be seen, So up to their master they steer'd. "O what's the matter?" quoth William Stutely; "Good master, you are wet to the skin." "No matter," quoth he; "the lad which you see 95 In fighting hath tumbl'd me in." "He shall not go scot-free," the others reply'd; So strait they were seizing him there, To duck him likewise; but Robin Hood cries, "He is a stout fellow, forbear. 100 "There's no one shall wrong thee, friend, be not afraid; These bowmen upon me do wait; There's threescore and nine; if thou wilt be mine, Thou shalt have my livery strait: "And other accoutrements fit for a man; 105 Speak up, jolly blade, never fear. I'll teach you also the use of the bow, To shoot at the fat fallow-deer." "O here is my hand," the stranger reply'd, "I'll serve you with all my whole heart; 110 My name is John Little, a man of good mettle; Ne'er doubt me, for I'll play my part." "His name shall be alter'd," quoth William Stutely, "And I will his godfather be; Prepare then a feast, and none of the least, 115 For we will be merry," quoth he. They presently fetch'd in a brace of fat does, With humming strong liquor likewise; They lov'd what was good; so, in the green-wood, This pretty sweet babe they baptize. 120 He was, I must tell you, but seven foot high, And, may be, an ell in the waste; A pretty sweet lad; much feasting they had; Bold Robin the christ'ning grac'd, With all his bowmèn, which stood in a ring, 125 And were of the Nottingham breed; Brave Stutely comes then, with seven yeomèn, And did in this manner proceed. "This infant was called John Little," quoth he; "Which name shall be changed anon; 130 The words we'll transpose, so whereever he goes, His name shall be call'd Little John." They all with a shout made the elements ring, So soon as the office was o'er; To feasting they went, with true merriment, 135 And tippl'd strong liquor gillore. Then Robin he took the pretty sweet babe, And cloath'd him from top to the toe In garments of green, most gay to be seen, And gave him a curious long bow. 140 "Thou shalt be an archer as well as the best, And range in the green-wood with us; "Where we'll not want gold nor silver, behold, While bishops have ought in their purse. "We live here like 'squires, or lords of renown, 145 Without e'er a foot of free land; We feast on good cheer, with wine, ale, and beer, And ev'ry thing at our command." Then music and dancing did finish the day; At length, when the sun waxed low, 150 Then all the whole train the grove did refrain, And unto their caves they did go. And so ever after, as long as he liv'd, Altho' he was proper and tall, Yet, nevertheless, the truth to express, 155 Still Little John they did him call. ROBIN HOOD AND THE TANNER; OR, ROBIN HOOD MET WITH HIS MATCH. A merry and pleasant song relating the gallant and fierce combat fought between Arthur Bland, a tanner of Nottingham, and Robin Hood, the greatest and most noblest archer of England. Tune is, Robin Hood and the Stranger. Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 33, from an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony à Wood. There is a copy with a few unimportant variations in _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 83, from which a single reading has been admitted. In Nottingham there lives a jolly tannèr, _With a hey down, down, a down, down_, His name is Arthur-a-Bland; There is nere a squire in Nottinghamshire, Dare bid bold Arthur stand. With a long pike-staff upon his shouldèr, 5 So well he can clear his way; By two and by three he makes them to flee, For he hath no list to stay. And as he went forth, in a summers morning, Into the forrest of merry Sherwood, 10 To view the red deer, that range here and there, There met he with bold Robin Hood. As soon as bold Robin he did espy,[L13] He thought some sport he would make, Therefore out of hand he bid him to stand, 15 And thus to him he spake: "Why, what art thou, thou bold fellow, That ranges so boldly here? In sooth, to be brief, thou lookst like a thief, That comes to steal our kings deer. 20 "For I am keeper in this forrest; The king puts me in trust To look to his deer, that range here and there; Therefore stay thee I must." "If thou beest a keeper in this forrest, 25 And hast such a great command, Yet thou must have more partakers in store, Before thou make me to stand." "Nay, I have no more partakers in store, Or any that I do not need; 30 But I have a staff of another oke graff, I know it will do the deed. "For thy sword and thy bow I care not a straw, Nor all thine arrows to boot; If thou get'st a knop upon the bare scop,[L35] 35 Thou canst as well sh--e as shoote." "Speak cleanly, good fellow," said jolly Robin, "And give better terms to me; Else Ile thee correct for thy neglect, And make thee more mannerly. 40 "Marry gep with a wenion!" quod Arthur-a-Bland, "Art thou such a goodly man? I care not a fig for thy looking so big; Mend thou thyself where thou can." Then Robin Hood he unbuckled his belt, 45 And laid down his bow so long; He took up a staff of another oke graff, That was both stiff and strong. "I'le yield to thy weapon," said jolly Robin, "Since thou wilt not yield to mine; 50 For I have a staff of another oke graff, Not half a foot longer then thine. "But let me measure," said jolly Robin, "Before we begin our fray; For I'le not have mine to be longer than thine, 55 For that will be counted foul play." "I pass not for length," bold Arthur reply'd, "My staff is of oke so free; Eight foot and a half, it will knock down a calf, And I hope it will knock down thee." 60 Then Robin could no longer forbear; He gave him such a knock, Quickly and soon the blood came down, Before it was ten a clock. Then Arthur he soon recovered himself, 65 And gave him such a knock on the crown, That from every side of bold Robin Hoods head, The blood came trickling down. Then Robin raged like a wild boar, As soon as he saw his own blood; 70 Then Bland was in hast, he laid on so fast, As though he had been cleaving of wood. And about, and about, and about they went, Like two wild bores in a chase; Striving to aim each other to maim, 75 Leg, arm, or any other place. And knock for knock they lustily dealt, Which held for two hours and more; That all the wood rang at every bang, They ply'd their work so sore. 80 "Hold thy hand, hold thy hand," said Robin Hood, "And let thy quarrel fall; For here we may thrash our bones all to mesh, And get no coyn at all. "And in the forrest of merry Sherwood 85 Hereafter thou shalt be free:" "God-a-mercy for nought, my freedom I bought; I may thank my staff, and not thee." "What tradesman art thou?" said jolly Robìn, "Good fellow, I prethee me show: 90 And also me tell in what place thou dost dwell, For both of these fain would I know." "I am a tanner," bold Arthur reply'd, "In Nottingham long have I wrought; And if thou'lt come there, I vow and swear, 95 I will tan thy hide for nought." "God-a-mercy, good fellow," said jolly Robin, "Since thou art so kind and free; And if thou wilt tan my hide for nought, I will do as much for thee. 100 "And if thou'lt forsake thy tanners trade, And live in the green wood with me, My name's Robin Hood, I swear by the rood, I will give thee both gold and fee." "If thou be Robin Hood," bold Arthur reply'd, 105 "As I think well thou art, Then here's my hand, my name's Arthur-a-Bland, We two will never depart. "But tell me, O tell me, where is Little John? Of him fain would I hear; 110 For we are alide by the mothers side, And he is my kinsman dear." Then Robin Hood blew on the beaugle horn, He blew full lowd and shrill, And quickly anon appear'd Little John, 115 Come tripping down a green hill. "O what is the matter?" then said Little John, "Master, I pray you tell; "Why do you stand with your staff in your hand? I fear all is not well." 120 "O man I do stand, and he makes me stand, The tanner that stands thee beside; He is a bonny blade, and master of his trade, For soundly he hath tan'd my hide." "He is to be commended," then said Little John, "If such a feat he can do; 125 If he be so stout, we will have a bout, And he shall tan my hide too." "Hold thy hand, hold thy hand," said Robin Hood, "For as I do understand, 130 He's a yeoman good of thine own blood, For his name is Arthur-a-Bland." Then Little John threw his staff away, As far as he could it fling, And ran out of hand to Arthur-a-Bland, 135 And about his neck did cling. With loving respect, there was no neglect, They were neither nice nor coy, Each other did face with a lovely grace, And both did weep for joy. 140 Then Robin Hood took them both by the hands, And danc'd round about the oke tree; "For three merry men, and three merry men, And three merry men we be. "And ever hereafter as long as we live, 145 We three will be as one; The wood it shall ring, and the old wife sing, Of Robin Hood, Arthur, and John. 13, did him. 35. I get. RITSON. ROBIN HOOD AND THE TINKER. Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 41. From an old black-letter copy in the library of Anthony à Wood. The full title is, A new song to drive away cold winter, Between Robin Hood and the jovial tinker: How Robin by a wile The Tinker he did cheat; But at the length, as you shall hear, The Tinker did him beat, Whereby the same they did then so agree, They after liv'd in love and unity. To the tune of, _In Summer time_. In summer time, when leaves grow green, _ Down, a down, a down_, And birds singing on every tree, _Hey down, a down, a down_, Robin Hood went to Nottingham, _Down, a down, a down_, As fast as hee could dree. _Hey down, a down, a down._ And as hee came to Nottingham, 5 A tinker he did meet, And seeing him a lusty blade, He did him kindly greet. "Where dost thou live?" quoth Robin Hood, "I pray thee now mee tell: 10 Sad news I hear there is abroad, I fear all is not well." "What is that news?" the tinker said; "Tell mee without delay; I am a tinker by my trade, 15 And do live in Banburà." "As for the news," quoth Robin Hood, "It is but as I hear, Two tinkers were set i'th' stocks, For drinking ale and beer." 20 "If that be all," the tinker said, "As I may say to you, Your news is not worth a f--t, Since that they all bee true. "For drinking of good ale and beer, 25 You will not lose your part:" "No, by my faith," quoth Robin Hood, "I love it with all my heart. "What news abroad?" quoth Robin Hood, "Tell me what thou dost hear: 30 Seeing thou goest from town to town, Some news thou need not fear." "All the news I have," the tinker said, "I hear it is for good, It is to seek a bold outlàw, 35 Which they call Robin Hood. "I have a warrant from the king, To take him where I can; If you can tell me where hee is, I will make you a man. 40 "The king would give a hundred pound That he could but him see; And if wee can but now him get, It will serve thee and mee." "Let me see that warrant," said Robin Hood, 45 "Ile see if it bee right; And I will do the best I can For to take him this night. "That will I not," the tinker said, "None with it I will trust; 50 And where hee is if you'll not tell, Take him by force I must." But Robin Hood perceiving well How then the game would go, "If you would go to Nottingham, 55 We shall find him I know." The tinker had a crab-tree staff, Which was both good and strong; Robin hee had a good strong blade, So they went both along. 60 And when they came to Nottingham, There they both tooke their inn; And there they called for ale and wine, To drink it was no sin. But ale and wine they drank so fast, 65 That the tinker hee forgot What thing he was about to do; It fell so to his lot, That while the tinker fell asleep, Robin made then haste away, 70 And left the tinker in the lurch, For the great shot to pay. But when the tinker wakenèd, And saw that he was gone, He call'd then even for his host, 75 And thus he made his moan: "I had a warrant from the king. Which might have done me good, That is to take a bold outlaw, Some call him Robin Hood. 80 "But now my warrant and mony's gone, Nothing I have to pay; But he that promis'd to be my friend, He is gone and fled away." "That friend you tell on," said the host, 85 "They call him Robin Hood; And when that first hee met with you, He ment you little good." "Had I but known it had been hee, "When that I had him here, 90 Th' one of us should have tri'd our might Which should have paid full dear. "In the mean time I will away, No longer here Ile bide, But I will go and seek him out, 95 Whatever do me betide. "But one thing I would gladly know, What here I have to pay;" "Ten shillings just," then said the host; "Ile pay without delay; 100 "Or elce take here my working-bag, And my good hammer too; And if that I light but on the knave. I will then soon pay you." "The onely way," then said the host, 105 "And not to stand in fear, Is to seek him among the parks, Killing of the kings deer." The tinker hee then went with speed, And made then no delay, 110 Till he had found bold Robin Hood, That they might have a fray. At last hee spy'd him in a park, Hunting then of the deer; "What knave is that," quoth Robin Hood, 115 "That doth come mee so near?" "No knave, no knave," the tinker said, "And that you soon shall know; "Whether of us hath done any wrong, My crab-tree staff shall show." 120 Then Robin drew his gallant blade, Made then of trusty steel; But the tinker he laid on so fast, That he made Robin reel. Then Robins anger did arise; 125 He fought right manfully, Until he had made the tinkèr Almost then fit to fly. With that they had a bout again, They ply'd their weapons fast; 130 The tinker threshed his bones so sore, He made him yeeld at last. "A boon, a boon," Robin hee cryes, "If thou will grant it mee;" "Before I do it," the tinker said, 135 "Ile hang thee on this tree." But the tinker looking him about, Robin his horn did blow; Then came unto him Little John, And William Scadlock too. 140 "What is the matter," quoth Little John, "You sit on th' highway side?" "Here is a tinker that stands by, That hath paid well my hide." "That tinker then," said Little John, 145 "Fain that blade I would see, And I would try what I could do, If hee'l do as much for me." But Robin hee then wish'd them both They should the quarrel cease, 150 "That henceforth wee may bee as one, And ever live in peace. "And for the jovial tinkers part, A hundred pounds Ile give In th' year to maintain him on, 155 As long as he doth live. "In manhood he is a mettled man, And a mettle-man by trade; Never thought I that any man Should have made mee so afraid. 160 "And if hee will bee one of us, "We will take all one fare; And whatsoever wee do get, He shall have his full share." So the tinker was content 165 With them to go along, And with them a part to take: And so I end my song. ROBIN HOOD AND THE SHEPHERD. Shewing how Robin Hood, Little John, and the Shepherd fought a sore combate. The shepherd fought for twenty pound, and Robin for bottle and bag, But the shepherd stout gave them the rout, so sore they could not wag. Tune is, Robin Hood and Queen Katherine. "From two old black-letter copies, one of them in the collection of Anthony à Wood, the other in that of Thomas Pearson, Esq.," [now in the British Museum.] Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 55. The same story, with verbal coincidences, serves for the first part of _King Alfred and the Shepherd_. All gentlemen and yeomen good, _Down, a down, a down, a down_, I wish you to draw near; For a story of gallant bold Robin Hood Unto you I will declare. _Down, &c._ As Robin Hood walkt the forrest along, 5 Some pastime for to spie, There he was aware of a jolly shephèrd, That on the ground did lie. "Arise, arise," cried jolly Robin, "And now come let me see 10 What's in thy bag and bottle, I say, Come tell it unto me." "What's that to thee, thou proud fellòw? Tell me as I do stand; What hast thou to do with my bag and bottle? 15 Let me see thy command." "My sword, which hangeth by my side, Is my command I know; Come, and let me taste of thy bottle, Or it may breed thy woe." 20 "The devil a drop, thou proud fellòw, Of my bottle thou shalt see, Until thy valour here be tried, Whether thou wilt fight or flee." "What shall we fight for?" cries Robin Hood, 25 "Come tell it unto me; Here is twenty pound in good red gold, Win it, and take it thee." The shepherd stood all in a maze, And knew not what to say; 30 "I have no money, thou proud fellow, But bag and bottle I'le lay." "I am content, thou shepherd swain, Fling them down on the ground; But it will breed thee mickle pain, 35 To win my twenty pound." "Come draw thy sword, thou proud fellow, Thou standest too long to prate; This hook of mine shall let thee know, A coward I do hate." 40 So they fell to it, full hard and sore; It was on a summers day; From ten till four in the afternoon The shepherd held him play. Robin's buckler proved his chiefest defence, 45 And saved him many a bang, For every blow the shepherd gave Made Robins sword cry twang. Many a sturdie blow the shepherd gave, And that bold Robin found, 50 Till the blood ran trickling from his head, Then he fell to the ground. "Arise, arise, thou proud fellow, And thou shalt have fair play, If thou wilt yield, before thou go, 55 That I have won the day." "A boon, a boon," cry'd bold Robin, "If that a man thou be, Then let me take my beugle horn, And blow out blasts three." 60 Then said the shepherd to bold Robin, "To that will I agree; For if thou shouldst blow till to-morrow morn, I scorn one foot to flee." Then Robin he set his horn to his mouth, 65 And he blew with mickle main, Until he espied Little John Come tripping over the plain. "O who is yonder, thou proud fellow, That comes down yonder hill?" 70 "Yonder is John, bold Robin Hoods man, Shall fight with thee thy fill." "What is the matter?" saies Little John, "Master, come tell unto me:" "My case is bad," cries Robin Hood, 75 "For the shepherd hath conquered me." "I am glad of that," cries Little John, "Shepherd turn thou to me; For a bout with thee I mean to have, Either come fight or flee." 80 "With all my heart, thou proud fellòw, For it never shall be said That a shepherds hook at thy sturdy look Will one jot be dismaied." So they fell to it, full hardy and sore, 85 Striving for victorie; "I will know," says John, "ere we give o'er, Whether thou wilt fight or flee." The shepherd gave John a sturdie blow, With his hook under the chin; 90 "Beshrew thy heart," said Little John, "Thou basely dost begin." "Nay, that is nothing," said the shepherd; "Either yield to me the daie, Or I will bang thy back and sides, 95 Before thou goest thy way. "What, dost thou think, thou proud fellow, That thou canst conquer me? Nay, thou shalt know, before thou go, I'll fight before I'le flee." 100 Again the shepherd laid on him, 'Just as he first begun;' "Hold thy hand," cry'd bold Robin, "I will yield the wager won." "With all my heart," said Little John, 105 "To that I will agree; For he is the flower of shepherd swains, The like I did never see." Thus have you heard of Robin Hood, Also of Little John, 110 How a shepherd swain did conquer them; The like was never known. ROBIN HOOD AND THE PEDDLERS. Communicated to Gutch by Mr. Payne Collier, and first published in Gutch's _Robin Hood_, ii. 351. Will you heare a tale of Robin Hood, Will Scarlett, and Little John? Now listen awhile, it will make you smile, As before it hath many a one. They were archers three, of hie degree, 5 As good as ever drewe bowe; Their arrowes were long and their armes were strong, As most had cause to knowe. But one sommers day, as they toke their way Through the forrest of greene Sherwood, 10 To kill the kings deare, you shall presently heare What befell these archers good. They were ware on the roade of three peddlers with loade, For each one had his packe, Full of all wares for countrie faires, 15 Trust up upon his backe. A good oke staffe, a yard and a halfe, Each one had in his hande; And they were all boune to Nottingham toune, As you shall understand. 20 "Yonder I see bolde peddlers three," Said Robin to Scarlett and John; "Wele search their packes upon their backes Before that they be gone. "Holla, good fellowes!" quod Robin Hood, 25 "Whether is it ye doe goe? Now stay and rest, for that is the best, 'Tis well you should doe so." "Noe rest we neede, on our roade we speede, Till to Nottingham we get:" 30 "Thou tellst a lowde lye," said Robin, "for I Can see that ye swinke and swet." The peddlers three crosst over the lee, They did not list to fight: "I charge ye tarrie," quod Robin, "for marry, 35 This is my owne land by right. "This is my mannor and this is my parke, I would have ye for to knowe; Ye are bolde outlawes, I see by cause Ye are so prest to goe. 40 The peddlers three turned round to see, Who it might be they herd; Then again went on as they list to be gone, And never answered word. Then tooke Robin Hood an arrow so good, 45 Which he did never lacke, And drewe his bowe, and the swift arrowe Went through the last peddlers packe. For him it was well on the packe it fell, Or his life had found an end; 50 And it pierct the skin of his backe within, Though the packe did stand his friend. Then downe they flung their packes each one, And stayde till Robin came. Quod Robin, "I saide ye had better stayde; 55 Good sooth, ye were to blame." "And who art thou? by S. Crispin, I vowe, Ile quickly cracke thy head!" Cried Robin, "Come on, all three, or one; It is not so soone done as said. 60 "My name, by the roode, is Robin Hood, And this is Scarlett and John; It is three to three, ye may plainelie see, Soe now, brave fellowes, laye on." The first peddlers blowe brake Robins bowe, 65 That he had in his hand; And Scarlett and John, they eche had one That they unneath could stand. "Now holde your handes," cried Robin Hood, "For ye have oken staves; 70 But tarie till wee can get but three, And a fig for all your braves." Of the peddlers the first, his name Kit o Thirske, Said, "We are well content;" So eche tooke a stake for his weapon, to make 75 The peddlers to repent. Soe to it they fell, and their blowes did ring well Uppon the others backes; And gave the peddlers cause to wish They had not cast their packes. 80 Yet the peddlers three of their blowes were so free, That Robin began for to rue; And Scarlett, and John, had such loade laide on, It made the sunne looke blue. At last Kits oke caught Robin a stroke, 85 That made his head to sound; He staggerd, and reelde, till he fell on the fielde, And the trees with him went round. "Now holde your handes," cried Little John, And soe said Scarlett eke; 90 "Our maister is slaine, I tell you plaine, He never more will speake." "Now, heaven forefend he come to that end," Said Kit, "I love him well; But let him learne to be wise in turne, 95 And not with poore peddlers mell. "In my packe, God wot, I a balsame have got, That soone his hurts will heale;" And into Robin Hoods gaping mouth He presentlie powrde some deale. 100 "Now fare ye well, tis best not to tell, How ye three peddlers met; Or if that ye doe, prithee tell alsoe, How they made ye swinke and swett." Poor Robin in sound they left on the ground, 105 And hied them to Nottingham, Whilst Scarlett and John, Robin tended on, Till at length his senses came. No sooner, in haste, did Robin Hood taste The balsame he had tane, 110 Then he gan to spewe, and up he threwe The balsame all againe. And Scarlett, and John, who were looking on Their master as he did lie, Had their faces besmeared, both eies and beard, 115 Therewith most piteouslie. Thus ended that fray; soe beware alwaye How ye doe challenge foes; Looke well aboute they are not to stoute, Or you may have worst of the blowes. 120 THE BOLD PEDLAR AND ROBIN HOOD. From Dixon's "_Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England_," Percy Society, vol. xvii. p. 71.--"An aged female in Bermondsey, Surrey, from whose oral recitation the editor took down the present version, informed him, that she had often heard her grandmother sing it, and that it was never in print; but he has of late met with several common stall copies." There chanced to be a pedlar bold, A pedlar bold he chanced to be, He rolled his pack all on his back, And he came tripping o'er the lee. _Down, a down, a down, a down, Down, a down, a down._ By chance he met two troublesome blades, 5 Two troublesome blades they chanced to be; The one of them was bold Robin Hood, And the other was Little John so free. "Oh! pedlar, pedlar, what is in thy pack, Come speedilie and tell to me?" 10 "I've several suits of the gay green silks, And silken bow-strings two or three." "If you have several suits of the gay green silk, And silken bow-strings two or three, Then it's by my body," cries Little John, 15 "One half your pack shall belong to me." "O nay, o nay," says the pedlar bold, "O nay, o nay, that never can be; For there's never a man from fair Nottingham Can take one half my pack from me." 20 Then the pedlar he pulled off his pack, And put it a little below his knee, Saying, "If you do move me one perch from this, My pack and all shall gang with thee." Then Little John he drew his sword; 25 The pedlar by his pack did stand; They fought until they both did sweat, Till he cried, "Pedlar, pray hold your hand." Then Robin Hood he was standing by, And he did laugh most heartilie; 30 Saying, "I could find a man of a smaller scale, Could thrash the pedlar and also thee." "Go you try, master," says Little John, "Go you try, master, most speedilie, Or by my body," says Little John, 35 "I am sure this night you will not know me." Then Robin Hood he drew his sword, And the pedlar by his pack did stand, They fought till the blood in streams did flow, Till he cried, "Pedlar, pray hold your hand! 40 "Pedlar, pedlar, what is thy name? Come speedilie and tell to me:" "My name! my name I ne'er will tell, Till both your names you have told to me." "The one of us is bold Robin Hood, 45 And the other Little John so free:" "Now," says the pedlar, "it lays to my good will, Whether my name I chuse to tell to thee. "I am Gamble Gold of the gay green woods, And travelled far beyond the sea; 50 For killing a man in my father's land, rom my country I was forced to flee." "If you are Gamble Gold of the gay green woods, And travelled far beyond the sea, You are my mother's own sister's son; 55 What nearer cousins then can we be?" They sheathed their swords with friendly words, So merrilie they did agree, They went to a tavern and there they dined, And bottles cracked most merrilie. 60 ROBIN HOOD AND THE BEGGAR: Shewing how Robin Hood and the Beggar fought, and how he changed cloaths with the Beggar, and how he went a begging to Nottingham: and how he saved three brethren from being hang'd for stealing of deer. To the tune of =Robin Hood and the Stranger=. "From an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony à Wood." Ritson's =Robin Hood=, ii. 126. The three pieces which follow are all different versions of what is called the Second Part of this ballad. Come and listen, you gentlemen all, _Hey down, down, an a down_, That mirth do love for to hear, And a story true Ile tell unto you, If that you will but draw near. In elder times, when merriment was, 5 And archery was holden good, There was an outlaw, as many do know Which men called Robin Hood. Upon a time it chanced so Bold Robin was merry disposed, 10 His time to spend he did intend, Either with friend or foes. Then he got upon a gallant brave steed, The which was worth angels ten, With a mantle of green, most brave to be seen, 15 He left all his merry men. And riding towards Nottingham, Some pastime for to 'spy, There was he aware of a jolly beggàr, As ere he beheld with his eye. 20 An old patcht coat the beggar had on, Which he daily did use to wear; And many a bag about him did wag, Which made Robin to him repair.[L24] "God speed, God speed," said Robin Hood, 25 "What countryman? tell to me:" "I am Yorkshire, sir; but, ere you go far, Some charity give unto me." "Why, what wouldst thou have?" said Robin Hood, "I pray thee tell unto me:" 30 "No lands nor livings," the beggar he said, "But a penny for charitie." "I have no money," said Robin Hood then, "But [am] a ranger within the wood; I am an outlaw, as many do know, 35 My name it is Robin Hood. "But yet I must tell thee, bonny beggàr, That a bout with [thee] I must try; Thy coat of gray, lay down I say, And my mantle of green shall lye by." 40 "Content, content," the beggar he cry'd, "Thy part it will be the worse; For I hope this bout to give thee the rout, And then have at thy purse." So the beggar he had a mickle long staffe, 45 And Robin had a nut-brown sword;[L46] So the beggar drew nigh, and at Robin let fly, But gave him never a word. "Fight on, fight on," said Robin Hood then, "This game well pleaseth me;" 50 For every blow that Robin gave, The beggar gave buffets three. And fighting there full hard and sore, Not far from Nottingham town, They never fled, till from Robin Hoods head 55 The blood came trickling down. "O hold thy hand," said Robin Hood then, "And thou and I will agree;" "If that be true," the beggar he said, "Thy mantle come give unto me." 60 "Now a change, a change," cri'd Robin Hood, "Thy bags and coat give me; And this mantle of mine Ile to thee resign, My horse and my braverie." When Robin Hood had got the beggars clothes, 65 He lookèd round about; "Methinks," said he, "I seem to be A beggar brave and stout. "For now I have a bag for my bread, So have I another for corn; 70 I have one for salt, and another for malt, And one for my little horn. "And now I will a begging goe, Some charitie for to find:" And if any more of Robin you'll know, 75 In the second part 'tis behind. 24. Robin Hood. 46, he had. [THE SECOND PART.] Now Robin he is to Nottingham bound, With his bag hanging down to his knee, His staff, and his coat, scarce worth a groat, Yet merrilie passed he. 80 As Robin he passed the streets along, He heard a pittiful cry; Three brethren dear, as he did hear, Condemned were to dye. Then Robin he highed to the sheriffs, 85 Some reliefe for to seek; He skipt, and leapt, and capered full high, As he went along the street. But when to the sheriffs doore he came, There a gentleman fine and brave, 90 "Thou beggar," said he, "come tell unto me What it is thou wouldest have." "No meat, nor drink," said Robin Hood then, "That I come here to crave; But to get the lives of yeomen three, 95 And that I fain would have." "That cannot be, thou bold beggàr, Their fact it is so cleer; I tell to thee, they hanged must be, For stealing of our kings deer." 100 But when to the gallows they did come, There was many a weeping eye: "O hold your peace," said Robin Hood then, "For certainly they shall not dye." Then Robin he set his horn to his mouth, 105 And he blew out blastès three, Till a hundred bold archers brave Came kneeling down to his knee. "What is your will, mastèr?" they said, "We are here at your command:" 110 "Shoot east, shoot west," said Robin Hood then, "And see you spare no man." Then they shot east, then they shot west, Their arrows were so keen, The sheriffe he, and his companie, 115 No longer could be seen. Then he stept to those brethren three, And away he has them tane; The sheriffe was crost, and many a man lost, That dead lay on the plain. 120 And away they went into the merry green wood, And sung with a merry glee; Then Robin Hood took those brethren good To be of his yeomandrie. ROBIN HOOD AND THE OLD MAN. A FRAGMENT. From Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, ii. 49, where it was printed "_verbatim et literatim_" from the Percy Manuscript. This is the same story with the two ballads which follow and the Second Part of the preceding. * * * * * * * In faith, thou shalt have mine, And 20s. in thy purse, To spend at ale and wine." "Though your clothes are of light Lincolne green, And mine gray russet, and torne, 5 Yet it doth not you beseme To doe an old man scorne." "I scorne thee not, old man," says Robin,[L8] "By the faith of my body; Doe of thy clothes, thou shalt have mine, 10 For it may noe better be." But Robin did on the old mans hose, The were torn in the wrist; "When I looke on my leggs," said Robin, "Then for to laugh I list." 15 But Robin did on the old mans shoes, And the were chitt full cleane; "Now by my faith," says Little John, "These are good for thornes keene." But Robin did on the old mans cloake, 20 And it was torne in the necke; "Now by my faith," said William Scarlett, "Heere shold be set a specke." But Robin did on the old mans hood, Itt goggled on his crowne; 25 "When I come into Nottingham," said Robin, "My hood it will lightly downe.[L27] "But yonder is an outwood," said Robin, "An outwood all and a shade, And thither I reede you, my merrymen all, 30 The ready way to take. "And when you heare my little horne blow, Come raking all on a rowte,[L33] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * horne to his mouth, A loud blast cold he blow, 35 Full three hundred bold yeomen Came raking all on a row. But Robin cast downe his baggs of bread, Soe did he his staffe with a face, And in a doublet of red velvett 40 This yeoman stood in his place. But Robin he lope, and Robin he threw, He lope over stocke and stone, But those that saw Robin Hood run Said he was a liver old man. 45 "But bend your bowes, and stroke your strings, Set the gallow tree aboute, And Christes curse on his head," said Robin, "That spares the sheriff and the sergeant.[L49] When the sheriffe see gentle Robin wold shoote, 50 He held up both his hands, Says, "Aske, good Robin, and thou shalt have, Whether it be house or land." "I will neither have house nor land," said Robin, "Nor gold, nor none of thy fee, 55 But I will have those 3 squires, To greene forest with mee." "Now marry, gods forbott," said the sheriffe, "That ever that shold be, Ffor why, they be the kings felons; 60 They are all condemned to dye." "But grant me my askynge," said Robin, "Or by the faith of my body,[L63] Thou shalt be the first man Shall flower this gallow tree." 65 But I will * * 3 squires * * * * * * _cetera desunt_. 8. By proposing, that is, to make an exchange of clothes, the bargain being so much to the advantage of the old man. JAMIESON. 27, _i.e._ I shall easily bare my head, in reverence to the sheriff, &c. 33. Nine or ten stanzas wanting. J. 49. For "the sergeant" read "his rowte." J. 63, by me. ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE WIDOWS THREE SONS FROM THE SHERIFF, WHEN GOING TO BE EXECUTED. Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 155. "This ballad," says Ritson, "from the York edition of _Robin Hood's Garland_,[29] is probably one of the oldest extant of which he is the subject. The circumstance of Robin's changing clothes with the palmer, is, possibly, taken from an old romance, entitled _The noble hystory of the moost excellent and myghty prynce and hygh renowmed knyght kynge Ponthus of Galyce and of lytell Brytayne_. Emprynted at London in Fletestrete, at the sygne of the sonne, by Wynken de Worde. In the yere of our lorde god 1511, 4to. bl. sig, L 6. 'And as he (Ponthus) rode, he met with a poore palmer, beggynge his brede, the whiche had his gowne all to-clouted and an olde pylled hatte: so he alyght, and sayd to the palmer, frende, we shall make a chaunge of all our garmentes, for ye shall have my gowne and I shall have yours and your hatte. A, syr, sayd the palmer, ye bourde you with me. In good fayth, sayd Ponthus, I do not; so he dyspoyled hym and cladde hym with all his rayment, and he put upon hym the poore mannes gowne, his gyrdell, his hosyn, his shone, his hatte and his bourden.'" "There is an allusion to this ballad," adds Gutch, "in Anthony Munday's play of _The Downfall of Robert Earl of Huntington_. Collier's _Old Plays_, p. 41." Another version of this piece is immediately subjoined. [29] The earliest known edition of _Robin Hood's Garland_ was formerly in the possession of Mr. Douce, and is now among the books bequeathed by him to the Bodleian Library. It is dated 1670, and contains sixteen ballads. In the later Garlands this number is increased to twenty four, and to twenty seven. There are twelve months in all the year, As I hear many say, But the merriest month in all the year Is the merry month of May. Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, 5 _With a link a down and a day_, And there he met a silly old woman, Was weeping on the way. "What news? what news, thou silly old woman? What news hast thou for me?" 10 Said she, "There's three squires in Nottingham town, To-day is condemned to die." "O have they parishes burnt?" he said, "Or have they ministers slain? Or have they robbèd any virgin, 15 Or with other men's wives have lain?" "They have no parishes burnt, good sir, Nor yet have ministers slain, Nor have they robbèd any virgin, Nor with other men's wives have lain." 20 "O what have they done?" said Robin Hood, "I pray thee tell to me:" "It's for slaying of the king's fallow deer, Bearing their long bows with thee." "Dost thou not mind, old woman," he said, 25 "Since thou made me sup and dine? By the truth of my body," quoth bold Robin Hood, "You could not tell it in better time." Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, _With a link a down and a day_,[L30] 30 And there he met with a silly old palmer, Was walking along the highway. "What news? what news, thou silly old man? What news, I do thee pray?" Said he, "Three squires in Nottingham town 35 Are condemn'd to die this day." "Come change thy apparel with me, old man, Come change thy apparel for mine; Here is forty shillings in good silvèr, Go drink it in beer or wine." 40 "O thine apparel is good," he said, "And mine is ragged and torn; "Wherever you go, wherever you ride, Laugh ne'er an old man to scorn." "Come change thy apparel with me, old churl, 45 Come change thy apparel with mine; Here are twenty pieces of good broad gold, Go feast thy brethren with wine." Then he put on the old man's hat, It stood full high on the crown: 50 "The first bold bargain that I come at, It shall make thee come down." Then he put on the old man's cloak, Was patch'd black, blew, and red; He thought it no shame all the day long 55 To wear the bags of bread. Then he put on the old man's breeks, Was patch'd from ballup to side: "By the truth of my body," bold Robin can say, "This man lov'd little pride," 60 Then he put on the old man's hose, Were patch'd from knee to wrist: "By the truth of my body," said bold Robin Hood, "I'd laugh if I had any list." Then he put on the old man's shoes, 65 Were patch'd both beneath and aboon; Then Robin Hood swore a solemn oath, It's good habit that makes a man. Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, _With a link a down and a down_, 70 And there he met with the proud sheriff, Was walking along the town. "O Christ you save, O sheriff," he said,[L73] "O Christ you save and see;[L74] And what will you give to a silly old man 75 To-day will your hangman be?" "Some suits, some suits," the sheriff he said, "Some suits I'll give to thee: Some suits, some suits, and pence thirteen, To-day's a hangman's fee." 80 Then Robin he turns him round about, And jumps from stock to stone: "By the truth of my body," the sheriff he said, "That's well jumpt, thou nimble old man." "I was ne'er a hangman in all my life, 85 Nor yet intends to trade; But curst be he," said bold Robìn, "That first a hangman was made. "I've a bag for meal, and a bag for malt, And a bag for barley and corn; 90 A bag for bread, and a bag for beef, And a bag for my little small horn. "I have a horn in my pockèt, I got it from Robin Hood, And still when I set it to my mouth, 95 For thee it blows little good."[L96] "O wind thy horn, thou proud fellòw, Of thee I have no doubt: I wish that thou give such a blast Till both thy eyes fall out." 100 The first loud blast that he did blow, He blew both loud and shrill; A hundred and fifty of Robin Hood's men Came riding over the hill. The next loud blast that he did give, 105 He blew both loud and amain, And quickly sixty of Robin Hood's men Came shining over the plain. "O who are those," the sheriff he said, "Come tripping over the lee?" 110 "They're my attendants," brave Robin did say, "They'll pay a visit to thee." They took the gallows from the slack, They set it in the glen, They hang'd the proud sheriff on that, 115 Releas'd their own three men. 30, and a down a. 73, 74. Oh save, oh save, oh sheriff, he said, Oh save and you may see. 96, me. ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE THREE SQUIRES PROM NOTTINGHAM GALLOWS. "This song, and its tune, as the editor is informed by his ingenious friend, Edward Williams, the Welsh bard, are well known in South Wales, by the name of _Marchog Glas_, _i.e._ Green Knight. Though apparently ancient, it is not known to exist in black letter, nor has any better authority been met with than the common collection of Aldermary-churchyard." RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 216. Bold Robin Hood ranging the forrest all round, The forrest all round ranged he, O there did he meet with a gay lady, She came weeping along the highway. "Why weep you, why weep you?" bold Robin he said, 5 "What, weep you for gold or fee? Or do you weep for your maidenhead, That is taken from your body?" "I weep not for gold," the lady reply'd, "Neither do I weep for fee; 10 Nor do I weep for my maidenhead, That is taken from my body." "What weep you for then?" said jolly Robìn, "I prithee come tell unto me;" "Oh! I do weep for my three sons, 15 For they are all condemned to die." "What church have they robbed?" said jolly Robìn, "Or parish-priest have they slain? What maids have they forced against their will? Or with other mens wives have lain?" 20 "No church have they robbed," this lady reply'd, "Nor parish-priest have they slain; No maids have they forced against their will, Nor with other mens wives have lain." "What have they done then?" said jolly Robìn, 25 "Come tell me most speedily:" "Oh! it is for killing the kings fallow deer, That they are all condemned to die."[L28] "Get you home, get you home," said jolly Robìn, "Get you home most speedily, 30 And I will unto fair Nottingham go, For the sake of the squires all three." Then bold Robin Hood for Nottingham goes, For Nottingham town goes he, O there did he meet with a poor beggar-man, 35 He came creeping along the highway. "What news, what news, thou old beggar-man? What news, come tell unto me:" "O there's weeping and wailing in Nottingham, For the death of the squires all three." 40 This beggar-man had a coat on his back, 'Twas neither green, yellow, nor red; Bold Robin Hood thought 'twas no disgrace To be in the beggar-mans stead. "Come, pull off thy coat, thou old beggar-man, 45 And thou shalt put on mine; And forty good shillings I'll give thee to boot, Besides brandy, good beer, ale and wine." Bold Robin Hood then unto Nottingham came, Unto Nottingham town came he; 50 O there did he meet with great master sheriff, And likewise the squires all three. "One boon, one boon," says jolly Robín, "One boon I beg on my knee; That, as for the death of these three squires, 55 Their hangman I may be." "Soon granted, soon granted," says master sheriff, "Soon granted unto thee; And you shalt have all their gay cloathìng, Aye, and all their white monèy." 60 "O I will have none of their gay cloathìng, Nor none of their white monèy, But I'll have three blasts on my bugle-horn, That their souls to heaven may flee." Then Robin Hood mounted the gallows so high,[L65] 65 Where he blew loud and shrill, Till an hundred and ten of Robin Hoods men Came marching down the green hill. "Whose men are these?" says master sherìff, "Whose men are they? come tell unto me:" 70 "O they are mine, but none of thine, And are come for the squires all three." "O take them, O take them," says great master sheriff, "O take them along with thee; For there's never a man in fair Nottinghàm 75 Can do the like of thee. 28, And. 65. When. ROBIN HOOD AND THE CURTALL FRYER. Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 61. "From an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony à Wood: corrected by a much earlier one in the Pepysian library, printed by H. Gosson, about the year 1610; compared with a later one in the same collection. The full title is: _The famous battell betweene Robin Hood and the Curtall Fryer_. _To a new Northern tune._" In summer time, when leaves grow green, And flowers are fresh and gay, Robin Hood and his merry men Were disposed to play. Then some would leape, and some would runne, 5 And some would use artillery; "Which of you can a good bow draw, A good archer for to be? "Which of you can kill a bucke, Or who can kill a doe? 10 Or who can kill a hart of greece Five hundreth foot him fro?" Will Scadlocke he kild a bucke, And Midge he kild a doe, And Little John kild a hart of greece, 15 Five hundreth foot him fro. "Gods blessing on thy heart," said Robin Hood, "That hath such a shot for me; I would ride my horse a hundred miles, To find one could match thee." 20 This caused Will Scadlocke to laugh, He laught full heartily: "There lives a curtall fryer in Fountaines Abbey Will beate both him and thee. "The curtall fryer in Fountaines Abbey 25 Well can a strong bow draw; He will beat you and your yeomèn, Set them all on a row." Robin Hood he tooke a solemne oath, It was by Mary free, 30 That he would neither eate nor drinke Till the fryer he did see. Robin Hood put on his harnesse good, On his head a cap of steel, Broad sword and buckler by his side, 35 And they became him weele. He tooke his bow into his hand, It was made of a trusty tree, With a sheafe of arrowes at his belt, And to Fountaine Dale went he. 40 And comming unto Fountaine Dale, No farther would he ride; There he was aware of the curtall fryer, Walking by the water side. The fryer had on a harnesse good, 45 On his head a cap of steel, Broad sword and buckler by his side, And they became him weele. Robin Hood lighted off his horse, And tyed him to a thorne: 50 "Carry me over the water, thou curtall fryer, Or else thy life's forlorne." The fryer tooke Robin Hood on his backe, Deepe water he did bestride, And spake neither good word nor bad, 55 Till he came at the other side. Lightly leapt Robin offe the fryers backe; The fryer said to him againe, "Carry me over this water, [thou] fine fellow, Or it shall breed thy paine." 60 Robin Hood took the fryer on his backe, Deepe water he did bestride, And spake neither good word nor bad, Till he came at the other side. Lightly leapt the fryer off Robin Hoods backe; 65 Robin Hood said to him againe, "Carry me over this water, thou curtall fryer, Or it shall breede thy pain." The fryer tooke Robin on's backe againe, And stept in to the knee; 70 Till he came at the middle streame Neither good nor bad spake he. And comming to the middle streame, There he threw Robin in; "And chuse thee, chuse thee, fine fellow, 75 Whether thou wilt sink or swim." Robin Hood swam to a bush of broome, The fryer to a wigger wand; Bold Robin Hood is gone to shore, And took his bow in his hand. 80 One of his best arrowes under his belt To the fryer he let fly; The curtall fryer with his steel buckler Did put that arrow by. "Shoot on, shoot on, thou fine fellow, 85 Shoot as thou hast begun, If thou shoot here a summers day, Thy marke I will not shun." Robin Hood shot passing well, Till his arrows all were gane; 90 They tooke their swords and steele bucklers, They fought with might and maine; From ten o'th' clock that [very] day, Till four i'th' afternoon; Then Robin Hood came to his knees, 95 Of the fryer to beg a boone. "A boone, a boone, thou curtall fryer, I beg it on my knee: Give me leave to set my horne to my mouth, And to blow blasts three." 100 "That I will do," said the curtall fryer, "Of thy blasts I have no doubt; I hope thou'lt blow so passing well, Till both thy eyes fall out." Robin Hood set his home to his mouth, 105 He blew out blasts three; Halfe a hundreth yeomen, with bowes bent, Came raking over the lee. "Whose men are these," said the fryer, "That come so hastily?" 110 "These men are mine," said Robin Hood; "Fryer, what is that to thee?" "A boone, a boone," said the curtall fryer, "The like I gave to thee; Give me leave to set my fist to my mouth, 115 And to whute whues three." "That will I doe," said Robin Hood, "Or else I were to blame; Three whues in a fryers fist Would make me glad and faine." 120 The fryer set his fist to his mouth, And whuted whues three; Half a hundred good band-dogs Came running over the lee. "Here's for every man a dog, 125 And I myselfe for thee:" "Nay, by my faith," said Robin Hood, "Fryer, that may not be." Two dogs at once to Robin Hood did goe, The one behind, the other before; 130 Robin Hoods mantle of Lincolne greene Off from his backe they tore. And whether his men shot east or west, Or they shot north or south, The curtall dogs, so taught they were, 135 They kept the arrows in their mouth. "Take up thy dogs," said Little John, "Fryer, at my bidding be;" "Whose man art thou," said the curtall fryer, "Comes here to prate with me?" 140 "I am Little John, Robin Hoods man, Fryer, I will not lie; If thou take not up thy dogs soone, I'le take up them and thee." Little John had a bow in his hand, 145 He shot with might and main; Soon halfe a score of the fryers dogs Lay dead upon the plain. "Hold thy hand, good fellow," said the curtal fryer, "Thy master and I will agree; 150 And we will have new orders taken, With all the hast may be." "If thou wilt forsake fair Fountaines Dale, And Fountaines Abbey free, Every Sunday throwout the yeere, 155 A noble shall be thy fee: "And every holliday through the yeere, Changed shall thy garment be, If thou wilt goe to faire Nottingham, And there remaine with me." 160 This curtal fryer had kept Fountaines Dale Seven long yeeres and more; There was neither knight, lord, nor earle, Could make him yeeld before. ROBIN HOOD AND ALLIN A DALE. Or, a pleasant relation how a young gentleman, being in love with a young damsel, she was taken from him to be an old knights bride: and how Robin Hood, pittying the young mans case, took her from the old knight, when they were going to be marryed, and restored her to her own love again. To a pleasant northern tune, _Robin Hood in the green-wood stood_. Bold Robin Hood he did the young man right, And took the damsel from the doting knight. From an old black-letter copy in Major Pearson's collection. RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 49. The same in _A Collection of Old Ballads_, ii. 44. Come listen to me, you gallants so free, All you that love mirth for to hear, And I will tell you of a bold outlàw That lived in Nottinghamshire. As Robin Hood in the forest stood, 5 All under the green-wood tree, There he was aware of a brave young man, As fine as fine might be. The youngster was cloathed in scarlet red, In scarlet fine and gay; 10 And he did frisk it over the plain, And chanted a round-de-lay. As Robin Hood next morning stood Amongst the leaves so gay, There did [he] espy the same young man, 15 Come drooping along the way. The scarlet he wore the day before, It was clean cast away; And at every step he fetcht a sigh, "Alack and a well a day!" 20 Then stepped forth brave Little John, And Midge the millers son,[L22] Which made the young man bend his bow, When as he see them come. "Stand off, stand off," the young man said, 25 "What is your will with me?" "You must come before our master straight, Under yon green-wood tree." And when he came bold Robin before, Robin askt him courteously, 30 "O hast thou any money to spare For my merry men and me?" "I have no money," the young man said, "But five shillings and a ring; And that I have kept this seven long years, 35 To have it at my wedding. "Yesterday, I should have married a maid, But she soon from me was tane, And chosen to be an old knights delight, Whereby my poor heart is slain." 40 "What is thy name?" then said Robin Hood, "Come tell me, without any fail:" "By the faith of my body," then said the young man, "My name it is Allin a Dale." "What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, 45 "In ready gold or fee, To help thee to thy true love again, And deliver her unto thee?" "I have no money," then quoth the young man, "No ready gold nor fee, 50 But I will swear upon a book Thy true servant for to be." "How many miles is it to thy true love? Come tell me without guile:" "By the faith of my body," then said the young man, 55 "It is but five little mile." Then Robin he hasted over the plain, He did neither stint nor lin, Until he came unto the church, Where Allin should keep his wedding. 60 "What hast thou here?" the bishop then said, "I prithee now tell unto me:" "I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, "And the best in the north country." "O welcome, O welcome," the bishop he said, 65 "That musick best pleaseth me:" "You shall have no musick," quoth Robin Hood, "Till the bride and the bridegroom I see." With that came in a wealthy knight, Which was both grave and old, 70 And after him a finikin lass, Did shine like the glistering gold. "This is not a fit match," quod bold Robin Hood, "That you do seem to make here, For since we are come into the church, 75 The bride shall chuse her own dear." Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, And blew blasts two or three; When four and twenty bowmen bold Came leaping over the lee. 80 And when they came into the church-yard, Marching all on a row, The first man was Allin a Dale, To give bold Robin his bow. "This is thy true love," Robin he said, 85 "Young Allin, as I hear say; And you shall be married at this same time, Before we depart away." "That shall not be," the bishop he said, "For thy word shall not stand; 90 They shall be three times askt in the church, As the law is of our land." Robin Hood pull'd off the bishops coat, And put it upon Little John; "By the faith of my body," then Robin said, 95 This cloth does make thee a man." "When Little John went into the quire, The people began to laugh; He askt them seven times in the church, Lest three times should not be enough. 100 "Who gives me this maid?" said Little John; Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I, And he that takes her from Allin a Dale, Full dearly he shall her buy." And thus having ende of this merry wedding, 105 The bride lookt like a queen; And so they return'd to the merry green-wood, Amongst the leaves so green. 22. Nicke. ROBIN HOODS RESCUING WILL STUTLY. From _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 90. The full title is: _Robin Hood rescuing Will Stutley from the sheriff and his men, who had taken him prisoner, and were going to hang him, &c. To the tune of Robin Hood and Queen Catherine_. The same in Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 106. When Robin Hood in the green wood stood, _Derry, derry down_, Under the green wood tree, Tidings there came to him with speed, Tidings for certainty; _Hey down, derry, derry, down_. That Will Stutly surprized was, 5 And eke in prison lay; Three varlets that the king had hir'd, Did likely him betray. Ay, and to-morrow hang'd must be, To-morrow as soon as day; 10 Before they could the victory get, Two of 'em did Stutly slay. When Robin Hood did hear this news, Lord! it did grieve him sore; And to his merry men he said, 15 (Who altogether swore) That Will Stutly should rescu'd be, And be brought back again; Or else should many a gallant wight For his sake there be slain. 20 He cloath'd himself in scarlet then, His men were all in green; A finer shew, throughout the world, In no place could be seen. Good lord! it was a gallant sight 25 To see them all a-row; With ev'ry man a good broad sword, And eke a good yew bow. Forth of the green wood are they gone, Yea, all couragously, 30 Resolving to bring Stutly home, Or every man to dye. And when they came to the castle near Wherein Will Stutly lay, "I hold it good," said Robin Hood, 35 "We here in ambush stay, "And send one forth some news to hear, To yonder palmer fair, That stands under the castle wall; Some news he may declare." 40 With that steps forth a brave young man, Which was of courage bold; Thus he did say to the old man: "I pray thee, palmer old, "Tell me, if that thou rightly ken, 45 When must Will Stutly dye, Who is one of bold Robin's men, And here doth prisoner lye?" "Alas, alas," the palmer said, "And for ever woe is me! 50 Will Stutly hang'd will be this day, On yonder gallows tree. "O had his noble master known, He would some succour send; A few of his bold yeomanry 55 Full soon would fetch him hence." "Ay, that is true," the young man said; "Ay, that is true," said he; "Or, if they were near to this place, They soon would set him free. 60 "But fare thou well, thou good old man, Farewel, and thanks to thee; If Stutly hanged be this day, Reveng'd his death will be." No sooner he was from the palmer gone, 65 But the gates were open'd wide, And out of the castle Will Stutly came, Guarded on every side. When he was forth from the castle come, And saw no help was nigh, 70 Thus he did say unto the sheriff, Thus he said gallantly: "Now seeing that I needs must dye, Grant me one boon," said he, "For my noble master ne'er had man 75 That yet was hang'd on tree. "Give me a sword all in my hand, And let me be unbound, And with thee and thy men I'll fight, Till I lye dead on the ground." 80 But this desire he would not grant, His wishes were in vain; For the sheriff swore he hang'd should be, And not by the sword be slain. "Do but unbind my hands," he says, 85 "I will no weapons crave, And if I hanged be this day, Damnation let me have." "O no, no, no," the sheriff said, "Thou shalt on gallows dye, 90 Ay, and so shall thy master too, If ever in me it lye." "O dastard coward!" Stutly cries, Faint-hearted peasant slave! If ever my master do thee meet, 95 Thou shalt thy payment have. "My noble master thee doth scorn, And all thy cowardly crew; Such silly imps unable are Bold Robin to subdue." 100 But when he was to the gallows gone, And ready to bid adieu, Out of a bush steps Little John, And goes Will Stutly to. "I pray thee, Will, before thou dye, 105 Of thy dear friends take leave; I needs must borrow him a while, How say you, master sheriff?" "Now, as I live," the sheriff said, "That varlet will I know; 110 Some sturdy rebel is that same, Therefore let him not go." And Little John most hastily Away cut Stutly's bands, And from one of the sheriffs men, 115 A sword twich'd from his hands. "Here, Will Stutly, take thou this same, Thou canst it better sway; And here defend thyself awhile, For aid will come straightway." 120 And there they turn'd them back to back, In the midst of them that day, Till Robin Hood approached near, With many an archer gay. With that an arrow from them flew, 125 I-wis[126] from Robin Hood;[L126] "Make haste, make haste," the sheriff he said, "Make haste, for it is not good." The sheriff is gone; his doughty men Thought it no boot to stay, 130 But, as their master had them taught, They run full fast away. "O stay, O stay," Will Stutly said, "Take leave ere you depart; You ne'er will catch bold Robin Hood, 135 Unless you dare him meet." "O ill betide you," said Robin Hood, That you so soon are gone; My sword may in the scabbard rest, For here our work is done." 140 "I little thought," Will Stutly said, "When I came to this place, For to have met with Little John, Or seen my master's face." Thus Stutly he was at liberty set, 145 And safe brought from his foe: "O thanks, O thanks to my mastèr, Since here it was not so. "And once again, my fellows dear, _Derry, derry down_, We shall in the green woods meet, 150 Where we will make our bow-strings twang, Musick for us most sweet." _Hey down, derry, derry down_. 126, I wist. ROBIN HOODS PROGRESS TO NOTTINGHAM. Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 13. "From an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony à Wood. It is there said to go 'To the tune of Bold Robin Hood;' and the chorus is repeated in every stanza. To the above title are added the following doggerel lines:-- Where hee met with fifteen forresters all on a row, And hee desired of them some news for to know, But with crosse-grain'd words they did him thwart, For which at last hee made them smart." One or two corrections made by Gutch from copies in the Roxburghe collection have been admitted. Robin Hood he was a tall young man,[L1] _Derry, derry down_, And fifteen winters old; And Robin Hood he was a proper young man, Of courage stout and bold. _Hey down, derry, derry down_. Robin Hood hee would unto fair Nottingham,[L5] 5 With the general for to dine; There was hee aware of fifteen forresters, And a drinking beer, ale, and wine.[L8] "What news?" "What news?" said bold Robin Hood, "What news fain wouldest thou know? 10 Our king hath provided a shooting match, And I'm ready with my bow." "We hold it in scorn," said the forresters, "That ever a boy so young Should bear a bow before our king, 15 That's not able to draw one string." "I'le hold you twenty marks," said bold Robin Hood, "By the leave of our lad[y'], That I'le hit a mark a hundred rod, And I'le cause a hart to dye." 20 "We'l hold you twenty mark," then said the forresters, "By the leave of our lady, Thou hit'st not the marke a hundred rod, Nor causest a hart to dye." Robin Hood he bent up a noble bow, 25 And a broad arrow he let flye, He hit the mark a hundred rod, And he caused a hart to dye. Some say hee brake ribs one or two, And some say hee brake three; 30 The arrow within the hart would not abide, But it glanced in two or three. The hart did skip, and the hart did leap, And the hart lay on the ground; "The wager is mine," said bold Robin Hood, 35 "If't were for a thousand pound." "The wager's none of thine," then said the forresters, "Although thou beest in haste; Take up thy bow, and get thee hence, Lest wee thy sides do baste." 40 Robin Hood he took up his noble bow, And his broad arrows all amain; And Robin Hood he laught, and begun to smile, As hee went over the plain. Then Robin Hood he bent his noble bow, 45 And his broad arrowes he let flye, Till fourteen of these fifteen forresters Upon the ground did lye. He that did this quarrel first begin Went tripping over the plain; 50 But Robin Hood he bent his noble bow, And hee fetcht him back again. "You said I was no archer," said Robin Hood, "But say so now again;" With that he sent another arrow, 55 That split his head in twain. "You have found mee an archer," said Robin Hood,[L57] "Which will make your wives for to wring, And wish that you had never spoke the word, That I could not draw one string." 60 The people that lived in fair Nottinghàm Came running out amain, Supposing to have taken bold Robin Hood, With the forresters that were slain. Some lost legs, and some lost arms, 65 And some did lose their blood; But Robin hee took up his noble bow, And is gone to the merry green wood. They carried these forresters into fair Nottingham, As many there did know; 70 They dig'd them graves in their church-yard, And they buried them all a-row. 1, and he; 5, and to, Ritson. 8, bear. 57, saith. RITSON. ROBIN HOOD AND THE BISHOP OF HEREFORD. "This excellent ballad, given from the common edition of Aldermary church-yard (compared with the York copy), is supposed to be modern; the story, however, seems alluded to in the ballad of _Renowned Robin Hood_. The full title is _The Bishop of Herefords entertainment by Robin Hood and Little John, &c., in merry Barnsdale_." RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 150. Some they will talk of bold Robin Hood, And some of barons bold; But I'll tell you how he serv'd the bishop of Hereford, When he robb'd him of his gold. As it befel in merry Barnsdale, 5 All under the green-wood tree, The bishop of Hereford was to come by, With all his company. "Come, kill [me] a ven'son," said bold Robin Hood, "Come, kill me a good fat deer; 10 The bishop of Hereford is to dine with me to-day, And he shall pay well for his cheer. "We'll kill a fat ven'son," said bold Robin Hood, And dress it by the highway side; And we will watch the bishop narrowly, 15 Lest some other way he should ride." Robin Hood dress'd himself in shepherds attire, With six of his men alsò; And, when the bishop of Hereford came by, They about the fire did go. 20 "O what is the matter?" then said the bishop, "Or for whom do you make this a-do? Or why do you kill the kings ven'son, When your company is so few?" "We are shepherds," said bold Robin Hood, 25 "And we keep sheep all the year, And we are disposed to be merry this day, And to kill of the kings fat deer." "You are brave fellows!" said the bishop, "And the king of your doings shall know: 30 Therefore make haste, and come along with me, For before the king you shall go." "O pardon, O pardon," said bold Robin Hood, "O pardon, I thee pray! For it becomes not your lordships coat 35 To take so many lives away." "No pardon, no pardon," said the bishòp, "No pardon I thee owe; Therefore make haste, and come along with me, For before the king you shall go." 40 Then Robin set his back against a tree, And his foot against a thorn, And from underneath his shepherds coat He pull'd out a bugle horn. He put the little end to his mouth, 45 And a loud blast did he blow, Till threescore and ten of bold Robins men Came running all on a row, All making obeysance to bold Robin Hood; 'Twas a comely sight for to see. 50 "What is the matter, master," said Little John, "That you blow so hastily?" "O here is the bishop of Hereford, And no pardon we shall have:" "Cut off his head, master," said Little John, 55 "And throw him into his grave." "O pardon, O pardon," said the bishop, "O pardon, I thee pray, For if I had known it had been you, I'd have gone some other way." 60 "No pardon, no pardon," said bold Robin Hood, "No pardon I thee owe; Therefore make haste, and come along with me, For to merry Barnsdale you shall go." Then Robin he took the bishop by the hand, 65 And led him to merry Barnsdale; He made him to stay and sup with him that night, And to drink wine, beer, and ale. "Call in a reckoning," said the bishop, "For methinks it grows wond'rous high:" 70 "Lend me your purse, master," said Little John, "And I'll tell you bye and bye." Then Little John took the bishops cloak, And spread it upon the ground, And out of the bishops portmantua 75 He told three hundred pound. "Here's money enough, master," said Little John, "And a comely sight 'tis to see; It makes me in charity with the bishop, Tho' he heartily loveth not me." 80 Robin Hood took the bishop by the hand, And he caused the music to play; And he made the bishop to dance in his boots, And glad he could so get away. ROBIN HOOD AND THE BISHOP. Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 22. Shewing how Robin Hood went to an old woman's house and changed cloaths with her to scape from the bishop; and how he robbed the bishop of all his gold, and made him sing a mass. To the tune of _Robin Hood and the Stranger_. "From an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony à Wood." Two trifling corrections have been made from the copy in _Old Ballads_, 1723, (ii. 39,) which is very nearly the same. Come, gentlemen all, and listen awhile, _Hey down, down, an a down_, And a story Ile to you unfold; Ile tell you how Robin Hood served the bishop, When he robbed him of his gold. As it fell out on a sun-shining day, 5 When Ph[oe]bus was in his prime, Then Robin Hood, that archer good, In mirth would spend some time. And as he walk'd the forrest along, Some pastime for to spy, 10 There was he aware of a proud bishop, And all his company. "O what shall I do," said Robin Hood then, "If the bishop he doth take me? No mercy he'l show unto me, I know, 15 But hangèd I shall be." Then Robin was stout, and turn'd him about, And a little house there he did spy; And to an old wife, for to save his life, He loud began for to cry. 20 "Why, who art thou?" said the old woman, "Come tell it to me for good:"[L22] "I am an out-law, as many do know, My name it is Robin Hood; "And yonder's the bishop and all his men, 25 And if that I taken be, Then day and night he'l work my spight, And hangèd I shall be." "If thou be Robin Hood," said the old wife, "As thou dost seem to be, I'le for thee provide, and thee I will hide, From the bishop and his company. "For I remember one Saturday night, Thou brought me both shoes and hose; Therefore I'le provide thy person to hide, 35 And keep thee from thy foes." "Then give me soon thy coat of grey, And take thou my mantle of green; Thy spindle and twine unto me resign, And take thou my arrows so keen." 40 And when Robin Hood was thus araid, He went straight to his company, With his spindle and twine, he oft lookt behind For the bishop and his company. "O who is yonder," quoth Little John, 45 "That now comes over the lee? An arrow I will at her let flie, So like an old witch looks she." "O hold thy hand, hold thy hand," said Robin Hood then, "And shoot not thy arrows so keen; 50 I am Robin Hood, thy master good, And quickly it shall be seen." The bishop he came to the old womans house, And called with furious mood, "Come let me soon see, and bring unto me, 55 That traitor Robin Hood." The old woman he set on a milk-white steed, Himselfe on a dapple gray; And for joy he had got Robin Hood, He went laughing all the way. 60 But as they were riding the forrest along, The bishop he chanc'd for to see A hundred brave bowmen bold, Stand under the green-wood tree. "O who is yonder," the bishop then said, 65 "That's ranging within yonder wood?" "Marry," says the old woman, "I think it to be A man call'd Robin Hood." "Why, who art thou," the bishop he said, "Which I have here with me?" 70 "Why, I am an old woman, thou cuckoldy bishop; Lift up my leg and see." "Then woe is me," the bishop he said, "That ever I saw this day!" He turn'd him about, but Robin Hood stout[L75] 75 Call'd him, and bid him stay. Then Robin took hold of the bishops horse, And ty'd him fast to a tree; Then Little John smil'd his master upon, For joy of that company. 80 Robin Hood took his mantle from 's back, And spread it upon the ground, And out of the bishops portmantle he Soon told five hundred pound. "Now let him go," said Robin Hood; 85 Said Little John, "That may not be; For I vow and protest he shall sing us a mass, Before that he goe from me." Then Robin Hood took the bishop by the hand, And bound him fast to a tree, 90 And made him sing a mass, god wot, To him and his yeomandree. And then they brought him through the wood, And set him on his dapple gray, And gave him the tail within his hand, 95 And bade him for Robin Hood pray. 22, tell to me. RITSON. 75. Robin, RITSON. ROBIN HOODS GOLDEN PRIZE. He met two priests upon the way, And forced them with him to pray; For gold they prayed, and gold they had, Enough to make bold Robin glad. His share came to four hundred pound, That then was told upon the ground; Now mark, and you shall hear the jest, You never heard the like exprest. Tune is, _Robin Hood was a tall young man, &c._ "This ballad (given from an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony à Wood) was entered, amongst others, in the Stationers' book, by Francis Coule, 13th June, 1631, and by Francis Grove, 2nd June, 1656." RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 101. This piece is printed in _A Collection of Old Ballads_, ii. 121, with some variations. I have heard talk of bold Robin Hood, _Derry, derry down_, And of brave Little John, Of Fryer Tuck, and Will Scarlet, Loxley, and maid Mariòn. But such a tale as this before 5 I think was never knone; For Robin Hood disguised himself, And from the wood is gone.[L8] Like to a fryer, bold Robin Hood Was accoutered in his array; 10 With hood, gown, bedes, and crucifix, He past upon the way. He had not gone miles two or three, But it was his chance to spy Two lusty priests, clad all in black, 15 Come riding gallantly. "Benedicite," then said Robin Hood, "Some pitty on me take; Cross you my hand with a silver groat, For our dear ladies sake. 20 "For I have been wandring all this day, And nothing could I get; Not so much as one poor cup of drink, Nor bit of bread to eat." "Now, by our dame," the priests repli'd, 25 We never a penny have; For we this morning have been rob'd, And could no money save." "I am much afraid," said bold Robin Hood, That you both do tell a lie; 30 And now before you do go hence, I am resolv'd to try." When as the priests heard him say so, Then they rode away amain; But Robin Hood betook to his heels, 35 And soon overtook them again. Then Robin Hood laid hold of them both, And pull'd them down from their horse: "O spare us, fryer!" the priests cry'd out, "On us have some remorse!" 40 "You said you had no mony," quoth he, "Wherefore, without delay, We three will fall down on our knees, And for mony we will pray." The priests they could not him gainsay, 45 But down they kneeled with speed; "Send us, O send us," then quoth they, "Some money to serve our need." The priests did pray with a mournful chear, Sometimes their hands did wring; 50 Sometimes they wept, and cried aloud, Whilst Robin did merrily sing. When they had been praying an hours space, The priests did still lament; Then quoth bold Robin, "Now let's see 55 What mony heaven hath us sent. "We will be sharers all alike Of mony that we have; And there is never a one of us That his fellow shall deceive." 60 The priests their hands in their pockets put, But mony would find none: "We'l search ourselves," said Robin Hood, "Each other, one by one." Then Robin Hood took pains to search them both, 65 And he found good store of gold, Five hundred peeces presently Upon the grass was told. "Here is a brave show," said Robin Hood, "Such store of gold to see, 70 And you shall each one have a part, Cause you prayed so heartily." He gave them fifty pounds a-peece, And the rest for himself did keep: The priests durst not speak one word, 75 But they sighed wondrous deep. With that the priests rose up from their knees, Thinking to have parted so: "Nay, stay," says Robin Hood, "one thing more I have to say ere you do go. 80 "You shall be sworn," said bold Robin Hood, "Upon this holy grass, That you will never tell lies again, Which way soever you pass. "The second oath that you here must take, 85 That all the days of your lives, You shall never tempt maids to sin, Nor lye with other mens wives. "The last oath you shall take, it is this, Be charitable to the poor; 90 Say, you have met with a holy fryar, And I desire no more." He set them on their horses again, And away then they did ride; And he return'd to the merry green-wood, 95 With great joy, mirth, and pride. 8 to. ROBIN HOODS DEATH AND BURIAL: Shewing how he was taken ill, and how he went to his cousin at Kirkley-hall, who let him blood, which was the cause of his death. Tune of _Robin Hood's last farewel, &c._ "This very old (?) and curious piece is preserved solely in the editions of _Robin Hood's Garland_ printed at York, (or such as have been taken from them,) where it is made to conclude with some foolish lines, (adopted from the London copy of _Robin Hood and the Valiànt Knight_,) in order to introduce the epitaph. It is here given from a collation of two different copies, containing numerous variations, a few of which are retained in the margin." RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 187. When Robin Hood and Little John, _Down a down, a down, a down_. Went o'er yon bank of broom, Said Robin Hood to Little John, "We have shot for many a pound: _Hey down, a down, a down_. "But I am not able to shoot one shot more, My arrows will not flee; But I have a cousin lives down below, Please God, she will bleed me." Now Robin is to fair Kirkley gone, As fast as he can win; 10 But before he came there, as we do hear, He was taken very ill. And when that he came to fair Kirkley-hall, He knock'd all at the ring, But none was so ready as his cousin herself 15 For to let bold Robin in. "Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin," she said, "And drink some beer with me?" "No, I will neither eat nor drink, Till I am blooded by thee."[L20] 20 "Well, I have a room, cousin Robin," she said, "Which you did never see, And if you please to walk therein, You blooded by me shall be."[L24] She took him by the lilly-white hand, 25 And led him to a private room,[L26] And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, Whilst one drop of blood would run. She blooded him in the vein of the arm, And lock'd him up in the room; 30 There did he bleed all the live-long day, Untill the next day at noon. He then bethought him of a casement door, Thinking for to be gone;[L34] He was so weak he could not leap, 35 Nor he could not get down. He then bethought him of his bugle-horn, Which hung low down to his knee; He set his horn unto his mouth, And blew out weak blasts three. 40 Then Little John, when hearing him, As he sat under the tree, "I fear my master is near dead, He blows so wearily." Then Little John to fair Kirkley is gone, 45 As fast as he can dree; But when he came to Kirkley-hall, He broke locks two or three: Untill he came bold Robin to, Then he fell on his knee; 50 "A boon, a boon," cries Little John, "Master, I beg of thee." "What is that boon," quoth Robin Hood, "Little John, thou begs of me?" "It is to burn fair Kirkley-hall, 55 And all their nunnery." "Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood, "That boon I'll not grant thee; I never hurt woman in all my life,[L59] Nor man in woman's company. 60 "I never hurt fair maid in all my time, Nor at my end shall it be; But give me my bent bow in my hand, And a broad arrow I'll let flee; And where this arrow is taken up, 65 There shall my grave digg'd be. "Lay me a green sod under my head,[L67] And another at my feet;[L68] And lay my bent bow by my side, Which was my music sweet; 70 And make my grave of gravel and green, Which is most right and meet. "Let me have length and breadth enough, With under my head a green sod;[L74] That they may say, when I am dead, 75 Here lies bold Robin Hood." These words they readily promis'd him, Which did bold Robin please: And there they buried bold Robin Hood, Near to the fair Kirklèys. 80 20. Till I blood letted be. 24. You blood shall letted be. 26, let, Ritson. 34, get down. 59, burnt. This stanza is omitted in one edition. 67, 68. With verdant sods most neatly put, weet as the green-wood tree. 74. With a green sod under my head, Ritson. ROBIN HOOD AND QUEEN KATHERINE. Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 87. "From an old black-letter copy in a private collection, compared with another in that of Anthony à Wood. The full title is: "_Renowned Robin Hood; or, his famous archery truly related in the worthy exploits he acted before queen Katherine, he being an outlaw man; and how he obtained his own and his fellows pardon_. _To a new tune._ "It is scarcely worth observing that there was no queen consort named Katherine before Henry the Fifth's time: but as Henry the Eighth had no less than three wives so called, the name would be sufficiently familiar to our ballad-maker." RITSON. Gold tane from the kings harbengers, _Downe, a downe, a downe_, As seldome hath beene seene, _Downe, a downe, a downe_, And carried by bold Robin Hood For a present to the queen, _Downe, a downe, a downe_. "If that I live a yeare to an end," 5 Thus can queene Katherine say, "Bold Robin Hood, I will be thy friend, And all thy yeomen gay." The queene is to her chamber gone, As fast as she can win;[L10] 10 She calls unto her lovely page, His name was Richard Patrington. "Come thou hither to mee, thou lovely page, Come thou hither to mee; For thou must post to Nottingham, 15 As fast as thou can dree. "And as thou goest to Nottingham, Search all the English wood, Enquire of one good yeoman or another, That can tell thee of Robin Hood." 20 Sometimes hee went, sometimes hee ran, As fast as hee could win; And when hee came to Nottingham, There hee took up his inne. And when he came to Nottingham, 25 And had tooke up his inne, He calls for a pottle of Rhenish wine, And dranke a health to his queene. There sate a yeoman by his side, "Tell mee, sweet page," said hee, 30 "What is thy businesse and thy cause, So far in the north countrey?" "This is my businesse and the cause, Sir, I'le tell it you for good, To enquire of one good yeoman or another, 35 To tell mee of Robin Hood." "I'le get my horse betimes in the morne, By it be break of day, And I will shew thee bold Robin Hood, And all his yeomen gay." 40 When that he came at Robin Hoods place, Hee fell down on his knee; "Queen Katherine she doth greet you well, She greets you well by mee; "She bids you post to fair London court, 45 Not fearing any thing: For there shall be a little sport, And she hath sent you her ring." Robin Hood tooke his mantle from his back, It was of the Lincolne greene, 50 And sent it by this lovely page, For a present unto the queene. In summer time, when leaves grow green, It [wa]s a seemely sight to see, How Robin Hood himselfe had drest, 55 And all his yeomandry. He clothed his men in Lincolne green, And himselfe in scarlet red; Blacke hats, white feathers, all alike, Now bold Robin Hood is rid. 60 And when hee came at Londons court, Hee fell downe on his knee. "Thou art welcome, Locksly," said the queen, "And all thy good yeomandree." The king is into Finsbury field,[L65] 65 Marching in battle ray, And after follows bold Robin Hood, And all his yeomen gay. "Come hither, Tepus," said the king, "Bow-bearer after me; 70 Come measure me out with this line, How long our mark must be. "What is the wager?" said the queene, "That must I now know here:" "Three hundred tun of Rhenish wine, 75 Three hundred tun of beere; "Three hundred of the fattest harts That run on Dallom lee; That's a princely wager," said the king, "That needs must I tell thee." 80 With that bespake one Clifton then, Full quickly and full soone; "Measure no markes for us, most soveraigne liege, Wee'l shoot at sun and moone." "Ful fifteene score your marke shall be, 85 Ful fifteene score shall stand;" "I'll lay my bow," said Clifton then, "I'll cleave the willow wand." With that the kings archers led about, While it was three and none; 90 With that the ladies began to shout, "Madam, your game is gone." "A boone, a boone," queen Katherine cries, "I crave it on my bare knee; Is there any knight of your privy counsèl 95 Of queen Katherines part will be? "Come hither to mee, sir Richard Lee, Thou art a knight full good; For I do knowe by thy pedigree Thou sprung'st from Gowers blood. 100 "Come hither to me, thou bishop of Herefordshire," For a noble priest was hee; "By my silver miter," said the bishop then, "Ile not bet one peny." "The king hath archers of his own, 105 Full ready and full light, And these be strangers every one, No man knowes what they hight." "What wilt thou bet," said Robin Hood, "Thou seest our game the worse?" 110 "By my silver miter," then said the bishop, "All the money within my purse." "What is in thy purse?" said Robin Hood, "Throw it downe on the ground." "Fifteen score nobles," said the bishop; 115 "It's neere an hundred pound." Robin Hood took his bagge from his side, And threw it downe on the greene; William Scadlocke then went smiling away, "I know who this money must win." 120 With that the kings archers led about, While it was three and three; With that the ladies gave a shout, "Woodcock, beware thy knee!" "It is three and three, now," said the king, 125 "The next three pays for all:" Robin Hood went and whisper'd the queen, "The kings part shall be but small." Robin Hood hee led about, Hee shot it under hand; 130 And Clifton, with a bearing arrow, Hee clave the willow wand. And little Midge, the millers son, He shot not much the worse; He shot within a finger of the prick: 135 "Now, bishop, beware thy purse!" "A boone, a boone," queen Katherine cries, "I crave it on my bare knee, That you will angry be with none That are of my partie." 140 "They shall have forty daies to come, And forty daies to goe, And three times forty to sport and play; Then welcome friend or foe." "Thou art welcome, Robin Hood," said the queene, 145 "And so is Little John, And so is Midge, the millers son; Thrice welcome every one." "Is this Robin Hood?" now said the king; "For it was told to me 150 That he was slain in the palace gates, So far in the north country." "Is this Robin Hood?" quoth the bishop then, "As I see well to be: Had I knowne it had been that bold outlàw, 155 I would not [have] bet one peny. "Hee tooke me late one Saturday at night, And bound mee fast to a tree, And made mee sing a masse, God wot, To him and his yeomandree." 160 "What an if I did?" saies Robin Hood, "Of that masse I was faine; "For recompence of that," he saies, "Here's halfe thy gold againe." "Now nay, now nay," saies Little John, 165 "Master, that shall not be; We must give gifts to the kings officèrs; That gold will serve thee and mee." 10, wen. 65. Ground near Moorfields, London, famous in old times for the archery practised there. "In the year 1498," says Stow, "all the gardens which had continued time out of minde, without Mooregate, to wit, about and beyond the lordship of Fensberry, were destroyed. And of them was made a plaine field for archers to shoote in." _Survay of London_, 1598, p. 351. See also p. 77, where it is observed that "about the feast of S. Bartlemew ... the officers of the city ... were challengers of all men in the suburbes, ... before the lord maior, aldermen, and sheriffes, in FENSBERY FIELDE, to shoote the standarde, broade arrow, and flight, for games." [The Finsbury] archers are mentioned by Ben Jonson, in _Every man in his humour_, act i, scene 1: "Because I dwell at Hogsden, I shall keep company with none but the archers of Finsbury." The practice of shooting here is alluded to by Cotton, in his _Virgile travestie_ (b. iv.), 1667: "And arrows loos'd from Grub-street bow, "In FINSBURY, to him are slow;" and continued till within the memory of persons now living. RITSON. ROBIN HOODS CHASE: Or, a merry progress between Robin Hood and King Henry: shewing how Robin Hood led the king his chase from London to London; and when he had taken his leave of the queen, he returned to merry Sherwood. To the tune of _Robin Hood and the Beggar_." "From an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony à Wood." RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 96. Come, you gallants all, to you I do call, _With hey down, down, an a down_, That now are in this place; For a song I will sing of Henry the king, How he did Robin Hood chase. Queen Katherin she a match did make,[L5] 5 As plainly doth appear, For three hundred tun of good red wine, And three [hundred] tun of beere. But yet her archers she had to seek, With their bows and arrows so good; 10 But her mind it was bent, with a good intent, To send for bold Robin Hood. But when bold Robin he came there, Queen Katherin she did say, "Thou art welcome, Locksley," said the queen, 15 "And all thy yeomen gay; "For a match of shooting I have made, And thou on my part, Robin, must be." "If I miss the mark, be it light or dark, Then hanged I will be." 20 But when the game came to be played, Bold Robin he then drew nigh; With his mantle of green, most brave to be seen, He let his arrows fly. And when the game it ended was, 25 Bold Robin wan it with a grace; But after the king was angry with him, And vowed he would him chace. What though his pardon granted was, While he with him did stay; 30 But yet the king was vexed at him, Whenas he was gone his way. Soon after the king from the court did hye, In a furious angry mood, And often enquired both far and near 35 After bold Robin Hood. But when the king to Nottingham came, Bold Robin was in the wood: "O come now," said he, "and let me see Who can find me bold Robin Hood." 40 But when that bold Robin he did hear The king had him in chase, Then said Little John, "Tis time to be gone, And go to some other place." Then away they went from merry Sherwood, 45 And into Yorkshire he did hye; And the king did follow, with a hoop and a hallow, But could not come him nigh. Yet jolly Robin he passed along, And went strait to Newcastle town; 50 And there he stayed hours two or three, And then to Barwick is gone.[L52] When the king did see how Robin did flee, He was vexed wondrous sore; With a hoop and a hallow he vowed to follow, 55 And take him, or never give ore. "Come now, let's away," then crys Little John, "Let any man follow that dare; To Carlisle we'l hye with our company, And so then to Lancastèr." 60 From Lancaster then to Chester they went, And so did king Henry; But Robin [went] away, for he durst not stay, For fear of some treachery. Says Robin, "Come, let us for London goe, 65 To see our noble queens face; It may be she wants our company, Which makes the king so us chase." When Robin he came queene Katherin before, He fell low upon his knee: 70 "If it please your grace, I am come to this place, For to speak with king Henry." Queen Katherine answered bold Robin again,[L73] "The king is gone to merry Sherwood: And when he went away, to me he did say, 75 He would go and seek Robin Hood." "Then fare you well, my gracious queen, For to Sherwood I will hye apace; For fain would I see what he would with me, If I could but meet with his grace." 80 But when king Henry he came home, Full weary, and vexed in mind, And that he did hear Robin had been there, He blamed dame Fortune unkind. "You're welcome home," queen Katherin cryed, 85 "Henry, my soveraign liege; Bold Robin Hood, that archer good, Your person hath been to seek." But when king Henry he did hear, That Robin had been there him to seeke, 90 This answer he gave, "He's a cunning knave, For I have sought him this whole three weeks." "A boon! a boon!" queen Katherin cry'd, "I beg it here of your grace;-- To pardon his life, and seek not strife," 95 And so endeth Robin Hoods chase. 5, then did. 52, he ... was. 73, Robin Hood. LITTLE JOHN AND THE FOUR BEGGERS. "From an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony à Wood: the full title being, _A new merry song of Robin Hood and Little John, shewing how Little John went a begging, and how he fought with the four beggers_. _The tune is, Robin Hood and the Begger._" RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 132. All you that delight to spend some time, _With a hey down, down, a down, down_, A merry song for to sing, Unto me draw neer, and you shall hear How Little John went a beggìng. As Robin Hood walked the forest along, 5 And all his yeomandree, Sayes Robin, "Some of you must a begging go, And, Little John, it must be thee." Sayes John, "If I must a begging go, I will have a palmers weed, 10 With a staff and a coat, and bags of all sort, The better then I may speed. "Come, give me now a bag for my bread, And another for my cheese, And one for a peny, whenas I get any, 15 That nothing I may leese." Now Little John he is a begging gone, Seeking for some relief; But of all the beggers he met on the way, Little John he was the chief. 20 But as he was walking himself alone, Four beggers he chanced to spy, Some deaf, and some blind, and some came behind; Says John, "Here's brave company. "Good-morrow," said John, "my brethren dear, 25 Good fortune I had you to see; Which way do you go? pray let me know, For I want some company. "O what is here to do?" then said Little John, "Why ring all these bells?" said he; 30 "What dog is a hanging? come, let us be ganging, That we the truth may see." "Here is no dog a hanging," then one of them said, "Good fellow, we tell unto thee; But here is one dead that will give us cheese and bread,[L35] 35 And it may be one single penny."[L36] "We have brethren in London," another he said, "So have we in Coventry, In Barwick and Dover, and all the world over, But ne'er a crookt carril like thee. 40 "Therefore stand thee back, thou crooked carel, And take that knock on the crown:" "Nay," said Little John, "Ile not yet be gone, For a bout will I have of you round. "Now have at you all," then said Little John, 45 "If you be so full of your blows; Fight on all four, and nere give ore, Whether you be friends or foes." John nipped the dumb, and made him to rore, And the blind he made to see, 50 And he that a cripple had been seven years,[L51] He made run then faster than he. And flinging them all against the wall, With many a sturdie bang, It made John sing, to hear the gold ring, 55 Which against the walls cryed twang. Then he got out of the beggers cloak Three hundred pound in gold; "Good fortune had I," then said Little John, "Such a good sight to behold." 60 But what found he in the beggars bag, But three hundred pound and three? "If I drink water while this doth last, Then an ill death may I dye. "And my begging trade I will now give ore, 65 My fortune hath bin so good; Therefore Ile not stay, but I will away To the forrest of merry Sherwood." And when to the forrest of Sherwood he came, He quickly there did see 70 His master good, bold Robin Hood, And all his company. "What news? What news?" then said Robin Hood, "Come, Little John, tell unto me; How hast thou sped with thy beggers trade? 75 For that I fain would see." "No news but good," said Little John, "With begging ful wel I have sped; Six hundred and three I have here for thee, In silver and gold so red. 80 Then Robin took Little John by the hand, And danced about the oak tree: "If we drink water while this doth last, Then an il death may we die." So to conclude my merry new song, 85 All you that delight it to sing, 'Tis of Robin Hood, that archer good, And how Little John went a beggìng. 35, 36. The allusion is of course to the dole at funerals. 51, that could not. THE NOBLE FISHER-MAN, OR, ROBIN HOODS PREFERMENT: Shewing how he won a prize on the sea, and how he gave the one halfe to his dame, and the other to the building of almes-houses. The tune is, _In summer time_, etc. "From three old black-letter copies; one in the collection of Anthony à Wood, another in the British Museum, and the third in a private collection." RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 114. In summer time, when leaves grow green, When they doe grow both green and long,-- Of a bold outlaw, call'd Robin Hood, It is of him I do sing this song,-- When the lilly leafe, and the eglantine,[L5] 5 Doth bud and spring with a merry cheere, This outlaw was weary of the wood-side, And chasing of the fallow-deere. "The fisher-men brave more mony have Than any merchants two or three; 10 Therefore I will to Scarborough go, That I a fisherman brave may be." This outlaw called his merry men all, As they sate under the green-wood tree: "If any of you have gold to spend, 15 I pray you heartily spend it with me." "Now," quoth Robin Hood, "Ile to Scarborough go, It seems to be a very faire day;" He tooke up his inne at a widdow-womans house, Hard by upon the water gray: 20 Who asked of him, "Where wert thou borne? Or tell to me where dost thou fare?" "I am a poor fisherman," said he then, "This day intrapped all in care." "What is thy name, thou fine fellow, 25 I pray thee heartily tell it to mee?" "In my own country, where I was borne, Men call me Simon over the Lee." "Simon, Simon," said the good wife, "I wish thou mayest well brook thy name;" 30 The out-law was ware of her courtesie, And rejoyced he had got such a dame. "Simon, wilt thou be my man? And good round wages Ile give thee; I have as good a ship of my own 35 As any sails upon the sea. "Anchors and planks thou shalt not want, Masts and ropes that are so long:" "And if you thus do furnish me," Said Simon, "nothing shall goe wrong." 40 They pluckt up anchor, and away did sayle, More of a day then two or three; When others cast in their baited hooks, The bare lines into the sea cast he. "It will be long," said the master then, 45 "Ere this great lubber do thrive on the sea; I'le assure you he shall have no part of our fish, For in truth he is no part worthy." "O woe is me!" said Simon then, "This day that ever I came here! 50 I wish I were in Plompton parke, In chasing of the fallow deere. "For every clowne laughs me to scorne, And they by me set nought at all; If I had them in Plompton park, 55 I would set as little by them all." They pluckt up anchor, and away did sayle, More of a day then two or three: But Simon espyed a ship of warre, That sayled towards them most valorously. 60 "O woe is me!" said the master then, "This day that ever I was borne! For all our fish we have got to-day Is every bit lost and forlorne. "For your French robbers on the sea, 65 They will not spare of us one man, But carry us to the coast of France, And ligge us in the prison strong." But Simon said, "Doe not feare them, Neither, master, take you no care; 70 Give me my bent bow in my hand, And never a Frenchman will I spare." "Hold thy peace, thou long lubbèr, For thou art nought but brags and boast; If I should cast thee over-board, 75 There's but a simple lubber lost." Simon grew angry at these words, And so angry then was he, That he took his bent bow in his hand, And in the ship-hatch goe doth he. 80 "Master, tye me to the mast," saith he, "That at my mark I may stand fair, And give me my bent bow in my hand, And never a Frenchman will I spare." He drew his arrow to the very head, 85 And drewe it with all his might and maine, And straightway, in the twinkling of an eye, Doth the Frenchmans heart the arrow gain. The Frenchman fell down on the ship hatch, And under the hatches there below; 90 Another Frenchman, that him espy'd, The dead corpse into the sea doth throw. "O master, loose me from the mast," he said, "And for them all take you no care; For give me my bent bow in my hand, 95 And never a Frenchman will I spare." Then streight [they] boarded the French ship, They lyeing all dead in their sight; They found within that ship of warre Twelve thousand pound of mony bright. 100 "The one halfe of the ship," said Simon then, "I'le give to my dame and children small; The other halfe of the ship I'le bestow On you that are my fellowes all." But now bespake the master then, 105 "For so, Simon, it shall not be, For you have won it with your own hand, And the owner of it you shall bee." "It shall be so, as I have said; And, with this gold, for the opprest 110 An habitation I will build, Where they shall live in peace and rest." 5, elephant. ROBIN HOOD AND THE TANNERS DAUGHTER. Gutch's _Robin Hood_, ii. 345. Communicated to Gutch by Mr. Payne Collier, and derived by him, with _Robin Hood and the Peddlers_, from a volume of MS. ballads, collected, as Mr. C. conjectures, about the date of the Protectorate. The story is only one of the varieties of the _Douglas Tragedy_. See vol. ii. p. 114. As Robin Hood sat by a tree, He espied a prettie may, And when she chanced him to see, She turnd her head away. "O feare me not, thou prettie mayde, 5 And doe not flie from mee, I am the kindest man," he said, "That ever eye did see." Then to her he did doffe his cap, And to her lowted low, 10 "To meete with thee I hold it good hap, If thou wilt not say noe." Then he put his hand around her waste, Soe small, so tight, and trim, And after sought her lip to taste, 15 And she to[o] kissed him. "Where dost thou dwell, my prettie maide, I prithee tell to mee?" "I am a tanners daughter," she said, "John Hobbes of Barneslee." 20 "And whither goest thou, pretty maide? Shall I be thy true love?" "If thou art not afeard," she said, "My true love thou shalt prove." "What should I feare?" then he replied; 25 "I am thy true love now;" "I have two brethren, and their pride Would scorn such one as thou." "That will we try," quoth Robin Hood, "I was not made their scorne; 30 Ile shed my blood to doe the[e] good, As sure as they were borne." "My brothers are proude and fierce and strong;" "I am," said he, "the same, And if they offer thee to wrong, 35 Theyle finde Ile play their game. "Through the free forrest I can run, The king may not controll; They are but barking tanners sons, To me they shall pay toll. 40 "And if not mine be sheepe and kine, I have cattle on my land; On venison eche day I may dine, Whiles they have none in hand." These wordes had Robin Hood scarce spoke, 45 When they two men did see, Come riding till their horses smoke: "My brothers both," cried shee. Each had a good sword by his side, And furiouslie they rode 50 To where they Robin Hood espied, That with the maiden stood. "Flee hence, flee hence, away with speede!" Cried she to Robin Hood, "For if thou stay, thoult surely bleede; 55 I could not see thy blood." "With us, false maiden, come away, And leave that outlawe bolde; Why fledst thou from thy home this day, And left thy father olde?" 60 Robin stept backe but paces five, Unto a sturdie tree; "Ile fight whiles I am left alive; Stay, thou sweete maide, with mee." He stood before, she stoode behinde, 65 The brothers two drewe nie; "Our sister now to us resign, Or thou full sure shalt die." Then cried the maide, "My brethren deare, With ye Ile freely wend, 70 But harm not this young forrester, Noe ill doth he pretend." "Stande up, sweete maide, I plight my troth; Fall thou not on thy knee; Ile force thy cruell brothers both 75 To bend the knee to thee. "Stand thou behinde this sturdie oke, I soone will quell their pride; Thoult see my sword with furie smoke, And in their hearts blood died." 80 He set his backe against a tree, His foote against a stone; The first blow that he gave so free Cleft one man to the bone. The tanners bold they fought right well, 85 And it was one to two; But Robin did them both refell, All in the damsells viewe. The red blood ran from Robins brow, All downe unto his knee; 90 "O holde your handes, my brethren now, I will goe backe with yee." "Stand backe, stand backe, my pretty maide, Stand backe and let me fight; By sweete St. James be no afraide 95 But I will it requite." Then Robin did his sword uplift, And let it fall againe; The oldest brothers head it cleft, Right through unto his braine. 100 "O hold thy hand, bolde forrester, Or ill may thee betide; Slay not my youngest brother here, He is my fathers pride." "Away, for I would scorne to owe, 105 My life to the[e], false maide!" The youngest cried, and aim'd a blow That lit on Robins head. Then Robin leand against the tree, His life nie gone did seeme; 110 His eyes did swim, he could not see The maiden start betweene. It was not long ere Robin Hood Could welde his sword so bright; Upon his feete he firmly stood, 115 And did renew the fight; Untill the tanner scarce could heave His weapon in the aire; But Robin would not him bereave Of life, and left him there. 120 Then to the greenewood did he fly, And with him went the maide; For him she vowd that she would dye, He'd live for her, he said. Finis. T. Fleming. APPENDIX. ROBIN HOODS BIRTH, BREEDING, VALOUR, AND MARRIAGE. Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 1. Ritson printed this piece from a black-letter copy in a large and valuable collection of old ballads which successively belonged to Major Pearson, the Duke of Roxburghe, and Mr. Bright, but which is now in the British Museum. The full title of the original is: _A new ballad of bold Robin Hood; shewing his birth, breeding, valour, and marriage at Tilbury Bull-running. Calculated for the meridian of Staffordshire, but may serve for Derbyshire or Kent_. The copy in _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 67, is the same. Kind gentlemen, will you be patient awhile? Ay, and then you shall hear anon A very good ballad of bold Robin Hood, And of his brave man Little John. In Locksly town, in merry Nottinghamshire, 5 In merry sweet Locksly town, There bold Robin Hood he was born and was bred, Bold Robin of famous renown. The father of Robin a forrester was, And he shot in a lusty strong bow, 10 Two north country miles and an inch at a shot, As the Pinder of Wakefield does know. For he brought Adam Bell, and Clim of the Clough, And William of Clowdesle,[L14] To shoot with our forrester for forty mark, 15 And the forrester beat them all three. His mother was neece to the Coventry knight, Which Warwickshire men call sir Guy; For he slew the blue bore that hangs up at the gate, Or mine host of the Bull tells a lie. 20 Her brother was Gamwel, of Great Gamwel-Hall, A noble house-keeper was he, Ay, as ever broke bread in sweet Nottinghamshire, And a 'squire of famous degree. The mother of Robin said to her husbànd, 25 "My honey, my love, and my dear, Let Robin and I ride this morning to Gamwel, To taste of my brother's good cheer." And he said, "I grant thee thy boon, gentle Joan, Take one of my horses, I pray: 30 The sun is arising, and therefore make haste, For to-morrow is Christmas-day." Then Robin Hood's father's grey gelding was brought, And sadled and bridled was he; God wot a blue bonnet, his new suit of cloaths, 35 And a cloak that did reach to his knee. She got on her holyday kirtle and gown, They were of a light Lincoln green; The cloath was homespun, but for colour and make It might a beseem'd our queen. 40 And then Robin got on his basket-hilt sword, And his dagger on his tother side; And said, "My dear mother, let's haste to be gone, We have forty long miles to ride." When Robin had mounted his gelding so grey, 45 His father, without any trouble, Set her up behind him, and bad her not fear, For his gelding had oft carried double.[L48] And when she was settled, they rode to their neighbours, And drank and shook hands with them all; 50 And then Robin gallopt, and never gave o're, 'Till they lighted at Gamwel-Hall. And now you may think the right worshipful 'squire Was joyful his sister to see; For he kist her, and kist her, and swore a great oath, 55 "Thou art welcome, kind sister, to me." To-morrow, when mass had been said in the chappel, Six tables were covered in the hall, And in comes the 'squire, and makes a short speech, It was, "Neighbours, you're welcome all. 60 "But not a man here shall taste my March beer, 'Till a Christmas carrol he does sing:" Then all clapt their hands, and they shouted and sung, 'Till the hall and the parlour did ring. Now mustard and brawn, roast beef and plumb pies, 65 Were set upon every table: And noble George Gamwel said, "Eat and be merry And drink too as long as you're able." When dinner was ended, his chaplain said grace, And, "Be merry, my friends," said the 'squire; 70 "It rains, and it blows, but call for more ale, And lay some more wood on the fire. "And now call ye Little John hither to me, For Little John is a fine lad At gambols and juggling, and twenty such tricks, 75 As shall make you both merry and glad. When Little John came, to gambols they went, Both gentlemen, yeomen, and clown; And what do you think? Why, as true as I live, Bold Robin Hood put them all down. 80 And now you may think the right worshipful 'squire Was joyful this sight for to see; For he said, "Cousin Robin, thou'st go no more home, But tarry and dwell here with me. "Thou shalt have my land when I die, and till then, 85 Thou shalt be the staff of my age:" "Then grant me my boon, dear uncle," said Robin, "That Little John may be my page." And he said, "Kind cousin, I grant thee thy boon; With all my heart, so let it be;" 90 "Then come hither, Little John," said Robin Hood, "Come hither, my page, unto me. "Go fetch me my bow, my longest long bow, And broad arrows, one, two, or three; For when 'tis fair weather we'll into Sherwood, 95 Some merry pastime to see." When Robin Hood came into merry Sherwood, He winded his bugle so clear; And twice five and twenty good yeomen and bold Before Robin Hood did appear. 100 "Where are your companions all?" said Robin Hood, "For still I want forty and three:" Then said a bold yeoman, "Lo, yonder they stand, All under the green wood tree."[L104] As that word was spoke, Clorinda came by, 105 The queen of the shepherds was she; And her gown was of velvet as green as the grass, And her buskin did reach to her knee. Her gait it was graceful, her body was straight, And her countenance free from pride; 110 A bow in her hand, and a quiver of arrows Hung dangling by her sweet side. Her eye-brows were black, ay, and so was her hair, And her skin was as smooth as glass; Her visage spoke wisdom, and modesty too; 215 Sets with Robin Hood such a lass! Said Robin Hood, "Lady fair, whither away? O whither, fair lady, away?" And she made him an answer, "To kill a fat buck; For to-morrow is Titbury day." 120 Said Robin Hood, "Lady fair, wander with me A little to yonder green bower; There set down to rest you, and you shall be sure Of a brace or a leash in an hour."[L124] And as we were going towàrds the green bower, 125 Two hundred good bucks we espy'd; She chose out the fattest that was in the herd,[L127] And she shot him through side and side. "By the faith of my body," said bold Robin Hood, "I never saw woman like thee; 130 And com'st thou from east, or com'st thou from west, Thou needst not beg venison of me. "However, along to my bower you shall go, And taste of a forrester's meat:" And when we came thither we found as good cheer 135 As any man needs for to eat. For there was hot venison, and warden pies cold, Cream clouted, with honey-combs plenty; And the servitors they were, besides Little John, Good yeomen at least four and twenty. 140 Clorinda said, "Tell me your name, gentle sir;" And he said, "'Tis bold Robin Hood: 'Squire Gamwel's my uncle, but all my delight Is to dwell in the merry Sherwood; "For 'tis a fine life, and 'tis void of all strife." 145 "So 'tis, sir," Clorinda reply'd. "But oh," said bold Robin, "how sweet would it be, If Clorinda would be my bride!" She blusht at the motion; yet, after a pause Said, "Yes, sir, and with all my heart:" 150 "Then let us send for a priest," said Robin Hood, "And be married before we do part." But she said, "It may not be so, gentle sir,' For I must be at Titbury feast; And if Robin Hood will go thither with me, 155 I'll make him the most welcome guest." Said Robin Hood, "Reach me that buck, Little John, For I'll go along with my dear; And bid my yeomen kill six brace of bucks, And meet me to-morrow just here." 160 Before he had ridden five Staffordshire miles, Eight yeomen, that were too bold, Bid Robin Hood stand, and deliver his buck; A truer tale never was told. "I will not, faith," said bold Robin; "come, John, 165 Stand by me, and we'll beat 'em all:" Then both drew their swords, and so cut 'em, and slasht 'em, That five of them did fall. The three that remain'd call'd to Robin for quarter, And pitiful John begg'd their lives; 170 When John's boon was granted, he gave them good counsel, And sent them all home to their wives. This battle was fought near to Titbury town, When the bagpipes baited the bull;[L174] I'm the king of the fidlers, and I swear 'tis truth, 175 And I call him that doubts it a gull: For I saw them fighting, and fiddled the while, And Clorinda sung "Hey derry down! The bumkins are beaten, put up thy sword, Bob, And now let's dance into the town." 180 Before we came in, we heard a strange shouting, And all that were in it look'd madly; For some were on bull-back, some dancing a morris, And some singing _Arthur-a-Bradley_. And there we see Thomas, our justices clerk, 185 And Mary, to whom he was kind; For Tom rode before her, and call'd Mary madam, And kiss'd her full sweetly behind: And so may your worships. But we went to dinner, With Thomas and Mary, and Nan; 190 They all drank a health to Clorinda and told her Bold Robin Hood was a fine man. When dinner was ended, sir Roger, the parson Of Dubbridge, was sent for in haste: He brought his mass-book, and he bad them take hands, 195 And joyn'd them in marriage full fast. And then, as bold Robin Hood and his sweet bride Went hand in hand to the green bower, The birds sung with pleasure in merry Sherwood, And 'twas a most joyful hour. 200 And when Robin came in sight of the bower, "Where are my yeomen?" said he: And Little John answer'd, "Lo, yonder they stand, All under the green wood tree." Then a garland they brought her by two and by two, 205 And plac'd them all on the bride's head: The music struck up, and we all fell to dance, 'Till the bride and bridegroom were a-bed. And what they did there must be counsel to me, Because they lay long the next day; 210 And I had haste home, but I got a good piece Of bride-cake, and so came away. Now out, alas! I had forgotten to tell ye, That marry'd they were with a ring; And so will Nan Knight, or be buried a maiden, 215 And now let us pray for the king: That he may get children, and they may get more, To govern and do us some good: And then I'll make ballads in Robin Hood's bower, And sing 'em in merry Sherwood. 220 14, Clowdel le. 48, has. 104, a. 124, lease. 127, choose. 174. Tutbury, or Stutesbury, Staffordshire. This celebrated place lies about four miles from Burton-upon-Trent, on the west bank of the river Don. Its castle, it is supposed, was built a considerable time before the Norman conquest. Being the principal seat of the Dukes of Lancaster, it was long distinguished as the scene of festivity and splendour. The number of minstrels which crowded it was so great, that it was found necessary to have recourse to some expedient for preserving order among them, and determining their claims of precedence. Accordingly, one of their number, with the title of king of the minstrels, was appointed, and under him several inferior officers, to assist in the execution of the laws. To this chief a charter was granted by John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, 22nd August, 4th Richard II., 1381. This king of the minstrels and his officers having inflicted fines and punishments which exceeded the due bounds of justice, a court for hearing and determining complaints and controversies was instituted, which was yearly held with many forms and ceremonies. The business of the court being concluded, the officers withdraw to partake of a sumptuous repast, prepared for them by the steward of the lordship. In the afternoon the minstrels assembled at the gate of the priory, where, by way of amusement for the multitude, a bull, having his horns, ears, and tail cut off, his body besmeared with soap, and his nose blown full of pepper, was then let loose. If the minstrels could take and hold him, even so long as to deprive him of the smallest portion of his hair, he was declared their property, provided this was done within the confines of Staffordshire, and before sunset. The bull was next collared and roped, and being brought to the market cross, was baited with dogs. After this he was delivered to the minstrels, who might dispose of him as they deemed proper. _Vide_ Blount's _Ancient Tenures_, Hawkins's _History of Music_, Strutt's _Sports and Pastimes_, for fuller particulars of this ancient custom. GUTCH. A TRUE TALE OF ROBIN HOOD. Gutch's _Robin Hood_, ii. 88. This doggerel is by Martin Parker, a well-known author of ballads in the reign of Charles I. and during the Protectorate. The titles of several of his works are given by Ritson, (_Robin Hood_, i. 127,) and those of others may be seen in Collier's _Roxburghe Ballads_, 237, 243, and Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, ii. 257, 263; among these last is the celebrated song, _When the king enjoys his own again_. Ritson printed this piece from a black-letter edition dated 1686. Gutch obtained a somewhat better copy from Mr. Collier, which we have here followed. "The date of Mr. Collier's copy is cut off, but enough remains to shew that it was printed at London, 'for T. Cotes, and are to be sold by F. Grove, dwelling upon Snow-hill near the Saracens * * *.' The first edition was entered at Stationers' Hall, 20th February, 1631." The title in full is: "_A True Tale of Robbin Hood, Or, a brief touch of the life and death of that renowned outlaw, Robert, Earle of Huntington, vulgarly called Robbin Hood, who lived and died in 1198, being the 9th yeare of king Richard the first, commonly called Richard Cuer de Lyon; carefully collected out of the truest writers of our English_ _Chronicles and published for the satisfaction of those who desire to see truth purged from falsehood_. BY MARTIN PARKER." At the end of the tale is the following epitaph, "which the prioresse of the monastery of Kirkes Lay in Yorkshire set over Robbin Hood, which was to bee reade within these hundreth yeares (though in old broken English), much to the same sence and meaning." _Decembris quarto die 1198. anno regni Richardii primi 9._ Robert earle of Huntington Lies under this little stone. No archer was like him so good; His wildnesse named him Robbin Hood. Full thirteene yeares and something more, These northern parts he vexed sore; Such outlawes as hee and his men, May England never know agen. "Some other superstitious words were in it, which I thought fit to leave out." M. P. Both gentlemen, or yeomen bould, Or whatsoever you are, To have a stately story tould Attention now prepare. It is a tale of Robin Hood, 5 Which I to you will tell, Which being rightly understood, I know will please you well. This Robbin (so much talked on) Was once a man of fame, 10 Instiled earle of Huntington, Lord Robert Hood by name. In courtship and magnificence His carriage won him prayse, And greater favour with his prince 15 Than any in his dayes. In bounteous liberality He too much did excell, And loved men of quality More than exceeding well. 20 His great revennues all he sould For wine and costly cheere; He kept three hundred bowmen bold, He shooting loved so deare. No archer living in his time 25 With him might well compare: He practis'd all his youthfull prime That exercise most rare. At last, by his profuse expence, He had consum'd his wealth; 30 And being outlawed by his prince, In woods he liv'd by stealth. The abbot of Saint Maries rich, To whom he mony ought, His hatred to the earle was such 35 That he his downefall wrought. So being outlaw'd (as 'tis told) He with a crew went forth Of lusty cutters stout and bold, And robbed in the North. 40 Among the rest one Little John, A yeoman bold and free, Who could (if it stood him upon) With ease encounter three. One hundred men in all he got, 45 With whom (the story sayes) Three hundred commen men durst not Hold combat any wayes. They Yorkshire woods frequented much, And Lancashire also, 50 Wherein their practises were such That they wrought mickle woe. None rich durst travell to and fro, Though nere so strongly arm'd, But by these theeves (so strong in show) 55 They still were rob'd and harm'd. His chiefest spight to th' clergie was, That liv'd in monstrous pride: No one of them he would let passe Along the highway side, 60 But first they must to dinner go, And afterwards to shrift: Full many a one he served so, Thus while he liv'd by theft. No monks nor fryers would he let goe, 65 Without paying their fees: If they thought much to be us'd so, Their stones he made them leese. For such as they the country fill'd With bastards in those dayes; 70 Which to prevent, these sparkes did geld All that came by their ways. But Robbin Hood so gentle was, And bore so brave a minde, If any in distresse did passe, 75 To them he was so kinde, That he would give and lend to them, To helpe them in their neede; This made all poore men pray for him, And wish he well might speede. 80 The widdow and the fatherlesse He would send meanes unto; And those whom famine did oppresse Found him a friendly foe. Nor would he doe a woman wrong, 85 But see her safe conveid: He would protect with power strong All those who crav'd his ayde. The abbot of Saint Maries then, Who him undid before, 90 Was riding with two hundred men, And gold and silver store. But Robbin Hood upon him set, With his couragious sparkes, And all the coyne perforce did get, 95 Which was twelve thousand markes. He bound the abbot to a tree, And would not let him passe, Before that to his men and he His lordship had said masse. 100 Which being done, upon his horse He set him fast astride, And with his face towards his---- He forced him to ride. His men were faine to be his guide, 105 For he rode backward home: The abbot, being thus villified, Did sorely chafe and fume. Thus Robbin Hood did vindicate His former wrongs receiv'd; 110 For 'twas this covetous prelàte That him of land bereav'd. The abbot he rode to the king, With all the haste he could, And to his grace he every thing 115 Exactly did unfold: And sayd if that no course were ta'en, By force or stratagem, To take this rebel and his traine, No man should passe for them. 120 The king protested by and by Unto the abbot then, That Robbin Hood with speed should dye, With all his merry men. But e're the king did any send, 125 He did another feate, Which did his grace much more offend, The fact indeed was great. For in a short time after that The kings receivers went 130 Towards London with the coyne they got, For 's highness northerne rent. Bold Robbin Hood and Little John, With the rest of their traine, Not dreading law, set them upon, 135 And did their gold obtaine. The king much moved at the same, And the abbots talke also, In this his anger did proclaime, And sent word to and fro, 140 That whosoe'er alive or dead Could bring bold Robbin Hood, Should have one thousand markes well paid In gold and silver good. This promise of the king did make 145 Full many yeomen bold Attempt stout Robbin Hood to take, With all the force they could. But still when any came to him Within the gay greene wood, 150 He entertainement gave to them With venison fat and good; And shew'd to them such martiale sport With his long bow and arrow, That they of him did give report, 155 How that it was great sorow, That such a worthy man as he Should thus be put to shift, Being late a lord of high degree, Of living quite bereft. 160 The king to take him, more and more Sent men of mickle might; But he and his still beate them sore, And conquered them in fight: Or else with love and courtesie, 165 To him he won their hearts. Thus still he lived by robbery Throughout the northerne parts; And all the country stood in dread Of Robbin Hood and 's men: 170 For stouter lads ne're liv'd by bread In those days, nor since then. The abbot which before I nam'd Sought all the meanes he could To have by force this rebele ta'ne, 175 And his adherents bold. Therefore he arm'd five hundred men, With furniture compleate; But the outlawes slewe halfe of them, And made the rest retreate. 180 The long bow and the arrow keene They were so us'd unto, That still he kept the forrest greene In spite o' th' proudest foe. Twelve of the abbots men he tooke, 185 Who came him to have ta'ne, When all the rest the field forsooke; These he did entertaine With banquetting and merriment, And, having us'd them well, 190 He to their lord them safely sent, And will'd them him to tell, That if he would be pleas'd at last To beg of our good king That he might pardon what was past, 195 And him to favour bring, He would surrender backe again The money which before Was taken by him and his men From him and many more. 200 Poore men might safely passe by him, And some that way would chuse, For well they knew that to helpe them He evermore did use. But where he knew a miser rich 205 That did the poore oppresse, To feel his coyne his hands did itch; He'd have it, more or lesse. And sometimes, when the high-way fayl'd, Then he his courage rouses, 210 He and his men have oft assayld Such rich men in their houses. So that, through dread of Robbin then, And his adventurous crew, The mizers kept great store of men, 215 Which else maintayn'd but few. King Richard of that name the first, Sirnamed Cuer de Lyon, Went to defeate the Pagans curst, Who kept the coasts of Syon. 220 The bishop of Ely, chancelor, Was left a vice-roy here, Who like a potent emperor Did proudly domminere. Our chronicles of him report, 225 That commonly he rode With a thousand horse from court to court, Where he would make abode. He, riding down towards the north, With his aforesayd train, 230 Robbin and his men did issue forth, Them all to entertaine; And with the gallant gray-goose wing They shewd to them such playe, That made their horses kicke and fling, 235 And downe their riders lay. Full glad and faine the bishop was, For all his thousand men, To seek what meanes he could to passe From out of Robbins ken. 240 Two hundred of his men were kil'd, And fourescore horses good; Thirty, who did as captives yeeld, Were carryed to the greene wood; Which afterwards were ransomed, 245 For twenty markes a man; The rest set spurres to horse, and fled To th' town of Warrington. The bishop sore enraged then, Did, in king Richards name, 250 Muster a power of northerne men, These outlawes bold to tame. But Robbin with his courtesie So wonne the meaner sort, That they were loath on him to try 255 What rigor did import. So that bold Robbin and his traine Did live unhurt of them, Untill king Richard came againe From faire Jerusalem. 260 And then the talke of Robbin Hood His royal eares did fill; His grace admir'd that i' th' greene wood He thus continued still. So that the country farre and neare 265 Did give him great applause; For none of them neede stand in feare, But such as broke the lawes. He wished well unto the king, And prayed still for his health, 270 And never practis'd any thing Against the common-wealth. Onely, because he was undone By th' crewele clergie then, All meanes that he could thinke upon 275 To vexe such kinde of men, He enterpriz'd with hateful spleene; For which he was to blame, For fault of some to wreake his teene On all that by him came. 280 With wealth which he by robbery got Eight almes-houses he built, Thinking thereby to purge the blot Of blood which he had spilt. Such was their blinde devotion then, 285 Depending on their workes; Which, if 'twere true, we Christian men Inferiour were to Turkes. But, to speak true of Robbin Hood, And wrong him not a jot, 290 He never would shed any mans blood That him invaded not. Nor would he injure husbandmen, That toyld at cart and plough; For well he knew, were't not for them 295 To live no man knew how. The king in person, with some lords, To Nottingham did ride, To try what strength and skill affords To crush these outlaws pride. 300 And, as he once before had done, He did againe proclaime, That whosoe'er would take upon To bring to Nottingham, Or any place within the land, 305 Rebellious Robbin Hood, Should be prefer'd in place to stand With those of noble blood. When Robbin Hood heard of the same, Within a little space, 310 Into the towne of Nottingham A letter to his grace He shot upon an arrow head, One evening cunningly; Which was brought to the king, and read 315 Before his majestie. The tennure of this letter was That Robbin would submit, And be true liegeman to his grace In any thing that's fit, 320 So that his highnesse would forgive Him and his merry men all; If not, he must i' th' green wood live, And take what chance did fall. The king would faine have pardoned him, 325 But that some lords did say "This president will much condemn Your grace another day." While that the king and lords did stay Debating on this thing, 330 Some of these outlawes fled away Unto the Scottish king. For they suppos'd, if he were tane, Or to the king did yeeld, By th' commons all the rest of 's train 335 Full quickely would be quell'd. Of more than full an hundred men, But forty tarryed still, Who were resolv'd to sticke to him Let fortune worke her will. 340 If none had fled, all for his sake Had got their pardon free; The king to favour meant to take His merry men and he. But e're the pardon to him came 345 This famous archer dy'd: His death and manner of the same I'le presently describe. For, being vext to think upon His followers revolt, 350 In melancholly passiòn He did recount his fault. "Perfideous traytors!" sayd he then, "In all your dangers past Have I you guarded as my men, 355 To leave me thus at last!" This sad perplexity did cause A feaver, as some say, Which him unto confusion drawes, Though by a stranger way. 360 This deadly danger to prevent, He hie'd him with all speede Unto a nunnery, with intent For his healths-sake to bleede. A faithlesse fryer did pretend 365 In love to let him blood, But he by falshood wrought the end Of famous Robbin Hood. The fryer, as some say, did this To vindicate the wrong 370 Which to the clergy he and his Had done by power strong. Thus dyed he by trechery, That could not dye by force: Had he liv'd longer, certainely 375 King Richard, in remorse, Had unto favour him receiv'd, His brave men elevated: 'Tis pitty he was of life bereav'd By one which he so hated. 380 A treacherous leach this fryer was, To let him bleed to death; And Robbin was, methinks, an asse To trust him with his breath. His corpse the prioress of the place, 385 The next day that he dy'd, Caused to be buried, in mean case, Close by the high-way side. And over him she caused a stone To be fixed on the ground; 390 An epitaph was set thereon, Wherein his name was found. The date o' th' yeare, and day also, Shee made to be set there, That all who by the way did goe 395 Might see it plain appeare, That such a man as Robbin Hood Was buried in that place; And how he lived in the greene wood And robb'd there for a space. 400 It seemes that though the clergie he Had put to mickle woe, He should not quite forgotten be, Although he was their foe. This woman, though she did him hate, 405 Yet loved his memory; And thought it wondrous pitty that His fame should with him dye. This epitaph, as records tell, Within this hundred yeares, 410 By many was discerned well, But time all things out-weares.[L412] His followers, when he was dead, Were some receiv'd to grace; The rest to forraign countries fled, 415 And left their native place. Although his funerall was but mean, This woman had in minde, Least his fame should be buried clean From those that came behind. 420 For certainly, before nor since, No man e're understood, Under the reign of any prince, Of one like Robbin Hood. Full thirteene years, and something more, 425 These outlawes lived thus, Feared of the rich, loved of the poor, A thing most marvelous. A thing unpossible to us This story seems to be; 430 None dares be now so venturous, But times are chang'd we see. We that live in these later dayes Of civile government, If need be, have an hundred wayes 435 Such outlawes to prevent. In those days men more barbarous were, And lived less in awe; Now (God be thanked) people feare More to offend the law. 440 No roaring guns were then in use, They dreampt of no such thing; Our Englishmen in fight did chuse The gallant gray-goose wing: In which activity these men, 445 Through practice, were so good, That in those days none equal'd them, Specially Robbin Hood. So that, it seemes, keeping in caves, In woods and forests thicke, 450 They'd beate a multitude with staves, Their arrowes did so pricke. And none durst neare unto them come, Unlesse in courtesie; All such he bravely would send home, 455 With mirth and jollity. Which courtesie won him such love, As I before have told, 'Twas the cheef cause that he did prove More prosperous than he could. 460 Let us be thankefull for these times Of plenty, truth, and peace; And leave out great and horrid crimes, Least they cause this to cease. I know there's many fained tales 465 Of Robbin Hood and 's crew; But chronicles, which seldom fayles, Reports this to be true. Let none then thinke this is a lye, For, if 'twere put to th' worst, 470 They may the truth of all discry I' th' raigne of Richard the first. If any reader please to try, As I direction show, The truth of this brave history, 475 Hee'll find it true I know. And I shall think my labour well Bestowed to purpose good, When't shall be said that I did tell True tales of Robbin Hood. 480 412, times. ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN. "This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony à Wood. Its full title is, _A famous battle between Robin Hood and Maid Marian; declaring their love, life, and liberty. Tune_, Robin Hood Reviv'd." RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 161. A bonny fine-maid of a noble degree, _With a hey down, down, a down, down_, Maid Marian call'd by name, Did live in the North, of excellent worth, For shee was a gallant dame. For favour and face, and beauty most rare, 5 Queen Hellen shee did excell: For Marian then was prais'd of all men That did in the country dwell. 'Twas neither Rosamond nor Jane Shore, Whose beauty was clear and bright, 10 That could surpass this country lass, Beloved of lord and knight. The earl of Huntington, nobly born, That came of noble blood, To Marian went, with a good intent, 15 By the name of Robin Hood. With kisses sweet their red lips did meet, For she and the earl did agree; In every place, they kindly embrace, With love and sweet unity. 20 But fortune bearing these lovers a spight, That soon they were forc'd to part, To the merry green-wood then went Robin Hood, With a sad and sorrowfull heart. And Marian, poor soul, was troubled in mind, 25 For the absence of her friend; With finger in eye, shee often did cry, And his person did much comend. Perplexed and vexed, and troubled in mind, She drest herself like a page, 30 And ranged the wood, to find Robin Hood, The bravest of men in that age. With quiver and bow, sword, buckler, and all, Thus armed was Marian most bold, Still wandering about, to find Robin out, 35 Whose person was better then gold. But Robin Hood, hee himself had disguis'd, And Marian was strangly attir'd, That they prov'd foes, and so fell to blowes, Whose vallour bold Robin admir'd. 40 They drew out their swords, and to cutting they went, At least an hour or more, That the blood ran apace from bold Robins face, And Marian was wounded sore. "O hold thy hand, hold thy hand," said Robin Hood, 45 "And thou shalt be one of my string, To range in the wood with bold Robin Hood, To hear the sweet nightingall sing." When Marian did hear the voice of her love, Her self shee did quickly discover, 50 And with kisses sweet she did him greet, Like to a most loyall lover. When bold Robin Hood his Marian did see, Good lord, what clipping was there! With kind embraces, and jobbing of faces, 55 Providing of gallant cheer. For Little John took his bow in his hand, And wandred in the wood,[L58] To kill the deer, and make good chear For Marian and Robin Hood. 60 A stately banquet they had full soon, All in a shaded bower, Where venison sweet they had to eat, And were merry that present hour. Great flaggons of wine were set on the board, 65 And merrily they drunk round Their boules of sack, to strengthen the back, Whilst their knees did touch the ground. First Robin Hood began a health To Marian his onely dear; 70 And his yeomen all, both comly and tall, Did quickly bring up the rear. For in a brave vein they tost off the bouls,[L73] Whilst thus they did remain; And every cup, as they drunk up, 75 They filled with speed again. At last they ended their merryment, And went to walk in the wood, Where Little John and maid Marian Attended on bold Robin Hood. 80 In sollid content together they liv'd, With all their yeomen gay; They liv'd by their hands, without any lands, And so they did many a day. But now to conclude, an end I will make, 85 In time as I think it good; For the people that dwell in the north can tell Of Marian and bold Robin Hood. 58, wandring. 73, venie. THE KINGS DISGUISE AND FRIENDSHIP WITH ROBIN HOOD. This wretched production is evidently founded on the _Lytell Geste_. It was printed by Ritson from "the common collection of Aldermary Churchyard." One or two improvements were made by Gutch from a York edition. RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 166; GUTCH'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 281. King Richard hearing of the pranks Of Robin Hood and his men, He much admir'd, and more desir'd, To see both him and them. Then with a dozen of his lords 5 To Nottingham he rode; When he came there, he made good cheer, And took up his abode. He having staid there some time, But had no hopes to speed, 10 He and his lords, with one accord, All put on monks' weeds. From Fountain abbey they did ride, Down to Barnsdale; Where Robin Hood preparèd stood 15 All company to assail. The king was higher than the rest, And Robin thought he had An abbot been whom he had seen; To rob him he was glad. 20 He took the kings horse by the head, "Abbot," says he, "abide; I am bound to rue such knaves as you, That live in pomp and pride." "But we are messengers from the king," 25 The king himself did say; "Near to this place his royal grace To speak with thee does stay." "God save the king," said Robin Hood, "And all that wish him well; 30 He that does deny his sovereignty, I wish he was in hell." "Thyself thou cursedst," says the king, "For thou a traitor art:" "Nay, but that you are his messenger, 35 I swear you lie in heart. "For I never yet hurt any man That honest is and true; But those who give their minds to live Upon other mens due. 40 "I never hurt the husbandmen, That use to till the ground: Nor spill their blood who range the wood To follow hawk or hound. "My chiefest spite to clergy is, 45 Who in these days bear great sway; With fryars and monks, and their fine sprunks, I make my chiefest prey. "But I am glad," says Robin Hood, "That I have met you here; 50 Before we end, you shall, my friend, Taste of our green-wood cheer." The king he then did marvel much, And so did all his men; They thought with fear, what kind of cheer 55 Robin would provide for them. Robin took the kings horse by the head, And led him to his tent: "Thou wouldst not be so us'd," quoth he, "But that my king thee sent. 60 "Nay, more than that," quoth Robin Hood, "For good king Richards sake, If you had as much gold as ever I told, I would not one penny take." Then Robin set his horn to his mouth, 65 And a loud blast he did blow, Till a hundred and ten of Robin Hoods men, Came marching all of a row. And when they came bold Robin before, Each man did bend his knee: 70 "O," thought the king, "'tis a gallant thing And a seemly sight to see." Within himself the king did say, "These men of Robin Hoods More humble be than mine to me; 75 So the court may learn of the woods." So then they all to dinner went, Upon a carpet green; Black, yellow, red, finely minglèd, Most curious to be seen. 80 Venison and fowls were plenty there, With fish out of the river: King Richard swore, on sea or shore, He never was feasted better. Then Robin takes a cann of ale: 85 "Come, let us now begin; And every man shall have his cann; Here's a health unto the king." The king himself drank to the king, So round about it went; 90 Two barrels of ale, both stout and stale, To pledge that health was spent. And after that, a bowl of wine In his hand took Robin Hood; "Until I die, I'll drink wine," said he, 95 "While I live in the green-wood. "Bend all your bows," said Robin Hood, "And with the grey goose-wing Such sport now show, as you would do In the presence of the king." 100 They shewed such brave archery By cleaving sticks and wands, That the king did say, such men as they Live not in many lands. "Well, Robin Hood," then says the king, 105 "If I could thy pardon get, To serve the king in every thing Wouldst thou thy mind firm set?" "Yes, with all my heart," bold Robin said, So they flung off their hoods; 110 To serve the king in every thing, They swore they would spend their bloods. "For a clergyman was first my bane, Which makes me hate them all; But if you will be so kind to me, 115 Love them again I shall." The king no longer could forbear, For he was mov'd with ruth, "Robin," said he, "I'll now tell thee[L119] The very naked truth.[L120] 120 "I am the king, thy sovereign king, That appears before you all:" When Robin saw that it was he, Strait then he down did fall. "Stand up again," then said the king, 125 "I'll thee thy pardon give; Stand up, my friend; who can contend, When I give leave to live?" So they are all gone to Nottingham, All shouting as they came: 130 But when the people them did see, They thought the king was slain; And for that cause th' outlaws were come, To rule all as they list; And for to shun, which way to run, 135 The people did not wist. The plowman left the plow in the field, The smith ran from his shop; Old folks also, that scarce could go, Over their sticks did hop. 140 The king did soon let them understand He had been in the green-wood, And from that day, for evermore, He'd forgiven Robin Hood. Then [when] the people they did hear, 145 And [that] the truth was known, They all did sing, "God save the king! Hang care, the town's our own!" "What's that Robin Hood?" then said the sheriff, "That varlet I do hate; 150 Both me and mine he caus'd to dine, And serv'd us all with one plate." "Ho, ho," said Robin Hood, "I know what you mean; Come, take your gold again; Be friends with me, and I with thee, 155 And so with every man. "Now, master sheriff, you are paid, And since you are beginner, As well as you give me my due, For you ne'er paid for that dinner. 160 "But if that it should please the king So much your house to grace, To sup with you, for, to speak true, [I] know you ne'er was base." The sheriff could not that gainsay, 165 For a trick was put upon him; A supper was drest, the king was a guest, But he thought 'twould have outdone him. They are all gone to London court, Robin Hood, with all his train; 170 He once was there a noble peer, And now he's there again. Many such pranks brave Robin play'd, While he liv'd in the green-wood: Now, my friend, attend, and hear an end[L175] 175 Of honest Robin Hood.[L176] 119, 120. Wanting in Ritson; supplied by Gutch. 175, 176. The two concluding lines refer to _Robin Hood and the Valiant Knight_, (see p. 888,) which ballad in some collections follows the present. ROBIN HOOD AND THE GOLDEN ARROW. RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 175. From an Aldermary-Churchyard Garland. Perhaps by the same feeble and vulgar hand as the preceding, and, like that, founded on the _Lytell Geste_. When as the sheriff of Nottingham Was come with mickle grief, He talk'd no good of Robin Hood, That strong and sturdy thief. _Fal la dal de_. So unto London road he past, 5 His losses to unfold To king Richàrd, who did regard The tale that he had told. "Why," quoth the king, "what shall I do? Art thou not sheriff for me" 10 The law is in force, to take thy course Of them that injure thee. "Go get thee gone, and by thyself Devise some tricking game For to enthral yon rebels all; 15 Go take thy course with them." So away the sheriff he return'd, And by the way he thought Of th' words of the king, and how the thing To pass might well be brought. 20 For within his mind he imagined, That when such matches were, Those outlaws stout, without all doubt, Would be the bowmen there. So an arrow with a golden head 25 And shaft of silver-white, Who won the day should bear away[L27] For his own proper right. Tidings came to bold Robin Hood, Under the green-wood tree: 30 "Come prepare you then, my merry men, We'll go yon sport to see." With that stept forth a brave young man, David of Doncastèr: "Master," said he, "be rul'd by me, 35 From the green-wood we'll not stir. "To tell the truth, I'm well inform'd Yon match it is a wile; The sheriff, i-wiss, devises this Us archers to beguile." 40 "Thou smells of a coward," said Robin Hood, "Thy words do not please me; Come on't what will, I'll try my skill, At yon brave archery." O then bespoke brave Little John, 45 "Come let us thither gang; Come, listen to me, how it shall be That we need not be ken'd. "Our mantles, all of Lincoln-green, Behind us we will leave; 50 We'll dress us all so several, They shall not us perceive. "One shall wear white, another red, One yellow, another blue; Thus in disguise, to the exercise 55 We'll gang, whate'er ensue." Forth from the green-wood they are gone, With hearts all firm and stout, Resolving [then] with the sheriffs men To have a hearty bout. 60 So themselves they mixèd with the rest, To prevent all suspicion; For if they should together hold They thought it no discretion. So the sheriff looked round about, 65 Amongst eight hundred men, But could not see the sight that he Had long suspected then. Some said, "If Robin Hood was here, And all his men to boot, 70 Sure none of them could pass these men, So bravely they do shoot." "Ay," quoth the sheriff, and scratch'd his head, "I thought he would have been here; I thought he would, but tho' he's bold, 75 He durst not now appear." O that word griev'd Robin Hood to the heart; He vexèd in his blood; Ere long, thought he, thou shalt well see That here was Robin Hood. 80 Some cried "Blue jacket!" another cried "Brown!" And a third cried "Brave Yellow!" But the fourth man said, "Yon man in red In this place has no fellow." For that was Robin Hood himself, 85 For he was cloath'd in red; At every shot the prize he got, For he was both sure and dead. So the arrow with the golden head And shaft of silver-white, 90 Brave Robin Hood won, and bore with him For his own proper right. These outlaws there, that very day, To shun all kinds of doubt, By three or four, no less nor more, 95 As they went in came out; Until they all assembled were Under the green-wood shade, Where they report, in pleasant sport, What brave pastime they made. 100 Says Robin Hood, "All my care is, How that yon sheriff may Know certainly that it was I That bore his arrow away." Says Little John, "My counsel good 105 Did take effect before, So therefore now, if you'll allow, I will advise once more." "Speak on, speak on," said Robin Hood, "Thy wit's both quick and sound, 110 I know no man among us can[L111] For wit like thee be found."[L112] "This I advise," said Little John; "That a letter shall be penn'd, And when it is done, to Nottingham 115 You to the sheriff shall send." "That is well advised," said Robin Hood, "But how must it be sent?" "Pugh! when you please, 'tis done with ease; Master, be you content. 120 "I'll stick it on my arrows head, And shoot it into the town; The mark will show where it must go, Whenever it lights down." The project it was well perform'd; 125 The sheriff that letter had, Which when he read, he scratch'd his head, And rav'd like one that's mad. So we'll leave him chafing in his grease, Which will do him no good; 130 Now, my friends, attend, and hear the end[L131] Of honest Robin Hood.[L132] 27, on the day. Ritson. 111, 112. Wanting in Ritson; supplied by Gutch, from a York edition. ROBIN HOOD AND THE VALIANT KNIGHT: Together with an account of his death and burial, &c. Tune of _Robin Hood and the fifteen foresters_. "From the common garland of Aldermary-churchyard; corrected by the York copy." RITSON'S _Robin Hood_, ii. 182. When Robin Hood and his merry men all, _Derry down, down_, Had reigned many years, The king was then told that they had been bold To his bishops and noble peers. _Hey down, derry, derry down_. Therefore they called a council of state, 5 To know what was best to be done For to quell their pride, or else they reply'd The land would be over-run. Having consulted a whole summers day, At length it was agreed 10 That one should be sent to try the event, And fetch him away with speed. Therefore a trusty and most worthy knight The king was pleas'd to call, Sir William by name; when to him he came, 15 He told him his pleasure all. "Go you from hence to bold Robin Hood, And bid him, without more ado, Surrender himself, or else the proud elf Shall suffer with all his crew. 20 "Take here a hundred bowmen brave, All chosen men of great might, Of excellent art to take thy part, In glittering armour most bright." Then said the knight, "My sovereign liege, 25 By me they shall be led; I'll venture my blood against bold Robin Hood, And bring him alive or dead." One hundred men were chosen straight, As proper as e'er men saw: 30 On Midsummer-day they march'd away, To conquer that brave outlaw. With long yew bows and shining spears, They marched with mickle pride, And never delay'd, nor halted, nor stay'd, 35 Till they came to the green-wood side. Said he to his archers, "Tarry here; Your bows make ready all, That, if need should be, you may follow me; And see you observe my call. 40 "I'll go first in person," he cry'd, "With the letters of my good king, Well sign'd and seal'd, and if he will yield, "We need not to draw one string." He wander'd about till at length he came 45 To the tent of Robin Hood; The letter he shows; bold Robin arose, And there on his guard he stood. "They'd have me surrender," quoth bold Robin Hood, "And lie at their mercy then; 50 But tell them from me, that never shall be, While I have full seven score men." Sir William the knight, both hardy and bold, He offer'd to seize him there, Which William Locksley by fortune did see, 55 And bid him that trick to forbear. Then Robin Hood set his horn to his mouth, And blew a blast or twain, And so did the knight, at which there in sight The archers came all amain. 60 Sir William with care he drew up his men, And plac'd them in battle array; Bold Robin, we find, he was not behind; Now this was a bloody fray. The archers on both sides bent their bows, 65 And the clouds of arrows flew; The very first flight, that honour'd knight Did there bid the world adieu. Yet nevertheless their fight did last From morning till almost noon; 70 Both parties were stout and loth to give out, This was on the last day of June. At length they left off; one party they went To London with right good will; And Robin Hood he to the green-wood tree, 75 And there he was taken ill. He sent for a monk, to let him blood, Who took his life away: Now this being done, his archers they run, It was not a time to stay. 80 Some got on board, and cross'd the seas To Flanders, France, and Spain, And others to Rome, for fear of their doom, But soon return'd again. 131, 132. These lines, like the last two of the preceding ballad, refer to _Robin Hood and the Valiant Knight_. THE BIRTH OF ROBIN HOOD. See p. 170. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 1. Mony ane talks o' the grass, the grass, And mony ane o' the corn, And mony ane talks o' gude Robin Hood, Kens little whar he was born. He was gotten in a earl's ha', 5 And in a lady's bower, And born into gude greenwood, Thro' mony cauld winter's shower. His father was the earl's own steward, Sprung frae sma' pedigree; 10 His mother, Earl Huntingdon's ae daughter, For he had nane else but she. When nine months were near an end, And eight months they were gone; The lady's cheeks wi' tears were wet, 15 And thus she made her moan:-- "What shall I say, my love, Archibald, This day for you and me? I will be laid in cauld irons, And ye'll be hanged on tree." 20 "What aileth my love Clementina? What gars you mourn sae sair?" "You know," said she, "I'm with child to thee, These eight lang months and mair." "Will ye gae to my mother's bower, 25 Stands on yon stately green? Or will ye gae to the gude greenwood, Where ye will not be seen?" "I winna gang to your mother's bower, Stands on yon stately green; 30 But I will on to gude greenwood, For I will not be seen." He's girt his sword down by his side, Took his lady by the hand; And they are on thro' gude greenwood, 35 As fast as they could gang. With slowly steps these couple walk'd, About miles scarcely three; When this lady, being sair wearied out, Lay down beneath a tree. 40 "O for a few of yon junipers, To cheer my heart again; And likewise for a gude midwife, To ease me of my pain." "I'll bring to you yon junipers, 45 To cheer your heart again; And I'll be to you a gude midwife, To ease you of your pain." "Had far awa' frae me, Archibald, For this will never dee; 50 That's nae the fashion o' our land, And its nae be used by me. "Ye'll take your small sword by your side, Your buckler and your bow; And ye'll gae down thro' gude greenwood, 55 And hunt the deer and roe. "You will stay in gude green wood, And with the chase go on; Until yon white hind pass you by, Then straight to me ye'll come." 60 He's girt his sword then by his side, His buckler and his bow; And he is on thro' gude greenwood, To hunt the deer and roe. And in the greenwood he did stay, 65 And with the chase gaed on, Until the white hind pass'd him by, Then to his love he came. He girt his sword then by his side, Fast thro' greenwood went he; 70 And there he found his love lie dead, Beneath the green oak tree. The sweet young babe that she had born Right lively seemed to be; "Ohon, alas!" said young Archibald, 75 "A mournful scene to me! "Altho' my sweet babe is alive, This does increase my woe; How to nourish a motherless babe Is mair than I do know." 80 He looked east, he looked west, To see what he could see; Then spied the Earl o' Huntingdon, And mony a man him wi'. Then Archibald fled from the earl's face, 85 Among the leaves sae green, That he might hear what might be said, And see, and nae be seen. The earl straight thro' the greenwood came, Unto the green oak tree; 90 And there he saw his daughter dead, Her living child her wi'. Then he's taen up the little boy, Rowed him in his gown sleeve; Said, "Tho' your father's to my loss, 95 Your mother's to me leave. "And if ye live until I die, My bowers and lands ye'se heir; You are my only daughter's child, But her I never had mair. 100 "Ye'se hae all kinds of nourishment, And likewise nurses three; If I knew where the fause knave were, High hanged should he be." His daughter he buried in gude church-yard, 105 All in a mournful mood; And brought the boy to church that day, And christen'd him Robin Hood. This boy was bred in the earl's ha', Till he became a man; 110 But loved to hunt in gude green wood To raise his noble fame. ROSE THE RED AND WHITE LILLIE. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 67. See p. 173. Now word is gane thro' a' the land, Gude seal that it sae spread! To Rose the Red and White Lillie, Their mither dear was dead. Their father's married a bauld woman, 5 And brought her ower the sea; Twa sprightly youths, her ain young sons, Intill her companie. They fix'd their eyes on those ladies, On shipboard as they stood, 10 And sware, if ever they wan to land, These ladies they wou'd wed. But there was nae a quarter past, A quarter past but three, Till these young luvers a' were fond 15 O' others companie. The knights they harped i' their bower, The ladies sew'd and sang; There was mair mirth in that chamer Than a' their father's lan'. 20 Then out it spak their step-mither, At the stair-foot stood she; "I'm plagued wi' your troublesome noise, What makes your melodie? "O Rose the Red, ye sing too loud, 25 While Lillie your voice is strang; But gin I live and brook my life, I'se gar you change your sang." "We maunna change our loud, loud song, For nae duke's son ye'll bear; 30 We winna change our loud, loud song, But aye we'll sing the mair. "We never sung the sang, mither, But we'll sing ower again; We'll take our harps into our hands, 35 And we'll harp, and we'll sing." She's call'd upon her twa young sons, Says, "Boun ye for the sea; Let Rose the Red, and White Lillie, Stay in their bower wi' me." 40 "O God forbid," said her eldest son, "Nor lat it ever be, Unless ye were as kind to our luves As gin we were them wi." "Yet never the less, my pretty sons, 45 Ye'll boun you for the faem; Let Rose the Red, and White Lillie, Stay in their bowers at hame." "O when wi' you we came alang, We felt the stormy sea; 50 And where we go, ye ne'er shall know, Nor shall be known by thee." Then wi' her harsh and boisterous word, She forc'd these lads away; While Rose the Red and White Lillie 55 Still in their bowers did stay. But there was not a quarter past, A quarter past but ane; Till Rose the Red in rags she gaed, White Lillie's claithing grew thin. 60 Wi' bitter usage every day, The ladies they thought lang; "Ohon, alas!" said Rose the Red, "She's gar'd us change our sang. "But we will change our own fu' names, 65 And we'll gang frae the town; Frae Rose the Red and White Lillie, To Nicholas and Roger Brown. "And we will cut our green claithing A little aboon our knee; 70 And we will on to gude greenwood, Twa bauld bowmen to be." "Ohon, alas!" said White Lillie, "My fingers are but sma'; And tho' my hands wou'd wield the bow, 75 They winna yield at a'." "O had your tongue now, White Lillie, And lat these fears a' be; There's naething that ye're awkward in But I will learn thee." 80 Then they are on to gude greenwood As fast as gang cou'd they; O then they spied him, Robin Hood, Below a green aik tree. "Gude day, gude day, kind sir," they said, 85 "God make you safe and free." "Gude day, gude day," said Robin Hood, "What is your wills wi' me?" "Lo here we are, twa banish'd knights, Come frae our native hame; 90 We're come to crave o' thee service, Our king will gie us nane." "If ye be twa young banish'd knights, Tell me frae what countrie;" "Frae Anster town into Fifeshire, 95 Ye know it as well as we." "If a' be true that ye ha'e said, And tauld just now to me; Ye're welcome, welcome, every one, Your master I will be. 100 "Now ye shall eat as I do eat, And lye as I do lye; Ye salna wear nae waur claithing Nor my young men and I." Then they went to a ruinous house, 105 And there they enter'd in; And Nicholas fed wi' Robin Hood, And Roger wi' little John. But it fell ance upon a day, They were at the putting-stane; 110 Whan Rose the Red she view'd them a', As they stood on the green. She hit the stane then wi' her foot, And kep'd it wi' her knee; And spaces three aboon them a', 115 I wyte she gar'd it flee. She sat her back then to a tree, And ga'e a loud Ohon! A lad spak in the companie, "I hear a woman's moan." 120 "How know you that, young man," she said, "How know you that o' me? Did e'er ye see me in that place A'e foot my ground to flee? "Or know ye by my cherry cheeks, 125 Or by my yellow hair? Or by the paps on my breast bane? Ye never saw them bare." "I know not by your cherry cheeks, Nor by your yellow hair; 130 But I know by your milk-white chin, On it there grows nae hair. "I never saw you in that cause A'e foot your ground to flee; I've seen you stan' wi' sword in han' 135 'Mang men's blood to the knee. "But if I come your bower within, By night, or yet by day, I shall know before I go, If ye be man or may." 140 "O if you come my bower within, By night, or yet by day, As soon's I draw my trusty brand, Nae lang ye'll wi' me stay." But he is haunted to her bower, 145 Her bigly bower o' stane, Till he has got her big wi' bairn, And near sax months she's gane. Whan three mair months were come and gane, They gae'd to hunt the hynde; 150 She wont to be the foremost ane, But now stay'd far behynd. Her luver looks her in the face, And thus to her said he; "I think your cheeks are pale and wan, 155 Pray, what gaes warst wi' thee? "O want ye roses to your breast, Or ribbons to your sheen? Or want ye as muckle o' dear bought luve As your heart can conteen?" 160 "I want nae roses to my breast, Nae ribbons to my sheen; Nor want I as muckle dear bought luve As my heart can conteen. "I'd rather ha'e a fire behynd, 165 Anither me before; A gude midwife at my right side, Till my young babe be bore." "I'll kindle a fire wi' a flint stane, Bring wine in a green horn; 170 I'll be midwife at your right side, Till your young babe be born." "That was ne'er my mither's custom, Forbid that it be mine! A knight stan' by a lady bright, 175 Whan she drees a' her pine! "There is a knight in gude greenwood, If that he kent o' me, Thro' stock and stane and the hawthorn, Sae soon's he wou'd come me tee." 180 "If there be a knight in gude greenwood Ye like better than me, If ance he come your bower within, Ane o' us twa shall dee." She set a horn to her mouth, 185 And she blew loud and shrill! Thro' stock and stane and the hawthorn, Brave Roger came her till. "Wha's here sae bauld," the youth replied, "Thus to encroach on me?" 190 "O here I am," the knight replied, "Ha'e as much right as thee." Then they fought up the gude greenwood, Sae did they down the plain; They niddart ither wi' lang braid swords, 195 Till they were bleedy men. Then out it spak the sick woman, Sat under the greenwood tree; "O had your han', young man," she said, "She's a woman as well as me." 200 Then out it speaks anither youth, Amang the companie; "Gin I had kent what I ken now, 'Tis for her I wou'd dee." "O wae mat worth you, Rose the Red, 205 An ill death mat ye dee! Altho' ye tauld upo' yoursell, Ye might ha'e heal'd on me. "O for her sake I was content For to gae ower the sea; 210 For her I left my mither's ha', Tho' she proves fause to me." But whan these luvers were made known, They sung right joyfullie; Nae blyther was the nightingale, 215 Nor bird that sat on tree. Now they ha'e married these ladies, Brought them to bower and ha', And now a happy life they lead, I wish sae may we a'. ROBIN HOOD AND THE STRANGER. Ritson's _Robin Hood_. ii. 69. "From an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony à Wood. The title now given to this ballad is that which it seems to have originally borne; having been foolishly altered to _Robin Hood newly revived_. The circumstances attending the second part will be explained in a note." RITSON. For the different versions of the first part of the story see _Robin Hood and the Beggar_, p. 188. Come listen awhile, you gentlemen all, _With a hey down, down, a down, down_, That are this bower within, For a story of gallant bold Robin Hood I purpose now to begin. "What time of day?" quod Robin Hood then; 5 Quoth Little John, "'Tis in the prime;" "Why then we will to the greenwood gang, For we have no vittles to dine." As Robin Hood walkt the forrest along, (It was in the mid of the day,) 10 There he was met of a deft young man As ever walkt on the way. His doublet was of silk, 'tis said, His stockings like scarlet shone; And he walked on along the way, 15 To Robin Hood then unknown. A herd of deer was in the bend, All feeding before his face: "Now the best of you Ile have to my dinner, And that in a little space." 20 Now the stranger he made no mickle adoe, But he bends a right good bow, And the best of all the herd he slew,[L23] Forty good yards him froe.[L24] "Well shot, well shot," quod Robin Hood then, 25 "That shot it was shot in time; And if thou wilt accept of the place, Thou shalt be a bold yeoman of mine." "Go play the chiven," the stranger said, "Make haste and quickly go, 30 Or with my fist, be sure of this, Ile give thee buffets sto'." "Thou had'st not best buffet me," quod Robin Hood, "For though I seem forlorn, Yet I have those will take my part, 35 If I but blow my horn." "Thou wast not best wind thy horn," the stranger said, "Beest thou never so much in haste, For I can draw out a good broad sword, And quickly cut the blast." 40 Then Robin Hood bent a very good bow, To shoot, and that he would fain; The stranger he bent a very good bow, To shoot at bold Robin again. "Hold thy hand, hold thy hand," quod Robin Hood, 45 "To shoot it would be in vain; For if we should shoot the one at the other, The one of us may be slain. "But let's take our swords and our broad bucklèrs, And gang under yonder tree:" 50 "As I hope to be sav'd," the stranger said, "One foot I will not flee." Then Robin Hood lent the stranger a blow, 'Most scar'd him out of his wit: "Thou never delt blow," the stranger he said,[L55] 55 "That shall be better quit." The stranger he drew out a good broad sword, And hit Robin on the crown, That from every haire of bold Robins head, The blood ran trickling down. 60 "God a mercy, good fellow!" quod Robin Hood then, "And for this that thou hast done, Tell me, good fellow, what thou art, Tell me where thou doest wone."[L64] The stranger then answer'd bold Robin Hood, 65 "Ile tell thee where I do dwell; In Maxwell town I was bred and born, My name is young Gamwell. "For killing of my own fathers steward, I am forc'd to this English wood, 70 And for to seek an uncle of mine, Some call him Robin Hood." "But art thou a cousin of Robin Hood then? The sooner we should have done:" "As I hope to be sav'd," the stranger then said, 75 "I am his own sisters son." But, lord! what kissing and courting was there, When these two cousins did greet! And they went all that summers day, And Little John did [not] meet. 80 But when they met with Little John, He unto them did say, "O master, pray where have you been, You have tarried so long away?" "I met with a stranger," quod Robin Hood, 85 "Full sore he hath beaten me:" "Then I'le have a bout with him," quod Little John, "And try if he can beat me." "Oh [no], oh no," quoth Robin Hood then, "Little John, it may [not] be so; 90 For he is my own dear sisters son, And cousins I have no mo. "But he shall be a bold yeoman of mine, My chief man next to thee; And I Robin Hood, and thou Little John, 95 And Scadlock he shall be: "And weel be three of the bravest outlàws That live in the north country." If you will hear more of bold Robin Hood, In the second part it will be. 100 23, and a. Ritson. 24, full froe. 55, felt. Ritson. 64, won, R. [PART THE SECOND.[30]] Now Robin Hood, Will Scadlock, and Little John Are walking over the plain, With a good fat buck, which Will Scadlòck With his strong bow had slain. "Jog on, jog on," cries Robin Hood, 5 "The day it runs full fast; For tho' my nephew me a breakfast gave, I have not yet broke my fast. "Then to yonder lodge let us take our way,-- I think it wondrous good,-- 10 Where my nephew by my bold yeomèn Shall be welcom'd unto the greenwood." With that he took his bugle-horn, Full well he could it blow; Streight from the woods came marching down 15 One hundred tall fellows and mo. "Stand, stand to your arms," says Will Scadlòck, "Lo! the enemies are within ken:" With that Robin Hood he laugh'd aloud, Crying, "They are my bold yeomèn." 20 Who, when they arrived, and Robin espy'd, Cry'd "Master, what is your will? We thought you had in danger been, Your horn did sound so shrill." "Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood, 25 "The danger is past and gone; I would have you welcome my nephew here, That has paid me two for one." In feasting and sporting they pass'd the day, Till Ph[oe]bus sunk into the deep; 30 Then each one to his quarters hy'd, His guard there for to keep. Long had they not walked within the greenwood, When Robin he soon espy'd A beautiful damsel all alone,[L35] 35 That on a black palfrey did ride. Her riding-suit was of sable hew black, Cypress over her face, Through which her rose-like cheeks did blush, All with a comely grace. 40 "Come tell me the cause, thou pretty one," Quoth Robin, "and tell me aright, From whence thou comest, and whither thou goest, All in this mournful plight?" "From London I came," the damsel reply'd, 45 "From London upon the Thames, "Which circled is, O grief to tell! Besieg'd with foreign arms; "By the proud prince of Arragon, Who swears by his martial hand 50 To have the princess to his spouse, Or else to waste this land; "Except such champions can be found, That dare fight three to three, Against the prince, and giants twain, 55 Most horrid for to see; "Whose grisly looks, and eyes like brands, Strike terrour where they come, With serpents hissing on their helms, Instead of feathered plume. 60 "The princess shall be the victor's prize, The king hath vow'd and said, And he that shall the conquest win, Shall have her to his bride. "Now we are four damsels sent abroad, 65 To the east, west, north, and south, To try whose fortune is so good To find these champions forth. "But all in vain we have sought about, For none so bold there are 70 That dare adventure life and blood, To free a lady fair." "When is the day?" quoth Robin Hood, "Tell me this and no more:" "On Midsummer next," the dam'sel said, 75 "Which is June the twenty-four." With that the tears trickled down her cheeks, And silent was her tongue: With sighs and sobs she took her leave, Away her palfrey sprung. 80 The news struck Robin to the heart, He fell down on the grass; His actions and his troubled mind Shew'd he perplexed was. "Where lies your grief?" quoth Will Scadlòck, 85 "O master, tell to me: If the damsel's eyes have pierc'd your heart, I'll fetch her back to thee." "Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood, "She doth not cause my smart; 90 But 'tis the poor distress'd princèss, That wounds me to the heart. "I'll go fight the giants all To set the lady free:" "The devil take my soul," quoth Little John, 95 "If I part with thy company." "Must I stay behind?" quoth Will Scadlòck, "No, no, that must not be; I'le make the third man in the fight, So we shall be three to three." 100 These words cheer'd Robin to the heart, Joy shone within his face; Within his arms he hugged them both, And kindly did imbrace. Quoth he, "We'll put on motley gray, 105 And long staves in our hands, A scrip and bottle by our sides, As come from the holy land. "So may we pass along the high-way, None will ask from whence we came, 110 But take us pilgrims for to be, Or else some holy men." Now they are on their journey gone, As fast as they may speed, Yet for all their haste, ere they arriv'd, 115 The princess forth was led, To be deliver'd to the prince, Who in the list did stand, Prepar'd to fight, or else receive His lady by the hand. 120 With that he walk'd about the lists, With giants by his side: "Bring forth," said he, "your champions, Or bring me forth my bride. "This is the four and twentieth day, 125 The day prefixt upon: Bring forth my bride, or London burns, I swear by Alcaron."[L128] Then cries the king, and queen likewise, Both weeping as they spake, 130 "Lo! we have brought our daughter dear, Whom we are forc'd to forsake." With that stept out bold Robin Hood, Crys, "My liege, it must not be so; Such beauty as the fair princèss 135 Is not for a tyrant's mow." The prince he then began to storm, Cries, "Fool, fanatick, baboon! How dare you stop my valour's prize? I'll kill thee with a frown." 140 "Thou tyrant Turk, thou infidel," Thus Robin began to reply, "Thy frowns I scorn; lo! here's my gage, And thus I thee defie. "And for those two Goliahs there, 145 That stand on either side, Here are two little Davids by, That soon can tame their pride." Then the king did for armour send, For lances, swords, and shields: 150 And thus all three in armour bright Came marching to the field. The trumpets began to sound a charge, Each singled out his man; Their arms in pieces soon were hew'd, 155 Blood sprang from every vain. The prince he reacht Robin Hood a blow, He struck with might and main, Which forc'd him to reel about the field, As though he had been slain. 160 "God-a-mercy," quoth Robin, "for that blow! The quarrel shall soon be try'd; This stroke shall shew a full divorce Betwixt thee and thy bride." So from his shoulders he's cut his head, 165 Which on the ground did fall, And grumbling sore at Robin Hood, To be so dealt withal. The giants then began to rage To see their prince lie dead: 170 "Thou's be the next," quoth little John, "Unless thou well guard thy head." With that his faulchion he wherled about, It was both keen and sharp; He clove the giant to the belt, 175 And cut in twain his heart. Will Scadlock well had play'd his part, The giant he had brought to his knee; Quoth Will, "The devil cannot break his fast, Unless he have you all three." 180 So with his faulchion he run him through, A deep and ghastly wound; Who dam'd and foam'd, curst and blasphem'd, And then fell to the ground. Now all the lists with shouts were fill'd, 185 The skies they did resound, Which brought the princess to herself, Who had fal'n in a swound. The king and queen and princess fair, Came walking to the place, 190 And gave the champions many thanks, And did them further grace. "Tell me," quoth the king, "whence you are, That thus disguised came, Whose valour speaks that noble blood 195 Doth run through every vain." "A boon, a boon," quoth Robin Hood, "On my knees I beg and crave;" "By my crown," quoth the king, "I grant; Ask what, and thou shalt have." 200 "Then pardon I beg for my merry men, Which are in the green-wood, For Little John, and Will Scadlock, And for me bold Robin Hood." "Art thou Robin Hood?" then quoth the king; 205 "For the valour thou hast shewn, Your pardons I do freely grant, And welcome every one. "The princess I promis'd the victor's prize;[L209] She cannot have you all three." 210 "She shall chuse," quoth Robin; said Little John, "Then little share falls to me." Then did the princess view all three, With a comely lovely grace, And took Will Scadlock by the hand, 215 Saying "Here I make my choice." With that a noble lord stept forth, Of Maxfield earl was he, Who look'd Will Scadlock in the face, And wept most bitterly. 220 Quoth he, "I had a son like thee, Whom I lov'd wondrous well; But he is gone, or rather dead, His name it is young Gamwell." Then did Will Scadlock fall on his knees, 225 Cries, "Father! father! here, Here kneels your son, your young Gamwell, You said you lov'd so dear." But, lord! what imbracing and kissing was there, When all these friends were met! 230 They are gone to the wedding, and so to bedding: And so I bid you good night. 35, Of a. 128, Acaron. 209, promise. Ritson. [30] "This (from an old black-letter copy in Major Pearson's collection) is evidently the genuine second part of the present ballad: although constantly printed as an independent article, under the title of _Robin Hood, Will Scadlock, and Little John; Or, a narrative of their victories obtained against the prince of Aragon and the two giants; and how Will Scadlock married the princess_. _Tune of Robin Hood; or, Hey down, down, a down._" Instead of which, in all former editions, are given the following incoherent stanzas, which have all the appearance of being the fragment of a quite different ballad: Then bold Robin Hood to the north he would go, With valour and mickle might, With sword by his side, which oft had been tri'd, To fight and recover his right. The first that he met was a bonny bold Scot, His servant he said he would be: "No," quoth Robin Hood, "it cannot be good, For thou wilt prove false unto me. "Thou hast not been true to sire nor cuz." "Nay, marry," the Scot, he said, "As true as your heart, Ile never part, Gude master, be not afraid." Then Robin turned his face to the east, "Fight on, my merry men stout; Our cause is good," quod brave Robin Hood, "And we shall not be beaten out." The battel grows hot on every side, The Scotchman made great moan: Quoth Jockey, "Gude faith, they fight on each side, Would I were with my wife Joan!" The enemy compast brave Robin about, 'Tis long ere the battel ends; Ther's neither will yield, nor give up the field, For both are supplied with friends. This song it was made in Robin Hoods dayes: Let's pray unto Jove above, To give us true peace, that mischief may cease, And war may give place unto love. RITSON. ROBIN HOOD AND THE SCOTCHMAN. Given in Gutch's _Robin Hood_, ii. 392, from an Irish Garland, printed at Monaghan, 1796. This piece is the same as the fragment usually printed as the Second Part of _Robin Hood and the Stranger_, (see p. 409,) and both are undoubtedly relics of some older ballad. Now bold Robin Hood to the north would go With valour and mickle might; With sword by his side, which oft had been try'd, To fight and recover his right. The first that he met was a jolly stout Scot, 5 His servant he said he would be; "No," quoth Robin Hood, "it cannot be good, For thou wilt prove false unto me. "Thou has not been true to sire or cuz;" "Nay, marry," the Scot he said, 10 "As true as your heart, I never will part; Good master, be not afraid." "But e'er I employ you," said bold Robin Hood, "With you I must have a bout;" The Scotchman reply'd, "Let the battle be try'd, 15 For I know I will beat you out." Thus saying, the contest did quickly begin, Which lasted two hours and more; The blows Sawney gave bold Robin so brave, The battle soon made him give o'er. 20 "Have mercy, thou Scotchman," bold Robin Hood cry'd, "Full dearly this boon have I bought; We will both agree, and my man you shall be, For a stouter I never have fought." Then Sawny consented with Robin to go, 25 To be of his bowmen so gay; Thus ended the fight, and with mickle delight To Sherwood they hasted away. THE PLAYE OF ROBYN HODE. From Ritson's _Robin Hood_, ii. 192. Printed by Copland at the end of his edition of the _Lytell Geste_. The whole title runs: _Here beginnethe the playe of Robyn Hoode, very proper to be played in Maye games_. A few corrections were made by Ritson from White's edition of 1634. The fragment here preserved is founded upon the ballads of _Robin Hood and the Curtall Fryer_, (p. 271,) and _Robin Hood and the Potter_ (p. 17.) Were the whole play recovered, we should probably find it a _pot pourri_ of the most favorite stories of Robin Hood. ROBYN HODE. Now stand ye forth, my mery men all, And harke what I shall say; Of an adventure I shal you tell, The which befell this other day. As I went by the hygh way, With a stout frere I met, And a quarter-staffe in his hande. Lyghtely to me he lept, And styll he bade me stande. There were strypes two or three, 10 But I cannot tell who had the worse, But well I wote the horeson lept within me, And fro me he toke my purse. Is there any of my mery men all, That to that frere wyll go, And bryng hym to me forth withall, Whether he wyll or no? LYTELL JOHN. Yes, mayster, I make god a vowe, To that frere wyll I go, And bring him to you, 20 Whether he wyl or no. FRYER TUCKE. _Deus hic, deus hic_, god be here! Is not this a holy worde for a frere? God save all this company! But am not I a jolly fryer? For I can shote both farre and nere, And handle the sworde and bucklèr, And this quarter-staffe also. If I mete with a gentylman or yemàn, I am not afrayde to loke hym upon, 30 Nor boldly with him to carpe; If he speake any wordes to me, He shall have strypes two or thre, That shal make his body smarte. But, maisters, to shew you the matter,[L35] Wherfore and why I am come hither, In fayth I wyl not spare. I am come to seke a good yeman, In Bernisdale men sai is his habitacion, His name is Robyn Hode. 40 And if that he be better man than I, His servaunt wyll I be, and serve him truely; But if that I be better man than he, By my truth my knave shall he be, And leade these dogges all three. ROBYN HODE. Yelde the, fryer, in thy long cote. FRYER TUCKE. I beshrew thy hart, knave, thou hurtest my throt. ROBYN HODE. I trowe, fryer, thou beginnest to dote; Who made the so malapert and so bolde, To come into this forest here, 50 Amonge my falowe dere? FRYER. Go louse the, ragged knave. If thou make mani wordes, I will geve the on the eare, Though I be but a poore fryer. To seke Robyn Hode I am com here, And to him my hart to breke. ROBYN HODE. Thou lousy frer, what wouldest thou with hym? He never loved fryer, nor none of freiers kyn. FRYER. Avaunt, ye ragged knave! Or ye shall have on the skynne. 60 ROBYN HODE. Of all the men in the morning thou art the worst, To mete with the I have no lust; For he that meteth a frere or a fox in the morning, To spede ill that day he standeth in jeoperdy.[L64] Therfore I had lever mete with the devil of hell, (Fryer, I tell the as I thinke,) Then mete with a fryer or a fox In a mornyng, or I drynk. FRYER. Avaunt, thou ragged knave, this is but a mock; If thou make mani words thou shal have a knock.[L70] 70 ROBYN HODE. Harke, frere, what I say here: Over this water thou shalt me bere, The brydge is borne away. FRYER. To say naye I wyll not: To let the of thine oth it were great pitie and sin, But up on a fryers backe, and have even in. ROBYN HODE. Nay, have over. FRYER. Now am I, frere, within, and thou, Robin, without, To lay the here I have no great doubt. Now art thou, Robyn, without, and I, frere, within, 80 Lye ther, knave; chose whether thou wilte sinke or swym. ROBYN HODE. Why, thou lowsy frere, what hast thou done?[L82] FRYER. Mary, set a knave over the shone. ROBYN HODE. Therfore thou shalt abye. FRYER. Why, wylt thou fyght a plucke? ROBYN HODE. And god send me good lucke. FRYER. Than have a stroke for fryer Tucke. ROBYN HODE. Holde thy hande, frere, and here me speke. FRYER. Say on, ragged knave, Me semeth ye begyn to swete. 90 ROBYN HODE. In this forest I have a hounde, I wyl not give him for an hundreth pound. Geve me leve my home to blowe, That my hounde may knowe. FRYER. Blowe on, ragged knave, without any doubte, Untyll bothe thyne eyes starte out. Here be a sorte of ragged knaves come in, Clothed all in Kendale grene, And to the they take their way nowe. ROBYN HODE. Peradventure they do so. 100 FRYER. I gave the leve to blowe at thy wyll, Now give me leve to whistell my fyll. ROBYN HODE. Whystell, frere, evyl mote thou fare, Untyll bothe thyne eyes stare[L104]. FRYER. Now Cut and Bause! Breng forth the clubbes and staves, And downe with those ragged knaves! ROBYN HODE. How sayest thou, frere, wylt thou be my man, To do me the best servyse thou can? Thou shalt have both golde and fee, 110 And also here is a lady free, I wyll geve her unto the, And her chapplayn I the make, To serve her for my sake. FRYER. Here is a huckle duckle, an inch above the buckle; She is a trul of trust, to serve a frier at his lust, A prycker, a prauncer, a terer of shetes,[L117] A wagger of buttockes[L118] when other men slepes. Go home, ye knaves, and lay crabbes in the fyre, For my lady and I wil daunce in the myre, 120 For veri pure joye. ROBYN HODE. Lysten, to [me], my mery men all, And harke what I shall say; Of an adventure I shall you tell, That befell this other daye. With a proude potter I met, And a rose garlande on his head, The floures of it shone marvaylous freshe; This seven yere and more he hath used this waye, Yet was he never so curteyse a potter, 130 As one peny passage to paye. Is there any of my mery men all That dare be so bolde To make the potter paie passage, Either silver or golde? LYTELL JOHN. Not I master, for twenty pound redy tolde, For there is not among us al one That dare medle with that potter, man for man. I felt his handes not long agone, But I had lever have ben here by the, 140 Therfore I knowe what he is. Mete him when ye wil, or mete him whan ye shal, He is as propre a man as ever you medle withal. ROBYN HODE. I will lai with the, Litel John, twenti pound so read, If I wyth that potter mete, I wil make him pay passage, maugre his head. LETTEL JOHN. I consente therto, so eate I bread, If he pay passage maugre his head, Twenti pound shall ye have of me for your mede. THE POTTERS BOY JACKE. Out alas, that ever I sawe this daye! 150 For I am clene out of my waye From Notyngham towne; If I hye me not the faster, Or I come there the market wel be done.[L154] ROBYN HODE. Let me se, are thy pottes hole and sounde?[L155] JACKE. Yea, meister, but they will not breake the ground. ROBYN HODE. I wil them breke, for the cuckold thi maisters sake; And if they will breake the grounde,[L158] Thou shalt have thre pence for a pound. JACKE. Out alas! what have ye done? 160 If my maister come, he will breke your crown. THE POTTER. Why, thou horeson, art thou here yet? Thou shouldest have bene at markèt. JACKE. I met with Robin Hode, a good yemàn, He hath broken my pottes, And called you kuckolde by your name. THE POTTER. Thou mayst be a gentylman, so god me save, But thou semest a noughty knave. Thou callest me cuckolde by my name, And I swere by god and saynt John 170 Wyfe had I never none. This cannot I denye, But if thou be a good felowe, I wil sel mi horse, mi harneis, pottes and paniers to, Thou shalt have the one halfe and I will have the other; If thou be not so content, Thou shalt have stripes, if thou were my brother. ROBYN HODE. Harke, potter, what I shall say: This seven yere and more thou hast used this way, Yet were thou never so curteous to me, 180 As one penny passage to paye. THE POTTER. Why should I pay passage to thee? ROBYN HODE. For I am Robyn Hode, chiefe gouernoure Under the grene woode tree. THE POTTER. This seven yere have I used this way up and downe, Yet payed I passage to no man, Nor now I wyl not beginne, so do the worst thou can.[L187] ROBYN HODE. Passage shalt thou pai here under the grene-wode tre, Or els thou shalt leve a wedde with me.[L189] THE POTTER. If thou be a good felowe, as men do the call, 190 Laye awaye thy bowe, And take thy sword and buckeler in thy hande, And see what shall befall. ROBIN HODE. Lyttle John, where art thou? LYTTEL [JOHN]. Here, mayster, I make god a vowe. I tolde you, mayster, so god me save, That you shoulde fynde the potter a knave.[L197] Holde your buckeler faste in your hande, And I wyll styfly by you stande, Ready for to fyghte; 200 Be the knave never so stoute, I shall rappe him on the snoute, And put hym to flyghte. 35, maister, C. 64 ell, C. 70 You, you, C. 82, donee, C. 104, starte, C. 117, shefes, C. 118, ballockes, C. 154, maryet, C. 155, the, C. 158, not breake, in C. 187, to do, C.; _to_ or _so_ omitted in W. 189, wedded, C, wed, W. 197, your, C. FRAGMENT OF AN INTERLUDE (?) OF ROBIN HOOD. The lines which follow would seem to be part of an Interlude, in which, as in the play just given, the incidents of several ballads are rudely combined. The present fragment is manifestly founded on _Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne_. We owe this curious relic to a correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ (vol. xii. p. 321), who found it in an interleaved copy of _Robin Hood's Garland_, formerly belonging to Dr. Stukely, the inventor of the preposterous pedigree of Robin Hood. The Doctor has prefixed these remarks:--"It is not to be doubted but that many of subsequent songs are compiled from old ballads wrote in the time, or soon after Robin Hood, with alterations from time to time into the more modern language. Mr. Le Neve (Norroy) has a large half-sheet of paper which was taken from the inside of some old book, which preserves in an old hand a fragment of this sort. On the back of it is wrote, among other accounts, this, 'It^m, R. S. of Richard Whitway, penter for his house, sent in full payment, jx. _s._, the vij. day of November, Edw'^d iij. xv.'; and in a later hand as follows." "Syr Sheryffe, for thy sake Robyn Hode wull y take." I wyll the gyffe golde and fee, This beheste thow holde me. "Robyn Hode ffayre and fre, 5 Undre this lynde shote we." With the shote y wyll, Alle thy lustes to fullfyll. "Have at the pryke," And y cleve the styke. 10 "Late us caste the stone," I grante well, be Seynte John. "Late us caste the exaltrè," Have a foote before the. Syr knyght, ye have a falle. 15 "And I the, Robyn, qwyte shall. Owte on the, I blewe my horne, Hitt ware better be unborne." "Let us fight at oltrance. "He that fleth, God gyfe hym myschaunce." 20 Now I have the maystry here, Off I smyte this sory swyre. This knygthys clothis wolle I were, And on my hede his hyde will bere.[L24] Well mete, felowe myn.[L25] 25 What herst thou of gode Robyn? "Robyn Hode and his menye With the Sheryffe takyn be." Sette on foote with gode wyll, And the Sheryffe wull we kyll. 30 Beholde wele Frere Tuke, Howe he dothe his bowe pluke. "Yeld yow, Syrs, to the Sheryffe, Or elles shall ye blowes pryffe[L34]." Now we be bounden alle in same; 35 Frere Tuke, this is no game. "Come thou forth, thou fals outlawe; Thou shall be hangyde and y-drawe." Now alias, what shall we doo! We moste to the prysone goo." 40 Opyn the gates faste anon,[L41] And [late] theis thevys ynne gon."[L42] 24, hede. 25, folowe. 34, elyffe. 41, ory the yatn. 42, theif thouys yune. BY LANDS-DALE HEY HO. "This strange and whimsical performance is taken from a very rare and curious publication, entitled _Deuteromelia_: _or the second part of musicks melodie, or melodius musicke_, 1609. "In the collection of old printed ballads made by Anthony à Wood, is an inaccurate copy of this ancient and singular production, in his own hand-writing. "'This song,' says he, 'was esteemed an old song before the rebellion broke out in 1641.'" RITSON's _Robin Hood_, ii. 204. By Lands-dale hey ho, By mery Lands-dale hey ho, There dwelt a jolly miller, And a very good old man was he, hey ho. He had, he had and a sonne a, 5 Men called him Renold, And mickle of his might Was he, was he, hey ho. And from his father a wode a, His fortune for to seeke, 10 From mery Lands-dale Wode he, wode he, hey ho. His father would him seeke a, And found him fast asleepe; Among the leaves greene 15 Was he, was he, hey ho. He tooke, he tooke him up a, All by the lilly-white hand, And set him on his feet, And bad him stand, hey ho. 20 He gave to him a benbow, Made all of a trusty tree, And arrowes in his hand, And bad him let them flee. And shoote was that, that a did a, 25 Some say he shot a mile, But halfe a mile and more Was it, was it, hey ho. And at the halfe miles end [a,] There stood an armed man; 30 The childe he shot him through, And through and through, hey ho. His beard was all on a white a, As white as whaleis bone, His eyes they were as cleare 35 As christall stone, hey ho. And there of him they made [a] Good yeoman Robin Hood, Scarlet, and Little John, And Little John, hey ho. 40 IN SHERWOOD LIVDE STOUT ROBIN HOOD. Gutch's _Robin Hood_, ii. 393. From _A Musicall Dreamt, or the fourth booke of Ayres_, &c., London, 1606. Ritson printed the same from the edition of 1609. In Sherwood livde stout Robin Hood, An archer great, none greater; His bow and shafts were sure and good, Yet Cupids were much better. Robin could shoot at many a hart and misse, 5 Cupid at first could hit a hart of his. _Hey, jolly Robin, hoe, jolly Robin, hey, jolly Robin Hood, Love finds out me, as well as thee, so follow me, so follow me to the green-wood_.[L8] A noble thiefe was Robin Hoode, Wise was he could deceive him; 10 Yet Marrian, in his bravest mood, Could of his heart bereave him! No greater thief lies hidden under skies Then beauty closely lodgde in womens eyes. _Hey, jolly Robin, &c._ An out-law was this Robin Hood, 15 His life free and unruly; Yet to faire Marrian bound he stood, And loves debt payed her duely. Whom curbe of stricktest law could not hold in, Love with obeyednes and a winke could winne _Hey, jolly Robin, &c._ 20 Now wend we home, stout Robin Hood, Leave we the woods behind us; Love-passions must not be withstood, Love every where will find us. I livde in fielde and downe, and so did he, 25 I got me to the woods, love followed me. _Hey, jolly Robin, &c._ 8, to follow. Ritson. THE SONG OF ROBIN HOOD AND HIS HUNTES-MEN. From Anthony Munday's London pageant for 1615, entitled _Metropolis Coronata, the Triumphes of Ancient Drapery_. Munday was a popular ballad-writer, and, together with Chettle, the author of two well-known plays on the fortunes of "Robert Earl of Huntington." This song is taken from _The Civic Garland_, in the Percy Society Publications, vol. xix. p. 15. Now wend we together, my merry men all, Unto the forrest side a: And there to strike a buck or a doe, Let our cunning all be a tride a. Then go we merrily, merrily on, 5 To the green-wood to take up our stand, Where we will lye in waite for our game, With our bent bowes in our hand. What life is there like to bold Robin Hood? It is so pleasant a thing a: 10 In merry Shirwood he spends his dayes, As pleasantly as a king a. No man may compare with Robin Hood, With Robin Hood, Scathlocke and John; Their like was never, nor never will be, 15 If in ease that they were gone. They will not away from merry Shirwood, In any place else to dwell: For there is neither city nor towne, That likes them halfe so well. 20 Our lives are wholly given to hunt, And haunt the merry greene-wood, Where our best service is daily spent For our master Robin Hood. GLOSSARY. [right pointing hand] Figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. a', _all_. aboon, abune, _above_. abowthe, _about_. abye, _abide_, _pay_. acward stroke, 21, _an unusual, out-of-the-way stroke, which could not be guarded against_. ae, _one_. aftur the way, 11, _upon the way_. agayne, _against_. agone, _ago_. aik, _oak_. alane, _alone_. Alcaron, 414, _the name of an imaginary deity, by metathesis from Alcoran_. RITSON. _The original reading is, however, Acoron_. alkone, _each one_. al so mote, _so may I_. altherbest, _best of all_. amain, all, 292, _at once_. ance, _once_. anker, _anchorite_. a-row, _in a row_. Arthur-a-Bradley, 351, _the title of a ballad_. arwe, _arrow_; arwys, _arrows_. asay, _tried_. assoyld, _absolved_. avowè, _founder_, _patron_, _protector_. awayte me scathe, 80, _lie in wait, or lay plots_, _to do me injury_. awet, _know_. awkwarde stroke, 166, _an unusual, out-of-the-way stroke_. ayen, _again_. ayenst, _against_. ayont, _beyond_. ayre, by, 197, _early_. azon, 39, _against_, _towards [them]_. bale, _ruin_, _harm_, _mischief_. ballup, 264, _the front or flap of small clothes_. banis, _bane_. barking, 336, _leather-tanning_. baylyes, 153, _bailiffs_, _sheriff's officers_. be, _by_. bearyng arow, 155, "_an arrow that carries well_;" see vol. vii. became, 184, _came_. bedene, 77, _in a company_, _together_.(?) bedyl, 153, beadle, _the keeper of a prison_. beforn, 41, _before_, _first_. beft, 203, _beaten_. begeck, give a, 198, _make a mock of_, _expose to derision_. beheste, 429, _promise_. behote, 99, _promise_; 96, _promised_. beir, _noise_, _cry_. belive, belyfe, _quickly_, _at once_. ben, _in_. benbow, 432, _bent bow_. bend, 405, _turn of a forest_. bescro, _beshrew_, _curse_. bestead, _circumstanced_, _put to it_. bewch, 159, _bough_. bigged, _built_. bigly, _commodious_, _pleasant to live in_. bil, _pike or halbert_. blate, _sheepish_, _foolish_. blowe bost, 55, _make boast_. blutter, 195, _dirty_. blyve, _quickly_. bocking, _belching_, _flowing out_. bode, _bid_. boltys, _arrows, especially arrows with a blunt head_. bone, _boon_. booting, 188, _robbing adventure_. borow, _surety_. borowe, _redeem_. boskyd, _made ready_. bote, _help_, _use_. bottys, _shooting butts_. boun, boune, _make ready_; bown'd, 193, _went_. boune, bowne, _ready_, _ready to go_; 244, _going_. bour, _bower_, _chamber_, _dwelling_. bowne, _boon_. boyt, _both_. braide at a, 145, _suddenly_, _in a moment_. braves, _bravadoes_. bree, _brow_. breeks, _breeches_. brenne, _burn_. brere, _briar_, _thorn_. breyde, _a start_, _leap_. breyde, _started_, _leaped_, _stepped hastily_. briddis, _birds_. broke, 91, _use and enjoy_. browthe, _brought_. browzt, _brought_. bruik, _enjoy_. bryk, _breeches_. buske, _bush_. buske, _dress_; 54, _make ready to go_, _go_. busshement, _ambush_. but, _without_; 193, but fail, _without fail_; but and, _and also_. bydene, 105, _all together_, _forthwith_, _one after the other_.(?) bystode, _put into a plight_, _circumstanced_. can, as an auxiliary, equivalent to _did_. can, _know_; coud, _knew_; can thanke, _feel grateful_, (_savoir gré_.) cankerdly, _with ill humor_. capull, _horse_. carefull, _sorrowful_. carpe, _talk_, _narrate_. carril, carel, _churl_. certyl, _kirtle_; 41, _jacket or waistcoat_. chaffar, chaffer, _merchandise_, _commodity_. charter of peace, _deed of pardon_, _safe-warrant_. chear well, 190, _make good cheer_, _have a good prospect_. chepe, v. _buy_; n. _bargain_. chere, _face_. cheys, _choose_. chitt, 258, _worn_? chiven, 405, _craven_? claw'd, 194, _scratched_, _curried_. clepyn, _call_. clipping, _embracing_. clouted, _patched_. cofer, _trunk_. cold, 259, _could_, used as an auxiliary of the perfect tense. cole, _cowl_. comet, _cometh_. commytted, 120, _accounted_. comyn belle, 13, _town-bell_. coost, _cast_. coresed, 62, _harnessed_. HALLIWELL. (A guess?) cote-a-pye, _upper garment_, _short cloak_. coud, _could_, used as an auxiliary of the perfect tense; coud his curtesye, 76, [_showed that he_] _understood good manners_. counsel, _secret_. covent, _convent_. cow, _clip_. cowed, _could_, _knew_. cowthe, _could_. crack, _chat_, _talk_. craftely, _skilfully_. creves, _crevice_. crouse, 192, _merrily_. curn, 191, _quantity of_. curtall fryer, 272, _apparently the friar with the curtall (cur) dogs_. curtes, _courteous_. cutters, _swaggerers_, _riotous fellows_. cypress, 411, _gauze_, _crape_. dale, been at a, _in low spirits_? dame, 86, _mother_, i.e. _Mary_. deale, _part_. dee, _die_. dee, _do_; deen, _done_. deft, _neat_, _trim_. demed, _judged_. dere, _harm_. dere worthy, _precious_. derne, _secret_, _privy_, _retired_. devilkyns, 57, _deuced_. did of, _doffed_. doen him, _betaken him_. doe of, _doff_. doubt, doute, _fear_, _danger_. doyt, _do_. dree, _bear_, _suffer_, _endure_. dub, 196, _pool_. dule, _lamentation_. dung, _struck down_, _put down_. duzty, _doughty_, _brave_. dyght, 100, _done_. dyght, _ready_, _made ready_; dyghtande, 111, _making ready_, _cooking_. dysgrate, _disgraced_, _degraded_, _fallen into poverty_. eftsones, _afterward_, _hereafter_. eild, _age_. emys, _uncles_. ere, 86, _before_. erst, _before_. even, _exactly_. everyche, euerilkone, everichone, _each_, _every one_. exaltrè, _axle-tree_. eylde het the, _requite (thee for) it_. eyr, _year_. faem, _foam_, _sea_. fail, but, 193, _without fail_. faine, _glad_. falleth, 114, _suiteth_. falyf, _fallen_. fánatick, 414, _madman_. fang, _strap_. fare, _way of proceeding_; 114, _fortune_; for all his frendes fare, seems to mean, _notwithstanding the penalties suffered by his friends for their bad shots_. fare, _go_. farley, _strange_. fault, 367, _misfortune_. fay, _faith_. fayne, _glad_. fe, fee, _property_, _wages_, _reward_. feardest, 197, _most frightened_. federed, _feathered_. felischepe, 22, _compact of friendship_. fend, _find_. fende, _defend_. ferd, 10, _fear_; probably misspelt. fere, _mate_. ferly, _wonderful_, _extraordinary_. ferre dayes, 47, _late in the day_. ferre and frend bestad, 69, _in the position of a stranger from a distance_. fet, _fetched_. fet, fit, _song_. fetteled, _made ready_. finikin, _fine_. flaps, _strokes_, _blows_. fleych, _flesh_. flinders, _fragments_. flo, _arrow_. fone, _foes_. forbode godys, 30, gods forbott, 260, _God's prohibition_; over gods forbode, 157, _on God's prohibition_, _God forbid_. force, fors, _matter_. forebye, _on one side_. for god, _before God_. forlorne, _lost_, _forsaken_, _alone_. forsoyt, _forsooth_. forthynketh, _repenteth_. fostere, _forester_; fosters of the fe, 153, _foresters in the King's pay_. foryete, 72, _forgotten_. fothe, _foot_. foulys, _fowls_, _birds_. free, 272, _gracious_, _bounteous_. frend, _foreign_, _strange_; ferre and frend bestad, 69, _in the position of a stranger from a distance_. frese (said of bows), 82? fu', _full_. fynly, _goodly_. gang, _go_. gangna, _go not_. gar, _make_. gate, 162, 196, _way_. general, 290, _perhaps the governor, Nottingham having once been a garrison town_. RITSON. Rather, _people_; i.e. _in public_, _with the rest of the world_. ger, 27, _gear_, _affair_. gest, _guest_. geste, _story_. gie, _give_. gif, _if_. gillore, _plenty_. gin, _if_. gladdynge, _entertaining_. go, _walk_. god, 31, _valuables_. gods forbott, 260, _God's prohibition_, _God forbid_. golett, _throat_, _the part of the dress or armor which covered the throat_. gone, _go_; ride and go, _ride and walk_. gorney, _journey_. graff, 225, _branch or sapling_. gree, 64, _satisfaction_. greece, hart of, _a fat hart_. grithe, 16, _peace_, _protection_, _security for a certain time_. grome, _groom_; 45, _a_ (_common_) _man_. ha', _hall_. had, _hold_, _keep_. hail, _wholly_. halfendell, _half_. halke, 108, _hollow_? hambellet, _ambleth_. hame, _home_. han, _have_. hansell, 23, _is the first money received in a new shop, or on any particular day_. The passage seems to be corrupt. hantyd, _haunted_. harbengers, _harbingers_, _servants that went on before their lords during a journey, to provide lodgings_. harowed, _despoiled_. hart of greece, _a fat hart_. hase, _neck_. haud, _hold_. haulds, 195, _things to take hold of_. haunted, _resorted frequently_. hawt, _aught_. hayt, _hath_. he, 39, _they_. heal'd, _concealed_. hede, _head_. hee, _high_. hende, _gentle_, _courteous_. hent, _took_. heres, _here is_. het, _it_. het, _eat_. heynd, _gentle_, _courteous_. hight, _called_, _are called_. ho, hoo, _who_. hode, _hood_. holde, 61, _retain_. holy, _wholly_. hos, _us_. housbond, _manager_. howt, _out_; heyt war howte, 23, a corrupt passage? huckle-duckle, 424, _a term for a loose woman_. humming, _heady_. hye, in, _aloft_. hyght, _promised_, _vowed_. hynde, _servant_. hypped, _hopped_, _hobbled_. i-bonde, _bound_. i-chaunged, _changed_. i-federed, _feathered_. ilk, _each_; ilkone, _each one_. in fere, _in company_. inn, 34, _abode_, _stand_. i-nocked, _nocked_, _notched_. inow, _enough_. in same, _together_. intil, _into_, _in_. into, _in_. in twaine, _apart_. i-pyght, _put_. i-quyt, _rewarded_. i-sette, _set_. i-slawe, _slain_. ither, _each other_. i-wysse, _surely_. japes, _jests_, _mocks_. jobbing, 374, _knocking together_. kende, kent, _knew_. kep, _catch_; kep'd, kept, keepit, _caught_. kepe; non odur kepe I'll be, 15, _I will be no other kind of retainer_, _I will have no other relations_. kest, _cast_. kilt, _tuck up_. knave, _servant_ (_boy_); knave bairn, _male child_. knop, _a knob or swelling from a blow_. kod, _quoth_. kyrtell, _kirtle_, _waistcoat_, _jacket, or tunic_. lad, _lead_. laigh, 196, _low ground_. lang, _longer_. lap, _leaped_. launde, _an open place in a wood_. launsgay, _a kind of dart or javelin_; (a compound of _lance_, and the Arabic _zagaye_, says Myrick, Antient Armour, &c.) lawhyng, _laughing_. layne, _deception_. leace, _lying_. leasynge, _lying_. leave, 395, _dear_. ledes man, _conductor_. lee licht, 171, _lonely_, _sad light_. leese, _lose_. lefe, _dear_, _pleasant_. lende, 113, _dwell_. lene, 58, _grant_; 59, _lend_. lengre, _longer_. lere, _cheek_. lere, _learn_. lese, _lose_. lest, _desire_. lesynge, _lying_. let, _stop_; letna, _let not_; lettyng, _stopping_. leugh, _laughed_. lever, _rather_. lewtè, _loyalty_. ley, _lea_. leythe, _light_. liflod, _livelihood_. ligge, 332, _lay_. lightilé, lyghtly, _quickly_. lin, _stop_. lin'd, 203, _beaten_. list, _desire_. list, _pleased_. lith, 170, _joint_, _limb_. lithe, _hearken_. liver, _nimble_. lizt, _light_. lokid on, 8, _looked in at_. longe of the, _thy fault_. longut, _longed_. lordeyne, _sluggard_, _clown_. lore, _lost_. lothely, _with aversion_, _with hatred_. lough, _laughed_. loused, lowsed, _loosed_. low, _laughed_. lowe, 167, _a small hill_. lown, _rogue_. lust, _desire_. lynde, lyne, _linden_, _lime_, _tree in general_. lynge, 10, _a thin long grass or rush_, _heather_. lyth, _hearken_. lyveray, _an allowance of provisions or clothes given out to servants or retainers_; 73, _levy_. lyzth, _lies_. male, _portmanteau_; 68, _[the horse carrying] the portmanteau_. maney, _company_. mar, _more_. marry, _Mary_; marry gep, _apparently, Mary go up_! masars, 75, _cups_, _vessels_. masterey, _mastery_, _trial of skill_, _feat_. mat, _may_. maun, _must_; maunna, _may not_. may, _maid_. maystry, _trial of skill_, _feat_. meal-pock, _meal-bag_. meatrif, _abounding in provisions_. mell, _meddle_. menyè, meynè, _company_. mete, _measured_. methe, _meat_. meyt, meythe, _might_. mickle, _great_. middle streame, 274, _middle of the stream_. misters, 203, _sorts of_. mo, _more_. molde, _ground_. mot, _may_. mote, _meeting_. mought, _might_. mow, _mouth_. muckle, _much_. mych, _much_. mylner, _miller_. mysaunter, _misadventure_, _ill luck_. myster, _need_. myzt, _might_. nae, _not_. nar, _nor_, _than_. ner, _never_. ner, _were it not_. ner; they ner, _thine ear_. nere, _nearer_. next way, _nearest way_. nicked, _notched_, _cut_, _slashed_. niddart, 403, _assailed_. nip, _bit_; curn nips of sticks, 191, _bundle of small sticks_. nipped, _pinched_. nombles, numbles, _[the eatable] entrails_. nouther, _neither_. odur, _other_. ohon, _interjection of grief_, _alas_. okerer, _usurer_. oltrance, _outrance_, _utterance_. on, _one_. onfere, _together_. on lyve, _alive_. onslepe, _asleep_. onys, _once_. or, _before_. os, _us_. ought, _owed_. out-horne, _a horn blown to summon people to assist in capturing a fugitive_. over all, _everywhere_. owthe, _out_. owtlay, _outlaw_. oysyd, _used_, _followed_. passe, _extent_, _bounds_, _limits_, _district_; as the pas de Calais. RITSON. partakers, _persons to take one's part_. pawage, pauage, pavag, _toll for the privilege of passing over the territory of another_. pay, _satisfaction_. peces, 75, _vessels_; _unless it be gold pieces_. pinder, _pounder_, _pound-keeper_. pine, _pain_. plucke, _stroke_, _blow_; 423, _bout_; plucke-buffet, 118, _is explained by the context_. prece, prese, _crowd_; prees, 65, _press (of battle)_. preced, _pressed_. preke, _the pin in the centre of a target_. president, _precedent_. prest, 29, _fast_, _zealously_. prest, _quick_, _in a hurry_; prestly, _quickly_. pricke-wande, _a rod set up as a mark. The prick is the peg in the centre of a target_. prycker, 425, _a galloping horse_. pryffe, 430, _prove_. pryme, _six in the morning_. pudding-prick, _a skewer to fasten a pudding-bag_. put at the stane, _throw the stone as a trial of strength_; putting-stane, _the stone used in this exercise_. pyne, _suffering_; goddes pyne, _Christ's passion_. quequer, _quiver_. queyt, qwyte, _reward_. raked, 196, _proceeded leisurely_, _sauntered_. raking, 259, 275, _walking hastily_, _running_. rawe, _row_. ray, _prepare_. raye, 84, _striped cloth. "Cloth not coloured or dyed. It is mentioned in many old statutes in contradistinction to cloth of colour."_ RITSON. reachles, _reckless_, _careless_. red, _advice_. red, _rid_. reddely, _quickly_. reede, _advise_. renne, _run_. reuth, _pity_. reve, _rob_, _take by force_. revere, _river_. reves, _bailiffs_, _receivers_. rewth, _pity_. ripe, _rip_. ripe, 190, _search_; 202, _cleanse_. rode, _rood_, _cross_. rout, 191, _blow_. rowed, _rolled_. rowte, _company_. rue, 377, _to cause to rue_. rung, _staff_. ryall, _royal_. ryghtwys, _righteous_, _just_. sad, 82, _firm_, _resolute_. sall, _shall_; salna, _shall not_. salued, _greeted_. same, _in_, _together_. sanchothis, 41? (The meaning is that the arrow went between the legs.) sawtene, _sought_. scaith, scathe, _hurt_, _harm_. schet, schette, _shot_. schrewde, _sharp_. sclo, _slay_. scouth, 195, _room_, _range_. screffe, _sheriff_. se, see, _protect_. seal, 396, Gude seal, _God seal_, _forbid_? seke, _search_; 20, he was not to seke, _he did not require to be looked for_. seker, _sure_, _resolute_. selerer, cellarer, _the officer of a convent that furnished provisions_. semblaunte, _countenance_. sete, _set_. sets, 348, _suits_. shawe, 1, 94, 160, _grove_, _wood_. shende, _injure_, _blame_. shete, _shoo_t; shet, _shot_. sheyne, _bright_. shone, shoen, _shoes_. shope, _created_. shot-window, _a projecting window_. shradd, 160, (spelt also shard,) _an opening in a wood_. shrewed, 63, _cursed_, _precious_! shroggs, 164, _shrubs_, _twigs_. shryve, _sheriff_. shuldis, _shouldst_. silly, _simple_. sith, _since_. slack, _low ground_, _valley_. slade, _valley_, _ravine_, _strip of greensward between two woods_. slawe, _slain_. slist, _sliced_. slon, _slay_; slone, _slain_. somers, _sumpter horses_. sorowe tyme, 61, _sorry_, _bad time_. sothe, _truth_. sound, _swoon_. sowt, 40, _south_. soyt, _sooth_, _truth_. spar, _spare_, _stop_. sparris, _shutst_; sparred, _shut_. spear, speir, _ask about_. spercles, _sparks_. sprunks, 378, _concubines_? spyrred, _asked_, _asked for_. stage, 8, _story of the house_? stalle, 16, _place in general_, _room_, _house_. stark, _stiff_. stede, _place_. sterte, _started_, _rushed_. steven, 168, _voice_; 164, unsett steven, _a time not previously appointed_. stime, _a particle of light_. sto', _store_, _a quantity_. stood upon, 356, _concerned_, _was worth his while_. store, set no, _make no account of_. stound, _hour_, _time_. stowre, _turmoil_. strypes, _strokes_. stroke, 259, _stretch_? stye, 14, _lane_. sune, _son_. sweaven, _dream_. sweir, _niggardly_, _unwilling to part with any thing_. swinke, _toil_. swownd, _swoon_. swyre, 430, _neck_. syne, _then_, _afterwards_. syth, _then_. take, (often) _give_; take up (the table), _clear away_. takle, takyll, _arrow_. tarpe, 111? tee, _to_. teene, tene, _harm_, _trouble_, _vexation_. than, _then_. the, _they_. the, _thrive_, _prosper_. then, _than_. ther, _their_. there, 106, _where_. thes, _thus_. thir, _they_. tho, _those_. thocht, _thought_. thother, _other_. thoucht _long_, thought lang, _grew weary_. thrast, _thrust_, _pressed_. throly, 5, _boldly_. throng, _hastened_. throwe, _space of time_. thrumme, _the extremity of a weaver's warp_; 40, _band_ _or_ _belt_? thryes, _thrice_. thynketh, _seemeth_. till, _to_. tithyngus, _tidings_. to, _two_. to-hande, _two-hand_. toke, _committed to_. tortyll, 28, _twisted_. Qy. reading? trawale, _labor_, _vocation_. tray, 81, (A.S. trega,) _vexation_. tree, _staff_. trenchen, 203, _cutting_. treyffe, 32, _thrive_. tristil tre, 7, _tree of trist_, _or_ _meeting_. trowet, _troth_. trusyd, _trussed_. trysty tre, _tristing tree_, _tree of meeting_. tyde, _time_. tyll, _to_. tynde, _tine_, _antler_. tyne, _lose_. unketh, _strange_, _stranger_. unneath, unneth, _hardly_. untyll, _unto_. upchaunce, _peradventure_, _perchance_. venyson, 130, _deer-stealing_. voyded, _went off_. wa, _wall_. wad, _would_. wan, _got_, _came_. wane, 70; wonnynge wane, _dwelling-place_: wane is perhaps an error for _hame_. war, _aware_. warden-pies, 368; _wardens are large baking-pears_. warisone, 14, _reward_. was, 25, _wash_. waur, _worse_. waythmen, page ix., _hunters_, _sportsmen_ (German, Weidmann). Often explained _outlaws_, _rovers_. wed, wedde, _pledge_, _deposit_. wedes, _garments_. welde, _would_. welt, _wielded_, _disposed of_. wenion, 225, _curse_, (a word of unknown origin.) wende, went, _weened_, _thought_. weppynd, _weaponed_. west, _wist_. wet, wete, _know_. whether, _whither_. whute, _whistle_; whues, _whistlings_. wigger, _wicker_. wight, _strong_. wilfulle, 164, (like wilsom,) _doubtful_, _ignorant_. win, _go_, _get_, _get on_. winna, _will not_. wistna, _knew not_. wode, _mad_. wode, _went_. wodys, _woods_. woest, _saddest_. wolwarde, _without linen next the body_. wone, _dwell_; wonnynge, _dwelling_. woo, _sad_. woodweele, variously explained as _woodpecker_, _thrush_, _wood-lark_, _red-breast_. worthe, _be_. wroken, _revenged_. wrist, 258? wyght, _strong_. wynne, _go_. wystly, _wistfully_, _intently_. wyte, 400, wytte, _know_. xal, xul, _shall_. y-dyght, _furnished_, _prepared_. yede, yeed, _went_. yeff, _if_. yeffell, _ill_. yeft, _gift_. yeman, _yeoman_; yemanrey, 22, yeomandrie, _yeomanry_, _what becomes a yeoman_. yend, _yonder_. yer, _years_. yerdes, _rods_, _wands_. ye'se, _you shall_. yever, _ever_. y-founde, _found_. ylke, _same_. yode, _went_. Yole, Yule, _Christmas_. yonder, _under_. y-slaw, _slain_. zade, _went_. zare, _readily_, _quickly_. zatis, _gates_. ze, _the_. zelpe, _boast_. zemen, _yeomen_. zet, _yet_. zete, _eat_. zeue, _give_. zone, _yon_. zouyn, _given_. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Page iv Table of Contents: changed "Landsdale" to "Lands-dale" (13. By Lands-dale hey ho) Page ix: Footnote [**] added closing quotation mark (... like as it hadde be _Robyn Hode and his meynè_.") Page xvi: added closing quotation mark (... "_poar cas qil ne poait pluis travailler_".) Page 125: deleted comma after "according" (... which, according to Wyntown, was also frequented by Robin Hood ...) Page 132, line 64: added sentence final period (In seven yere before.) Page 141: note references to lines 71 and 72 ammended to 70 and 71 respectively. Page 212: added closing quotation mark (... in the collection of Anthony à Wood.") Page 254, line 62: added opening quotation mark ("Thy bags and coat give me;) Page 270, line 60: added closing quotation mark (Aye, and all their white monèy.") Page 280, line 44: added opening quotation mark ("My name it is Allin a Dale.") Page 281, line 62: added closing quotation mark ("I prithee now tell unto me:") Page 290: added sentence final period (... and the chorus is repeated in every stanza.) Page 296, line 60: added closing quotation mark (I'd have gone some other way.") Page 347, line 96: added closing quotation mark (Some merry pastime to see.") Page 349, line 146: changed placement of closing quotation mark ("So 'tis, sir," Clorinda reply'd.) Page 349, line 147: added missing comma ("But oh," said bold Robin ...) Page 379, line 98: added opening quotation mark ("And with the grey goose-wing) Page 386, lines 74, 75: repositioned opening quotation mark from beginning of line 74 to beginning of line 75 "Ay," quoth the sheriff, and scratch'd his head, "I thought he would have been here; I thought he would, but tho' he's bold, 75 He durst not now appear." Page 406, line 32: ammended punctuation and added closing quotation mark from Ile give thee buffets sto.' to Ile give thee buffets sto'." Page 406, line 64: added closing quotation mark (Tell me where thou doest wone.") Page 410, line 18: added opening quotation mark ("Lo! the enemies are within ken:") Page 411, line 45: added closing quotation mark ("From London I came," the damsel reply'd,) Page 413, line 86: added opening quotation mark ("O master, tell to me:) Page 417, line 206: added opening quotation mark ("For the valour thou hast shewn,) Page 438: delted comma after "flowing" (bocking, _belching_, _flowing out_.) Page 447: changed "weidmann" to "Weidmann" (waythmen, page ix., _hunters_, _sportsmen_ (German, Weidmann).) 
29713	----	THE BALLADISTS [Illustration: THE BALLADISTS BY JOHN GEDDIE FAMOUS ·SCOTS· ·SERIES· PUBLISHED BY OLIPHANT ANDERSON & FERRIER · EDINBURGH AND LONDON ] * * * * * The designs and ornaments of this volume are by Mr. Joseph Brown, and the printing from the press of Messrs. T. and A. Constable, Edinburgh. * * * * * PREFACE Not much more has been attempted in these pages than to extract the marrow of the Scottish Ballad Minstrelsy. They will have served their purpose if they help to awaken, or to renew, a relish for the contents of the Ballad Book. To know and love these grand old songs is its own exceeding great reward; and it is also, alas! almost the only means now left to us of knowing something concerning their nameless writers. Questions involving literary or critical controversy as to the age and genuineness of the ballads have been, as far as possible, avoided in this popular presentation of their beauties and their qualities; and in case any challenge may be made of the origin or authenticity of the passages quoted, I may say that, in nearly every case, I have prudently, and of purpose, refrained from giving the authority for my text, and have taken that which best pleases my own ear or has clung most closely to my memory. J. G. _July 1896._ CONTENTS PAGE CHAPTER I BALLAD CHARACTERISTICS 9 CHAPTER II BALLAD GROWTH AND BALLAD HISTORY 24 CHAPTER III BALLAD STRUCTURE AND BALLAD STYLE 43 CHAPTER IV THE MYTHOLOGICAL BALLAD 58 CHAPTER V THE ROMANTIC BALLAD 83 CHAPTER VI THE HISTORICAL BALLAD 108 CHAPTER VII CONCLUSION 128 CHAPTER I BALLAD CHARACTERISTICS 'Layés that in harping Ben y-found of ferli thing; Sum beth of wer, and sum of wo, Sum of joye and mirthe also; And sum of treacherie and gile; Of old aventours that fell while; And sum of bourdes and ribaudy; And many ther beth of faëry,-- Of all things that men seth; Maist o' love forsoth they beth.' _The Lay of the Ash._ Who would set forth to explore the realm of our Ballad Literature needs not to hamper himself with biographical baggage. Whatever misgivings and misadventures may beset him in his wayfaring, there is no risk of breaking neck or limb over dates or names. For of dates and names and other solid landmarks there are none to guide us in this misty morning-land of poetry. The balladist is 'a voice and nothing more'--a voice singing in a chorus of others, in which only faintly and uncertainly we sometimes fancy we can make out the note, but rarely anything of the person or history, of the individual singer. In the hierarchy of song, he is a priest after the order of Melchisedec--without father or mother, beginning of days or end of life. The Scottish ballads we may thus love and know by heart, and concerning their preservation, collection, collation, we may gather a large store of facts. But the original ballad-writers themselves must remain for us the Great Unknown. Here and there one can lay down vague lines that seem to confine a particular ballad, or group of ballads, within particular bounds of place and of time. Here and there one seems to get a glimpse of the balladist himself, as onlooker or as actor in the scenes of fateful love and deathless grief which he has fixed for ever in the memory of men of his race and blood. There are passages in which, in the light and heat of battle, or in agony of terror or sorrow, we are made to see something of the minstrel as well as his theme. But by no research are we likely at this late date to recover any clew to the birthplace or to the lineaments of the life and face of the grand old poet who wrote the grand old ballad of _Sir Patrick Spens_; nor do towns contend for the honour of having produced the sweet singer of _Kirkconnel Lea_, the blithe minstrel of _Glenlogie_, or the first of all the bards who made the _Dowie Dens of Yarrow_ vocal with the song of unavailing sorrow. And in truth towns--even such towns as were in those days--could have had but little to do with the birth and shaping of the Scottish Balladists. Chief among the marks by which we may the true ballad-maker know among the verse-makers of his age, is the open-air feeling that pervades his thought and style. Like the Black Douglas, he likes better to hear the laverock sing than the mouse cheep. It is not only that he cares to tread 'the bent sae brown' rather than the paved street; that the tragedies of fiery love and hate quenched by death, in which he delights, are more often enacted under the blue cope of heaven than under vault of stone. What we seem to feel is that these simple old lays, in which lives a passion that still catches the breath and makes the cheek turn pale--whose 'words of might' have yet the power to waft us, mind and sense, into the 'Land of Faëry,' must have been conceived and brought to full strength under the light of the sun and the breath of the wind. 'The Muse,' says Robert Burns, himself of the true kin of the balladists: 'The Muse, nae Poet ever fand her, Till by himsel' he learned to wander, Adown some trottin' burn's meander, An' no think lang.' Certainly no true ballad was ever hammered out at the desk. It may have been wrought and fashioned for singing in bower or hall; but the fire that shaped it was caught, in gloaming grey or under the 'lee licht o' the mune,' in birken shaw or by wan water. It is true that one of the earliest of the Scots ballad-makers whose names have been handed down to us--Robert Henryson, who taught the Dunfermline bairns in the hornbook in the fifteenth century--has told us that he sought inspiration at the ingleside over a glass: 'I mend the fyre, and beikit me about, Then tuik ane drink my spreitis to confort, And armit me weill fra the cold thairout; To cut the winter nicht, and mak it schort, I tuik ane quhair, and left all uther sport.' But this was while conning, in cold weather, the classic tale of _Troilus and Cressid_. _Robin and Makyne_, which among Henryson's acknowledged pieces (except _The Bluidy Sark_) comes nearest to our conception of the ballad--after all it is but a pastoral--has the scent of the 'grene wode' in summer. In sooth, the Ballad Poet was neither made nor born; he grew. The 'wild flowers of literature' is the name that has been bestowed, with some little air of condescension, upon the rich inheritance he has left us. They are the purest and the strongest growth of the genius of the race and of the soil; and though they owe little save injury and mutilation to those who have deliberately sought to prune and trim them to please a later taste, they are as full of vigour and sap to-day as they were in the Ballad Age, when such poetry sprung up naturally and spontaneously. It is probable that not one of the old ballads that have come down to us by oral recitation is the product of a single hand; or of twenty hands. The greater its age, and the greater its popular favour, the greater is the number of individual memories and imaginations through which it has been filtered, taking from each some trace of colour, some flavour of style or character, some improving or modifying touch. The 'personal equation' is, in the ballad, a quantity at once immense and unknown. As in Homer's _Iliad_, the voice we hear is not that of any individual poet, but of an age and of a people--a voice simple, almost monotonous, in its rhythmic rise and fall, but charged with meanings multitudinous and unutterable. The Scottish ballads are undoubtedly, in their present form, the outcome of a long and strenuous process of selection. In its earlier stages, the ballad was not written down but passed from mouth to mouth. Additions, interpolations, changes infinite must have been made in the course of transmission and repetition. Like a hardy plant, it had the power to spread and send down fresh roots wherever it found favourable soil; and in its new ground it always, as we shall see, took some colour and character from the locality, the time, and the race. Golden lines and verses may have been shed in the passage from place to place and down the centuries. But less of this happened, we may feel sure, than a purging away of the dross. As a rule, what was fittest--what was truest to nature and to human nature--survived and was perpetuated in this evolution of the ballad. When, in the course of its progress, it gathered to itself anything that was precious and worthy of remembrance, then, by the very law of things, this was seized and stored in the memories of the listeners and handed down to future generations. But this process of purging and refining the ballad, so that it shall become--like the language, the proverbs, the folklore and nursery tales, and the traditional music of a nation--the reflection of the history and character of the race itself, if it is to be genuine, must go on unconsciously. As soon as the ballad is written down--at least as soon as it is fixed in print--the elements of natural growth it possesses are arrested. It is removed from its natural environment and means of healthy subsistence and development; and from a hardy outdoor plant it is in danger of becoming a plant of the closet--a potted thing, watered with printer's ink and trimmed with the editorial shears. Ballads have sprung up and blossomed in a literary age; but as soon as the spirit that is called literary seizes upon them and seeks to mould them to its forms, they begin to droop and to lose their native bloom and wild-wood fragrance. It is because they neglect, or are ignorant of, literary models and conventions, and go back to the 'eternal verities' of human passion and human motive and action--because they speak to 'the great heart of man'--that they are what they are. Few of our ballads have escaped those sophisticated touches of art, which, happily, are easily detected in the rough homespun of the old lays. Walter Scott, the last of the minstrels, to whom ballad literature owes more than to any who went before or who has come after him, was himself not above mending the strains gathered from the lips of old women, hill shepherds, and the wandering tribe of cadgers and hawkers, so that one is sometimes a little at a loss to tell what is original and what is imitation. But even the Wizard's hand is not cunning enough to patch the new so deftly upon the old that the difference cannot be detected. The genuine ballad touch is incommunicable; to improve upon it is like painting the lilies of the field. In the ranks of the Balladists, then, we do not include the many writers of merit--some of them of genius--who have worked in the lines of the elder race of singers, copying their measures and seeking to enter into their spirit. The studied simplicity, the deliberate archaisms, the overstrained vigour or pathos of these modern ballads do but convince us that the vein is well-nigh worked out. The writers could not help thinking of their models and materials; the old minstrels sang with no thought but telling what they saw with their eyes and heard with their ears. But even in these days the precious lode of ballad poetry will sometimes break to the surface; a phrase or a whole verse, fashioned in the Iron Age, will recall the Age of Gold. Scott has many such; and, to take a more modern instance, the spirit of _Sir Patrick Spens_ seems to inspire almost throughout George MacDonald's _Yerl o' Watery Deck_, now with a graphic stroke of description, anon with a sudden gleam of humour, as when the Skipper, in haste to escape his pursuers, hacked with his sword at the stout rope that bound his craft to the pier, 'And thocht it oure weel made'; and again when the King's Daughter chose between father and lover in words that leap forth like a sword from its scabbard: 'I loot me low to my father for grace, Down on my bended knee; But I rise, and I look my king in the face, For the Skipper 's the king o' me.' But even here, where we touch high-water mark of the latter-day Scottish ballad, one seems to find a faint reminiscence of stage-setting and effect, of purposed antithesis, of ethical discriminations unfamiliar to the manner and mode of thought of the ancient balladist. The latter, it may be said, does not stop to think or to analyse or moralise; he feels, and is content to tell us in the most direct and naïve language, all that he has felt. He has not learned the new trick of introspection; he is guided by intuition and the primæval instincts. He carries from his own lips to ours a draught of pure, strong, human passion, stirred into action by provocations of love, jealousy, revenge, and grief such as visit but rarely our orderly, workaday modern world. He renders for us the 'form and express feature' of his time, and though the draughtsmanship may be rude, it is free from suspicion of either flattery or bias. It is not enlisted in the cause of any moral theory or literary ideal. It is, so far as it goes, truth naked and not ashamed. But the native-grown ballad takes also colour from the ground whence it springs. It has the tang of the soil as well as the savour of the blood. Fletcher of Saltoun's hackneyed epigram, 'Let me make a country's ballads, and let who will make its laws,' does not embody all the truth. A country and the race inhabiting it may not be responsible for the laws that govern it. But a country and a people may rightly be tried and judged by their ballads--their own handiwork; their own offspring. The more cultured and highly-developed products of a national literature, however healthy, however strong and beautiful, must always owe much to neighbouring and to universal influences. Like the language and manners of the educated classes of a nation, they conform more or less to models of world-wide and age-long acceptance among educated men. But in the ballad one goes to the root of national character, to the pith and marrow of national life and history. What then, thus questioned, do the Scottish ballads teach us of Scotland and the Scots? Surely much to be proud of. They are among the most precious, as they are among the oldest, of our possessions as a people. Nay, it may be held that they are the best and choicest of all the contributions that Scotland has made to poetry and story. They are written in her heart's blood. Even the songs of Burns and the tales of Scott must take second rank after the ballads; their purest inspiration was drawn from those rude old lays. In this field of national literature, at least, we need not fear comparison with any other land and people. Our ballads are distinctly different, and in the opinion of unbiassed literary judges, also distinctly superior to the rich and beautiful ballad-lore of the Southern Kingdom. One can even note an expressive diversity of style and spirit in the ballads originating on the North and on the South margin of the Border line. The latter do not yield in rough vigour and blunt manliness to the ballads grown on the northern slope of Cheviot. _Chevy Chase_ may challenge comparison with _The Battle of Otterburn_, and come at least as well out of the contest as the Percy did from his meeting with the Douglas; and in many other ballads which the two nations have in common--_The Heir of Linn_, for example--the English may fairly be held to bear away the bell from the Scottish version. We do not possess a group of ballads pervaded so thoroughly with the freedom and delight of living under 'the leavés greene' as those of the Robin Hood Cycle; although we also have our songs of the 'gay greenwood'; although bows twanged as keenly in Ettrick Forest and in Braidislee Wood as in Sherwood itself, and we can even claim, partly, perhaps, as a relic of the days when the King of Scotland was Prince of Cumbria and Earl of Huntingdon, the bold Robin and his merry men among the heroes of our ballad literature. But, on the whole, mirth and light-heartedness are very far from being characteristics of the Scottish ballads. Of ballad themes in general, it has been said that they concern themselves mainly with the tragedy and the pathos of the life of feudal and early times; while, on the other hand, the folk-song reflects the sunnier hours of the days of old. This is peculiarly true of the Scottish ballads. The best of them are dipped in gloom of the grave. They breathe the very soul of 'the old, unhappy far-off times.' Even over the true lovers, Fate stands from the first with a drawn sword; and the story ends with the 'jow of the deid bell' rather than with the wedding chimes. Superstitious terrors, too, add a shadow of their own to these tragedies of crossed and lawless love and swift-following vengeance. In this respect, the Scottish ballads are more nearly akin to the popular poetry of Denmark and other countries across the North Sea, than to that of our neighbours across the Tweed. There are a score of ballads that agree so closely in plot and structure, and even in names and phrases, with Norse or German versions, that it is impossible to doubt that they have been drawn directly from the same source. Either they have been transplanted thither in the many descents which the Northmen made on Scotland, as is witnessed not only by the chronicles, but by existing words, and customs, and place-names scattered thickly around our coasts; or, what may perhaps be as strongly argued, both versions may have come from an older and common original. Celtic influences are also present, although scarcely, perhaps, so directly manifest as might have been expected, considering that the Celtic race and speech must at one time have been spread almost universally over Scotland; they appear rather in the spirit than in the plot and scene and characters of the typical Scottish ballad. They supply, unquestionably, a large portion of that feeling of mystery, of over-shadowing fate, and melancholy yearning--that air of another world surrounding and infecting the life of the senses--which seems to distinguish the body and soul of Scottish ballad poetry from the more matter-of-fact budget of the English minstrels. But it has to be remembered that the matrix of the ballads that have taken first place in the love and in the memory of Scotland was the region most remote and isolated from the Highlands and the Highlanders during the ballad-making era. This is the basin of the Tweed--the howms of Yarrow; Leader haughs and Ettrick shaws; the clear streams that flow past ruined abbey and peel-tower, through green folds of the Cheviots and the Lammermuirs, that for hundreds of years were the chosen homes of Border war and romance. Next after these come the banks of Clyde and Forth; Annan Water and the streams of Ayr and Galloway; and ballads and ballad localities, differing somewhat, in theme and structure, in mood and metre, from those of the South, as Aberdonian differs from Borderer, and the Men of the Mearns from the Men of the Merse, are found scattered thinly or sprinkled thickly over the whole North, by Tay, and Dee, and Spey. These latter streams are partly without and partly within the Highland Line, across which, as unacquainted with a language that has its own rich and peculiar store of legend and ballad poetry, we do not propose to penetrate; sufficient field for exploration is provided by the Scots ballads in Scots. But when these were in the making, the Highland Line must have run down much lower into the Lowlands than it does to-day; the retreating Gaelic had still outposts in Buchan, and even in Fife, and Ayr, and Galloway. In the ballads of the North-eastern Counties, the feuds of Highland chiefs and the raids of Highland caterans make themselves seen and felt, too visibly and not too sympathetically, in the ditties of their Lowland neighbours. 'The Hielandmen' play the part that the English clans from Bewcastle and Redesdale play in the Border ballads. The 'Red Harlaw' in those boreal provinces was a landmark and turning-point in history and poetry, as Bannockburn or Flodden was in the South. By Hangingshaws or Hermitage Castle they knew little of the Highlander, being too much absorbed in their own quarrels; on Donside and in the Lennox they knew him better than they liked him; and it was not until a comparatively recent period of literary history that the kilted warrior began to take his place as a heroic and imposing figure in the poetry and prose of the Scottish vernacular. Making all allowance for borrowings and influences drawn from without, may we not still say that the Scottish ballad owes nearly all that is best in it--the sweetness not less than the strength of this draught of old poetry and passion--to the land and to the folk that gave it birth? A land thrust further into the gloom and cold of stormy seas than the Southern Kingdom; a land whose spare gifts are but the more esteemed by its children because they are given so grudgingly, whose high and bleak and stern features make the valleys they shelter the more lovely and loved from the contrast; a race whose blood has been blended of many strains, and tempered by long centuries of struggle with nature and with outside enemies; perfervid of spirit and dour of will; holding with strong grip to the things of this world, but never losing consciousness of the nearness and mystery of the world of things invisible; with a border-line on either side of them that for hundreds of years had to be kept with the strong hand and the stout heart, and behind them a background of history more charged with trouble and romance than that of almost any other nation in Europe--where should the ballad draw pith and sap and colour if not on such a soil and among such a people? If Mr. Buckle was able to trace the complexion and form of Scottish religion in the climate and configuration of Scotland, much more easily should we be able to find the atmosphere and scenery of Scotland reflected in her ballads. CHAPTER II BALLAD GROWTH AND BALLAD HISTORY _Clown_--What hast here? ballads? _Mopsa_--Pray now, buy some: I love a ballad in print, a' life; for then we are sure they are true.--_Winter's Tale._ There is probably not a verse, there is scarcely a line, in the existing body of Scottish ballad poetry that can be traced with certainty further back than the sixteenth century. Many of them chronicle events that took place in the seventeenth century, and there are a few that deal with even later history. It may seem a bold thing, therefore, to claim for these traditional tales in verse the much more venerable antiquity implied in what has been said in the previous chapter. If we were to be guided by the accessible literary and historical data, or even by the language of the ballads themselves, we should be disposed to believe that the productive period of ballad-making was confined within two or at most three hundred years. It would be more than rash, however, to imagine that ballads did not live and grow and spread in the obscure but fertile ground of the popular fancy and the popular memory, because they did not crop up in the contemporary printed literature, and were overlooked by the dry-as-dust chroniclers of the time. Nor is it a paradox to say that a ballad may be older, by ages, than the hero and the deeds that it seems to celebrate. Like thistledown it has the property of floating from place to place, and even from kingdom to kingdom and from epoch to epoch, changing names and circumstances to suit the locality, and attaching itself to outstanding figures and fresh events without changing its essential spirit and character. The more formal Muses despised these rude and unlettered rhymes--when they noticed them at all it was in a disdainful or patronising spirit--and this holds true of the eighteenth century almost as much as of the sixteenth. It is not that ballad poetry was dumb, but that history was deaf and blind to its beauties. Nor is any adverse judgment as to the antiquity of the Scottish ballad to be drawn from the comparative modernity of the style and language. The presence of archaisms in a ballad that claims to have been handed down by oral repetition from a remote period is, on the contrary, a thing to raise suspicion as to its genuineness. The ballad, as has been said, is a living and growing organism; or at least it is this until it has been committed to print. However deep into the mould of the past its roots run down, its language and idioms should not be much older than the popular speech of the time when it has been gathered into the collector's budget. It is like a plant that, while remaining the same at the heart and root, is constantly casting the old, and putting out fresh, leaves. Thus the very words and phrases that were intended to give an antique air to _Hardyknut_ stamped it as an imitation; these clumsy and artificial patches were not the true mosses of age. The ballad of true lineage, partly from its simplicity of thought and structure, partly from being kept in immediate contact with the lips and the hearts of the people, is as readily 'understanded of the general' to-day as when it was first sung. It has been noted, for instance, that our ballads preserve fewer reminiscences of the time when alliteration shared importance with rhyme or took its place in the metrical system. The bulk of them are supposed to come hither from the early sixteenth century, from the reigns of James IV. and James V.; and in that period of Scottish literature alliteration not only blossomed but often overran and smothered the court poetry of the day. Alliterative lines and verses appear frequently in the ballads, but always with good taste, often with exquisite effect. What phrases are more familiar, more infused with the magic of the ballad-spirit, than the 'wan water,' the 'bent sae brown,' the 'lee licht o' the mune'? When the knight rides forth to see his true love, he mounts on his 'berry brown steed,' and 'fares o'er dale and down,' until he comes to the castle wa', where the lady sits 'sewing her silken seam.' He kisses her 'cheek and chin,' and she 'kilts her green kirtle,' and follows him; but not so fast as to outrun fate. In the oldest set of _The Battle of Otterburn_, alliteration asserts itself: 'The rae full reckless there sche runnes To make the game and glee.' It is but seldom that the balladist avails himself so freely of the 'artful aid' of this device as in _Johnie o' Braidislee_, the vigorous hunting lay that was a favourite with Carlyle's mother: 'Won up, won up, my good grey dogs, Won up and be unboun'; For we maun awa' to Bride's braid wood, To ding the dun deer doun, doun, To ding the dun deer doun.' The words that have had the best chance of coming down to us intact on the stream of ballad-verse, or with only such marks of attrition and wear as might be caused by time and a rough channel, are those to which the popular mind of a later day has been unable to attach any definite meaning; for instance, certain names of places and houses, titles and functions, snatches of refrains, phrases reminiscent of otherwise forgotten primæval or mediæval customs and the like. These remain bedded like fossils in the more recent deposits, and form a curious study, for those who have time to enter into it, in the archæology and palæontology of the ballad. _Childe Rowland_, _Hynde Horn_, _Kempion_, furnish us with words, drawn from the language of Gothic and Norman chivalry, that must have dropped out of the common speech long before the ballads began to be regularly collected and printed. They recall the gentleness and courtesy, as well as the courage, that were supposed to be attributes of the 'most perfect goodly knight'--attributes in which, sooth to say, the typical knight of the Scottish ballad is not always a pattern. _Kempion_--'Kaempe' or Champion Owayne--is supposed to perpetuate the name of 'Owain-ap-Urien, King of Reged,' celebrated by Taliessin and the other early Welsh bards. And this is by no means the only instance in which ballads appear to have distilled the spirit and blended names and stories out of both Celtic and Teutonic legend. Thus _Glasgerion_, which in the best-known Scottish version has become _Glenkindie_, has been translated as _Glas-keraint_--Geraint, the Blue Bard--an Orpheus among the Brythons, whose chief legendary sites, according to Mr. Skene, Professor Rhys, and other authorities, are to be sought in Scotland and its borderlands. The fame of this harper, who, like Glenkindie, could 'wile the fish from the flood,' came down to the times of Chaucer and Gavin Douglas, and was by them passed on; the former mentions him in his _House of Fame_ along with Chiron and Orion, 'And other Harpers many one, With the Briton, Glasgerion.' It is not too much to conjecture that it was remembered also in popular poetry; and these and other classical writers of the Middle Ages, who despised not the common folk and their ways, no doubt drank deeply of knowledge and inspiration from the clear and hidden well of English poetry and romance even then existing in ballad lore. In fact, it seems as probable that the prose and metrical romances of chivalry have been derived from the folk-songs they resemble, as that the ballads have been borrowed from the romances; perhaps both owe their descent to a common and forgotten ancestor. Is it too much to believe that in our older ballads we hear the echoes of the voices--it may be the very words--of the old bards, the harpers and the minstrels, who sang in the ears of princes and people as far back as history can carry us? We know, by experience of other lands and races, from Samoa to Sicily, that are still in their earlier or later ballad-age, that the making of ballads is almost as old as the making of war or of love--that it long precedes letters, to say nothing of the printed page. It comes as natural for men to sing of the pangs of passion, or of the joys of victory, as to kiss or to fight. For untold generations the harps twanged in the hall, and the song of battle and the song of sorrow found eager listeners. All the while, the same tales, though perhaps in ruder and simpler guise, met with as warm a welcome in road and field and at country merrymaking. Trouvere and wandering minstrel, gleeman and eke gleemaiden, passed from place to place and from land to land repeating, altering, adapting the old stock of heroic or lovelorn ditties, or inventing new ones. They were a law unto themselves in other matters than metres; and had their own guilds, their own courts, and their own kings. The names of all but a few that chance, more than anything else, has preserved, have perished. But time may have been more tender than we know to their thoughts and words, or to their words and music, where these have been fitly wedded together. It may have saved for us some thrilling image as old as the time of the scalds, some scrap of melody which Ossian or Llywarch Hen but improved and handed on. The law of the conservation of force holds good in the world of poetry as well as in the physical world; and all that is dispersed and forgotten in ancient song is not lost. It is fused into the general stock of the nation's ideas and memories; and the richest and purest relics of it are perhaps to be sought in the Scottish ballads. The chroniclers who set down, often at inordinate and wearisome length, what was said and done in court or council or monastery did not wholly overlook the 'gospel of green fields' sung by the contemporary minstrels. But their notices are provokingly vague and unsatisfactory; no happy thought ever seems to have occurred to any monkish penman that he might earn more gratitude from posterity by collecting ballad verses than by copying the Legends of the Saints--so little can we guess what will be deemed of value by future ages. But in Scotland, as elsewhere, we have reason to believe that every event that deeply moved the popular mind gave rise to its crop of ballads, either freshly invented or worked up out of the old ballad stock. So sharply were incidents connected with the departure of a Scottish Princess, daughter of King Alexander III., to be the bride of Eric of Norway, imprinted on people's minds that, according to Motherwell's calculation, the ballad of _Sir Patrick Spens_ preserves the very days of the week when the expedition set sail and made the land: 'They hoisted their sails on a Mononday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may, And they have landed in Norawa' Upon a Wodensday.' But this has the fault of proving too much. The last virtue that the ballad can claim is that of accuracy. With every desire to find proof and confirmation in the very calendar of the antiquity of this glorious old rhyme, one is disposed to suspect these dates to be a lucky hit; in fact, no sounder evidence than the correct enumeration of the daughters of George, fourth Earl of Huntly, in the old Aberdeenshire ballad: 'The Lord o' Gordon had three daughters, Elizabeth, Margaret, and Jean,' which has led some Northern commentators to assume that its heroine was that Lady Jane Gordon whom Bothwell wronged and divorced, and who afterwards managed to console herself by marrying an Earl of Sutherland and a Lord Ogilvy of Boyne. The tragedy of the death of 'Alexander our King,' and the unnumbered woes that came in its train, was, as we know, celebrated in rhymes of which some scant salvage has come down to us; and the feats of William Wallace and the victories of the Bruce were rewarded by the maidens singing and the harpers harping in their praise. This we learn from a surer source than the ballads of the Wallace and Bruce Cycle that have been preserved, and that are neither the best of their kind nor of unquestioned authenticity. Blind Harry was himself of the ancient guild of the Minstrels, and gathered his materials at a date when the 'gude Sir William Wallace' was nearer his day than Prince Charlie is to our own. His poem is nothing other than floating ballads and traditional tales strung into epic form after the manner in which Pausanias is supposed to have pieced together the _Iliad_; indeed John Major, who in his childhood was contemporary with the Minstrel, tells us that he wrote down these 'native rhymes' and 'all that passed current among the people in his day,' and afterwards 'used to recite his tales in the households of the nobles, and thereby get the food and clothing that he deserved.' Then nothing could yield more convincing proof of the prevalence and popularity of the ballad in Scotland in the period of Chaucer--and nothing also could be more tantalising to the ballad-hunter--than Barbour's remark in his _Brus_, that it is needless for him to rehearse the tale of Sir John Soulis's victory over the English on the shores of Esk: 'For quha sa likis, thai may heir Yong women, quhen they will play Sing it emang thame ilka day.' The 'young women,' and likewise the old--bless them for it!--have always taken a foremost part in the singing and preservation of our old ballads, and even in the composing of them. Bannockburn set their quick brains working and their tongues wagging tunefully, in praise of their own heroes and in scorn of the English 'loons.' Aytoun quotes from the contemporary _St. Alban's Chronicle_ a stanza of a song, which (says the old writer) 'the maydens in that countree made on Kyng Edward; and in this manere they sang: '"Maydens of Englande, sore may ye morne, For ye have lost your lemans at Bannocksborne, With rombelogh."' Do not these jottings of grave fourteenth century churchmen, bred in the cell but having ears open to the din of the camp and the 'song of the maydens,' recall the exquisite words in _Twelfth Night_, that sum up the ballad at its best? 'It is old and plain: The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love Like the old age.' In the long struggle with our 'auld enemies' of England that followed Bannockburn; in the quarrels between nobles and king; in the feuds of noble with noble and of laird with laird that continued for nearly three hundred years, themes and inspirations for the ballad muse came thick and fast. It was not alone, or chiefly, kingly doings and great national events that awakened the minstrel's voice and strings. Harpers and people had their favourite clans and names--a favour won most readily by those who were free both with purse and with sword. The Gordons of the North; and, in the South, Graemes, Scotts, Armstrongs, Douglases, are among the races that figure most prominently in ballad poetry. The great house of Douglas, in particular, is in the eyes and lips of romance and legend more honoured than the Stewarts themselves. The Douglas is the hero of both the Scottish and English versions of _Chevy Chase_. Hume of Godscroft, in his _History of the House of Angus_, written in 1644, has saved for us several scraps of traditional song celebrating the wrongs or the exploits of the Douglases, some of which must have originated at least as early as the second half of the fourteenth century, and can be identified in ballads that are extant and sung in the present day. One of them, quoted by Scott in his _Minstrelsy_, and times out of number since, unmistakably reveals the singer's sympathies. It is the verse that commemorates the treacherous slaughter of William, sixth Earl of Douglas, and his brother in 1440, by that great enemy of his race, James II., after the fatal 'black bull's head' had been set before them at the banquet to which they had been invited by the king: 'Edinburgh Castle, towne and toure, God grant thou sink for sinne! And that even for the black dinoúr Erl Douglas gat therein.' Another records with glee the Douglas triumph when, in 1528, 'The Earl of Argyle had bound him to ride' into the Merse by the Pass of Pease, but was met and discomfited at 'Edgebucklin Brae.' In another, and much earlier fragment, recording how William Douglas the 'Knight of Liddesdale,' was met and slain by his kinsman, the Earl of Douglas, at the spot now known as Williamshope in Ettrick Forest, after the Countess had written letters to the doomed man 'to dissuade him from that hunting,' we may perhaps discover a germ of _Little Musgrave_, or trace situations and phrases that reappear in _The Douglas Tragedy_, _Gil Morice_, and their variants. In _Johnie Armstrong o' Gilnockie_, _The Border Widow_, and _The Sang of the Outlaw Murray_, also--in which we should perhaps see the reflection, in the popular mind of the day, of the efforts of James IV. and James V. to preserve order on the Borders--it is on the side of the freebooter rather than of the king and the law that our sympathies are enlisted. Indeed your balladist, like Allan Breck Stewart, was never a bigoted partisan of the law. There is ample proof in the writings of Sir David Lyndsay and others that in the first half of the sixteenth century a number of the Scottish ballads that have come down to us were already current and in high favour among the people, although they have not reached us in the shape in which they were then sung or recited. Long before this period, however, and on both sides of the Border, the status of the minstrel or ballad-maker--for in old times the two went together, or rather were blent in one, like the words and music--had suffered sad declension. There was no longer question of royal harpers or troubadours, as Alfred the Great and as Richard the Lion Heart had been in their hour of need; or even of bards and musicians held in high favour and honour by king and court, like Taillefer or Blondel. 'King's Minstrels' there were on both sides of Tweed, as is found from Exchequer and other records. But we suspect that these were players and singers of courtly and artificial lays. True, a poet of such genuine gifts as Dunbar had gone to London as the 'King's singer,' and had recited verses at a Lord Mayor's banquet that had tickled the ears of the worshipful aldermen and livery. But these could hardly have been the natural and spontaneous notes of the Muse of Scottish ballad poetry. The written and printed verse of the period had got overlaid and smothered by the flowers of ornament. As a French student of our literature has said, 'The roses of these poets are splendid, but too full blown; they have expended all their strength, all their beauty, all their fragrance; no store of youth is left in them; they have given it all away.' As has happened repeatedly in our literary history, simplicity in art, as a source both of strength and of beauty, was almost forgotten; or its tradition was only remembered among the humble and nameless balladists. The only ones, says M. Jusserand, who escape the touch of decadence, are 'those unknown singers, chiefly in the region of the Scottish border, who derive their inspiration directly from the people'; who leave books alone and 'remodel ballads that will be remade after them, and come down to us stirring and touching,' like that ride of the Percy and the Douglas which, spite of his classic tastes, stirred the heart of the author of the _Art of Poesy_ 'like the sound of a trumpet.' Thus, like Antæus, poetry sprang up again, fresh and strong, at the touch of its native earth; 'although declining in castles, it still thrilled with youth along the hedges and copses, in the woods and on the moors'; banished from court, it found refuge in the wilderness and sang at poor men's hearths and at rural fairs, where the King himself, if we may believe tradition, went out in romantic quest of it and of adventure, clad as a _gaberlunzie man_. In the _Complaynt of Scotland_, published in 1549, we have an enticing picture of the extent to which ballad lore and ballad music entered into the lives of the country people on the eve of the Reformation troubles. At the gatherings of the shepherds, old tales would be told, with or without stringed accompaniment--of _Gil Quheskher_ and _Sir Walter, the Bauld Leslye_, pieces now probably lost to us irrecoverably; of the familiar _Tayl of Yong Tamlane_; of _Robene Hude_ and _Litel Ihone_, whose fame, like that of the prophecies of Thomas of Ercildoune, had already been firmly established for a couple of centuries; of the _Red Etin_, whose place in folklore is well ascertained; and of the _Tayl of the Thre Vierd Systirs_, in which one can snuff the ingredients of the caldron in _Macbeth_. There were dances, founded on the same themes--_Robin Hood_, _Thom of Lyn_, and _Johnie Ermstrang_; and between whiles the women sang 'sueit melodious sangis of natural music of the antiquite, such as _The Hunting of Cheviot_ and _The Red Harlaw_.' But of all this feast which he spreads in our sight, our author only lets us taste a morsel--a couple of lines taken apparently from a lost ballad on the fate of the Chevalier de la Beauté, rubbed down by the rough Scottish tongue to 'Bawty,' at Billie Mire in 1517. The great religious and social upheaval that had already changed the face of England reached Scotland in a severer form. There was an escape of the _odium theologicum_ which always and everywhere is fatal to the tenderer flowers of poetry and romance. Men's minds were too deeply moved, and their hands too full to look upon ballads otherwise than askance and with disfavour. The Wedderburns and other zealous reformers set themselves to match the traditional and popular airs to 'Gude and Godlie Ballates' of their own invention. The wandering ballad-singer could no longer count on a welcome, either in the castles of the nobles or with the shepherds of the hills. Instead of getting, like Henry the Minstrel, his deserts in 'food and clothing,' these were apt to come to him in the shape of the stocks or the repentance-stool. He had lost caste and character, from causes for which he was not altogether responsible. An ill name had been given to him; and doubtless he often managed to merit it. His type, as it was found on both sides of the Border, is Autolycus, whom Shakespeare must often have met in the flesh about the 'footpath ways,' and at the rustic merrymakings of Warwickshire. Autolycus, too, has known the court, and has found his wares go out of fashion and favour with the great, and has to be content with cozening the ears and pockets of simple country folk. One cannot help liking the rogue, although he is as nimble with his fingers as with his tongue. He has the true balladist's love for freedom and sunshine and the open country. He will not be tied by rule; according to his moral law, 'When we wander here and there We then do go most right.' His memory and his mouth, like his wallet, are full of snatches of ballads; and they cover a multitude of sins. Though no undoubted Scottish specimen was drawn from this pedlar's pack, we know, from the plays of the Elizabethan dramatists and other evidence, that Border minstrelsy had already raised echoes in London town, before King Jamie went thither with Scotland streaming in his train. During the last troublous half century of Scotland's history as an independent kingdom, the raw material of ballads was being manufactured as actively as at any period of her history, especially on the Borders and in the North. It may be called, indeed, the Moss-trooping Age, and the chief members of the Moss-trooping Cycle date from the latter years of the sixteenth century. _The Raid of the Reidswire_ happed in 1575; the expedition of _Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead_ is conjecturally set down for 1582; _The Lads of Wamphray_ commemorates a Dumfriesshire feud of the year 1593; while the more famous incident sung with immortal fire and vigour in _Kinmont Willie_ took place in 1596. To the same period belong the exploits of _Dick of the Cow_ (who had made a name for himself in London while Elizabeth was on the throne), Archie of Ca'field, Hobbie Noble, Dickie of Dryhope, the Laird's Jock, John o' the Side, and other 'rank reivers,' whose title to the gallows is summed up in Sir Richard Maitland of Lethington's terse verse on the Liddesdale thieves; and their match in spulzying and fighting was to be found on the other side of the Esk and the Cheviot. With the Union of the Crowns, Sir Walter Scott half sadly reminds us in _Nigel_, one stream of Scottish romance and song ran dry; the end of the Kingdom became the middle of it; and as his namesake, Scott of Satchells puts it, the noble freebooter was degraded to be a common thief. But even the Reformation and the Union did not wipe out original sin or alter human nature. The kingdoms might have outwardly composed their quarrels; but private feuds remained, and even the Martyrs and the Covenanters had their relapses, and loved and sang and slew under the impulse of earthly passion. _The Dowie Dens o' Yarrow_--perhaps the most moving and most famous of the Scottish ballads--is supposed to have sprung, in its present shape at least, out of a tragic passage that occurred by that stream of sorrow so late as 1616. Away in the North, what we may call the ballad-yielding age, if it came later and had a less brilliant flowering time, endured longer. They had a fighting 'Border' there that lasted until the '45. The Gordons, of their own hand, have furnished a ballad literature as rich, if not quite so choice, as that of the Douglases themselves. _Glenlogie_ and _Geordie_ were of the 'gay Gordons,' and had the 'sprightly turn' that is held to be an inheritance of the race. _Edom o' Gordon_--Adam of Auchindoun--did his ruthless work in 1571. It was in one of their interminable quarrels, begun on the farther side of Spey, that, in the year 1592, the _Bonnie Earl o' Moray_ fell so far away as Donibristle, in Fife. The mystery of the _Burning of Frendraught_ took place in 1630; the tragedy of _Mill o' Tiftie's Annie_--one of the few dramas in which the balladist is content to take his characters from humble life--is dated, from the tombstone in Fyvie churchyard, in the year following, and is placed in Gordon country, and under the shadow of the Setons that became Gordons. _The Bonnie House o' Airlie_ treats of one of the incidents of the Civil War, and, for a wonder, in the true ballad fashion; and it turns, as the balladists are apt to do, a crooked and misliking look on the 'gleyed Argyll'; while that fine Deeside ballad, _The Baron o' Bracklay_, deals with an encounter between Farquharsons and Gordons in the period of the Restoration. After this, however, we hardly meet with a ballad having the antique ring about it, even on the Highland Line. The fine gold had become dim, or mixed with later clay. The mood and condition of the nation had changed. The 'end of the auld sang' of the Scottish Parliament was the end also of the ballad. There was an outburst of national feeling, expressed in song and music, over the Jacobite risings of last century; Allan Ramsay rose like a star at its beginning, and Burns shone out gloriously towards its close. But the expression was lyrical, and not narrative. The ballad of the old type no longer grew naturally and freshly by edge of copse and shaw. The collector had his eye upon it, and was already collecting, comparing, and classifying--and, what was worse, correcting, restoring, and improving. CHAPTER III BALLAD STRUCTURE AND BALLAD STYLE 'Strike on, strike on, Glenkindie, O' thy harping do not blinne, For every stroke goes o'er thy harp, It stounds my heart within.' _Glenkindie._ The old ballads were made to be sung; or, at least, to be chanted. An inquiry whether the traditional ballad airs preceded the words, or _vice versâ_, would probably lead us to no more certain conclusions than that of whether the egg came before the fowl or the fowl before the egg. Both ballads and ballad airs have come down to us greatly changed and corrupted; and probably it is the airs that have suffered most from neglect and from alteration. Notation of the simple and plaintive and sweet old melodies appropriated in the ears and lips of the people to the words of particular ballads came long after the transcribing of the words themselves. There are other elements of perplexity and difficulty in ballad music which require an expert to unravel and explain, and which cannot be entered into here. The subject is referred to only because, in the eyes of the original composers and singers at least, to dissever the words from the tune would have seemed like parting soul from body; and because no right notion can be gathered of the Scottish ballads without bearing in mind the part which the ancient airs have taken in framing their structure and in moulding their style. Like the ballads themselves, the 'sets' of ballad airs vary with the localities; and even in the same district different airs will be found sung to the same words and different words to the same air. But of many of the older ballads, at least, it may be affirmed that, from time immemorial, they have been preserved in a certain musical setting which has not altered more in transmission from place to place and from generation to generation than have the ballads themselves, and which has so wrought itself into the texture and essence of the tale that it is impossible to think of them apart. The analogy of the Scottish psalmody may, perhaps, be used in illustration. In it, also, there is a 'common measure' that can be fitted at will to the common metre--in the psalms, as in the ballads, the alternation of lines of four and three accented syllables. In the one case, as in the other, there is a certain family resemblance, in the melody as in the theme, that to the untrained and unaccustomed ear may convey an impression of monotony. But to each ballad, as to each psalm, there belongs a peculiar strain or lilt, touched, as a rule, with a solemn or piercing pathos, often cast in the plaintive minor mode, that alone can bring out the full inner meaning of the words, and that is endeared and hallowed by centuries of association. As easily might we explain why the words and air of the 'Old Hundredth' or the 'Old 124th' belong to each other, as analyse the wedded harmony of the verse and music in _The Broom o' the Cowdenknowes_, or _Barbara Allan_, or _The Bonnie House o' Airlie_. But not all, and not all the sweetest and the best of our ballad strains, are so firmly fixed in the memory as these; because, for one thing, they have not all enjoyed the same popularity of print. As a rule, and until this popularity comes, it may be taken that the greater the variations in tune and in words the greater the age. The late Dean Christie, of Fochabers, an enthusiastic hunter after 'Traditional Ballad Airs,' of which he found great treasure-trove in out-of-the-way nooks of Buchan, Enzie, and other districts of the north-eastern counties, tells us, from his experience, that 'the differences in the versions of the Romantic Ballads, as sung in the different counties, may be taken as a proof of their antiquity.' He had 'seldom heard two ballad-singers sing a ballad in the same way, either in words or music'; and he holds it 'almost impossible to find the true set of any traditional air, unless the set can be traced genuinely to its composer,' a task, it need hardly be said, still more difficult than that of tracing the ballad words to the original balladist. It is also the opinion of this authority, that it is well-nigh impossible 'to arrange the traditional melodies without hearing them sung to the words of the ballad, the words and the air being so interwoven.' May it not be said, with equal truth, that those who know only the words of _Binnorie_, or _Chil' Ether_, or _The Twa Corbies_, and have never heard the strains, sweet and sad and weird, like the wind crooning at night round a ruined tower, to which it has been sung for untold generations, have not yet penetrated to the inmost soul of the ballad, or got a grasp of its formative principle? The refrain is a venerable and characteristic feature of the ballad and ballad melody. In its refrains, as in everything else, Scottish ballad poetry has been peculiarly happy. Some will have it that they are of much older date than the ballads themselves. It has been suggested that many of them--and these the refrains that have lost, if they ever possessed, any definite or intelligible meaning to the ear--may be relics not merely of ancient song, but of ancient rites and incantations, and of a forgotten speech. Attempts have been made to interpret, for instance, the familiar 'Down, down, derry down,' as a Celtic invocation to assemble at the hill of sacrifice--a survival of pagan times when the altars smoked with human victims. It need only be said that these ingenious theorists have not yet proved their case; and that the origin of the refrain is a subject involved in still greater obscurity than that of the ballad itself. Like the ballad verses and the ballad airs, also, these 'owerwords' are exceedingly variable, and are often interchangeable. Some of them are 'owerwords' literally; that is to say, they simply repeat or echo a word or phrase of the stanza to which they are attached. A specimen is the verse from _Johnie o' Braidislee_, quoted in the previous chapter. Others, and these, as has been said, among the refrains of most ancient and honourable lineage, bear the appearance of words whose meaning has been forgotten. 'With rombelogh' has come rumbling down to us from the days of Bannockburn; and may even then have been of such eld that the key to its interpretation had already been lost. The 'Hey, nien-nanny' of the Scottish ballad was, under slightly different forms, old and quaint in Shakespeare's time, and in Chaucer's. Still others have the effect upon us of the rhyming prattle invented by children at play. They are cries, naïve or wild, from the age of innocence--cries extracted from the children of nature by the beauty of the world or the sharp and relentless stroke of fate. Of such are 'The broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom,' 'Hey wi' the rose and the lindie o',' 'Blaw, blaw, ye cauld winds blaw,' and their congeners. These sweet and idyllic notes are often interposed in some of the very grimmest of our ballads. They suggest a harping interlude between lines that, without this relief, would be weighted with an intolerable load of horror or sorrow. There are refrain lines--'Bonnie St. Johnston stands fair upon Tay' is an example--which seem to hint that they may have been borrowed from some old ballad that, except for this preluding or interjected note, has utterly 'sunk dumb.' But more noticeable are those haunting burdens which, in certain moods, seem somehow to have absorbed more of the story than the ballad lines they accompany--that appeal to an inner sense with a directness and poignancy beyond the power of words to which we attach a coherent meaning. How deeply the sense of dread, of approaching tragedy, as well as that of colour and locality, is stimulated by the iteration of the drear owerword, 'All alone and alonie,' or 'Binnórie, O Binnórie!' How the horror of a monstrous crime creeps nearer with each repetition of the cry, 'Mither, Mither!' in the wild dialogue between mother and son in _Edward_! Like Glenkindie's harping, every stroke 'stounds the heart within'--we scarce can tell how or why. Like the early Christians, the old balladists seem to have believed in community of goods. They had a kind of joint-stock of ideas, epithets, images; and freely borrowed and exchanged among themselves not merely refrains and single lines, but whole verses, passages, and situations. Always frugal in the employment of ornament in his text, the balladist never troubled to invent when he found a descriptive phrase or figure made and lying ready to his hand. Plagiarism from his brother bards was a thing that troubled him no more than repeating himself. He lived and sang in times before the literary conscience had been awakened or the literary canon had been laid down--or at least in places and among company where the fear of these, and of the critic, had never penetrated; and he borrowed, copied, adapted, without any sense of shame or remorse, because without any sense of sin. He has his conventional manner of opening, and his established formula for closing his tale. In portraiture, in scenery, in costume, he is simplicity itself. The heroine of the ballad, and, for that matter, the hero also, as a rule, must have 'yellow hair.' If she is not a Lady Maisry, it is a wonder if she be not a May Margaret or a Fair Annie, although there is also a goodly sprinkling of Janets, and Helens, and Marjories, and Barbaras in the enchanted land of ballad poetry. Sweet William has always been the favourite choice of the balladist, among the Christian names of the knightly wooers. Destiny presides over their first meeting. The king's daughters 'Cast kevils them amang, To see who will to greenwood gang'; and the lot falls upon the youngest and fairest--the youngest is always the fairest and most beloved in the ballad. The note of a bugle horn, and the pair see each other, and are made blessed and undone. Like Celia and Oliver in the Forest of Arden they no sooner look than they sigh; they no sooner sigh than they ask the reason; and as soon as they know the reason they apply the remedy. Or, mounted on 'high horseback,' the lover comes suddenly upon the lady among her sisters or her bower-maidens 'playin' at the ba'.' 'There were three ladies played at the ba', Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O! There cam' a knight and played o'er them a', Where the primrose blooms so sweetly. The knight he looted to a' the three, Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O! But to the youngest he bowed the knee Where the primrose blooms so sweetly.' He sends messages that reach his true love's ear, through the guard of 'bauld barons' and 'proud porters,' by his little footpage, who, 'When he came to broken brig, He bent his bow and swam, And when he came to grass growin', Set down his feet and ran. And when he came to the porter's yett, Stayed neither to chap or ca', But set his bent bow to his breast, And lightly lap the wa'.' Or the knight comes himself to the bower door at witching and untimely hours--at 'the to-fa' o' the nicht,' or at the crowing of the 'red red cock'--and 'tirles at the pin.' But always treachery, in the shape of envious step-dame, angry brother, or false squire, is watching and listening. Six perils may go past, but the seventh is sure to strike its mark. Even should the course of true love run smoothly almost to the church door, something is sure to happen. Love is hot and swift as flame in the ballads, although it does not waste itself in honeyed phrases. It is quick to take offence; and at a hasty word the lovers start apart, 'Lord Thomas spoke a word in jest, Fair Annet took it ill.' But more often the bolt comes out of the blue from another and jealous hand. The bride sets out richly apparelled and caparisoned to the tryst with the bridegroom. Her girdle is of gold and her skirts of the cramoisie. Four-and-twenty comely knights ride at her side, and four-and-twenty fair maidens in her train. The very hoofs of her steed are 'shod in front with the yellow gold and wi' siller shod behind.' To every teat of his mane is hung a silver bell, and, 'At every tift o' the norland win' They tinkle ane by ane.' If the voyage is by sea, 'The masts are a' o' the beaten gold And the sails o' the taffetie.' The old minstrel loved to linger over and repeat these details, and his audience, we may feel sure, never tired of hearing them. But they knew that calamity was coming, and would overtake bride and groom before they had gone, by sea or land, 'A league, a league, A league, but barely three.' It might be in the shape of storm or flood. One ballad opens: 'Annan Water 's runnin' deep, And my love Annie 's wondrous bonnie,' and afar off we see what is going to happen. But greater danger than from salt sea wave or 'frush saugh bush' is to be apprehended from the poisoned cup of the slighted rival or the dagger of the jealous brother. The knight had perhaps forgotten when he came courting his love to 'spier at her brither John'; and when she stoops from horseback to kiss this sinister kinsman at parting, he thrusts his sword into her heart. The rosy face of the bride is wan, and her white bodice is full of blood when the gay bridegroom greets her, and he is left 'tearing his yellow hair.' More often, death itself does not sunder these lovers dear: 'Lady Margaret was dead lang e'er midnicht, And Lord William lang e'er day.' And when they are buried, there springs up from their graves, as has happened in all the ballad lore and _märchen_ of all the Aryan nations: 'Out of the one a bonnie rose bush, And out o' the other a brier,' that 'met and pleat' in a true lovers' knot in emblem of the immortality of love, as love was in the olden time. These are all hackneyed phrases and incidents of the old balladists, the merest counters, borrowed, worn, and passed on through bards innumerable. But what fire and colour, what strength and pathos, continue to live in them! They smell of 'Flora and the fresh-delved earth'; they are redolent of the spring-time of human passion and thought. For the most part they belong to all ballad poetry, and not to the Scottish ballads alone. But there are other touches that seem to be peculiar to the genius of our own land and our own ballad literature; and, as has been said, one can with no great difficulty note the characteristic marks of the song of a particular district and even of an individual singer. The romantic ballads of the North, for example, although in no way behind those of the Border in strength and in tenderness, are commonly of rougher texture. They lack often the grace which, in the versions sung in the South, the minstrel knew how to combine with the manly vigour of his song; they are content with assonance where the other must have rhyme; and in many long and popular ballads, such as _Tiftie's Annie and Geordie_, there is scarcely so much as a good sound rhyme from beginning to end. One sometimes fancies that these Aberdonian ballads bear signs of being 'nirled' and toughened by the stress of the East Wind; they are true products of a keen, sharp climate working upon a deep and rich, but somewhat dour and stiff, historic soil. Whether they come from the north or the south side of Tay, whether they use up the traditional plots and phrases, or strike out an original line in the story and language, our ballads have all this precious quality, that they reflect transparently the manners and morals of their time, and human nature in all times. Their vast superiority, alike in truth and in beauty, over those imitations of them that were put forward last century as improvements upon the rude old lays, may best be seen, perhaps, by laying the old and the new 'set' of _Sir James the Rose_ side by side, or comparing verse by verse David Mallet's much vaunted _William and Margaret_, with the beautiful old ballad, _There came a ghost to Marg'ret's door_. There is indeed no comparison. The changes made are nearly all either tinsel ornaments or mutilations of the traditional text, which an eighteenth century poetaster had sought to dress up to please the modish taste of the period. Nothing can be more out of key with the simple, direct, and graphic style of the Scottish ballads, dealing with elemental emotions and the situations arising therefrom, than a style founded on that of Pope, unless it be the style of the modern poet and romancist of the analytical and introspective school. If there ever be matter of offence in the traditional ballad, it resides in the theme and not in the handling and language. Whatever be its faults, it never has the taint of the vulgar; it avoids the suggestive with the same instinct with which it avoids the vapid adjective; it is the antithesis of the modern music-hall ditty. The balladist and his men and women speak straight to the point, and call a spade a spade. 'Ye lee, ye lee, ye leear loud, Sae loud 's I hear ye lee,' and 'O wae betide you, ill woman, And an ill death may ye dee,' are among the familiar courtesies of colloquy. In the telling of his tale, the minstrel puts off no time in preluding or introductory passages. In a single verse or couplet he has dashed into the middle of his theme, and his characters are already in dramatic parley, exchanging words like sword-thrusts. Take the opening of the immortal _Dowie Dens of Yarrow_, where the place, time, circumstances, and actors in the fatal quarrel are put swiftly before us in four lines: 'Late at e'en, drinking the wine, And e'er they paid the lawin', They set a combat them between, To fight it e'er the dawin'.' Or still better example, the not less famous: 'The king sits in Dunfermline tower, Drinking the blood-red wine. Oh, where shall I find a skeely skipper To sail this ship o' mine.' Or of _Sir James the Rose_: 'O, hae ye nae heard o' Sir James the Rose, The young laird o' Balleichan, How he has slain a gallant squire Whose friends are out to take him!' Or in yet briefer space the whole materials of tragedy are given to us, as in that widely-known and multiform legend of the _Twa Sisters_ which Tennyson took as the basis of his _We were two daughters of one race_: 'He courted the eldest wi' glove and wi' ring, Binnorie, O Binnorie! But he loved the youngest aboon a' thing, By the bonnie mill dams o' Binnorie.' Sometimes a brilliant or glowing picture is called up before our eyes by a stroke or two; as-- 'The boy stared wild like a grey goshawk,' or 'The mantle that fair Annie wore It skinkled in the sun'; or 'And in at her bower window The moon shone like a gleed'; or 'O'er his white banes when they are bare The wind shall sigh for evermair.' Or, to rise to the height of pity, despair, and terror to which the ballad strains of Scotland have reached, what master of modern realism has surpassed in trenchant and uncompromising power the passages in _Clerk Saunders_?-- 'Then he drew forth his bright long brand, And slait it on the strae, And through Clerk Saunders' body He 's gart cauld iron gae'; and, 'She looked between her and the wa', And dull and drumly were his een.' Has it ever happened, since the harp of Orpheus drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, that ruth has taken so grim a form as that of _Edom o' Gordon_, as he turned over with his spear the body of his victim? 'O gin her breast was white; "I might have spared that bonnie face To be some man's delight."' Is there in the many pages of romance a climax so surprising, so overwhelming--a revelation that in its succinct and despairing candour goes so straight to the quick of human feeling--as that in the ballad of _Gil Morice_?-- '"I ance was as fu' o' Gil Morice As the hip is wi' the stane."' To the fountainhead of our ballad-lore the great poets and romancists, from Chaucer to Shakespeare, and from Shakespeare to Wordsworth and Swinburne, and from Gavin Douglas to Burns and Scott and Stevenson, have gone for refreshment and new inspiration, when the world was weary and tame and sunk in the thraldom of the vulgar, the formal, and the commonplace; and never without receiving their rich reward and testifying their gratitude by fresh gifts of song and story, fresh harpings on the old lyre that moved the hearts of men to tears and laughter long before they knew of printed books. The old wellspring of music and poetry is still open to all, and has lost none of the old power of thrilling and enthralling; and the present is a time when a long and deep draught from the Scottish ballads seems specially required for the healing of a sick literature. CHAPTER IV THE MYTHOLOGICAL BALLAD 'Oh see ye not that bonnie road That winds about yon fernie brae? Oh that 's the road to fair Elfland Where you and I this day maun gae.' _Thomas the Rhymer._ No scheme of ballad classification can be at all points complete and satisfactory. We have seen that it is impossible to classify the Scottish ballads according to authorship, since authors, known and proved, there are none. Scarce more practicable is it to arrange them in any regular order of chronology or locality; and even when we seek to group them with regard to type and subject, difficulties start up at every step. A convenient and intelligible division would seem to be one that recognised the ballads as Mythological, Romantic, or Historical, this last class including the lays of the foray and the chase, that cannot be assigned to any particular date--that cannot, indeed, be proved to have any historical basis at all--but can yet, with more or less of probability, be assigned to some historical or _quasi_-historical character. Besides these, there are groups of ballads that cannot be wholly overlooked--ballads in which, contrary to the prevailing spirit of this kind of poetry, Humour asserts itself as an essential element; ballads of the Sea; and Peasant ballads, of which, perhaps, England yields happier examples than Scotland--simple rustic ditties, hawked about in broad-sheets, and dating, many of them, no earlier than the present century, that seldom rise much above the doggerel and commonplace, and do not, as a rule, concern themselves with the high personages and high-strung passions of the ballad of Old Romance. No well-defined frontier can be laid down between the three chief departments of ballad minstrelsy. The pieces in which fairy-lore and ancient superstition have a prominent place--the ballads of Myth and Marvel--have all of them a strong romantic colouring; and the like may be said of the traditional songs of war and of raiding and hunting, as well as of those whose theme is the passion and tragedy of love. Romance, indeed, is the animating soul of the body of Scottish ballad poetry; the note that gives it unity and distinguishes it from mere versified history and folklore. There are few ballads on which some shadow out of the World Invisible is not cast; few where ill-happed love is not a master-string of the minstrel's harp; few into which there does not come strife and the flash of cold steel. Natheless, a broad division into ballads Supernatural, Romantic, and Martial has reason as well as convenience to recommend it; and in a loose and general way such an arrangement should also indicate the comparative age, not indeed of the ballad versions as we know them, but of the ideas and materials of which they are composed. First, then, of the ballads that are steeped in the element of the supernatural, let it be remembered that it is well-nigh impossible for us in these days, when we have cleared about us a little island of light in the darkness, to understand the atmosphere of mystery that pressed close around the life of man in the age when the ballad had its birth. The Unknown and the Unseen surrounded him on every side. He could scarcely put forth a hand without touching things that were not of this world; and in proportion to the ignorance was the fear. Through the long twilight in which the primæval beliefs and superstitions grew up and became embodied in legend and custom, in _märchen_ and ballad, and all through the Middle Ages, man's pilgrimage on earth was indeed through a Valley of the Shadow. It was a narrow way, between 'the Ditch and the Quag, and past the very mouth of the Pit,' full of frightful sights and dreadful noises, of hobgoblins, and dragons, and chimeras dire. Tales that have ceased to frighten the nursery, that we listen to with a smile or at most with a pleasant stirring of the blood and titillation of the nerves, once on a time were the terror of grown men. The ogres and dragons of old are dead, and the Folklorist and the Comparative Mythologist make free of their caves, and are busy setting up, comparing, classifying, and labelling their skeletons for the instruction of an age of science. But there was a time when the wisest believed in their existence as an article of faith, and when the boldest shuddered to hear them named. What are now idle fancies were once the most portentous of realities; and in this lies the secret of the almost universal diffusion of certain typical tales, beliefs, and observances, and of the fascination which they have not ceased to exercise over the imagination of mankind. Into the subject of the origins, the relationships, and the signification of these venerable traditions and superstitions of the race and of all races, there is neither time nor occasion for entering. This oldest and yet last found of the realms of science is as yet only in course of being surveyed, and from day to day fresh discoveries are announced by the eager explorers of the darkling provinces of myth and folktale. But this at least may be said, that not in the wide domain of popular saga and poetry can there be reaped a richer or more varied harvest of weird and wild and beautiful fancies, touched by the light that 'never was on sea or land,' than is to be found in the Scottish ballads. From among them one could gather out a whole menagerie of the 'selcouth' beasts and birds and creeping things that have been banished from solid earth into the limbo of Faëry and Romance. They furnish examples of nearly all the root-ideas and typical tales which folklorists have discovered in the vast jungle of popular legends and superstitions--the Supernatural Birth, the Life and Faith Tokens, the Dragon Slayer, the Mermaid and the Despised Sister, Bluebeard of the Many Wives, the Well of Healing, the Magic Mirror, the Enchanted Horn, the Singing Bone, the Babes in the Wood, the Blabbing Popinjay, the Counterpart, the Transformation, the Spell, the Prophecy, the Riddle, the Return from the Grave, the Dead Ride, the Demon Lover, the Captivity in Faëryland, the Seven Years' Kain to Hell, and a host of others. Certain of them, like _Thomas the Rhymer_ and _Young Tamlane_, are 'fulfilléd all of Faëry.' One can read in them how deeply the old superstition, which some would attribute to a traditional memory of the pre-Aryan inhabitants of Western Europe--to the 'barrow-wights,' pigmies, or Pechts who dwelt in or were driven for shelter to caves and other underground dwellings of the land--had struck its roots in the popular fancy. Probably Mr. Andrew Lang carries us as far as we can go at present in the search for origins and affinities, when he says that the belief in fairies, and in their relatives, the gnomes and brownies, is 'a complex matter, from which tradition, with its memory of earth-dwellers, is not wholly absent, while more is due to a survival of the pre-Christian Hades, and to the belief in local spirits--the Vius of Melanesia, the Nereids of ancient and modern Greece, the Lares of Rome, the fateful Mæræ and Hathors--old imaginings of a world not yet dispeopled of its dreams.' The elfin-folk of the Scottish ballads have some few traits that are local and national; but, on the whole, they conform pretty closely to a type that has now become well marked in the literature as well as in the popular beliefs of European countries. The fairies have been, among the orders of supernatural beings, the pets and favourites of the poets, who have heaped their flowers of fancy above the graves of the departed Little Folk. We suspect that the more graceful and gracious touches in the Fairy Ballad are the renovating work of later hands than the elder balladist; and in the two typical Scottish examples that have been mentioned, it is not difficult to find the mark of Sir Walter. In the time when fairies still tripped the moonlit sward, they received praise and compliment indeed from the mouths of their human kin, but it was more out of fear than out of love. They were the 'Men of Peace' and the 'Good Neighbours' for a reason not much different from that which caused the Devil's share in the churchyard to be known as the 'Guid Man's Croft,' lest by speaking more frankly of those having power, evil might befall. The tenancy of brake and woodland in the 'witching hours' by this uncanny people was a formidable addition to the terrors of the night: 'Up the craggy mountain And down the rushy glen, We dare not go a-hunting For fear of Little Men. Wee folk, good folk, Trooping altogether, Green jerkin, red cap, And white owl's feather.' They were tricksy, capricious, peevish, easily offended, malicious if not wholly malevolent, and dangerous alike to trust and to thwart. All this, together with their habit of trooping in procession and dancing under the moon; their practice of snatching away to their underground abodes those who, by kiss or other spell, fall into their hands; and the penance or sacrifice which at every seven years' term they pay to powers still more dread, comes out in the tale of True Thomas's adventure with the Queen of Faëry, and in Fair Janet's ordeal to win back Young Tamlane to earth. Their prodigious strength, so strangely disproportioned to their size, is celebrated in the quaint lines of _The Wee Wee Man_; while from _The Elfin Knight_ we learn that woman's wit as well as woman's faith can, on occasion, prove a match for all the spells and riddles of fairyland. The enchanted horn is heard blowing-- 'A knight stands on yon high, high hill, Blaw, blaw, ye cauld winds blaw! He blaws a blast baith loud and shrill, The cauld wind 's blawn my plaid awa,' and, at the spoken wish, the Elfin Knight is at the maiden's side. But the spell the tongue has woven, the tongue can unloose; and the lady brings her unearthly lover first into captivity by setting him a preliminary task to perform, more baffling than that 'sewing a sark without a seam.' It is otherwise with True Thomas, as it was with Merlin before him, and with all the men, wise and foolish, who have once yielded to the glamourie of the Elfin Queen and others of her type and sex. The Rhymer of Ercildoune was probably only a man more learned and far-seeing than others of his time. His reputation for Second Sight may rest upon a basis similar to that which led the mediæval mind to dub Virgil a magician, and to recognise the wizard in Sir Michael Scott, the grave ambassador and counsellor of kings, and, at a later date, enabled the profane vulgar to discover a baronet of Gordonstoun to be a warlock, for no better reason than because, with the encouragement of that most indefatigable of ballad collectors, Samuel Pepys, he gave his attention to the perfecting of sea-pumps for the royal navy. Whether the Rhymer's expedition to Fairyland was feigned by the balladist to explain his soothsaying; or whether, rather, his prophecies were invented as evidence of the perilous gift he brought back with him from Elfland, research will never be able to tell us. But the journey True Thomas made on the fateful day when, lying on Huntlie bank, 'A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e; And there he saw a ladye bright Come riding down by the Eildon Tree,' was one that many heroes of adventure, before him and after him, have made in fairy lands forlorn. The scenery and incidents of that strange ride are also among the common possessions of fairy romance. One dimly discerns in them the glimmer of an ancient allegory, of an old cosmogony, that may possibly be derived from the very infancy of the world, when human thought began to brood over the mysteries of life and time. There are the Broad Path of Wickedness and the Narrow Way of Right, and between them that 'bonnie road' of Fantasy, winding and fern-sown, that leads to 'fair Elfland.' There is a glimpse of the Garden of the Hesperides and its fruits; and a lurid peep into Hades: 'It was mirk, mirk nicht and nae starlicht, And they waded through red bluid to the knee; For a' the bluid that 's shed on earth Rins through the springs o' that countrie.' The Palace of Truth as well as of Error is built on fairy ground; and there is a foretaste of Gilbertian humour in the dismay with which the Rhymer hears that he is to be endowed with 'the tongue that can never lie.' '"My tongue is mine ain," True Thomas said; "A goodlie gift you would give me; I neither dought to buy or sell At fair or tryst where I may be; I dought neither speak to prince or peer Nor ask of grace from fair ladye."' But from his seven years' wanderings in fairyland, that speed like a day upon earth, he wakens up as from a dream, and again he is laid on Huntlie bank, in sight of the cleft Eildon. Is it not significant that Melrose and Abbotsford, where a later and greater wizard wrought his spells over the valley of the Tweed and Ettrick Forest, should be half-way between the chief scenes of our Fairy Ballads--between the Rhymer's Tower and Carterhaugh? Fair Janet's conduct, when forbidden to come or go by Carterhaugh, where Yarrow holds tryst with Ettrick, lest she might encounter the Young Tamlane, may be traced back to the Garden of Eden, and is of a piece with that of Mother Eve: 'Janet has kilted her green kirtle A little abune her knee; And she has braided her yellow hair A little abune her bree; And she 's awa' to Carterhaugh As fast as she could gae.' There she falls in with the 'elfin grey' who might have been an 'earthly knight'; and he tells her how, as a youth, he had been reft away to fairyland: 'There cam' a wind out o' the north, A sharp wind and a snell; A deep sleep cam' over me And from my horse I fell'; as happened to 'Held Harald' and his men in the German legend. But he also tells her how, by waiting at the cross road at midnight on Halloweve, 'when fairy folk do ride,' she may win back the father of her child to mortal shape. That waiting on the dreary heath while 'a north wind tore the bent,' and what followed, become the ordeal of Janet's love: 'Aboot the dead hour o' the night She heard the bridles ring; And Janet was as glad o' that As any earthly thing. And first gaed by the black, black steed, And then gaed by the brown, But fast she gripped the milk-white steed And pu'ed the rider down'; and holding her lover fast, through all his gruesome changes of form, she 'borrowed' him from the 'seely court,' and saved him from becoming the tribute paid every seven years to the powers that held fairydom in vassalage. Another series of transmutations, familiar in ballad and folklore, is that in which the powers of White and Black Magic strive for the mastery, generally to the discomfiture of the latter, after the manner of the Hunting of Paupukewis in _Hiawatha_. The baffled magician or witch--often the mother-in-law or stepmother, the stock villain of the piece in these old tales--alters her shape rapidly to living creature or inanimate thing; but fast as she changes the avenger also changes, pursues, and at length destroys. In the ballad of _The Twa Magicians_, given in Buchan's collection, it is virtue that flees, and wrong, in the shape of a Smith, of Weyland's mystic kin, that follows and overcomes. But, as a rule, the transformations that are made the subject of the Scottish ballads are of a more lasting kind; the prince or princess, tempted by a kiss, or at the touch of enchanted wand or ring, is doomed for a time to crawl in the loathly shape of snake or dragon about a tree, or swim the waters as mermaid or other monstrous brood of the seas of romance, until the appointed time when the deliverer comes, and by like magic art, or by the pure force of courage and love, looses the spell. _Kempion_ is a type of a class of story that runs, in many variations, through the romances of chivalry, and from these may have been passed down to the ballad-singer, although ruder forms of it are common to nearly all folk-mythology. The hero is one of those kings' sons, who, along with kings' daughters, people the literature of ballad and _märchen_; and he has heard of the 'heavy weird' that has been laid upon a lady to haunt the flood around the Estmere Crags as a 'fiery beast.' He is dared to lean over the cliff and kiss this hideous creature; and at the third kiss she turns into 'The loveliest ladye e'er could be.' The rescuer asks-- 'O, was it wehrwolf in the wood, Or was it mermaid in the sea? Or was it man, or vile womán, My ain true love, that misshapéd thee?' Nor do we wonder to hear that it was the doing of the wicked and envious stepmother, on whom there straight falls a worse and a well-deserved weird. In _King Henrie_, too, it is the stepdame that has wrought the mischief. He is lying 'burd alane' in his hunting hall in the forest, when his grey dogs cringe and whine; the door is burst in, and 'A grisly ghost Stands stamping on the floor.' The manners of this _Poltergeist_ are in keeping with her rough entrance on the scene; her ogreish appetite is not satisfied even when she had devoured his hounds, his hawks, and his steed. As in the _Wife of Bath's Tale_, and the _Marriage of Sir Gawain_ and other legends of the same type, the knight's courtesy withstands every test, and he is rewarded for having given the lady her will: 'When day was come and night was gane And the sun shone through the ha', The fairest ladye that e'er was seen Lay between him and the wa'.' In most cases it is not wise or safe to give entertainment to these wanderers of the night, whether they come in fair shape or in foul. They are apt to prove to be of the race of the _succubi_, from whom a kiss means death or worse. More than one of our Scottish ballads are reminiscent of the beautiful old Breton lay, _The Lord Nann_, so admirably translated by Tom Taylor, wherein the young husband, stricken to the heart by the baleful kiss given to him against his will by a wood-nymph, goes home to die, and his fair young wife follows him fast to the grave. _Alison Gross_ is another of those Circes who, by incantation of horn and wand, seek to lower the shape and nature of her lovers to those of the beasts that crawl on their bellies. Sometimes the tempter is of the other sex. Thus _The Demon Lover_ is a tale known in several versions in Scotland, and lately brought under notice by Mr. Hall Caine in its Manx form. The frail lady is enticed from her home, and induced to put foot on board the mysterious ship by an appeal, a pathetic echo of which has lingered on in later poetry, and has been quoted as the very dirge of the Lost Cause: 'He turned him right and round about, And the tear blindit his e'e; "I would never have trodden on Irish ground If it hadna been for thee."' They have not sailed far, when his countenance changes, and he grows to a monstrous stature; the foul fiend is revealed. They are bound on a drearier voyage than that of True Thomas--to a Hades of ice and isolation that bespeaks the northern origin of the tale: '"O whaten a mountain 's yon," she said, "So dreary wi' frost and snow?" "O yon 's the mountain of hell," he cried, "Where you and I must go." He strack the tapmast wi' his hand, The foremast wi' his knee; And he brake the gallant ship in twain And sank her in the sea.' Other spells and charms not a few, for the winning of love and the slaking of revenge, are known to the old balladists. We hear of the compelling or sundering power of the bright red gold and the cold steel. Lovers at parting exchange rings, as in _Hynd Horn_, gifted with the property of revealing death or faithlessness: 'When your ring turns pale and wan, Then I 'm in love wi' another man.' Or, as in _Rose the Red and Lily Flower_, it is a magic horn, to be blown when in danger, and whose notes can be heard at any distance. These are examples of the 'Life Token' and the 'Faith Token,' known to the folklore of nearly all peoples who have preserved fragments of their primitive beliefs. The prophetic power of dreams is revealed in _The Drowned Lovers_, in _Child Rowland_, in _Annie of Lochryan_, and in a host of others. The spells used by witchcraft to arrest birth do not differ greatly in _Willie's Lady_--the 'nine witch-knots,' the 'bush of woodbine,' the 'kaims o' care,' and the 'master goat'--from those mentioned in its prototypes in Scandinavian, Greek, and Eastern ballads and stories; and in more than one it is the sage counsels of 'Billy Blin''--the Brownie--that give the cue by which the evil charm is unwound. The Brownie--the Lubber Fiend--owns a department of legend and ballad scarcely less important than that possessed by his relatives, the Elfin folk and the Trolds; a shy and clumsy monster, but harmless and good-natured, and with a turn for hard manual labour that can be turned to useful account. Good and ill fortune, in the ballads, comes often by lot: 'We were sisters, sisters seven, Bowing down, bowing down; The fairest maidens under heaven; And aye the birks a' bowing. And we keest kevils us amang, Bowing down, bowing down; To see who would to greenwood gang, And aye the birks a' bowing.' The birk held a high place in the secret rites and customs of the Ballad Age. It was with 'a wand o' the bonnie birk' that May Margaret went through the mysterious process of restoring her plighted troth to Clerk Saunders; in other ballads it is done by passes of the hand, or of a crystal rod. When the 'Clerk's Twa Sons o' Owsenford' were brought back to earth by their mother's bitter grief and longing, they wore 'hats made o' the birk': 'It neither grew in syke or ditch, Nor yet in ony sheugh; But at the gate of Paradise That birk grew green eneuch.' Birds of the air carry a secret; there are tongues in trees that syllable men's names; and even inanimate things cry aloud with the voice of Remorse or of Doom. When the knight wishes to send a message, he speaks in the ear of his 'gay goshawk that can baith speak and flee.' When May Colvin returns home after the fatal meeting at the well, where her seven predecessors in the love of the 'Fause Sir John' had been drowned, the 'wylie parrot' speaks the words that were no doubt ringing in her brain: 'What hae ye made o' the fause Sir John That ye gaed wi' yestreen?' And in _Earl Richard_ and other ballads, it is the 'popinjay' that proclaims guilt or fear from turret or tree. One remembers also 'Proud Maisie' walking early in the wood, and Sweet Robin piping her doom among the green summer leaves: '"Tell me, my bonnie bird, When shall I marry me?" "When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry thee"'; and the 'Three Corbies' croaking the most grim and dismal notes in all the wide, wild range of ballad poetry, as they feast on the new-slain knight: 'Ye 'll sit on his white hause bane, And I 'll pike oot his bonnie blue een; Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair We 'll theak our nest when it is bare. O mony a ane for him maks mane, But nae ane kens whaur he is gane, O'er his white banes when they are bare The wind shall sigh for evermair.' But things that have neither sense nor life utter aloud words of menace and accusation. Lord Barnard's horn makes the forest echo with the warning notes, 'Away, Musgrave, away!' _Binnorie_ embalms the tradition of the 'singing bone' which pervades the folklore of the Aryan peoples, and is found also in China and among the negro tribes of West Africa. A harper finds the body of the drowned sister, and out of her 'breast-bane' he forms a harp which he strings with her yellow hair. According to a northern version of the ballad, he makes a plectrum from 'a lith of her finger bane.' On this strange instrument the minstrel plays before king and court, and the strings sigh forth: 'Wae to my sister, fair Helén!' In other ballads, the yearning or remorse of the living draw the dead from their graves. In the tale of _The Cruel Mother_, we seem to see the workings of the guilty conscience, which at length 'visualised' the victims of unnatural murder. The bride goes alone to the bonnie greenwood, to bear and to slay her twin children: 'She 's wrapped her mantle about her head, All alone, and alonie O! She 's gone to do a fearful deed Down by the greenwood bonnie O!' The crime and shame are hid; but peace does not come to her: 'The lady looked o'er her high castle wa', All alone and alonie O! She saw twa bonnie bairnies play at the ba' Down by yon greenwood bonnie O! The mother's yearning awakens within her, and she promises them all manner of gifts if they will only be hers. But the voices of the ghost-children rise and pronounce judgment on her: 'O cruel mither, when we were thine, All alone and alonie O! From us ye did our young lives twine, Doon by yon greenwood bonnie O.' Elsewhere in these old rhymes may be traced a superstitious belief, which was put in practice as a means of discovering guilt, at least as late as the middle of the seventeenth century--that of the Ordeal by Touch. In _Young Benjie_ another test is applied to find the murderer; and at midnight the door of the death-chamber is set ajar, so that the wandering spirit may enter and reanimate for an hour the 'streikit corpse': 'About the middle of the night The cocks began to craw; And at the dead hour o' the night, The corpse began to thraw.' It sat up; and with its dead lips told the waiting brethren on whose head justice, tempered with a strange streak of mercy, should fall for the foul slaughter of their 'ae sister': 'Ye maunna Benjie head, brothers, Ye maunna Benjie hang, But ye maun pyke oot his twa grey een Before ye let him gang.' In _Proud Lady Margaret_, again, we have a form of the legend, told in many lands, and made familiar, in a milder form, by the classical German ballad of _The Lady of the Kynast_, of a haughty and cruel dame whose riddles are answered and whose heart is at length won by a stranger knight. She would fain ride home with him, but he answers her that he is her brother Willie, come from the other side of death to 'humble her haughty heart has gart sae mony dee': 'The wee worms are my bedfellows And cauld clay is my sheets'; and there is no room in his narrow house for other company. Out of the Dark Country, too, on a similar errand, on Hallowe'en night, rides the betrayed and slain knight in _Child Rowland_, the first line of which, preserved in _King Lear_ as it was known in Shakespeare's day, seems to strike a keynote of ballad romance: 'Child Rowland to the dark tower came,' mumbles the feigned madman in the ear of the poor wronged king as they tread the waste heath. And the sequel, as it has come down to us, sustains and strengthens the spell of the opening: 'And he tirled at the pin; And wha sae ready as his fause love, To rise and let him in.' The passages that describe the haunted ride in the moonlight, when the lady has fled from the scene of her treachery and guilt, are not surpassed in weird imaginative power, if they are equalled, by anything in ballad or other literature: 'She hadna ridden a mile, a mile, Never a mile but ane, When she was 'ware o' a tall young man Riding slowly o'er the plain. She turned her to the right about, And to the left turned she; But aye 'tween her and the wan moonlight That tall knight did she see.' She set whip and spur to her steed, but 'nae nearer could she get'; she appealed to him, as from a 'saikless,' or guiltless, maid to 'a leal true knight,' to draw his bridle-rein until she can come up with him: 'But nothing did that tall knight say, And nothing did he blin; Still slowly rade he on before, And fast she rade behind,' until he drew rein at a broad river-side. Then he spoke: '"This water it is deep," he said, "As it is wondrous dun; But it is sic as a saikless maid, And a leal true knight can swim."' They plunged in together, and the flood bore them down: '"The water is waxing deeper still, Sae does it wax mair wide; And aye the farther we ride on, Farther off is the other side." · · · · · The knight turned slowly round about All in the middle stream, He stretched out his hand to that lady, And loudly she did scream. "O, this is Hallow-morn," he said, "And it is your bridal day; But sad would be that gay wedding Were bridegroom and bride away. But ride on, ride on, proud Margaret, Till the water comes o'er your bree; For the bride maun ride deep and deeper yet Who rides this ford wi' me."' But the perturbed spirit does not always thus revisit the glimpses of the moon to awaken conscience, to humble pride, or to wreak vengeance. More often it is the repinings and longings of passionate love that keep it from its rest. In _märchen_ and ballad the ghost of the lover comes to complain that the tears which his betrothed sheds nightly fill his shroud with blood; when she smiles, it is filled with rose leaves. The mother steals from the grave to hap and comfort her orphan children; their harsh stepmother neglects and ill-treats them, and their exceeding bitter and desolate cry has penetrated beneath the sod, and reached the dead ear. In _The Clerk's Sons o' Owsenford_, and in that singular fragment of the same creepy theme, recovered by Scott, _The Wife of Usher's Well_, it is the yearning of the living mother that brings the dead sons back to their home: '"Blaw up the fire, my maidens, Bring water from the well! For a' my house shall feast this nicht, Since my three sons are well."' The _revenants_, silent guests with staring eyes, wait and warm themselves by the fireside, while the 'carline wife' ministers to their wants, and spreads her 'gay mantle' over them to keep them from the cold, until their time comes: '"The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin' worm doth chide; Gin we be missed out o' our place A sair pain we must bide." "Lie still, be still a little wee while, Lie still but if we may; Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes, She 'll gae mad, ere it be day." O it 's they 've taen up their mother's mantle, And they 've hung it on a pin; "O lang may ye hing, my mother's mantle, Ere ye hap us again."' A chill air as from the charnel-house seems to breathe upon us while reading the lines; the coldness, the darkness, and the horror of death have never been painted for us with more terrible power than in the 'Wiertz Gallery' of the old balladists. We feel this also in the ballads of the type of _Sweet William and May Margaret_, quoted in Beaumont and Fletcher's _Knight of the Burning Pestle_, where the dead returns to claim back a plighted word; and at the same time we feel the strength of the perfect love that triumphs over death and casts out fear: '"Is there any room at your head, Willie, Or any room at your feet, Or any room at your side, Willie, Wherein that I may creep?"' How miserably the poetical taste of the early part of last century misappreciated the spirit of the ancient ballad, preferring the dross to the fine gold, and tricking out the 'terrific old Scottish tale,' as Sir Walter Scott calls it, in meretricious ornament, may be seen by comparing the original copies with that 'elegant' composition of David Mallet, _William and Margaret_, so praised and popular in its day, in which every change made is a disfigurement of the nature of an outrage. Read the summons of the ghost, still 'naked of ornament and simple': '"O sweet Marg'ret, O dear Marg'ret! I pray thee speak to me; Gie me my faith and troth, Marg'ret, As I gae it to thee,"' along with the 'improved' version: '"Awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls, Come from her midnight grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid Thy love refused to save."' Of a long antiquity most of these Mythological Ballads must be, if not in their actual phraseology, in the dark superstitions they embody and in the pathetic glimpses they afford us of the thoughts and fears and hopes of the men and women of the days of long ago--the days before feudalism; the days, as some inquisitors of the ballad assure us, when religion was a kind of fetichism or ancestor worship, when the laws were the laws of the tribe or family, and when the cannibal feast may have been among the customs of the race. We cannot find a time when this inheritance of legend was not old; when it was not sung, and committed to memory, and handed down to later generations in some rude rhyme. The leading 'types' were in the wallet of Autolycus; and he describes certain of them with a seasoning of his grotesque humour, to his simple country audience. There were the well-attested tale of the _Usurer's Wife_, a ballad sung, as ballads are wont, 'to a very doleful tune'--obviously a form of the Supernatural Birth; and the story, true as it is pitiful, of the fish that turned to woman, and then back again to fish, in which he that runs may read an example from the Mermaid Cycle. They are to be found to-day, often in debased and barely recognisable guise, in the hands of the peripatetic ballad-mongers who still haunt fairs and sing in the streets, and in the memories of multitudes of country folks who know scarce any other literature bearing the magic trademark of Old Romance. CHAPTER V THE ROMANTIC BALLAD 'O they rade on, and farther on, By the lee licht o' the moon, Until they cam' to a wan water, And there they lichted them doon.' _The Douglas Tragedy._ It may look like taking a liberty with the chart of ballad poetry to label as 'romantic' a single province of this kingdom of Old Romance. It is probably not even the most ancient of the provinces of balladry, but it has some claim to be regarded as the central one in fame and in wealth--the one that yields the purest and richest ore of poetry. It is that wherein the passion and frenzy of love is not merely an element or a prominent motive, but is the controlling spirit and the absorbing interest. As has been acknowledged, it is not possible to make any hard and fast division of the Scottish ballads by applying to them this or any other test; and mention has already been made, on account of the mythological or superstitious features they possess, of a number of the choicest of these old lays that turn essentially upon the strength or the weakness, the constancy or the inconstancy, the rapture or the sorrow of earthly love. Love in the ballads is nearly always masterful, imperious, exacting; nearly always its reward is death and dule, and not life and happiness. But as it spurns all obstacles, it meets its fate unflinchingly. No sacrifices are too great, no penance too dire, no shame or sin too black to turn aside for an instant the rush of this impetuous passion, which runs bare-breasted on the drawn sword. It is not to the ballads we must go for example--precept of this or of any kind there is none--in the _bourgeois_ and respectable virtues; of the sober and chastened behaviour that comes of a prudent fear of consequences, of a cold temperament and a calculating spirit. The good or the ill done by the heroes and heroines of the Romantic Ballad is done on the spur of the moment, on the impulse of hot blood. Whether it be sin or sacrifice, the prompting is not that of convention, but of Nature herself. Love and hate, though they may burn and glow like a volcano, are not prodigal of words. It is one of the marks by which we may distinguish the characters in the ballads from those in later and more cultivated fields of literature that, as a rule, they say less rather than more than they mean. They speak daggers; but they are far more apt in using them. At a word or look the lovers are ready to die for each other; but of the language of endearment they are not prodigal; and a phrase of tenderness is sweet in proportion that it is rare. With the tamer affections it fares no better than with the moral law when it comes in the path of the master passion. Mother and sisters are defied and forsaken; father and brethren are resisted at the sword's point when they cross, as is their wont, the course of true love. It is curious to note how little, except as a foil, the ballad makes of brotherly or sisterly love. It finds exquisite expression in the tale of _Chil Ether_ and his twin sister, 'Who loved each other tenderly 'Boon everything on earth. "The ley likesna the simmer shower Nor girse the morning dew, Better, dear Lady Maisrie, Than Chil Ether loves you."' But for this, among other reasons, the genuine antiquity of the ballad is under some suspicion. In modern fiction or drama the lady hesitates between the opposing forces of love and of family pride and duty; the old influences in her life do not yield to the new without a struggle. But of struggle or indecision the ballad heroine knows, or at least says, nothing. A glance, a whispered word, a note of harp or horn, and she flings down her 'silken seam,' and whether she be king's daughter or beggar maid she obeys the spell, and follows the enchanter to greenwood or to broomy hill, to the ends of the earth, and to the gates of death. For when the gallant knight and his 'fair may' ride away, prying eyes are upon them; black care and red vengeance climb up behind them and keep them company. _The Douglas Tragedy_ may be selected for its terseness and dramatic strength, for the romance and pathos inwoven in the very names and scenes with which it is associated, as the type of a favourite story which under various titles--_Earl Brand_ and the _Child of Elle_ among the rest--has, time beyond knowledge, captivated the imagination and drawn the tears of ballad-lovers. In the best-known Scots version--that which Sir Walter Scott has recovered for us, and which bears some touches of his rescuing hand--it is the lady-mother who gives the alarm that the maiden has fled under cloud of night with her lover: 'Rise up, rise up, my seven bauld sons, And put on your armour so bright, And take better care of your youngest sister, For your eldest 's awa' the last night.' In English variants, it is the sour serving-man or false bower-woman who gives the alarm and sets the chase in motion. But there are other differences that enter into the very essence of the story, and express the diverse feeling of the Scottish and the English ballad. In the latter there is a pretty scene of entreaty and reconciliation; the lady's tears soften the harsh will of the father, and stay the lifted blade of the lover, and all ends merry as a marriage bell. But in the Scottish ballads fathers and lovers are not given to the melting mood. In sympathy with the scenery and atmosphere, the ballad spirit is with us sterner and darker; and just as the materials of that tender little idyll of faithful love, _The Three Ravens_, are in Scottish hands transformed into the drear, wild dirge of _The Twa Corbies_, the gallant adventure of the _Child of Elle_ turns inevitably to tragedy by Douglas Water and Yarrow. But how much more true to this soul of romance is the choice of the northern minstrel! Lady Margaret, as she holds Lord William's bridle-rein while he deals those strokes so 'wondrous sair' at her nearest kin, is a figure that will haunt the 'stream of sorrow' as long as verse has power to move the hearts of men: '"O choose, O choose, Lady Marg'ret," he cried, "O whether will ye gang or bide?" "I 'll gang, I 'll gang, Lord William," she said, "For you 've left me no other guide." He lifted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, With a buglet horn hung down by his side, And slowly they both rade away. O they rade on, and farther on, By the lee licht o' the moon, Until they cam' to a wan water, And there they lichted them doon. "Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she said, "For I fear that ye are slain." "'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak That shines in the water so plain."' The man who can listen to these lines without a thrill is proof against the Ithuriel spear of Romance. He is not made of penetrable stuff, and need waste no thought on the Scottish ballads. To close the tale comes that colophon that as naturally ends the typical ballad as 'Once upon a time' begins the typical nursery tale: 'Lord William was buried in St. Mary's Kirk, Lady Margaret in St. Mary's Quire; And out of her grave there grew a birk, And out of the knight's a brier. And they twa met and they twa plait, As fain they wad be near; And a' the world might ken right well They were twa lovers dear.' Birk and brier; vine and rose; cypress and orange; thorn and olive--the plants in which the buried lovers of ballad romance live again and intertwine their limbs, vary with the clime and race; and just as the 'Black Douglas' of the Yarrow ballad--'Wow but he was rough!'--plucks up the brier, and 'flings it in St. Mary's Loch,' the King, in the Portuguese folk-song, cuts down the cypress and orange that perpetuate the loves of Count Nello and the Infanta, and then grinds his teeth to see the double stream of blood flow from them and unite, proving that 'in death they are not divided.' The scene of the Scottish story is supposed to be Blackhouse, on the Douglas Burn, a feeder of the Yarrow, the farm on which Scott's friend, William Laidlaw, the author of _Lucy's Flittin'_, was born. Seven stones on the heights above, where the 'Ettrick Shepherd,' with his dog Hector, herded sheep and watched for the rising of the Queen of Faëry through the mist, mark the spot where the seven bauld brethren fell. But Yarrow Vale is strewn with the sites of those tragedies of the far-off years, forgotten by history but remembered in song and tradition. Its green hills enclose the very sanctuary of romantic ballad-lore. Its clear current sings a mournful song of the 'good heart's bluid' that once stained its wave; of the drowned youth caught in the 'cleaving o' the craig.' The winds that sweep the hillsides and bend 'the birks a' bowing' seem to whisper still of the wail of the 'winsome marrow,' and to have an undernote of sadness on the brightest day of summer; while with the fall of the red and yellow leaf the very spirit of 'pastoral melancholy' broods and sleeps in this enchanted valley. St. Mary's Kirk and Loch; Henderland Tower and the Dow Linn; Blackhouse and Douglas Craig; Yarrow Kirk and Deucharswire; Hangingshaw and Tinnis; Broadmeadows and Newark; Bowhill and Philiphaugh--what memories of love and death, of faith and wrong, of blood and of tears they carry! Always by Yarrow the comely youth goes forth, only to fall by the sword, fighting against odds in the 'Dowie Dens,' or to be caught and drowned in the treacherous pools of this fateful river; always the woman is left to weep over her lost and 'lealfu' lord.' In the Dow Glen it is the 'Border Widow,' upon whose bower the 'Red Tod of Falkland' has broken and slain her knight, whose grave she must dig with her own hands: 'I took his body on my back, And whiles I gaed and whiles I sat; I digged a grave and laid him in, And happed him wi' the sod sae green. But think nae ye my heart was sair When I laid the moul's on his yellow hair; O think nae ye my heart was wae When I turned about awa' to gae. Nae living man I 'll love again, Since that my lovely knight is slain; Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair I 'll chain my heart for evermair.' An echo of this, but blending with poignant grief a masculine note of rage and vengeance, is the lament of Adam Fleming for Burd Helen, who dropped dead in his arms at their trysting-place in 'fair Kirkconnell Lea,' from the shot fired across the Kirtle by the hand of his jealous rival: 'O thinkna ye my heart was sair, When my love drapt doun and spak nae mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care On fair Kirkconnell Lea. O Helen fair, beyond compare! I 'll make a garland o' thy hair Shall bind my heart for evermair Until the day I dee.' Still older, and not less sad and sweet, is the lilt of _Willie Drowned in Yarrow_, the theme amplified, but not improved, in Logan's lyric: 'O Willie 's fair and Willie 's rare, And Willie wondrous bonnie; And Willie hecht to marry me If e'er he married ony.' Gamrie, in Buchan, contends with the 'Dowie Howms' as the scene of this fragment; but surely its sentiment is pure Yarrow: 'She sought him east, she sought him west, She sought him braid and narrow; Syne in the cleaving o' a craig She found him drowned in Yarrow.' But best-remembered of the Yarrow Cycle is _The Dowie Dens_. One cannot analyse the subtle aroma of this flower of Yarrow ballads. In it the song of the river has been wedded to its story 'like perfect music unto noble words.' It is indeed the voice of Yarrow, chiding, imploring, lamenting; a voice 'most musical, most melancholy.' A ballad minstrel with a master-touch upon the chords of passion and pathos, with a feeling for dramatic intensity of effect that Nature herself must have taught him, must have left us these wondrous pictures of the quarrel, hot and sudden; of the challenge, fiercely given and accepted; of the appeal, so charged with wild forebodings of evil: '"O stay at hame, my noble lord, O stay at hame, my marrow! My cruel kin will you betray On the dowie howms o' Yarrow"'; of the treacherous ambuscade under Tinnis bank; of the stubborn fight, in which a single 'noble brand' holds its own against nine, until the cruel brother comes behind that comeliest knight and 'runs his body thorough'; of the yearning and waiting of the 'winsome marrow,' while fear clutches at her heart: '"Yestreen I dreamed a doleful dream, I fear there will be sorrow, I dreamed I pu'ed the birk sae green For my true love on Yarrow. O gentle wind that blaweth south Frae where my love repaireth, Blaw me a kiss frae his dear mouth And tell me how he fareth"'; lastly, of the quest 'the bonnie forest thorough,' until on the trampled den by Deucharswire, near Whitehope farmhouse, she finds the 'ten slain men,' and among them 'the fairest rose was ever cropped on Yarrow': 'She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair, She searched his wounds a' thorough, She kissed them till her lips grew red On the dowie howms o' Yarrow.' The story is said to be founded on the slaughter of Walter Scott of Oakwood, of the house of Thirlstane, by John Scott of Tushielaw, with whose sister Grizel the murdered man had, in 1616, contracted an irregular marriage, to the offence of her kin. On this showing, it is of the later crop of the ballads. But it is well-nigh impossible to think of rueful Yarrow flowing through her dens to any other measure than that which keeps repeating 'By strength of sorrow The unconquerable strength of love.' But, as Wordsworth reminds us, these ever-youthful waters have their gladsome notes. On the not unchallengeable ground that it makes mention, in one version, of 'St. Mary's' as the fourth Scots Kirk at which halt was made after leaving the English Border, _The Gay Goshawk_ has been set down among the Yarrow ballads; and Hogg has confirmed the claim by using the tale as the foundation of his _Flower of Yarrow_. Even here such happiness as the lovers find comes by a perilous way past the very gates of the grave. The feigning of death, as the one means of escape from kinsfolk's ban to the arms of love, was a device known to Juliet and to other heroines of old plays and romances. But few could have abode the test suggested by the 'witch woman' or cruel stepmother, whose experience had taught her that 'much a lady young will do, her ain true love to win': '"Tak' ye the burning lead, And drap a drap on her white bosom To try if she be dead."' And Lord William, at St. Mary's Kirk, was more fortunate than Romeo in the vault of the Capulets; for when he rent the shroud from the face the blood rushed back to the cheeks and lips, 'like blood-draps in the snaw,' and the 'leeming e'en' laughed back into his own: '"Gie me a chive o' your bread, my love, And ae glass o' your wine, For I hae fasted for your love These weary lang days nine."' _The Nut-brown Bride_ and _Fair Janet_ might also be identified as among the Yarrow lays, if only it were granted that there is but one 'St. Mary's Kirk.' In the former, the balladist treats, with dramatic fire and fine insight into the springs of action, the theme that 'To be wroth with those we love Doth work like madness in the brain.' As in Barbara Allan, a word spoken amiss sets division between two hearts that had beat as one: 'Lord Thomas spoke a word in jest, Fair Annet took it ill.' In haste he consults mother and brother whether he should marry the 'Nut-brown Maid, and let Fair Annet be,' and so long as they praise the tochered lass he scorns their counsel; he will not have 'a fat fadge by the fire.' But when his sister puts in a word for Annet his resentment blazes up anew; he will marry her dusky rival in despite. With a heart not less hot, we may be sure, his forsaken love dons her gayest robes, and at St. Mary's Kirk she casts the poor brown bride into the shade in dress as well as in looks. Small wonder if the bride speaks out with spite when her bridegroom reaches across her to lay a red rose on Annet's knee. The words between the two angry women are like rapier-thrusts, keen and aimed at the heart. 'Where did ye get the rose-water that maks your skin so white?' asks the bride; and when Annet's swift retort goes home, she can only respond with the long bodkin drawn from her hair. The word in jest costs the lives of three. Fair Janet's is another tragic wedding; love, and jealousy, and guilt again hold tryst in the little kirk whose grey walls are scarce to be traced on the green platform above the loch. 'I 've seen other days,' says the pale bride to her lost lover as he dances with her bridesmaiden: '"I 've seen other days wi' you, Willie, And so hae mony mae; Ye would hae danced wi' me yoursel' And let a' ithers gae"'; and, dancing, she drops dead. Fasting, and fire, and sickness unto death were, however, tame ordeals compared with those which 'Burd Helen' came through, as they are described in the ballad Professor Child holds, not without reason, to have 'perhaps no superior' in our own or any other tongue. Patient Grizel, herself the incarnation in literary form of a type of woman's faithfulness and meek endurance of wrong that had floated long in mediæval tradition, might have shrunk from some of the cruel tasks which Lord Thomas--the 'Child Waters' of the favourite English variant--lays upon the mother of his unborn child--the woman whose self-surrender had been so complete that she has not the blessing of Holy Church and the support of wifely vows to comfort her in her hour of trial. All the summer day she runs by his bridle-rein until they come to the Water of Clyde, which 'Sweet Willie and May Margaret' also sought to ford on a similar errand: 'And he was never so courteous a knight, As stand and bid her ride; And she was never so poor a may, As ask him for to bide.' She stables his steed; she waits humbly at table as the little page-boy; she listens, her colour coming and going, to the mother's scorns and the young sister's naïve questions. But never, until the supreme moment of her distress, does she draw one sign of pity or relenting from her harsh lord. Then, indeed, love and remorse, as if they had been dammed back, break forth like a flood, that bursts the very door, and makes it 'in flinders flee.' And because 'The marriage and the kirkin' Were baith held on ae day,' our simple balladist bids us believe that the twain lived happily ever after. The variations of this ancient tale, localised in nearly every European country, are innumerable; and Professor Veitch was disposed to trace them to the thirteenth century _Tale of the Ash_, by Marie of France. The 'Fair Annie' of another ballad on the theme seems to have borrowed both name and history directly from the 'Skiæn Annie' of Danish folk-poetry. Here the old love suffers the like indignity that was thrown upon the too-too submissive Griselda; she has to make ready the bridal bed for her supplanter and do other menial offices, until a happy chance reveals the fact that the newcomer is her sister. Yet neither from Fair Annie nor from Burd Helen comes word of reproach or complaint. The exceeding bitter thought is whispered only to the heart: '"Lie still, my babe, lie still, my babe, Lie still as lang 's ye may; For your father rides on high horseback, And cares na for us twae."' And again, '"Gin my seven sons were seven young rats, Runnin' upon the castle wa'; And I were a grey cat mysel', Soon should I worry ane and a'."' Wide, surely, is the gulf between the Original Woman of old romance and the New Woman of recent fiction. The change, no doubt, is for the better; and yet is it altogether for the better? According to all modern canons, the conduct of these too-tardy bridegrooms was brutal beyond words; and as for the heroines of the Romantic Ballad, Mother Grundy, had she the handling of them, would use them worse than ever did moody brother or crafty stepmother. But the balladists and ballad characters had their own gauges of conduct. Their morals were not other or better than the morals of their age. They strained out the gnats and swallowed the camels of the law as given to Moses; perhaps if they could look into modern society and the modern novel they would charge the same against our own times and literature. If they broke, as they were too ready to do, the Sixth Commandment, or the Seventh, they made no attempt to glose the sin; they dealt not in innuendo or _double entendre_. Beside the page of modern realism, the ballad page is clean and wholesome. Human passion unrestrained there may be; but no sickly or vicious sentiment. There is a punctilious sense of honour; and if it is sometimes the letter rather than the spirit of vow or promise that is kept, the knights and ladies in the ballads are no worse than are the Pharisees of our day; and they are always ready to pay, and generally do pay, the utmost penalty. Thus, in that most powerful and tragic ballad, _Clerk Saunders_, May Margaret ties a napkin about her eyes that she 'may swear, and keep her aith,' to her 'seven bauld brothers,' that she had not seen her lover 'since late yestreen'; she carries him across the threshold of her bower, that she may be able to say that his foot had never been there. The story of the sleeping twain--the excuses for their sin; the reason why ruth should turn aside vengeance--is told, in staccato sentences, by the brothers as they stand by the bedside of their 'ae sister,' with 'torches burning bright': 'Out and spake the first o' them, "I wot that they are lovers dear"; And out and spake the second o' them, "They 've been in love this mony a year"; And out and spake the third o' them, "His father had nae mair than he."' And so until the seventh--the Rashleigh of the band--who spake no word, but let his 'bright brown brand' speak for him. What follows rises to the extreme height of the balladist's art; literature might be challenged for anything surpassing it in simplicity and power, in the mingling of horror and pathos: 'Clerk Saunders he started and Margaret she turned, Into his arms as asleep she lay; And sad and silent was the night That was atween the twae. And they lay still and sleepéd sound, Until the day began to daw, And softly unto him she said, "It 's time, true love, you were awa'." But he lay still and sleepéd sound, Albeit the sun began to sheen; She looked atween her and the wa', And dull and drumlie were his een.' In the majority of ballads of the _Clerk Saunders_ class there is some base agent who betrays trust and brings death upon the lovers. 'Fause Foodrage' takes many forms in these ancient tales without changing type. He is the slayer of 'Lily Flower' in _Jellon Graeme_; and the boy whom he has preserved and brought up sends the arrow singing to his guilty heart. Lammiken, the 'bloodthirsty mason,' who must have a life for his wage, is another enemy within the house who finds his way through 'steekit yetts'; and he is assisted by the 'fause nourice.' In other ballads it is the 'kitchen-boy,' the 'little foot-page,' the 'churlish carle,' or the bower-woman who plays the spy and tale-bearer. In _Glenkindie_, 'Gib, his man,' is the vile betrayer of the noble harper and his lady. Sometimes, as in _Gude Wallace_, _Earl Richard_, and _Sir James the Rose_, it is the 'light leman' who plays traitor. But she quickly repents, and meets her fate in the fire or at the sword's point, in 'Clyde Water' or in 'the dowie den in the Lawlands o' Balleichan.' In _Gil Morice_, that ballad which Gray thought 'divine,' it is 'Willie, the bonnie boy,' whom the hero trusted with his message, that in malice and wilfulness brings about the tremendous catastrophe of the tale. He calls aloud in hall the words he was bid whisper in the ear of Lord Barnard's lady--to meet Gil Morice in the forest, and 'speir nae bauld baron's leave.' 'The lady stampéd wi' her foot And winkéd wi' her e'e; But for a' that she could say or do Forbidden he wadna be.' It is the angry and jealous baron who, in woman guise, meets and slays the youth who is waiting in gude greenwood, and brings back the bloody head to the mother. Other fine ballads in which mother and son carry on tragic colloquy are _Lord Randal_ and _Edward_. These versions of a story of treachery and blood, conveyed in the dark hints of a strange dialogue, have received many touches from later hands; but the germ comes down from the age of tradition. It has even been noted that, with the curious tenacity with which the ballad memory often clings to a detail while forgetting or mislaying essential fact, the food with which, in the version Burns recovered for Johnson's _Museum_, Lord Randal is poisoned--'eels boiled in broo'--is identical with that given to his prototype in the folk-ballads of Italy and other countries. The structure of this ballad, like the beautiful old air to which it is sung, bears marks of antiquity, and its wide diffusion militates against Scott's not very convincing suggestion that it refers to the alleged poisoning of the Regent Randolph. But it lacks the terrible and dramatic intensity of _Son Davie_, better known in the version transmitted, under the name of _Edward_, by Lord Hailes to Bishop Percy's _Reliques_. Here it is the murderer, and not the victim, who answers; and it is the questioning mother, and not the absent false love, with whom the curse is left as a legacy. Despair had never a more piercing utterance than this: '"And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife? Edward, Edward! And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife When ye gang over the sea, O?" "The warld 's room, let them beg through life, Mither, Mither! The warld 's room, let them beg through life, For them never mair will I see, O!" "And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear? Edward, Edward! And what will ye leave to your ain mother dear, My dear son, now tell me, O?" "The curse o' hell from me shall ye bear, Mither, Mither! The curse o' hell from me shall ye bear, Sic counsels ye gae me, O!"' Although Yarrow be the favoured haunt on Scottish soil--may we not also say on the whole round of earth?--of the Romantic Ballad, and has coloured them, and taken colour from them, for all time, yet there are other streams and vales that only come short of being its rivals. 'Leader Haughs,' for instance, which the harp of Nicol Burne, the 'Last Minstrel' who wandered and sang in the Borderland, has linked indissolubly with Yarrow braes, know of ballad strains well-nigh as sweet as those of the neighbour water. But cheerfulness rather than sadness is their prevailing note. _Auld Maitland_, the lay which James Hogg's mother repeated to Scott, has its scene on Leader side, and at the 'darksome town'--a misnomer in these days--of Lauder. Long before the time of that tough champion, St. Cuthbert and True Thomas had wandered and dreamed and sang by Leader. It was a Lord Lauderdale who rode to Traquair to court, after the older fashion, Katherine Janferie: 'He toldna her father, he toldna her mither, He toldna ane o' her kin; But he whispered the bonnie may hersel', And has her favour won.' He it was, according to the old ballad, who rode to the bridal at the eleventh hour, with four and twenty Leader lads behind him: '"I comena here to fight," he said, "I comena here to play; But to lead a dance wi' the bonnie bride, And mount and go my way"'; and it was Lord Lochinvar (although 'he who told the story later' has taught us so differently) who played the inglorious part of the deserted bridegroom. Scott himself drank in the passion for Border romance and chivalry on the braes of Sandyknowe, between Leader and Eden waters, not far from Smailholm and Dryburgh, and Huntly Bank and Mellerstain, and Rhymer's Tower and the Broom o' the Cowdenknowes. According to Mr. Ford, the ballad which takes its name from this last-mentioned spot is traditionally assigned to a Mellerstain maid named Crosbie, whose words were set to music by no less famous a hand than that of David Rizzio. So that here at least we have a vague echo of the name of a balladist and of a ballad-air composer. Between them, the maid of Mellerstain and 'Davy' have harmonised most musically, albeit with some touch of moral laxity, the spirit of pastoral and of ballad romance: 'The hills were high on ilka side, And the bucht i' the lirk o' the hill, And aye as she sang her voice it rang Out ower the head o' yon hill. There cam' a troop o' gentlemen, Merrily riding by, And ane o' them rade out o' the way To the bucht to the bonnie may.' Nowhere has the ballad inspiration and the ballad touch lingered longer than by Eden and Leader and Whitadder. Lady Grizel Baillie (who also wonned in Mellerstain) had them-- 'There once was a may and she lo'ed nae men, And she biggit her bonnie bower doun in yon glen'-- and it still lives in Lady John Scott, who has sung of _The Bonnie Bounds of Cheviot_ as if the mantle of the Border minstrels had fallen upon her. After all, the ballads of Yarrow and Ettrick, of the Merse and Teviotdale, owe their superior fame as much as anything to the happy chance that the Wizard of Abbotsford dwelt in the midst of them, and seizing upon them before they were forgotten, made them and the localities classical. Other districts have in this way been despoiled to some extent of their proper meed of honour. Fortune as well as merit has favoured the Border Minstrelsy in the race for survival and for precedence in the popular memory. But Galloway, a land pervaded with romance, claims at least one ballad that can rank with the best. _Lord Gregory_ has aliases and duplicates without number. But the scene is always Loch Ryan and some castled island within sight of that arm of the sea, whither the love-lorn Annie fares in her boat 'wi' sails o' the light green silk and tows o' taffetie,' in quest of her missing lord: '"O row the boat, my mariners, And bring me to the land! For yonder I see my love's castle Close by the salt sea strand."' Alas! cold is her welcome as she stands with her young son in her arms, and knocks and calls on her love, while 'the wind blaws through her yellow hair, and the rain draps o'er her chin.' A voice, that seems that of Lord Gregory, bids her go hence as 'a witch or a wil' warlock, or a mermaid o' the flood'; and with a woful heart she turns back to the sea and the storm. And when he wakes up from boding dreams to find his true love and his child have been turned from his door, it is too late. His cry to the waves is as vain as Annie's cry to that 'ill woman,' his mother, who has betrayed them: '"And hey, Annie, and how, Annie! O Annie, winna ye bide?" But aye the mair that he cried Annie, The braider grew the tide. "And hey, Annie, and how, Annie! Dear Annie, speak to me!" But aye the louder he cried Annie, The louder roared the sea.' The shores and basin of the Forth have also their rowth of ballads; and some of them have, like _The Lass of Lochryan_, the sound of the waves and the salt smell of the sea mingled with their plaintive music. _Gil Morice_ has been 'placed' by Carronside--Ossian's 'roaring Carra'--a meet setting for the story. _Sir Patrick Spens_ cleaves to the shores of Fife; though some, eager for the honour of the North, have claimed that it is Aberdour in Buchan that is spoken of in the ballad. By the powerful spell of this old rhyme, the king still sits and drinks the blood-red wine in roofless Dunfermline tower; the ladies still haunt the windy headland--Kinghorn or Elie Ness--with 'their kaims intil their hands' waiting in vain the return of their 'good Scots lords'; the wraith of Sir Patrick himself in misty days strides the silver strand under the Hawes Wood, reading the braid letter. Near by is Donibristle; and it keeps the memory of the 'Bonnie Earl of Moray,' slain here, hints the balladist--though history is silent on the point--for pleasing too well the Queen's eye at Holyrood. Edinburgh, too, draws a good part of its romance from the ballad bard. Mary Hamilton, of the Queen's Maries, rode through the Netherbow Port to the gallows-foot: '"Yestreen the Queen had four Maries, The night she 'll hae but three; There was Marie Seton, and Marie Beaton, And Marie Carmichael, and me."' The Marchioness of Douglas wandered disconsolate on Arthur's Seat and drank of St. Anton's well: '"O waly, waly, love be bonnie A little time while it is new, But when it 's auld it waxes cauld And fades awa' like morning dew. But had I wist before I kissed That love had been so ill to win, I 'd locked my heart within a kist And fastened it wi' a siller pin"'; and across the hill lies the 'Wells o' Wearie.' Nowhere else has the wail of forsaken love found such wistful expression--except in _The Fause Lover_: '"But again, dear love, and again, dear love, Will you never love me again? Alas! for loving you so well, And you not me again."' From Edinburgh wandered Leezie Lindsay, kilting her coats of green satin to follow her Lord Ronald Macdonald the weary way to the Highland Border; and to its plainstanes came the faithful Lady of Gicht to ransom her Geordie: 'My Geordie, O my Geordie, The love I bear my Geordie! For the very ground I walk upon Bears witness I lo'e Geordie.' And these regions of the North have as much of the 'blood-red wine' of ballad romance coursing through them as Tweedside or Lothian, although it may be of harsher and coarser flavour. Space does not allow of doing justice to the Northern Ballads, some of them simple strains, made familiar by sweet airs, like _Hunting Tower_, or _Bessie Bell and Mary Gray_, or the _Banks of the Lomond_; others, and these chiefly from the wintry side of Cairn o' Mount, 'bleak and bare' as that wilderness of heather; still others, and from the same quarter, gallant, warm-hearted, light-stepping tunes as ever were sung--_Glenlogie_, for instance: 'There were four-and-twenty nobles Rode through Banchory fair; And bonnie Glenlogie Was flower o' them there.' For the most part they are variants, many of them badly mutilated in the rhymes, that are familiar, under other names, farther south. They gather about the family history and the family trees of the great houses--the Gordons for choice--planted by Dee and Don and Ythan, where Gadie runs at the 'back o' Benachie,' and in the Bog o' Gicht; and they tell of love adventures and mischances that have befallen the Lords of Huntly or Aboyne, the Lairds of Drum or Meldrum, and even the humble Trumpeter of Fyvie. CHAPTER VI THE HISTORICAL BALLAD 'It fell about the Lammas tide, When the muirmen win their hay, The doughty Douglas bound him to ride Into England, to drive a prey.' _The Battle of Otterburn._ The kindly Scot will not quarrel with the comparative mythologist who tells him that the superstitions embalmed in his ballad minstrelsy are wanderers out of misty times and far countries--primitive ideas and beliefs that may have started with his remote ancestors from the heart of the East, to find harbour in the valleys of the Cheviots and the islands of the West, or that have drifted thither with the tide of later inroads. Nor will he greatly protest when the literary historian assures him that the plots and incidents in the popular old rhymes of the frenzies and parlous adventures of love have been borrowed or adapted from the metrical and prose romances of the Middle Ages. He can appreciate in his poetry, as in his pedigree, high and long descent; all the more since, as he flatters himself, whencesoever the seed may have come, it has found kindly soil, and drawn from thence a strength and colour such as few other lands and ballad literatures can match. But to suggest that not even our Historical Songs of fight and of foray against our 'auld enemies' of England are genuine, unalloyed products of the national spirit; to hint that _Kinmont Willie_, _The Outlaw Murray_, or _The Battle of Otterburn_ itself is an exotic--that were a somewhat dangerous exercise of the art of analytic criticism, in the presence of a Scottish audience. In truth, no poetry of any tongue or land is more powerfully dominated by the sense of locality--is more expressive of the manners of the time and mood of the race--than those rough Border lays of moonlight rides, on reiving or on rescue bound, and of death fronted boldly in the press of spears or 'behind the bracken bush.' These are not tales of the infancy of a people. Scotland had already attained to something of national unity of blood and of sentiment before they came to birth. For generations and centuries she had to keep her head and her bounds against an enemy as watchful and warlike as herself, and many times as strong. Blows were struck and returned, keen and sudden as lightning. The 'hammer of the Scots,' wielded by the English kings, had smitten, and under its blows the race had been welded together and wrought to a temper like steel, supple upon occasion to bend, but elastic and unbreakable, and with a sharp cutting edge. Heroes conquered or fell; and sometimes a minstrel was by to sing the exploit. Patriotism and the joy of combat are leading notes in these Historic Ballads. The annals of Scotland are full of family and clan feuds--the quarrels of kites and crows. But, with a fine and true instinct, the best of these ballads avoid taking account of the bickerings in the household. It is when they sing of 'patriot battles won of old,' where Scot and Southron met, 'red-wat shod,' that the strain rises to its clearest, and 'stirs the heart like the sound of a trumpet.' Nor is it always the events that are most noised in the history-book that are best remembered in the ballads. The old singers and their audiences delighted more in personal episode than in filling a big canvas; their genius was dramatic rather than epic. _Hardyknut_, with its commemoration of the battle of Largs and the Northmen, although accepted by the _literati_ of the early Georgian era as a genuine 'antique,' has long been proved to be an imitative production of Lady Wardlaw's. The rhyme which the Scottish maidens sang about Bannockburn is lost. The Wallace group of ballads bears plain marks of spurious intermixture, or later composition. There are no traditional verses preserved in popular memory regarding the disasters of Neville's Cross or of Homildon Hill, where so much good Scots blood soaked an alien sod; or of that shameful day of Solway Moss, about which James the Fifth muttered strange words on his dying-bed. Even the pathetic strain, more lyrical, however, than narrative, in which lament is made for _The Flowers o' the Forest_, that were 'wede awa'' at Flodden, came two centuries later than the woful battle. Perhaps it is natural that a warlike people should sing of their triumphs rather than of their defeats and humiliations. But if the old ballads have lost sight of some great landmarks in the country's chronicle, they have preserved names and incidents which the duller pen of history has forgotten or overlooked. The breath of poetry passes over the Valley of Bones of the national annals, and each knight stands up in his place, a breathing man and a living soul. They are none the less real and living for us because Dry-as-dust has mislaid the vouchers for their birth and their deeds, and cannot fit them into their place in his family trees and chronological tables. It follows, from the strongly patriotic cast of the ballads of war and fray, that they should have sprung up most rankly on the battle-fields and around the peel-towers of the Borderland. It was on the line of the Tweed and of the Cheviots that the long quarrel was fought out; and thus the Merse, Ettrick Forest, and Teviotdale; the Debateable Land, Liddesdale, and Annan Water became the native countries of the songs of raid and battle. The 'Red Harlaw'--which has had its own homespun bard, although of a different note and fibre from the minstrels of the Border--may be said to have ended the struggle for the mastery between Highlands and Lowlands. From thence onward through the age of ballad-making, there were _spreaghs_ and feuds enow upon and within the Highland Line. But, until the time when Jacobitism came to give change of theme and bent, along with change of scene, to the spirit of Scottish romance, none of these local bloodlettings sufficed to inspire a ballad of more than local fame; unless indeed the story drew part of its power to live and to please from other sources besides the mere zest for fighting. In distinction, as we shall see from the typical Border War Lay, in which woman, if her presence is felt at all, is kept in the background, as looker-on or rewarder of the fight, in such Northern tales of raid and spulzie as _The Baron of Bracklay_, _Edom o' Gordon_, _The Bonnie House o' Airlie_, or even _The Burning o' Frendraught_, she is brought into the heart of the scene and forms an abiding and controlling influence. In a word, these are at least as much Romantic as Historical Ballads. We suspect that woman's guile and treachery are at work, as soon as we hear the taunting words of Bracklay's lady: 'O rise, my bauld Baron, And turn back your kye, For the lads o' Drumwharron Are driving them bye.' We are made sure of it, when the minstrel tells us: 'There was grief in the kitchen But mirth in the ha'; But the Baron o' Bracklay Is dead and awa'.' And in the assault on the 'House o' the Rhodes,' it is not the wild work of the Gordons on which our thoughts are fixed; it is not even on the Forbeses, riding hard and fast to be in time for rescue: 'Put on, put on, my michty men, As fast as ye can drie; For he that 's hindmost o' my men Will ne'er get good o' me.' It is 'the bonnie face that lies on the grass,' and Lady Ogilvie, and not her lord or the 'gleyed Argyll,' is central figure of the tale of the raid of the Campbells against their hereditary foes in Angus. As a rule, in those ballads of the Borders whose business is with foray and reprisal, we have none of this disturbing element. The sheer love of adventure, the chance of exchanging 'hard dunts' with the Englishmen, is inducement enough for us to follow the lead of the Douglas or Buccleuch across the Waste of Bewcastle or through the wilds of Kidland. The women folks are safe and well defended in the peel-towers, from whence, when the word has gone out to 'warn the water speedilie,' the bale-fires flash up the dales from water-foot to well-e'e, and set the hill-crests aflame with the news of the enemy's coming. They may have given the hint of a toom larder by serving a dish of spurs on the board. They will be the first to welcome home the warden's men or the moss-troopers if they return with full hands, or to rally them if they have brought nothing back but broken heads. But keeping or breaking the peace on the Borders is a man's part; and only men mingle in it. Both sides are too accustomed to surprises, and have too many strong fortalices and friends at hand, to give the foe the chance of 'lifting' whole families as well as their gear and cattle. The last thing one looks for, then, in the moss-trooping ballads is a strain of tender and pathetic sentiment. The tone is hearty and virile even to boisterousness. The minstrel, like the fighters, revels in hard knocks and rough jests. He has ridden with them probably, and has had the piper's share of the plunder and whatever else was going. He has heard 'the bows that bauldly ring and the arrows whiddering near him by,' as he passes through the 'derke Foreste.' He took the fell with the other folk in the following of the Scottish warden, and looking down the slope towards Reed Water, witnessed the beginning and end of the skirmish known as _The Raid of the Reidswire_. 'Be this our folk had taen the fell And planted pallions there to bide; We looked down the other side, And saw them breasting ower the brae Wi' Sir John Forster as their guide, Full fifteen hundred men and mae.' With strokes, graphic and humorous, he describes how the meeting of the two wardens, 'begun with merriment and mowes,' turned to the exchange of such 'reasons rude' between Tyndale and Jed Forest, as flights of arrows and 'dunts full dour.' Pride was at the bottom of the mischief; pride and the memory of old scores. 'To deal with proud men is but pain; For either must ye fight or flee, Or else no answer make again, But play the beast and let them be.' And so, when the English raised the question of surrendering a fugitive, 'Carmichael bade them speak out plainlie, And cloak no cause for ill or good; The other answering him as vainly, Began to reckon kin and blood; He raise, and raxed him where he stood, And bade him match him wi' his marrows; Then Tyndale heard these reason rude, And they let off a flight of arrows.' Again, in _Kinmont Willie_, the flower, with one exception to be named, of the ballads that celebrate the exploits of the 'ruggers and rivers,' the singer lets slip, as it were by accident, that he was of the bold and lawless company that broke Carlisle Castell in time of peace. The old lay tingles and glows with the restless untameable courage, the dramatic fire, the grim humour, and the spirit of good fellowship that were characteristic, along with some less admirable qualities, of the old Borderers. The rage, tempered with a dash of Scots caution, of the Bauld Buccleuch when he heard that his unruly countryman had been taken 'against the truce of border tide' by the 'fause Sakelde and the keen Lord Scroope'; his device for a rescue that while it would set the Kinmont free, would 'neither harm English lad nor lass,' or break the peace between the countries; the keen questionings and adroit replies that passed, like thrust and parry, between the divided bands of the warden's men and Sakelde himself, who met them successively as they crossed the Debateable Land, until it came to the turn of tongue-tied Dickie o' Dryhope, who, having never a word ready, 'thrust the lance through his fause bodie,'--all these are told in the most vigorous and graphic style of rough first-hand narrative. And then the story-teller takes up the parable in his own person, and describes how he and his comrades plunged through the flooded Eden, climbed the bank, and through 'wind and weet and fire and sleet' came beneath the castle wall:-- 'We crept on knees and held our breath, Till we placed the ladders against the wa'; And sae ready was Buccleuch himsel' To mount the first before us a'. He 's ta'en the watchman by the throat, And flung him down upon the lead-- "Had there not been peace between our lands, Upon the other side thou 'dst gaed!"' In the 'inner prison' lay Willie o' Kinmont, like a wolf in a trap, sleeping soft and waking oft, with thoughts of the gallows, on which he was to swing in the morning, and of his wife and bairns and the 'gude fellows' in the Debateable Land he was never to see again. But in an instant, at the hail and sight of his friends, the fearless humour of the Border rider comes back to him; mounted, irons and all, on the shoulders of Red Rowan, 'the starkest man in Teviotdale,' he must first take farewell of his host, Lord Scroope, with a significant promise that he would 'pay him lodging maill when first they met on the border side.' 'Then shoulder high, with shout and cry, We bore him down the ladder lang; At every stride Red Rowan made I wot the Kinmont's airns played clang. "O mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie, "I 've ridden a horse baith wild and wud; But a rougher beast than Red Rowan I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode."' Then comes the wild rush for the Eden, where it flowed from bank to brim, with all Carlisle streaming behind in chase, and the bold plunge of the fugitives into the spate, leaving Lord Scroope staring after them, sore astonished, from the water's edge: '"He 's either himsel' a devil frae hell, Or else his mither a witch maun be; I wadna' have ridden that wan water For a' the gowd in Christentie."' History attests the main incidents and characters of _Kinmont Willie_ as true to the facts; and tradition has broidered the story with incidents which the ballad itself does not record. The daughter of the smith, on the road between Longtown and Langholm, used to relate, half a century afterwards, how Buccleuch impatiently thrust his spear through the window to arouse her father and rid Armstrong's legs from their 'cumbrous spurs,' and remembered seeing the rough riders grouped in the outer darkness and streaming with wet. The rescue was one of the latest of the episodes of Border warfare before the Union of the Crowns; and Armstrong of Kinmont himself, besides being a typical specimen of his clan, 'Able men, Somewhat unruly, and very ill to tame,' was one of the last of what we may describe as the legitimate line of Border freebooters, before the freebooter became merged in the vulgar thief, as explained quaintly and sympathetically in Scott of Satchells' rhyme: 'It 's most clear a freebooter doth live in hazard's train; A freebooter 's a cavalier who ventures life for gain; But since King James the Sixth to England went, There has been no cause for grief; And he that hath transgressed since then, Is no cavalier, but a thief.' No doubt many other like exploits of capture and rescue were enacted and recounted on the Borders in the troublous times. _Jock o' the Side_ and _Archie o' Ca'field_ read almost like variants of _Kinmont Willie_. Their heroes, too, are 'notour lymours and thieves,' living on or near the margin of the Debateable Land; and he of the Side, in particular, lives in Sir Richard Maitland's bede-roll of the Liddesdale thieves, as only 'too well kend' by his peaceable neighbours, 'A greater thief did never hyde; He never tyris For to brek byris, Owre muir and myris, Owre gude and guide.' Both are clapped into 'prison strang,' and liberated by a night raid and surprise. But the scene of rescue is shifted from Carlisle to Newcastle in the one case, and to Dumfries Tolbooth in the other. Hobbie Noble, the English outlaw, performs for the redoubtable Jock o' the Side the service rendered by Red Rowan; and 'mettled John Hall o' laigh Teviotdale' clatters down the Tolbooth stairs with Archie Armstrong of the Calfhill on his back, to mount him on his fleet black mare. And from the safe side of Tyne and of Nith, instead of Eden, they send their jeers and challenges back at the discomfited English pursuers. The old balladists may have mixed up places, names, and incidents in their memories, as they were rather wont to do, and laid skaith or credit at the wrong doors. But while their poetic and dramatic merit may vary, the spirit of the very baldest of these ancient songs is irresistible. The Border reiver may play a foul trick in the game; the Armstrongs, for instance, requited scurvily the services of Hobbie Noble, 'the man that lowsed Jock o' the Side;' but the roughest of these tykes, whether they rode behind the Captain of Bewcastle or the Laird of Buccleuch or Ferniehirst, or fought for their own hand, had their own code of honour, and the balladist zealously and jealously measures by it their acts and words. The worst of them had courage; they snap their fingers and laugh in the very teeth of death. Hobbie Noble, with the can of beer at his lips and the rope about his neck, could sing with an approving conscience-- '"Now, fare thee well, sweet Mangerton, For ne'er again I will thee see; I wad hae betrayed nae man alive For a' the gowd in Christentie"'-- a farewell that reminds us of that of the Highland cateran, Macpherson, who 'so rantingly, so dantonly,' played a spring and danced to it beneath the gallows-tree at Banff, crying out the while against 'treacherie,' and broke his fiddle across his knee when none among the crowd would take it from his hand. Like Sir Lancelot, in the famous eulogy of Sir Ector, these Borderers of old were not only strong men of their hands, but strong also of heart, and 'true friends to their friends,' who, since they held the first line of defence of the Kingdom, might be said to embrace, after their own family and clan, their countrymen at large. They might, on occasion, 'seek their broth in England and in Scotland both.' But they robbed and slew, when it was possible, with patriotic discrimination. In _Johnie Armstrong_ and _The Sang o' the Outlaw Murray_ the heroes take credit for their 'honesty' and for their services to their country. The former boasts that 'never a Scots wife could have said that e'er I skaithed her ae puir flee'; and the other that he had won Ettrick Forest from the Southron without help from king or noble. Yet the quarrel of both is with the Scottish sovereign, who has come South intent on the exemplary and kingly work of 'making the rash bush keep the cow'; and, stranger still, it is for the bold-spoken outlaws, and not for the legitimate guardian of Border peace, that the minstrel engages our sympathies. If we may credit the surmises of Mr. P. Macgregor Chalmers, the Outlaw Murray is none other than the 'John Morvo,' the builder who has set an admirable mark of his own upon Melrose Abbey and other ecclesiastical fanes, and, as Sheriff of the Forest, built Newark Castle after he had, in jest or earnest, defied the authority of his patron, King James IV.; perhaps he was even the writer of the ballad. This is a pretty strong order on our faith; although it must be confessed that there is a singular mixture, in this fine old lay, of information on architecture, venerie, and local ownership of land; and the Outlaw is made to have all the best of the combat of wits and words, and of the bargain with which it ends. 'Name your lands,' cries the King, 'where'er they lie, and here I render them to thee'; and the Outlaw promptly responds: '"Fair Philiphaugh is mine by right, And Lewinshope still mine shall be, Newark, Foulshiels, and Tinnis baith, My bow and arrow purchased me. And I have native steads to me, And some by name I do not knaw; The Hangingshaw and Newark Lee, And mony mair in the Forest shaw."' Very different was the guerdon which Johnie Armstrong of Gilnockie got from King James the Fifth, when, in an evil hour, he came with a gallant company from his stronghold in Eskdale to meet that monarch, who had ridden with a strong force into the heart of the moss-troopers' country, intent on taming the marchmen. Well might the ladies 'look from their loft windows,' and sigh, 'God bring our men weel hame again!' as Johnie, and the six-and-thirty Armstrongs and Elliots in his train, ran their horses through Langholm howm in their haste to welcome their 'lawful king.' This expedition of 1529 has left its mark on ballad poetry as well as history; through the hanging of Cockburn of Henderland it gave occasion for the _Lament of the Border Widow_. But no incident in it made deeper impression on the popular memory--none seems to have caused more sorrow and reprobation--than the stringing up of the Laird of Gilnockie and his followers on the trees at Carlenrig, at the head of Teviot. A 'Johnie Armstrong's Dance' was popular when the _Complaynt of Scotland_ was written twenty years later; and Sir David Lyndsay, in one of his plays, makes his Pardoner hawk about, among his relics of saints, the cords of good hemp that hanged the unlucky laird of Gilnockie Hall, with the commendation that 'Wha'ever beis hangit in this cord Neidis never to be drowned.' At the bar of judgment of the balladists, the deed was counted murder: 'Scotland's heart was ne'er sae wae To see sae mony brave men die'; and murder all the less pardonable, since the king who ordered it was himself an inspirer and, as some say, a writer of ballads. As is pointed out in the _Border Minstrelsy_, the ballad, in its account of the interview between the king and his troublesome subject, follows pretty closely the narrative of Pitscottie. 'What wants that knave that a king should have?' was the offended remark of James, when he saw the band approaching him in the bravery of their war-gear. And Johnie, when all his appeals and bribes proved to be vain, could also speak a frank word: '"To seek het water beneath cauld ice, Surely it is a great follie; I have asked grace at a graceless face, But there is nane for my men and me."' Whatever their misdeeds, Gilnockie and his men had certainly hard measure and short shrift. The king's courtiers, it is alleged, incited him to make a summary end of the Armstrongs; and he had not the biting answer ready which his father is said to have given to the 'keen laird of Buccleuch,' when that Border chieftain urged him to 'braid on with fire and sword' against the Outlaw of Ettrick Forest: 'Now haud thy tongue, Sir Walter Scott, Nor speak of reif or felonie; For had every honest man his coo, A right puir clan thy name would be.' But when their own clan or dependants made appeal for help or vengeance, none were more prompt with the strong word and deed than the Scotts--witness, _Kinmont Willie_; witness also, _Jamie Telfer o' the Fair Dodhead_. When Jamie ran hot-foot to Branksome Hall with the news that the Captain of Bewcastle had ramshackled his house and driven his gear and stock, until 'There was naught left in the Fair Dodhead But a greeting wife and bairnies three,' did not Buccleuch start up like an old roused lion? '"Gar warn the water, braid and wide, Gar warn it soon and hastilie! They that winna ride for Telfer's kye, Let them never look on the face o' me!"' And the chase goes on, from the Dodhead on the Ettrick until, at the fords of the Liddel, the enemy are brought to bay; and we have the fine picture of Auld Wat of Harden, the husband of the 'Flower of Yarrow,' and a forebear of the author of _Waverley_, as he 'grat for very rage' when Willie Scott, the son of his chief, lay slain by an English stroke: 'But he 's ta'en aff his good steel cap, And thrice he 's waved it in the air. The Dinley's snaw was ne'er mair white Than the lyart locks of Harden's hair.' Vain was the offer by the Bewcastle raiders to men in such mood to take back the cattle that had been lifted: 'When they cam' to the Fair Dodhead, They were a welcome sight to see! For instead of his ain ten milk-kye, Jamie Telfer has gotten thirty-and-three.' _Auld Maitland_ treats of an inroad on the opposite side of the country, of more ancient date and more formidable character. Its hero appears to have been a progenitor of that line of Lethington in East Lothian, and of Thirlstane, in Lauderdale, who, planted firmly on both sides of Lammermuir, produced in after-times warriors, statesmen, and even poets of note. Gavin Douglas places Maitland, with the 'auld beird grey,' among the legendary inmates of his 'Palace of Honour'; and Scott identifies him as a Sir Richard de Mautlant who, in the latter half of the thirteenth century, and probably during the Wars of Independence, held the ancestral lands by Leaderside, on the track of invading armies crossing the Tweed between Coldstream and Melrose, and holding in to Lothian by Soultra Hill. Accordingly, the ballad tells us that the English army, under King Edward, assembled on the Tyne: 'They lighted on the banks of Tweed, And blew their fires so het, And fired the Merse and Teviotdale All in an evening late. As they flared up o'er Lammermuir They burned baith up and down, Until they came to a darksome house, Some call it Lauder town.' Many a foray from the same direction followed the same gait, their coming heralded by the bale-fires that flashed the signal from Hume Castle to Edgarhope (wrongly identified by Professor Veitch with Edgerston on Jed Water), and from Edgarhope to Soultra Edge. But memorable above all other Border raids recorded in song or story, is that encounter in which 'the Douglas and the Percy met,' and which has inspired perhaps the very finest of the historical ballads of each country. Moot points there are of locality, date, and circumstances; but it is generally accepted that the rhyme known for many centuries in Scotland as _The Battle of Otterburn_, and the English _Chevy Chase_ are versions, from opposite sides, of one event--a skirmish fought in the autumn of 1388 on Rede Water, between a band of Scots, under James, Earl of Douglas, returning home laden with spoil, and a body of English, led by Hotspur, the son of the Earl of Northumberland, in which Douglas was slain and young Harry Percy taken prisoner. It were as hard to decide between the merits of these famous old lays as to award the prize for prowess between the respective champions. But it may be noted, as a fine Borderer's trait, that each of the two ballads does full justice to the chivalry and fighting mettle of the enemy. It is to be observed also that they are different poems, and not merely versions of the same; and that _The Battle of Otterburn_ and the other racy and vigorous ballads of its class dealt with in this chapter, are of themselves sufficient to refute the arrogant dictum of Mr. Carew Hazlitt, that Scotland has no original ballad-poetry to speak of, and that what she calls her own are 'chiefly English ballads, sprinkled with Northern provincialisms.' But while they are, as Scott says, different in essentials, the English and Scottish ballads have exchanged phrases and even verses, as the English and Scottish warriors exchanged strokes, and these of the best: 'When Percy wi' the Douglas met, I wat they were full fain; They swakked their swords till sair they swet, And the blood ran doon like rain,' may lack some of the picturesqueness of the corresponding passage of _Chevy Chase_. But nothing, at least in Scottish eyes, can surpass the simple majesty and pathos of the last words of Douglas--words that sound all the sadder since Walter Scott repeated them, when he also had almost fought his last battle and was wounded unto death: '"My nephew good," the Douglas said, "What recks the death o' ane? Last night I dreamed a dreary dream, And I ken the day 's thy ain. "My wound is deep, I fain would sleep; Take thou the vanward o' the three, And hide me by the bracken bush That grows upon the lily lee. "O bury me by the bracken bush, Beneath the blooming brier; Let never living mortal ken A kindly Scot lies here."' The Historical Ballad of Border chivalry touches its highest and strongest note in these words; they will stand, like Tantallon, proof against the tooth of Time as long as Scotland has a heart to feel and ears to hear. CHAPTER VII CONCLUSION Though long on Time's dark whirlpool tossed, The song is saved; the bard is lost. _The Ettrick Shepherd._ Ballad poetry is a phrase of elastic and variable meaning. In the national repertory there are Ballads Satirical, Polemical, and Political, and even Devotional and Doctrinal, of as early date as many of the songs inspired by the spirit of Love, War, and Romance. Among them they represent the diverse strands that are blended in the Scottish character--the sombre and the bright; the prose and the poetry. The one or the other has predominated in the expression of the genius of the nation in verse, according to the circumstances and mood of the time. But neither has ever been really absent; they are the opposite sides of the same shield. It is not proposed to enter here into the ballad literature of the didactic type--the 'ballads with a purpose'--either by way of characterisation or example. In further distinction from the authors of the specimens of old popular song, the writers of many or most of them are known to us, at least by name, and are among the most honoured and familiar in our literature. Towards the unlettered bards of the traditional ballads, who 'saved other names, but left their own unsung,' the more serious and self-conscious race of poets who wrote satire and allegory and homily on the same model have generally thought themselves entitled to assume an attitude of superiority and even of disapproval. The verse of those self-taught rhymers was rude and simple, and wanting in those conventional ornaments, borrowed from classic or other sources, which for the time being were the recognised hallmarks of poesy; the moral lessons it taught were not apparent, nor even discoverable. It is curious to note how early this tone of reprobation, of contempt, or at best of kindly condescension on the part of the official priesthood of letters towards the humble tribe of balladists asserts itself, and how long it endures. Even Edmund Spenser, as quoted by Scott in the _Minstrelsy_, reproves the Irish bards and rhymsters, as he might have done their Scottish brethren, because 'for little reward or the share of a stolen cow' they 'seldom use to choose the doings of good men for the arguments of their poems,' but, on the contrary, those of such men as live 'lawlessly and licentiously upon stealths and spoyles,' whom they praise to the people, and set up as an example to young men. A poetaster of the beginning of the seventeenth century prays his printer that his book 'be not with your Ballads mixt,' and that 'it come not brought on pedlars' backs to common Fairs'--a prayer fulfilled to the letter. And down even to our own century, a host of collectors, adaptors, and imitators have spoken patronisingly of the elder ballads, and foisted on them additions and ornaments that have not always or often been improvements. The whirligig of time has brought in its revenges; and the final judgment passed by posterity upon the respective claims of the formal verse and the 'unpremeditated lay' of earlier centuries, has in large measure reversed that of the age in which they were born. The former, and particularly where it undertook to scourge the vices, the heresies, and the follies of the period, lacks entirely that air of simplicity and spontaneity--that 'wild-warlock' lilt, that 'wild happiness of thought and expression'--which, in the phrase of Robert Burns, marks 'our native manner and language' in ballad poetry certainly not less than in lyrical song. The laureated bard, honoured of the Court and blessed by the Church, is deposed from his pride of place, in the affections and remembrance of the people at least, while the chant of the unknown minstrel of 'the hedgerow and the field' goes sounding on in deeper and widening volume through the great heart of the race, and is hailed as the one true ballad voice. Among the subjects which the Moral and Satirical Ballad selected for censure were, it will be seen, the themes and the heroes of the humble broadsheets sung at the common fairs and carried in the pedlar's pack. Nor are we to wonder at this. Much of the contents of that pack is better forgotten. Much even of what has been preserved might have been allowed to drop into oblivion, without loss to posterity and with gain to the character and reputation of the 'good old times.' The balladists--those of the early broadsheets at least--could be gross on occasion; although, it must be owned, not more gross than the dramatists of Elizabethan and Restoration times, and even the novelists of last century, sometimes deigned to be. In particular, they made the mistake, of venerable date and not quite unknown to this day, of confounding humour with coarseness. A humorous ballad is usually a thing to be fingered gingerly. Yet, although (partly for the reason hinted at) humour has been said not to be a strongly marked element of the flower of our ballad poetry, there are many of the best of them that have imbedded in them a rich and genuine vein of comic wit or broad fun; and there are also what may be classed as Humorous Ballads proper (or improper as the case may be), which reflect more plainly and frankly, perhaps, than any other department of our literature, the customs, character, and amusements of the commonalty, and have exercised an important influence on the national poets and poetry of a later day. Of the blending of the humorous with the romantic, an excellent example is found in the ballad of _Earl Richard and the Carl's Daughter_. The Princess, disguised in beggar's duds, keeps on the hook the deluded and disgusted knight, who has unwillingly taken her up behind him, and with wilful and lively wit draws for him pictures of the squalid home and fare with which she is familiar, until it is her good time and pleasure to undeceive him: 'She said, "Good-e'en, ye nettles tall, Where ye grow at the dyke; If the auld carline my mother was here Sae weel 's she wad ye pike. How she wad stap ye in her poke, I wot she wadna fail; And boil ye in her auld brass pan, And o' ye mak' good kail." · · · · · "Awa', awa', ye ill woman, Your vile speech grieveth me; When ye hide sae little for yoursel' Ye 'll hide far less for me." "Gude-e'en, gude-e'en, ye heather berries, As ye grow on yon hill; If the auld carline and her bags were here, I wot she would get her fill. Late, late at night I knit our pokes, Wi' four-and-twenty knots; And in the morn, at breakfast-time I 'll carry the keys o' your locks." · · · · · "But if you are a carl's daughter, As I take you to be, Where did you get the gay clothing In greenwood was on thee?" "My mother she 's a poor woman, But she nursed earl's children three, And I got it from a foster-sister, To beguile such sparks as thee."' Of the ballads descriptive of old country sports and merry-making that have come down to us, the most famous are _Christ's Kirk on the Green_ and _Peblis to the Play_. They lead us back to times when life in Scotland was not such a 'serious' thing as it afterwards became--when, under the patronage of the Court or of the Church, Miracle-plays or Moralities were played on the open sward in such places of resort for gentle and simple as Falkland and Stirling and Peebles and Cupar; and the strain of the more solemn mumming was relieved for the benefit of the common folks, by rough jests, horse-play, and dancing, in which their betters freely joined. No doubt it was a piece of sage church and state policy to keep the minds of the people off the dangerous questions that began to be stirring in them, by aid of these scenes of 'dancing and derray,' and of almost Rabelaisian fits of mirth and laughter, the savour of which remained long after they had been placed under the ban of a sterner ecclesiastical rule. Leslie in Fife and Leslie in Aberdeen are competitors for having given the inspiration to _Christ's Kirk on the Green_, to which Allan Ramsay afterwards added a second part in the same vein. But whether these passages of boisterous merriment, in which 'licht-skirtit lasses and girning gossips' play their part happed under the green Lomond or at Dunideer, there can be no question of the national popularity which the piece long enjoyed. Pope declared that a Scot would fight in his day for its superiority over English ballads; and the author of _Tullochgorum_, in a letter to Robert Burns, tells us that at the age of twelve he had it by heart, and had even tried to turn it into Latin verse. In _Peblis to the Play_, the fun is not less nimble although it is a whit more restrained; there is an infectious spirit of spring-time and gaiety in the strain that sings of the festal gathering at Beltane, when burgesses and country folks fared forth 'be firth and forest,' all 'graithed full gay' to take part in the sports. 'All the wenches of the west' were up and stirring by cock-crow, selecting, rejecting, or comparing their tippets, hoods, and curches. Not only Peebles, but 'Hop-Kailzie, and Cardronow, Gaderit out thick-fald, With "Hey and how rohumbelow" The young folk were full bald. The bag-pipe blew, and they out-threw Out of the townis untald, Lord, what a shout was them amang Quhen thai were ower the wald Their west Of Peblis to the play!' From a phrase used by John Major, it has been suggested that James I. of Scots was the writer of this poem; and a note on the Bannatyne MS. of _Christ's Kirk_ attributes that companion poem to the same royal authorship. In spite of the adverse judgment pronounced by Professors Guest and Skeat, it does not seem an inconceivable thing that the monarch who wrote the _King's Quair_, and whose daughter kissed the lips of Alain Chartier as the reward of France for his sweet singing, should have written these strains descriptive of rural jollity in localities where the court and sovereign are known to have often resorted for hunting and other diversion. The cast and language of the poems appear, however, to belong to a later date; and the quaint stanza, afterwards employed in a modified form with such effect by Fergusson and Burns, is that used by Alexander Scot in _The Justing at the Drum_, and in other burlesque pieces of the early or middle period of the sixteenth century. A much more taking tradition is that which assigns them to the adventure-loving 'Commons King,' James V. They are thoroughly after the 'humour'--using the word in the Elizabethan as well as in the ordinary sense--of the wandering 'Red Tod'; who has also been held to be the inspirer, if not the author, of those excellent humorous ballads--among the best of their kind to be found in any language--_The Gaberlunzie Man_ and _The Jolly Beggar_. From the moral point of view, these pieces may, perhaps, come under Spenser's condemnation of the rhymers who sing of amatory adventures in which love is no sooner asked than it is granted. But the balladist carries everything before him by the verve and good humour and pawky wit of his song. There are touches worthy of the comedy spirit of Molière in the description, in _The Gaberlunzie Man_, of the good-wife's alternate blessing and banning as she makes her morning discoveries about the 'silly poor man' whom she has lodged over night: 'She gaed to the bed whair the beggar lay; The strae was cauld, he was away; She clapt her hands, cry'd, "Dulefu' day! For some of our gear will be gane." Some ran to coffer and some to kist, But nought was stown that could be mist, She danced her lane, cry'd, "Praise be blest, I 've lodg'd a leal poor man. Since naething awa, as we can learn, The kirn 's to kirn, and milk to yearn, Gae but the house, lass, and waken my bairn, And bid her come quickly ben." The servant gaed where the dochter lay-- The sheets were cauld, she was away; And fast to the goodwife did say "She 's aff wi' the gaberlunzie man." "O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, And haste ye, find these traitors again; For she 's be burnt, and he 's be slain, The wearifu' gaberlunzie man."' _The Jolly Beggar_ is a variation of the same tale from the book of the moonlight rovings of the 'Guidman o' Ballengeich,' with the same vigour and lively humour, and with the bloom of the old ballad minstrelsy upon it besides: 'He took his horn from his side, And blew baith loud and shrill, And four-and-twenty belted knights Came skipping o'er the hill. And he took out his little knife, Loot a' his duddies fa'; And he stood the brawest gentleman That was amang them a'.' Other excellent specimens of old Scottish humour have come down to us in ballad form, some of them made more familiar to our ears in modernised versions or paraphrases in which, along with the roughnesses, much of the force and quaint drollery of the originals has been smoothed away. Of such is _The Wyf of Auchtermuchty_, a Fife ballad, full of local colour and character, the production of 'Sir John Moffat,' a sixteenth century priest, who loved a merry jest, and of whom we know barely more than the name. With so many other precious fragments of our national poetry, it is preserved in the collection of George Bannatyne, the namefather of the Bannatyne Club, who beguiled the tedium of his retirement in time of plague by copying down the popular verse of his day. It is the progenitor of _John Grumlie_, and gives us a lively series of pictures of the housewifery and the husbandry, as well as the average human nature of the time, class, and locality to which it belongs. The proverb, 'The more the haste the less the speed,' has never been more humorously illustrated than in the troubles of the lazy guidman who 'weel could tipple oot a can, and neither lovit hunger nor cauld,' and who fancied that he could more easily play the housewife's part: 'Then to the kirn that he did stour, And jumbled at it till he swat; When he had jumblit ane lang hour, The sorrow crap of butter he gat. Albeit nae butter he could get, Yet he was cumbered wi' the kirn; And syne he het the milk ower het, That sorrow spark o' it wad yearn.' Of the same racy domestic type are the still popular, _The Barrin' o' the Door, Hame cam' oor Guidman at e'en_, to which, with needless ingenuity, it has been sought to give a Jacobite significance, and _Allan o' Maut_, an allegorical account of the genesis of 'barley bree.' Of this last, also, Bannatyne has noted a version which was probably in vogue in the first half of the sixteenth century. Even the hand of Burns, who has produced, in _John Barleycorn_, the final form of the ballad, could not give us more vigorous and trenchant Scots than is contained in the verses of this venerable rhyme in Jamieson's collection: 'He first grew green, syne grew he white, Syne a' men thocht that he was ripe; And wi' crookit gullies and hafts o' tree, They 've hew'd him down, right dochtilie. · · · · · The hollin souples, that were sae snell, His back they loundert, mell for mell, Mell for mell, and baff for baff, Till his hide flew round his lugs like chaff.' Three (if not four) generations of the Semples of Beltrees carried the tradition of this homely type of native poetry, with its strong gust and relish of life, and the Dutch-like breadth and fidelity of its pictures of the character and humours of common folk, over the period from the Scottish Reformation to the Revolution; and are remembered by such pieces as _The Packman's Paternoster_, _The Piper o' Kilbarchan_, _The Blithesome Bridal_, and, best and most characteristic of all, _Maggie Lauder_. The 'business of the Reformation of Religion' did not go well with ballad-making or with the roystering fun of the fair and the play. In the stern temper to which the nation was wrought in the struggle to cast out abuses in the faith and practice of the Church and to assert liberty of judgment, the feigned adventures of knights and the sorrows of love-crossed maids seemed to cease for a time to exercise their spell over the fancy of the people. The open-air gatherings and junketings on feast and saints' days, with their attendant mirth and music, were too closely associated with the old ecclesiastical rule, and had too many scandals and excesses connected with them, to escape censure from the new Mentors and conscience-keepers of the nation. When, a little later, the spirit of Puritanism came in, mirth and music, and more particularly the dance, became themselves suspect. They savoured of the follies of this world, and were among the wiles most in use by the Wicked One in snaring souls. The flowers were cut down along with the weeds by those root-and-branch men--only to spring up again, both of them, in due season, more luxuriantly than ever. There were other and cogent reasons why the exploits of 'Jock o' the Side' and his confreres should be frowned upon and listened to with impatience. The time for Border feud and skirmish was already well-nigh past. Industry and knowledge and the pacific arts of life were making progress. The moss-trooper was already becoming an anachronism and a pestilent nuisance, to be put down by the relentless arm of the law, before the Union of the Crowns. Half a century or more before that event, this opinion had been formed of the reiving clans by their quieter and more thoughtful neighbours, as is manifest from the biting allusions of Sir David Lyndsay and Sir Richard Maitland. But after King James's going to England, even the balladists were chary of lifting up a voice in praise of the freebooters of the former Marches. Men were busy finding and fitting themselves to new ideals of patriotism and duty. The gift and the taste for ballad poetry disappeared, or rather went into retirement for a time, to reappear in other forms at a later call of loyalty and romanticism. The _Gude and Godlie Ballates_ of the Wedderburns had been deliberately produced and circulated by the Reformers, with the avowed intention, as Sheriff Mackay says, of 'driving the old amatory and romantic ballads out of the field, and substituting spiritual songs, set to the same tunes--much as revivalists of the present day have adopted older secular melodies.' But nothing enduring is to be done, in the field of poetry, by mere dint of determination and good intent. If the older songs succumbed for a time to the new spiritual melodies, we may feel sure that it was not without a struggle. On the Borders and in the Highlands, the Original Adam asserted himself, in deed and in song, long after the more sober mind of Fife, Lanark, and the West Country had given itself up to the solution of the new theological and ecclesiastical problems which time and change had brought to the nation. The Reformers complained that the fighting clans of the Western Marches could only with difficulty be induced to turn their thoughts from the hereditary business of the quarrel of the Kingdoms to take up instead the quarrel of the Kirk. Even so late as the Covenanting period, Richard Cameron found it hard work 'to set the fire of hell to the tails' of the Annandale men. They came to the field meetings 'out of mere curiosity, to see a minister preach in a tent, and people sit on the ground'--in a spirit not unlike that in which the people used to gather at _Peblis to the Play_ or _Christ's Kirk on the Green_, to mingle a pinch of piety and priestly Moralities with a bellyful of carnal delights. It was not until the preacher had denounced them as 'offspring of thieves and robbers,' that some of them began to 'get a merciful cast.' This, too, changed in the course of time, and having once caught fire, the religious enthusiasm of the marchmen kindled into a brilliant glow, or smouldered with a fervent heat. They flung themselves into the front of Kirk controversy, as they did also into more peaceable pursuits, such as sheep-farming and tweed manufacture, with the same hearty energy which aforetime was expended upon raids into Cumberland and Northumberland. But through all the changes and distractions of the three centuries since the Warden's men met with merriment and parted with blows at the Reidswire, the old ballad music--the voice of the blood; the very speech and message of the hills and streams--has sounded like a softly-played accompaniment to the strenuous labour of the race with hand and head--a reminder of the men and the thoughts of 'the days of other years.' At times, in the strife of Church or State, or in the chase of gain, the magic notes of this 'Harp of the North' may have sunk low, may have become nigh inaudible. But in the pauses when the nation could listen to the rhythmic beat of its own heart, the sound has made itself heard and felt like the noise of many waters or the sough of the wind in the tree-tops; it is music that can never die out of the land. Its echo has never been wholly missed by Dee and Earn and Girvan; certainly never by Yarrow and Teviot and Tweed. The 'Spiritual Songs'--the 'Gude and Godlie Ballates'--are lost, or are remembered only by the antiquary; not indeed because they were spiritual, or because they were written by worthy men with good intent--for the Scottish Psalms, sung to their traditional melodies, touch a still deeper chord in the natural breast than the ballads--but because they lacked the sap of life, the beauty and the passion of nature's own teaching, which only can give immortality to song. There is a 'Harp of the Covenant', and in it there are piercing wails wrung from a people almost driven frantic with suffering and oppression. But the popular lays of the civil wars and commotions of the seventeenth century are few in number, and singularly wanting in those touches of grace and tenderness and kindly humour that somehow accompany the very roughest and most trenchant of the earlier ballads, like the bloom and fragrance that adorn the bristling thickets of the native whin on the slopes of the Eildons or Arthur Seat. The times were harsh and crabbed, and the song they yielded was like unto themselves. There are ballads of the _Battle of Pentland_, of _Bothwell Brig_, of _Killiecrankie_, and, to make a leap into another century, of _Sheriffmuir_. But they are memorable for the passion of hatred and scorn that is in them, rather than for their merits as poetry--for girdings, from one side or the other, at 'cruel Claver'se' and the red-shanked Highlandmen that slew the hope of the Covenant, or at the 'Riven hose and ragged hools, Sour milk and girnin' gools, Psalm beuks and cutty stools' of Whiggery. After a time of dearth, however, Scottish poetry began to revive; and one of the earliest signs was the attention that began to be paid to the anonymous ballads of the country. It is curious that the first printed collection of them should have been almost contemporary with that merging of the Parliaments of the two kingdoms, which, according to the fears and beliefs of the time, was to have made an end of the nationality and identity of the smaller and poorer of the countries. It was in 1706--the year before the Union--that James Watson's _Serious and Comic Scots Poems_ made their appearance, prompted, conceivably, by the impulse to grasp at what seemed to be in danger of being lost. Of infinitely greater importance in the history of our ballad literature was the appearance, some eighteen years later, of Allan Ramsay's _Evergreen_ and _Tea-Table Miscellany_. It was a fresh dawning of Scottish poetry. Warmth, light, and freedom seemed to come again into the frozen world. The blithe and genial spirit of the black-avised little barber-poet was itself the greatest imaginable contrast to the soured Puritanism and prim formalism that for half a century and more had infested the national letters. But the author of _The Gentle Shepherd_ himself--and small blame to him--did not fully comprehend the nature and extent of his mission. He did not wholly rid himself from the prevalent idea that the simple natural turn of the old verse was naked rudeness which it was but decent and charitable to deck with the ornaments of the time before it could be made presentable in polite society; indeed he himself, in later editions especially, tried his hand boldly at emendation, imitation, and continuation. For a generation or two longer, the ballad suffered from these attentions of the modish muse. Yet the original spark of inspiration was not extinct; in the Border valleys especially--its native country, as we have called it--there were strains that 'bespoke the harp of ancient days.' Of Lady Grizel Baillie's lilts, composed at 'Polwarth on the Green' or at Mellerstain--classic scenes of song and of legend, both of them--mention has been made; they have on them the very dew of homely shepherd life, closed about by the hills, of 'forest charms decayed and pastoral melancholy.' The Wandering Violer, also, 'Minstrel Burne,' from whom Scott may have taken the hint of the 'last of all the bards who sang of Border chivalry'--caught an echo, in _Leader Haughs_, of the grief and changes 'which fleeting Time procureth.' 'For many a place stands in hard case Where blyth folks ken'd nae sorrow, With Humes that dwelt on Leaderside, And Scotts that wonned in Yarrow.' His song, with its notes of native sweetness and its artificial garnishing of classic allusions, marks the passing of the old ballad style into the new. Jane Elliot, too, a descendant of that Gibbie Elliot--'the laird of Stobs, I mean the same'--who refused to come to the succour of Telfer's kye, listened to the murmuring of the 'mining Rule' and looked up towards the dark skirt and threatening top of Ruberslaw, as she crooned the old fragment which her fancy shaped into that lilting before daybreak of the lasses at the ewe-milking, turned ere night into wailing for the lost Flowers of the Forest. Her contemporary, Mrs. Cockburn, who wrote the more hackneyed set of the same Border lament, was of the ancient race of Rutherford of Wauchope in the same romantic Border district,--a district wherein James Thomson, of _The Seasons_, spent his childhood from almost his earliest infancy, and where the prototype of Scott's Dandie Dinmont, James Davidson of 'Note o' the Gate,' sleeps sound under a green heap of turf. To trace the Teviotdale dynasty of song further in the female line, Mrs. Cockburn's niece, Mrs. Scott, was that 'guidwife o' Wauchope-house,' who addressed an ode to her 'canty, witty, rhyming ploughman,' Robert Burns, with an invitation to visit her on the Border--an invitation which the poet accepted, and on the way thither, as he relates, chanced upon 'Esther (Easton), a very remarkable woman for reciting poetry of all kinds, and sometimes making Scots doggerel of her own.' Meanwhile, in other parts of the country, the search for and the study of the remains of the old and popular poetry was making progress. With this had come a truer appreciation of its beauty and its spirit, and the return of a measure of the earlier gift of spontaneous song. The fancy of Scotland was kindled by the tale of the '45. Her poetic heart beat in sympathy with the 'Lost Cause'--after it was finally lost; even while her reason and judgment remained, on the whole, true to the side and to the principles that were victorious. Men who were almost Jacobin in their opinion--Robert Burns is a prime example--became Jacobite when they donned their singing robes. The faults and misdeeds of the Stewarts were forgotten in their misfortunes. In the gallant but ruinous 'cast for the crown' of the native dynasty, the national lyre found once more a theme for song and ballad. 'Drummossie moor, Drummossie day' drew laments as for another Flodden; and 'Johnnie Cope,' in his flight from the field of Prestonpans, was pursued more relentlessly by mocking rhymes than by Highland claymores. A rush of Jacobite song, which had the great good fortune to be wedded to music not less witching than itself, followed rather than attended the Rebellion; and has become among the most precious and permanent of the nation's possessions in the sphere of poetry. Whichever side had the better in the sword-play, there can be no doubt which has won the triumph in the piping. Song and music have given the Stewart cause its revenge against fortune; and Prince Charlie, and not Cumberland, will remain for all time the hero of the cycle of song that commemorates the last romantic episode in our domestic annals. Jacobite poetry has been lyrical for the most part. But the ballad--narrative in form and dramatic in spirit--has not been neglected. In a host of singers, Caroline Oliphant, Baroness Nairne, wears the laurel crown of the Jacobite Muse, and Strathearn is the chief centre of inspiration. But the authoress of _The Auld Hoose_, and _The Land o' the Leal_, also wrote ballads of cheery and pawky, yet 'genty' humour that have caught and held the popular ear, as witness the immortal _Laird of Cockpen_. Hamilton of Bangour, who was 'out' in the '45, had struck anew the lyre of Yarrow in _Busk ye, busk ye!_ Fife could already 'cock her crest' over Elizabeth Halkett, Lady Wardlaw, a balladist whose verse, acknowledged and unacknowledged, had many genuine touches 'of the antique manner;' and Lady Anne Barnard, a granddaughter of Colin, Earl of Balcarres, whose career was one of the romances of the '15 and of the House of Lindsay, was able to tell Sir Walter Scott, so late as 1823, the story of the conception and birth of her _Auld Robin Gray_, which also, on its first anonymous appearance, was taken by some as 'a very, very ancient ballad, composed perhaps by David Rizzio.' As with so many other ballads--perhaps as with most of them--the inspiration of the words was caught from a beautiful and still older air--'an ancient Scotch melody,' says Lady Anne, 'of which I was passionately fond; Sophy Johnstone used to sing it to us at Balcarres.' The date of this, perhaps the sweetest of our modern ballads, is fixed approximately by the gifted writer 'as soon after the close of the year 1771'--perhaps the first approach that can be made to the timing a ballad's birth. Walter Scott, also, was born in the latter half of 1771. Burns was then fifteen years of age, 'beardless, young, and blate,' but already, as he wrote to the 'guidwife of Wauchope-house,' with 'The elements o' sang In formless jumble right an' wrang Wild floating in his brain.' Already the wish was 'strongly heaving the breast' of that young Ayrshire ploughman, 'That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least.' Galloway had by this time taken up again its rough old lyre. Away in the North--in the Mearns and in Buchan, old homes of the ballad--the Reverend John Skinner had written his genial songs of _Tullochgorum_, _The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn_ and the rest, that seem to thrill with the piercing and stirring notes of fiddle and pipes, being moved thereto, as he has told us, by his daughters, 'who, being all good singers, plagued me for words to their favourite tunes.' Fergusson was celebrating, in an old stanza, shortly to be made world-famous, the high jinks on Leith Links. Everywhere, from the Moray Firth to the Cheviots, and from the East Neuk of Fife to Maidenkirk, there were preludings for the new and splendid burst of Scottish song, that by and by broke from the banks of Ayr and Doon. The service rendered by the genius of Burns in quickening and purifying Scottish song and ballad poetry has often been acknowledged. It was, indeed, beyond all measure and praise. But recognition, has not, perhaps, been made so fully and frequently of what our 'King of Song' owed to the popular poetry of country people and elder times--and notably to the ballads--that have been handed down by memory rather than books. His was not an isolated phenomenon, blazing up meteor-like without visible cause or prompting. His poetry is rather the culminating effect of an impulse that had been making itself felt for generations. It was like one of those grand bale-fires of the days of peril and watching, whose sudden gleam made the blood stir in the veins, and turned men's faces skywards, but which caught its message from distant points of light that to us seem almost swallowed in the surrounding darkness. Burns had an inimitable ear for ballad feeling and for ballad rhythm and music. But, except for some vigorous satiric, political, and bacchanalian chants of his own, and the recasting of a few of the old-fashioned and lively rhymes like _The Carl o' Kellyburn Braes_ that were not out of the need of being cleaned and furbished to please a more fastidious age, he could scarcely be called a ballad writer. His special sphere in the restoration and preservation of the old was in lyrical poetry. What Robert Burns achieved for the songs, however, Walter Scott did for the ballads and prose legends of Scotland. The appearance of the _Border Minstrelsy_ makes 1802 the red-letter year in the later annals of the Scottish Ballad. More than twenty years before, the little lame boy, with the good blood of two Border clans, the Scotts and the Rutherfords, in his veins, had lain on the braes of Sandyknowe, and had drunk in through all his senses the history and romance of the Borderland. He had heard from the 'aged hind,' or at the 'winter hearth,' the old tales of woe and mirth; wild conjurings of superstition or real events that, although nearer then by a hundred years than they are to-day, had already been magnified, distorted, glorified in passing through the medium of the popular memory. His dreaming fancy did the rest. Looking from his point of vantage across the fair valley of the Tweed to the blue chain of Cheviot, every notch in which was 'a gate and passage of the thief,' every fold below it, the site of some battle or story of old, 'Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood, And all down Teviotdale,' he was able to repeople the scene as it was when ballad romance was not only written but lived: 'I marvelled as the aged hind With some strange tale bewitched my mind, Of forayers, who with headlong force Down from that strength had spurred their horse. · · · · · And ever, by the winter hearth, Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, Of lovers' slights, of ladies charms, Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms; Of patriot battles won of old By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold.' There could not have been a more 'meet nurse for a poetic child' than the green slopes, the black rocks, and the grey keep, reflected in its still 'lochan,' of Scott's ancestral home at Sandyknowe. Dryburgh, Melrose, and Kelso, are hidden in the valley below. The huge square tower of Hume--'Willie Wastle's' castle--stands on the same sky-line as Smailholm peel itself, keeping guard along with it over the passes and marches of the ancient Scottish Kingdom. Wrangholm is near by, where St. Cuthbert dreamed and played boyish sports before he set forth on his mission to christianise Northumbria. Bemerside, the Broom o' the Cowdenknowes, and the Rhymer's Tower are not far off; Huntly Bank is also where True Thomas lay alone listening to the throstle and the jay, under the Eildon tree, and 'Was war of a lady gay Come rydyng ouyr a fair le'; Mellerstain, whence the hero of _James Haitlie_ rode to find favour in the eyes of the king's daughter, and where Grizel Hume and the Mellerstain Maid afterwards sung notes as wild and sweet and fresh as ever came from fairyland; and many a famous spot besides. The three-headed Eildons are in sight, with Dunion, Ruberslaw, Penielheugh, Minto Crags, Lilliard's Edge, and all the Border high places. Here Scott's poetic fancy was born; and he paid it only to the tribute that was due when he made it the scene of the finest of the modern ballads of its class, the _Eve of St. John_. As a shrine of pilgrimage for the lover of ballad lore, Smailholm and Sandyknowe should rank next after, if they should not take precedence of the Vale of Yarrow. Six years before Scott's birth, while Burns was just a toddler, Bishop Percy's _Reliques_ had seen the light. The chief gathering ground of this celebrated collection was on the English side of the Border, but was not confined to ballad poetry. But it brought to some of the choicest of our ballads, such as _Sir Patrick Spens_, a fame and vogue such as they had never before enjoyed in the world without; and it profoundly influenced the poetic thought and taste of Scotland, as of every land where song was loved and English speech was spoken. One effect was seen in the more strictly Scottish collections of fragments of ballad verse that began soon after to issue from the press. Herd's, the 'first classical collection of Scottish songs and ballads,' as Scott calls it, appeared in 1769; that of Lord Hailes 1770; and Pinkerton's in 1781 and 1783. The publication in 1787 of the first volume of Johnson's _Museum_ was one of the fruitful results to the national poetry and music of the visit of Robert Burns to Edinburgh; but the impulse that brought it to the light can be traced back by sure lines to Percy. Ritson's learned labours in a still wider field came forth between 1780 and 1794; and Sibbald's _Chronicle_ was of the same year as the _Border Minstrelsy_. The age of ballad collection and collation had fairly set in. But this does not deprive the _Minstrelsy_ of the praise that, with the beginning of a new century, it ensured that the search for and rescue from oblivion of the old ballads should thenceforth be a business which, not alone the antiquary and the poet, but the whole people should make their concern. Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_ followed in 1806; and, after a pause, filled up with the appearance of fresh volumes and fresh editions of the earlier collections, the works of Kinloch, Motherwell, and Buchan came with a rush, in the years 1827-8. Of these, and other repertories of the national ballads, the number is legion, and the merits and methods as varied and diverse. There is not space to discuss and compare them, even were discussion and comparison part of the present plan. Such treatment is apt to reduce a book on ballads and balladists to what Charles G. Leland terms 'mere logarithmic tables of variants.' First came the harvesters; and then those who were content to glean where the others had left. As matter of course and of necessity the readings, and even the structure of the pieces picked up from oral recitation and singing, presented endless points of difference according to the locality and to the individual singer or collector. As has been said, each old piece of popular poetry, before it has been fixed in print, and even after, takes a certain part of its colour and character from the minds and memories through which it has been strained. As an illustration of this, in another field, one might mention that Pastor Hurt, when he set about, a few years ago, gathering the fragments of Esthonian folk literature, obtained contributions from 633 different collectors, most of them simple peasants, and as the result of three and a half years' work, he brought together 'of epics, lyrics, wedding songs, etc., upwards of 20,000 specimens; of tales about 3000; of proverbs about 18,000; of riddles, about 20,000, besides a large collection of magical formulæ, superstitions, and the like.' These figures include variants of the same tale or ballad theme, of which there were in some cases as many as 160. The Scottish ballads may scarce be so multitudinous and protean a host as this. But the search for them, and the choice of them when discovered, have given infinite exercise to the industry, the judgment, and the patience of successive editors; and literature has no more curious and romantic chapter than that which deals with ballad collecting and collectors. The latter, in Scotland as elsewhere, have not been free from the human liability to err--few men have been less so. As Percy admitted _Hardyknut_ and other examples of the pseudo-antique among his specimens of 'Old Romance Poetry,' Scott's critical acumen did not avail to detect brazen forgeries of Surtees, like _Barthram's Dirge_ and _The Death of Featherstonhaugh_. In Cromek's _Relics of Galloway Song_ were somewhat palpable 'fakements' of Allan Cunningham; William Motherwell and Peter Buchan made their egregious blunders, and even such careful and experienced antiquaries as Joseph Ritson and David Laing slipped on the dark and broken and intricate paths which they sought to explore. On the whole it can hardly be regretted that our ballad collections bear the impress of the idiosyncrasies of the individual ballad-hunters, as well as of the game they pursued and the district they coursed over. Scott made his bag, as he tells us, chiefly 'during his early youth,' among 'the shepherds and aged persons in the recesses of the Border mountains,' who 'remembered and repeated the warlike songs of their fathers.' They were gathered on those long pedestrian excursions, with Shortreed or with Leyden (himself a balladist), which were themselves often as full of incident, and of the seeds of future romance, as any old Border raid. The great Master of Romance was, as one of his companions said, 'makin' himsel' a' the time.' Dandie Dinmont, whom the author of _Guy Mannering_ sketches from the traits of a dozen honest yeomen and store farmers, whose hospitality he had shared in his rambles through the wilds of Liddesdale, would a few generations earlier have been a stark moss-trooper, ready to ride to the rescue of Kinmont Willie or to seek his 'beef and kail' in the Merse. The raid on Habbie Elliot of the Heughfoot is but a 'variant' of the lifting of Telfer's kye; and _Wandering Willie's Tale_, if it had been cast in verse, would have been the pick of our ballads of 'glamourie,' instead of the choicest of short prose stories. The rhyme and air that haunted the memory of Henry Bertram--what are they but an echo out of Scott's own romantic youth--out of the enchanted land of ballad poetry? '"Are these the Links of Forth," she said, "Or are they the crooks of Dee, Or the bonnie woods o' Warroch-head That I so fain would see?"' It was on one of these excursions up Ettrick that Scott forgathered with Margaret Laidlaw, the mother of the 'Shepherd,' and the repository of an inexhaustible store of fairy tales, songs and ballads, which, as she declared, the compiler of the _Border Minstrelsy_ 'spoiled' by transmitting to print. But the richest and rarest of his 'finds' was Hogg himself. He was nursed in the lap of the Forest and cradled in ballad and fairy lore. Here was the 'heart of pathos' of the older poetry; the head buzzing with its wild fancies; 'the sang o' the linty amang the broom in the spring'; and along with these the shaggy front, the strong hand-grips, the loyalty, and the sturdy sense that are the far-descended inheritance of the Border farmer and shepherd. Surely, to parody his own words, those who love to listen to Allan Ramsay and Burns and Scott, and to the nameless Balladists who were their masters and teachers, will 'never forget a'thegither the Ettrick Shepherd.' More important, however, even than the materials gathered by Scott from the lips of Mrs. Hogg and other Border ballad reciters, or from the Glenriddell MSS., was the golden mine of old poetry, for the preservation of which he and the nation were indebted to the taste and retentive memory of Mrs. Brown, daughter of Professor Thomas Gordon, of King's College, Aberdeen, and wife of a minister of Falkland, in the beginning of the century. There are in existence three MSS. of the songs and ballads this lady was able to remember as sung to her on Deeside; and transcription of her father's account of this precious collection, as the story is told by him in a letter to Mr. A. Fraser Tytler, and by him communicated to Scott, may best and most authentically explain its origin:-- 'An aunt of my children, Mrs. Farquhar, now dead, who was married to the proprietor of a small estate near the sources of the Dee, in Braemar, a good old woman who spent the best part of her life among flocks and herds, resided in her latter days in the town of Aberdeen. She was possessed of a most tenacious memory, which retained all the songs she had heard from nurses and country-women in that sequestered part of the country. Being maternally fond of my children when young, she had them much about her, and delighted them with her songs and tales of chivalry. My youngest daughter, Mrs. Brown, at Falkland, is blessed with a memory as good as her aunt, and has almost the whole of her songs by heart. In conversation, I mentioned them to your father (William Tytler, the champion of Mary Stuart) at whose request my grandson, Mr. Scott, wrote down a parcel of them as her aunt sung them. Being then a mere novice in music, he added, in the copy, such musical notes as, he supposed, would give your father some notion of the airs, or rather lilts, to which they were sung.' To all those whose names are mentioned in the above extract, Scotland and poetry owe a deep debt of gratitude. But here again, although men, and men of learning, have borne their part in the salvage, it is to the 'spindle side,' and to simple country ears and memories, that the main acknowledgment is due for saving what it would have been a calamity to lose. What may almost be described as the 'classical text' of some of the finest of our ballads, is that obtained by collation of the Brown 'sets,' of which the fullest is that originally owned by Robert Jamieson, which reappears in revised form in one of the copies possessed by Miss Tytler. From the circumstances of its origin, this text has something of a North Country cast, even where it deals with a South Country theme. But the three divisions of the land, the North, the Centre, and the South, bear a share of the credit of its preservation. The ballads were gathered by Deeside; they were sung and recited under Lomond Law; they were brought before the world by a Borderer. No such 'finds' are to be looked for any longer. The ground has been for the most part well reaped and gleaned. Only a few ears are to be picked up that have escaped the notice of previous collectors; although, within the last quarter of a century, in quiet corners like the Enzie and Buchan and the Cabrach, the late Dean Christie was still able to gather from the lips of old peasant and fisher women specimens both of ballads and ballad airs that had never been in print. The chief work for half a century has been that of comparing, collating, and critically annotating the materials already found, and reference need only be made to the monumental work in eight volumes of Professor Child, in which the subject of the origins, affinities, variants and genuine text of both the Scottish and English ballads has been thoroughly worked out and brought nearly down to date. The Ballads themselves have done a greater work. They have permeated and revived the poetry and literature of the century like a draught of rare old wine. The greatest of our modern poets have been proud to acknowledge what they owe to the forgotten minstrels who have not sent down to us out of the darkness, along with their song, so much as their name. Wordsworth, as well as Scott, pored entranced over Percy's _Reliques_. Coleridge, Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne, and a host besides, have drunk delight and found inspiration in the Scottish ballad minstrelsy; and it has awakened a responsive chord in the lyre of the poets of America. As enthusiastic old Christopher North wrote, 'Perhaps none of us ever wrote verses of any worth who had not been more or less readers of our old ballads.' 'The Bards are lost, The song is saved.' 
20624	----	[Transcriber's Note: This text file comes in two formats, Latin-1 and ASCII (7-bit). In the ASCII-7 version, some information will be lost. The affected characters-- all lower-case-- are æ ë ï ü ÿ ç ae e i ue y c If the two lines look identical, you are in the ASCII-7 version of the file. If anything in the first line displays as garbage, try the following global substitutions: æ >> ae ligature (single letter), or substitute ae ë ï ü ÿ >> e i u y with umlaut or dieresis (two dots) ç >> c with cedilla, or substitute plain c The printed text used small capitals for emphasis. These have been replaced with +marks+ where appropriate. Missing lines were shown by rows of widely spaced dots (single lines). They are shown here in groups of three: ... ... ... All brackets are in the original, except when enclosing footnotes. Errors are listed at the end of the text.] _Uniform with this Volume_ POPULAR BALLADS OF THE OLDEN TIME +First Series.+ Ballads of Romance and Chivalry. 'It forms an excellent introduction to a sadly neglected source of poetry.... We ... hope that it will receive ample encouragement.' --_Athenæum._ 'It will certainly, if carried out as it is begun, constitute a boon to the lover of poetry.... We shall look with anxiety for the following volumes of what will surely be the best popular edition in existence.' --_Notes and Queries._ 'There can be nothing but praise for the selection, editing, and notes, which are all excellent and adequate. It is, in fine, a valuable volume of what bids fair to be a very valuable series.' --_Academy._ 'The most serviceable edition of the ballads yet published in England.' --_Manchester Guardian._ +Second Series.+ Ballads of Mystery and Miracle and Fyttes of Mirth. 'Even more interesting than the first.' --_Athenæum._ 'The augmenting series will prove an inestimable boon.' --_Notes and Queries._ 'It includes many beautiful and well-known ballads, and no pains have been spared by the editor in producing them, so far as may be, in their entirety.' --_World._ 'The second volume ... carries out the promise of the first.... Even after Professor Kittredge's compressed edition of Child, ... Mr. Sidgwick's work abundantly justifies its existence.' --_Manchester Guardian._ [The "First Series" is available from Project Gutenberg as e-text #20469. The "Second Series" is in preparation as of February 2007.] POPULAR BALLADS OF THE OLDEN TIME SELECTED AND EDITED BY FRANK SIDGWICK Third Series. Ballads of Scottish Tradition and Romance 'I wadna gi'e ae wheeple of a whaup for a' the nichtingales in England.' A. H. BULLEN 47 Great Russell Street London. MCMVI 'It is impossible that anything should be universally tasted and approved by a Multitude, tho' they are only the Rabble of a Nation, which hath not in it some peculiar Aptness to please and gratify the Mind of Man.' Addison. CONTENTS PAGE Map to illustrate Border Ballads _Frontispiece_ Preface vii Ballads in the Third Series ix The Hunting of the Cheviot 1 The Battle of Otterburn 16 Johnie Armstrong 30 The Braes of Yarrow 34 The Twa Brothers 37 The Outlyer Bold 40 Mary Hamilton 44 Kinmont Willie 49 The Laird o' Logie 58 Captain Car 62 Sir Patrick Spence 68 Flodden Field 71 Dick o' the Cow 75 Sir Hugh in the Grime's Downfall 89 The Death of Parcy Reed 93 Bewick and Grahame 101 The Fire of Frendraught 112 Geordie 118 The Baron of Brackley 122 The Gipsy Laddie 129 Bessy Bell and Mary Gray 133 Sir James the Rose 135 Clyde's Water 140 Katharine Jaffray 145 Lizie Lindsay 148 The Gardener 153 John o' the Side 156 Jamie Douglas 164 Waly, waly gin love be bonny 168 The Heir of Linne 170 Earl Bothwell 177 Durham Field 181 The Battle of Harlaw 194 The Laird of Knottington 200 The Whummil Bore 204 Lord Maxwell's Last Goodnight 206 Appendix-- the Jolly Juggler 211 Index of Titles 217 Index of First Lines 219 PREFACE Although a certain number of the ballads in this volume belong to England as much as to Scotland, the greater number are so intimately connected with Scottish history and tradition, that it would have been rash (to say the least) for a Southron to have ventured across the border unaided. It is therefore more than a pleasure to record my thanks to my friend Mr. A. Francis Steuart of Edinburgh, to whom I have submitted the proofs of these ballads. His extensive and peculiar knowledge of Scottish history and genealogy has been of the greatest service throughout. I must also thank Mr. C. G. Tennant for assistance with the map given as frontispiece; and my unknown friend, Messrs. Constable's reader, has supplied valuable help in detail. My self-imposed scheme of classification by subject-matter becomes no easier as the end of my task approaches. The Fourth Series will consist mainly of ballads of Robin Hood and other outlaws, including a few pirates. The projected class of 'Sea Ballads' has thus been split; _Sir Patrick Spence_, for example, appears in this volume. A few ballads defy classification, and will have to appear, if at all, in a miscellaneous section. The labour of reducing to modern spelling several ballads from the seventeenth-century orthography of the Percy Folio is compensated, I hope, by the quaint and spirited result. These lively ballads are now presented for the first time in this popular form. In _The Jolly Juggler_, given in the Appendix, I claim to have discovered a new ballad, which has not yet been treated as such, though I make bold to think Professor Child would have included it in his collection had he known of it. I trust that the publicity thus given to it will attract the attention of experts more competent than myself to annotate and illustrate it as it deserves. F. S. BALLADS IN THE THIRD SERIES I have hesitated to use the term 'historical' in choosing a general title for the ballads in this volume, although, if the word can be applied to any popular ballads, it would be applied with most justification to a large number of these ballads of Scottish and Border tradition. 'Some ballads are historical, or at least are founded on actual occurrences. In such cases, we have a manifest point of departure for our chronological investigation. The ballad is likely to have sprung up shortly after the event, and to represent the common rumo[u]r of the time. Accuracy is not to be expected, and indeed too great historical fidelity in detail is rather a ground of suspicion than a certificate of the genuinely popular character of the piece.... Two cautionary observations are necessary. Since history repeats itself, the possibility and even the probability must be entertained that every now and then a ballad which had been in circulation for some time was adapted to the circumstances of a recent occurrence, and has come down to us only in such an adaptation. It is also far from improbable that many ballads which appear to have no definite localization or historical antecedents may be founded on fact, since one of the marked tendencies of popular narrative poetry is to alter or eliminate specific names of persons and places in the course of oral tradition.'[1] [Footnote 1: Introduction (p. xvi) to _English and Scottish Popular Ballads, edited from the Collection of Francis James Child, by Helen Child Sargent and George Lyman Kittredge_, 1905. This admirable condensation of Child's five volumes, issued since my Second Series, is enhanced by Professor Kittredge's _Introduction_, the best possible substitute for the gap left in the larger book by the death of Child before the completion of his task.] Warned by these wise words, we may, perhaps, select the following ballads from the present volume as 'historical, or at least founded on actual occurrences.' (i) This section, which we may call 'Historical,' includes _The Hunting of the Cheviot_, _The Battle of Otterburn_, _Mary Hamilton_, _The Laird o' Logie_, _Captain Car_, _Flodden Field_, _The Fire of Frendraught_, _Bessy Bell and Mary Gray_, _Jamie Douglas_, _Earl Bothwell_, _Durham Field_, _The Battle of Harlaw_, and _Lord Maxwell's Last Goodnight_. Probably we should add _The Death of Parcy Reed_; possibly _Geordie_ and _The Gipsy Laddie_. More doubtful still is _Sir Patrick Spence_; and _The Baron of Brackley_ confuses two historical events. (ii) From the above section I have eliminated those which may be separately classified as 'Border Ballads.' _Sir Hugh in the Grime's Downfall_ seems to have some historical foundation, but _Bewick and Grahame_ has none. A sub-section of 'Armstrong Ballads' forms a good quartet; _Johnie Armstrong_, _Kinmont Willie_, _Dick o' the Cow_, and _John o' the Side_. (iii) In the purely 'Romantic' class we may place _The Braes of Yarrow_, _The Twa Brothers_, _The Outlyer Bold_, _Clyde's Water_, _Katharine Jaffray_, _Lizie Lindsay_, _The Heir of Linne_, and _The Laird of Knottington_. (iv) There remain a lyrical ballad, _The Gardener_; a song, _Waly, waly, gin love be bonny_; and the nondescript _Whummil Bore_. The Appendix contains a ballad, _The Jolly Juggler_, which would have come more fittingly in the First Series, had I known of it in time. In the general arrangement, however, the above classes have been mixed, in order that the reader may browse as he pleases. I A comparison of the first two ballads in this volume will show the latitude with which it is possible for an historical incident to be treated by tradition. The Battle of Otterburn was fought in 1388; but our two versions belong to the middle of the sixteenth century. The English _Battle of Otterburn_ is the more faithful to history, and refers (35.2) to 'the cronykle' as authority. _The Hunting of the Cheviot_ was in the repertory of Richard Sheale (see First Series, _Introduction_, xxvii), who ends his version in the regular manner traditional amongst minstrels. Also, we have the broadside _Chevy Chase_, which well illustrates the degradation of a ballad in the hands of the hack-writers; this may be seen in many collections of ballads. _Mary Hamilton_ has a very curious literary history. If, _pendente lite_, we may assume the facts to be as suggested, pp. 44-46, it illustrates admirably Professor Kittredge's warning, quoted above, that ballads already in circulation may be adapted to the circumstances of a recent occurrence. But the incidents--betrayal, child-murder, and consequent execution--cannot have been uncommon in courts, at least in days of old; and it is quite probable that an early story was adapted, first to the incident of 1563, and again to the Russian story of 1718. Perhaps we may remark in passing that it is a pity that so repugnant a story should be attached to a ballad containing such beautiful stanzas as the last four. _Captain Car_ is an English ballad almost contemporary with the Scottish incident which it records; and, from the fact of its including a popular burden, we may presume it was adapted to the tune. _Bessy Bell and Mary Gray_, which records a piece of Scottish news of no importance whatever, has become an English nursery rhyme. In _Jamie Douglas_ an historical fact has been interwoven with a beautiful lyric. Indeed, the chances of corruption and contamination are infinite. II The long pathetic ballad of _Bewick and Grahame_ is a link between the romantic ballads and the ballads of the Border, _Sir Hugh in the Grime's Downfall_ connecting the Border ballads with the 'historical' ballads. The four splendid 'Armstrong ballads' also are mainly 'historical,' though _Dick o' the Cow_ requires further elucidation. _Kinmont Willie_ is under suspicion of being the work of Sir Walter Scott, who alone of all ballad-editors, perhaps, could have compiled a ballad good enough to deceive posterity. We cannot doubt the excellence of _Kinmont Willie_; but it would be tedious, as well as unprofitable, to collect the hundred details of manner, choice of words, and expression, which discredit the authenticity of the ballad. _John o' the Side_ has not, I believe, been presented to readers in its present shape before. It is one of the few instances in which the English version of a ballad is better than the Scottish. III _The Braes o' Yarrow_ is a good example of the Scottish lyrical ballad, the continued rhyme being very effective. _The Twa Brothers_ has become a game, and _Lizie Lindsay_ a song. _The Outlyer Bold_ is a title I have been forced to give to a version of the ballad best known as _The Bonnie Banks o' Fordie_; this, it is true, might have come more aptly in the First Series. So also _Katharine Jaffray_, which enlarges the lesson taught in _The Cruel Brother_ (First Series, p. 76), and adds one of its own. _The Heir of Linne_ is another of the naïve, delightful ballads from the Percy Folio, and in general style may be compared with _The Lord of Learne_ in the Second Series (p. 182). IV Little is to be said of _The Gardener_ or _The Whummil Bore_, the former being almost a lyric, and the latter presumably a fragment. _Waly, waly_, is not a ballad at all, and is only included because it has become confused with _Jamie Douglas_. _The Jolly Juggler_ seems to be a discovery, and I commend it to the notice of those better qualified to deal with it. The curious fifth line added to each verse may be the work of some minstrel--a humorous addition to, or comment upon, the foregoing stanza. Certain Danish ballads exhibit this peculiarity, but I cannot find any Danish counterpart to the ballad in Prior's three volumes. THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT +The Text+ here given is that of a MS. in the Bodleian Library (Ashmole 48) of about the latter half of the sixteenth century. It was printed by Hearne, and by Percy in the _Reliques_, and the whole MS. was edited by Thomas Wright for the Roxburghe Club in 1860. In this MS. _The Hunting of the Cheviot_ is No. viii., and is subscribed 'Expliceth, quod Rychard Sheale.' Sheale is known to have been a minstrel of Tamworth, and it would appear that much of this MS. (including certain poems, no doubt his own) is in his handwriting--probably the book belonged to him. But the supposition that he was author of the _Hunting of the Cheviot_, Child dismisses as 'preposterous in the extreme.' The other version, far better known as _Chevy Chase_, is that of the Percy Folio, published in the _Reliques_, and among the Pepys, Douce, Roxburghe, and Bagford collections of ballads. For the sake of differentiation this may be called the broadside form of the ballad, as it forms a striking example of the impairment of a traditional ballad when re-written for the broadside press. Doubtless it is the one known and commented on by Addison in his famous papers (Nos. 70 and 74) in the _Spectator_ (1711), but it is not the one referred to by Sir Philip Sidney in his _Apologie_. Professor Child doubts if Sidney's ballad, 'being so evill apparelled in the dust and cobwebbes of that uncivill age,' is the traditional one here printed, which is scarcely the product of an uncivil age; more probably Sidney had heard it in a rough and ancient form, 'sung,' as he says, 'but by some blind crouder, with no rougher voyce than rude stile.' 'The Hunttis of the Chevet' is mentioned as one of the 'sangis of natural music of the antiquite' sung by the shepherds in _The Complaynt of Scotland_, a book assigned to 1549. +The Story.+--The _Hunting of the Cheviot_ is a later version of the _Battle of Otterburn_, and a less conscientious account thereof. Attempts have been made to identify the _Hunting_ with the Battle of Piperden (or Pepperden) fought in 1436 between a Percy and a Douglas. But the present ballad is rather an unauthenticated account of an historical event, which made a great impression on the public mind. Of that, its unfailing popularity on both sides of the Border, its constant appearance in broadside form, and its inclusion in every ballad-book, give the best witness. The notable deed of Witherington (stanza 54) has many parallels. All will remember the warrior who '... when his legs were smitten off He fought upon his stumps.' Tradition tells an identical story of 'fair maiden Lilliard' at the Battle of Ancrum Muir in 1545. Seneca mentions the feat. It occurs in the Percy Folio, Sir Graysteel (in _Eger and Grine_) fighting on one leg. Johnie Armstrong and Sir Andrew Barton both retire to 'bleed awhile' after being transfixed through the body. Finally, in an early saga, King Starkathr (Starkad) fights on after his head is cut off. THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 1. The Persë owt off Northombarlonde, and avowe to God mayd he That he wold hunte in the mowntayns off Chyviat within days thre, In the magger of doughtë Dogles, and all that ever with him be. 2. The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat he sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away: 'Be my feth,' sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn, 'I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may.' 3. Then the Persë owt off Banborowe cam, with him a myghtee meany, With fifteen hondrith archares bold off blood and bone; the wear chosen owt of shyars thre. 4. This begane on a Monday at morn, in Cheviat the hillys so he; The chylde may rue that ys vn-born, it wos the mor pittë. 5. The dryvars thorowe the woodës went, for to reas the dear; Bomen byckarte vppone the bent with ther browd aros cleare. 6. Then the wyld thorowe the woodës went, on every sydë shear; Greahondës thorowe the grevis glent, for to kyll thear dear. 7. This begane in Chyviat the hyls abone, yerly on a Monnyn-day; Be that it drewe to the oware off none, a hondrith fat hartës ded ther lay. 8. The blewe a mort vppone the bent, the semblyde on sydis shear; To the quyrry then the Persë went, to se the bryttlynge off the deare. 9. He sayd, 'It was the Duglas promys this day to met me hear; But I wyste he wolde faylle, verament;' a great oth the Persë swear. 10. At the laste a squyar off Northomberlonde lokyde at his hand full ny; He was war a the doughetie Doglas commynge, with him a myghttë meany. 11. Both with spear, bylle, and brande, yt was a myghtti sight to se; Hardyar men, both off hart nor hande, wear not in Cristiantë. 12. The wear twenti hondrith spear-men good, withoute any feale; The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde, yth bowndës of Tividale. 13. 'Leave of the brytlyng of the dear,' he sayd, 'and to your boÿs lock ye tayk good hede; For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne had ye never so mickle nede.' 14. The dougheti Dogglas on a stede, he rode alle his men beforne; His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede; a boldar barne was never born. 15. 'Tell me whos men ye ar,' he says, 'or whos men that ye be: Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays, in the spyt of myn and of me.' 16. The first mane that ever him an answear mayd, yt was the good lord Persë: 'We wyll not tell the whoys men we ar,' he says, 'nor whos men that we be; But we wyll hounte hear in this chays, in the spyt of thyne and of the. 17. 'The fattiste hartës in all Chyviat we have kyld, and cast to carry them away:' 'Be my troth,' sayd the doughetë Dogglas agayn, 'therfor the ton of us shall de this day.' 18. Then sayd the doughtë Doglas unto the lord Persë: 'To kyll alle thes giltles men, alas, it wear great pittë! 19. 'But, Persë, thowe art a lord of lande, I am a yerle callyd within my contrë; Let all our men vppone a parti stande, and do the battell off the and of me.' 20. 'Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne,' sayd the lord Persë, 'who-so-ever ther-to says nay! Be my troth, doughttë Doglas,' he says, 'thow shalt never se that day. 21. 'Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France, nor for no man of a woman born, But, and fortune be my chance, I dar met him, on man for on.' 22. Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde, Richard Wytharyngton was his nam: 'It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde,' he says, 'to Kyng Herry the Fourth for sham. 23. 'I wat youe byn great lordës twaw, I am a poor squyar of lande: I wylle never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, and stande my selffe and loocke on, But whylle I may my weppone welde, I wylle not fayle both hart and hande.' 24. That day, that day, that dredfull day! the first fit here I fynde; And youe wyll here any mor a the hountyng a the Chyviat, yet ys ther mor behynde. ... ... ... 25. The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent, ther hartes wer good yenoughe; The first off arros that the shote off, seven skore spear-men the sloughe. 26. Yet byddys the yerle Doglas vppon the bent, a captayne good yenoughe, And that was sene verament, for he wrought hom both woo and wouche. 27. The Dogglas partyd his ost in thre, lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde; With suar spears off myghttë tre, the cum in on every syde: 28. Thrughe our Yngglyshe archery gave many a wounde fulle wyde; Many a doughetë the garde to dy, which ganyde them no pryde. 29. The Ynglyshe men let ther boÿs be, and pulde owt brandes that wer brighte; It was a hevy syght to se bryght swordes on basnites lyght. 30. Thorowe ryche male and myneyeple, many sterne the strocke done streght; Many a freyke that was fulle fre, ther undar foot dyd lyght. 31. At last the Duglas and the Persë met, lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne; The swapte togethar tylle the both swat with swordes that wear of fyn myllan. 32. Thes worthë freckys for to fyght, ther-to the wear fulle fayne, Tylle the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente, as ever dyd heal or rayn. 33. 'Yelde the, Persë,' sayde the Doglas, 'and i feth I shalle the brynge Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis of Jamy our Skottish kynge. 34. 'Thou shalte have thy ransom fre, I hight the hear this thinge; For the manfullyste man yet art thowe that ever I conqueryd in filde fighttynge.' 35. 'Nay,' sayd the lord Persë, 'I tolde it the beforne, That I wolde never yeldyde be to no man of a woman born.' 36. With that ther cam an arrowe hastely, forthe off a myghttë wane; Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas in at the brest-bane. 37. Thorowe lyvar and longës bathe the sharpe arrowe ys gane, That never after in all his lyffe-days he spayke mo wordës but ane: That was, 'Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may, for my lyff-days ben gan.' 38. The Persë leanyde on his brande, and sawe the Duglas de; He tooke the dede mane by the hande, and sayd, 'Wo ys me for the! 39. 'To have savyde thy lyffe, I wolde have partyde with my landes for years thre, For a better man, of hart nare of hande, was nat in all the north contrë.' 40. Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, was callyd Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry; He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght, he spendyd a spear, a trusti tre. 41. He rod uppone a corsiare throughe a hondrith archery: He never stynttyde, nar never blane, tylle he cam to the good lord Persë. 42. He set uppone the lorde Persë a dynte that was full soare; With a suar spear of a myghttë tre clean thorow the body he the Persë ber, 43. A the tothar syde that a man myght se a large cloth-yard and mare: Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiantë then that day slan wear ther. 44. An archar off Northomberlonde say slean was the lord Persë; He bar a bende bowe in his hand, was made off trusti tre. 45. An arow, that a cloth-yarde was lang, to the harde stele halyde he; A dynt that was both sad and soar he sat on Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry. 46. The dynt yt was both sad and sar, that he of Monggomberry sete; The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar with his hart-blood the wear wete. 47. Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle, but still in stour dyd stand, Heawyng on yche othar, whylle the myghte dre, with many a balfull brande. 48. This battell begane in Chyviat an owar befor the none. And when even-songe bell was rang, the battell was nat half done. 49. The tocke ... on ethar hande be the lyght off the mone; Many hade no strenght for to stande, in Chyviat the hillys abon. 50. Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde went away but seventi and thre; Of twenti hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, but even five and fifti. 51. But all wear slayne Cheviat within; the hade no strengthe to stand on hy; The chylde may rue that ys unborne, it was the mor pittë. 52. Thear was slayne, withe the lord Persë, Sir Johan of Agerstone, Ser Rogar, the hinde Hartly, Ser Wyllyam, the bolde Hearone. 53. Ser Jorg, the worthë Loumle, a knyghte of great renowen, Ser Raff, the ryche Rugbe, with dyntes wear beaten dowene. 54. For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, that ever he slayne shulde be; For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, yet he knyled and fought on hys kny. 55. Ther was slayne, with the dougheti Duglas, Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry, Ser Davy Lwdale, that worthë was, his sistar's son was he. 56. Ser Charls a Murrë in that place, that never a foot wolde fle; Ser Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was, with the Doglas dyd he dey. 57. So on the morrowe the mayde them byears off birch and hasell so gray; Many wedous, with wepyng tears, cam to fache ther makys away. 58. Tivydale may carpe off care, Northombarlond may mayk great mon, For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear on the March-parti shall never be non. 59. Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe, to Jamy the Skottishe kynge, That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Marches, he lay slean Chyviot within. 60. His handdës dyd he weal and wryng, he sayd, 'Alas, and woe ys me! Such an othar captayn Skotland within,' he seyd, 'ye-feth shuld never be.' 61. Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone, till the fourth Harry our kynge, That lord Persë, leyff-tenante of the Marchis, he lay slayne Chyviat within. 62. 'God have merci on his solle,' sayde Kyng Harry, 'good lord, yf thy will it be! I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde,' he sayd, 'as good as ever was he: But, Persë, and I brook my lyffe, thy deth well quyte shall be.' 63. As our noble kynge mayd his avowe, lyke a noble prince of renowen, For the deth of the lord Persë he dyde the battell of Hombyll-down; 64. Wher syx and thrittë Skottishe knyghtes on a day wear beaten down: Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght, over castille, towar, and town. 65. This was the hontynge off the Cheviat, that tear begane this spurn; Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe call it the battell of Otterburn. 66. At Otterburn begane this spurne uppone a Monnynday; Ther was the doughtë Doglas slean, the Persë never went away. 67. Ther was never a tym on the Marche-partës sen the Doglas and the Persë met, But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronne not, as the reane doys in the stret. 68. Ihesue Crist our balys bete, and to the blys vs brynge! Thus was the hountynge of the Chivyat: God send vs alle good endyng! [Annotations: 1.5: 'magger' = maugre; _i.e._ in spite of. 2.4: 'let,' hinder. 3.2: 'meany,' band, company. 3.4: 'the' = they; so constantly, 'shyars thre'; the districts (still called shires) of Holy Island, Norham, and Bamborough. 5.3: 'byckarte,' _i.e._ bickered, attacked the deer. 6.1: 'wyld,' deer. 6.3: _i.e._ through the groves darted. 7.3: 'oware,' hour. 8.1: 'mort,' note of the bugle. 8.4: 'bryttlynge,' cutting up. 10.2: shaded his eyes with his hand. 12.2: 'feale,' fail. 12.4: 'yth,' in the. 13.2: 'boÿs,' bows. 14.3: 'glede,' glowing coal. 17.4: 'the ton,' one or other. 20.1: 'cors,' curse. 21.4: 'on,' one. 24.3: 'And,' If. 25.4: 'sloughe,' slew. 26.4: 'wouche,' evil. 29.4: 'basnites,' light helmets or skull-caps. 30.1: 'myneyeple,' = manople, a kind of long gauntlet. 30.3: 'freyke,' man. So 32.1, 47.1, etc. 31.4: 'myllan,' Milan steel. Cp. 'collayne,' _Battle of Otterburn_, 54.4 36.2: 'wane.' One arrow out of a large number.--Skeat. 38.3: Addison compared (Vergil, _Aen._ x. 823):-- 'Ingemuit miserans graviter dextramque tetendit,' etc. 41.3: 'blane,' lingered. 44.2: 'say,' saw. 45.2: _i.e._ till the point reached the wood of the bow. 47.3: 'whylle the myghte dre' = while they might dree, as long as they could hold. 53.1: 'Loumle,' Lumley; previously printed Louele (= Lovel). 57.4: 'makys,' mates, husbands. 58.4: 'March-parti,' the Border; so 'the Marches,' 59.3 60.1: 'weal,' clench(?). 63.4: The battle of Homildon Hill, near Wooler, Northumberland, was fought in 1402. See 1 _King Henry IV._, Act I. sc. i. 65.2: 'spurn' = kick(?): Child suggests the reading:--'That ear [= e'er] began this spurn!' as a lament. But the whole meaning is doubtful. 67.4: as the rain does. 68.1: 'our balys bete,' our misfortunes relieve.] THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN +The Text+ is given mainly from the Cotton MS., Cleopatra C. iv. (_circa_ 1550). It was printed by Percy in the fourth edition of the _Reliques_; in the first edition he gave it from Harleian MS. 293, which text also is made use of here. A separate Scottish ballad was popular at least as early as 1549, and arguments to prove that it was derived from the English ballad are as inconclusive as those which seek to prove the opposite. +The Story.+--The battle of Otterburn was fought on Wednesday, August 19, 1388. The whole story is given elaborately by Froissart, in his usual lively style, but is far too long to be inserted here. It may, however, be condensed as follows. The great northern families of Neville and Percy being at variance owing to the quarrels of Richard II. with his uncles, the Scots took the advantage of preparing a raid into England. Earl Percy, hearing of this, collected the Northumbrian powers; and, unable to withstand the force of the Scots, determined to make a counter-raid on the east or west of the border, according as the Scots should cross. The latter, hearing of the plan through a spy, foiled it by dividing their army into two parts, the main body under Archibald Douglas being directed to Carlisle. Three or four hundred picked men-at-arms, with two thousand archers and others, under James, Earl of Douglas, Earl of March and Dunbar, and the Earl of Murray, were to aim at Newcastle, and burn and ravage the bishopric of Durham. With the latter alone we are now concerned. With his small army the Earl of Douglas passed rapidly through Northumberland, crossed the Tyne near Brancepeth, wasted the country as far as the gates of Durham, and returned to Newcastle as rapidly as they had advanced. Several skirmishes took place at the barriers of the town: and in one of these Sir Henry Percy (Hotspur) was personally opposed to Douglas. After an obstinate struggle the Earl won the pennon of the English leader, and boasted that he would carry it to Scotland, and set it high on his castle of Dalkeith. 'That,' cried Hotspur, 'no Douglas shall ever do, and ere you leave Northumberland you shall have small cause to boast.' 'Your pennon,' answered Douglas, 'shall this night be placed before my tent; come and win it if you can.' But the Scots were suffered to retreat without any hostile attempts on the part of the English, and accordingly, after destroying the tower of Ponteland, they came on the second day to the castle of Otterburn, situated in Redesdale, about thirty-two miles from Newcastle. The rest may be read in the ballad. 'Of all the battayles,' says Froissart, 'that I have made mention of here before, in all thys hystorye, great or small, thys battayle was one of the sorest, and best foughten, without cowards or faint hertes: for ther was nother knyght nor squyre but that dyde hys devoyre, and fought hand to hand.' THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN 1. Yt fell abowght the Lamasse tyde, Whan husbondes Wynnes ther haye, The dowghtye Dowglasse bowynd hym to ryde, In Ynglond to take a praye. 2. The yerlle of Fyffe, wythowghten stryffe, He bowynd hym over Sulway; The grete wolde ever to-gether ryde; That raysse they may rewe for aye. 3. Over Hoppertope hyll they cam in, And so down by Rodclyffe crage; Vpon Grene Lynton they lyghted dowyn, Styrande many a stage. 4. And boldely brente Northomberlond, And haryed many a towyn; They dyd owr Ynglyssh men grete wrange, To battell that were not bowyn. 5. Than spake a berne vpon the bent, Of comforte that was not colde, And sayd, 'We have brente Northomberlond, We have all welth in holde. 6. 'Now we have haryed all Bamborowe schyre, All the welth in the world have wee; I rede we ryde to Newe Castell, So styll and stalworthlye.' 7. Vpon the morowe, when it was day, The standerds schone full bryght; To the Newe Castell the toke the waye, And thether they cam full ryght. 8. Syr Henry Perssy laye at the New Castell, I tell yow wythowtten drede; He had byn a march-man all hys dayes, And kepte Barwyke upon Twede. 9. To the Newe Castell when they cam, The Skottes they cryde on hyght, 'Syr Hary Perssy, and thow byste within, Com to the fylde, and fyght. 10. 'For we have brente Northomberlonde, Thy erytage good and ryght, And syne my logeyng I have take, Wyth my brande dubbyd many a knyght.' 11. Syr Harry Perssy cam to the walles, The Skottyssch oste for to se, And sayd, 'And thow hast brente Northomberlond, Full sore it rewyth me. 12. 'Yf thou hast haryed all Bamborowe schyre, Thow hast done me grete envye; For the trespasse thow hast me done, The tone of vs schall dye.' 13. 'Where schall I byde the?' sayd the Dowglas, 'Or where wylte thow com to me?' 'At Otterborne, in the hygh way, Ther mast thow well logeed be. 14. 'The roo full rekeles ther sche rinnes, To make the game and glee; The fawken and the fesaunt both, Amonge the holtes on hye. 15. 'Ther mast thow haue thy welth at wyll, Well looged ther mast be; Yt schall not be long or I com the tyll,' Sayd Syr Harry Perssye. 16. 'Ther schall I byde the,' sayd the Dowglas, 'By the fayth of my bodye': 'Thether schall I com,' sayd Syr Harry Perssy, 'My trowth I plyght to the.' 17. A pype of wyne he gaue them over the walles, For soth as I yow saye; Ther he mayd the Dowglasse drynke, And all hys ost that daye. 18. The Dowglas turnyd hym homewarde agayne, For soth withowghten naye; He toke his logeyng at Oterborne, Vpon a Wedynsday. 19. And ther he pyght hys standerd dowyn, Hys gettyng more and lesse, And syne he warned hys men to goo To chose ther geldynges gresse. 20. A Skottysshe knyght hoved vpon the bent, A wache I dare well saye; So was he ware on the noble Perssy In the dawnyng of the daye. 21. He prycked to hys pavyleon-dore, As faste as he myght ronne; 'Awaken, Dowglas,' cryed the knyght, 'For hys love that syttes in trone. 22. 'Awaken, Dowglas,' cryed the knyght, 'For thow maste waken wyth wynne; Yender haue I spyed the prowde Perssye, And seven stondardes wyth hym.' 23. 'Nay by my trowth,' the Dowglas sayed, 'It ys but a fayned taylle; He durst not loke on my brede banner For all Ynglonde so haylle. 24. 'Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe Castell, That stondes so fayre on Tyne? For all the men the Perssy had, He coude not garre me ones to dyne.' 25. He stepped owt at his pavelyon-dore, To loke and it were lesse: 'Araye yow, lordynges, one and all, For here begynnes no peysse. 26. 'The yerle of Mentaye, thow arte my eme, The fowarde I gyve to the: The yerlle of Huntlay, cawte and kene, He schall be wyth the. 27. 'The lorde of Bowghan, in armure bryght, On the other hand he schall be; Lord Jhonstoune and Lorde Maxwell, They to schall be with me. 28. 'Swynton, fayre fylde vpon your pryde! To batell make yow bowen Syr Davy Skotte, Syr Water Stewarde, Syr Jhon of Agurstone!' 29. The Perssy cam byfore hys oste, Wych was ever a gentyll knyght; Vpon the Dowglas lowde can he crye, 'I wyll holde that I haue hyght. 30. 'For thou haste brente Northomberlonde, And done me grete envye; For thys trespasse thou hast me done, The tone of vs schall dye.' 31. The Dowglas answerde hym agayne, Wyth grett wurdes vpon hye, And sayd, 'I have twenty agaynst thy one, Byholde, and thou maste see.' 32. Wyth that the Perssy was grevyd sore, For soth as I yow saye: He lyghted dowyn vpon his foote, And schoote hys horsse clene awaye. 33. Every man sawe that he dyd soo, That ryall was ever in rowght; Every man schoote hys horsse hym froo, And lyght hym rowynde abowght. 34. Thus Syr Hary Perssye toke the fylde, For soth as I yow saye; Jhesu Cryste in hevyn on hyght Dyd helpe hym well that daye. 35. But nyne thowzand, ther was no moo, The cronykle wyll not layne; Forty thowsande of Skottes and fowre That day fowght them agayne. 36. But when the batell byganne to joyne, In hast ther cam a knyght; The letters fayre furth hath he tayne, And thus he sayd full ryght: 37. 'My lorde your father he gretes yow well, Wyth many a noble knyght; He desyres yow to byde That he may see thys fyght. 38. 'The Baron of Grastoke ys com out of the west, With hym a noble companye; All they loge at your fathers thys nyght, And the batell fayne wolde they see.' 39. 'For Jhesus love,' sayd Syr Harye Perssy, 'That dyed for yow and me, Wende to my lorde my father agayne, And saye thow sawe me not wyth yee. 40. 'My trowth ys plyght to yonne Skottysh knyght, It nedes me not to layne, That I schalde byde hym upon thys bent, And I have hys trowth agayne. 41. 'And if that I weynde of thys growende, For soth, onfowghten awaye, He wolde me call but a kowarde knyght In hys londe another daye. 42. 'Yet had I lever to be rynde and rente, By Mary, that mykkel maye, Then ever my manhood schulde be reprovyd Wyth a Skotte another daye. 43. 'Wherefore schote, archars, for my sake, And let scharpe arowes flee: Mynstrell, playe up for your waryson, And well quyt it schall bee. 44. 'Every man thynke on hys trewe-love, And marke hym to the Trenite; For to God I make myne avowe Thys day wyll I not flee.' 45. The blodye harte in the Dowglas armes, Hys standerde stood on hye, That every man myght full well knowe; By syde stode starrës thre. 46. The whyte lyon on the Ynglyssh perte, For soth as I yow sayne, The lucettes and the cressawntes both; The Skottes faught them agayne. 47. Vpon Sent Androwe lowde can they crye, And thrysse they schowte on hyght, And syne merked them one owr Ynglysshe men, As I haue tolde yow ryght. 48. Sent George the bryght, owr ladyes knyght, To name they were full fayne: Owr Ynglyssh men they cryde on hyght, And thrysse the schowtte agayne. 49. Wyth that scharpe arowes bygan to flee, I tell yow in sertayne; Men of armes byganne to joyne, Many a dowghty man was ther slayne. 50. The Perssy and the Dowglas mette, That ether of other was fayne; They swapped together whyll that the swette, Wyth swordes of fyne collayne: 51. Tyll the bloode from ther bassonnettes ranne, As the roke doth in the rayne; 'Yelde the to me,' sayd the Dowglas, 'Or elles thow schalt be slayne. 52. 'For I see by thy bryght bassonet, Thow arte sum man of myght; And so I do by thy burnysshed brande; Thow arte an yerle, or elles a knyght.' 53. 'By my good faythe,' sayd the noble Perssye, 'Now haste thou rede full ryght; Yet wyll I never yelde me to the, Whyll I may stonde and fyght.' 54. They swapped together whyll that they swette, Wyth swordës scharpe and long; Ych on other so faste thee beette, Tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn. 55. The Perssy was a man of strenghth, I tell yow, in thys stounde; He smote the Dowglas at the swordes length That he fell to the growynde. 56. The sworde was scharpe, and sore can byte, I tell yow in sertayne; To the harte he cowde hym smyte, Thus was the Dowglas slayne. 57. The stonderdes stode styll on eke a syde, Wyth many a grevous grone; Ther the fowght the day, and all the nyght, And many a dowghty man was slayne. 58. Ther was no freke that ther wolde flye, But styffely in stowre can stond, Ychone hewyng on other whyll they myght drye, Wyth many a bayllefull bronde. 59. Ther was slayne vpon the Skottës syde, For soth and sertenly, Syr James a Dowglas ther was slayne, That day that he cowde dye. 60. The yerlle of Mentaye he was slayne, Grysely groned upon the growynd; Syr Davy Skotte, Syr Water Stewarde, Syr Jhon of Agurstoune. 61. Syr Charllës Morrey in that place, That never a fote wold flee; Syr Hewe Maxwell, a lord he was, Wyth the Dowglas dyd he dye. 62. Ther was slayne upon the Skottës syde, For soth as I yow saye, Of fowre and forty thowsande Scottes Went but eyghtene awaye. 63. Ther was slayne upon the Ynglysshe syde, For soth and sertenlye, A gentell knyght, Syr Jhon Fechewe, Yt was the more pety. 64. Syr James Hardbotell ther was slayne, For hym ther hartes were sore; The gentyll Lovell ther was slayne, That the Perssys standerd bore. 65. Ther was slayne upon the Ynglyssh perte, For soth as I yow saye, Of nyne thowsand Ynglyssh men Fyve hondert cam awaye. 66. The other were slayne in the fylde; Cryste kepe ther sowlles from wo! Seyng ther was so fewe fryndes Agaynst so many a foo. 67. Then on the morne they mayde them beerys Of byrch and haysell graye; Many a wydowe, wyth wepyng teyres, Ther makes they fette awaye. 68. Thys fraye bygan at Otterborne, Bytwene the nyght and the day; Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyffe, And the Perssy was lede awaye. 69. Then was ther a Scottysh prisoner tayne, Syr Hewe Mongomery was hys name; For soth as I yow saye, He borowed the Perssy home agayne. 70. Now let us all for the Perssy praye To Jhesu most of myght, To bryng hys sowlle to the blysse of heven, For he was a gentyll knyght. [Annotations: 1.3: 'bowynd,' hied. 2.4: 'raysse,' raid. 3.: 'Hoppertope,' Ottercap (now Ottercaps) Hill, in the parish of Kirk Whelpington, Tynedale Ward, Northumberland. 'Rodclyffe crage' (now Rothby Crags), a cliff near Rodeley, south-east of Ottercap. 'Grene Lynton,' a corruption of Green Leyton, south-east of Rodely.--Percy. 5.1: 'berne,' man. 8.1: Sir Henry Percy (Hotspur), killed at Shrewsbury fifteen years after Otterburn. 8.3: 'march-man,' borderer. Percy is said to have been appointed Governor of Berwick and Warden of the Marches in 1385. 12.4: 'The tone,' one or other. 14.1: 'I have harde say that Chivet Hills stretchethe XX miles. Theare is greate plente of Redde Dere, and Roo Bukkes.' --_Leland's Itinerary._ 15.3: 'the tyll' = thee till, to thee. 19.1: 'pyght,' fixed. 22.2: 'wynne,' pleasure. 24.4: _i.e._ he could not give me my fill (of defeat). 25.2: _i.e._ to see if it were false. 26.1: 'eme,' uncle. 26.3: 'cawte,' wary. 29.4: 'hyght,' promised. 32.4: 'schoote,' dismissed. 33.2: _i.e._ who was ever royal among the rout. 35.2: 'layne,' lie; so 40.2 41.1: _i.e._ if I wend off this ground. 42.1: _i.e._ I had rather be flayed. 43.3: 'waryson,' reward. 44.2: 'marke hym,' commit himself (by signing the cross). 50.4: 'collayne,' of Cologne steel. Cp. 'myllan,' _Hunting of the Cheviot_, 31.4 51.2: 'roke,' reek, vapour. 55.2: 'stounde,' moment of time, hour. 58.3: 'drye' = dree, endure. 60.2: 'grysely,' frightfully, grievously. 67.4: 'makes,' mates. 69.4: 'borowed,' ransomed, set free.] JOHNIE ARMSTRONG +The Text+ is taken from _Wit Restor'd_, 1658, where it is called _A Northern Ballet_. From the same collection comes the version of _Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard_ given in First Series, p. 19. The version popularly known as _Johnny Armstrong's Last Good-Night_, so dear to Goldsmith, and sung by the Vicar of Wakefield, is a broadside found in most of the well-known collections. +The Story+ of the ballad has the authority of more than one chronicle, and is attributed to the year 1530. James V., in spite of the promise 'to doe no wrong' in his large and long letter, appears to have been incensed at the splendour of 'Jonnë's' retinue. It seems curious that the outlaw should have been a Westmoreland man; but the _Cronicles of Scotland_ say that 'from the Scots border to Newcastle of England, there was not one, of whatsoever estate, but paid to this John Armstrong a tribute, to be free of his cumber, he was so doubtit in England.' Jonnë's offer in the stanza 16.3,4, may be compared to the similar feat of Sir Andrew Barton. JOHNIE ARMSTRONG 1. There dwelt a man in faire Westmerland, Jonnë Armestrong men did him call, He had nither lands nor rents coming in, Yet he kept eight score men in his hall. 2. He had horse and harness for them all, Goodly steeds were all milke-white; O the golden bands an about their necks, And their weapons, they were all alike. 3. Newes then was brought unto the king That there was sicke a won as hee, That livëd lyke a bold out-law, And robbëd all the north country. 4. The king he writt an a letter then, A letter which was large and long; He signëd it with his owne hand, And he promised to doe him no wrong. 5. When this letter came Jonnë untill, His heart it was as blyth as birds on the tree: 'Never was I sent for before any king, My father, my grandfather, nor none but mee. 6. 'And if wee goe the king before, I would we went most orderly; Every man of you shall have his scarlet cloak, Laced with silver laces three. 7. 'Every won of you shall have his velvett coat, Laced with sillver lace so white; O the golden bands an about your necks, Black hatts, white feathers, all alyke.' 8. By the morrow morninge at ten of the clock, Towards Edenburough gon was hee, And with him all his eight score men; Good lord, it was a goodly sight for to see! 9. When Jonnë came befower the king, He fell downe on his knee; 'O pardon, my soveraine leige,' he said, 'O pardon my eight score men and mee.' 10. 'Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor strong, For thy eight score men nor thee; For to-morrow morning by ten of the clock, Both thou and them shall hang on the gallow-tree.' 11. But Jonnë looked over his left shoulder, Good Lord, what a grevious look looked hee! Saying, 'Asking grace of a graceles face-- Why there is none for you nor me.' 12. But Jonnë had a bright sword by his side, And it was made of the mettle so free, That had not the king stept his foot aside, He had smitten his head from his faire boddë. 13. Saying, 'Fight on, my merry men all, And see that none of you be taine; For rather than men shall say we were hange'd, Let them report how we were slaine.' 14. Then, God wott, faire Eddenburrough rose, And so besett poore Jonnë rounde, That fowerscore and tenn of Jonnë's best men Lay gasping all upon the ground. 15. Then like a mad man Jonnë laide about, And like a mad man then fought hee, Untill a falce Scot came Jonnë behinde, And runn him through the faire boddee. 16. Saying, 'Fight on, my merry men all, And see that none of you be taine; For I will stand by and bleed but awhile, And then will I come and fight againe.' 17. Newes then was brought to young Jonnë Armestrong As he stood by his nurse's knee, Who vowed if ere he live'd for to be a man, O' the treacherous Scots reveng'd hee'd be. THE BRAES OF YARROW +The Text+ was communicated to Percy by Dr. Robertson of Edinburgh, but it did not appear in the _Reliques_. In 9.1, 'Then' is doubtless an interpolation, as are the words 'Now Douglas' in 11.1 But on the whole it is the best text of the fifteen or twenty variants. +The Story.+--James Hogg and Sir Walter Scott referred the ballad to two different sources, the former legendary, and the latter historical. It has always been very popular in Scotland, and besides the variants there are in existence several imitations, such as the well-known poem of William Hamilton, 'Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride.' This was printed in vol. ii. of Percy's _Reliques_. About half the known variants make the hero and heroine man and wife, the other half presenting them as unmarried lovers. THE BRAES OF YARROW 1. 'I dreamed a dreary dream this night, That fills my heart wi' sorrow; I dreamed I was pouing the heather green Upon the braes of Yarrow. 2. 'O true-luve mine, stay still and dine, As ye ha' done before, O;' 'O I'll be hame by hours nine, And frae the braes of Yarrow.' 3. 'I dreamed a dreary dream this night, That fills my heart wi' sorrow; I dreamed my luve came headless hame, O frae the braes of Yarrow! 4. 'O true-luve mine, stay still and dine. As ye ha' done before, O;' 'O I'll be hame by hours nine, And frae the braes of Yarrow.' 5. 'O are ye going to hawke,' she says, 'As ye ha' done before, O? Or are ye going to wield your brand, Upon the braes of Yarrow?' 6. 'O I am not going to hawke,' he says, 'As I have done before, O, But for to meet your brother John, Upon the braes of Yarrow.' 7. As he gaed down yon dowy den, Sorrow went him before, O; Nine well-wight men lay waiting him, Upon the braes of Yarrow. 8. 'I have your sister to my wife, Ye think me an unmeet marrow! But yet one foot will I never flee Now frae the braes of Yarrow.' 9. Then four he kill'd and five did wound, That was an unmeet marrow! And he had weel nigh wan the day Upon the braes of Yarrow. 10. But a cowardly loon came him behind, Our Lady lend him sorrow! And wi' a rappier pierced his heart, And laid him low on Yarrow. 11. Now Douglas to his sister's gane, Wi' meikle dule and sorrow: 'Gae to your luve, sister,' he says, 'He's sleeping sound on Yarrow.' 12. As she went down yon dowy den, Sorrow went her before, O; She saw her true-love lying slain Upon the braes of Yarrow. 13. She swoon'd thrice upon his breist That was her dearest marrow; Said, 'Ever alace, and wae the day Thou went'st frae me to Yarrow!' 14. She kist his mouth, she kaimed his hair, As she had done before, O; She wiped the blood that trickled doun Upon the braes of Yarrow. 15. Her hair it was three quarters lang, It hang baith side and yellow; She tied it round her white hause-bane, And tint her life on Yarrow. [Annotations: 7.1: 'dowy,' dreary. 7.3: 'well-wight,' brave, sturdy. 13.: Apparently Percy's invention. 14.3: 'wiped': Child suggests the original word was 'drank.' 15.2: 'side,' long. 15.3: 'hause-bane,' neck.] THE TWA BROTHERS +The Text+ is from Sharpe's _Ballad Book_ (1823). Scott included no version of this ballad in his _Minstrelsy_; but Motherwell and Jamieson both had traditional versions. Motherwell considered it essential that the deadly wound should be accidental; but it is far more typical of a ballad-hero that he should lose his temper and kill his brother; and, as Child points out, it adds to the pathetic generosity of the slain brother in providing excuses for his absence to be made to his father, mother, and sister. +The Story.+--Motherwell and Sharpe were more or less convinced that the ballad was founded on an accident that happened in 1589 to a Somerville, who was killed by his brother's pistol going off. This ballad is still in circulation in the form of a game amongst American children--the last state of more than one old ballad otherwise extinct. THE TWA BROTHERS 1. There were twa brethren in the north, They went to the school thegither; The one unto the other said, 'Will you try a warsle afore?' 2. They warsled up, they warsled down, Till Sir John fell to the ground, And there was a knife in Sir Willie's pouch, Gied him a deadlie wound. 3. 'Oh brither dear, take me on your back, Carry me to yon burn clear, And wash the blood from off my wound, And it will bleed nae mair.' 4. He took him up upon his back, Carried him to yon burn clear, And washd the blood from off his wound, But aye it bled the mair. 5. 'Oh brither dear, take me on your back, Carry me to yon kirk-yard, And dig a grave baith wide and deep, And lay my body there.' 6. He's taen him up upon his back, Carried him to yon kirk-yard, And dug a grave baith deep and wide, And laid his body there. 7. 'But what will I say to my father dear, Gin he chance to say, Willie, whar's John?' 'Oh say that he's to England gone, To buy him a cask of wine.' 8. 'And what will I say to my mother dear, Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?' 'Oh say that he's to England gone, To buy her a new silk gown.' 9. 'And what will I say to my sister dear, Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?' 'Oh say that he's to England gone, To buy her a wedding ring.' 10. 'But what will I say to her you lo'e dear, Gin she cry, Why tarries my John?' 'Oh tell her I lie in Kirk-land fair, And home again will never come.' [Annotations: 1.4: 'warsle,' wrestle.] THE OUTLYER BOLD +The Text+ is taken from Motherwell's MS., which contains two versions; Motherwell printed a third in his _Minstrelsy_,--_Babylon; or, The Bonnie Banks o' Fordie_. Kinloch called the ballad the _Duke of Perth's Three Daughters_. As the following text has no title, I have ventured to give it one. 'Outlyer' is, of course, simply 'a banished man.' +The Story+ is much more familiar in all the branches of the Scandinavian race than in England or Scotland. In Denmark it appears as _Herr Truels' Daughters_ or _Herr Thor's Children_; in Sweden as _Herr Torës' Daughters_. Iceland and Faroe give the name as Torkild or Thorkell. The incidents related in this ballad took place (i) in Scotland on the bonnie banks o' Fordie, near Dunkeld; (ii) in Sweden in five or six different places; and (iii) in eight different localities in Denmark. THE OUTLYER BOLD 1. There were three sisters, they lived in a bower, _Sing Anna, sing Margaret, sing Marjorie_ The youngest o' them was the fairest flower. _And the dew goes thro' the wood, gay ladie_ 2. The oldest of them she's to the wood gane, To seek a braw leaf and to bring it hame. 3. There she met with an outlyer bold, Lies many long nights in the woods so cold. 4. 'Istow a maid, or istow a wife? Wiltow twinn with thy maidenhead, or thy sweet life?' 5. 'O kind sir, if I hae't at my will, I'll twinn with my life, keep my maidenhead still.' 6. He's taen out his wee pen-knife, He's twinned this young lady of her sweet life. 7. He wiped his knife along the dew; But the more he wiped, the redder it grew. 8. The second of them she's to the wood gane, To seek her old sister, and to bring her hame. 9. There she met with an outlyer bold, Lies many long nights in the woods so cold. 10. 'Istow a maid, or istow a wife? Wiltow twinn with thy maidenhead, or thy sweet life?' 11. 'O kind sir, if I hae't at my will, I'll twinn with my life, keep my maidenhead still.' 12. He's taen out his wee pen-knife, He's twinned this young lady of her sweet life. 13. He wiped his knife along the dew; But the more he wiped, the redder it grew. 14. The youngest o' them she's to the wood gane, To seek her two sisters, and to bring them hame. 15. There she met with an outlyer bold, Lies many long nights in the woods so cold. 16. 'Istow a maid, or istow a wife? Wiltow twinn with thy maidenhead, or thy sweet life?' 17. 'If my three brethren they were here, Such questions as these thou durst nae speer.' 18. 'Pray, what may thy three brethren be, That I durst na mak' so bold with thee?' 19. 'The eldest o' them is a minister bred, He teaches the people from evil to good. 20. 'The second o' them is a ploughman good, He ploughs the land for his livelihood. 21. 'The youngest of them is an outlyer bold, Lies many a long night in the woods so cold.' 22. He stuck his knife then into the ground, He took a long race, let himself fall on. [Annotations: 4.1: 'Istow,' art thou. 4.2: 'twinn with,' part with. 17.2: 'speer,' ask.] MARY HAMILTON +The Text+ given here is from Sharpe's _Ballad Book_ (1824). Professor Child collected and printed some twenty-eight variants and fragments, of which none is entirely satisfactory, as regards the telling of the story. The present text will suit our purpose as well as any other, and it ends impressively with the famous pathetic verse of the four Maries. +The Story.+--Lesley in his _History of Scotland_ (1830) says that when Mary Stuart was sent to France in 1548, she had in attendance 'sundry gentlewomen and noblemen's sons and daughters, almost of her own age, of the which there were four in special of whom everyone of them bore the same name of Mary, being of four sundry honourable houses, to wit, Fleming, Livingston, Seton, and Beaton of Creich.' The four Maries were still with the Queen in 1564. Hamilton and Carmichael appear in the ballad in place of Fleming and Livingston. Scott attributed the origin of the ballad to an incident related by Knox in his _History of the Reformation_: in 1563 or 1564 a Frenchwoman was seduced by the Queen's apothecary, and the babe murdered by consent of father and mother. But the cries of a new-born babe had been heard; search was made, and both parents were 'damned to be hanged upon the public street of Edinburgh.' In 1824, in his preface to the _Ballad Book_, Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe produced a similar story from the Russian court. In 1885 this story was retold from authentic sources as follows. After the marriage of one of the ministers of Peter the Great's father with a Hamilton, the Scottish family ranked with the Russian aristocracy. The Czar Peter required that all his Empress Catharine's maids-of-honour should be remarkably handsome; and Mary Hamilton, a niece, it is supposed, of the above minister's wife, was appointed on account of her beauty. This Mary Hamilton had an amour with one Orlof, an aide-de-camp to the Czar; a murdered babe was found, the guilt traced to Mary, and she and Orlof sent to prison in April 1718. Orlof was afterwards released; Mary Hamilton was executed on March 14, 1719. Professor Child, in printing this ballad in 1889, considered the details of the Russian story[1] (most of which I have omitted) to be so closely parallel to the Scottish ballad, that he was convinced that the later story was the origin of the ballad, and that the ballad-maker had located it in Mary Stuart's court on his own responsibility. In September 1895 Mr. Andrew Lang contributed the results of his researches concerning the ballad to _Blackwood's Magazine_, maintaining that the ballad must have arisen from the 1563 story, as it is too old and too good to have been written since 1718. Balancing this improbability--that the details of a Russian court scandal of 1718 should exactly correspond to a previously extant Scottish ballad--against the improbability of the eighteenth century producing such a ballad, Child afterwards concluded the latter to be the greater. The coincidence is undoubtedly striking; but neither the story nor the name are uncommon. [Footnote 1: See Waliszewski's _Peter the Great_ (translated by Lady Mary Loyd), vol. i. p. 251. London, 1897.] It is, of course, possible that the story is older than 1563--it should not be difficult to find more than one instance--and that it was first adapted to the 1563 incident and afterwards to the Russian scandal, the two versions being subsequently confused. But there is no evidence for this. MARY HAMILTON 1. Word's gane to the kitchen, And word's gane to the ha', That Marie Hamilton gangs wi' bairn To the hichest Stewart of a'. 2. He's courted her in the kitchen, He's courted her in the ha', He's courted her in the laigh cellar, And that was warst of a'. 3. She's tyed it in her apron And she's thrown it in the sea; Says, 'Sink ye, swim ye, bonny wee babe, You'll ne'er get mair o' me.' 4. Down then cam the auld queen, Goud tassels tying her hair: 'O Marie, where's the bonny wee babe That I heard greet sae sair?' 5. 'There was never a babe intill my room, As little designs to be; It was but a touch o' my sair side, Come o'er my fair bodie.' 6. 'O Marie, put on your robes o' black, Or else your robes o' brown, For ye maun gang wi' me the night, To see fair Edinbro' town.' 7. 'I winna put on my robes o' black, Nor yet my robes o' brown; But I'll put on my robes o' white, To shine through Edinbro' town.' 8. When she gaed up the Cannogate, She laugh'd loud laughters three; But whan she cam down the Cannogate The tear blinded her ee. 9. When she gaed up the Parliament stair, The heel cam aff her shee; And lang or she cam down again She was condemn'd to dee. 10. When she cam down the Cannogate, The Cannogate sae free, Many a ladie look'd o'er her window, Weeping for this ladie. 11. 'Ye need nae weep for me,' she says, 'Ye need nae weep for me; For had I not slain mine own sweet babe, This death I wadna dee. 12. 'Bring me a bottle of wine,' she says, 'The best that e'er ye hae, That I may drink to my weil-wishers, And they may drink to me. 13. 'Here's a health to the jolly sailors, That sail upon the main; Let them never let on to my father and mother But what I'm coming hame. 14. 'Here's a health to the jolly sailors, That sail upon the sea; Let them never let on to my father and mother That I cam here to dee. 15. 'Oh little did my mother think, The day she cradled me, What lands I was to travel through, What death I was to dee. 16. 'Oh little did my father think, The day he held up me, What lands I was to travel through, What death I was to dee. 17. 'Last night I wash'd the queen's feet, And gently laid her down; And a' the thanks I've gotten the nicht To be hang'd in Edinbro' town! 18. 'Last nicht there was four Maries, The nicht there'll be but three; There was Marie Seton, and Marie Beton, And Marie Carmichael, and me.' KINMONT WILLIE +The Text.+--There is only one text of this ballad, and that was printed by Scott in the _Minstrelsy_ from 'tradition in the West Borders'; he adds that 'some conjectural emendations have been absolutely necessary,' a remark suspicious in itself; and such modernities as the double rhymes in 26.3, 28.3, etc., do not restore confidence. +The Story.+--The forcible entry into Carlisle Castle and the rescue of William Armstrong, called Will of Kinmouth, took place on April 13, 1596; but Kinmont Willie was notorious as a border thief at least as early as 1584. The events leading up to the beginning of the ballad were as follow: 'The keen Lord Scroop' was Warden of the West-Marches of England, and 'the bauld Buccleuch' (Sir Walter Scott of Branxholm, or 'Branksome Ha',' 8.2) was the Keeper of Liddesdale. To keep a periodical day of truce, these two sent their respective deputies, the 'fause Sakelde' (or Salkeld) and a certain Robert Scott. In the latter's company was Kinmont Willie. Business being concluded, Kinmont Willie took his leave, and made his way along the Scottish side of the Liddel river, which at that point is the boundary between England and Scotland. The English deputy and his party spied him from their side of the stream; and bearing an ancient grudge against him as a notorious cattle-lifter and thief, they pursued and captured him, and he was placed in the castle of Carlisle. This brings us to the ballad. 'Hairibee' (1.4) is the place of execution at Carlisle. The 'Liddel-rack' in 3.4 is a ford over the Liddel river. Branxholm, the Keeper's Hall (8.2) and Stobs (16.4) are both within a few miles of Hawick. The remark in 16.2 appears to be untrue: the party that accompanied Buccleuch certainly contained several Armstrongs, including four sons of Kinmont Willie, and 'Dickie of Dryhope' (24.3) was also of that ilk; as well as two Elliots, though not Sir Gilbert, and four Bells. 'Red Rowan' was probably a Forster. The tune blown on the Warden's trumpets (31.3,4) is said to be a favourite song in Liddesdale. See Chambers's _Book of Days_, i. 200. KINMONT WILLIE 1. O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde? O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroop? How they hae taen bauld Kinmont Willie, On Hairibee to hang him up? 2. Had Willie had but twenty men, But twenty men as stout as he, Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont taen, Wi' eight score in his companie. 3. They band his legs beneath the steed, They tied his hands behind his back; They guarded him, fivesome on each side, And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack. 4. They led him thro' the Liddel-rack, And also thro' the Carlisle sands; They brought him to Carlisle castell, To be at my Lord Scroop's commands. 5. 'My hands are tied, but my tongue is free, And whae will dare this deed avow? Or answer by the Border law? Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch!' 6. 'Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver! There's never a Scot shall set ye free; Before ye cross my castle-yate, I trow ye shall take farewell o' me.' 7. 'Fear na ye that, my lord,' quo' Willie; 'By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroop,' he said, 'I never yet lodged in a hostelrie, But I paid my lawing before I gaed.' 8. Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper, In Branksome Ha' where that he lay, That Lord Scroop has taen the Kinmont Willie, Between the hours of night and day. 9. He has taen the table wi' his hand, He garr'd the red wine spring on hie; 'Now Christ's curse on my head,' he said, 'But avenged of Lord Scroop I'll be! 10. 'O is my basnet a widow's curch, Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree, Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand, That an English lord should lightly me? 11. 'And have they taen him, Kinmont Willie, Against the truce of Border tide, And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch Is keeper here on the Scottish side? 12. 'And have they e'en taen him, Kinmont Willie, Withouten either dread or fear, And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch Can back a steed, or shake a spear? 13. 'O were there war between the lands, As well I wot that there is none, I would slight Carlisle castell high, Tho' it were builded of marble stone. 14. 'I would set that castell in a low, And sloken it with English blood; There's nevir a man in Cumberland Should ken where Carlisle castell stood. 15. 'But since nae war's between the lands, And there is peace, and peace should be, I'll neither harm English lad or lass, And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!' 16. He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, I trow they were of his ain name, Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, call'd The Laird of Stobs, I mean the same. 17. He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch, With spur on heel, and splent on spauld, And gleuves of green, and feathers blue. 18. They were five and five before them a', Wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright; And five and five came wi' Buccleuch, Like Warden's men, arrayed for fight. 19. And five and five like a mason-gang, That carried the ladders lang and hie; And five and five like broken men; And so they reached the Woodhouselee. 20. And as we cross'd the Bateable Land, When to the English side we held, The first o' men that we met wi', Whae should it be but fause Sakelde! 21. 'Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?' Quo' fause Sakelde; 'come tell to me!' 'We go to hunt an English stag, Has trespass'd on the Scots countrie.' 22. 'Where be ye gaun, ye marshal-men?' Quo' fause Sakelde; 'come tell me true!' 'We go to catch a rank reiver, Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch. 23. 'Where are ye gaun, ye mason-lads, Wi' a' your ladders lang and hie?' 'We gang to herry a corbie's nest, That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.' 24. 'Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?' Quo' fause Sakelde; 'come tell to me!' Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band, And the nevir a word o' lear had he. 25. 'Why trespass ye on the English side? Row-footed outlaws, stand!' quo' he; The neer a word had Dickie to say, Sae he thrust the lance thro' his fause bodie. 26. Then on we held for Carlisle toun, And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we cross'd; The water was great, and meikle of spait, But the nevir a horse nor man we lost. 27. And when we reach'd the Staneshaw-bank, The wind was rising loud and hie; And there the laird garr'd leave our steeds, For fear that they should stamp and nie. 28. And when we left the Staneshaw-bank, The wind began full loud to blaw; But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, When we came beneath the castel-wa'. 29. We crept on knees, and held our breath, Till we placed the ladders against the wa'; And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell To mount the first before us a'. 30. He has taen the watchman by the throat, He flung him down upon the lead: 'Had there not been peace between our lands, Upon the other side thou hadst gaed. 31. 'Now sound out, trumpets!' quo' Buccleuch; 'Let's waken Lord Scroop right merrilie!' Then loud the Warden's trumpets blew 'Oh whae dare meddle wi' me?' 32. Then speedilie to wark we gaed, And raised the slogan ane and a', And cut a hole thro' a sheet of lead, And so we wan to the castel-ha'. 33. They thought King James and a' his men Had won the house wi' bow and spear; It was but twenty Scots and ten, That put a thousand in sic a stear! 34. Wi' coulters and wi' forehammers, We garr'd the bars bang merrilie, Untill we came to the inner prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie. 35. And when we cam to the lower prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie: 'O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie, Upon the morn that thou's to die?' 36. 'O I sleep saft, and I wake aft, It's lang since sleeping was fleyed frae me; Gie my service back to my wyfe and bairns, And a' gude fellows that speer for me.' 37. Then Red Rowan has hente him up, The starkest man in Teviotdale: 'Abide, abide now, Red Rowan, Till of my Lord Scroop I take farewell. 38. 'Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroop! My gude Lord Scroop, farewell!' he cried; 'I'll pay you for my lodging-maill When first we meet on the border-side.' 39. Then shoulder high, with shout and cry, We bore him down the ladder lang; At every stride Red Rowan made, I wot the Kinmont's airns play'd clang. 40. 'O mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie, 'I have ridden horse baith wild and wood; But a rougher beast than Red Rowan I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode. 41. 'And mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie, 'I've pricked a horse out oure the furs; But since the day I backed a steed, I never wore sic cumbrous spurs.' 42. We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank, When a' the Carlisle bells were rung, And a thousand men, in horse and foot, Cam' wi' the keen Lord Scroop along. 43. Buccleuch has turned to Eden Water, Even where it flow'd frae bank to brim, And he has plunged in wi' a' his band, And safely swam them thro' the stream. 44. He turned him on the other side, And at Lord Scroop his glove flung he: 'If ye like na my visit in merry England, In fair Scotland come visit me!' 45. All sore astonished stood Lord Scroop, He stood as still as rock of stane; He scarcely dared to trew his eyes, When thro' the water they had gane. 46. 'He is either himsell a devil frae hell, Or else his mother a witch maun be; I wad na have ridden that wan water For a' the gowd in Christentie.' [Annotations: 6.1: 'haud,' hold: 'reiver,' robber. 7.4: 'lawing,' reckoning. 10.1: 'basnet,' helmet: 'curch,' kerchief. 10.4: 'lightly,' insult. 13.3: 'slight,' destroy. 14.1: 'low,' fire. 17.3: 'splent on spauld,' plate-armour on their shoulders. 19.3: 'broken men,' outlaws. 24.4: 'lear,' information. 25.2: 'Row,' rough. 26.3: 'spait,' flood. 33.4: 'stear,' stir, disturbance. 34.1: 'forehammers,' sledge-hammers. 38.3: 'maill,' rent. 45.3: 'trew,' believe.] THE LAIRD O' LOGIE +The Text+ is that of Scott's _Minstrelsy,_ which was repeated in Motherwell's collection, with the insertion of one stanza, obtained from tradition, between Scott's 2 and 3. +The Story+ as told in this variant of the ballad is remarkably true to the historical facts. The Laird was John Wemyss, younger of Logie, a gentleman-in-waiting to King James VI. of Scotland, and an adherent of the notorious Francis Stuart, Earl of Bothwell. After the failure of the two rash attempts of Bothwell upon the King's person--the former at Holyrood House in 1591 and the second at Falkland in 1592--the Earl persuaded the Laird of Logie and the Laird of Burleigh to join him in a third attempt, which was fixed for the 7th or 9th of August 1592; but the King got wind of the affair, and the two Lairds were seized by the Duke of Lennox and 'committed to ward within Dalkeith.' The heroine of the ballad was a Danish maid-of-honour to James's Queen; her name is variously recorded as Margaret Vinstar, Weiksterne, Twynstoun, or Twinslace. 'Carmichael' was Sir John Carmichael, appointed captain of the King's guard in 1588. The ballad stops short at the escape of the lovers by ship. But history relates that the young couple were befriended by the Queen, who refused to comply with the King's demand that May Margaret should be dismissed. Eventually both were received into favour again, though the Laird of Logie was constantly in political trouble. He died in 1599. (See a paper by A. Francis Steuart in _The Scots Magazine_ for October 1899, p. 387.) THE LAIRD O' LOGIE 1. I will sing, if ye will hearken, If ye will hearken unto me; The king has ta'en a poor prisoner, The wanton laird o' young Logie. 2. Young Logie's laid in Edinburgh chapel, Carmichael's the keeper o' the key; And May Margaret's lamenting sair, A' for the love of Young Logie. 3. 'Lament, lament na, May Margaret, And of your weeping let me be, For ye maun to the king himsell, To seek the life of Young Logie.' 4. May Margaret has kilted her green cleiding, And she has curl'd back her yellow hair; 'If I canna get Young Logie's life, Farewell to Scotland for evermair!' 5. When she came before the king, She knelit lowly on her knee; 'O what's the matter, May Margaret? And what needs a' this courtesie?' 6. 'A boon, a boon, my noble liege, A boon, a boon, I beg o' thee! And the first boon that I come to crave, Is to grant me the life o' Young Logie.' 7. 'O na, O na, May Margaret, Forsooth, and so it mauna be; For a' the gowd o' fair Scotland Shall not save the life o' Young Logie.' 8. But she has stown the king's redding-kaim, Likewise the queen her wedding knife; And sent the tokens to Carmichael, To cause Young Logie get his life. 9. She sent him a purse o' the red gowd, Another o' the white monie; She sent him a pistol for each hand, And bade him shoot when he gat free. 10. When he came to the Tolbooth stair, There he let his volley flee; It made the king in his chamber start, E'en in the bed where he might be. 11. 'Gae out, gae out, my merrymen a', And bid Carmichael come speak to me, For I'll lay my life the pledge o' that, That yon's the shot o' Young Logie.' 12. When Carmichael came before the king, He fell low down upon his knee; The very first word that the king spake, Was 'Where's the laird of Young Logie?' 13. Carmichael turn'd him round about, I wat the tear blinded his eye; 'There came a token frae your grace, Has ta'en away the laird frae me.' 14. 'Hast thou play'd me that, Carmichael? And hast thou play'd me that?' quoth he; 'The morn the Justice Court's to stand, And Logie's place ye maun supplie.' 15. Carmichael's awa to Margaret's bower, Even as fast as he may dree; 'O if Young Logie be within, Tell him to come and speak with me.' 16. May Margaret turn'd her round about, I wat a loud laugh laughed she; 'The egg is chipp'd, the bird is flown, Ye'll see nae mair of Young Logie.' 17. The tane is shipped at the pier of Leith, The tother at the Queen's Ferrie; And she's gotten a father to her bairn, The wanton laird of Young Logie. [Annotations: 8.1: 'redding-kaim,' dressing-comb.] CAPTAIN CAR +The Text+ is from a Cottonian MS. of the sixteenth century in the British Museum (Vesp. A. xxv. fol. 178). It is carelessly written, and words are here and there deleted and altered. I have allowed myself the liberty of choosing readings from several alternatives or possibilities. +The Story.+--There seems to be no doubt that this ballad is founded upon an historical incident of 1571. The Scottish variants are mostly called _Edom o' Gordon_, _i.e._ Adam Gordon, who was brother to George Gordon, Earl of Huntly. Adam was a bold soldier; and, his clan being at variance with the Forbeses--on religious grounds,--he encountered them twice in the autumn of 1571, and inflicted severe defeat on them at the battles of Tuiliangus and Crabstane. In November he approached the castle of Towie, a stronghold of the Forbes clan; but the lady occupying it obstinately refused to yield it up, and it was burnt to the ground. It is not clear whether the responsibility of giving the order to fire the castle attaches to Adam Gordon or to Captain Car or Ker, who was Adam's right-hand man. But when all is said on either side, it is irrational, as Child points out, to apply modern standards of morality or expediency to sixteenth-century warfare. It is curious that this text, almost contemporary with the occurrence which gave rise to the ballad, should be wholly concerned with Captain Car and make no mention of Adam Gordon. For the burden, see Chappell _Popular Music of the Olden Time_, i. 226. CAPTAIN CAR 1. It befell at Martynmas, When wether waxed colde, Captaine Care said to his men, 'We must go take a holde.' _Syck, sicke, and to-towe sike, And sicke and like to die; The sikest nighte that ever I abode, God lord have mercy on me!_ 2. 'Haille, master, and wether you will, And wether ye like it best;' 'To the castle of Crecrynbroghe, And there we will take our reste.' 3. 'I knowe wher is a gay castle, Is builded of lyme and stone; Within their is a gay ladie, Her lord is riden and gone.' 4. The ladie she lend on her castle-walle, She loked upp and downe; There was she ware of an host of men, Come riding to the towne. 5. 'Se yow, my meri men all, And se yow what I see? Yonder I see an host of men, I muse who they bee.' 6. She thought he had ben her wed lord, As he com'd riding home; Then was it traitur Captaine Care The lord of Ester-towne. 7. They wer no soner at supper sett, Then after said the grace, Or Captaine Care and all his men Wer lighte aboute the place. 8. 'Gyve over thi howsse, thou lady gay, And I will make the a bande; To-nighte thou shall ly within my armes, To-morrowe thou shall ere my lande.' 9. Then bespacke the eldest sonne, That was both whitt and redde: 'O mother dere, geve over your howsse, Or elles we shalbe deade.' 10. 'I will not geve over my hous,' she saithe, 'Not for feare of my lyffe; It shalbe talked throughout the land, The slaughter of a wyffe.' 11. 'Fetch me my pestilett, And charge me my gonne, That I may shott at yonder bloddy butcher, The lord of Easter-towne.' 12. Styfly upon her wall she stode, And lett the pellettes flee; But then she myst the blody bucher, And she slew other three. 13. ['I will] not geve over my hous,' she saithe, 'Netheir for lord nor lowne; Nor yet for traitour Captain Care, The lord of Easter-towne. 14. 'I desire of Captine Care And all his bloddye band, That he would save my eldest sonne, The eare of all my lande.' 15. 'Lap him in a shete,' he sayth, 'And let him downe to me, And I shall take him in my armes, His waran shall I be.' 16. The captayne sayd unto him selfe: Wyth sped, before the rest, He cut his tonge out of his head, His hart out of his breast. 17. He lapt them in a handkerchef, And knet it of knotes three, And cast them over the castell-wall, At that gay ladye. 18. 'Fye upon the, Captayne Care, And all thy bloddy band! For thou hast slayne my eldest sonne, The ayre of all my land.' 19. Then bespake the yongest sonne, That sat on the nurse's knee, Sayth, 'Mother gay, geve over your house; It smoldereth me.' 20. 'I wold geve my gold,' she saith, 'And so I wolde my ffee, For a blaste of the westryn wind, To dryve the smoke from thee. 21. 'Fy upon the, John Hamleton, That ever I paid the hyre! For thou hast broken my castle-wall, And kyndled in the ffyre.' 22. The lady gate to her close parler, The fire fell aboute her head; She toke up her children thre, Seth, 'Babes, we are all dead.' 23. Then bespake the hye steward, That is of hye degree; Saith, 'Ladie gay, you are in close, Wether ye fighte or flee.' 24. Lord Hamleton drem'd in his dream, In Carvall where he laye, His halle were all of fyre, His ladie slayne or daye. 25. 'Busk and bowne, my mery men all, Even and go ye with me; For I drem'd that my hall was on fyre, My lady slayne or day.' 26. He buskt him and bown'd hym, And like a worthi knighte; And when he saw his hall burning, His harte was no dele lighte. 27. He sett a trumpett till his mouth, He blew as it ples'd his grace; Twenty score of Hamlentons Was light aboute the place. 28. 'Had I knowne as much yesternighte As I do to-daye, Captaine Care and all his men Should not have gone so quite. 29. 'Fye upon the, Captaine Care, And all thy blody bande! Thou haste slayne my lady gay, More wurth then all thy lande. 30. 'If thou had ought eny ill will,' he saith, 'Thou shoulde have taken my lyffe, And have saved my children thre, All and my lovesome wyffe.' [Annotations: Burden.1: 'to-towe' = too-too. 8.2: 'bande,' bond, compact. 8.4: 'ere,' plough. 11.1: 'pestilett,' pistolet. 14.4: 'eare,' and 18.4 'ayre,' both = heir. 25.1: 'Busk and bowne,' make ready. 26.4:'no dele,' in no way. Cf. _somedele_, etc. 28.4: 'quite,' acquitted, unpunished. 30.1: 'ought,' owed.] SIR PATRICK SPENCE +The Text+ is taken from Percy's _Reliques_ (1765), vol. i. p. 71, 'given from two MS. copies, transmitted from Scotland.' Herd had a very similar ballad, which substitutes a Sir Andrew Wood for the hero. The version of this ballad printed in most collections is that of Scott's _Minstrelsy_, Sir Patrick Spens being the spelling adopted.[1] Scott compounded his ballad of two manuscript copies and a few verses from recitation, but the result is of unnecessary length. [Footnote 1: Coleridge, however, wrote of the 'grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.'] +The Story.+--Much labour has been expended upon the question whether this ballad has an historical basis or not. From Percy's ballad--the present text--we can gather that Sir Patrick Spence was chosen by the king to convey something of value to a certain destination; and later versions tell us that the ship is bound for Norway, the object of the voyage being either to bring home the king of Norway's daughter, or the Scottish king's daughter, or to take out the Scottish king's daughter to be queen in Norway. The last variation can be supported by history, Margaret, daughter of Alexander III. of Scotland, being married in 1281 to Erik, king of Norway. Many of the knights and nobles who accompanied her to Norway were drowned on the voyage home. However, we need not elaborate our researches in the attempt to prove that the ballad is historical. It is certainly of English and Scottish origin, and has no parallels in the ballads of other lands. 'Haf owre to Aberdour,' _i.e._ halfway between Aberdour in Buchan and the coast of Norway, lies the island of Papa Stronsay, on which there is a tumulus called 'the Earl's Knowe' (knoll); but the tradition, that this marks the grave of Sir Patrick Spence, is in all probability a modern invention. SIR PATRICK SPENCE 1. The king sits in Dumferling toune, Drinking the blude-reid wine: 'O whar will I get [a] guid sailor, To sail this schip of mine?' 2. Up and spak an eldern knicht, Sat at the king's richt kne: 'Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor That sails upon the se.' 3. The king has written a braid letter, And sign'd it wi' his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand. 4. The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud lauch lauched he; The next line that Sir Patrick red, The teir blinded his ee. 5. 'O wha is this has done this deid, This ill deid don to me, To send me out this time o' the yeir, To sail upon the se! 6. 'Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne:' 'O say na sae, my master deir, Fir I feir a deadlie storme. 7. 'Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone Wi' the auld moone in hir arme, And I feir, I feir, my deir master, That we will cum to harme.' 8. O our Scots nobles wer richt laith To weet their cork-heil'd schoone; Bot lang owre a' the play wer play'd, Thair hats they swam aboone. 9. O lang, lang may their ladies sit Wi' thair fans into their hand Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence Cum sailing to the land. 10. O lang, lang may the ladies stand, Wi' thair gold kerns in their hair, Waiting for thair ain deir lords, For they'll se thame na mair. 11. Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, It's fiftie fadom deip, And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, Wi' the Scots lords at his feit. [Annotations: 1.1: 'Dumferling,' _i.e._ Dunfermline, on the north side of the Firth of Forth.] FLODDEN FIELD +The Text+ is from Thomas Deloney's _Pleasant History of John Winchcomb_,[1] the eighth edition of which, in 1619, is the earliest known. 'In disgrace of the Soots,' says Deloney, 'and in remembrance of the famous atchieved historie, the commons of England made this song, which to this day is not forgotten of many.' I suspect it was Deloney himself rather than the commons of England who made this song. A variant is found in Additional MS. 32,380 in the British Museum--a statement which might be of interest if it were not qualified by the addition 'formerly in the possession of J. Payne Collier.' That egregious antiquary took the pains to fill the blank leaves of a sixteenth-century manuscript with ballads either copied from their original sources, as this from Deloney, or forged by Collier himself; he then made a transcript in his own handwriting (Add. MS. 32,381), and finally printed selections. In the present ballad he has inserted two or three verses of his own; otherwise the changes from Deloney's ballad are slight. [Footnote 1: Reprinted from the ninth edition of 1633 by J. O. Halliwell [-Phillipps], 1859, where the ballad appears on pp. 48-9. Deloney's book was licensed in 1597.] A very long ballad on the same subject is in the Percy Folio, and similar copies in Harleian MSS. 293 and 367. Another is 'Scotish Field,' also in the Percy Folio. +The Story.+--Lesley says in his History, 'This battle was called the Field of Flodden by the Scotsmen and Brankston [Bramstone, 8.3] by the Englishmen, because it was stricken on the hills of Flodden beside a town called Brankston; and was stricken the ninth day of September, 1513.' The ballad follows history closely. 'Lord Thomas Howard' (6.1), uncle to the queen, escorted her to Scotland in 1503: 'This is ground enough,' says Child, 'for the ballad's making him her chamberlain ten years later.' 'Jack with a feather' (12.1) is a contemptuous phrase directed at King James's rashness. FLODDEN FIELD 1. King Jamie hath made a vow, Keep it well if he may! That he will be at lovely London Upon Saint James his day. 2. 'Upon Saint James his day at noon, At fair London will I be, And all the lords in merry Scotland, They shall dine there with me.' 3. Then bespake good Queen Margaret, The tears fell from her eye: 'Leave off these wars, most noble king, Keep your fidelity. 4. 'The water runs swift and wondrous deep, From bottom unto the brim; My brother Henry hath men good enough; England is hard to win.' 5. 'Away,' quoth he, 'with this silly fool! In prison fast let her lie: For she is come of the English blood, And for those words she shall die.' 6. With that bespake Lord Thomas Howard, The queen's chamberlain that day: 'If that you put Queen Margaret to death, Scotland shall rue it alway.' 7. Then in a rage King James did say, 'Away with this foolish mome! He shall be hanged, and the other be burned, So soon as I come home.' 8. At Flodden Field the Scots came in, Which made our English men fain; At Bramstone Green this battle was seen, There was King Jamie slain. 9. Then presently the Scots did fly, Their cannons they left behind; Their ensigns gay were won all away, Our soldiers did beat them blind. 10. To tell you plain, twelve thousand were slain That to the fight did stand, And many prisoners took that day, The best in all Scotland. 11. That day made many [a] fatherless child, And many a widow poor, And many a Scottish gay lady Sat weeping in her bower. 12. Jack with a feather was lapt all in leather, His boastings were all in vain; He had such a chance, with a new morrice dance, He never went home again. [Annotations: 7.2: 'Mome,' dolt.] DICK O' THE COW +The Text+ is a combination of three, but mainly from a text which seems to have been sent to Percy in 1775. The other two are from Scottish tradition of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. I have made a few changes in spelling only. The ballad was certainly known before the end of the sixteenth century, as Thomas Nashe refers to it in 1596:--'_Dick of the Cow_, that mad Demilance Northren Borderer, who plaid his prizes with the Lord _Iockey_ so brauely' (Nashe 's _Works_, ed. R. B. McKerrow, iii. p. 5). _Dick at the Caw_ occurs in a list of 'penny merriments' printed for, and sold by, Philip Brooksby, about 1685. +The Story+ is yet another of the Border ballads of the Armstrongs and Liddesdale, and tells itself in an admirable way. The 'Cow,' of course, cannot refer to cattle, as the word would be 'Kye': possibly it means 'broom,' or the hut in which he lived. See Murray's _Dictionary_, and cp. 9.3 'Billie' means 'brother'; hence the quaint 'billie Willie.' It is the same word as 'bully,' used of Bottom the Weaver, which also occurs in the ballad of _Bewick and Grahame_, 5.2 (see p. 102 of this volume). DICK O' THE COW 1. Now Liddisdale has long lain in, _Fa la_ There is no rideing there at a'; _Fa la_ Their horse is growing so lidder and fatt That are lazie in the sta'. _Fa la la didle_ 2. Then Johnë Armstrang to Willie can say, 'Billie, a rideing then will we; England and us has been long at a feed; Perhaps we may hitt of some bootie. 3. Then they're com'd on to Hutton Hall, They rade that proper place about; But the laird he was the wiser man, For he had left nae gear without. 4. Then he had left nae gear to steal, Except six sheep upon a lee; Says Johnie, 'I'de rather in England die, Before their six sheep goed to Liddisdale with me. 5. 'But how cal'd they the man we last with mett, Billie, as we came over the know?' 'That same he is an innocent fool, And some men calls him Dick o' the Cow.' 6. 'That fool has three as good kyne of his own As is in a' Cumberland, billie,' quoth he; 'Betide my life, betide my death, These three kyne shal go to Liddisdaile with me.' 7. Then they're com'd on to the poor fool's house, And they have broken his wals so wide; They have loos'd out Dick o' the Cow's kyne three, And tane three co'erlets off his wife's bed. 8. Then on the morn, when the day grew light, The shouts and crys rose loud and high; 'Hold thy tongue, my wife,' he says, 'And of thy crying let me bee. 9. 'Hald thy tongue, my wife,' he says, 'And of thy crying let me bee, And ay that where thou wants a kow, Good sooth that I shal bring thee three.' 10. Then Dick's com'd on to lord and master, And I wat a drerie fool was he; 'Hald thy tongue, my fool,' he says, 'For I may not stand to jest with thee.' 11. 'Shame speed a' your jesting, my lord,' quo' Dickie, 'For nae such jesting 'grees with me; Liddesdaile has been in my house this last night, And they have tane my three kyne from me.' 12. 'But I may nae langer in Cumberland dwel, To be your poor fool and your leel, Unless ye give me leave, my lord, To go to Liddisdale and steal.' 13. 'To give thee leave, my fool,' he says, 'Thou speaks against mine honour and me; Unless thou give me thy troth and thy right hand, Thou'l steal frae nane but them that sta' from thee.' 14. 'There is my trouth and my right hand; My head shal hing on Hairibie, I'le never crose Carlele sands again, If I steal frae a man but them that sta' frae me.' 15. Dickie has tane leave at lord and master, And I wat a merrie fool was he; He has bought a bridle and a pair of new spurs, And has packed them up in his breek-thigh. 16. Then Dickie's come on for Puddinburn, Even as fast as he may drie; Dickie's come on for Puddinburn, Where there was thirty Armstrongs and three. 17. 'What's this com'd on me!' quo' Dickë, 'What meakle wae's this happen'd on me,' quo' he, 'Where here is but an innocent fool, And there is thirty Armstrongs and three!' 18. Yet he's com'd up to the hall among them all; So wel he became his courtisie; 'Well may ye be, my good Laird's Jock, But the deil bless all your companie! 19. 'I'm come to plain of your man Fair Johnie Armstrong, And syne his billie Willie,' quo' he; 'How they have been in my house this last night, And they have tane my three ky frae me.' 20. Quo' Johnie Armstrong, 'We'll him hang;' 'Nay,' then quo' Willie, 'we'll him slae;' But up bespake another young man, 'We'le nit him in a four-nooked sheet, Give him his burden of batts, and lett him gae.' 21. Then up bespake the good Laird's Jock, The best falla in the companie; 'Sitt thy way down a little while, Dickë, And a peice of thine own cow's hough I'l give to thee.' 22. But Dickie's heart it grew so great That never a bitt of it he dought to eat; But Dickie was warr of ane auld peat-house, Where there al the night he thought for to sleep. 23. Then Dickie was warr of that auld peat-house, Where there al the night he thought for to ly; And a' the prayers the poor fool pray'd was, 'I wish I had a mense for my own three kye!' 24. Then it was the use of Puddinburn, And the house of Mangertoun, all haile! These that came not at the first call They gott no more meat till the next meall. 25. The lads, that hungry and aevery was, Above the door-head they flang the key. Dickie took good notice to that; Says, 'There's a bootie younder for me.' 26. Then Dickie's gane into the stable, Where there stood thirty horse and three; He has ty'd them a' with St. Mary knot, All these horse but barely three. 27. He has ty'd them a' with St. Mary knot, All these horse but barely three; He has loupen on one, taken another in his hand, And out at the door and gane is Dickie. 28. Then on the morn, when the day grew light, The shouts and cryes rose loud and high; 'What's that theife?' quo' the good Laird's Jock, 'Tel me the truth and the verity. 29. 'What's that theife?' quo' the good Laird's Jock, 'See unto me ye do not lie. Dick o' the Cow has been in the stable this last nicht, And has my brother's horse and mine frae me.' 30. 'Ye wad never be tel'd it,' quo' the Laird's Jock, 'Have ye not found my tales fu' leel? Ye wad never out of England bide, Till crooked and blind and a' wad steal.' 31. 'But will thou lend me thy bay?' Fair Johnë Armstrong can say, 'There's nae mae horse loose in the stable but he; And I'le either bring ye Dick o' the Kow again. Or the day is come that he must die.' 32. 'To lend thee my bay,' the Laird's Jock can say, 'He's both worth gold and good monie; Dick o' the Kow has away twa horse, I wish no thou should make him three.' 33. He has tane the Laird's jack on his back, The twa-handed sword that hang leugh by his thigh; He has tane the steel cap on his head, And on is he to follow Dickie. 34. Then Dickie was not a mile off the town, I wat a mile but barely three, Till John Armstrong has o'ertane Dick o' the Kow, Hand for hand on Cannobie lee. 35. 'Abide thee, bide now, Dickie than, The day is come that thou must die.' Dickie looked o'er his left shoulder, 'Johnie, has thou any mo in thy company? 36. 'There is a preacher in our chapell, And a' the lee-lang day teaches he; When day is gane, and night is come, There's never a word I mark but three. 37. 'The first and second's Faith and Conscience, The third is, Johnie, Take head of thee! But what faith and conscience had thou, traitor, When thou took my three kye frae me? 38. 'And when thou had tane my three kye, Thou thought in thy heart thou was no wel sped; But thou sent thy billie Willie o'er the know, And he took three co'erlets off my wife's bed.' 39. Then Johnë lett a spear fa' leugh by his thigh, Thought well to run the innocent through, But the powers above was more than his, He ran but the poor fool's jerkin through. 40. Together they ran or ever they blan; This was Dickie the fool, and hee; Dickie could not win to him with the blade of the sword, But he fel'd him with the plummet under the eye. 41. Now Dickie has fel'd Fair Johnë Armstrong, The prettiest man in the south countrey; 'Gramercie,' then can Dickie say, 'I had twa horse, thou has made me three.' 42. He has tane the laird's jack of his back, The twa-handed sword that hang leugh by his thigh; He has tane the steel cap off his head; 'Johnie, I'le tel my master I met with thee.' 43. When Johnë waken'd out of his dream, I wat a drery man was he; 'Is thou gane now, Dickie, than? The shame gae in thy company! 44. 'Is thou gane now, Dickie, than? The shame go in thy companie! For if I should live this hundred year, I shal never fight with a fool after thee.' 45. Then Dickie comed home to lord and master, Even as fast as he may drie. 'Now, Dickie, I shal neither eat meat nor drink Till high hanged that thou shall be!' 46. 'The shame speed the liars, my lord!' quo' Dickie, 'That was no the promise ye made to me; For I'd never gane to Liddesdale to steal Till that I sought my leave at thee.' 47. 'But what gart thou steal the Laird's Jock's horse? And, limmer, what gart thou steal him?' quo' he; 'For lang might thou in Cumberland dwelt Or the Laird's Jock had stoln ought frae thee.' 48. 'Indeed I wat ye lee'd, my lord, And even so loud as I hear ye lie; I wan him frae his man, Fair Johnë Armstrong, Hand for hand on Cannobie lee. 49. 'There's the jack was on his back, The twa-handed sword that hung leugh by his thigh; There's the steel cap was on his head; I have a' these takens to lett you see.' 50. 'If that be true thou to me tels (I trow thou dare not tel a lie), I'le give thee twenty pound for the good horse, Wel tel'd in thy cloke-lap shall be. 51. 'And I'le give thee one of my best milk-kye To maintain thy wife and children three; And that may be as good, I think, As ony twa o' thine might be.' 52. 'The shame speed the liars, my lord!' quo' Dickie; 'Trow ye ay to make a fool of me? I'le either have thirty pound for the good horse, Or else he's gae to Mattan fair wi' me.' 53. Then he has given him thirty pound for the good horse, All in gold and good monie: He has given him one of his best milk-kye To maintain his wife and children three. 54. Then Dickie's come down through Carlile town, Even as fast as he may drie. The first of men that he with mett Was my lord's brother, Bailife Glazenberrie. 55. 'Well may ye be, my good Ralph Scrupe!' 'Welcome, my brother's fool!' quo' he; 'Where did thou gett Fair Johnie Armstrong's horse?' 'Where did I get him but steal him,' quo' he. 56. 'But will thou sell me Fair Johnie Armstrong's horse? And, billie, will thou sell him to me?' quo' he; 'Ay, and [thou] tel me the monie on my cloke-lap, For there's not one farthing I'le trust thee.' 57. 'I'le give thee fifteen pound for the good horse, Wel told on thy cloke-lap shal be; And I'le give thee one of my best milk-kye To maintain thy wife and thy children three.' 58. 'The shame speed the liars, my lord!' quo' Dickë, 'Trow ye ay to make a fool of me?' quo' he; 'I'le either have thirty pound for the good horse. Or else he's to Mattan Fair with me.' 59. He has given him thirty pound for the good horse, All in gold and good monie; He has given him one of his best milk-kye To maintain his wife and children three. 60. Then Dickie lap a loup on high, And I wat a loud laughter leugh he; 'I wish the neck of the third horse were browken, For I have a better of my own, and onie better can be.' 61. Then Dickie com'd hame to his wife again. Judge ye how the poor fool he sped! He has given her three score of English pounds For the three auld co'erlets was tane off her bed. 62. 'Hae, take thee there twa as good kye, I trow, as all thy three might be; And yet here is a white-footed naigg, I think he'le carry both thee and me. 63. 'But I may no langer in Cumberland dwell; The Armstrongs they'le hang me high.' But Dickie has tane leave at lord and master, And Burgh under Stanemuir there dwels Dickie. [Annotations: 1.3: 'lidder,' lazy. 2.2: 'billie,' brother. 2.3: 'feed,' feud. 5.2: 'know,' hillock. 20.5: 'burden of batts,' all the blows he can bear. 22.2: 'dought,' was able. 25.1: 'aevery,' ravenous. 26.3: 'St. Mary knot,' a triple knot. 32.4: The copy reads 'should no make.' 33.1: 'jack,' jerkin. 40.1: 'blan,' stopped. 47.2: 'limmer,' rascal. 56.3: I have inserted 'thou' to complete the sense; 'and,' here and below, 60.4, meaning 'if.'] SIR HUGH IN THE GRIME'S DOWNFALL +The Text+ given here is comparatively a late one, from the Roxburghe collection (iii. 456). An earlier broadside, in the same and other collections, gives a longer but curiously corrupted version, exhibiting such perversions as 'Screw' for 'Scroop,' and 'Garlard' for 'Carlisle.' +The Story+ in its full form relates that Sir Hugh in the Grime (Hughie Graeme or Graham) stole a mare from the Bishop of Carlisle, by way of retaliation for the Bishop's seduction of his wife. He was pursued by Lord Scroop, taken, and conveyed to Carlisle and hanged. Scott suggested that Hugh Graham may have been one of four hundred Borderers accused to the Bishop of Carlisle of various murders and thefts about 1548. SIR HUGH IN THE GRIME'S DOWNFALL 1. Good Lord John is a hunting gone, Over the hills and dales so far, For to take Sir Hugh in the Grime, For stealing of the bishop's mare. _He derry derry down_ 2. Hugh in the Grime was taken then And carried to Carlisle town; The merry women came out amain, Saying, 'The name of Grime shall never go down.' 3. O then a jury of women was brought, Of the best that could be found; Eleven of them spoke all at once, Saying 'The name of Grime shall never go down.' 4. And then a jury of men was brought, More the pity for to be! Eleven of them spoke all at once, Saying 'Hugh in the Grime, you are guilty.' 5. Hugh in the Grime was cast to be hang'd, Many of his friends did for him lack; For fifteen foot in the prisin he did jump, With his hands tyed fast behind his back. 6. Then bespoke our good Lady Ward, As she set on the bench so high; 'A peck of white pennys I'll give to my lord, If he'll grant Hugh Grime to me. 7. 'And if it be not full enough, I'll stroke it up with my silver fan; And if it be not full enough, I'll heap it up with my own hand.' 8. 'Hold your tongue now, Lady Ward, And of your talkitive let it be! There is never a Grime came in this court That at thy bidding shall saved be.' 9. Then bespoke our good Lady Moor, As she sat on the bench so high; 'A yoke of fat oxen I'll give to my lord, If he'll grant Hugh Grime to me.' 10. 'Hold your tongue now, good Lady Moor, And of your talkitive let it be! There is never a Grime came to this court That at thy bidding saved shall be.' 11. Sir Hugh in the Grime look'd out of the door, With his hand out of the bar; There he spy'd his father dear, Tearing of his golden hair. 12. 'Hold your tongue, good father dear, And of your weeping let it be! For if they bereave me of my life, They cannot bereave me of the heavens so high.' 13. Sir Hugh in the Grime look'd out at the door; Oh, what a sorry heart had he! There he spy'd his mother dear, Weeping and wailing 'Oh, woe is me!' 14. 'Hold your tongue now, mother dear, And of your weeping let it be! For if they bereave me of my life, They cannot bereave me of heaven's fee. 15. 'I'll leave my sword to Johnny Armstrong, That is made of mettal so fine, That when he comes to the border-side He may think of Hugh in the Grime.' THE DEATH OF PARCY REED +The Text.+--There are two texts available for this ballad, of which the second one, here given, was said to have been taken down from the singing of an old woman by James Telfer of Liddesdale, and was so printed in Richardson's _Borderers' Table Book_ (1846). It preserves almost the whole of the other version, taken from Robert White's papers, who recorded it in 1829; but it obviously bears marks of having been tampered with by Telfer. However, it contains certain stanzas which Child says may be regarded as traditional, and it is therefore preferred here. +The Story.+--Percival or Parcy Reed was warden of the district round Troughend, a high tract of land in Redesdale. In the discharge of his duties he incurred the enmity of the family of Hall of Girsonsfield (two miles east of Troughend) and of some moss-troopers named Crosier. As the ballad shows, the treachery of the Halls delivered Parcy Reed into the Crosiers' hands at a hut in Batinghope, a glen westward of the Whitelee stream. Local tradition adds to the details narrated in the ballad that Parcy's wife had been warned by a dream of her husband's danger, and that on the following morning his loaf of bread happened to be turned upside down--a very bad omen. Further, we learn from the same source, the Crosiers' barbarous treatment of Parcy's corpse aroused the indignation of the neighbourhood, and they and the treacherous Halls were driven away. Girsonsfield has belonged to no one of the name of Hall as far back as Elizabeth, whence it is argued that the ballad is not later than the sixteenth century. THE DEATH OF PARCY REED 1. God send the land deliverance Frae every reaving, riding Scot! We'll sune hae neither cow nor ewe, We'll sune hae neither staig nor stot. 2. The outlaws come frae Liddesdale, They herry Redesdale far and near; The rich man's gelding it maun gang, They canna pass the puir man's mear. 3. Sure it were weel, had ilka thief Around his neck a halter strang; And curses heavy may they light On traitors vile oursels amang. 4. Now Parcy Reed has Crosier taen, He has delivered him to the law; But Crosier says he'll do waur than that, He'll make the tower o' Troughend fa'. 5. And Crosier says he will do waur, He will do waur if waur can be; He'll make the bairns a' fatherless; And then the land it may lie lee. 6. 'To the hunting, ho!' cried Parcy Reed, 'The morning sun is on the dew; The cauler breeze frae off the fells Will lead the dogs to the quarry true. 7. 'To the hunting, ho!' cried Parcy Reed, And to the hunting he has gane; And the three fause Ha's o' Girsonsfield Alang wi' him he has them ta'en. 8. They hunted high, they hunted low, By heathery hill and birken shaw; They raised a buck on Rooken Edge, And blew the mort at fair Ealylawe. 9. They hunted high, they hunted low, They made the echoes ring amain; With music sweet o' horn and hound, They merry made fair Redesdale glen. 10. They hunted high, they hunted low, They hunted up, they hunted down, Until the day was past the prime, And it grew late in the afternoon. 11. They hunted high in Batinghope, When as the sun was sinking low. Says Parcy then, 'Ca' off the dogs, We'll bait our steeds and homeward go.' 12. They lighted high in Batinghope, Atween the brown and benty ground; They had but rested a little while, Till Parcy Reed was sleeping sound. 13. There's nane may lean on a rotten staff, But him that risks to get a fa'; There's nane may in a traitor trust, And traitors black were every Ha'. 14. They've stown the bridle off his steed, And they've put water in his lang gun; They've fixed his sword within the sheath, That out again it winna come. 15. 'Awaken ye, waken ye, Parcy Reed, Or by your enemies be taen; For yonder are the five Crosiers A-coming owre the Hingin-stane.' 16. 'If they be five, and we be four, Sae that ye stand alang wi' me, Then every man ye will take one, And only leave but two to me. We will them meet as brave men ought, And make them either fight or flee.' 17. 'We mayna stand, we canna stand, We daurna stand alang wi' thee; The Crosiers haud thee at a feud, And they wad kill baith thee and we.' 18. 'O, turn thee, turn thee, Johnnie Ha', O, turn thee, man, and fight wi' me; When ye come to Troughend again, My gude black naig I will gie thee; He cost full twenty pound o' gowd, Atween my brother John and me 19. 'I mayna turn, I canna turn, I daurna turn and fight wi' thee; The Crosiers haud thee at a feud, And they wad kill baith thee and me.' 20. 'O, turn thee, turn thee, Willie Ha', O, turn thee, man, and fight wi' me; When ye come to Troughend again, A yoke o' owsen I'll gie thee.' 21. 'I mayna turn, I canna turn, I daurna turn and fight wi' thee; The Crosiers haud thee at a feud, And they wad kill baith thee and me.' 22. 'O, turn thee, turn thee, Tommy Ha', O, turn now, man, and fight wi' me; If ever we come to Troughend again, My daughter Jean I'll gie to thee.' 23. 'I mayna turn, I canna turn, I daurna turn, and fight wi' thee; The Crosiers haud thee at a feud, And they wad kill baith thee and me.' 24. 'O, shame upon ye, traitors a'! I wish your hames ye may never see; Ye've stown the bridle off my naig, And I can neither fight nor flee. 25. 'Ye've stown the bridle off my naig, And ye've put water i' my lang gun; Ye've fixed my sword within the sheath, That out again it winna come.' 26. He had but time to cross himsel', A prayer he hadna time to say, Till round him came the Crosiers keen, All riding graithed, and in array. 27. 'Weel met, weel met, now, Parcy Reed, Thou art the very man we sought; Owre lang hae we been in your debt, Now will we pay you as we ought. 28. 'We'll pay thee at the nearest tree, Where we shall hang thee like a hound;' Brave Parcy rais'd his fankit sword, And fell'd the foremost to the ground. 29. Alake, and wae for Parcy Reed, Alake, he was an unarmed man; Four weapons pierced him all at once, As they assailed him there and than. 30. They fell upon him all at once, They mangled him most cruellie; The slightest wound might caused his deid, And they hae gi'en him thirty-three: They hacket off his hands and feet, And left him lying on the lee. 31. 'Now, Parcy Reed, we've paid our debt, Ye canna weel dispute the tale,' The Crosiers said, and off they rade; They rade the airt o' Liddesdale. 32. It was the hour o' gloaming gray, When herds come in frae fauld and pen; A herd he saw a huntsman lie, Says he, 'Can this be Laird Troughen'?' 33. 'There's some will ca' me Parcy Reed, And some will ca' me Laird Troughen'; It's little matter what they ca' me, My faes hae made me ill to ken. 34. 'There's some will ca' me Parcy Reed, And speak my praise in tower and town It's little matter what they do now, My life-blood rudds the heather brown. 35. 'There's some will ca' me Parcy Reed, And a' my virtues say and sing; I would much rather have just now A draught o' water frae the spring.' 36. The herd flung aff his clouted shoon, And to the nearest fountain ran; He made his bonnet serve a cup, And wan the blessing o' the dying man. 37. 'Now, honest herd, you maun do mair,-- Ye maun do mair as I you tell; You maun bear tidings to Troughend, And bear likewise my last farewell. 38. 'A farewell to my wedded wife, A farewell to my brother John, Wha sits into the Troughend tower, Wi' heart as black as any stone. 39. 'A farewell to my daughter Jean, A farewell to my young sons five; Had they been at their father's hand, I had this night been man alive. 40. 'A farewell to my followers a', And a' my neighbours gude at need; Bid them think how the treacherous Ha's Betrayed the life o' Parcy Reed. 41. 'The laird o' Clennel bears my bow, The laird o' Brandon bears my brand; Whene'er they ride i' the Border side, They'll mind the fate o' the laird Troughend.' [Annotations: 1.2: 'reaving,' robbing. 1.4: 'staig,' horse; 'stot,' ox. 26.4: 'graithed,' accoutred. 28.3: 'fankit,' entangled. 31.4: 'the airt o',' _i.e._ in the direction of.] BEWICK AND GRAHAME +The Text+ is from several broadsides and chap-books, but mainly depends on a stall-copy entitled _The Song of Bewick and Grahame_, approximately dated 1740. Sir Walter Scott considered this ballad 'remarkable, as containing probably the very latest allusion to the institution of brotherhood in arms' (see 14.4, and the use of the word 'bully'); but Child strongly suspects there was an older and better copy than those extant, none of which is earlier than the eighteenth century. +The Story+ is concerned with two fathers, who boast about their sons, and cause the two lads to fight. Christy Graham is faced with the dilemma of fighting either his father or his brother-in-arms, and decides to meet the latter; but, should he kill his friend, he determines not to return alive. Young Bewick takes a similar vow. They fight two hours, and at last an 'ackward' stroke kills Bewick, and Christy falls on his sword. The two fathers lament, and the ballad-singer finishes by putting the blame on them. BEWICK AND GRAHAME 1. Old Grahame he is to Carlisle gone, Where Sir Robert Bewick there met he; In arms to the wine they are gone, And drank till they were both merry. 2. Old Grahame he took up the cup, And said, 'Brother Bewick, here's to thee, And here's to our two sons at home, For they live best in our country.' 3. 'Nay, were thy son as good as mine, And of some books he could but read, With sword and buckler by his side, To see how he could save his head. 4. 'They might have been call'd two bold brethren Where ever they did go or ride; They might have been call'd two bold brethren, They might have crack'd the Border-side. 5. Thy son is bad, and is but a lad, And bully to my son cannot be; For my son Bewick can both write and read, And sure I am that cannot he.' 6. 'I put him to school, but he would not learn, I bought him books but he would not read; But my blessing he's never have Till I see how his hand can save his head.' 7. Old Grahame called for an account, And he ask'd what was for to pay; There he paid a crown, so it went round, Which was all for good wine and hay. 8. Old Grahame is into the stable gone, Where stood thirty good steeds and three; He's taken his own steed by the head, And home rode he right wantonly. 9. When he came home, there did he espy A loving sight to spy or see, There did he espy his own three sons, Young Christy Grahame, the foremost was he. 10. There did he espy his own three sons, Young Christy Grahame, the foremost was he; 'Where have you been all day, father, That no counsel you would take by me?' 11. 'Nay, I have been in Carlisle town, Where Sir Robert Bewick there met me; He said thou was bad, and call'd thee a lad, And a baffled man by thou I be. 12. 'He said thou was bad, and call'd thee a lad, And bully to his son cannot be; For his son Bewick can both write and read, And sure I am that cannot thee. 13. 'I put thee to school, but thou would not learn, I bought thee books, but thou would not read; But my blessing thou's never have Till I see with Bewick thou can save thy head.' 14. 'Oh, pray forbear, my father dear; That ever such a thing should be! Shall I venture my body in field to fight With a man that's faith and troth to me?' 15. 'What's that thou sayst, thou limmer loon? Or how dare thou stand to speak to me? If thou do not end this quarrel soon, Here is my glove, thou shalt fight me.' 16. Christy stoop'd low unto the ground, Unto the ground, as you'll understand; 'O father, put on your glove again, The wind hath blown it from your hand.' 17. 'What's that thou sayst, thou limmer loon? Or how dare thou stand to speak to me? If thou do not end this quarrel soon, Here is my hand, thou shalt fight me.' 18. Christy Grahame is to his chamber gone, And for to study, as well might be, Whether to fight with his father dear, Or with his bully Bewick he. 19. 'If it be my fortune my bully to kill, As you shall boldly understand, In every town that I ride through, They'll say, There rides a brotherless man! 20. 'Nay, for to kill my bully dear, I think it will be a deadly sin; And for to kill my father dear, The blessing of heaven I ne'er shall win. 21. 'O give me your blessing, father,' he said, 'And pray well for me for to thrive; If it be my fortune my bully to kill, I swear I'll ne'er come home alive.' 22. He put on his back a good plate-jack, And on his head a cap of steel, With sword and buckler by his side; O gin he did not become them well! 23. 'O fare thee well, my father dear! And fare thee well, thou Carlisle town! If it be my fortune my bully to kill, I swear I'll ne'er eat bread again.' 24. Now we'll leave talking of Christy Grahame, And talk of him again belive; But we will talk of bonny Bewick, Where he was teaching his scholars five. 25. Now when he had learn'd them well to fence, To handle their swords without any doubt, He's taken his own sword under his arm, And walk'd his father's close about. 26. He look'd between him and the sun, To see what farleys he could see; There he spy'd a man with armour on, As he came riding over the lee. 27. 'I wonder much what man yon be That so boldly this way does come; I think it is my nighest friend, I think it is my bully Grahame. 28. 'O welcome, O welcome, bully Grahame! O man, thou art my dear, welcome! O man, thou art my dear, welcome! For I love thee best in Christendom.' 29. 'Away, away, O bully Bewick, And of thy bullyship let me be! The day is come I never thought on; Bully, I'm come here to fight with thee.' 30. 'O no! not so, O bully Grahame! That e'er such a word should spoken be! I was thy master, thou was my scholar; So well as I have learned thee.' 31. 'My father he was in Carlisle town, Where thy father Bewick there met he; He said I was bad, and he call'd me a lad, And a baffled man by thou I be.' 32. 'Away, away, O bully Grahame, And of all that talk, man, let us be! We'll take three men of either side To see if we can our fathers agree.' 33. 'Away, away, O bully Bewick, And of thy bullyship let me be! But if thou be a man, as I trow thou art, Come over this ditch and fight with me.' 34. 'O no, not so, my bully Grahame! That e'er such a word should spoken be! Shall I venture my body in field to fight With a man that's faith and troth to me?' 35. 'Away, away, O bully Bewick, And of all that care, man, let us be! If thou be a man, as I trow thou art, Come over this ditch and fight with me.' 36. 'Now, if it be my fortune thee, Grahame, to kill, As God's will's, man, it all must be: But if it be my fortune thee, Grahame, to kill, 'Tis home again I'll never gae.' 37. 'Thou art then of my mind, bully Bewick, And sworn-brethren will we be; If thou be a man, as I trow thou art, Come over this ditch and fight with me.' 38. He flang his cloak from off his shoulders, His psalm-book out of his hand flung he, He clap'd his hand upon the hedge, And o'er lap he right wantonly. 39. When Grahame did see his bully come, The salt tear stood long in his eye; 'Now needs must I say that thou art a man, That dare venture thy body to fight with me. 40. 'Now I have a harness on my back; I know that thou hath none on thine; But as little as thou hath on thy back, Sure as little shall there be on mine.' 41. He flang his jack from off his back, His steel cap from his head flang he; He's taken his sword into his hand, He's tyed his horse unto a tree. 42. Now they fell to it with two broad swords, For two long hours fought Bewick and he; Much sweat was to be seen on them both, But never a drop of blood to see. 43. Now Grahame gave Bewick an ackward stroke, An ackward stroke surely struck he; He struck him now under the left breast, Then down to the ground as dead fell he. 44. 'Arise, arise, O bully Bewick, Arise, and speak three words to me! Whether this be thy deadly wound, Or God and good surgeons will mend thee.' 45. 'O horse, O horse, O bully Grahame, And pray do get thee far from me! Thy sword is sharp, it hath wounded my heart, And so no further can I gae. 46. 'O horse, O horse, O bully Grahame, And get thee far from me with speed! And get thee out of this country quite! That none may know who's done the deed.' 47. 'O if this be true, my bully dear, The words that thou dost tell to me, The vow I made, and the vow I'll keep; I swear I'll be the first to die.' 48. Then he stuck his sword in a moudie-hill, Where he lap thirty good foot and three; First he bequeathed his soul to God, And upon his own sword-point lap he. 49. Now Grahame he was the first that died, And then came Robin Bewick to see; 'Arise, arise, O son,' he said, 'For I see thou's won the victory. 50. 'Arise, arise, O son,' he said, 'For I see thou's won the victory;' 'Father, could ye not drunk your wine at home, And letten me and my brother be? 51. 'Nay, dig a grave both low and wide, And in it us two pray bury; But bury my bully Grahame on the sun-side, For I'm sure he's won the victory.' 52. Now we'll leave talking of these two brethren, In Carlisle town where they lie slain, And talk of these two good old men, Where they were making a pitiful moan. 53. With that bespoke now Robin Bewick; 'O man, was I not much to blame? I have lost one of the liveliest lads That ever was bred unto my name.' 54. With that bespoke my good lord Grahame; 'O man, I have lost the better block; I have lost my comfort and my joy, I have lost my key, I have lost my lock. 55. 'Had I gone through all Ladderdale, And forty horse had set on me, Had Christy Grahame been at my back, So well as he would guarded me.' 56. I have no more of my song to sing, But two or three words to you I'll name; But 'twill be talk'd in Carlisle town That these two old men were all the blame. [Annotations: 5.2: 'bully,' = billie, brother. See page 75. 24.2: 'belive,' soon. 26.2: 'farleys,' wonders, novelties. 48.1: 'moudie-hill,' mole-hill.] THE FIRE OF FRENDRAUGHT +The Text+ is from Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_. He received the ballad from Charles Kirkpatrick Sharp. In Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_ there is a similar version with a number of small verbal differences. +The Story.+--Frendraught in Aberdeenshire, and Rothiemay in Banffshire, lie on opposite sides of the Deveron, which separates the counties. A feud began (as the result of a dispute over fishing rights) between Crichton of Frendraught and Gordon of Rothiemay, and in a fight on the first day of the year 1630, Rothiemay and others were killed. Kinsmen of both parties were involved; and though the broil was temporarily settled, another soon sprang up. The Lord John of the ballad was Viscount Melgum, the second son of the Marquis of Huntly, who was appealed to as a peacemaker between the factions of Leslie and Crichton. Lord John and Rothiemay were sent by the Marquis to escort Frendraught to his home, a precaution rendered necessary by the knowledge that the Leslies were in ambuscade. Arrived at Frendraught, the laird and lady entreated the two young men to remain the night, and eventually prevailed on them to do so. However (though it was long disputed whether the fire was an accident or not), it seems that the ancient grudge against Rothiemay moved Frendraught to sacrifice 'a great quantity of silver, both coined and uncoined,' in the firing of his house for the sake of burning Rothiemay. Sophia Hay (25.1) was the daughter of the Earl of Erroll, and Viscount Melgum's wife. The last two lines of the ballad are not easily explained, as the lady is recorded to have been deeply attached to her husband; but it is possible that they have been inserted from a similar stanza in some other ballad. THE FIRE OF FRENDRAUGHT 1. The eighteenth of October, A dismal tale to hear How good Lord John and Rothiemay Was both burnt in the fire. 2. When steeds was saddled and well bridled, And ready for to ride, Then out it came her false Frendraught, Inviting them to bide. 3. Said, 'Stay this night untill we sup, The morn untill we dine; 'Twill be a token of good 'greement 'Twixt your good Lord and mine.' 4. 'We'll turn again,' said good Lord John; 'But no,' said Rothiemay, 'My steed's trapan'd, my bridle's broken, I fear the day I'm fey.' 5. When mass was sung, and bells was rung, And all men bound for bed, Then good Lord John and Rothiemay In one chamber was laid. 6. They had not long cast off their cloaths, And were but now asleep, When the weary smoke began to rise, Likewise the scorching heat. 7. 'O waken, waken, Rothiemay! O waken, brother dear! And turn you to our Saviour; There is strong treason here.' 8. When they were dressed in their cloaths, And ready for to boun, The doors and windows was all secured, The roof-tree burning down. 9. He did him to the wire-window As fast as he could gang; Says 'Wae to the hands put in the stancheons! For out we'll never win.' 10. When he stood at the wire-window, Most doleful to be seen, He did espy her Lady Frendraught, Who stood upon the green. 11. Cried 'Mercy, mercy, Lady Frendraught, Will ye not sink with sin? For first your husband killed my father, And now you burn his son.' 12. O then out spoke her Lady Frendraught, And loudly did she cry; 'It were great pity for good Lord John, But none for Rothiemay; But the keys are casten in the deep draw well, Ye cannot get away.' 13. While he stood in this dreadful plight, Most piteous to be seen, There called out his servant Gordon, As he had frantic been. 14. 'O loup, O loup, my dear master! O loup and come to me! I'll catch you in my arms two, One foot I will not flee. 15. 'O loup, O loup, my dear master! O loup and come away! I'll catch you in my arms two, But Rothiemay may lie.' 16. 'The fish shall never swim in the flood, Nor corn grow through the clay, Nor the fiercest fire that was ever kindled Twin me and Rothiemay. 17. 'But I cannot loup, I cannot come, I cannot win to thee; My head's fast in the wire-window, My feet burning from me. 18. 'My eyes are seething in my head, My flesh roasting also, My bowels are boiling with my blood; Is not that a woeful woe? 19. 'Take here the rings from my white fingers, That are so long and small, And give them to my lady fair, Where she sits in her hall. 20. 'So I cannot loup, I cannot come, I cannot loup to thee; My earthly part is all consumed, My spirit but speaks to thee.' 21. Wringing her hands, tearing her hair, His lady she was seen, And thus addressed his servant Gordon, Where he stood on the green. 22. 'O wae be to you, George Gordon! An ill death may you die! So safe and sound as you stand there And my lord bereaved from me.' 23. 'I bad him loup, I bad him come, I bad him loup to me; I'd catch him in my arms two, A foot I should not flee. 24. 'He threw me the rings from his white fingers, Which were so long and small, To give to you, his lady fair, Where you sat in your hall.' 25. Sophia Hay, Sophia Hay, O bonny Sophia was her name, Her waiting-maid put on her cloaths, But I wot she tore them off again. 26. And aft she cried, 'Ohon! alas! alas! A sair heart's ill to win; I wan a sair heart when I married him, And the day it's well return'd again.' [Annotations: 16.4: 'twin,' part.] GEORDIE +The Text+ is from Johnson's _Museum_, communicated by Robert Burns. +The Story.+--Some editors have identified the hero of the ballad with George Gordon, fourth earl of Huntly, but upon what grounds it is difficult to see. There are two English broadside ballads, of the first and second halves respectively of the seventeenth century, which are either the originals of, or copies from, the Scottish ballad, which exists in many variants. The earlier is concerned with 'the death of a worthy gentleman named George Stoole,' 'to a delicate Scottish tune,' and the second is called 'The Life and Death of George of Oxford. To a pleasant tune, called Poor Georgy.' One of the Scottish versions has a burden resembling that of 'George Stoole.' The 'battle in the north' and Sir Charles Hay are not identified. GEORDIE 1. There was a battle in the north, And nobles there was many, And they hae killed Sir Charlie Hay, And they laid the wyte on Geordie. 2. O he has written a lang letter, He sent it to his lady: 'Ye maun cum up to Enbrugh town, To see what word's o' Geordie.' 3. When first she look'd the letter on, She was both red and rosy; But she had na read a word but twa Till she wallowt like a lily. 4. 'Gar get to me ray gude grey steed; My menyie a' gae wi' me; For I shall neither eat nor drink Till Enbrugh town shall see me.' 5. And she has mountit her gude grey steed, Her menyie a' gaed wi' her, And she did neither eat nor drink Till Enbrugh town did see her, 6. And first appear'd the fatal block, And syne the aix to head him, And Geordie cumin' down the stair, And bands o' airn upon him. 7. But tho' he was chain'd in fetters strang, O' airn and steel sae heavy, There was na ane in a' the court Sae bra' a man as Geordie. 8. O she's down on her bended knee; I wat she's pale and weary: 'O pardon, pardon, noble king, And gie me back my dearie! 9. 'I hae born seven sons to my Geordie dear, The seventh ne'er saw his daddie, O pardon, pardon, noble king, Pity a waefu' lady!' 10. 'Gar bid the headin'-man mak haste,' Our king reply'd fu' lordly: 'O noble king, tak a' that's mine, But gie me back my Geordie!' 11. The Gordons cam, the Gordons ran, And they were stark and steady, And ay the word amang them a' Was 'Gordons, keep you ready!' 12. An aged lord at the king's right hand Says 'Noble king, but hear me; Gar her tell down five thousand pound, And gie her back her dearie.' 13. Some gae her marks, some gae her crowns, Some gae her dollars many, And she's tell'd down five thousand pound, And she's gotten again her dearie. 14. She blinkit blythe in her Geordie's face, Says 'Dear I've bought thee, Geordie; But there sud been bluidy bouks on the green Or I had tint my laddie.' 15. He claspit her by the middle sma', And he kist her lips sae rosy: 'The fairest flower o' woman-kind Is my sweet bonnie lady!' [Annotations: 1.4: 'wyte,' blame. 3.4: 'wallowt,' drooped. 4.2: 'menyie,' attendants. 14.3: 'bouk,' body. 14.4: 'Or,' ere; 'tint,' lost.] THE BARON OF BRACKLEY +The Text+ is from Alexander Laing's _Scarce Ancient Ballads_ (1822). A similar version occurs in Buchan's _Gleanings_ (1825). Professor Gummere, in printing the first text, omits six stanzas, on the assumption that they represent part of a second ballad imperfectly incorporated. But I think the ballad can be read as it stands below, though doubtless 'his ladie's' remark, st. 11, is out of place. +The Story+ seems to be a combination of at least two. An old Baron of Brackley, 'an honest aged man,' was slain in 1592 by 'caterans' or freebooters who had been entertained hospitably by him. In 1666 John Gordon of Brackley began a feud with John Farquharson of Inverey by seizing some cattle or horses--accounts differ--by way of fines due for taking fish out of season. This eventually led to the slaying of Brackley and certain of his adherents. Professor Child suspects a commixture of the two episodes in the one ballad, or more probably, a grafting of a later ballad on to an earlier one. The character of the Baron as revealed in the ballad more closely resembles that of the 1592 episode, while the details of the fray are in keeping with the later story. 'Peggy,' the Baron's wife, was Margaret Burnet, cousin to Gilbert, Bishop of Salisbury. After Brackley's death she married again, but not her husband's murderer, as the end of our ballad scandalously suggests. Brackley is near Ballater, about forty miles west of Aberdeen. THE BARON OF BRACKLEY 1. Inverey cam doun Deeside, whistlin' and playin', He was at brave Braikley's yett ere it was dawin'. 2. He rappit fu' loudly an' wi' a great roar, Cried, 'Cum doun, cum doun, Braikley, and open the door. 3. 'Are ye sleepin', Baronne, or are ye wakin'? Ther's sharpe swords at your yett, will gar your blood spin. 4. 'Open the yett, Braikley, and lat us within, Till we on the green turf gar your bluid rin.' 5. Out spak the brave baronne, owre the castell-wa'; 'Are ye cum to spulyie and plunder mi ha'? 6. 'But gin ye be gentlemen, licht and cum in: Gin ye drink o' my wine, ye'll nae gar my bluid spin. 7. 'Gin ye be hir'd widifu's, ye may gang by, Ye may gang to the lowlands and steal their fat ky. 8. 'Ther spulyie like rievers o' wyld ketterin clan, Who plunder unsparing baith houses and lan'. 9. 'Gin ye be gentlemen, licht and cum [in], Ther's meat and drink i' my ha' for every man. 10. 'Gin ye be hired widifu's, ye may gang by, Gang doun to the lowlands, and steal horse and ky.' 11. Up spak his ladie, at his bak where she lay, 'Get up, get up, Braikley, an be not afraid; The'r but young hir'd widifu's wi' belted plaids.' 12. 'Cum kiss me, mi Peggy, I'le nae langer stay, For I will go out and meet Inverey. 13. 'But haud your tongue, Peggy, and mak nae sic din, For yon same hir'd widifu's will prove themselves men.' 14. She called on her marys, they cam to her hand; Cries, 'Bring me your rocks, lassies, we will them command. 15. 'Get up, get up, Braikley, and turn bak your ky, Or me and mi women will them defy. 16. 'Cum forth then, mi maidens, and show them some play; We'll ficht them, and shortly the cowards will fly. 17. 'Gin I had a husband, whereas I hae nane, He woud nae ly i' his bed and see his ky taen. 18. 'Ther's four-and-twenty milk-whit calves, twal o' them ky, In the woods o' Glentanner, it's ther thei a' ly. 19. 'Ther's goat i' the Etnach, and sheep o' the brae, An a' will be plunder'd by young Inverey.' 20. 'Now haud your tongue, Peggy, and gie me a gun, Ye'll see me gae furth, but I'll never cum in. 21. 'Call mi brother William, mi unkl also, Mi cousin James Gordon; we'll mount and we'll go.' 22. When Braikley was ready and stood i' the closs, He was the bravest baronne that e'er mounted horse. 23. Whan all wer assembled o' the castell green, No man like brave Braikley was ther to be seen. 24. ... ... ... 'Turn bak, brother William, ye are a bridegroom; 25. 'Wi' bonnie Jean Gordon, the maid o' the mill; O' sichin' and sobbin' she'll soon get her fill.' 26. 'I'm no coward, brother, 'tis ken'd I'm a man; I'll ficht i' your quarral as lang's I can stand. 27. 'I'll ficht, my dear brother, wi' heart and gudewill, And so will young Harry that lives at the mill. 28. 'But turn, mi dear brother, and nae langer stay: What'll cum o' your ladie, gin Braikley thei slay? 29. 'What'll cum o' your ladie and bonnie young son? O what'll cum o' them when Braikley is gone?' 30. 'I never will turn: do you think I will fly? But here I will ficht, and here I will die.' 31. 'Strik, dogs,' crys Inverey, 'and ficht till ye're slayn, For we are four hundred, ye are but four men. 32. 'Strik, strik, ye proud boaster, your honour is gone, Your lands we will plunder, your castell we'll burn.' 33. At the head o' the Etnach the battel began, At Little Auchoilzie thei kill'd the first man. 34. First thei kill'd ane, and soon they kill'd twa, Thei kill'd gallant Braikley, the flour o' them a'. 35. Thei kill'd William Gordon, and James o' the Knox, And brave Alexander, the flour o' Glenmuick. 36. What sichin' and moaning was heard i' the glen, For the Baronne o' Braikley, who basely was slayn! 37. 'Cam ye bi the castell, and was ye in there? Saw ye pretty Peggy tearing her hair?' 38. 'Yes, I cam by Braikley, and I gaed in there, And there saw his ladie braiding her hair. 39. 'She was rantin', and dancin', and singin' for joy, And vowin' that nicht she woud feest Inverey. 40. 'She eat wi' him, drank wi' him, welcom'd him in, Was kind to the man that had slain her baronne.' 41. Up spake the son on the nourice's knee, 'Gin I live to be a man, revenged I'll be.' 42. Ther's dool i' the kitchin, and mirth i' the ha', The Baronne o' Braikley is dead and awa'. [Annotations: 1.2: 'yett,' gate. 5.2: 'spulyie,' spoil. 7.1: 'widifu's,' gallows-birds (lit. 'halter-fulls'). 8.1: 'rievers,' robbers; 'ketterin' = cateran, marauder freebooter. 14.2: 'rocks,' distaffs.] THE GIPSY LADDIE +The Text+ is from Motherwell's MS., a copy from tradition in Renfrewshire in 1825. The ballad exists both in English and Scottish, and though the English ballad is probably derived from the Scottish, it was the first in print. It is also called _Johnnie Faa_. Motherwell, in printing an elaborated version of the following text (_Minstrelsy_, 1827, p. 360), called it _Gypsie Davy_. +The Story.+--Singers--presumably gipsies--entice Lady Cassillis down to hear them, and cast glamour on her. She follows their chief, Gipsy Davy, but finds (stt. 5 and 6) that the conditions are changed. Her lord misses her, seeks her 'thro' nations many,' and finds her drinking with the gipsy chief. He asks her to return home with him. At this point the present version becomes difficult, and the bearing of st. 12 is not apparent. We may gather that the lady returned home with her husband, as he proceeded to hang sixteen of the gipsies. This version calls the lady 'Jeanie Faw,' but the majority call the gipsy chief Johnnie Faa, which is a well-known name amongst gipsies, and occurs as early as 1540 as the name of the 'lord and earl of Little Egypt.' Gipsies being expelled from Scotland by Act of Parliament in 1609, a Captain Johnnë Faa and seven others were hanged in 1624 for disobeying the ordinance, and this execution is sufficient to account for the introduction of the name into a ballad of this kind. The ballad has no certain connection with the Cassillis family, and it has been suggested that the word is simply a corruption of 'castle,' the original beginning of the ballad being 'The gipsies came to the castle-gate.' If this be so, the present form of the ballad illustrates admirably two methods of corruption by tradition. THE GIPSY LADDIE 1. There cam singers to Earl Cassillis' gates, And oh, but they sang bonnie! They sang sae sweet and sae complete, Till down cam the earl's lady. 2. She cam tripping down the stair, And all her maids before her; As soon as they saw her weel-faur'd face They coost their glamourye owre her. 3. They gave her o' the gude sweet-meats, The nutmeg and the ginger, And she gied them a far better thing, Ten gold rings aff her finger. 4. 'Tak from me my silken cloak, And bring me down my plaidie; For it is good eneuch,' she said, 'To follow a Gipsy Davy. 5. 'Yestreen I rode this water deep, And my gude lord beside me; But this nicht I maun set in my pretty fit and wade, A wheen blackguards wading wi' me, 6. 'Yestreen I lay in a fine feather-bed, And my gude lord beyond me; But this nicht I maun lie in some cauld tenant's-barn, A wheen blackguards waiting on me.' 7. 'Come to thy bed, my bonny Jeanie Faw, Come to thy bed, my dearie, For I do swear by the top o' my spear, Thy gude lord'll nae mair come near thee.' 8. When her gude lord cam hame at nicht, It was asking for his fair ladye; One spak slow, and another whisper'd out, 'She's awa' wi' Gipsey Davy!' 9. 'Come saddle to me my horse,' he said; 'Come saddle and mak him readie! For I'll neither sleep, eat, nor drink, Till I find out my lady.' 10. They socht her up, they socht her doun, They socht her thro' nations many, Till at length they found her out in Abbey dale, Drinking wi' Gipsey Davy. 11. 'Rise, oh, rise! my bonny Jeanie Faw; Oh, rise, and do not tarry! Is this the thing ye promised to me When at first I did thee marry?' 12. They drank her cloak, so did they her goun, They drank her stockings and her shoon, And they drank the coat that was nigh to her smock, And they pawned her pearled apron. 13. They were sixteen clever men, Suppose they were na bonnie; They are a' to be hang'd on ae tree, For the stealing o' Earl Cassilis' lady. 14. 'We are sixteen clever men, One woman was a' our mother; We are a' to be hanged on ae day, For the stealing of a wanton lady.' [Annotations: 2.3: 'weel-faur'd,' well-favoured. 5.4:'a wheen,' a pack [of].] BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY +The Text+ is from Sharpe's _Ballad Book_. A parody of this ballad, concerning an episode of the end of the seventeenth century, shows it to have been popular not long after its making. In England it has become a nursery rhyme (see Halliwell's _Nursery Rhymes_, p. 246). +The Story.+--In 1781 a Major Barry, then owner of Lednock, recorded the following tradition. Mary Gray was the daughter of the Laird of Lednock, near Perth, and Bessy Bell was the daughter of the Laird of Kinvaid, a neighbouring place. Both were handsome, and the two were intimate friends. Bessy Bell being come on a visit to Mary Gray, they retired, in order to avoid an outbreak of the plague, to a bower built by themselves in a romantic spot called Burnbraes, on the side of Branchie-burn, three-quarters of a mile from Lednock House. The ballad does not say _how_ the 'pest cam,' but tradition finds a cause for their deaths by inventing a young man, in love with both, who visited them and brought the infection. They died in the bower, and were buried in the Dranoch-haugh ('Stronach haugh,' 3.3), near the bank of the river Almond. The grave is still visited by pious pilgrims. Major Barry mentions 1666 as the year, but the plague did not reach Scotland in that year. Probably the year in question was 1645, when the district was ravaged with the pestilence. BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY 1. O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, They war twa bonnie lasses; They bigget a bower on yon burn-brae, And theekit it o'er wi' rashes. 2. They theekit it o'er wi' rashes green, They theekit it o'er wi' heather; But the pest cam frae the burrows-town, And slew them baith thegither. 3. They thought to lie in Methven kirk-yard, Amang their noble kin; But they maun lye in Stronach haugh, To biek forenent the sin. 4. And Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, They war twa bonnie lasses; They bigget a bower on yon burn-brae, And theekit it o'er wi' rashes. [Annotations: 1.3: 'bigget,' built. 1.4: 'theekit,' thatched. 3.4: _i.e._ to bask beneath the sun.] SIR JAMES THE ROSE +The Text+ is from Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_ (1827). It is based on a stall-copy, presumably similar to one preserved by Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford, combined with a version from recitation, which Child none the less calls 'well remembered from print.' +The Story+ has no historical foundation, as far as can be discovered; and for once we have a traditional tale inculcating a moral, though we do not understand why the 'nourice' betrays Sir James to his enemies. Michael Bruce wrote a version of the story of this ballad, which seems to have become more popular than the ballad itself. It may be seen in A. B. Grosart's edition of his works (1865), p. 197. SIR JAMES THE ROSE 1. O heard ye of Sir James the Rose, The young heir of Buleighan? For he has killed a gallant squire, And his friends are out to take him. 2. Now he's gone to the house of Marr, Where the Nourice was his leman; To seek his dear he did repair, Thinking she would befriend him. 3. 'Where are you going, Sir James?' she says, 'Or where now are you riding?' 'Oh, I am bound to a foreign land, For now I'm under hiding. 4. 'Where shall I go? where shall I run? Where shall I go to hide me? For I have killed a gallant squire, And they're seeking to slay me.' 5. 'O go ye down to yon ale-house, And I'll there pay your lawin'; And if I be a maiden true, I'll meet you in the dawin'.' 6. 'I'll no go down to yon ale-house, For you to pay my lawin'; There's forty shillings for one supper, I'll stay in't till the dawin'.' 7. He's turned him richt and round about, And rowed him in his brechan; And he has gone to take his sleep, In the lowlands of Buleighan. 8. He had not weel gone out o' sicht, Nor was he past Millstrethen, Till four-and-twenty belted knights, Came riding owre the Lethan. 9. 'O have ye seen Sir James the Rose, The young heir of Buleighan? For he has killed a gallant squire, And we're sent out to take him.' 10. 'O I have seen Sir James,' she says, 'For he passed here on Monday; If the steed be swift that he rides on, He's past the gates o' London.' 11. As they rode on man after man, Then she cried out behind them, 'If you do seek Sir James the Rose, I'll tell you where you'll find him.' 12. 'Seek ye the bank abune the mill, In the lowlands of Buleighan; And there you'll find Sir James the Rose, Lying sleeping in his brechan. 13. 'You must not wake him out of sleep, Nor yet must you affright him, Till you drive a dart quite through his heart, And through his body pierce him.' 14. They sought the bank abune the mill, In the lowlands of Buleighan, And there they found Sir James the Rose, Lying sleeping in his brechan. 15. Up then spake Sir John the Graeme Who had the charge a-keeping, 'It shall ne'er be said, dear gentlemen, We killed a man when a-sleeping. 16. They seized his broad sword and his targe, And closely him surrounded; And when he waked out of his sleep, His senses were confounded. 17. 'O pardon, pardon, gentlemen, Have mercy now upon me.' 'Such as you gave, such you shall have, And so we fall upon thee.' 18. 'Donald, my man, wait me upon, And I'll gie you my brechan; And if you stay here till I die, You'll get my trews of tartan. 19. 'There is fifty pounds in my pocket, Besides my trews and brechan, Ye'll get my watch and diamond ring, And take me to Loch-Largan.' 20. Now they've ta'en out his bleeding heart, And stuck it on a spear, Then took it to the House of Marr, And gave it to his dear. 21. But when she saw his bleeding heart, She was like one distracted, She wrung her hands and tore her hair, Crying, 'Oh! what have I acted. 22. 'It's for your sake, Sir James the Rose, That my poor heart's a-breaking; Cursed be the day I did thee betray, Thou brave knight o' Buleighan.' 23. Then up she rose, and forth she goes, And in that fatal hour She bodily was borne away, And never was seen more. 24. But where she went was never kent; And so, to end the matter, A traitor's end you may depend Can never be no better. [Annotations: 7.2: 'brechan,' plaid.] CLYDE'S WATER +The Text+ is from the Skene MS., but I have omitted the three final lines, which do not make a complete stanza, and, when compared with Scott's 'Old Lady's' version, are obviously corrupt. The last verse should signify that the mothers of Willie and Meggie went up and down the bank saying, 'Clyde's water has done us wrong!' The ballad is better known as _Willie and May Margaret_. +The Story.+--Willie refuses his mother's request to stay at home, as he wishes to visit his true-love. The mother puts her malison, or curse, upon him, but he rides off. Clyde is roaring, but Willie says, 'Drown me as I come back, but spare me as I go,' which is Martial's 'Parcite dum propero, mergite cum redeo,' and occurs in other English broadsides. Meggie will not admit Willie, and he rides away. Meggie awakes, and learns that she has dismissed her true-love in her sleep. Our ballad is deficient here, but it is obvious from st. 19 that both lovers are drowned. We must understand, therefore, that Meggie follows Willie across Clyde. A variant of the ballad explains that she found him 'in the deepest pot' in all Clyde's water, and drowned herself. Child notes that there is a very popular Italian ballad of much the same story, except that the mother's curse is on the girl and not the man. There is a curious change in the style of spelling from stanza 15 to the end. CLYDE'S WATER 1. 'Ye gie corn unto my horse, An' meat unto my man, For I will gae to my true-love's gates This night, gin that I can.' 2. 'O stay at hame this ae night, Willie, This ae bare night wi' me; The best bed in a' my house Sall be well made to thee.' 3. 'I carena for your beds, mither, I carena ae pin, For I'll gae to my love's gates This night, gin I can win.' 4. 'O stay, my son Willie, this night, This ae night wi' me; The best hen in a' my roost Sall be well made ready for thee.' 5. 'I carena for your hens, mither, I carena ae pin; I sall gae to my love's gates This night, gin I can win.' 6. 'Gin ye winna stay, my son Willie, This ae bare night wi' me, Gin Clyde's water be deep and fu' o' flood, My malisen drown ye!' 7. He rode up yon high hill, An' down yon dowie glen; The roaring o' Clyde's water Wad hae fleyt ten thousand men. 8. 'O spare me, Clyde's water, O spare me as I gae! Mak me your wrack as I come back, But spare me as I gae!' 9. He rade in, and farther in, Till he came to the chin; And he rade in, and farther in, Till he came to dry lan'. 10. And whan he came to his love's gates, He tirled at the pin. 'Open your gates, Meggie, Open your gates to me, For my beets are fu' o' Clyde's water, And the rain rains oure my chin.' 11. 'I hae nae lovers therout,' she says, 'I hae nae love within; My true-love is in my arms twa, An' nane will I lat in.' 12. 'Open your gates, Meggie, this ae night, Open your gates to me; For Clyde's water is fu' o' flood, An' my mither's malison'll drown me.' 13. 'Ane o' my chamers is fu' o' corn,' she says, 'An' ane is fu' o' hay; Anither is fu' o' gentlemen, An' they winna move till day.' 14. Out waked her May Meggie, Out o' her drousy dream: 'I dreamed a dream sin the yestreen, (God read a' dreams to guid!) That my true-love Willie Was standing at my bed-feet.' 15. 'Now lay ye still, my ae dochter, An' keep my back fra the call', For it's na the space of hafe an hour Sen he gad fra yer hall'.' 16. 'An' hey, Willie, an' hoa, Willie, Winne ye turn agen?' But ay the louder that she crayed He rod agenst the wind. 17. He rod up yon high hill, An' doun yon douey den; The roring that was in Clide's water Wad ha' flayed ten thousand men. 18. He road in, an' farder in, Till he came to the chine; An' he road in, an' farder in, Bat never mare was seen. ... ... ... 19. Ther was na mare seen of that guid lord Bat his hat frae his head; There was na mare seen of that lady Bat her comb an' her sneed. ... ... ... [Annotations: 6.4: 'malisen,' curse. 7.4: 'fleyt,' frightened. 14.4: 'read,' interpret. 14.6: 'standing,' _staring_ in manuscript. 19.4: 'sneed,' snood, fillet.] KATHARINE JAFFRAY +The Text+ is from Herd's MSS., two copies showing a difference of one word and a few spellings. Stt. 3 and 5 are interchanged for the sake of the sense. Many copies of this ballad exist (Child prints a dozen), but this one is both the shortest and simplest. +The Story.+--In _The Cruel Brother_ (First Series, p. 76) it was shown that a lover must 'speak to the brother' of his lady. Here the lesson, it seems, is that he must 'tell the lass herself' before her wedding-day. Katharine, however, not only proves her faith to her first lover (her 'grass-green' dress, 10.2, shows an ill-omened marriage), but prefers the Scot to the Southron. This lesson the ballad drives home in the last two verses. Presumably Scott founded _Young Lochinvar_ on the story of this ballad, as in six versions the Scots laird bears that name. KATHARINE JAFFRAY 1. There liv'd a lass in yonder dale, And doun in yonder glen, O, And Kath'rine Jaffray was her name, Well known by many men, O. 2. Out came the Laird of Lauderdale, Out frae the South Countrie, All for to court this pretty maid, Her bridegroom for to be. 3. He has teld her father and mither baith, And a' the rest o' her kin, And has teld the lass hersell, And her consent has win. 4. Then came the Laird of Lochinton, Out frae the English border, All for to court this pretty maid, Well mounted in good order. 5. He's teld her father and mither baith, As I hear sindry say, But he has nae teld the lass hersell, Till on her wedding day. 6. When day was set, and friends were met, And married to be, Lord Lauderdale came to the place, The bridal for to see. 7. 'O are you come for sport, young man? Or are you come for play? Or are you come for a sight o' our bride, Just on her wedding day?' 8. 'I'm nouther come for sport,' he says, 'Nor am I come for play; But if I had one sight o' your bride, I'll mount and ride away.' 9. There was a glass of the red wine Fill'd up them atween, And ay she drank to Lauderdale, Wha her true-love had been. 10. Then he took her by the milk-white hand, And by the grass-green sleeve, And he mounted her high behind him there, At the bridegroom he askt nae leive. 11. Then the blude run down by Cowden Banks, And down by Cowden Braes, And ay she gard the trumpet sound, 'O this is foul, foul play!' 12. Now a' ye that in England are, Or are in England born, Come nere to Scotland to court a lass, Or else ye'l get the scorn. 13. They haik ye up and settle ye by, Till on your wedding day, And gie ye frogs instead o' fish, And play ye foul, foul play. [Annotations: 13.1: 'haik ye up,' kidnap (_Jamieson_), but ? delude, or keep in suspense.] LIZIE LINDSAY +The Text+ is from Kinloch's MSS. He obtained it from Mearnsshire, and remarks that according to the tradition of that district the heroine was said to have been a daughter of Lindsay of Edzell, though he had searched in vain for genealogical confirmation of the tradition. +The Story.+--'Ballads of this description,' says Professor Child, 'are peculiarly liable to interpolation and debasement.' In this version the most offending stanza is the tenth; and the extra two lines in stt. 22 and 24 also appear to be unnecessary. The anapaestic metre of this version should be noted. The ballad was and is a great favourite with singers, and the tune may be found in several of the collections of Scottish songs. LIZIE LINDSAY 1. It's of a young lord o' the Hielands, A bonnie braw castle had he, And he says to his lady mither, 'My boon ye will grant to me: Sall I gae to Edinbruch city, And fesh hame a lady wi' me?' 2. 'Ye may gae to Edinbruch city, And fesh hame a lady wi' thee, But see that ye bring her but flatt'rie, And court her in grit povertie.' 3. 'My coat, mither, sall be o' the plaiden, A tartan kilt oure my knee, Wi' hosens and brogues and the bonnet; I'll court her wi' nae flatt'rie.' 4. Whan he cam to Edinbruch city, He play'd at the ring and the ba', And saw monie a bonnie young ladie, But Lizie Lindsay was first o' them a'. 5. Syne, dress'd in his Hieland grey plaiden, His bonnet abune his e'e-bree, He called on fair Lizie Lindsay; Says, 'Lizie, will ye fancy me? 6. 'And gae to the Hielands, my lassie, And gae, gae wi' me? O gae to the Hielands, Lizie Lindsay, I'll feed ye on curds and green whey. 7. 'And ye'se get a bed o' green bracken; My plaidie will hap thee and me; Ye'se lie in my arms, bonnie Lizie, If ye'll gae to the Hielands wi' me.' 8. 'O how can I gae to the Hielands Or how can I gae wi' thee, Whan I dinna ken whare I'm gaing, Nor wha I hae to gae wi'?' 9. 'My father, he is an auld shepherd, My mither, she is an auld dey; My name it is Donald Macdonald, My name I'll never deny.' 10. 'O Donald, I'll gie ye five guineas To sit ae hour in my room, Till I tak aff your ruddy picture; Whan I hae 't, I'll never think lang.' 11. 'I dinna care for your five guineas; It's ye that's the jewel to me; I've plenty o' kye in the Hielands, To feed ye wi' curds and green whey. 12. 'And ye'se get a bonnie blue plaidie, Wi' red and green strips thro' it a'; And I'll be the lord o' your dwalling, And that's the best picture ava'. 13. 'And I am laird o' a' my possessions; The king canna boast o' na mair; And ye'se hae my true heart in keeping, There'll be na ither e'en hae a share. 14. 'Sae gae to the Hielands, my lassie, O gae awa' happy wi' me; O gae to the Hielands, Lizie Lindsay. And hird the wee lammies wi' me.' 15. 'O how can I gae wi' a stranger, Oure hills and oure glens frae my hame?' 'I tell ye I am Donald Macdonald; I'll ever be proud o' my name.' 16. Doun cam Lizie Lindsay's ain father, A knicht o' a noble degree; Says, 'If ye do steal my dear daughter, It's hangit ye quickly sall be.' 17. On his heel he turn'd round wi' a bouncie, And a licht lauch he did gie; 'There's nae law in Edinbruch city This day that can dare to hang me.' 18. Then up bespak Lizie's best woman, And a bonnie young lass was she; 'Had I but a mark in my pouchie, It's Donald that I wad gae wi'.' 19. 'O Helen, wad ye leave your coffer, And a' your silk kirtles sae braw, And gang wi' a bare-hough'd puir laddie, And leave father, mither, and a'? 20. 'But I think he's a witch or a warlock, Or something o' that fell degree, For I'll gae awa' wi' young Donald, Whatever my fortune may be.' 21. Then Lizie laid doun her silk mantle, And put on her waiting-maid's goun, And aff and awa' to the Hielands She's gane wi' this young shepherd loun. 22. Thro' glens and oure mountains they wander'd, Till Lizie had scantlie a shoe; 'Alas and ohone!' says fair Lizie, 'Sad was the first day I saw you! I wish I war in Edinbruch city; Fu' sair, sair this pastime I rue.' 23. 'O haud your tongue now, bonnie Lizie, For yonder's the shieling, my hame, And there's my guid auld honest mither, That's coming to meet ye her lane.' 24. 'O ye're welcome, ye're welcome, Sir Donald, Ye're welcome hame to your ain.' 'O ca' me na young Sir Donald, But ca' me Donald my son.' And this they hae spoken in Erse, That Lizie micht not understand. 25. The day being weetie and daggie, They lay till 'twas lang o' the day. 'Win up, win up, bonnie Lizie, And help at the milking the kye.' 26. O slowly raise up Lizie Lindsay, The saut tear blindit her e'e. 'O war I in Edinbruch city, The Hielands shoud never see me!' 27. He led her up to a hie mountain, And bade her look out far and wide. 'I'm lord o' thae isles and thae mountains, And ye're now my beautiful bride. 28. 'Sae rue na ye've come to the Hielands, Sae rue na ye've come aff wi' me, For ye're great Macdonald's braw lady, And will be to the day that ye dee.' [Annotations: 9.2: 'dey,' dairy-woman. 19.3: 'bare-hough'd,' with bare thighs. 20.1: 'warlock,' wizard. 23.2: 'shieling,' hut. 25.1: 'daggie,' drizzling.] THE GARDENER +The Text+ of this pretty little song is taken from Kinloch's MSS., where it is in James Beattie's handwriting. In _Five Excellent New Songs_, printed at Edinburgh in 1766, there is an older but much corrupted version of this song, confused with two other songs, a 'Thyme' song and the favourite 'I sowed the seeds of love.' It is printed as two songs, _The New Lover's Garland_ and _The Young Maid's Answer_, both with the following refrain:-- 'Brave sailing here, my dear, And better sailing there, And brave sailing in my love's arms, O if I were there!' +The Story+ is so slight that the song can scarcely be counted as a narrative. But it is one of the lyrical dialogues covered by the word 'ballad,' and was not ruled out by Professor Child. There seems to be a loss of half a verse in 7, which should doubtless be two stanzas. THE GARDENER 1. The gardener stands in his bower-door, With a primrose in his hand, And by there came a leal maiden, As jimp's a willow wand. _And by_, etc. 2. 'O lady, can you fancy me, For to be my bride? You'll get a' the flowers in my garden To be to you a weed. 3. 'The lily white shall be your smock, Becomes your body neat; And your head shall be deck'd with jelly-flower, And the primrose in your breast. 4. 'Your gown shall be o' the sweet-william, Your coat o' camovine, And your apron o' the salads neat, That taste baith sweet and fine. 5. 'Your stockings shall be o' the broad kail-blade, That is baith broad and long; And narrow, narrow at the coot, And broad, broad at the brawn. 6. 'Your gloves shall be the marygold, All glittering to your hand, Well spread o'er wi' the blue blaewort, That grows in corn-land.' 7. 'O fare you well, young man,' she says, 'Farewell, and I bid adieu; Since you've provided a weed for me, Among the summer flowers, Then I'll provide another for you, Among the winter showers. 8. 'The new-fallen snow to be your smock, Becomes your body neat; And your head shall be deck'd with the eastern wind, And the cold rain on your breast.' [Annotations: 2.4: 'weed,' dress. 4.2: 'camovine,' camomile. 5.3: 'coot,' ankle. 5.4: 'brawn,' calf.] JOHN O' THE SIDE 'He is weil kend, Johne of the Syde, A greater theif did never ryde.' Sir Richard Maitland. +The Text+ is from the Percy Folio, but is given in modernised spelling. It lacks the beginning, probably, and one line in st. 3, which can be easily guessed; but as a whole it is an infinitely fresher and better ballad than that inserted in the _Minstrelsy_ of Sir Walter Scott. +The Story+ is akin to that of _Kinmont Willie_ (p. 49). John of the Side (on the river Liddel, nearly opposite Mangerton) first appears about 1550 in a list of freebooters against whom complaints were laid before the Bishop of Carlisle. He was, it seems, another of the Armstrong family. Hobby Noble has a ballad[1] to himself (as the hero of the present ballad deserves), in which mention is made of Peter of Whitfield. This is doubtless the person mentioned in the first line of _John o' the Side_ as having been killed presumably by John himself. [Footnote 1: Child, No. 189, from Caw's _Poetical Museum_, but not of sufficient merit to be included here.] 'Culertun,' 10.1, is Chollerton on the Tyne. Percy suggests Challerton, and in the ballads upon which Scott founded his version the name is 'Choler-ford.' 'Howbrame wood' and 'Lord Clough' are not identified; and Flanders files, effective as they appear to be, are not otherwise known. 'The ballad,' says Professor Child, 'is one of the best in the world, and enough to make a horse-trooper of any young borderer, had he lacked the impulse.' JOHN O' THE SIDE 1. Peter o' Whifield he hath slain, And John o' Side, he is ta'en, And John is bound both hand and foot, And to the New-castle he is gone. 2. But tidings came to the Sybil o' the Side, By the water-side as she ran; She took her kirtle by the hem, And fast she run to Mangerton. 3. ... ... ... The lord was set down at his meat; When these tidings she did him tell, Never a morsel might he eat. 4. But lords they wrung their fingers white, Ladies did pull themselves by the hair, Crying 'Alas and welladay! For John o' the Side we shall never see more. 5. 'But we'll go sell our droves of kine, And after them our oxen sell, And after them our troops of sheep, But we will loose him out of the New Castell.' 6. But then bespake him Hobby Noble, And spoke these words wondrous high; Says, 'Give me five men to myself, And I'll fetch John o' the Side to thee.' 7. 'Yea, thou'st have five, Hobby Noble, Of the best that are in this country; I'll give thee five thousand, Hobby Noble, That walk in Tyvidale truly.' 8. 'Nay, I'll have but five,' says Hobby Noble, 'That shall walk away with me; We will ride like no men of war, But like poor badgers we will be.' 9. They stuffed up all their bags with straw, And their steeds barefoot must be; 'Come on, my brethren,' says Hobby Noble, 'Come on your ways, and go with me.' 10. And when they came to Culerton ford, The water was up, they could it not go; And then they were ware of a good old man, How his boy and he were at the plough. 11. 'But stand you still,' says Hobby Noble, 'Stand you still here at this shore, And I will ride to yonder old man, And see where the gate it lies o'er. 12. 'But Christ you save, father!' quoth he, 'Christ both you save and see! Where is the way over this ford? For Christ's sake tell it me.' 13. 'But I have dwelled here three score year, So have I done three score and three; I never saw man nor horse go o'er, Except it were a horse of tree.' 14. 'But fare thou well, thou good old man! The devil in hell I leave with thee, No better comfort here this night Thou gives my brethren here and me.' 15. But when he came to his brether again, And told this tidings full of woe, And then they found a well good gate They might ride o'er by two and two. 16. And when they were come over the ford, All safe gotten at the last, 'Thanks be to God!' says Hobby Noble, 'The worst of our peril is past.' 17. And then they came into Howbrame wood, And there then they found a tree, And cut it down then by the root. The length was thirty foot and three. 18. And four of them did take the plank, As light as it had been a flea, And carried it to the New Castle, Where as John o' Side did lie. 19. And some did climb up by the walls, And some did climb up by the tree, Until they came up to the top of the castle, Where John made his moan truly. 20. He said, 'God be with thee, Sybil o' the Side! My own mother thou art,' quoth he; 'If thou knew this night I were here, A woe woman then wouldst thou be. 21. 'And fare you well, Lord Mangerton! And ever I say God be with thee! For if you knew this night I were here, You would sell your land for to loose me. 22. 'And fare thou well, Much, Miller's son! Much, Miller's son, I say; Thou has been better at mirk midnight Than ever thou was at noon o' the day. 23. 'And fare thou well, my good lord Clough! Thou art thy father's son and heir; Thou never saw him in all thy life But with him durst thou break a spear. 24. 'We are brothers childer nine or ten, And sisters children ten or eleven; We never came to the field to fight, But the worst of us was counted a man.' 25. But then bespake him Hobby Noble, And spake these words unto him; Says 'Sleepest thou, wakest thou, John o' the Side, Or art thou this castle within?' 26. 'But who is there,' quoth John o' the Side, 'That knows my name so right and free?' 'I am a bastard-brother of thine; This night I am comen for to loose thee.' 27. 'Now nay, now nay,' quoth John o' the Side, 'It fears me sore that will not be, For a peck of gold and silver,' John said, 'In faith this night will not loose me.' 28. But then bespake him Hobby Noble, And till his brother thus said he; Says 'Four shall take this matter in hand, And two shall tent our geldings free.' 29. Four did break one door without, Then John brake five himsel'; But when they came to the iron door, It smote twelve upon the bell. 30. 'It fears me sore,' said Much, the Miller, 'That here taken we all shall be;' 'But go away, brethren,' said John o' the Side, 'For ever alas! this will not be.' 31. 'But fie upon thee!' said Hobby Noble; 'Much, the Miller, fie upon thee! It sore fears me,' said Hobby Noble, 'Man that thou wilt never be.' 32. But then he had Flanders files two or thee, And he filed down that iron door, And took John out of the New Castle, And said 'Look thou never come here more!' 33. When he had him forth of the New Castle, 'Away with me, John, thou shalt ride.' But ever alas! it could not be, For John could neither sit nor stride. 34. But then he had sheets two or three, And bound John's bolts fast to his feet, And set him on a well good steed, Himself on another by him set. 35. Then Hobby Noble smiled and lough, And spoke these words in mickle pride; 'Thou sits so finely on thy gelding That, John, thou rides like a bride.' 36. And when they came thorough Howbrame town, John's horse there stumbled at a stone; 'Out and alas!' cried Much, the Miller, 'John, thou'll make us all be ta'en.' 37. 'But fie upon thee!' says Hobby Noble, 'Much, the Miller, fie on thee! I know full well,' says Hobby Noble, 'Man that thou wilt never be.' 38. And when they came into Howbrame wood, He had Flanders files two or three To file John's bolts beside his feet, That he might ride more easily. 39. Says 'John, now leap over a steed!' And John then he lope over five. 'I know well,' says Hobby Noble, 'John, thy fellow is not alive.' 40. Then he brought him home to Mangerton; The lord then he was at his meat; But when John o' the Side he there did see, For fain he could no more eat. 41. He says 'Blest be thou, Hobby Noble, That ever thou wast man born! Thou hast fetched us home good John o' the Side, That was now clean from us gone.' [Annotations: 8.4: 'badgers,' corn-dealers or pedlars. 9.2: 'barefoot,' unshod. 11.4: 'gate,' way. 12.2: 'see,' protect. 13.4: 'tree,' wood. The Folio gives '3'; Percy suggested the emendation. 23.3: 'him' = man, which is suggested by Furnivall. 28.4: 'tent,' guard. 35.1: 'lough,' laughed. 39.2: 'lope,' leapt.] JAMIE DOUGLAS AND WALY, WALY, GIN LOVE BE BONNY +The Text+ of the ballad is here given from Kinloch's MSS., where it is in the handwriting of John Hill Burton when a youth. The text of the song _Waly, waly_, I take from Ramsay's _Tea-Table Miscellany_. The song and the ballad have become inextricably confused, and the many variants of the former contain a greater or a smaller proportion of verses apparently taken from the latter. +The Story+ of the ballad as here told is nevertheless quite simple and straightforward. It is spoken in the first person by the daughter of the Earl of Mar. (She also says she is sister to the Duke of York, 7.4, a person often introduced into ballads.) Blacklaywood, the lady complains, has spoken calumniously of her to her lord, and she leaves him, saying farewell to her children, and taking her youngest son with her. The ballad is historical in so far as that Lady Barbara Erskine, daughter of the Earl of Mar, was married in 1670 to James, second Marquis of Douglas, and was formally separated from him in 1681. Further, tradition puts the blame of the separation on William Lawrie, factor to the Marquis, often styled the laird of Blackwood ('Blacklaywood,' 2.3), from his wife's family estate. The non-historical points in the ballad are minor ones. The couple had only one child; and the lady's father could not have come to fetch her away (9.2), as the Earl of Mar died in 1668, before his daughter's wedding. I have printed the song _Waly, waly_ not because it can be considered a ballad, but simply because it is so closely interwoven with _Jamie Douglas_. Stanza 6 is reminiscent of the beautiful English quatrain beginning: 'Westron wind, when will thou blow.' See Chappell's _Popular Music of the Olden Time_, i. 57. JAMIE DOUGLAS 1. Waly, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae! And waly, waly to yon burn-side, Where me and my love wunt to gae! 2. As I lay sick, and very sick, And sick was I, and like to die, And Blacklaywood put in my love's ears That he staid in bower too lang wi' me. 3. As I lay sick, and very sick, And sick was I, and like to die, And walking into my garden green, I heard my good lord lichtlie me. 4. Now woe betide ye, Blacklaywood! I'm sure an ill death you must die; Ye'll part me and my ain good lord, And his face again I'll never see. 5. 'Come down stairs now, Jamie Douglas, Come down stairs and drink wine wi' me; I'll set thee into a chair of gold, And not one farthing shall it cost thee.' 6. 'When cockle-shells turn silver bells, And muscles grow on every tree, When frost and snow turn fiery baas, I'll come down the stair and drink wine wi' thee.' 7. 'What's needs me value you, Jamie Douglas, More than you do value me? The Earl of Mar is my father, The Duke of York is my brother gay. 8. 'But when my father gets word o' this, I trow a sorry man he'll be; He'll send four score o' his soldiers brave, To tak me hame to mine ain countrie.' 9. As I lay owre my castell-wa', I beheld my father comin' for me, Wi' trumpets sounding on every side; But they werena music at a' for me. 10. 'And fare ye weel now, Jamie Douglas! And fare ye weel, my children three! And fare ye weel, my own good lord! For my face again ye shall never see. 11. 'And fare ye weel now, Jamie Douglas! And fare ye weel, my children three! And fare ye weel now, Jamie Douglas, But my youngest son shall gae wi' me.' 12. 'What ails ye at your youngest son, Sits smilin' at the nurse's knee? I'm sure he never knew any harm, Except it was from his nurse or thee.' 13. ... ... ... ... ... ... And when I was into my coaches set, He made his trumpets a' to soun.' 14. I've heard it said, and it's oft times seen, The hawk that flies far frae her nest; And a' the world shall plainly see It's Jamie Douglas that I love best. 15. I've heard it said, and it's oft times seen, The hawk that flies from tree to tree; And a' the world shall plainly see It's for Jamie Douglas I maun die. [Annotations: 1.1: 'Waly' = alas! 1.4: 'wunt' = were wont. 3.4: 'lichtlie,' make light of. 6.3: 'baas,' balls.] WALY, WALY, GIN LOVE BE BONNY 1. O waly, waly up the bank! And waly, waly, down the brae! And waly, waly yon burn-side, Where I and my love wont to gae! 2. I lean'd my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true-love did lightly me. 3. O waly, waly! but love be bonny A little time, while it is new; But when it is auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades away like morning dew. 4. O wherefore shoud I busk my head? Or wherefore shoud I kame my hair? For my true-love has me forsook, And says he'll never love me mair. 5. Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne'er be fyl'd by me; Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, Since my true-love has forsaken me. 6. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree? O gentle death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am weary. 7. 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemency; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love's heart grown cauld to me. 8. When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; My love was cled in the black velvet, And I mysell in cramasie. 9. But had I wist, before I kiss'd, That love had been sae ill to win, I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, And pin'd it with a silver pin. 10. Oh, oh, if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee, And I mysell were dead and gane! For a maid again I'll never be. THE HEIR OF LINNE +The Text+ is taken from the Percy Folio, but I have modernised the spelling. For the _Reliques_ Percy made a ballad out of the Folio version combined with 'a modern ballad on a similar subject,' a broadside entitled _The Drunkard's Legacy_, thus producing a very good result which is about thrice the length of the Folio version. The Scottish variant was noted by Motherwell and Buchan, but previous editors--Herd, Ritson, Chambers, Aytoun--had used Percy's composition. +The Story.+--There are several Oriental stories which resemble the ballad as compounded by Percy from _The Drunkard's Legacy_. In most of these--Tartar, Turkish, Arabic, Persian, etc.--the climax of the story lies in the fact that the hero in attempting to hang himself by a rope fastened to the ceiling pulls down a hidden treasure. There is, of course, no such episode in _The Heir of Linne_, but all the stories have similar circumstances, and the majority present the moral aspect of unthriftiness, and of friends deserting a man who loses his wealth. 'Linne,' of course, is the place which is so often mentioned in ballads. See note, First Series, p. 1. THE HEIR OF LINNE 1. Of all the lords in fair Scotland A song I will begin; Amongst them all there dwelled a lord, Which was the unthrifty lord of Linne. 2. His father and mother were dead him fro, And so was the head of all his kin; To the cards and dice that he did run He did neither cease nor blin. 3. To drink the wine that was so clear, With every man he would make merry; And then bespake him John of the Scales, Unto the heir of Linne said he; 4. Says 'How dost thou, lord of Linne? Dost either want gold or fee? Wilt thou not sell thy lands so broad To such a good fellow as me? 5. 'For ... I ... ,' he said, 'My land, take it unto thee.' 'I draw you to record, my lordës all.' With that he cast him a God's penny. 6. He told him the gold upon the board, It wanted never a bare penny. 'That gold is thine, the land is mine; The heir of Linne I will be.' 7. 'Here's gold enough,' saith the heir of Linne, 'Both for me and my company.' He drunk the wine that was so clear, And with every man he made merry. 8. Within three-quarters of a year His gold and fee it waxed thin, His merry men were from him gone, And left him himself all alone. 9. He had never a penny left in his purse, Never a penny left but three, And one was brass, and another was lead, And another was white money. 10. 'Now welladay!' said the heir of Linne, 'Now welladay, and woe is me! For when I was the lord of Linne, I neither wanted gold nor fee. 11. 'For I have sold my lands so broad, And have not left me one penny; I must go now and take some read Unto Edinburgh, and beg my bread.' 12. He had not been in Edinburgh Not three-quarters of a year, But some did give him, and some said nay, And some bid 'To the deil gang ye! 13. 'For if we should hang any landless fere, The first we would begin with thee.' 'Now welladay!' said the heir of Linne, 'Now welladay, and woe is me! 14. 'For now I have sold my lands so broad, That merry man is irk with me; But when that I was the lord of Linne, Then on my land I lived merrily. 15. 'And now I have sold my land so broad, That I have not left me one penny! God be with my father!' he said, 'On his land he lived merrily.' 16. Still in a study there as he stood, He unbethought him of a bill-- He unbethought him of a bill Which his father had left with him. 17. Bade him he should never on it look Till he was in extreme need; 'And by my faith,' said the heir of Linne, 'Than now I had never more need.' 18. He took the bill, and looked it on, Good comfort that he found there; It told him of a castle wall Where there stood three chests in fere. 19. Two were full of the beaten gold, The third was full of white money. He turned then down his bags of bread, And filled them full of gold so red. 20. Then he did never cease nor blin, Till John of the Scales' house he did win. When that he came to John of the Scales, Up at the speer he looked then. 21. There sat three lords upon a row, And John o' the Scales sat at the board's head, And John o' the Scales sat at the board's head, Because he was the lord of Linne. 22. And then bespake the heir of Linne, To John o' the Scales' wife thus said he; Said, 'Dame, wilt thou not trust me one shot That I may sit down in this company?' 23. 'Now Christ's curse on my head,' she said, 'If I do trust thee one penny!' Then bespake a good fellow, Which sat by John o' the Scales his knee; 24. Said, 'Have thou here, thou heir of Linne, Forty pence I will lend thee; Some time a good fellow thou hast been; And other forty if need be.' 25. They drunken wine that was so clear, And every man they made merry; And then bespake him John o' the Scales, Unto the lord of Linne said he; 26. Said, 'How dost thou, heir of Linne, Since I did buy thy lands of thee? I will sell it to thee twenty pound better cheap Nor ever I did buy it of thee.' 27. 'I draw you to record, lordës all;' With that he cast him a God's penny; Then he took to his bags of bread, And they were full of the gold so red. 28. He told him the gold then over the board, It wanted never a broad penny. 'That gold is thine, the land is mine, And heir of Linne again I will be.' 29. 'Now welladay!' said John o' the Scales' wife, 'Welladay, and woe is me! Yesterday I was the lady of Linne, And now I am but John o' the Scales' wife!' 30. Says 'Have thou here, thou good fellow, Forty pence thou did lend me, Forty pence thou did lend me, And forty pound I will give thee. 31. 'I'll make thee keeper of my forest, Both of the wild deer and the tame,' ... ... ... ... ... ... 32. But then bespake the heir of Linne, These were the words, and thus said he, 'Christ's curse light upon my crown, If e'er my land stand in any jeopardy!' [Annotations: 2.3,4: Interchanged in manuscript. 2.4: 'blin,' stop. 5.1: Deficient in manuscript. 5.4: 'God's penny,' an earnest-penny, to clinch a bargain. 11.3: 'read,' advice. 13.1: 'fere,' companion. 14.2: 'irk with,' weary of. 16.2: 'unbethought him,' bethought himself. See _Old Robin of Portingale_, 5.3 (First Series, p. 14). 18.4:'in fere,' together. 19.4: ? 'gold and fee.' Cp. 27.4 20.4: Ritson said 'speer' was a hole in the wall of a house, through which the family received and answered the inquiries of strangers. This is apparently a mere conjecture. 22.3: 'shot,' reckoning. Cp. 'pay the shot.' 27.4: See 19.4 and note.] EARL BOTHWELL +The Text+ is from the Percy Folio, the spelling being modernised. Percy printed it (with alterations) in the _Reliques_. +The Story+ of the ballad represents that Darnley was murdered by way of revenge for his participation in the murder of Riccio; that Mary sent for Darnley to come to Scotland, and that she was finally banished by the Regent. All of these statements, and several minor ones, contain as much truth as may be expected in a ballad of this kind. Mary escaped from Lochleven Castle on May 2, 1568, and found refuge in England on the 16th. The ballad was doubtless written shortly afterwards. On March 24, 1579, a 'ballad concerninge the murder of the late Kinge of Scottes' was licensed to Thomas Gosson, a well-known printer of broadsides. EARL BOTHWELL 1. Woe worth thee, woe worth thee, false Scotland! For thou hast ever wrought by a sleight; For the worthiest prince that ever was born You hanged under a cloud by night. 2. The Queen of France a letter wrote, And sealed it with heart and ring, And bade him come Scotland within, And she would marry him and crown him king. 3. To be a king, it is a pleasant thing, To be a prince unto a peer; But you have heard, and so have I too, A man may well buy gold too dear. 4. There was an Italian in that place Was as well beloved as ever was he; Lord David was his name, Chamberlain unto the queen was he. 5. For if the king had risen forth of his place, He would have sit him down in the chair, And tho' it beseemed him not so well, Altho' the king had been present there. 6. Some lords in Scotland waxed wonderous worth, And quarrell'd with him for the nonce; I shall you tell how it befell; Twelve daggers were in him all at once. 7. When this queen see the chamberlain was slain, For him her cheeks she did weet, And made a vow for a twelvemonth and a day The king and she would not come in one sheet. 8. Then some of the lords of Scotland waxed wroth, And made their vow vehemently; 'For death of the queen's chamberlain The king himself he shall die.' 9. They strowed his chamber over with gun powder, And laid green rushes in his way; For the traitors thought that night The worthy king for to betray. 10. To bed the worthy king made him boun; To take his rest, that was his desire; He was no sooner cast on sleep But his chamber was on a blazing fire. 11. Up he lope, and a glass window broke, He had thirty foot for to fall; Lord Bodwell kept a privy watch Underneath his castle wall. 'Who have we here?' said Lord Bodwell; 'Answer me, now I do call.' 12. 'King Henry the Eighth my uncle was; Some pity show for his sweet sake! Ah, Lord Bodwell, I know thee well; Some pity on me I pray thee take!' 13. 'I'll pity thee as much,' he said, 'And as much favour I'll show to thee, As thou had on the queen's chamberlain That day thou deemedst him to die.' 14. Through halls and towers this king they led, Through castles and towers that were high, Through an arbour into an orchard, And there hanged him in a pear tree. 15. When the governor of Scotland he heard tell That the worthy king he was slain, He hath banished the queen so bitterly That in Scotland she dare not remain. 16. But she is fled into merry England, And Scotland too aside hath lain, And through the Queen of England's good grace Now in England she doth remain. [Annotations: 1.2: 'sleight,' trick. 3.3,4: A popular proverb; see _The Lord of Learne_, 39.3,4 (Second Series, p. 190). 10.1: 'made him boun,' prepared himself.] DURHAM FIELD +The Text+ is another of the lively battle-pieces from the Percy Folio, put into modern spelling, and no other version is known or needed. The battle of Durham, which the minstrel says (27.1, 64.2) was fought on a morning of May, and (64.3,4) within a month of Creçy and Poictiers,[1] actually took place on October 17, 1346. Stanza 18 makes the king say to Lord Hamilton that they are of 'kin full nigh'; and this provides an upper limit for the date of the ballad, as James Hamilton was married to Princess Mary, sister of James III., in 1474. [Footnote 1: Creçy was fought on August 26, 1346; Poictiers on September 19, 1356.] +The Story.+--We have as authorities for the history of the battle both Scottish and English chronicles, but the ballad, as might be expected, follows neither very closely. Indeed it is not easy to reconcile the Scottish account with the English. David Bruce, the young king of Scotland, seized the opportunity afforded by Edward III.'s absence in France at the siege of Calais to invade England with a large army. They were met at Durham by an English force in three divisions, led (according to the English chronicle) by (i) the Earl of Angus, Henry Percy, Ralph Neville, and Henry Scrope, (ii) the Archbishop of York, and (iii) Mowbray, Rokeby, and John of Copland. The Scots were also in three divisions, which were led (says the Scottish version) by King David, the Earl of Murray and William Douglas, and the Steward of Scotland and the Earl of March respectively. The English chronicle puts John of Douglas with the Earl of Murray, and the Earl of Buchan with King David. The ballad, therefore, that calls Angus 'Anguish' (11.1) and puts him on the side of the Scots, as well as Neville (17.1), and apparently confuses the two Douglases (14 and 21), is not more at variance with history than is to be expected, and in the present case is but little more vague than the historical records themselves. 'Vaughan' (13.1) may be Baughan or Buchan, though it is doubtful whether there was an Earl of Buchan in 1346. 'Fluwilliams' (41.3) is perhaps a form of Llewellyn (Shakespeare spells it Fluellen), but this does not help to identify that lord. DURHAM FIELD 1. Lordings, listen and hold you still; Hearken to me a little [spell]; I shall you tell of the fairest battle That ever in England befell. 2. For as it befell in Edward the Third's days, In England, where he ware the crown, Then all the chief chivalry of England They busked and made them boun. 3. They chosen all the best archers That in England might be found, And all was to fight with the King of France, Within a little stound. 4. And when our king was over the water, And on the salt sea gone, Then tidings into Scotland came That all England was gone. 5. Bows and arrows they were all forth, At home was not left a man But shepherds and millers both, And priests with shaven crowns. 6. Then the King of Scots in a study stood, As he was a man of great might; He sware he would hold his Parliament in leeve London, If he could ride there right. 7. Then bespake a squire, of Scotland born, And said, 'My liege, apace, Before you come to leeve London, Full sore you'll rue that race. 8. 'There been bold yeomen in merry England, Husbandmen stiff and strong; Sharp swords they done wear, Bearen bows and arrows long.' 9. The King was angry at that word; A long sword out he drew, And there before his royal company His own squire he slew. 10. Hard hansel had the Scots that day, That wrought them woe enough, For then durst not a Scot speak a word For hanging at a bough. 11. 'The Earl of Anguish, where art thou? In my coat-armour thou shalt be, And thou shalt lead the forward Thorough the English country. 12. 'Take thee York,' then said the King, 'In stead whereas it doth stand; I'll make thy eldest son after thee Heir of all Northumberland. 13. 'The Earl of Vaughan, where be ye? In my coat-armour thou shalt be; The high Peak and Derbyshire I give it thee to thy fee.' 14. Then came in famous Douglas, Says 'What shall my meed be? And I'll lead the vanward, lord, Thorough the English country.' 15. 'Take thee Worcester,' said the King, 'Tewkesbury, Kenilworth, Burton upon Trent; Do thou not say another day But I have given thee lands and rent. 16. 'Sir Richard of Edinburgh, where are ye? A wise man in this war! I'll give thee Bristow and the shire The time that we come there. 17. 'My lord Nevill, where been ye? You must in these wars be; I'll give thee Shrewsbury,' says the King, 'And Coventry fair and free. 18. 'My lord of Hamilton, where art thou? Thou art of my kin full nigh; I'll give thee Lincoln and Lincolnshire, And that's enough for thee.' 19. By then came in William Douglas, As breme as any boar; He kneeled him down upon his knees, In his heart he sighed sore. 20. Says 'I have served you, my lovely liege, These thirty winters and four, And in the Marches between England and Scotland, I have been wounded and beaten sore. 21. 'For all the good service that I have done, What shall my meed be? And I will lead the vanward Thorough the English country.' 22. 'Ask on, Douglas,' said the King, 'And granted it shall be.' 'Why then, I ask little London,' says Will Douglas, 'Gotten if that it be.' 23. The King was wrath, and rose away; Says 'Nay, that cannot be! For that I will keep for my chief chamber, Gotten if it be. 24. 'But take thee North Wales and Westchester, The country all round about, And rewarded thou shalt be, Of that take thou no doubt.' 25. Five score knights he made on a day, And dubb'd them with his hands; Rewarded them right worthily With the towns in merry England. 26. And when the fresh knights they were made, To battle they busk them boun; James Douglas went before, And he thought to have won him shoon. 27. But they were met in a morning of May With the communalty of little England; But there scaped never a man away, Through the might of Christës hand. 28. But all only James Douglas; In Durham in the field An arrow struck him in the thigh; Fast flings he towards the King. 29. The King looked toward little Durham, Says 'All things is not well! For James Douglas bears an arrow in his thigh, The head of it is of steel. 30. 'How now, James?' then said the King, 'How now, how may this be? And where been all thy merry men That thou took hence with thee?' 31. 'But cease, my King,' says James Douglas, 'Alive is not left a man!' 'Now by my faith,' says the King of the Scots, 'That gate was evil gone. 32. 'But I'll revenge thy quarrel well, And of that thou may be fain; For one Scot will beat five Englishmen, If they meeten them on the plain,' 33. 'Now hold your tongue,' says James Douglas, 'For in faith that is not so; For one Englishman is worth five Scots, When they meeten together tho. 34. 'For they are as eager men to fight As a falcon upon a prey; Alas! if ever they win the vanward, There scapes no man away.' 35. 'O peace thy talking,' said the King, 'They be but English knaves, But shepherds and millers both, And priests with their staves.' 36. The King sent forth one of his heralds of armes To view the Englishmen. 'Be of good cheer,' the herald said, 'For against one we be ten.' 37. 'Who leads those lads,' said the King of Scots, 'Thou herald, tell thou me.' The herald said 'The Bishop of Durham Is captain of that company. 38. 'For the Bishop hath spread the King's banner, And to battle he busks him boun.' 'I swear by St. Andrew's bones,' says the King, 'I'll rap that priest on the crown.' 39. The King looked towards little Durham, And that he well beheld, That the Earl Percy was well armed, With his battle-axe entered the field. 40. The King looked again towards little Durham, Four ancients there see he; There were two standards, six in a valley, He could not see them with his eye. 41. My lord of York was one of them, My lord of Carlisle was the other, And my lord Fluwilliams, The one came with the other. 42. The Bishop of Durham commanded his men, And shortly he them bade, That never a man should go to the field to fight Till he had served his God. 43. Five hundred priests said mass that day In Durham in the field, And afterwards, as I heard say, They bare both spear and shield. 44. The Bishop of Durham orders himself to fight With his battle-axe in his hand; He said 'This day now I will fight As long as I can stand!' 45. 'And so will I,' said my lord of Carlisle, 'In this fair morning gay.' 'And so will I,' said my lord Fluwilliams, 'For Mary, that mild may.' 46. Our English archers bent their bows Shortly and anon; They shot over the Scottish host And scantly touched a man. 47. 'Hold down your hands,' said the Bishop of Durham, 'My archers good and true.' The second shoot that they shot, Full sore the Scots it rue. 48. The Bishop of Durham spoke on high That both parties might hear, 'Be of good cheer, my merrymen all, The Scots flien and changen their cheer.' 49. But as they saiden, so they diden, They fell on heapës high; Our Englishmen laid on with their bows As fast as they might dree. 50. The King of Scots in a study stood Amongst his company; An arrow struck him thorough the nose, And thorough his armoury. 51. The King went to a marsh-side And light beside his steed; He leaned him down on his sword-hilts To let his nose bleed. 52. There followed him a yeoman of merry England, His name was John of Copland; 'Yield thee, traitor!' says Copland then, 'Thy life lies in my hand.' 53. 'How should I yield me,' says the King, 'And thou art no gentleman?' 'No, by my troth,' says Copland there, 'I am but a poor yeoman. 54. 'What art thou better than I, sir King? Tell me, if that thou can! What art thou better than I, sir King, Now we be but man to man?' 55. The King smote angrily at Copland then, Angrily in that stound; And then Copland was a bold yeoman, And bore the King to the ground. 56. He set the King upon a palfrey, Himself upon a steed; He took him by the bridle-rein, Towards London he gan him lead. 57. And when to London that he came, The King from France was new come home, And there unto the King of Scots He said these words anon. 58. 'How like you my shepherds and my millers? My priests with shaven crowns?' 'By my faith, they are the sorest fighting men That ever I met on the ground. 59. 'There was never a yeoman in merry England But he was worth a Scottish knight.' 'Ay, by my troth,' said King Edward, and laugh, 'For you fought all against the right.' 60. But now the prince of merry England Worthily under his shield Hath taken the King of France, At Poictiers in the field. 61. The prince did present his father with that food, The lovely King of France, And forward of his journey he is gone. God send us all good chance! 62. 'You are welcome, brother!' said the King of Scots to the King of France, 'For I am come hither too soon; Christ leve that I had taken my way Unto the court of Rome!' 63. 'And so would I,' said the King of France, 'When I came over the stream, That I had taken my journey Unto Jerusalem!' 64. Thus ends the battle of fair Durham, In one morning of May, The battle of Creçy, and the battle of Poictiers, All within one monthës day. 65. Then was wealth and welfare in merry England, Solaces, game, and glee, And every man loved other well, And the king loved good yeomanry. 66. But God that made the grass to grow, And leaves on greenwood tree, Now save and keep our noble King, And maintain good yeomanry! [Annotations: 1.2: '[spell]' suggested by Child. 6.3: 'leeve,' pleasant, dear; formerly a regular epithet of London. 10.1: 'Hard hansel,' bad omen. 12.2: 'stead,' place. 14.1: 'famous' may be a scribe's error for 'James.' 14.3: 'vanward,' vanguard. 15.2: The manuscript gives 'Tuxburye, Killingworth.' 19.2: 'breme,' fierce. 26.2: 'they busk them boun,' they make themselves ready. 31.4: 'gate,' way. 33.4: 'tho,' then. 40.2: 'ancients,' ensigns. 44.1: 'orders,' prepares. 45.4: 'may,' = maid; the Virgin. 46.4: 'scantly,' scarcely. 48.4: 'cheer,' face, appearance. 49.4: 'dree,' hold out. 53.2: 'And,' if. 61.1: 'food,' man. 62.1: The last five words are perhaps inserted by the scribe. 62.3: 'leve,' grant.] THE BATTLE OF HARLAW +The Text+ of this ballad was sent to Professor Child by Mr. C. E. Dalrymple of Kinaldie, Aberdeenshire, from whose version the printed variants (_Notes and Queries_, Third Series, vii. 393, and Aytoun's _Ballads of Scotland_, i. 75) have been more or less directly derived. The ballad is one of those mentioned in _The Complaynt of Scotland_ (1549), like the 'Hunttis of Chevet' (see p. 2 of this volume). It is again mentioned as being in print in 1668; but the latter may possibly refer to a poem on the battle, afterwards printed in Allan Ramsay's _Evergreen_. The fact that the present ballad omits all reference to the Earl of Mar, and deals with the Forbes brothers, who are not otherwise known to have taken part in the battle, disposes Professor Child to believe that it is a comparatively recent ballad. +The Story.+--The battle of Harlaw was fought on July 24, 1411. Harlaw is eighteen miles north-west of Aberdeen, Dunidier a hill on the Aberdeen road, and Netherha' is close at hand. Balquhain (2.2) is a mile south of Harlaw, while Drumminnor (15.3) is more than twenty miles away--though the horse covered the distance there and back in 'twa hours an' a quarter' (16.3). The ballad is narrated by 'John Hielan'man' to Sir James the Rose (derived from the ballad of that name given earlier in the present volume) and Sir John the Gryme (Graeme). 'Macdonell' is Donald of the Isles, who, as claimant to the Earldom of Ross, advanced on Aberdeen, and was met at Harlaw by the Earl of Mar and Alexander Ogilvy, sheriff of Angus. It was a stubborn fight, though it did not last from Monday to Saturday (23), and Donald lost nine hundred men and the other party five hundred. Child finds a difficulty with the use of the word 'she' in 4.3, despite 'me' in the two previous lines. Had it been 'her,' the difficulty would not have arisen. THE BATTLE OF HARLAW 1. As I cam in by Dunidier, An' doun by Netherha', There was fifty thousand Hielan'men A-marching to Harlaw. _Wi' a dree dree dradie drumtie dree_ 2. As I cam on, an' farther on, An' doun an' by Balquhain, Oh there I met Sir James the Rose, Wi' him Sir John the Gryme. 3. 'O cam ye frae the Hielan's, man? An' cam ye a' the wey? Saw ye Macdonell an' his men, As they cam frae the Skee?' 4. 'Yes, me cam frae ta Hielan's, man, An' me cam a' ta wey, An' she saw Macdonell an' his men, As they cam frae ta Skee.' 5. 'Oh was ye near Macdonell's men? Did ye their numbers see? Come, tell to me, John Hielan'man, What micht their numbers be?' 6. 'Yes, me was near, an' near eneuch, An' me their numbers saw; There was fifty thousan' Hielan'men A-marchin' to Harlaw.' 7. 'Gin that be true,' says James the Rose, 'We'll no come meikle speed; We'll cry upo' our merry men, And lichtly mount our steed.' 8. 'Oh no, oh no,' says John the Gryme, 'That thing maun never be; The gallant Grymes were never bate, We'll try phat we can dee.' 9. As I cam on, an' farther on, An' doun an' by Harlaw, They fell fu' close on ilka side; Sic fun ye never saw. 10. They fell fu' close on ilka side, Sic fun ye never saw; For Hielan' swords gied clash for clash At the battle o' Harlaw. 11. The Hielan'men, wi' their lang swords, They laid on us fu' sair, An' they drave back our merry men Three acres breadth an' mair. 12. Brave Forbës to his brither did say, 'Noo, brither, dinna ye see? They beat us back on ilka side, An' we'se be forced to flee.' 13. 'Oh no, oh no, my brither dear, That thing maun never be; Tak' ye your good sword in your hand, An' come your wa's wi' me.' 14. 'Oh no, oh no, my brither dear, The clans they are ower strang, An' they drive back our merry men, Wi' swords baith sharp an' lang.' 15. Brave Forbës drew his men aside, Said 'Tak' your rest awhile, Until I to Drumminnor send, To fess my coat o' mail.' 16. The servant he did ride, An' his horse it did na fail, For in twa hours an' a quarter He brocht the coat o' mail. 17. Then back to back the brithers twa Gaed in amo' the thrang, An' they hewed doun the Hielan'men, Wi' swords baith sharp an' lang. 18. Macdonell he was young an' stout, Had on his coat o' mail, An' he has gane oot throw them a', To try his han' himsell. 19. The first ae straik that Forbës strack, He garrt Macdonell reel, An' the neist ae straik that Forbës strack, The great Macdonell fell. 20. An' siccan a lierachie I'm sure ye never saw As wis amo' the Hielan'men, When they saw Macdonell fa'. 21. An' whan they saw that he was deid, They turn'd an' ran awa, An' they buried him in Leggett's Den, A large mile frae Harlaw. 22. They rade, they ran, an' some did gang, They were o' sma' record; But Forbës an' his merry men, They slew them a' the road. 23. On Monanday, at mornin', The battle it began, On Saturday, at gloamin', Ye'd scarce kent wha had wan. 24. An' sic a weary buryin' I'm sure ye never saw As wis the Sunday after that, On the muirs aneath Harlaw. 25. Gin ony body speer at you For them ye took awa', Ye may tell their wives and bairnies They're sleepin' at Harlaw. [Annotations: 15.4: 'fess,' fetch. 19.1: 'ae,' one. 20.1: 'lierachie,' confusion, hubbub. 25.1: 'speer at,' ask of.] THE LAIRD OF KNOTTINGTON +The Text+ was sent to Percy in 1768 by R. Lambe of Norham. The ballad is widely known in Scotland under several titles, but the most usual is _The Broom of Cowdenknows_, which was the title used by Scott in the _Minstrelsy_. +The Story+ is not consistently told in this version, as in 11.3,4 the daughter gives away her secret to her father in an absurd fashion. An English song, printed as a broadside about 1640, _The Lovely Northerne Lasse_, is directed to be sung 'to a pleasant Scotch tune, called The broom of Cowden Knowes.' It is a poor variant of our ballad, in the usual broadside style, and cannot have been written by any one fully acquainted with the Scottish ballad. It is in the Roxburghe, Douce, and other collections. THE LAIRD OF KNOTTINGTON 1. There was a troop of merry gentlemen Was riding atween twa knows, And they heard the voice of a bonny lass, In a bught milking her ews. 2. There's ane o' them lighted frae off his steed, And has ty'd him to a tree, And he's gane away to yon ew-bught, To hear what it might be. 3. 'O pity me, fair maid,' he said, 'Take pity upon me; O pity me, and my milk-white steed That's trembling at yon tree.' 4. 'As for your steed, he shall not want The best of corn and hay; But as to you yoursel', kind sir, I've naething for to say.' 5. He's taen her by the milk-white hand, And by the green gown-sleeve, And he has led her into the ew-bught, Of her friends he speer'd nae leave. 6. He has put his hand in his pocket, And given her guineas three; 'If I dinna come back in half a year, Then luke nae mair for me. 7. 'Now show to me the king's hie street, Now show to me the way; Now show to me the king's hie street, And the fair water of Tay.' 8. She show'd to him the king's hie street, She show'd to him the way; She show'd him the way that he was to go, By the fair water of Tay. 9. When she came hame, her father said, 'Come, tell to me right plain; I doubt you've met some in the way, You have not been your lain.' 10. 'The night it is baith mist and mirk, You may gan out and see; The night is mirk and misty too, There's nae body been wi' me. 11. 'There was a tod came to your flock, The like I ne'er did see; When he spake, he lifted his hat, He had a bonny twinkling ee.' 12. When fifteen weeks were past and gane, Full fifteen weeks and three, Then she began to think it lang For the man wi' the twinkling ee. 13. It fell out on a certain day, When she cawd out her father's ky, There was a troop of gentlemen Came merrily riding by. 14. 'Weel may ye sigh and sob,' says ane, 'Weel may you sigh and see; Weel may you sigh and say, fair maid, Wha's gotten this bairn wi' thee?' 15. She turned hersel' then quickly about, And thinking meikle shame; 'O no, kind sir, it is na sae, For it has a dad at hame.' 16. 'O hawd your tongue, my bonny lass, Sae loud as I hear you lee! For dinna you mind that summer night I was in the bught wi' thee?' 17. He lighted off his milk-white steed, And set this fair maid on; 'Now caw out your ky, good father,' he said, 'She'll ne'er caw them out again. 18. 'I am the laird of Knottington, I've fifty plows and three; I've gotten now the bonniest lass That is in the hale country.' [Annotations: 1.2: 'knows,' knolls. 1.4: 'bught,' sheep-pen. 9.4: 'your lain,' by yourself. 11.1: 'tod,' fox. 18.2: 'plows': as much land as a plough will till in a year.] THE WHUMMIL BORE +The Text+ is from Motherwell's MS. He included it in the Appendix to his _Minstrelsy_. No other collector or editor notices the ballad--'if it ever were one,' as Child remarks. The only point to be noted is that the second stanza has crept into two versions of _Hind Horn_, apparently because of the resemblance of the previous stanzas, which present a mere ballad-commonplace. THE WHUMMIL BORE 1. Seven lang years I hae served the king, _Fa fa fa fa lilly_ And I never got a sight of his daughter but ane. _With my glimpy, glimpy, glimpy eedle, Lillum too tee a ta too a tee a ta a tally_ 2. I saw her thro' a whummil bore, And I ne'er got a sight of her no more. 3. Twa was putting on her gown, And ten was putting pins therein. 4. Twa was putting on her shoon, And twa was buckling them again. 5. Five was combing down her hair, And I never got a sight of her nae mair. 6. Her neck and breast was like the snow, Then from the bore I was forced to go. [Annotations: 1.2,4,5: The burden is of course repeated in each stanza. 2.1: 'whummil bore,' a hole bored with a whimble or gimlet.] LORD MAXWELL'S LAST GOODNIGHT +The Text+ is from the Glenriddell MSS., and is the one on which Sir Walter Scott based the version given in the _Border Minstrelsy_. Byron notes in the preface to _Childe Harold_ that 'the good-night in the beginning of the first canto was suggested by Lord Maxwell's Goodnight in the Border Minstrelsy.' +The Story.+--John, ninth Lord Maxwell, killed Sir James Johnstone in 1608; the feud between the families was of long standing (see 3.4), beginning in 1585. Lord Maxwell fled the country, and was sentenced to death in his absence. On his return in 1612 he was betrayed by a kinsman, and beheaded at Edinburgh on May 21, 1613. This was the end of the feud, which contained cases of treachery and perfidy on both sides. 'Robert of Oarchyardtoun' was Sir Robert Maxwell of Orchardton, Lord Maxwell's cousin. 'Drumlanrig,' 'Cloesburn,' and 'the laird of Lagg' were respectively named Douglas, Kirkpatrick, and Grierson. The Maxwells had houses, or custody of houses at Dumfries, Lochmaben, Langholm, and Thrieve; and Carlaverock Castle is still theirs. As for Lord Maxwell's 'lady and only joy,' the ballad neglects the fact that he instituted a process of divorce against her, and that she died, while it was pending, in 1608, five years before the date of the 'Goodnight.' LORD MAXWELL'S LAST GOODNIGHT 1. 'Adiew, madam my mother dear, But and my sisters two! Adiew, fair Robert of Oarchyardtoun For thee my heart is woe. 2. 'Adiew, the lilly and the rose, The primrose, sweet to see! Adiew, my lady and only joy! For I manna stay with thee. 3. 'Tho' I have killed the laird Johnston, What care I for his feed? My noble mind dis still incline; He was my father's dead. 4. 'Both night and day I laboured oft Of him revenged to be, And now I've got what I long sought; But I manna stay with thee. 5. 'Adiew, Drumlanrig! false was ay, And Cloesburn! in a band, Where the laird of Lagg fra my father fled When the Johnston struck off his hand. 6. 'They were three brethren in a band; Joy may they never see! But now I've got what I long sought, And I maunna stay with thee. 7. 'Adiew, Dumfries, my proper place, But and Carlaverock fair! Adiew, the castle of the Thrieve, And all my buildings there! 8. 'Adiew, Lochmaben's gates so fair, The Langholm shank, where birks they be! Adiew, my lady and only joy! And, trust me, I maunna stay with thee. 9. 'Adiew, fair Eskdale, up and down, Where my poor friends do dwell! The bangisters will ding them down, And will them sore compel. 10. 'But I'll revenge that feed mysell When I come ou'r the sea; Adiew, my lady and only joy! For I maunna stay with thee.' 11. 'Lord of the land, will you go then Unto my father's place, And walk into their gardens green, And I will you embrace. 12. 'Ten thousand times I'll kiss your face, And sport, and make you merry.' 'I thank thee, my lady, for thy kindness, But, trust me, I maunna stay with thee.' 13. Then he took off a great gold ring, Whereat hang signets three; 'Hae, take thee that, my ain dear thing, And still hae mind of me; 14. 'But if thow marry another lord Ere I come ou'r the sea; Adiew, my lady and only joy! For I maunna stay with thee.' 15. The wind was fair, the ship was close, That good lord went away, And most part of his friends were there, To give him a fair convay. 16. They drank thair wine, they did not spare, Even in the good lord's sight; Now he is o'er the floods so gray, And Lord Maxwell has ta'en his goodnight. [Annotations: 3.2: 'feed,' feud. 3.4: 'dead,' death. 8.2: 'shank,' point of a hill. 9.3: 'bangisters,' roisterers, freebooters. 14.1: 'But if,' unless.] END OF THE THIRD SERIES APPENDIX THE JOLLY JUGGLER +The Text+ is from a manuscript at Balliol College, Oxford, No. 354, already referred to in the First Series (p. 80) as supplying a text of _The Nut-brown Maid_. The manuscript, which is of the early part of the sixteenth century, has been edited by Ewald Flügel in _Anglia_, vol. xxvi., where the present ballad appears on pp. 278-9. I have only modernised the spelling, and broken up the lines, as the ballad is written in two long lines and a short one to each stanza. No other text is known to me. The volume of _Anglia_ containing the ballad was not published till 1903, some five years after Professor Child's death; and I believe he would have included it in his collection had he known of it. +The Story+ narrates the subjugation of a proud lady who scorns all her wooers, by a juggler who assumes the guise of a knight. On the morrow the lady discovers her paramour to be a churl, and he is led away to execution, but escapes by juggling himself into a meal-bag: the dust falls in the lady's eye. It would doubtless require a skilled folk-lorist to supply full critical notes and parallels; but I subjoin such details as I have been able to collect. In _The Beggar Laddie_ (Child, No. 280, v. 116) a pretended beggar or shepherd-boy induces a lassie to follow him, 'because he was a bonny laddie.' They come to his father's (or brother's) hall; he knocks, four-and-twenty gentlemen welcome him in, and as many gay ladies attend the lassie, who is thenceforward a knight's or squire's lady. In _The Jolly Beggar_ (Child, No. 279, v. 109), which, with the similar Scottish poem _The Gaberlunzie Man_, is attributed without authority to James V. of Scotland, a beggar takes up his quarters in a house, and will only lie behind the hall-door, or by the fire. The lassie rises to bar the door, and is seized by the beggar. He asks if there are dogs in the town, as they would steal all his 'meal-pocks.' She throws the meal-pocks over the wall, saying, 'The deil go with your meal-pocks, my maidenhead, and a'.' The beggar reveals himself as a braw gentleman. A converse story is afforded by the first part of the Norse tale translated by Dasent in _Popular Tales from the Norse_, 1888, p. 39, under the title of _Hacon Grizzlebeard_. A princess refuses all suitors, and mocks them publicly. Hacon Grizzlebeard, a prince, comes to woo her. She makes the king's fool mutilate the prince's horses, and then makes game of his appearance as he drives out the next day. Resolved to take his revenge, Hacon disguises himself as a beggar, attracts the princess's notice by means of a golden spinning-wheel, its stand, and a golden wool-winder, and sells them to her for the privilege of sleeping firstly outside her door, secondly beside her bed, and finally in it. The rest of the tale narrates Hacon's method of breaking down the princess's pride. Other parallels of incident and phraseology may be noted:-- 4.1 'well good steed'; 'well good,' a commonplace = very good; for 'well good steed,' cf. _John o' the Side_, 34.3 (p. 162 of this volume). 7.1 'Four-and-twenty knights.' The number is a commonplace in ballads; especially cf. _The Beggar Laddie_ (as above), Child's text A, st. 13: 'Four an' tuenty gentelmen They conved the beager ben, An' as mony gay ladës Conved the beager's lassie.' 12.4 For the proper mediæval horror of 'churl's blood,' see _Glasgerion_, stt. 12, 19 (First Series, pp. 4, 5). 13.3 'meal-pock.' The meal-bag was part of the professional beggar's outfit; see _Will Stewart and John_, 78.3 (Child, No. 107, ii. 437). For blinding with meal-dust, see _Robin Hood and the Beggar_, ii. 77, 78 (Child, No. 134, iii. 163). The meal-pock also occurs in _The Jolly Beggar_, as cited above. THE JOLLY JUGGLER Draw me near, draw me near, Draw me near, ye jolly jugglere! 1. Here beside dwelleth A rich baron's daughter; She would have no man That for her love had sought her. _So nice she was!_ 2. She would have no man That was made of mould, But if he had a mouth of gold To kiss her when she would. _So dangerous she was!_ 3. Thereof heard a jolly juggler That laid was on the green; And at this lady's words I wis he had great teen. _An-ang'red he was!_ 4. He juggled to him a well good steed Of an old horse-bone, A saddle and a bridle both, And set himself thereon. _A juggler he was!_ 5. He pricked and pranced both Before that lady's gate; She wend he [had] been an angel Was come for her sake. _A pricker he was!_ 6. He pricked and pranced Before that lady's bower; She wend he had been an angel Come from heaven tower. _A prancer he was!_ 7. Four-and-twenty knights Led him into the hall, And as many squires His horse to the stall, _And gave him meat_. 8. They gave him oats And also hay; He was an old shrew And held his head away. _He would not eat._ 9. The day began to pass, The night began to come, To bed was brought The fair gentlewoman, _And the juggler also_. 10. The night began to pass, The day began to spring; All the birds of her bower, They began to sing, _And the cuckoo also_! 11. 'Where be ye, my merry maidens, That ye come not me to? The jolly windows of my bower Look that you undo, _That I may see_! 12. 'For I have in mine arms A duke or else an earl.' But when she looked him upon, He was a blear-eyed churl. _'Alas!' she said._ 13. She led him to an hill, And hanged should he be. He juggled himself to a meal-pock; The dust fell in her eye; _Beguiled she was_. 14. God and our Lady And sweet Saint Joham Send every giglot of this town Such another leman, _Even as he was_! [Annotations: 2.3: 'But if,' unless. 3.4: 'teen,' wrath. 5.3, 6.3: 'wend,' thought. 5.3: 'had' omitted in the manuscript. 8.3: 'He': the manuscript reads '&.' 13.3: 'meal-pock,' meal-bag. 14.3: 'giglot,' wench.] INDEX OF TITLES PAGE Baron of Brackley, The, 122 Battle of Harlaw, The, 194 Battle of Otterburn, The, 16 Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, 133 Bewick and Grahame, 101 Braes of Yarrow, The, 34 Captain Car, 62 Clyde's Water, 140 Death of Parcy Reed, The, 93 Dick o' the Cow, 75 Durham Field, 181 Earl Bothwell, 177 Fire of Frendraught, The, 112 Flodden Field, 71 Gardener, The, 153 Geordie, 118 Gipsy Laddie, The, 129 Heir of Linne, The, 170 Hunting of the Cheviot, The, 1 Jamie Douglas, 164 John o' the Side, 156 Johnie Armstrong, 30 Jolly Juggler, The, 211 Katharine Jaffray, 145 Kinmont Willie, 49 Laird of Knottington, The, 200 Laird o' Logie, The, 58 Lizie Lindsay, 148 Lord Maxwell's Last Goodnight, 206 Mary Hamilton, 44 Outlyer Bold, The, 40 Sir Hugh in the Grime's Downfall, 89 Sir James the Rose, 135 Sir Patrick Spence, 68 Twa Brothers, The, 37 Waly, waly, gin love be bonny, 168 Whummil Bore, The, 204 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE Adiew, madam my mother dear, 207 As I cam in by Dunidier, 195 God send the land deliverance, 94 Good Lord John is a hunting gone, 89 Here beside dwelleth, 214 I dreamed a dreary dream this night, 34 Inverey cam doun Deeside, whistlin' and playin', 123 It befell at Martynmas, 63 It's of a young lord o' the Hielands, 148 I will sing, if ye will hearken, 59 King Jamie hath made a vow, 72 Lordings, listen and hold you still, 182 Now Liddisdale has long lain in, 76 O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, 134 Of all the lords in fair Scotland, 171 O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde, 50 O heard ye of Sir James the Rose, 135 Old Grahame he is to Carlisle gone, 101 O waly, waly up the bank, 168 Peter o' Whifield he hath slain, 157 Seven lang years I hae served the king, 204 The eighteenth of October, 113 The gardener stands in his bower-door, 153 The king sits in Dumferling toune, 69 The Persë owt off Northombarlonde, 3 There cam singers to Earl Cassillis' gates, 130 There dwelt a man in faire Westmerland, 30 There liv'd a lass in yonder dale, 145 There was a battle in the north, 118 There was a troop of merry gentlemen, 200 There were three sisters, they lived in a bower, 40 There were twa brethren in the north, 37 Waly, waly up the bank, 165 Woe worth thee, woe worth thee, false Scotland, 177 Word's gane to the kitchen, 46 Ye gie corn unto my horse, 141 Yt fell abowght the Lamasse tyde, 18 Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Errata: Bewick and Grahame [Stanza 33.] But if thou be a man, as I trow thou art, _text reads "he a man"_ Durham Field _"Crecy" consistently written with cedilla_ Lord Maxwell's Last Goodnight [editor's introduction] As for Lord Maxwell's 'lady and only joy,' _close quote missing_ 
41044	----	generously made available by the Digital & Multimedia Center, Michigan State University Libraries.) Transcriber's Notes Archaic, dialect and inconsistent spellings and hyphenation have been retained as in the original. Minor corrections to format and punctuation together with regularisation of poetry line numbering have been made without comment. Any other changes to the text have been listed at the end of the book. In this Plain Text version of the e-book, symbols from the ASCII character set only are used. Other characters and symbols are substituted as follows: [OE], [oe] for upper and lower case oe-ligature respectively [=u] for u with macron. Italic typeface is indicated by _underscores_. Small caps typeface is represented by UPPER CASE. A pointing hand symbol is represented as [right pointing hand]. Notes with reference to ballad line numbers are presented at the end of each ballad. The presence of a note is indicated at the end of line number ## by "[L##]". * * * * * ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH BALLADS. EDITED BY FRANCIS JAMES CHILD. VOLUME VII. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY. M.DCCC.LX. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. CONTENTS OF VOLUME SEVENTH. BOOK VII. (Continued.) Page 4 a. The Battle of Otterbourne [Percy] 3 4 b. The Battle of Otterbourne [Scott] 19 5 a. The Hunting of the Cheviot 25 5 b. Chevy-Chace 43 6. Sir Andrew Barton 55 7. Flodden Field 71 8 a. Queen Jeanie 74 8 b. The Death of Queen Jane 77 9. The Murder of the King of Scots 78 10. The Rising in the North 82 11. Northumberland betrayed by Douglas 92 12. King of Scots and Andrew Browne 103 13. Mary Ambree 108 14. Brave Lord Willoughbey 114 15 a. The Bonny Earl of Murray [Ramsay] 119 15 b. The Bonnie Earl of Murray [Finlay] 121 16. The Winning of Cales 123 17. Sir John Suckling's Campaign 128 18. The Battle of Philiphaugh 131 19. The Gallant Grahams 137 20. The Battle of Loudon Hill 144 21. The Battle of Bothwell Bridge 148 22. The Battle of Killiecrankie 152 23. The Battle of Sheriff-Muir 156 24. Lord Derwentwater 164 25. The Battle of Tranent-Muir, or of Preston-Pans 167 APPENDIX. The Battle of Otterburn 177 The Battle of Harlaw 180 King Henrie the Fifth's Conquest 190 Jane Shore 194 Sir Andrew Barton 201 The Battle of Corichie 210 The Battle of Balrinnes (or Glenlivet) 214 Bonny John Seton 230 The Haws of Cromdale 234 The Battle of Alford 238 The Battle of Pentland Hills 240 The Reading Skirmish 243 Undaunted Londonderry 247 Pr[oe]lium Gillicrankianum 251 The Boyne Water 253 The Woman Warrior 257 The Battle of Sheriff-Muir 260 Up and war them a', Willie 264 The Marquis of Huntley's Retreat 267 Johnie Cope 274 King Leir and his three Daughters 276 Fair Rosamond 283 Queen Eleanor's Fall 292 The Duchess of Suffolk's Calamity 299 The Life and Death of Thomas Stukely 306 Lord Delaware 314 The Battle of Harlaw (Traditional version) 317 GLOSSARY 321 BOOK VII. CONTINUED. THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. In the twelfth year of Richard II. (1388,) the Scots assembled an extensive army, with the intention of invading England on a grand scale, in revenge for a previous incursion made by that sovereign. But information having been received that the Northumbrians were gathering in considerable force for a counter-invasion, it was thought prudent not to attempt to carry out the original enterprise. While, therefore, the main body of the army, commanded by the Earl of Fife, the Scottish king's second son, ravaged the western borders of England, a detachment of three or four thousand chosen men, under the Earl of Douglas, penetrated by a swift march into the Bishopric of Durham, and laid waste the country with fire and sword. Returning in triumph from this inroad, Douglas passed insultingly before the gates of Newcastle, where Sir Harry Percy lay in garrison. This fiery warrior, though he could not venture to cope with forces far superior to his own, sallied out to break a lance with his hereditary foe. In a skirmish before the town he lost his spear and pennon, which Douglas swore he would plant as a trophy on the highest tower of his castle, unless it should be that very night retaken by the owner. Hotspur was deterred from accepting this challenge immediately, by the apprehension that Douglas would be able to effect a union with the main body of the Scottish army before he could be overtaken, but when he learned, the second day, that the Earl was retreating with ostentatious slowness, he hastily got together a company of eight or ten thousand men, and set forth in pursuit. The English forces, under the command of Hotspur and his brother, Sir Ralph Percy, came up with the Scots at Otterbourne, a small village about thirty miles from Newcastle, on the evening of the 15th of August. Their numbers were more than double the Scots, but they were fatigued with a long march. Percy fell at once on the camp of Douglas, and a desperate action ensued. The victory seemed to be inclining to the English, when the Scottish leader, as the last means of reanimating his followers, rushed on the advancing enemy with heroic daring, and cleared a way with his battle-axe into the middle of their ranks. All but alone and unsupported, Douglas was overpowered by numbers, and sunk beneath three mortal wounds. The Scots, encouraged by the furious charge of their chieftain, and ignorant of his fate, renewed the struggle with vigor. Ralph Percy was made prisoner by the Earl Mareschal, and soon after Hotspur himself by Lord Montgomery. Many other Englishmen of rank had the same fate. After a long fight, maintained with extraordinary bravery on both sides, the English retired and left the Scots masters of the field. (See Sir W. Scott's _History of Scotland_, i. 225.) The ballad which follows, printed from the fourth or revised edition of Percy's _Reliques_ (vol. i. p. 21), was derived from a manuscript in the Cotton library (Cleopatra, c. iv. fol. 64), thought to be written about the middle of the sixteenth century. In the earlier editions, a less perfect copy, from the Harleian collection, had been used. Hume of Godscroft, speaking of the songs made on the battle of Otterbourne, says, "the Scots song made of Otterbourne telleth the time--about Lammas; and also the occasion--to take preys out of England; also the dividing armies betwixt the Earls of Fife and Douglas, and their several journeys, almost as in the authentic history," and proceeds to quote the first stanza of the present ballad. Again, it is said that at Lammas, when the Scotch husbandmen are busy at getting in their hay, the season has been over for a month in most parts of England. From these circumstances, and the occurrence of certain Scottish words, the first part of _The Battle of Otterbourne_ has been regarded as a Scottish composition, retouched by an English hand. A somewhat mutilated version of this ballad was published in Herd's _Scottish Songs_. This, though defective, well deserves a place in our Appendix. Sir Walter Scott inserted in the _Minstrelsy_ another edition made up by him from two copies obtained from the recitation of old persons residing in Ettrick Forest, and it is here subjoined to Percy's version. Genealogical notices of the personages mentioned in this and the following ballad will be found in Percy's _Reliques_ and in Scott's _Minstrelsy_. Yt felle abowght the Lamasse tyde, Whan husbonds wynn ther haye, The dowghtye Dowglasse bowynd hym to ryde, In Ynglond to take a praye. The yerlle of Fyffe, withowghten stryffe, 5 He bowynd hym over Sulway:[L6] The grete wolde ever together ryde; That race they may rue for aye. Over Ottercap hyll they came in,[L9] And so dowyn by Rodelyffe cragge, 10 Upon Grene Leyton they lyghted dowyn, Styrande many a stagge;[L12] And boldely brent Northomberlonde, And haryed many a towyn; They dyd owr Ynglyssh men grete wrange, 15 To battell that were not bowyn. Than spake a berne upon the bent, Of comforte that was not colde, And sayd, "We have brent Northomberlond, We have all welth in holde. 20 "Now we have haryed all Bamboroweshyre, All the welth in the worlde have wee; I rede we ryde to Newe Castell, So styll and stalwurthlye." Uppon the morowe, when it was daye, 25 The standards schone fulle bryght; To the Newe Castelle the toke the waye, And thether they cam fulle ryght. Sir Henry Percy laye at the Newe Castelle, I telle yow withowtten drede; 30 He had byn a march-man all hys dayes, And kepte Barwyke upon Twede. To the Newe Castell when they cam, The Skottes they cryde on hyght, "Syr Harye Percy, and thow byste within, 35 Com to the fylde, and fyght: "For we have brente Northomberlonde, Thy eritage good and ryght; And syne my logeyng I have take, With my brande dubbyd many a knyght." 40 Sir Harry Percy cam to the walles, The Skottyssh oste for to se; "And thow hast brente Northomberlond, Full sore it rewyth me. "Yf thou hast haryed all Bambarowe shyre, 45 Thow hast done me grete envye; For the trespasse thow hast me done, The tone of us schall dye." "Where schall I byde the?" sayd the Dowglas, "Or where wylte thow come to me?" 50 "At Otterborne in the hygh way, Ther maist thow well logeed be. "The roo full rekeles ther sche rinnes, To make the game and glee; The fawkon and the fesaunt both, 55 Amonge the holtes on hye. "Ther maist thow have thy welth at wyll, "Well looged ther maist be; Yt schall not be long or I com the tyll," Sayd Syr Harry Percye. 60 "Ther schall I byde the," sayd the Dowglas, "By the fayth of my bodye:" "Thether schall I com," sayd Syr Harry Percy "My trowth I plyght to the." A pype of wyne he gave them over the walles, 65 For soth, as I yow saye; Ther he mayd the Douglas drynke, And all hys oste that daye. The Dowglas turnyd hym homewarde agayne, For soth withowghten naye; 70 He tooke his logeyng at Oterborne Uppon a Wedynsday. And there he pyght hys standerd dowyn, Hys gettyng more and lesse, And syne he warned hys men to goo 75 To chose ther geldyngs gresse. A Skottysshe knyght hoved upon the bent,[L77] A wache I dare well saye; So was he ware on the noble Percy In the dawnynge of the daye. 80 He prycked to his pavyleon dore, As faste as he myght ronne; "Awaken, Dowglas," cryed the knyght, "For hys love, that syttes yn trone. "Awaken, Dowglas," cryed the knyght, 85 "For thow maiste waken wyth wynne; Yender have I spyed the prowde Percy, And seven standardes wyth hym." "Nay by my trowth," the Douglas sayed, "It ys but a fayned taylle; 90 He durste not loke on my bred banner, For all Ynglonde so haylle. "Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe Castell, That stonds so fayre on Tyne? For all the men the Percy hade, 95 He cowde not garre me ones to dyne." He stepped owt at hys pavelyon dore, To loke and it were lesse; "Araye yow, lordyngs, one and all, For here bygynnes no peysse. 100 "The yerle of Mentayne, thow art my eme,[L101] The forwarde I gyve to the: The yerlle of Huntlay cawte and kene,[L103] He schall wyth the be. "The lorde of Bowghan, in armure bryght,[L105] 105 On the other hand he schall be; Lord Jhonstone and Lorde Maxwell, They to schall be wyth me. "Swynton, fayre fylde upon your pryde! To batell make yow bowen, 110 Syr Davy Scotte, Syr Walter Stewarde, Syr Jhon of Agurstone!" 6. i. e. over Solway frith. This evidently refers to the other division of the Scottish army, which came in by way of Carlisle.--PERCY. 9-11. sc. the Earl of Douglas and his party.--The several stations here mentioned are well-known places in Northumberland. Ottercap-hill is in the parish of Kirk-Whelpington, in Tynedale-ward. Rodeliffe--(or, as it is more usually pronounced, Rodeley--) Cragge is a noted cliff near Rodeley, a small village in the parish of Hartburn, in Morpeth-ward. Green Leyton is another small village in the same parish of Hartburn, and is southeast of Rodeley. Both the original MSS. read here, corruptly, Hoppertop and Lynton.--P. 12. Many a styrande stage, in both MSS. Motherwell would retain this reading, because stagge signifies in Scotland a young stallion, and by supplying "off" the line would make sense. It was one of the Border laws, he remarks, that the Scottish array of battle should be on foot (see v. 15 of the Second Part). Horses were used but for a retreat or pursuit. 77. the best bent, MS. 101. The Earl of Menteith. At the time of the battle the earldom of Menteith was possessed by Robert Earl of Fife, who was in command of the main body of the army, and consequently not with Douglas. 103. The reference is to Sir John Gordon. The use of this designation shows, says Percy, that the ballad was not composed before 1449. In that year the title of Earl of Huntly was first conferred on Alexander Seaton, who married the grand-daughter of the Gordon of Otterbourne. 105. The Earl of Buchan, fourth son of King Robert II. A FYTTE. [THE SECOND PART.] The Perssy came byfore hys oste, Wych was ever a gentyll knyght; Upon the Dowglas lowde can he crye, "I wyll holde that I have hyght. "For thow haste brente Northumberlonde, 5 And done me grete envye; For thys trespasse thou hast me done, The tone of us schall dye." The Dowglas answerde hym agayne With grete wurds up on hye, 10 And sayd, "I have twenty agaynst the one, Byholde, and thow maiste see." Wyth that the Percye was grevyd sore, For sothe as I yow saye; He lyghted dowyn upon his fote, 15 And schoote his horsse clene away. Every man sawe that he dyd soo, That ryall was ever in rowght; Every man schoote hys horsse him froo, And lyght hym rowynde abowght. 20 Thus Syr Hary Percye toke the fylde, For soth, as I yow saye; Jesu Cryste in hevyn on hyght Dyd helpe hym well that daye. But nyne thowzand, ther was no moo, 25 The cronykle wyll not layne; Forty thowsande Skottes and fowre That day fowght them agayne. But when the batell byganne to joyne, In hast ther came a knyght; 30 'Then' letters fayre furth hath he tayne, And thus he sayd full ryght: "My lorde, your father he gretes yow well, Wyth many a noble knyght; He desyres yow to byde 35 That he may see thys fyght. "The Baron of Grastoke ys com owt of the west, With him a noble companye; All they loge at your fathers thys nyght, And the battell fayne wold they see. 40 "For Jesus love," sayd Syr Harye Percy, "That dyed for yow and me, Wende to my lorde my father agayne, And saye thou saw me not with yee. "My trowth ys plyght to yonne Skottysh knyght, 45 It nedes me not to layne, That I schulde byde hym upon thys bent, And I have hys trowth agayne. "And if that I wende off thys grownde, For soth, unfoughten awaye, 50 He wolde me call but a kowarde knyght In hys londe another daye. "Yet had I lever to be rynde and rente, By Mary, that mykel maye, Then ever my manhod schulde be reprovyd 55 Wyth a Skotte another daye. "Wherefore schote, archars, for my sake, And let scharpe arowes flee; Mynstrells, play up for your waryson, And well quyt it schall be. 60 "Every man thynke on hys trewe love, And marke hym to the Trenite; For to God I make myne avowe Thys day wyll I not fle." The blodye harte in the Dowglas armes, 65 Hys standerde stode on hye; That every man myght full well knowe; By syde stode starres thre. The whyte lyon on the Ynglysh parte, Forsoth, as I yow sayne, 70 The lucetts and the cressawnts both; The Skotts faught them agayne. Uppon Sent Andrewe lowde cane they crye, And thrysse they schowte on hyght, And syne marked them one owr Ynglysshe men, 75 As I have tolde yow ryght. Sent George the bryght, owr ladyes knyght, To name they were full fayne; Owr Ynglysshe men they cryde on hyght, And thrysse the schowtte agayne. 80 Wyth that, scharpe arowes bygan to flee, I tell yow in sertayne; Men of armes byganne to joyne, Many a dowghty man was ther slayne. The Percy and the Dowglas mette, 85 That ether of other was fayne; They schapped together, whyll that the swette, With swords of fyne collayne; Tyll the bloode from ther bassonnetts ranne, As the roke doth in the rayne; 90 "Yelde the to me," sayd the Dowglas, "Or ells thow schalt be slayne. "For I see by thy bryght bassonet, Thow art sum man of myght; And so I do by thy burnysshed brande; 95 Thow art an yerle, or ells a knyght."[L96] "By my good faythe," sayd the noble Percy, "Now haste thou rede full ryght; Yet wyll I never yelde me to the, Whyll I may stonde and fyght." 100 They swapped together, whyll that they swette, Wyth swordes scharpe and long; Ych on other so faste they beette, Tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn. The Percy was a man of strenghth, 105 I tell yow in thys stounde; He smote the Dowglas at the swordes length, That he felle to the growynde. The sworde was scharpe, and sore can byte, I tell yow in sertayne; 110 To the harte he cowde hym smyte, Thus was the Dowglas slayne. The stonderds stode styll on eke syde, With many a grevous grone; Ther the fowght the day, and all the nyght, 115 And many a dowghty man was slayne. Ther was no freke that ther wolde flye, But styffly in stowre can stond, Ychone hewyng on other whyll they myght drye, Wyth many a bayllefull bronde. 120 Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde, For soth and sertenly, Syr James a Dowglas ther was slayne, That daye that he cowde dye. The yerle of Mentaye he was slayne, 125 Grysely groned uppon the growynd; Syr Davy Scotte, Syr Walter Steward, Syr John of Agurstonne.[L128] Syr Charlles Morrey in that place, That never a fote wold flye; 130 Sir Hughe Maxwelle, a lorde he was, With the Dowglas dyd he dye. Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde, For soth as I yow saye, Of fowre and forty thowsande Scotts 135 Went but eyghtene awaye. Ther was slayne upon the Ynglysshe syde, For soth and sertenlye, A gentell knyght, Sir John Fitz-hughe, Yt was the more petye. 140 Syr James Harebotell ther was slayne, For hym ther hartes were sore; The gentyll Lovelle ther was slayne,[L143] That the Percyes standerd bore. Ther was slayne uppon the Ynglyssh perte, 145 For soth as I yow saye, Of nyne thowsand Ynglyssh men Fyve hondert cam awaye. The other were slayne in the fylde; Cryste kepe their sowles from wo! 150 Seying ther was so few fryndes Agaynst so many a foo. Then one the morne they mayd them beeres Of byrch, and haysell graye; Many a wydowe with wepyng teyres 155 Ther makes they fette awaye. Thys fraye bygan at Otterborne, Bytwene the nyghte and the day: Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyfe, And the Percy was lede awaye. 160 Then was ther a Scottyshe prisoner tayne, Syr Hughe Mongomery was hys name;[L162] For soth as I yow saye, He borowed the Percy home agayne. Now let us all for the Percy praye 165 To Jesu most of myght, To bryng hys sowle to the blysse of heven, For he was a gentyll knyght. 96. Being all in armour he could not know him.--P. 128. Both the MSS. read here _Sir James_, but see above, Pt. I. ver. 112.--P. 143. Covelle, MS. 162. Supposed to be son of Lord John Montgomery, who took Hotspur prisoner. In _The Hunting of the Cheviot_ this Sir Hugh is said to have been slain with an arrow. THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, i. 354. In the _Complaynt of Scotland_ (1548), "The Persee and the Mongumrye met," (v. 117 of this piece,) occurs as the title, or rather the catchword, of one of the popular songs of the time. It fell about the Lammas tide, When the muir-men win their hay, The doughty Douglas bound him to ride Into England, to drive a prey. He chose the Gordons and the Græmes, 5 With them the Lindesays, light and gay;[L6] But the Jardines wald not with him ride,[L7] And they rue it to this day. And he has burn'd the dales of Tyne, And part of Bambroughshire; 10 And three good towers on Reidswire fells, He left them all on fire. And he march'd up to Newcastle, And rode it round about; "O wha's the lord of this castle, 15 Or wha's the lady o't?" But up spake proud Lord Percy then, And O but he spake hie! "I am the lord of this castle, My wife's the lady gay." 20 "If thou'rt the lord of this castle, Sae weel it pleases me! For, ere I cross the Border fells, The tane of us shall die." He took a lang spear in his hand, 25 Shod with the metal free, And for to meet the Douglas there, He rode right furiouslie. But O how pale his lady look'd, Frae aff the castle wa', 30 When down before the Scottish spear She saw proud Percy fa'. "Had we twa been upon the green, And never an eye to see, I wad hae had you, flesh and fell;[L35] 35 But your sword sall gae wi' me." "But gae ye up to Otterbourne, And wait there dayis three; And if I come not ere three dayis end, A fause knight ca' ye me." 40 "The Otterbourne's a bonnie burn; 'Tis pleasant there to be; But there is nought at Otterbourne, To feed my men and me. "The deer rins wild on hill and dale, 45 The birds fly wild from tree to tree; But there is neither bread nor kale, To fend my men and me. "Yet I will stay at Otterbourne, Where you shall welcome be; 50 And if ye come not at three dayis end, A fause lord I'll ca' thee." "Thither will I come," proud Percy said, "By the might of Our Ladye!" "There will I bide thee," said the Douglas, 55 "My troth I plight to thee." They lighted high on Otterbourne, Upon the bent sae brown; They lighted high on Otterbourne, And threw their pallions down. 60 And he that had a bonnie boy, Sent out his horse to grass; And he that had not a bonnie boy, His ain servant he was. But up then spake a little page, 65 Before the peep of dawn-- "O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord, For Percy's hard at hand." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud! Sae loud I hear ye lie: 70 For Percy had not men yestreen To dight my men and me. "But I have dream'd a dreary dream, Beyond the Isle of Sky; I saw a dead man win a fight, 75 And I think that man was I." He belted on his guid braid sword, And to the field he ran; But he forgot the helmet good, That should have kept his brain. 80 When Percy wi' the Douglas met, I wat he was fu' fain; They swakked their swords, till sair they swat, And the blood ran down like rain. But Percy with his good broad sword, 85 That could so sharply wound, Has wounded Douglas on the brow, Till he fell to the ground. Then he call'd on his little foot-page, And said--"Run speedilie, 90 And fetch my ain dear sister's son, Sir Hugh Montgomery. "My nephew good," the Douglas said, "What recks the death of ane! Last night I dream'd a dreary dream, 95 And I ken the day's thy ain. "My wound is deep; I fain would sleep; Take thou the vanguard of the three, And hide me by the braken bush, That grows on yonder lilye lee. 100 "O bury me by the braken bush, Beneath the blooming brier, Let never living mortal ken That ere a kindly Scot lies here." He lifted up that noble lord, 105 Wi' the saut tear in his ee; He hid him in the braken bush, That his merrie-men might not see. The moon was clear, the day drew near, The spears in flinders flew, 110 But mony a gallant Englishman Ere day the Scotsmen slew. The Gordons good, in English blood They steep'd their hose and shoon; The Lindsays flew like fire about, 115 Till all the fray was done. The Percy and Montgomery met, That either of other were fain; They swapped swords, and they twa swat, And aye the blood ran down between. 120 "Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy," he said, "Or else I vow I'll lay thee low!" "To whom must I yield," quoth Earl Percy, "Now that I see it must be so?" "Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun, 125 Nor yet shalt thou yield to me; But yield thee to the braken bush, That grows upon yon lilye lee." "I will not yield to a braken bush, Nor yet will I yield to a brier; 130 But I would yield to Earl Douglas, Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here." As soon as he knew it was Montgomery, He struck his sword's point in the gronde; The Montgomery was a courteous knight, 135 And quickly took him by the honde. This deed was done at the Otterbourne, About the breaking of the day; Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush, And the Percy led captive away.[L140] 140 * * * * * 6. "Light" is the appropriated designation of the Lindsays, as "gay" is that of the Gordons. 7. The Jardines were a clan of hardy West-Border men. Their chief was Jardine of Applegirth. Their refusal to ride with Douglas was, probably, the result of one of those perpetual feuds, which usually rent to pieces a Scottish army.--S. 35. Douglas insinuates that Percy was rescued by his soldiers.--S. 140. Douglas was really buried in Melrose Abbey, where his tomb is still to be seen. THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT. In _the Battle of Otterbourne_ the story is told with all the usual accuracy of tradition, and the usual fairness of partizans. Not so with the following ballad, which is founded on the same event. "That which is commonly sung of the _Hunting of Cheviot_," says Hume of Godscroft truly, "seemeth indeed poetical, and a mere fiction, perhaps to stir up virtue; yet a fiction whereof there is no mention either in the Scottish or English chronicle." When this ballad arose we do not know, but we may suppose that a considerable time would elapse before a minstrel would venture to treat an historical event with so much freedom. We must, however, allow some force to these remarks of Percy: "With regard to the subject of this ballad, although it has no countenance from history, there is room to think it had originally some foundation in fact. It was one of the laws of the Marches, frequently renewed between the nations, that neither party should hunt in the other's borders, without leave from the proprietors or their deputies. There had long been a rivalship between the two martial families of Percy and Douglas, which, heightened by the national quarrel, must have produced frequent challenges and struggles for superiority, petty invasions of their respective domains, and sharp contests for the point of honour; which would not always be recorded in history. Something of this kind, we may suppose, gave rise to the ancient ballad of the _Hunting a' the Cheviat_. Percy Earl of Northumberland had vowed to hunt for three days in the Scottish border, without condescending to ask leave from Earl Douglas, who was either lord of the soil, or lord warden of the Marches. Douglas would not fail to resent the insult, and endeavour to repel the intruders by force: this would naturally produce a sharp conflict between the two parties; something of which, it is probable, did really happen, though not attended with the tragical circumstances recorded in the ballad: for these are evidently borrowed from the Battle of Otterbourn, a very different event, but which aftertimes would easily confound with it."[1] The ballad as here printed is of the same age as the preceding. It is extracted from Hearne's Preface to the _History_ of Guilielmus Neubrigensis, p. lxxxii. Hearne derived his copy from a manuscript in the Ashmolean collection at Oxford, and printed the text in long lines, which, according to custom, are now broken up into two. The manuscript copy is subscribed at the end "Expliceth quoth Rychard Sheale." Richard Sheale (it has been shown by a writer in the _British Bibliographer_, vol. iv. p. 97-105) was a minstrel by profession, and several other pieces in the same MS. have a like signature with this. On this ground it has been very strangely concluded that Sheale was not, as Percy and Ritson supposed, the transcriber, but the actual author of this noble ballad. The glaring objection of the antiquity of the language has been met, first, by the supposition that the author belonged to the north of England, and afterwards, when it appeared that Sheale lived at Tamworth, about a hundred miles from London, by the allegation that the language of a person in humble life in Warwickshire or Staffordshire would be very far behind the current speech of the metropolis. It happens, however, that the language of the ballad is very much older than the other compositions of Sheale, as a moment's inspection will show. Besides, Sheale's poetical abilities were manifestly of the lowest order, and although he styles himself "minstrel," we have no reason to think that he ever composed ballads. He speaks of his memory being at one time so decayed that he "could neither sing nor talk." Being a mere ballad-_singer_ and story-teller, he would naturally be dependent on that faculty. The fact is very obvious, that Richard Sheale was a mere reciter of songs and tales; at any rate, that all we have to thank him for in the matter of _Chevy Chase_ is for committing to paper the only old copy that has come down to our times.[2] The _Hunting of the Cheviot_ is mentioned in the _Complaynt of Scotland_ with other, very ancient, ballads. It was consequently popular in Scotland in 1548, ten years before the time that we _know_ Sheale to have written anything. The mention of James the Scottish King forbids us to assign this piece an earlier date than the reign of Henry VI. It has been customary to understand Sidney's saying of the "old song of Percy and Douglas"--that it moved his heart more than a trumpet--exclusively of _Chevy Chase_. There is no question which ballad would stand higher in the estimation of the gentle knight, but the terms by which the war-song he admired is described are of course equally applicable to _The Battle of Otterbourne_. By the way we may remark that if we do understand Sidney to have meant _Chevy Chase_, then, whatever opinion writers of our day may have of its antiquity, and however probable it may seem to them that _Chevy Chase_ was written by a contemporary of Sir Philip, it appeared to the author of the _Defence of Poetry_ to be "evil apparelled in the dust and cobweb of an uncivil age"! * * * * * [1] The Editor of the _Reliques_ afterwards met with the following passage in Collins's _Peerage_, which he thought might throw some light on the question of the origin of the ballad. "In this ... year, 1436, according to Hector Boethius, was fought the battle of Pepperden, not far from the Cheviot Hills, between the Earl of Northumberland [IId Earl, son of Hotspur], and Earl William Douglas, of Angus, with a small army of about four thousand men each, in which the latter had the advantage. As this seems to have been a private conflict between these two great Chieftains of the Borders, rather than a national war, it has been thought to have given rise to the celebrated old ballad of Chevy-Chase; which to render it more pathetic and interesting, has been heightened with tragical incidents wholly fictitious." [2] We regret that even Dr. Rimbault has hastily sanctioned this ascription of _Chevy-Chase_ to the "sely" minstrel of Tamworth. THE FIRST FIT. The Persè owt off Northombarlande, And a vowe to God mayd he, That he wold hunte in the mountayns Off Chyviat within days thre, In the mauger of doughtè Dogles,[L5] 5 And all that ever with him be. The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat He sayd he wold kill, and cary them away: "Be my feth," sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn, "I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may." 10 Then the Persè owt of Banborowe cam,[L11] With him a myghtee meany; With fifteen hondrith archares bold off blood and bone,[L13] The wear chosen owt of shyars thre.[L14] This begane on a Monday at morn, 15 In Cheviat the hillys so he; The chyld may rue that ys un-born, It was the mor pittè. The dryvars throrowe the woodès went, For to reas the dear; 20 Bomen byckarte uppone the bent With ther browd aras cleare. Then the wyld thorowe the woodès went, On every sydè shear; Grea-hondes thorowe the grevis glent, 25 For to kyll thear dear. The begane in Chyviat the hyls above, Yerly on a Monnyn day; Be that it drewe to the oware off none, A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay. 30 The blewe a mort uppone the bent,[L31] The semblyd on sydis shear; To the quyrry then the Persè went, To se the bryttlynge off the deare. He sayd, "It was the Duglas promys 35 This day to met me hear; But I wyste he wold faylle, verament:" A great oth the Persè swear. At the laste a squyar of Northombelonde Lokyde at his hand full ny; 40 He was war a' the doughetie Doglas comynge,[L41] With him a myghttè meany; Both with spear, byll, and brande;[L43] Yt was a myghti sight to se; Hardyar men, both off hart nar hande, 45 Wear not in Christiantè. The wear twenty hondrith spear-men good, Withowtè any feale; The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde, Yth' bowndes of Tividale. 50 "Leave of the brytlyng of the dear," he sayde, "And to your bowys lock ye tayk good heed;[L52] For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne Had ye never so mickle ned." The dougheti Dogglas on a stede 55 He rode att his men beforne; His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede; A bolder barne was never born. "Tell me whos men ye ar," he says, "Or whos men that ye be: 60 Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays, In the spyt of me?" The first mane that ever him an answear mayd, Yt was the good lord Persè: "We wyll not tell the whoys men we ar," he says, 65 "Nor whos men that we be; But we wyll hount hear in this chays, In the spyt of thyne and of the. "The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat We have kyld, and cast to carry them a-way:" 70 "Be my troth," sayd the doughtè Dogglas agayn,[L71] "Ther-for the ton of us shall de this day." Then sayd the doughtè Doglas Unto the lord Persè: "To kyll all thes giltles men, 75 Alas, it wear great pittè! "But, Persè, thowe art a lord of lande, I am a yerle callyd within my contrè; Let all our men uppone a parti stande, And do the battell off the and of me." 80 "Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne," sayd the lord Persè,[L81] "Whosoever ther-to says nay; Be my troth, doughttè Doglas," he says, "Thow shalt never se that day. "Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France, 85 Nor for no man of a woman born, But, and fortune be my chance, I dar met him, on man for on." Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde, Richard Wytharyngton was him nam; 90 "It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde," he says, "To kyng Herry the fourth for sham. "I wat youe byn great lordes twaw, I am a poor squyar of lande; I wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, 95 And stande myselffe, and loocke on, But whyll I may my weppone welde, I wyll not [fayl] both hart and hande." That day, that day, that dredfull day![L99] The first fit here I fynde; 100 And youe wyll here any mor a' the hountyng a' the Chyviat, Yet ys ther mor behynd. 5. magger. 11. The the. 13. archardes. 14. By these _shyars thre_ is probably meant three districts in Northumberland, which still go by the name of _shires_, and are all in the neighbourhood of Cheviot. These are _Islandshire_, being the district so named from Holy-Island: _Norehamshire_, so called from the town and castle of Noreham (or Norham): and _Bamboroughshire_, the ward or hundred belonging to Bamborough-castle and town.--PERCY. 31. blwe a mot. 41. ath the. 43. brylly. 52. boys. 71. agay. 81. sayd the the. 99. "That day, that day, that gentil day," is cited in _The Complaynt of Scotland_, (ii. 101,) not, we imagine, as the _title_ of a ballad (any more than "The Persee and the Mongumrye met," _ante_, p. 19,) but as a line by which the song containing it might be recalled. THE SECOND FIT. The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent,[L1] Ther hartes were good yenoughe; The first off arros that the shote off, Seven skore spear-men the sloughe. Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent, 5 A captayne good yenoughe, And that was sene verament, For he wrought hom both woo and wouche. The Dogglas pertyd his ost or thre, Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde, 10 With suar spears off myghttè tre, The cum in on every syde: Thrughe our Yngglyshe archery Gave many a wounde full wyde; Many a doughete the garde to dy, 15 Which ganyde them no pryde. The Ynglyshe men let thear bowys be,[L17] And pulde owt brandes that wer bright;[L18] It was a hevy syght to se Bryght swordes on basnites lyght. 20 Throrowe ryche male and myneyeple, Many sterne the stroke downe streght;[L22] Many a freyke that was full fre, Ther undar foot dyd lyght. At last the Duglas and the Persè met, 25 Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;[L26] The swapte togethar tyll the both swat, With swordes that wear of fyn myllàn. Thes worthè freckys for to fyght, Ther-to the wear full fayne, 30 Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente, As ever dyd heal or rayne.[L32] "Holde the, Persè," sayde the Doglas,[L33] "And i' feth I shall the brynge Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis 35 Of Jamy our Scottish kynge.[L36] "Thoue shalte have thy ransom fre, I hight the hear this thinge, For the manfullyste man yet art thowe, That ever I conqueryd in filde fightyng." 40 "Nay," sayd the lord Persè, "I tolde it the beforne, That I wolde never yeldyde be To no man of a woman born." With that ther cam an arrowe hastely,[L45] 45 Forthe off a myghttè wane; Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas In at the brest bane. Throroue lyvar and longs, bathe The sharp arrowe ys gane, 50 That never after in all his lyffe-days, He spayke mo wordes but ane: That was, "Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may, For my lyff-days ben gan." The Persè leanyde on his brande, 55 And sawe the Duglas de; He tooke the dede mane be the hande, And sayd, "Wo ys me for the! "To have savyde thy lyffe, I wolde have pertyde with My landes for years thre, 60 For a better man, of hart nare of hande, Was not in all the north contrè." Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, Was callyd Sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry; He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght, 65 He spendyd a spear, a trusti tre:-- He rod uppon a corsiare Throughe a hondrith archery: He never stynttyde, nar never blane, Tyll he cam to the good lord Persè. 70 He set uppone the lord Persè A dynte that was full soare; With a suar spear of a myghttè tre Clean thorow the body he the Persè ber, A' the tothar syde that a man myght se 75 A large cloth yard and mare: Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiantè, Then that day slain wear ther. An archar off Northomberlonde Say slean was the lord Persè; 80 He bar a bende-bowe in his hand, Was made off trusti tre. An arow, that a cloth yarde was lang, To th' harde stele haylde he; A dynt that was both sad and soar, 85 He sat on Sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry. The dynt yt was both sad and soar,[L87] That he on Monggonberry sete;[L88] The swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar, With his hart-blood the wear wete. 90 Ther was never a freak wone foot wolde fle, But still in stour dyd stand, Heawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre, With many a balfull brande. This battell begane in Chyviat 95 An owar befor the none, And when even-song bell was rang, The battell was nat half done. The tooke on ethar hand[L99] Be the lyght off the mone; 100 Many hade no strength for to stande, In Chyviat the hillys aboun.[L102] Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde Went away but fifti and thre; Of twenty hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, 105 But even five and fifti: But all wear slayne Cheviat within; The hade no strenge to stand on hy; The chylde may rue that ys unborne, It was the mor pittè. 110 Thear was slayne withe the lord Persè, Sir John of Agerstone, Sir Rogar, the hinde Hartly, Sir Wyllyam, the bolde Hearone. Sir Jorg, the worthè Lovele,[L115] 115 A knyght of great renowen, Sir Raff, the ryche Rugbè, With dyntes wear beaten dowene. For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, That ever he slayne shulde be; 120 For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, Yet he knyled and fought on hys kny. Ther was slayne with the dougheti Duglas, Sir Hewe the Monggonbyrry, Sir Davy Lwdale, that worthè was,[L125] 125 His sistars son was he: His Charls a Murrè in that place, That never a foot wolde fle; Sir Hewe Maxwell, a lorde he was, With the Doglas dyd he dey. 130 So on the morrowe the mayde them byears Off birch and hasell so gray;[L132] Many wedous with wepyng tears Cam to fach ther makys away. Tivydale may carpe off care, 135 Northombarlond may mayk grat mon, For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear, On the March-perti shall never be non. Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe, To Jamy the Skottishe kyng, 140 That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Merches, He lay slean Chyviot with-in. His handdes dyd he weal and wryng, He sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me!" Such an othar captayn Skotland within, 145 He sayd, ye-feth shuld never be. Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone, Till the fourth Harry our kyng, That lord Persè, leyff-tenante of the Merchis,[L149] He lay slayne Chyviat within. 150 "God have merci on his soll," sayd kyng Harry, "Good lord, yf thy will it be! I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde," he sayd, "As good as ever was he: But Persè, and I brook my lyffe, 155 Thy deth well quyte shall be." As our noble kyng mayd his a-vowe, Lyke a noble prince of renowen, For the deth of the lord Persè He dyde the battell of Hombyll-down: 160 Wher syx and thritté Skottishe knyghtes On a day wear beaten down: Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght,[L163] Over castill, towar, and town. This was the Hontynge off the Cheviat; 165 That tear begane this spurn: Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe, Call it the Battell of Otterburn. At Otterburn began this spurne Uppon a Monnyn day:[L170] 170 Ther was the dougghtè Doglas slean, The Persè never went away. Ther was never a tym on the March-partes Sen the Doglas and the Persè met, But yt was marvele, and the rede blude ronne not, 175 As the reane doys in the stret. Jhesue Christ our ballys bete, And to the blys us brynge! Thus was the Hountynge of the Chivyat: God send us all good endyng! 180 1-4. It is well known that the ancient English weapon was the long-bow, and that this nation excelled all others in archery, while the Scottish warriors chiefly depended on the use of the spear. This characteristic difference never escapes our ancient bard.--PERCY. 17. boys. 18. briggt. 22. done. 26. to, i. e. tow. 32. ran. 33. helde. 36. Scottih. 45. a narrowe. So again in v. 83, and a nowar in v. 96. This transference of final n to the succeeding word is of common occurrence in old poetry. 87. sar. 88. of. 99. a word has dropped out. 102. abou. 115. lo[=u]le. 125. Lwdale, i. e. Liddel. 132. gay. 149. cheyff. 163. Glendale is one of the seven wards of Northumberland. In this district the village of Homildown is situated, about a mile from Wooler. On the 14th of September, 1402, a battle was fought at this place between the Percys and Archibald, Earl of Douglas, in which the Scots were totally routed, and Douglas taken prisoner. 170. Nonnyn. CHEVY-CHACE. The text of this later ballad of _Chevy-Chace_ is given as it appears in _Old Ballads_ (1723), vol. i. p. 111, and in Durfey's _Pills to Purge Melancholy_, vol. iv. p. 289, and differs very slightly from that of the _Reliques_ (i. 265), where the ballad was printed from the folio MS., compared with two other black-letter copies. The age of this version of the story is not known, but it is certainly not later, says Dr. Rimbault, than the reign of Charles the Second. Addison's papers in the _Spectator_ (Nos. 70 and 74) evince so true a perception of the merits of this ballad, shorn as it is of the most striking beauties of the grand original, that we cannot but deeply regret his never having seen the ancient and genuine copy, which was published by Hearne only a few days after Addison died. Well might the Spectator dissent from the judgment of Sidney, if _this_ were the rude and ill-apparelled song of a barbarous age. God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safeties all; A woful hunting once there did In Chevy-Chace befall. To drive the deer with hound and horn, 5 Erle Piercy took his way; The child may rue that is unborn, The hunting of that day. The stout Earl of Northumberland A vow to God did make, 10 His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer's days to take; The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chace To kill and bear away: The tidings to Earl Douglas came, 15 In Scotland where he lay. Who sent Earl Piercy present word, He would prevent his sport; The English earl not fearing this, Did to the woods resort, 20 With fifteen hundred bow-men bold All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of need To aim their shafts aright. The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, 25 To chase the fallow deer; On Monday they began to hunt, When day-light did appear. And long before high noon they had An hundred fat bucks slain; 30 Then having din'd, the drovers went To rouze them up again. The bow-men muster'd on the hills, Well able to endure; Their backsides all, with special care, 35 That day were guarded sure. The hounds ran swiftly thro' the woods, The nimble deer to take, And with their cries the hills and dales An eccho shrill did make. 40 Lord Piercy to the quarry went, To view the tender deere; Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promised This day to meet me heer. "If that I thought he would not come, 45 No longer would I stay." With that, a brave young gentleman Thus to the Earl did say: "Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, His men in armour bright; 50 Full twenty hundred Scottish spears, All marching in our sight. "All men of pleasant Tividale, Fast by the river Tweed:" "Then cease your sport," Erle Piercy said, 55 "And take your bows with speed. "And now with me, my countrymen, Your courage forth advance; For there was never champion yet In Scotland or in France, 60 "That ever did on horseback come, But, if my hap it were,[L62] I durst encounter man for man, With him to break a spear." Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed, 65 Most like a baron bold, Rode foremost of the company, Whose armour shone like gold. "Show me," he said, "whose men you be, That hunt so boldly here, 70 That, without my consent, do chase And kill my fallow-deer." The man that first did answer make Was noble Piercy he; Who said, "We list not to declare, 75 Nor show whose men we be. "Yet we will spend our dearest blood, Thy chiefest hart to slay;" Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, And thus in rage did say; 80 "Ere thus I will out-braved be, One of us two shall dye: I know thee well, an earl thou art; Lord Piercy, so am I. "But trust me, Piercy, pity it were, 85 And great offence, to kill Any of these our harmless men, For they have done no ill. "Let thou and I the battel try, And set our men aside: 90 "Accurs'd be he," Lord Piercy said, "By whom this is deny'd." Then stept a gallant squire forth, (Witherington was his name) Who said, "I would not have it told 95 To Henry our king for shame, "That ere my captaine fought on foot, And I stood looking on: You be two earls," said Witherington, "And I a squire alone. 100 "I'll do the best that do I may, While I have power to stand; While I have power to wield my sword, I'll fight with heart and hand." Our English archers bent their bows, 105 Their hearts were good and true; At the first flight of arrows sent, Full three score Scots they slew. To drive the deer with hound and horn, Earl Douglas had the bent; 110 A captain mov'd with mickle pride The spears to shivers sent. They clos'd full fast on every side, No slacknes there was found; And many a gallant gentleman 115 Lay gasping on the ground. O Christ! it was a grief to see, And likewise for to hear, The cries of men lying in their gore, And scatter'd here and there. 120 At last these two stout earls did meet, Like captains of great might; Like lions mov'd they laid on load,[L123] And made a cruel fight. They fought until they both did sweat, 125 With swords of temper'd steel; Until the blood, like drops of rain, They trickling down did feel. "Yield thee, Lord Piercy," Douglas said; "In faith I will thee bring, 130 Where thou shalt high advanced be By James, our Scottish king. "Thy ransom I will freely give, And thus report of thee, Thou art the most couragious knight 135 That ever I did see. "No, Douglas," quoth Earl Piercy then,[L137] "Thy proffer I do scorn; I will not yield to any Scot That ever yet was born." 140 With that, there came an arrow keen Out of an English bow, Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart, A deep and deadly blow: Who never spoke more words than these, 145 "Fight on, my merry men all; For why, my life is at an end, Lord Piercy sees my fall." Then leaving life, Earl Piercy took The dead man by the hand; 150 And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy life Would I had lost my land! "O Christ! my very heart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake; For sure, a more renowned knight 155 Mischance did never take." A knight amongst the Scots there was, Which saw Earl Douglas dye, Who straight in wrath did vow revenge Upon the Earl Piercy. 160 Sir Hugh Montgomery was he call'd, Who, with a spear most bright, Well-mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely thro' the fight; And pass'd the English archers all, 165 Without all dread or fear, And through Earl Piercy's body then He thrust his hateful spear. With such a veh'ment force and might He did his body gore, 170 The spear ran through the other side A large cloth-yard, and more. So thus did both these nobles dye, Whose courage none could stain; An English archer then perceiv'd 175 The noble earl was slain. He had a bow bent in his hand, Made of a trusty tree; An arrow of a cloth-yard long Up to the head drew he. 180 Against Sir Hugh Montgomery So right his shaft he set, The grey goose-wing that was thereon In his heart's blood was wet. This fight did last from break of day 185 Till setting of the sun; For when they rung the evening-bell,[L187] The battel scarce was done. With the Earl Piercy, there was slain Sir John of Ogerton, 190 Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James, that bold baron. And with Sir George and good Sir James, Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Rabby there was slain, 195 Whose prowess did surmount. For Witherington needs must I wail, As one in doleful dumps;[L198] For when his legs were smitten off, He fought upon his stumps. 200 And with Earl Douglas, there was slain Sir Hugh Montgomery, Sir Charles Currel, that from the field One foot would never fly. Sir Charles Murrel, of Ratcliff, too, 205 His sister's son was he; Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, Yet saved could not bee. And the Lord Maxwell in like wise Did with Earl Douglas dye; 210 Of twenty hundred Scottish spears Scarce fifty-five did fly. Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three; The rest were slain in Chevy-Chace, 215 Under the green-wood tree. Next day did many widows come, Their husbands to bewail; They wash'd their wounds in brinish tears, But all would not prevail.[L220] 220 Their bodies, bath'd in purple blood, They bore with them away: They kiss'd them dead a thousand times, When they were clad in clay. This news was brought to Edinburgh, 225 Where Scotland's king did reign, That brave Earl Douglas suddenly Was with an arrow slain. "O heavy news," King James did say; "Scotland can witness be, 230 I have not any captain more Of such account as he." Like tidings to King Henry came, Within as short a space, That Piercy of Northumberland 235 Was slaine in Chevy-Chace. "Now God be with him," said our king, "Sith 't will no better be; I trust I have within my realm Five hundred as good as he. 240 "Yet shall not Scot nor Scotland say, But I will vengeance take, And be revenged on them all, For brave Earl Piercy's sake." This vow full well the king perform'd, 245 After, on Humbledown; In one day, fifty knights were slain, With lords of great renown. And of the rest, of small account, Did many thousands dye: 250 Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, Made by the Earl Piercy. God save the king, and bless the land In plenty, joy, and peace; And grant henceforth, that foul debate 255 'Twixt noblemen may cease! 62. since.--O. B. 123. Percy has _lions wood_. 137. To. 187. Sc. the Curfew bell, usually rung at eight o'clock; to which the modernizer apparently alludes, instead of the "Evensong bell," or bell for vespers of the original author, before the Reformation.--PERCY. 198. "I, as one in deep concern, must lament." The construction here has generally been misunderstood.--P. This phrase may help us to determine the date of the authorship of the ballad. "Doleful dumps" suggested nothing ludicrous to a writer of the age of Elizabeth, but not long after became burlesque. The observation is Percy's. 220. They.--O. B. SIR ANDREW BARTON. From Percy's _Reliques_, ii. 193. "The transactions which did the greatest honour to the Earl of Surrey and his family at this time [A. D. 1511], was their behaviour in the case of Barton, a Scotch sea-officer. This gentleman's father having suffered by sea from the Portuguese, he had obtained letters of marque for his two sons to make reprisals upon the subjects of Portugal. It is extremely probable, that the court of Scotland granted these letters with no very honest intention. The council-board of England, at which the Earl of Surrey held the chief place, was daily pestered with complaints from the sailors and merchants, that Barton, who was called Sir Andrew Barton, under pretence of searching for Portuguese goods, interrupted the English navigation. Henry's situation at that time rendered him backward from breaking with Scotland, so that their complaints were but coldly received. The Earl of Surrey, however, could not smother his indignation, but gallantly declared at the council-board, that while he had an estate that could furnish out a ship, or a son that was capable of commanding one, the narrow seas should not be infested. "Sir Andrew Barton, who commanded the two Scotch ships, had the reputation of being one of the ablest sea officers of his time. By his depredations, he had amassed great wealth, and his ships were very richly laden. Henry, notwithstanding his situation, could not refuse the generous offer made by the Earl of Surrey. Two ships were immediately fitted out, and put to sea with letters of marque, under his two sons, Sir Thomas and Sir Edward Howard. After encountering a great deal of foul weather, Sir Thomas came up with the Lion, which was commanded by Sir Andrew Barton in person; and Sir Edward came up with the Union, Barton's other ship [called by Hall, the Bark of Scotland]. The engagement which ensued was extremely obstinate on both sides; but at last the fortune of the Howards prevailed. Sir Andrew was killed, fighting bravely, and encouraging his men with his whistle, to hold out to the last; and the two Scotch ships, with their crews, were carried into the River Thames [Aug. 2, 1511]." (Guthrie's _Peerage_, as quoted by Percy.) An old copy in the precious Manuscript furnished the foundation for Percy's edition of this noble ballad. The editor states that the text of the original was so incorrect as to require emendations from black-letter copies and from conjecture. These emendations, where they are noted, we have for the most part disregarded. We would fain believe that nothing except a defect in the manuscript could have reconciled the Bishop to adopting the four lines with which the ballad now begins. The common, or black-letter copies, are somewhat abridged as well as modernized. One of these is given in the Appendix. THE FIRST PART. When Flora with her fragrant flowers[L1] Bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye, And Neptune with his daintye showers Came to present the monthe of Maye, King Henrye rode to take the ayre, 5 Over the river of Thames past hee; When eighty merchants of London came, And downe they knelt upon their knee. "O yee are welcome, rich merchànts, Good saylors, welcome unto mee:" 10 They swore by the rood, they were saylors good, But rich merchànts they cold not bee. "To France nor Flanders dare we pass, Nor Bordeaux voyage dare we fare; And all for a robber that lyes on the seas, 15 Who robbs us of our merchant ware." King Henrye frownd, and turned him rounde, And swore by the Lord that was mickle of might, "I thought he had not beene in the world, Durst have wrought England such unright." 20 The merchants sighed, and said, "Alas!" And thus they did their answer frame; "He is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas, And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name." The king lookt over his left shoulder, 25 And an angrye look then looked hee; "Have I never a lorde in all my realme, Will feitch yond traytor unto mee?" "Yea, that dare I," Lord Charles Howard sayes; "Yea, that dare I, with heart and hand; 30 If it please your grace to give me leave, Myselfe will be the only man." "Thou art but yong," the kyng replyed, "Yond Scott hath numbred manye a yeare:" "Trust me, my liege, Ile make him quail, 35 Or before my prince I will never appeare." "Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have, And chuse them over my realme so free; Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes, To guide the great shipp on the sea." 40 The first man that Lord Howard chose, Was the ablest gunner in all the realm, Thoughe he was threescore yeeres and ten; Good Peter Simon was his name. "Peter," sais hee, "I must to the sea, 45 To bring home a traytor live or dead; Before all others I have chosen thee, Of a hundred gunners to be the head." "If you, my lord, have chosen mee Of a hundred gunners to be the head, 50 Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree, If I misse my marke one shilling bread." My lord then chose a boweman rare, Whose active hands had gained fame;[L54] In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne, 55 And William Horseley was his name. "Horsley," sayd he, "I must with speede Go seeke a traytor on the sea, And now of a hundred bowemen brave To be the head I have chosen thee." 60 "If you," quoth hee, "have chosen mee Of a hundred bowemen to be the head, On your main-mast Ile hanged bee, If I miss twelvescore one penny bread." With pikes, and gunnes, and bowemen bold, 65 This noble Howard is gone to the sea; With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare, Out at Thames mouth sayled he. And days he scant had sayled three, Upon the journey he tooke in hand, 70 But there he mett with a noble shipp, And stoutely made itt stay and stand. "Thou must tell me," Lord Howard said, "Now who thou art, and what's thy name; And shewe me where thy dwelling is, 75 And whither bound, and whence thou came." "My name is Henry Hunt," quoth hee, With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind; "I and my shipp doe both belong To the Newcastle that stands upon Tyne." 80 "Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt, As thou hast sayled by daye and by night, Of a Scottish robber on the seas; Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight?" Then ever he sighed, and sayd "Alas!" 85 With a grieved mind, and well-away, "But over-well I knowe that wight; I was his prisoner yesterday. "As I was sayling uppon the sea, A Burdeaux voyage for to fare, 90 To his hach-borde he clasped me,[L91] And robd me of all my merchant ware. And mickle debts, God wot, I owe, And every man will have his owne, And I am nowe to London bounde, 95 Of our gracious king to beg a boone." "That shall not need," Lord Howard sais; "Lett me but once that robber see, For every penny tane thee froe It shall be doubled shillings three." 100 "Nowe Gode forefend," the merchant said, "That you shold seek soe far amisse! God keepe you out of that traitors hands! Full litle ye wott what a man hee is. "Hee is brasse within, and steele without, 105 With beames on his topcastle stronge; And eighteen pieces of ordinance He carries on each side along. And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight, St. Andrewes crosse, that is his guide; 110 His pinnace beareth ninescore men, And fifteen canons on each side. "Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one, I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall, He wold overcome them everye one,[L115] 115 If once his beames they doe downe fall." "This is cold comfort," sais my lord, "To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea: Yet Ile bring him and his shipp to shore, Or to Scotland hee shall carrye mee." 120 "Then a noble gunner you must have, And he must aim well with his ee, And sinke his pinnace into the sea, Or else hee never orecome will bee. And if you chance his shipp to borde, 125 This counsel I must give withall, Let no man to his topcastle goe To strive to let his beams downe fall. "And seven pieces of ordinance, I pray your honour lend to mee, 130 On each side of my shipp along, And I will lead you on the sea. A glasse Ile sett, that may be seene, Whether you sayle by day or night; And to-morrowe, I sweare, by nine of the clocke, You shall meet with Sir Andrewe Barton, knight." 135 1-4. from the printed copy. 54. from the printed copy. 91. The MS. has here archborde, but in Part II. v. 5, hachebord. 115. It should seem from hence, that before our marine artillery was brought to its present perfection, some naval commanders had recourse to instruments or machines, similar in use, though perhaps unlike in construction, to the heavy Dolphins made of lead or iron used by the ancient Greeks; which they suspended from beams or yards fastened to the mast, and which they precipitately let fall on the enemies' ships, in order to sink them, by beating holes through the bottoms of their undecked triremes, or otherwise damaging them.--PERCY. THE SECOND PART. The merchant sett my lorde a glasse, Soe well apparent in his sight, And on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke, He shewed him Sir Andrewe Barton, knight. His hachebord it was hached with gold, 5 Soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee; "Nowe by my faith," Lord Howarde sais, "This is a gallant sight to see. "Take in your ancyents, standards eke, So close that no man may them see; 10 And put me forth a white willowe wand, As merchants use to sayle the sea." But they stirred neither top nor mast;[L13] Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by; "What English churles are yonder," he sayd, 15 "That can soe litle curtesye? "Now by the roode, three yeares and more I have been admirall over the sea, And never an English nor Portingall Without my leave can passe this way." 20 Then called he forth his stout pinnàce; "Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee: I sweare by the masse, yon English churles Shall all hang att my maine-mast tree." With that the pinnace itt shott off; 25 Full well Lord Howard might it ken; For itt stroke down my lord's fore-mast, And killed fourteen of his men. "Come hither, Simon," sayes my lord, "Looke that thy word be true, thou said; 30 For at my main-mast thou shalt hang, If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread." Simon was old, but his heart itt was bold; His ordinance he laid right lowe, He put in chaine full nine yardes long, 35 With other great shott, lesse and moe, And he lette goe his great gunnes shott; Soe well he settled itt with his ee, The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe, He see his pinnace sunke in the sea. 40 And when he saw his pinnace sunke, Lord, how his heart with rage did swell! "Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon; Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell." When my lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose, 45 Within his heart hee was full faine; "Nowe spread your ancyents, strike up drummes, Sound all your trumpetts out amaine." "Fight on, my men," Sir Andrewe sais, "Weale, howsoever this geere will sway; 50 Itt is my lord admirall of Englànd, Is come to seeke mee on the sea." Simon had a sonne, who shott right well, That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare; In att his decke he gave a shott, 55 Killed threescore of his men of warre. Then Henrye Hunt, with rigour hott, Came bravely on the other side; Soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree, And killed fourscore men beside. 60 "Nowe, out alas!" Sir Andrewe cryed, "What may a man now thinke or say? Yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee, He was my prisoner yesterday. "Come hither to me, thou Gordon good, 65 That aye wast readye att my call; I will give thee three hundred pounds, If thou wilt let my beames downe fall." Lord Howard hee then calld in haste, "Horselye, see thou be true in stead; 70 For thou shalt at the maine-mast hang, If thou misse twelvescore one penny bread." Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree, He swarved it with might and maine; But Horseley with a bearing arrowe, 75 Stroke the Gordon through the braine; And he fell unto the haches again, And sore his deadlye wounde did bleede: Then word went through Sir Andrews men, How that the Gordon hee was dead. 80 "Come hither to mee, James Hambilton, Thou art my only sisters sonne; If thou wilt let my beames downe fall, Six hundred nobles thou hast wonne."[L84] With that he swarved the main-mast tree, 85 He swarved it with nimble art; But Horseley with a broad arrowe Pierced the Hambilton thorough the heart. And downe he fell upon the deck, That with his blood did streame amaine: 90 Then every Scott cryed, "Well-away! Alas a comelye youth is slaine!" All woe begone was Sir Andrew then, With griefe and rage his heart did swell; "Go fetch me forth my armour of proofe, 95 For I will to the topcastle mysell. "Goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe, That gilded is with gold soe cleare; God be with my brother John of Barton! Against the Portingalls hee it ware. 100 And when he had on this armour of proofe, He was a gallant sight to see; Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight, My deere brothèr, could cope with thee." "Come hither, Horseley," sayes my lord, 105 "And looke your shaft that itt goe right; Shoot a good shoote in time of need, And for it thou shalt be made a knight." "Ile shoot my best," quoth Horseley then, 109 "Your honour shall see, with might and maine; But if I were hanged at your maine-mast, I have now left but arrowes twaine." Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree, With right good will he swarved then, Upon his breast did Horseley hitt, 115 But the arrow bounded back agen. Then Horseley spyed a privye place, With a perfect eye, in a secrette part; Under the spole of his right arme He smote Sir Andrew to the heart. 120 "Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes,[L121] "A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine; Ile but lye downe and bleede a while, And then Ile rise and fight againe. Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes, 125 "And never flinche before the foe; And stand fast by St. Andrewes crosse, Untill you heare my whistle blowe." They never heard his whistle blow, Which made their hearts waxe sore adread: 130 Then Horseley sayd, "Aboard, my lord, For well I wott Sir Andrew's dead." They boarded then his noble shipp, They boarded it with might and maine; Eighteen score Scots alive they found, 135 The rest were either maimed or slaine. Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand, And off he smote Sir Andrewes head; "I must have left England many a daye, If thou wert alive as thou art dead." 140 He caused his body to be cast Over the hatchbord into the sea, And about his middle three hundred crownes: "Wherever thou land, this will bury thee." Thus from the warres Lord Howard came, 145 And backe he sayled ore the maine; With mickle joy and triumphìng Into Thames mouth he came againe. Lord Howard then a letter wrote, And sealed it with seale and ring; 150 "Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace As never did subject to a king. "Sir Andrewes shipp I bring with mee, A braver shipp was never none; Nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr, 155 Before in England was but one."[L156] King Henryes grace with royall cheere Welcomed the noble Howard home; "And where," said he, "is this rover stout, That I myselfe may give the doome?" 160 "The rover, he is safe, my leige, Full many a fadom in the sea; If he were alive as he is dead, I must have left England many a day. And your grace may thank four men i' the ship 165 For the victory wee have wonne; These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt, And Peter Simon, and his sonne." "To Henry Hunt," the king then sayd, "In lieu of what was from thee tane, 170 A noble a day now thou shalt have, Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne. And Horseley thou shalt be a knight, And lands and livings shalt have store; Howard shall be Erle Surrye hight,[L175] 175 As Howards erst have beene before. "Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old, I will maintaine thee and thy sonne; And the men shall have five hundred markes For the good service they have done." 180 Then in came the queene with ladyes fair, To see Sir Andrewe Barton, knight; They weend that hee were brought on shore, And thought to have seen a gallant sight. But when they see his deadlye face, 185 And eyes soe hollow in his head, "I wold give," quoth the king, "a thousand markes, This man were alive as hee is dead. Yett for the manfull part hee playd, Which fought soe well with heart and hand, 190 His men shall have twelvepence a day, Till they come to my brother kings high land." 13. i.e. did not salute. 84. pounds. MS. 121-4. This stanza occurs also in _Johnie Armstrang_, vol. vi. p. 44. 156. That is the Great Harry, built in 1504, at an expense of fourteen thousand pounds. "She was," says Hume, "properly speaking, the first ship in the English navy. Before this period, when the prince wanted a fleet, he had no other expedient than hiring or pressing ships from the merchants." 175-6. ... Erle of Nottingham, And soe was never, &c. MS. FLODDEN FIELD. From Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, ii. 70. "The battle of Flodden, in Northumberland, was fought the 9th of September, 1513, being the fifth year of King Henry the Eighth (who, with a great army, was then before Terouen in France), between Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, commander-in-chief of the English forces, and James the Fourth, King of Scots, with an inferior army of 15,000 men, who were entirely routed with great slaughter, their heroic sovereign being left dead upon the field. "The following ballad may possibly be as ancient as any thing we have on the subject. It is given from _The most pleasant and delectible history of John Winchcomb, otherwise called Jack of Newberry_, written by Thomas Deloney, who thus speaks of it: 'In disgrace of the Scots, and in remembrance of the famous atchieved victory, the commons of England made this song, which to this day is not forgotten of many.'" This ballad is very evidently not the work of Deloney, but derived by him from tradition. There is a piece called _Flodden Field_ in Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 86. It is made up of certain ridiculous anonymous verses, and of the stanzas written by Miss Jane Elliot and by Mrs. Cockburn to the old air _The Flowers of the Forest_,--"I've heard them lilting," and "I've seen the smiling." The first and last lines of the first stanza of Miss Elliot's verses are from an ancient and now forgotten song. "I've heard them lilting at the ewes milking ......... ......... The flowers of the forest are a' wede away." A lady repeated to Sir Walter Scott another fragment of the original ballad. "I ride single on my saddle, For the flowers of the forest are a' wede away." _Minstrelsy_, iii. 333. King Jamie hath made a vow, Keep it well if he may! That he will be at lovely London Upon Saint James his day. "Upon Saint James his day at noon, 5 At fair London will I be, And all the lords in merry Scotland, They shall dine there with me." Then bespake good Queen Margaret, The tears fell from her eye: 10 "Leave off these wars, most noble king, Keep your fidelity. "The water runs swift and wondrous deep From bottom unto the brim; My brother Henry hath men good enough, 15 England is hard to win." "Away," quoth he, "with this silly fool! In prison fast let her lye: For she is come of the English blood, And for these words she shall die." 20 With that bespake Lord Thomas Howard, The Queens chamberlain that day; "If that you put Queen Margaret to death, Scotland shall rue it alway." Then in a rage King Jamie did say, 25 "Away with this foolish mome! He shall be hang'd, and the other burn'd, So soon as I come home." At Flodden-field the Scots came in, Which made our Englishmen fain; 30 At Bramstone-green this battel was seen, There was King Jamie slain. Then presently the Scots did fly, Their cannons they left behind; Their ensigns gay were won all away, 35 Our souldiers did beat them blind. To tell you plain, twelve thousand were slain That to the fight did stand, And many a prisoner took that day, The best in all Scotland. 40 That day made many a fatherless child,[L41] And many a widow poor, And many a Scottish gay lady Sate weeping in her bower.[L44] Jack with a fether was lapt all in lether, 45 His boastings were all in vain; He had such a chance with [a] new morrice-dance, He never went home again. 41-44. This stanza is the sixth in Deloney's copy, and is there clearly misplaced. 44. sweeping. QUEEN JEANIE. Jane Seymour, queen of Henry VIII., died shortly after giving birth to Prince Edward (Oct. 1537). There was a report that the Cæsarian operation had been necessary to effect the delivery, and on this story the present ballad is founded. There is a woful ditty on this subject in _The Crown Garland of Golden Roses_, Percy Society, vol. vi. p. 29 (or _Collection of Old Ballads_, ii. 115). The following piece is popular throughout Scotland. It is taken from Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 116. A fragment had been previously published in Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, i. 182. We have added another, but imperfect, version from a recent publication. Queen Jeanie, Queen Jeanie, travel'd six weeks and more, Till women and midwives had quite gi'en her o'er; "O if ye were women as women should be, Ye would send for a doctor, a doctor to me!" The doctor was called for and set by her bedside, 5 "What aileth thee, my ladie, thine eyes seem so red?" "O doctor, O doctor, will ye do this for me, To rip up my two sides, and save my babie?" "Queen Jeanie, Queen Jeanie, that's the thing I'll ne'er do, To rip up your two sides to save your babie:" 10 Queen Jeanie, Queen Jeanie, travel'd six weeks and more, Till midwives and doctors had quite gi'en her o'er. "O if ye were doctors as doctors should be, Ye would send for King Henry, King Henry to me:" King Henry was called for, and sat by her bedside, 15 "What aileth thee, Jeanie, what aileth my bride?" "King Henry, King Henry, will ye do this for me, To rip up my two sides, and save my babie?" "Queen Jeanie, Queen Jeanie, that's what I'll never do, To rip up your two sides to save your babie." 20 But with sighing and sobbing she's fallen in a swoon, Her side it was ript up, and her babie was found; At this bonie babie's christ'ning there was meikle joy and mirth, But bonnie Queen Jeanie lies cold in the earth. Six and six coaches, and six and six more, 25 And royal King Henry went mourning before; O two and two gentlemen carried her away, But royal King Henry went weeping away. O black were their stockings, and black were their bands, And black were the weapons they held in their hands; 30 O black were their mufflers, and black were their shoes, And black were the cheverons they drew on their luves. They mourned in the kitchen, and they mourn'd in the ha', But royal King Henry mourn'd langest of a'. Farewell to fair England, farewell for evermore, 35 For the fair flower of England will never shine more! THE DEATH OF QUEEN JANE. From _Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England_, edited by Robert Bell, p. 113. Taken down from the singing of a young gipsy girl. Queen Jane was in travail for six weeks or more, Till the women grew tired and fain would give o'er, "O women, O women, good wives if ye be, Go send for King Henrie, and bring him to me!" King Henrie was sent for, he came with all speed, 5 In a gownd of green velvet from heel to the head; "King Henrie, King Henrie, if kind Henrie you be, Send for a surgeon, and bring him to me!" The surgeon was sent for, he came with all speed, In a gownd of black velvet from heel to the head; 10 He gave her rich caudle, but the death-sleep slept she, Then her right side was opened, and the babe was set free. The babe it was christened, and put out and nursed, While the royal Queen Jane she lay cold in the dust. * * * * * So black was the mourning, and white were the wands, 15 Yellow, yellow the torches they bore in their hands; The bells they were muffled, and mournful did play, While the royal Queen Jane she lay cold in the clay. Six knights and six lords bore her corpse through the grounds, Six dukes followed after, in black mourning gownds, 20 The flower of Old England was laid in cold clay, Whilst the royal King Henrie came weeping away. THE MURDER OF THE KING OF SCOTS. _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, ii. 210. "The catastrophe of Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, the unfortunate husband of Mary Queen of Scots, is the subject of this ballad. It is here related in that partial imperfect manner, in which such an event would naturally strike the subjects of another kingdom, of which he was a native. Henry appears to have been a vain, capricious, worthless young man, of weak understanding, and dissolute morals. But the beauty of his person, and the inexperience of his youth, would dispose mankind to treat him with an indulgence, which the cruelty of his murder would afterwards convert into the most tender pity and regret: and then imagination would not fail to adorn his memory with all those virtues he ought to have possessed. "Darnley, who had been born and educated in England, was but in his 21st year when he was murdered, Feb. 9, 1567-8. This crime was perpetrated by the Earl of Bothwell, not out of respect to the memory of Riccio, but in order to pave the way for his own marriage with the queen. "This ballad (printed, with a few corrections, from the Editor's folio MS.) seems to have been written soon after Mary's escape into England in 1568, see v. 65.--It will be remembered, at v. 5, that this princess was Queen Dowager of France, having been first married to Francis II., who died Dec. 4, 1560."--PERCY. Woe worth, woe worth thee, false Scotlànde! For thou hast ever wrought by sleight; The worthyest prince that ever was borne, You hanged under a cloud by night. The Queene of France a letter wrote, 5 And sealed itt with harte and ringe; And bade him come Scotland within, And shee wold marry and crowne him kinge. To be a king is a pleasant thing, To bee a prince unto a peere: 10 But you have heard, and soe have I too, A man may well buy gold too deare. There was an Italyan in that place, Was as well beloved as ever was hee, Lord David [Rizzio] was his name, 15 Chamberlaine to the queene was hee. If the king had risen forth of his place, He wold have sate him downe in the cheare, And tho itt beseemed him not so well, Altho the kinge had beene present there. 20 Some lords in Scotlande waxed wrothe, And quarrelled with him for the nonce; I shall you tell how it befell, Twelve daggers were in him att once. When the queene saw her chamberlaine was slaine, 25 For him her faire cheeks shee did weete, And made a vowe, for a yeare and a day The king and shee wold not come in one sheete. Then some of the lords they waxed wrothe, And made their vow all vehementlye, 30 For the death of the queenes chamberlaine, The king himselfe, how he shall dye. With gun-powder they strewed his roome, And layd greene rushes in his way; For the traitors thought that very night 35 This worthye king for to betray. To bedd the king he made him bowne; To take his rest was his desire; He was noe sooner cast on sleepe, But his chamber was on a blasing fire. 40 Up he lope, and the window brake, And hee had thirtye foote to fall; Lord Bodwell kept a privy watch, Underneath his castle wall. "Who have wee here?" Lord Bodwell sayd; 45 "Now answer me, that I may know." "King Henry the eighth my uncle was; For his sweete sake some pitty show." "Who have we here?" Lord Bodwell sayd; "Now answer me when I doe speake." 50 "Ah, Lord Bodwell, I know thee well; Some pitty on me I pray thee take." "Ile pitty thee as much," he sayd, "And as much favor show to thee, As thou didst to the queenes chamberlaine, 55 That day thou deemedst him to die." Through halls and towers the king they ledd, Through towers and castles that were nye, Through an arbor into an orchàrd, There on a peare-tree hanged him hye. 60 When the governor of Scotland heard How that the worthye king was slaine, He persued the queen so bitterlye, That in Scotland shee dare not remaine. But shee is fledd into merry England, 65 And here her residence hath taine, And through the Queene of Englands grace, In England now shee doth remaine. THE RISING IN THE NORTH. Percy's _Reliques_, i. 285. The subject of this ballad is the insurrection of the Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland, in the twelfth year of Queen Elizabeth, 1569. These two noblemen were the leaders of the Catholic party in the North of England, and interested themselves warmly in various projects to restore Mary Stuart to her liberty. When a marriage was proposed between the Duke of Norfolk and the Scottish Queen, they, with many of the first persons in the kingdom, entered zealously into the scheme, having the ulterior view, according to Hume, of placing Mary on the throne of England. Norfolk endeavored to conceal his plans from Elizabeth, until he should form a combination powerful enough to extort her consent, but the Queen received information betimes, and committed the Duke to the Tower. Several of his abettors were also taken into custody, and the two Northern Earls were summoned to appear at court, to answer to the charge of an intended rebellion. They had proceeded too far to trust themselves willingly in the hands of their enraged sovereign, and the summons precipitated them into an insurrection for which they were not prepared. They hastily gathered their followers, and published a manifesto, in which they declared that they maintained an unshaken allegiance to the Queen, and sought only to reëstablish the religion of their ancestors, and to restore the Duke of Norfolk to liberty and to the Queen's favor. "Their common banner (on which was displayed the cross, together with the five wounds of Christ,) was borne by an ancient gentleman, Richard Norton, Esq., of Norton-Conyers: who with his sons (among whom, Christopher, Marmaduke, and Thomas, are expressly named by Camden) distinguished himself on this occasion. Having entered Durham, they tore the Bible, &c, and caused mass to be said there: they then marched on to Clifford Moor near Wetherbye, where they mustered their men. Their intention was to have proceeded on to York; but, altering their minds, they fell upon Barnard's castle, which Sir George Bowes held out against them for eleven days."--PERCY. The insurgents' army amounted to about six thousand men. The Earl of Sussex, supported by Lord Hunsdon and others, marched against them with seven thousand, and the Earl of Warwick with still greater forces. Before these superior numbers the rebels dispersed without striking a blow. Northumberland fled to the Scots, by whom, as we shall see in the next ballad, he was betrayed to Elizabeth. The Earl of Westmoreland escaped to Flanders, and died there in penury. Another outbreak following close upon the above was suppressed by Lord Hunsdon. Great cruelties were exercised by the victorious party, no less than eight hundred having, it is said, suffered by the hands of the executioner. The ballad was printed by Percy from two MS. copies, one of them in the editor's folio collection. "They contained considerable variations, out of which such readings were chosen as seemed most poetical and consonant to history." "The Fate of the Nortons," we need hardly say, forms the subject of Wordsworth's _White Doe of Rylstone_. Listen, lively lordlings all, Lithe and listen unto mee, And I will sing of a noble earle, The noblest earle in the north countrìe. Earle Percy is into his garden gone, 5 And after him walkes his faire ladìe: "I heard a bird sing in mine eare, That I must either fight or flee." "Now heaven forefend, my dearest lord, That ever such harm should hap to thee; 10 But goe to London to the court, And faire fall truth and honestìe." "Now nay, now nay, my ladye gay, Alas! thy counsell suits not mee; Mine enemies prevail so fast, 15 That at the court I may not bee." "O goe to the court yet, good my lord, And take thy gallant men with thee; If any dare to doe you wrong, Then your warrant they may bee." 20 "Now nay, now nay, thou lady faire, The court is full of subtiltie; And if I goe to the court, lady, Never more I may thee see." "Yet goe to the court, my lord," she sayes, 25 "And I myselfe will ride wi' thee: At court then for my dearest lord, His faithfull borrowe I will bee." Now nay, now nay, my lady deare; Far lever had I lose my life, 30 Than leave among my cruell foes My love in jeopardy and strife. "But come thou hither, my little foot-page, Come thou hither unto mee; To maister Norton thou must goe 35 In all the haste that ever may bee. "Commend me to that gentleman, And beare this letter here fro mee; And say that earnestly I praye, He will ryde in my companie." 40 One while the little foot-page went, And another while he ran; Untill he came to his journeys end The little foot-page never blan. When to that gentleman he came, 45 Down he kneeled on his knee, And tooke the letter betwixt his hands, And lett the gentleman it see. And when the letter it was redd Affore that goodlye companye, 50 I-wis, if you the truthe wold know, There was many a weepynge eye. He sayd, "Come hither, Christopher Norton, A gallant youth thou seemst to bee; What doest thou counsell me, my sonne, Now that good erle's in jeopardy?" 55 "Father, my counselle's fair and free; That erle he is a noble lord, And whatsoever to him you hight, I wold not have you breake your word." 60 "Gramercy, Christopher, my sonne, Thy counsell well it liketh mee, And if we speed and scape with life, Well advanced shalt thou bee." "Come you hither, mine nine good sonnes,[L65] 65 Gallant men I trowe you bee: How many of you, my children deare, Will stand by that good erle and mee?" Eight of them did answer make, Eight of them spake hastilie, 70 "O father, till the daye we dye We'll stand by that good erle and thee." "Gramercy now, my children deare, You showe yourselves right bold and brave; And whethersoe'er I live or dye, 75 A fathers blessing you shal have." "But what sayst thou, O Francis Norton? Thou art mine oldest sonn and heire; Somewhat lyes brooding in thy breast; Whatever it bee, to mee declare." 80 "Father, you are an aged man; Your head is white, your bearde is gray; It were a shame at these your yeares For you to ryse in such a fray." "Now fye upon thee, coward Francis, 85 Thou never learnedst this of mee; When thou wert yong and tender of age, Why did I make soe much of thee?" "But, father, I will wend with you, Unarm'd and naked will I bee; 90 And he that strikes against the crowne, Ever an ill death may he dee." Then rose that reverend gentleman, And with him came a goodlye band, To join with the brave Erle Percy, 95 And all the flower o' Northumberland. With them the noble Nevill came, The erle of Westmorland was hee: At Wetherbye they mustred their host, Thirteen thousand faire to see. 100 Lord Westmorland his ancyent raisde, The Dun Bull he rays'd on hye,[L102] And three Dogs with golden collars Were there sett out most royallye. Erie Percy there his ancyent spred, 105 The Halfe-Moone shining all soe faire:[L106] The Nortons ancyent had the crosse, And the five wounds our Lord did beare. Then Sir George Bowes he straitwaye rose, After them some spoyle to make; 110 Those noble erles turn'd backe againe, And aye they vowed that knight to take. That baron he to his castle fled To Barnard castle then fled hee; The uttermost walles were eathe to win, 115 The earles have won them presentlìe. The uttermost walles were lime and bricke, But thoughe they won them soon anone, Long e'er they wan the innermost walles, For they were cut in rocke of stone. 120 Then newes unto leeve London came, In all the speede that ever might bee, And word is brought to our royall queene Of the rysing in the North countrie. Her grace she turned her round about, 125 And like a royall queene shee swore, "I will ordayne them such a breakfast, As never was in the North before." Shee caus'd thirty thousand men be rays'd, With horse and harneis faire to see; 130 She caused thirty thousand men be raised, To take the earles i' th' North countrie. Wi' them the false Erle Warwick went, Th' Erle Sussex and the Lord Hunsden; Untill they to Yorke castle came, I-wiss they never stint ne blan. 135 Now spred thy ancyent, Westmorland, Thy dun bull faine would we spye: And thou, the Erle o' Northumberland, Now rayse thy half moone up on hye. 140 But the dun bulle is fled and gone, And the halfe moone vanished away: The erles, though they were brave and bold, Against soe many could not stay. Thee, Norton, wi' thine eight good sonnes, 145 They doom'd to dye, alas for ruth! Thy reverend lockes thee could not save, Nor them their faire and blooming youthe. Wi' them full many a gallant wight They cruellye bereav'd of life: 150 And many a childe made fatherlesse, And widowed many a tender wife. 65. The Act of Attainder, 13th Elizabeth, only mentions Richard Norton, the father, and _seven_ sons, and in "a list of the rebels in the late Northern rebellion that are fled beyond seas," the same seven sons are named. Richard Norton, the father, was living long after the rebellion in Spanish Flanders. See Sharp's _Bishoprick Garland_, p. 10. 102. The supporters of the Nevilles Earls of Westmoreland were two bulls argent, ducally collar'd gold, armed or, &c. But I have not discovered the device mentioned in the ballad, among the badges, &c., given by that house. This however is certain, that, among those of the Nevilles, Lord Abergavenny (who were of the same family), is a dun cow with a golden collar; and the Nevilles of Chyte in Yorkshire (of the Westmoreland branch), gave for their crest, in 1513, a dog's (greyhound's) head erased.--So that it is not improbable but Charles Neville, the unhappy Earl of Westmoreland here mentioned, might on this occasion give the above device on his banner.--After all, our old minstrel's verses here may have undergone some corruption; for, in another ballad in the same folio MS., and apparently written by the same hand, containing the sequel of this Lord Westmoreland's history, his banner is thus described, more conformable to his known bearings: "_Sett me up my faire Dun Bull, With Gilden Hornes, hee beares all soe hye_."--P. 106. The Silver Crescent is a well-known crest or badge of the Northumberland family. It was probably brought home from some of the crusades against the Sarazens.--P. NORTHUMBERLAND BETRAYED BY DOUGLAS. Percy's _Reliques_, i. 295. The Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland, after the dispersion of their forces took refuge with the Scots on the Borders. The Elliots drove them from Liddesdale, and they sought the protection of the Armstrongs in the Debatable Land. Northumberland took up his residence with a man of that tribe called Hector of Harlaw, relying on his plighted faith and on his gratitude for many past favors. By this miscreant the Earl was betrayed for money to the Regent Murray. He was confined in Lochleven Castle until 1572, when he was handed over to Lord Hunsden, and executed at York. We are assured that this Hector, who had been rich, fell into poverty after his treachery, and became so infamous that "to take Hector's cloak" was a proverb for a man who betrayed his friend. In Pinkerton's _Poems from the Maitland MS_. (pp. 219-234) are three bitter invectives on this subject. In one of these we are told that the traitor Eckie of Harlaw said he sold the Earl "to redeem his pledge," that is, says Scott, the pledge which had been exacted from him for his peaceable demeanor. "The interposal of the Witch-Lady (v. 53)" hath some countenance from history; for, about twenty-five years before, the Lady Jane Douglas, Lady Glamis, sister of the Earl of Angus, and nearly related to Douglas of Lough-leven, had suffered death for the pretended crime of witchcraft; who, it is presumed, is the witch-lady alluded to in verse 133. "The following is selected (like the former) from two copies, which contained great variations; one of them in the Editor's folio MS. In the other copy some of the stanzas at the beginning of this ballad are nearly the same with what in that MS. are made to begin another ballad on the escape of the Earl of Westmoreland, who got safe into Flanders, and is feigned in the ballad to have undergone a great variety of adventures."--PERCY. "How long shall fortune faile me nowe, And harrowe me with fear and dread? How long shall I in bale abide, In misery my life to lead? "To fall from my bliss, alas the while! 5 It was my sore and heavye lott; And I must leave my native land, And I must live a man forgot. "One gentle Armstrong I doe ken, A Scot he is, much bound to mee; 10 He dwelleth on the Border side, To him I'll goe right privilie." Thus did the noble Percy 'plaine, With a heavy heart and wel-away, When he with all his gallant men 15 On Bramham moor had lost the day. But when he to the Armstrongs came, They dealt with him all treacherouslye; For they did strip that noble earle, And ever an ill death may they dye! 20 False Hector to Earl Murray sent, To shew him where his guest did hide, Who sent him to the Lough-levèn, With William Douglas to abide. And when he to the Douglas came, 25 He halched him right courteouslie; Say'd, "Welcome, welcome, noble earle, Here thou shalt safelye bide with mee." When he had in Lough-leven been Many a month and many a day, 30 To the regent the lord warden sent, That bannisht earle for to betray. He offered him great store of gold, And wrote a letter fair to see, Saying, "Good my lord, grant me my boon, 35 And yield that banisht man to mee." Earle Percy at the supper sate, With many a goodly gentleman; The wylie Douglas then bespake, And thus to flyte with him began. 40 "What makes you be so sad, my lord, And in your mind so sorrowfullye? To-morrow a shootinge will bee held Among the lords of the North countrye. "The butts are sett, the shooting's made, 45 And there will be great royaltye; And I am sworne into my bille, Thither to bring my Lord Percye." "I'll give thee my hand, thou gentle Douglas, And here by my true faith," quoth hee, 50 "If thou wilt ryde to the worldes end I will ryde in thy companye." And then bespake a lady faire, Mary à Douglas was her name; "You shall byde here, good English lord, 55 My brother is a traiterous man. "He is a traitor stout and stronge, As I tell you in privitie; For he hath tane liverance of the erle,[L59] Into England nowe to 'liver thee." 60 "Now nay, now nay, thou goodly lady, The regent is a noble lord: Ne for the gold in all Englànd The Douglas wold not break his word. "When the regent was a banisht man, 65 With me he did faire welcome find; And whether weal or woe betide, I still shall find him true and kind. "Between England and Scotland it wold breake truce, And friends againe they wold never bee, 70 If they shold 'liver a banisht erle, Was driven out of his own countrie." "Alas! alas! my lord," she sayes, "Nowe mickle is their traitorie; Then lett my brother ryde his wayes, 75 And tell those English lords from thee, "How that you cannot with him ryde, Because you are in an ile of the sea,[L78] Then ere my brother come againe, To Edenborow castle Ile carry thee. 80 "To the Lord Hume I will thee bring; He is well knowne a true Scots lord, And he will lose both land and life, Ere he with thee will break his word." "Much is my woe," Lord Percy sayd, 85 "When I thinke on my own countrìe, When I thinke on the heavye happe My friends have suffered there for mee. "Much is my woe," Lord Percy sayd, "And sore those wars my minde distresse; 90 Where many a widow lost her mate, And many a child was fatherlesse. "And now that I a banisht man Shold bring such evil happe with mee, To cause my faire and noble friends 95 To be suspect of treacherie, "This rives my heart with double woe; And lever had I dye this day, Than thinke a Douglas can be false, Or ever he will his guest betray." 100 "If you'll give me no trust, my lord, Nor unto mee no credence yield, Yet step one moment here aside, Ile showe you all your foes in field." "Lady, I never loved witchcraft, 105 Never dealt in privy wyle; But evermore held the high-waye Of truth and honour, free from guile." "If you'll not come yourselfe, my lorde, Yet send your chamberlaine with mee, 110 Let me but speak three words with him, And he shall come again to thee." James Swynard with that lady went, She showed him through the weme of her ring How many English lords there were 115 Waiting for his master and him. "And who walkes yonder, my good lady, So royallye on yonder greene?" "O yonder is the Lord Hunsden:[L119] Alas! he'll doe you drie and teene." 120 "And who beth yonder, thou gay ladye, That walkes so proudly him beside?" "That is Sir William Drury," shee sayd,[L123] "A keene captaine hee is and tryde." "How many miles is itt, madàme, 125 Betwixt yond English lords and mee?" "Marry, it is thrice fifty miles, To saile to them upon the sea. "I never was on English ground, Ne never sawe it with mine eye, 130 But as my book it sheweth mee, And through my ring I may descrye. "My mother shee was a witch ladye, And of her skille she learned mee; She wold let me see out of Lough-leven 135 What they did in London citìe." "But who is yond, thou lady faire, That looketh with sic an austerne face?" "Yonder is Sir John Foster," quoth shee,[L139] "Alas! he'll do ye sore disgrace." 140 He pulled his hatt downe over his browe; He wept, in his heart he was full of woe; And he is gone to his noble lord, Those sorrowful tidings him to show. "Now nay, now nay, good James Swynàrd, 145 I may not believe that witch ladìe; The Douglasses were ever true, And they can ne'er prove false to mee. "I have now in Lough-leven been The most part of these years three, 150 Yett have I never had noe outrake, Ne no good games that I cold see. "Therefore I'll to yond shooting wend, As to the Douglas I have hight: Betide me weale, betide me woe, 155 He ne'er shall find my promise light." He writhe a gold ring from his finger, And gave itt to that gay ladìe: Sayes, "It was all that I cold save, In Harley woods where I cold bee." 160 "And wilt thou goe, thou noble lord? Then farewell truth and honestìe, And farewell heart, and farewell hand, For never more I shall thee see." The wind was faire, the boatmen call'd, 165 And all the saylors were on borde; Then William Douglas took to his boat, And with him went that noble lord. Then he cast up a silver wand, Says, "Gentle lady, fare thee well!" 170 The lady fett a sigh soe deep, And in a dead swoone down shee fell. "Now let us goe back, Douglas," he sayd, "A sickness hath taken yond faire ladìe; If ought befall yond lady but good, 175 Then blamed for ever I shall bee." "Come on, come on, my lord," he sayes, "Come on, come on, and let her bee; There's ladyes enow in Lough-leven For to cheere that gay ladìe." 180 "If you'll not turne yourself, my lord, Let me goe with my chamberlaine; We will but comfort that faire lady, And wee will return to you againe." "Come on, come on, my lord," he sayes, 185 "Come on, come on, and let her bee; My sister is craftye, and wold beguile A thousand such as you and mee." "When they had sayled fifty myle, Now fifty mile upon the sea, 190 Hee sent his man to ask the Douglas, When they shold that shooting see." "Faire words," quoth he, "they make fooles faine, And that by thee and thy lord is seen; You may hap to thinke itt soone enough, 195 Ere you that shooting reach, I ween." Jamye his hatt pulled over his browe, He thought his lord then was betray'd; And he is to Erle Percy againe, To tell him what the Douglas sayd. 200 "Hold upp thy head, man," quoth his lord, "Nor therefore lett thy courage fayle; He did it but to prove thy heart, To see if he cold make it quail." When they had other fifty sayld, 205 Other fifty mile upon the sea, Lord Percy called to Douglas himselfe, Sayd, "What wilt thou nowe doe with mee?" "Looke that your brydle be wight, my lord, And your horse goe swift as shipp att sea; 210 Looke that your spurres be bright and sharpe, That you may pricke her while shee'll away." "What needeth this, Douglas?" he sayth; "What needest thou to flyte with mee? For I was counted a horseman good 215 Before that ever I mett with thee. "A false Hector hath my horse, Who dealt with mee so treacherouslìe; A false Armstrong hath my spurres, And all the geere belongs to mee." 220 When they had sayled other fifty mile, Other fifty mile upon the sea, They landed low by Berwicke side, A deputed laird landed Lord Percye.[L224] Then he at Yorke was doomde to die, 225 It was, alas! a sorrowful sight; Thus they betrayed that noble earle, Who ever was a gallant wight. 59. Of the Earl of Morton, the Regent.--P. 78. i. e. Lake of Leven, which hath communication with the sea. Edinburgh was at that time in the hands of the opposite faction.--P. 119. The Lord Warden of the East Marches.--P. 123. Governor of Berwick.--P. 139. Warden of the Middle-march.--P. 224. fol. MS. reads _land_, and has not the following stanza. KING OF SCOTS AND ANDREW BROWNE. From _Reliques of English Poetry_, ii. 217. "This ballad is a proof of the little intercourse that subsisted between the Scots and English, before the accession of James I. to the crown of England. The tale which is here so circumstantially related, does not appear to have had the least foundation in history, but was probably built upon some confused hearsay report of the tumults in Scotland during the minority of that prince, and of the conspiracies formed by different factions to get possession of his person. It should seem from ver. 97 to have been written during the regency, or at least before the death, of the Earl of Morton, who was condemned and executed June 2, 1581; when James was in his fifteenth year. "The original copy (preserved in the archives of the Antiquarian Society, London,) is entitled, _A new ballad, declaring the great treason conspired against the young king of Scots, and how one Andrew Browne, an English-man, which was the king's chamberlaine, prevented the same. To the tune of Milfield, or els to Green-sleeves_. At the end is subjoined the name of the author, W. Elderton. 'Imprinted at London for Yarathe James, dwelling in Newgate Market, over against Ch. Church,' in black-letter folio."--PERCY. This ballad was licensed to James on the 30th of May, 1581. Out alas! what a griefe is this, That princes subjects cannot be true, But still the devill hath some of his, Will play their parts whatsoever ensue; Forgetting what a grievous thing 5 It is to offend the anointed king! Alas for woe, why should it be so? This makes a sorrowful heigh ho. In Scotland is a bonnie kinge, As proper a youth as neede to be, 10 Well given to every happy thing, That can be in a kinge to see: Yet that unluckie country still, Hath people given to craftie will. Alas for woe, &c. 15 On Whitsun eve it so befell, A posset was made to give the king, Whereof his ladie nurse hard tell, And that it was a poysoned thing: She cryed, and called piteouslie, 20 "Now help, or else the king shall die!" Alas for woe, &c. One Browne, that was an English man, And hard the ladies piteous crye, Out with his sword, and bestir'd him than, 25 Out of the doores in haste to flie; But all the doores were made so fast, Out of a window he got at last. Alas for woe, &c. He met the bishop coming fast, 30 Having the posset in his hande: The sight of Browne made him aghast, Who bad him stoutly staie and stand. With him were two that ranne awa, For feare that Browne would make a fray. 35 Alas, for woe, &c. "Bishop," quoth Browne, "what hast thou there?" "Nothing at all, my friend," sayde he, "But a posset to make the king good cheere." "Is it so?" sayd Browne, "that will I see. 40 First I will have thyself begin, Before thou go any further in; Be it weale or woe, it shall be so. This makes a sorrowful heigh ho." The bishop sayde, "Browne, I doo know, 45 Thou art a young man poore and bare; Livings on thee I will bestowe; Let me go on, take thou no care." "No, no," quoth Browne, "I will not be A traitour for all Christiantie: 50 Happe well or woe, it shall be so. Drink now with a sorrowfull," &c. The bishop dranke, and by and by His belly burst and he fell downe: A just rewarde for his traitery! 55 "This was a posset indeed," quoth Brown. He serched the bishop, and found the keyes, To come to the kinge when he did please. Alas for woe, &c. As soon as the king got word of this, 60 He humbly fell uppon his knee, And praysed God that he did misse To tast of that extremity: For that he did perceive and know, His clergie would betray him so: 65 Alas for woe, &c. "Alas," he said, "unhappie realme, My father, and grandfather slaine:[L68] My mother banished, O extreame Unhappy fate, and bitter bayne! 70 And now like treason wrought for me-- What more unhappie realme can be!" Alas for woe, &c. The king did call his nurse to his grace, And gave her twenty poundes a yeere; 75 And trustie Browne too in like case, He knighted him with gallant geere, And gave him lands and livings great, For dooing such a manly feat, As he did showe, to the bishop's woe, 80 Which made, &c. When all this treason done and past Tooke not effect of traytery, Another treason at the last, They sought against his majestie; 85 How they might make their kinge away By a privie banket on a daye. Alas for woe, &c. 'Another time' to sell the king Beyonde the seas they had decreede: 90 Three noble Earles heard of this thing, And did prevent the same with speede. For a letter came, with such a charme, That they should doo their king no harme: For further woe, if they did soe, 95 Would make a sorrowful heigh hoe. The Earle Mourton told the Douglas then, "Take heede you do not offend the king; But shew yourselves like honest men Obediently in every thing; 100 For his godmother will not see[L101] Her noble child misus'd to be With any woe; for if it be so, She will make," &c. God graunt all subjects may be true, 105 In England, Scotland, every where, That no such daunger may ensue, To put the prince or state in feare: That God, the highest king, may see Obedience as it ought to be. 110 In wealth or woe, God graunt it be so, To avoide the sorrowful heigh ho. 68. His father was Henry Lord Darnley. His grandfather, the old Earl of Lenox, regent of Scotland, and father of Lord Darnley, was murdered at Stirling, Sept. 5, 1571.--P. 101. Queen Elizabeth. MARY AMBREE. _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, ii. 230. "In the year 1584, the Spaniards, under the command of Alexander Farnese, Prince of Parma, began to gain great advantages in Flanders and Brabant, by recovering many strongholds and cities from the Hollanders, as Ghent (called then by the English Gaunt), Antwerp, Mechlin, &c. See Stow's _Annals_, p. 711. Some attempt made with the assistance of English volunteers to retrieve the former of those places, probably gave occasion to this ballad. I can find no mention of our heroine in history, but the following rhymes rendered her famous among our poets. Ben Jonson often mentions her, and calls any remarkable virago by her name. See his _Epic[oe]ne_, first acted in 1609, Act 4, sc. 2: his _Tale of a Tub_, Act 4, sc. 4: and his masque entitled _The Fortunate Isles_, 1626, where he quotes the very words of the ballad, ---- MARY AMBREE, (Who marched so free To the siege of Gaunt, And death could not daunt, As the ballad doth vaunt) Were a braver wight, &c. She is also mentioned in Fletcher's _Scornful Lady_, Act 5, _sub finem_. "This ballad is printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection, improved from the Editor's folio MS., and by conjecture. The full title is, "_The valourous acts performed at Gaunt by the brave bonnie lass Mary Ambree, who, in revenge of her lovers death, did play her part most gallantly_". _The tune is_, The blind beggar, &c."--PERCY. When captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte, Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt, They mustred their souldiers by two and by three, And the formost in battle was Mary Ambree. When [the] brave sergeant-major was slaine in her sight,[L5] 5 Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight, Because he was slaine most treacherouslìe, Then vowd to revenge him Mary Ambree. She clothed herselfe from the top to the toe, In buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe; 10 A faire shirt of male then slipped on shee: Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree? A helmett of proofe shee strait did provide, A stronge arminge-sword shee girt by her side, On her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee: 15 Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree? Then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand, Bidding all such, as wold, [to] bee of her band; To wayte on her person came thousand and three: Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary Ambree? 20 "My soldiers," she saith, "soe valliant and bold, Nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde; Still formost in battell myselfe will I bee:" Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? Then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they did say, 25 "Soe well thou becomest this gallant array, Thy harte and thy weapons so well do agree, Noe mayden was ever like Mary Ambree." Shee cheared her souldiers, that foughten for life, 30 With ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife, With brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free; Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? "Before I will see the worst of you all To come into danger of death or of thrall, This hand and this life I will venture so free:" 35 Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? Shee ledd upp her souldiers in battaile array, Gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye; Seven howers in skirmish continued shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? 40 She filled the skyes with the smoke of her shott, And her enemyes bodyes with bullets so hott; For one of her owne men a score killed shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? And when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent, 45 Away all her pellets and powder had sent, Straight with her keen weapon shee slasht him in three: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? Being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre, At length she was forced to make a retyre; 50 Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee: Was not this a brave bonny lassee, Mary Ambree? Her foes they besett her on everye side, As thinking close siege shee cold never abide; To beate down the walles they all did decree: 55 But stoutlye deffyd them brave Mary Ambree. Then tooke shee her sword and her targett in hand, And mounting the walls all undaunted did stand, There daring their captaines to match any three: O what a brave captaine was Mary Ambree! 60 "Now saye, English captaine, what woldest thou give To ransome thy selfe, which else must not live? Come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee:" Then smiled sweetlye brave Mary Ambree. "Ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold, 65 Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?" "A knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free, Who shortleye with us a prisoner must bee." "No captaine of England; behold in your sight Two brests in my bosome, and therfore no knight: 70 Noe knight, sirs, of England, nor captaine you see, But a poor simple mayden called Mary Ambree." "But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare, Whose valor hath proved so undaunted in warre? If England doth yield such brave mayden as thee, 75 Full well may they conquer, faire Mary Ambree." The prince of Great Parma heard of her renowne Who long had advanced for Englands faire crowne; Hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee, And offerd rich presents to Mary Ambree. 80 But this virtuous mayden despised them all: "Ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall; A mayden of England, sir, never will bee The whore of a monarcke," quoth Mary Ambree. Then to her owne country shee backe did returne, 85 Still holding the foes of faire England in scorne; Therfore English captaines of every degree Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree. 5. So P. C. Sir John Major in MS. BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY. Percy's _Reliques_, ii. 235. "Peregrine Bertie, Lord Willoughby of Eresby, had, in the year 1586, distinguished himself at the siege of Zutphen, in the Low Countries. He was the year after made general of the English forces in the United Provinces, in room of the Earl of Leicester, who was recalled. This gave him an opportunity of signalizing his courage and military skill in several actions against the Spaniards. One of these, greatly exaggerated by popular report, is probably the subject of this old ballad, which, on account of its flattering encomiums on English valour, hath always been a favourite with the people. "Lord Willoughbie died in 1601.--Both Norris and Turner were famous among the military men of that age. "The subject of this ballad (which is printed from an old black-letter copy, with some conjectural emendations) may possibly receive illustration from what Chapman says in the dedication to his version of Homer's _Frogs and Mice_, concerning the brave and memorable retreat of Sir John Norris, with only 1000 men, through the whole Spanish army, under the Duke of Parma, for three miles together." PERCY. Lord Willoughby was son of that Duchess of Suffolk, whose extraordinary adventures, while in exile on the continent during the reign of Queen Mary, are the subject of an often-printed ballad called the _Duchess of Suffolk's Calamity_. See _Strange Histories_, Percy Society, iii. 17, and the Appendix to this volume. The fifteenth day of July, With glistering spear and shield, A famous fight in Flanders Was foughten in the field: The most couragious officers 5 Were English captains three; But the bravest man in battel Was brave Lord Willoughbèy. The next was Captain Norris, A valiant man was hee; 10 The other Captain Turner, From field would never flee. With fifteen hundred fighting men, Alas! there were no more, They fought with fourteen thousand then, 15 Upon the bloody shore. "Stand to it, noble pikemen, And look you round about: And shoot you right, you bow-men, And we will keep them out. 20 You musquet and calìver men, Do you prove true to me: I'le be the formost man in fight," Says brave Lord Willoughbèy. And then the bloody enemy 25 They fiercely did assail, And fought it out most furiously, Not doubting to prevail. The wounded men on both sides fell, Most pitious for to see, 30 Yet nothing could the courage quell Of brave Lord Willoughbèy. For seven hours, to all mens view, This fight endured sore, Until our men so feeble grew 35 That they could fight no more; And then upon dead horses, Full savourly they eat, And drank the puddle water, They could no better get. 40 When they had fed so freely, They kneeled on the ground, And praised God devoutly For the favour they had found; And beating up their colours, 45 The fight they did renew, And turning tow'rds the Spaniard, A thousand more they slew. The sharp steel-pointed arrows, And bullets thick did fly; 50 Then did our valiant soldiers Charge on most furiously: Which made the Spaniards waver; They thought it best to flee; They fear'd the stout behaviour 55 Of brave Lord Willoughbèy. Then quoth the Spanish general, "Come, let us march away; I fear we shall be spoiled all If here we longer stay; 60 For yonder comes Lord Willoughbey, With courage fierce and fell; He will not give one inch of way For all the devils in hell." And then the fearful enemy 65 Was quickly put to flight, Our men persued couragiously, And caught their forces quite; But at [the] last they gave a shout, Which ecchoed through the sky; 70 "God and St. George for England!" The conquerers did cry. This news was brought to England With all the speed might be, And soon our gracious queen was told 75 Of this same victory. "O this is brave Lord Willoughbey, My love that ever won; Of all the lords of honour, 'Tis he great deeds hath done." 80 To the souldiers that were maimed And wounded in the fray, The queen allowed a pension Of fifteen pence a day; And from all costs and charges 85 She quit and set them free: And this she did all for the sake Of brave Lord Willoughbèy. Then courage, noble Englishmen, And never be dismaid; 90 If that we be but one to ten, We will not be afraid To fight with foraign enemies, And set our nation free: And thus I end the bloody bout 95 Of brave Lord Willoughbèy. THE BONNY EARL OF MURRAY. From _The Tea-Table Miscellany_, ii. 188. In consequence of a suspicion that the Earl of Murray had been party to an attempt of his cousin, the notorious Bothwell, against the person of the King (James VI.), a commission was issued for bringing Murray before the sovereign for examination. The arrest was inconsiderately entrusted to the Earl of Huntly, Murray's mortal enemy. The young earl was at that time peacefully residing at Dunnibirsel, the house of his mother, Lady Downe. Huntly surrounded the place and summoned the inmates to surrender, and the demand not being complied with, set fire to the mansion. Murray escaped from the flames, but was overtaken by his foes and savagely slain. The event took place on the night of the 7th of February, 1592. The youth, beauty, and accomplishments of the victim of this outrage made him a favourite with the people, and there was a universal clamor for revenge. On the 10th of the month, proclamation was made for all noblemen and barons, in a great number of shires, to rise in arms, to join the King for the pursuit of the Earl of Huntly, who, however, surrendered himself, and was dismissed, on security for his appearance to answer for the crime. The moderation of James gave rise to a scandalous report, that the king countenanced the murderer, out of jealousy for the favor with which the bonny earl was regarded by the Queen. The ballad of _Young Waters_ (vol. iii. p. 89) has, without convincing reasons, been supposed to be founded on the story of the Earl of Murray. The first of the two pieces which follow is from Ramsay's _Tea-Table Miscellany_. The second, which may perhaps be a part of the same ballad, was first printed in Finlay's collection. Ye Highlands, and ye Lawlands, O where have you been? They have slain the Earl of Murray, And they laid him on the green. "Now wae be to thee, Huntly! 5 And wherefore did you sae? I bade you bring him wi' you, But forbade you him to slay." He was a braw gallant, And he rid at the ring; 10 And the bonny Earl of Murray, O he might hae been a king. He was a braw gallant, And he play'd at the ba'; And the bonny Earl of Murray 15 Was the flower amang them a'. He was a braw gallant, And he play'd at the glove; And the bonny Earl of Murray, O he was the Queen's love. 20 O lang will his lady Look o'er the castle Down, Ere she see the Earl of Murray Come sounding thro' the town. THE BONNIE EARL O' MURRAY. From Finlay's _Scottish Ballads_, ii. 21. "Open the gates, And let him come in; He is my brother Huntly, He'll do him nae harm." The gates they were opent, 5 They let him come in; But fause traitor Huntly, He did him great harm. He's ben and ben, And ben to his bed; 10 And with a sharp rapier He stabbed him dead. The lady came down the stair, Wringing her hands; "He has slain the Earl o' Murray, 15 The flower o' Scotland." But Huntly lap on his horse, Rade to the king: "Ye're welcome hame, Huntly, And whare hae ye been? 20 "Whare hae ye been? And how hae ye sped?" "I've killed the Earl o' Murray, Dead in his bed." "Foul fa' you, Huntly! 25 And why did ye so? You might have ta'en the Earl o' Murray And saved his life too." "Her bread it's to bake, Her yill is to brew; 30 My sister's a widow, And sair do I rue. "Her corn grows ripe, Her meadows grow green, But in bonny Dinnibristle 35 I darena be seen." THE WINNING OF CALES. This is one of many exulting effusions which were called forth by the taking of Cadiz (vulgarly called Cales). The town was captured on the 21st of June, 1596, the Earl of Effingham being high-admiral of the fleet, and Essex general of the land forces. Sir W. Raleigh, Lord Thomas Howard, and other distinguished soldiers had commands in the expedition. The praise here bestowed on Essex's humanity was richly deserved, and the booty taken by the conquerors is not exaggerated. The whole loss of the Spaniards, in their city and their fleet, was estimated at twenty millions of ducats. We give this ballad from Deloney's _Garland of Good Will_, as reprinted by the Percy Society, vol. xxx. p. 113. The copy in the _Reliques_ (ii. 241), which was corrected by the editor, differs but slightly from the present. Long had the proud Spaniards Advancèd to conquer us, Threatening our country With fire and sword; Often preparing 5 Their navy most sumptuous, With all the provision That Spain could afford. Dub a-dub, dub, Thus strike the drums, 10 Tan-ta-ra, ta-ra-ra, The Englishman comes. To the seas presently Went our lord admiral, With knights couragious, 15 And captains full good; The earl of Essex, A prosperous general, With him preparèd To pass the salt flood. 20 Dub a-dub, &c. At Plymouth speedily, Took they ships valiantly; Braver ships never Were seen under sail; With their fair colours spread, 25 And streamers o'er their head; Now, bragging Spaniards, Take heed of your tail. Dub a-dub, &c. Unto Cales cunningly, Came we most happily, 30 Where the kings navy Did secretly ride; Being upon their backs, Piercing their buts of sack, Ere that the Spaniards 35 Our coming descry'd. Tan-ta-ra, ta-ra-ra, The Englishman comes; Bounce a-bounce, bounce a-bounce, Off went the guns. 40 Great was the crying, Running and riding, Which at that season Was made at that place; Then beacons were firèd, 45 As need was requirèd; To hide their great treasure, They had little space: "Alas!" they cryèd, "English men comes." 50 There you might see the ships, How they were firèd fast, And how the men drown'd Themselves in the sea; There you may hear them cry, 55 Wail and weep piteously; When as they saw no shift To escape thence away. Dub a-dub, &c. The great Saint Philip, The pride of the Spaniards, 60 Was burnt to the bottom, And sunk in the sea; But the Saint Andrew, And eke the Saint Matthew, We took in fight manfully, 65 And brought them away. Dub a-dub, &c. The earl of Essex, Most valiant and hardy, With horsemen and footmen March'd towards the town; 70 The enemies which saw them, Full greatly affrighted, Did fly for their safeguard, And durst not come down. Dub a-dub, &c. "Now," quoth the noble earl, 75 "Courage, my soldiers all! Fight, and be valiant, And spoil you shall have; And well rewarded all, From the great to the small; 80 But look that the women And children you save." Dub a-dub, &c. The Spaniards at that sight, Saw 'twas in vain to fight, Hung up their flags of truce, 85 Yielding the town; We march'd in presently, Decking the walls on high With our English colours, Which purchas'd renown. 90 Dub a-dub, &c. Ent'ring the houses then, And of the richest men, For gold and treasure We searchèd each day; In some places we did find 95 Pye baking in the oven, Meat at the fire roasting, And men run away. Dub a-dub, &c. Full of rich merchandise, Every shop we did see, 100 Damask and sattins And velvet full fair; Which soldiers measure out By the length of their swords; Of all commodities, 105 Each one hath share. Dub a-dub, &c. Thus Cales was taken, And our brave general March'd to the market-place, There he did stand; 110 There many prisoners Of good account were took; Many crav'd mercy, And mercy they found. Dub a-dub, &c. When as our general 115 Saw they delayèd time, And would not ransom The town as they said, With their fair wainscots, Their presses and bedsteads, 120 Their joint-stools and tables, A fire we made: And when the town burnt in a flame, With tan-ta-ra, tan-ta-ra-ra, From thence we came. 125 SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S CAMPAIGN. "When the Scottish Covenanters rose up in arms, and advanced to the English borders in 1639, many of the courtiers complimented the king by raising forces at their own expense. Among these none were more distinguished than the gallant Sir John Suckling, who raised a troop of horse, so richly accoutred, that it cost him 12,000_l._ The like expensive equipment of other parts of the army made the king remark, that "the Scots would fight stoutly, if it were but for the Englishmen's fine cloaths." When they came to action, the rugged Scots proved more than a match for the fine showy English: many of whom behaved remarkably ill, and among the rest this splendid troop of Sir John Suckling's." PERCY. This scoffing ballad, sometimes attributed to Suckling himself, is taken from the _Musarum Deliciæ_ of Sir John Mennis and Dr. James Smith (p. 81 of the reprint, _Upon Sir John Sucklings most warlike preparations for the Scotish warre_). The former is said by Wood to have been the author. Percy's copy (_Reliques_, ii. 341) has one or two different readings.--The first stanza is a parody on _John Dory_. Sir John got him an ambling nag, To Scotland for to ride-a, With a hundred horse more, all his own he swore, To guard him on every side-a. No errant-knight ever went to fight 5 With halfe so gay a bravado, Had you seen but his look, you'ld have sworn on a book, Hee'ld have conquer'd a whole armado. The ladies ran all to the windowes to see So gallant and warlike a sight-a, 10 And as he pass'd by, they began to cry, "Sir John, why will you go fight-a?" But he, like a cruel knight, spurr'd on, His heart did not relent-a; For, till he came there, he shew'd no fear;[L15] 15 Till then why should he repent-a? The king (God bless him!) had singular hopes Of him and all his troop-a: The borderers they, as they met him on the way, For joy did hollow and whoop-a. 20 None lik'd him so well as his own colonel, Who took him for John de Weart-a;[L22] But when there were shows of gunning and blows, My gallant was nothing so peart-a. For when the Scots army came within sight, 25 And all men prepared to fight-a, He ran to his tent; they ask'd what he meant; He swore he must needs goe s----- a. The colonel sent for him back agen, To quarter him in the van-a, 30 But Sir John did swear, he came not there To be kill'd the very first man-a. To cure his fear, he was sent to the rere, Some ten miles back, and more-a; Where he did play at tre trip for hay, 35 And ne'er saw the enemy more-a. But now there is peace, he's returned to increase His money, which lately he spent-a; But his lost honor must still lye in the dust; At Barwick away it went-a. 40 15. For till he came there, what had he to fear; Or why should he repent-a? PERCY. 22. John de Wert was a German general of reputation, and the terror of the French in the reign of Louis XIII. Hence his name became proverbial in France, where he was called De Vert. PERCY. THE BATTLE OF PHILIPHAUGH. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 177. By a rapid series of extraordinary victories, (see _The Haws of Cromdale_, and _The Battle of Alford_ in the Appendix,) Montrose had subdued Scotland to the royal arms, from the Grampians to Edinburgh. After taking possession of the capital, he marched forward to the frontiers, with the intention of completing the subjugation of the southern provinces, and even of leading his wild array into England to the support of King Charles. Having traversed the Border, and strengthened his army (greatly diminished by the departure of the Irish and many of the Highlanders) with some small reinforcements, Montrose encamped on the 12th of September, 1645, at Philiphaugh, a large plain, separated by the river Ettrick from the town of Selkirk, and extending in an easterly direction from a wooded hill, called the Harehead-wood, to a high ground which forms the banks of the river Tweed. Here the infantry were very conveniently disposed, while the general took up his quarters with all his cavalry at Selkirk, thus interposing a river between his horse and foot. This extraordinary error, whether rashness or oversight, was destined to be severely expiated. The very next morning, the Covenanters, under General David Lesly, recalled from England by the danger threatened their cause by the victories of Montrose, crossed the Ettrick and fell on the encampment of the infantry, unperceived by a single scout. A hopeless discomfiture was the natural consequence. Montrose, roused by the firing, arrived with a few of his cavalry too late to redeem the day, and beheld his army slaughtered, or scattered in a retreat in which he was himself fain to join. The fruit of all his victories was lost in this defeat, and he was never again able to make head in Scotland against the Covenanters. The following ballad was first printed by Sir Walter Scott, with prefatory remarks which we have here abridged. It is preserved by tradition in Selkirkshire, and coincides closely with historical fact. On Philiphaugh a fray began, At Hairhead-wood it ended; The Scots out o'er the Græmes they ran, Sae merrily they bended. Sir David frae the Border came, 5 Wi' heart an' hand came he; Wi' him three thousand bonny Scots, To bear him company. Wi' him three thousand valiant men, A noble sight to see! 10 A cloud o' mist them weel conceal'd, As close as e'er might be. When they came to the Shaw burn,[L13] Said he, "Sae weel we frame, I think it is convenient 15 That we should sing a psalm."[L16] When they came to the Lingly burn,[L17] As daylight did appear, They spy'd an aged father, And he did draw them near. 20 "Come hither, aged father!" Sir David he did cry, "And tell me where Montrose lies, With all his great army." "But first you must come tell to me, 25 If friends or foes you be; I fear you are Montrose's men, Come frae the north country." "No, we are nane o' Montrose's men, Nor e'er intend to be; 30 I am Sir David Lesly, That's speaking unto thee." "If you're Sir David Lesly, As I think weel ye be, I am sorry ye hae brought so few 35 Into your company. "There's fifteen thousand armed men[L37] Encamped on yon lee; Ye'll never be a bite to them, For aught that I can see. 40 "But halve your men in equal parts, Your purpose to fulfill; Let ae half keep the water side, The rest gae round the hill. "Your nether party fire must, 45 Then beat a flying drum; And then they'll think the day's their ain, And frae the trench they'll come. "Then, those that are behind them, maun Gie shot, baith grit and sma'; 50 And so, between your armies twa, Ye may make them to fa'." "O were ye ever a soldier?" Sir David Lesly said; "O yes; I was at Solway Flow,[L55] 55 Where we were all betray'd. "Again I was at curst Dunbar, And was a pris'ner ta'en; And many weary night and day In prison I hae lien." 60 "If ye will lead these men aright, Rewarded shall ye be; But, if that ye a traitor prove, I'll hang thee on a tree." "Sir, I will not a traitor prove; 65 Montrose has plunder'd me; I'll do my best to banish him Away frae this country." He halved his men in equal parts, His purpose to fulfill; 70 The one part kept the water side, The other gaed round the hill. The nether party fired brisk, Then turn'd and seem'd to rin; And then they a' came frae the trench, 75 And cry'd, "The day's our ain!" The rest then ran into the trench, And loosed their cannons a': And thus, between his armies twa, He made them fast to fa'. 80 Now let us a' for Lesly pray, And his brave company, For they hae vanquish'd great Montrose, Our cruel enemy. 13. A small stream that joins the Ettrick near Selkirk, on the south side of the river. S. 16. Various reading: "That we should take a dram." S. 17. A brook which falls into the Ettrick, from the north, a little above the Shaw burn. S. 37. Montrose's forces amounted to twelve or fifteen hundred foot, and about a thousand cavalry. Lesly had five or six thousand men, mostly horse. 55. It is a strange anachronism, to make this aged father state himself to have been at the battle of Solway Flow, which was fought a hundred years before Philiphaugh; and a still stranger, to mention that of Dunbar, which did not take place till five years after Montrose's defeat. S. THE GALLANT GRAHAMS. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 187 In this lament for the melancholy fate of Montrose and his heroic companions, it was clearly the humble minstrel's aim to sketch the chief incidents in the great Marquis's career as the champion and the martyr of Royalty. The derangements and omissions which may be found in the verses as they now stand are but the natural effects of time. The ballad was first published in Scott's _Minstrelsy_, as obtained from tradition, with enlargements and corrections from an old printed copy (entitled _The Gallant Grahams of Scotland_) furnished by Ritson. The summer following the rout at Philiphaugh, King Charles committed himself to the treacherous protection of the Presbyterians. They required of him that his faithful lieutenant should at once disband his forces and leave the country. During three years of exile, Montrose resided at various foreign courts, either quite inactive, or cultivating the friendship of the continental sovereigns, by whom he was overwhelmed with attentions and honors. The execution of the King drew from him a solemn oath "before God, angels, and men," that he would devote the rest of his life to the avenging the death of his master and reëstablishing his son on the throne. He received from Charles II. a renewal of his commission as Captain-General in Scotland, and while Charles was treating with the Commissioners of the Estates concerning his restoration (negotiations which Montrose regarded with no favor), set out for the Orkneys with a few hundred men, mostly Germans. His coming, even with this feeble band, struck a great terror into the Estates, and Lesly was ordered to march against him with four thousand men. Destitute of horse to bring him intelligence, Montrose was surprised at Corbiesdale, on the confines of Ross-shire, by a body of Covenanting cavalry under Colonel Strachan, which had been sent forward to check his progress. The whole of his little army was destroyed or made prisoners. Montrose escaped from the field after a desperate resistance, and finally gave himself up to Macleod of Assaint, who sold him to his enemies for four hundred bolls of meal! "He was tried," says Scott, "for what was termed treason against the Estates of the Kingdom; and, despite the commission of Charles for his proceedings, he was condemned to die by a Parliament who acknowledged Charles to be their king, and whom, on that account only, Montrose acknowledged to be a Parliament." (See SCOTT'S _Minstrelsy_, HUME, ch. lx., and NAPIER'S _Montrose and the Covenanters_.) Now, fare thee well, sweet Ennerdale[L1] Baith kith and countrie I bid adieu; For I maun away, and I may not stay, To some uncouth land which I never knew. To wear the blue I think it best,[L5] 5 Of all the colours that I see; And I'll wear it for the gallant Grahams, That are banished from their countrie. I have no gold, I have no land, I have no pearl nor precious stane; 10 But I wald sell my silken snood, To see the gallant Grahams come hame. In Wallace days, when they began, Sir John the Graham did bear the gree[L14] Through all the lands of Scotland wide: 15 He was a lord of the south countrie. And so was seen full many a time; For the summer flowers did never spring, But every Graham, in armour bright, Would then appear before the king. 20 They were all drest in armour sheen, Upon the pleasant banks of Tay; Before a king they might be seen, These gallant Grahams in their array. At the Goukhead our camp we set, 25 Our leaguer down there for to lay; And, in the bonny summer light, We rode our white horse and our gray. * * * * * Our false commander sold our king Unto his deadly enemie, 30 Who was the traitor, Cromwell, then; So I care not what they do with me. They have betray'd our noble prince, And banish'd him from his royal crown; But the gallant Grahams have ta'en in hand 35 For to command those traitors down. * * * * * In Glen-Prosen we rendezvous'd,[L37] March'd to Glenshie by night and day, And took the town of Aberdeen, And met the Campbells in their array. 40 Five thousand men, in armour strong, Did meet the gallant Grahams that day At Inverlochie, where war began, And scarce two thousand men were they. Gallant Montrose, that chieftain bold, 45 Courageous in the best degree, Did for the king fight well that day; The Lord preserve his majestie! Nathaniel Gordon, stout and bold,[L49] Did for King Charles wear the blue; 50 But the cavaliers they all were sold, And brave Harthill, a cavalier too.[L52] And Newton-Gordon, burd-alone,[L53] And Dalgatie, both stout and keen,[L54] And gallant Veitch upon the field,[L55] 55 A braver face was never seen. Now, fare ye weel, Sweet Ennerdale! Countrie and kin I quit ye free; Cheer up your hearts, brave cavaliers, For the Grahams are gone to High Germany. * * * * * Now brave Montrose he went to France, 61 And to Germany, to gather fame; And bold Aboyne is to the sea, Young Huntly is his noble name.[L64] Montrose again, that chieftain bold, 65 Back unto Scotland fair he came, For to redeem fair Scotland's land, The pleasant, gallant, worthy Graham! At the water of Carron he did begin, And fought the battle to the end; 70 Where there were kill'd, for our noble king, Two thousand of our Danish men.[L72] Gilbert Menzies, of high degree,[L73] By whom the king's banner was borne; For a brave cavalier was he, 75 But now to glory he is gone. Then woe to Strachan, and Hacket baith![L77] And, Leslie, ill death may thou die! For ye have betray'd the gallant Grahams, Who aye were true to majestie. 80 And the Laird of Assaint has seized Montrose, And had him into Edinburgh town; And frae his body taken the head, And quarter'd him upon a trone. And Huntly's gone the self-same way,[L85] 85 And our noble king is also gone; He suffer'd death for our nation, Our mourning tears can ne'er be done. But our brave young king is now come home, King Charles the Second in degree; 90 The Lord send peace into his time, And God preserve his majestie! 1. A corruption of Endrickdale. The principal and most ancient possessions of the Montrose family lie along the water of Endrick, in Dumbartonshire. S. 5. About the time when Montrose first occupied Aberdeen (1639) the Covenanters began to wear a blue ribbon, first as a scarf, afterwards in bunches in their caps. Hence the phrase of a true blue Whig. The blue ribbon was one of "Montrose's whimsies," and seems to have been retained by his followers (see v. 50) after he had left the Covenanters for the king. 14. The faithful friend and adherent of the immortal Wallace, slain at the battle of Falkirk. S. 37. Glen-Prosen is in Angus-shire. S. 49. Of the family of Gicht in Aberdeenshire. He was taken at Philiphaugh, and executed the 6th of January, 1646. 52. Leith, of Harthill, was a determined loyalist, and hated the Covenanters, by whom he had been severely treated. S. 53. Newton, for obvious reasons, was a common appellation of an estate, or barony, where a new edifice had been erected. Hence, for distinction's sake, it was anciently compounded with the name of the proprietor; as, Newton-Edmonstone, Newton-Don, Newton-Gordon, &c. Of Newtown, I only observe, that he was, like all his clan, a steady loyalist, and a follower of Montrose. S. 54. Sir Francis Hay, of Dalgatie, a steady cavalier, and a gentleman of great gallantry and accomplishments. He was a faithful follower of Montrose, and was taken prisoner with him at his last fatal battle. He was condemned to death with his illustrious general. S. 55. I presume this gentleman to have been David Veitch, brother to Veitch of Dawick, who, with many other of the Peebles-shire gentry, was taken at Philiphaugh. S. 64. James, Earl of Aboyne, who fled to France, and there died heart-broken. It is said his death was accelerated by the news of King Charles's execution. He became representative of the Gordon family (or Young Huntly, as the ballad expresses it) in consequence of the death of his elder brother, George, who fell in the battle of Alford. S. 72. Montrose's foreign auxiliaries, who, by the way, did not exceed 600 in all. S. 73. Gilbert Menzies, younger of Pitfoddells, carried the royal banner in Montrose's last battle. It bore the headless corpse of Charles I., with this motto, "_Judge and revenge my cause, O Lord!_" Menzies proved himself worthy of this noble trust, and, obstinately refusing quarter, died in defence of his charge. MONTROSE's _Memoirs_. S. 77. Sir Charles Hacket, an officer in the service of the Estates. S. 85. George Gordon, second Marquis of Huntly, one of the very few nobles in Scotland who had uniformly adhered to the King from the very beginning of the troubles, was beheaded by the sentence of the Parliament of Scotland (so calling themselves) upon the 22d March, 1649, one month and twenty-two days after the martyrdom of his master. S. THE BATTLE OF LOUDON HILL. Graham of Claverhouse and Balfour of Kinloch, commonly called Burly, the principal persons mentioned in this ballad, are characters well known to the readers of _Old Mortality_, in the earlier chapters of which the skirmish at Loudon Hill is described. A few weeks after the memorable assassination of Archbishop Sharpe, Robert Hamilton, a fierce Cameronian, Burly, and a few others of the proscribed "Westlan' men" resolved to take up arms against the government. They began their demonstrations by entering the royal burgh of Rutherglen, on the 29th of May, 1679 (which, as the anniversary of the Restoration, was appointed by Parliament to be kept as a holyday) extinguishing the bonfires made in honor of the occasion, and burning at the cross certain acts in favor of Prelacy and for the suppression of Conventicles. After this exploit, and affixing to the cross a solemn protest against the obnoxious acts, they encamped at Loudon Hill, being by this time increased to the number of five or six hundred men. Claverhouse was in garrison at Glasgow, and immediately marched against the insurgents, with about a hundred and fifty cavalry. Hamilton, the commander of the Whigs, had skilfully posted his men in a boggy strait with a broad ditch in front, and the dragoons in attempting to charge were thrown into utter disorder. At this critical moment they were vigorously attacked by the rebels and easily routed. Claverhouse barely escaped being taken prisoner, and lost some twenty of his troopers, among them his cornet, Robert Graham, whose fate is alluded to in the ballad. Burly, though not the captain, was a prominent leader in this action. See SCOTT's _Minstrelsy_, vol. ii. 206, _et seq._ You'l marvel when I tell ye o' Our noble Burly and his train, When last he march'd up through the land, Wi' sax-and-twenty Westland men. Than they I ne'er o' braver heard, 5 For they had a' baith wit and skill; They proved right well, as I heard tell, As they cam up o'er Loudon Hill. Weel prosper a' the gospel lads, That are into the west countrie, 10 Aye wicked Claver'se to demean, And aye an ill deid may he die! For he's drawn up i' battle rank, An' that baith soon an' hastilie; But they wha live till simmer come, 15 Some bludie days for this will see. But up spak cruel Claver'se, then, Wi' hastie wit, an' wicked skill; "Gae fire on yon Westlan' men; I think it is my sov'reign's will." 20 But up bespake his Cornet, then, "It's be wi' nae consent o' me! I ken I'll ne'er come back again, An' mony mae as weel as me. "There is not ane of a' yon men, 25 But wha is worthy other three; There is na ane amang them a', That in his cause will stap to die. "An' as for Burly, him I knaw; He's a man of honour, birth, and fame; 30 Gie him a sword into his hand, He'll fight thysell an' other ten." But up spake wicked Claver'se, then, I wat his heart it raise fu' hie! And he has cried that a' might hear, 35 "Man, ye hae sair deceived me. "I never ken'd the like afore, Na, never since I came frae hame, That you sae cowardly here suld prove, An' yet come of a noble Græme." 40 But up bespake his Cornet then, "Since that it is your honour's will, Mysell shall be the foremost man That shall gie fire on Loudon Hill. "At your command I'll lead them on, 45 But yet wi' nae consent o' me; For weel I ken I'll ne'er return, And mony mae as weel as me." Then up he drew in battle rank; I wat he had a bonny train! 50 But the first time that bullets flew, Aye he lost twenty o' his men. Then back he came the way he gaed, I wat right soon and suddenly! He gave command amang his men, 55 And sent them back, and bade them flee. Then up came Burly, bauld an' stout, Wi's little train o' Westland men, Wha mair than either aince or twice In Edinburgh confined had been. 60 They hae been up to London sent, An' yet they're a' come safely down; Sax troop o' horsemen they hae beat, And chased them into Glasgow town. THE BATTLE OE BOTHWELL BRIDGE. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 237. The success of the Cameronians at Loudon Hill induced a considerable number of the moderate Presbyterians to join the army of the insurgents. But though increased numbers gave the revolt a more formidable appearance, they cannot be said to have added much to the strength of the rebels, since there was no concert between the two factions, each having its own set of officers, and issuing contrary orders at the same time. An army of ten thousand men under the Duke of Monmouth advanced from Edinburgh against these distracted allies, who, in all not more than four thousand, were encamped near Hamilton, on the western side of the Clyde, and had possession of the bridge between that point and the village of Bothwell. While the Duke was preparing to force a passage, the more moderate of the Whigs offered terms, and while they were debating the Duke's reply, the Cameronians, who bravely defended the bridge, were compelled to abandon their post. The Duke's army then crossed the river without opposition, because the rebels were at that juncture occupied with cashiering their officers and electing new ones. The first discharge of Monmouth's cannon caused the cavalry of the Covenanters to wheel about, and their flight threw the foot into irrecoverable disorder. Four hundred of the rebels were killed, and a body of twelve hundred surrendered at discretion, and were preserved from death by the clemency of the Duke. This action took place on the 22d of June, 1679. Scott informs us that there were two Gordons of Earlstoun engaged in the rebellion, a father and son. The former was not in the battle, but was met hastening to it by English dragoons, and was killed on his refusing to surrender. The son, who is supposed to be the person mentioned in the ballad, was of the milder Presbyterians, and fought only for freedom of conscience and relief from the tyrannical laws against non-conformists. He escaped from the battle, and after being several times condemned to die, was finally set at liberty, and restored to his forfeited estates. In this ballad Claverhouse's unsparing pursuit of the fugitives is imputed to a desire to revenge the death of his kinsman at Loudon Hill, and his anger at being thwarted is, with great simplicity, asserted to have led to the execution of Monmouth. Scott's copy of this ballad was given from recitation. In the First Series of Laing's _Fugitive Scottish Poetry_, there is an amusingly prosaic Covenanting ditty upon this subject, called _Bothwell Lines_, and in the Second Series, a Cavalier song, entitled The _Battell of Bodwell Bridge, or The Kings Cavileers Triumph_. "O, billie, billie, bonny billie, Will ye go to the wood wi' me? We'll ca' our horse hame masterless, An' gar them trow slain men are we." "O no, O no!" says Earlstoun, 5 "For that's the thing that mauna be; For I am sworn to Bothwell Hill, Where I maun either gae or die." So Earlstoun rose in the morning, An' mounted by the break o' day; 10 An' he has joined our Scottish lads, As they were marching out the way. "Now, farewell, father, and farewell, mother, And fare ye weel, my sisters three; An' fare ye weel, my Earlstoun, 15 For thee again I'll never see!" So they're awa' to Bothwell Hill, An' waly they rode bonnily! When the Duke o' Monmouth saw them comin', He went to view their company. 20 "Ye're welcome, lads," the Monmouth said, "Ye're welcome, brave Scots lads, to me; And sae are you, brave Earlstoun, The foremost o' your company! "But yield your weapons ane an a', 25 O yield your weapons, lads, to me; For gin ye'll yield your weapons up, Ye'se a' gae hame to your country." Out then spak a Lennox lad, And waly but he spoke bonnily! 30 "I winna yield my weapons up, To you nor nae man that I see." Then he set up the flag o' red, A' set about wi' bonny blue; "Since ye'll no cease, and be at peace, 35 See that ye stand by ither true." They stell'd their cannons on the height, And showr'd their shot down in the howe; An' beat our Scots lads even down, Thick they lay slain on every knowe. 40 As e'er you saw the rain down fa', Or yet the arrow frae the bow,-- Sae our Scottish lads fell even down, An' they lay slain on every knowe. "O hold your hand," then Monmouth cry'd, 45 "Gie quarters to yon men for me!" But wicked Claver'se swore an oath, His Cornet's death revenged sud be. "O hold your hand," then Monmouth cry'd, "If onything you'll do for me; 50 Hold up your hand, you cursed Græme, Else a rebel to our king ye'll be." Then wicked Claver'se turn'd about, I wot an angry man was he; And he has lifted up his hat, 55 And cry'd, "God bless his Majesty!" Than he's awa' to London town, Aye e'en as fast as he can dree; Fause witnesses he has wi' him ta'en, And ta'en Monmouth's head frae his body. 60 Alang the brae, beyond the brig, Mony brave man lies cauld and still; But lang we'll mind, and sair we'll rue, The bloody battle of Bothwell Hill. THE BATTLE OF KILLIECRANKIE. This battle was fought on the evening of the 27th of July, 1689, a little to the north of the pass of Killiecrankie, in the Highlands of Perthshire, between King William's army under General Mackay, and a body of Highlanders under the renowned Claverhouse, the bravest and most faithful adherent of the house of Stuart. Mackay's troops, which were partly Dutch and partly English, amounted to 4,500 foot and two companies of horse. The Highlanders were not much more than half as numerous. They consisted of the followers of Maclean, Macdonald of Sky, Clanronald, Sir Evan Cameron of Lochiel, and others, with a few Irish. The left wing of Mackay's army was almost instantly routed by a furious charge of the Macleans. The right wing stood their ground manfully, and even repulsed the assault of the Macdonalds, but being taken in flank by the Camerons and a part of the Macleans, they were forced to retire and suffered great loss. While directing the oblique movement of the Camerons, Claverhouse received a mortal wound under the arm, and with him fell the cause of King James. This ballad, which is taken from Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 163, was printed as a broadside near the time of the battle. The author is unknown. There was an old song called _Killiecrankie_, which, with some alterations, was inserted in Johnson's _Museum_ (p. 302). It is also found in Hogg's _Jacobite Relics_, i. 32, with an additional stanza. A contemporary Latin ballad on the same event by Herbert Kennedy, a professor in the University of Edinburgh, is given in the _Museum_, and may be seen in our Appendix. Clavers and his Highlandmen Came down upo' the raw, man, Who being stout, gave mony a clout; The lads began to claw then. With sword and terge into their hand, 5 Wi which they were nae slaw, man, Wi mony a fearful heavy sigh, The lads began to claw then. O'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er stank, She flang amang them a', man; 10 The butter-box got mony knocks, Their riggings paid for a' then. They got their paiks, wi sudden straiks, Which to their grief they saw, man: Wi clinkum clankum o'er their crowns, 15 The lads began to fa' then. Hur skipt about, hur leapt about,[L17] And flang amang them a', man; The English blades got broken heads, Their crowns were cleav'd in twa then. 20 The durk and door made their last hour, And prov'd their final fa', man; They thought the devil had been there, That play'd them sic a paw then. The Solemn League and Covenant 25 Came whigging up the hills, man; Thought Highland trews durst not refuse For to subscribe their bills then. In Willie's name, they thought nae ane Durst stop their course at a', man, 30 But hur-nane-sell, wi mony a knock, Cry'd, "Furich-Whigs awa'," man. Sir Evan Du, and his men true, Came linking up the brink, man; The Hogan Dutch they feared such, 35 They bred a horrid stink then. The true Maclean and his fierce men Came in amang them a' man; Nane durst withstand his heavy hand, All fled and ran awa' then. 40 _Oh' on a ri, Oh' on a ri,_ Why should she lose King Shames, man? _Oh' rig in di, Oh' rig in di,_ She shall break a' her banes then; With _furichinish_, an' stay a while, 45 And speak a word or twa, man, She's gi' a straike, out o'er the neck, Before ye win awa' then. O fy for shame, ye're three for ane, Hur-nane-sell's won the day, man; 50 King Shames' red-coats should be hung up, Because they ran awa' then. Had bent their brows, like Highland trows, And made as lang a stay, man, They'd sav'd their king, that sacred thing, 55 And Willie'd ran awa' then. 17. The Highlanders have only one pronoun, and as it happens to resemble the English _her_, it has caused the Lowlanders to have a general impression that they mistake the feminine for the masculine gender. It has even become a sort of nickname for them, as in the present case, and in a subsequent verse, (31,) where it is extended to _her-nain-sell_. CHAMBERS, _Scottish Songs_, p. 48. THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR. Fought on the 13th of November, 1715, between the Duke of Argyle, general of the forces of King George the First, and the Earl of Mar, for the Chevalier de St. George. The right wing of both armies, led by the respective commanders, was successful, and the left wing of both was routed. Hence the victory was claimed by both sides. The Chevalier's army was much the larger of the two, and all the advantages of the contest remained with the other party. This ballad is printed in Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 170, and in many subsequent collections. It is ascribed by Burns to the "Rev. Murdoch M'Lellan, minister of Crathie, Dee-side." Our copy is taken from Hogg's _Jacobite Relics_, ii. 1, where the stanzas in brackets appear for the first time. The notes are from Chambers's _Scottish Songs_, p. 408. There are several other ballads upon this battle: _Up and war them a', Willie_, Johnson's _Museum_, p. 195, and (different) Herd's _Scottish Songs_, ii. 234: _From Bogie Side, or, The Marquis's Raide_, a false and scurrilous party song, Hogg's _Jacobite Relics_, ii. 13: _A Dialogue between Will Lick-Ladle and Tom Clean-Cogue_, &c., written by the Rev. John Barclay of Edinburgh, many years after the event: and _The Battle of Sherramoor_, altered and abridged by Burns from this last, for Johnson's _Museum_, (p. 290.) See Appendix. There's some say that we wan, and some say that they wan, And some say that nane wan at a', man; But one thing I'm sure, that at Sherra-muir A battle there was that I saw, man. _And we ran, and they ran, and they ran, and we ran_, 5 _But Florence ran fastest of a', man_.[L6] Argyle and Belhaven, not frighted like Leven,[L7] Which Rothes and Haddington saw, man; For they all, with Wightman, advanc'd on the right, man, While others took flight, being raw, man. 10 _And we ran, &c._ Lord Roxburgh was there, in order to share[L11] With Douglas, who stood not in awe, man; Volunteerly to ramble with Lord Loudon Campbell, Brave Ilay did suffer for a', man. _And we ran, &c._ Sir John Schaw, that great knight, with broad sword most bright,[L15] 15 On horseback he briskly did charge, man; A hero that's bold, none could him withhold,[L17] He stoutly encounter'd the targemen. _And we ran, &c._ For the cowardly Whittam, for fear they should cut him, Seeing glittering broad swords with a pa', man, And that in such thrang, made Baird edicang, 21 And from the brave clans ran awa, man. _And we ran, &c._ [The great Colonel Dow gade foremost, I trow, When Whittam's dragoons ran awa, man; Except Sandy Baird, and Naughtan the laird, 25 Their horse shaw'd their heels to them a', man. _And we ran, &c._] Brave Mar and Panmure were firm, I am sure:[L27] The latter was kidnapt awa, man; With brisk men about, brave Harry retook His brother, and laugh'd at them a', man. 30 _And we ran, &c._ Brave Marshall, and Lithgow, and Glengary's pith, too,[L31] Assisted by brave Loggia, man, And Gordons the bright, so boldly did fight, That the redcoats took flight and awa, man. _And we ran, &c._ Strathmore and Clanronald cried still, "Advance, Donald,"[L35] 35 Till both of these heroes did fa', man; For there was such hashing, and broad swords a-clashing, Brave Forfar himsel got a claw, man. _And we ran, &c._ Lord Perth stood the storm, Seaforth but lukewarm,[L39] Kilsyth, and Strathallan not slaw, man; 40 And Hamilton pled the men were not bred, For he had no fancy to fa', man. _And we ran, &c._ Brave gen'rous Southesk, Tullibardin was brisk,[L43] Whose father indeed would not draw, man, Into the same yoke, which serv'd for a cloak, 45 To keep the estate 'twixt them twa, man. _And we ran, &c._ Lord Rollo not fear'd, Kintore and his beard,[L47] Pitsligo and Ogilvie, a', man, And brothers Balflours they stood the first show'rs, Clackmannan and Burleigh did claw, man. 50 _And we ran, &c._ But Cleppan fought pretty, and Strowan the witty,[L51] A poet that pleases us a', man; For mine is but rhyme in respect of what's fine, Or what he is able to draw, man. _And we ran &c._ For Huntly and Sinclair, they both play'd the tinkler,[L55] 55 With consciences black as a craw, man; Some Angus and Fife men, they ran for their life, man, And ne'er a Lot's wife there at a', man. _And we ran, &c._ Then Laurie the traitor, who betray'd his master,[L59] His king, and his country, an' a', man, 60 Pretending Mar might give orders to fight, To the right of the army awa, man. _And we ran, &c._ Then Laurie, for fear of what he might hear, Took Drummond's best horse, and awa, man: 'Stead of going to Perth, he crossed the Firth, 65 Alongst Stirling bridge, and awa, man. _And we ran, &c._ To London he press'd, and there he profess'd That he behav'd best o' them a', man, And so, without strife, got settled for life, A hundred a-year to his fa', man. 70 _And we ran, &c._ In Borrowstounness he resides with disgrace, Till his neck stand in need of a thraw, man; And then in a tether he'll swing from a ladder, And go off the stage with a pa', man. _And we ran, &c._ Rob Roy there stood watch on a hill, for to catch[L75] The booty, for ought that I saw, man; 76 For he ne'er advanc'd from the place he was stanc'd, Till no more was to do there at a', man. _And we ran, &c._ So we all took the flight, and Moubray the wright, And Lethem the smith was a braw man, 80 For he took a fit of the gout, which was wit, By judging it time to withdraw, man. _And we ran, &c._ And trumpet Maclean, whose breeks were not clean, Through misfortune he happen'd to fa', man; By saving his neck, his trumpet did break, 85 And came off without music at a', man. _And we ran, &c._ So there such a race was as ne'er in that place was, And as little chace was at a', man; From each other they run without touk of drum, They did not make use of a paw, man. 90 _And we ran, &c._ [Whether we ran, or they ran, or we wan, or they wan, Or if there was winning at a', man, There no man can tell, save our brave genarell,[L93] Who first began running of a', man. _And we ran, &c._ Wi' the Earl o' Seaforth, and the Cock o' the North;[L95] 95 But Florence ran fastest of a', man, Save the laird o' Phinaven, who sware to be even W' any general or peer o' them a', man.] _And we ran, &c._ 6. Florence was the Marquis of Huntly's horse. HOGG. 7-10. Lord Belhaven, the Earl of Leven, and the Earls of Rothes and Haddington, who all bore arms as volunteers in the royal army. Major-General Joseph Wightman, who commanded the centre of the royal army. 11-14. John, fifth Duke of Roxburgh, a loyal volunteer. Archibald, Duke of Douglas, who commanded a body of his vassals in the royal army. Hugh Campbell, third Earl of Loudoun, of the royal army. The Earl of Ilay, brother to the Duke of Argyle. He came up to the field only a few hours before the battle, and had the misfortune to be wounded. 15. Sir John Shaw of Greenock, an officer in the troop of volunteers, noted for his keen Whiggish spirit. 17. Major-General Whitham, who commanded the left wing of the King's army. 39-42. James, Lord Drummond, eldest son of the Earl of Perth, was Lieutenant-general of horse under Mar, and behaved with great gallantry. William Mackenzie, fifth Earl of Seaforth. The Viscount Kilsyth. The Viscount Strathallan. Lieutenant-general George Hamilton, commanding under the Earl of Mar. 27-30. James, Earl of Panmure. The Honourable Harry Maule of Kellie, brother to the foregoing, whom he recaptured after the engagement. 31-4. The Earls of Marischal and Linlithgow. The Chief of Glengary. Thomas Drummond of Logie Almond. 35-8. The Earl of Strathmore, killed in the battle. The Chief of Clanranald. The Earl of Forfar--on the King's side--wounded in the engagement. 43. James, fifth Earl of Southesk. The Marquis of Tullibardine, eldest son of the Duke of Athole. 47-50. Lord Rollo. The Earl of Kintore. Lord Pitsligo. Lord Ogilvie, son of the Earl of Airly. Bruce, Laird of Clackmannan--the husband, I believe, of the old lady who knighted Robert Burns with the sword of Bruce, at Clackmannan Tower. Lord Burleigh. 51. Major William Clephane. Alexander Robertson of Struan, chief of the Robertsons. 55. Alexander, Marquis of Huntly, afterwards Duke of Gordon. The Master of Sinclair. 59-74. These four stanzas seem to refer to a circumstance reported at the time; namely, that a person had left the Duke of Argyle's army, and joined the Earl of Mar's, before the battle, intending to act as a spy; and that, being employed by Mar to inform the left wing that the right was victorious, he gave a contrary statement, and, after seeing them retire accordingly, went back again to the royal army. 75. The celebrated Rob Roy. This redoubted hero was prevented, by mixed motives, from joining either party. He could not fight against the Earl of Mar, consistent with his conscience, nor could he oppose the Duke of Argyle, without forfeiting the protection of a powerful friend. 93. This point is made at the expense of a contradiction. See v. 27. 95-7. _The Cock of the North_ is an honorary popular title of the Duke of Gordon. Carnegy of Finhaven. LORD DERWENTWATER. James Radcliff, Earl of Derwentwater, fell into the hands of the Whigs at the surrender of Preston, on the very day of the battle of Sheriff-Muir, and suffered death in February, 1716, for his participation in the rebellion. Smollet has described him as an amiable youth,--brave, open, generous, hospitable, and humane. "His fate drew tears from the spectators, and was a great misfortune to the country in which he lived. He gave bread to multitudes of people whom he employed on his estate;--the poor, the widow, and the orphan rejoiced in his bounty." (_History of England_, quoted by Cromek.) We are told that the _aurora borealis_ was remarkably vivid on the night of the earl's execution, and that this phenomenon is consequently still known in the north by the name of "Lord Derwentwater's Lights." Although this ballad is said to have been extremely popular in the North of England for a long time after the event which gave rise to it, no good copy has as yet been recovered. The following was obtained by Motherwell (_Minstrelsy_, p. 349) from the recitation of an old woman. Another copy, also from recitation but "restored to poetical propriety," is given in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, for June, 1825 (p. 489), and fragments of a third in _Notes and Queries_, vol. xii. p. 492. Two spurious ballads on the death of Lord Derwentwater have been sometimes received as genuine: one by Allan Cunningham, first published in Cromek's _Nithsdale and Galloway Song_, p. 129, another (_Lord Derwentwater's Goodnight_) by Surtees, printed in Hogg's _Jacobite Relics_, ii. 31. Still another modern imitation is _Young Ratcliffe_, in Sheldon's _Minstrelsy of the English Border_, p. 401. There is a ballad on the disgraceful capitulation of Preston in Hogg's _Jacobite Relics_, ii. 102, also, _Northumberland Garland_, p. 85, beginning "Mackintosh was a soldier brave." Our King has wrote a long letter, And sealed it ower with gold; He sent it to my lord Dunwaters, To read it if he could. He has not sent it with a boy, 5 Nor with any Scots lord; But he's sent it with the noblest knight E'er Scotland could afford. The very first line that my lord did read, He gave a smirkling smile; 10 Before he had the half of it read, The tears from his eyes did fall. "Come saddle to me my horse," he said, "Come saddle to me with speed; For I must away to fair London town, 15 For to me there was ne'er more need." Out and spoke his lady gay, In childbed where she lay: "I would have you make your will, my lord Dunwaters, Before you go away." 20 "I leave to you, my eldest son, My houses and my land; I leave to you, my youngest son, Ten thousand pounds in hand. "I leave to you, my lady gay, -- 25 You are my wedded wife, -- I leave to you, the third of my estate, That'll keep you in a lady's life." They had not rode a mile but one, Till his horse fell owre a stane: 30 "It's a warning good enough," my lord Dunwaters said, "Alive I'll ne'er come hame." When they came to fair London town, Into the courtiers' hall, The lords and knights of fair London town 35 Did him a traitor call. "A traitor! a traitor!" says my lord, "A traitor! how can that be? An it be nae for the keeping five thousand men, To fight for King Jamie. 40 "O all you lords and knights in fair London town, Come out and see me die; O all you lords and knights in fair London town, Be kind to my ladie. "There's fifty pounds in my right pocket, 45 Divide it to the poor; There's other fifty in my left pocket, Divide it from door to door." THE BATTLE OF TRANENT-MUIR, OR OF PRESTON-PANS Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 166: Ritson's _Scotish Songs_, ii. 76. This ballad is the work of Adam Skirving, a clever and opulent farmer, father of Archibald Skirving, the portrait painter. It was printed shortly after the battle as a broadside, and next appeared in _The Charmer_, vol. ii. p. 349, Edinb. 1751. Neither of those editions contains the eleventh stanza. The foot-notes commonly attached to the subsequent reprints are found in _The Charmer_. (Laing in Johnson's _Museum_, iv. 189*.) To Skirving is also attributed with great probability the excellent satirical song of _Johnnie Cope_, or _Cope are you waking yet_. The original words are in Ritson, _Scotish Songs_, ii. 84: another set at p. 82: a third, with alterations and additions by Burns, in Johnson's _Museum_, p. 242. Allan Cunningham once heard a peasant boast that he could sing _Johnnie Cope_ with all its _nineteen_ variations. See Appendix. The battle took place on the 22d of September, 1745, between the villages of Tranent and Prestonpans, a few miles from Edinburgh. The king's lieutenant-general, Sir John Cope, was disgracefully defeated by the Highlanders under Charles Edward, and nearly all his army killed or taken. The details of the conflict are vividly described in the 46th and 47th chapters of Waverley. The Chevalier, being void of fear, Did march up Birsle brae, man, And thro' Tranent, e'er he did stent, As fast as he could gae, man: While General Cope did taunt and mock, 5 Wi' mony a loud huzza, man; But e'er next morn proclaim'd the cock, We heard another craw, man. The brave Lochiel, as I heard tell, Led Camerons on in clouds, man; 10 The morning fair, and clear the air, They loos'd with devilish thuds, man. Down guns they threw, and swords they drew And soon did chace them aff, man; On Seaton-Crafts they buft their chafts, 15 And gart them rin like daft, man. The bluff dragoons swore blood and 'oons, They'd make the rebels run, man; And yet they flee when them they see, And winna fire a gun, man: 20 They turn'd their back, the foot they brake, Such terror seiz'd them a', man; Some wet their cheeks, some fyl'd their breeks, And some for fear did fa', man. The volunteers prick'd up their ears, 25 And vow gin they were crouse, man; But when the bairns saw't turn to earn'st, They were not worth a louse man. Maist feck gade hame; O fy for shame! They'd better stay'd awa', man, 30 Than wi' cockade to make parade, And do nae good at a', man. Menteith the great, when hersell sh--,[L33] Un'wares did ding him o'er man; Yet wad nae stand to bear a hand, 35 But aff fou fast did scour, man; O'er Soutra hill, e'er he stood still, Before he tasted meat, man: Troth he may brag of his swift nag, That bare him aff sae fleet, man. 40 And Simpson keen, to clear the een[L41] Of rebels far in wrang, man, Did never strive wi' pistols five, But gallop'd with the thrang, man: He turn'd his back, and in a crack 45 Was cleanly out of sight man; And thought it best; it was nae jest W' Highlanders to fight, man. 'Mangst a' the gang nane bade the bang But twa, and ane was tane, man; 50 For Campbell rade, but Myrie staid,[L51] And sair he paid the kain, man; Fell skelps he got, was war than shot, Frae the sharp-edg'd claymore, man; Frae many a spout came running out 55 His reeking-het red gore, man. But Gard'ner brave did still behave Like to a hero bright, man; His courage true, like him were few That still despised flight, man; 60 For king and laws, and country's cause, In honour's bed he lay, man; His life, but not his courage, fled, While he had breath to draw, man. And Major Bowle, that worthy soul, 65 Was brought down to the ground, man; His horse being shot, it was his lot For to get mony a wound, man: Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth,[L69] Frae whom he call'd for aid, man, 70 Being full of dread, lap o'er his head, And wadna be gainsaid, man. He made sic haste, sae spur'd his beast, 'Twas little there he saw, man; To Berwick rade, and safely said, 75 The Scots were rebels a', man. But let that end, for well 'tis kend His use and wont to lie, man; The Teague is naught, he never faught, When he had room to flee, man. 80 And Caddell drest, amang the rest, With gun and good claymore, man, On gelding grey he rode that way, With pistols set before, man; The cause was good, he'd spend his blood, 85 Before that he would yield, man; But the night before, he left the cor, And never fac'd the field, man. But gallant Roger, like a soger, Stood and bravely fought, man; 90 I'm wae to tell, at last he fell, But mae down wi' him brought, man: At point of death, wi' his last breath, (Some standing round in ring, man,) On's back lying flat, he wav'd his hat, 95 And cry'd, God save the King, man. Some Highland rogues, like hungry dogs, Neglecting to pursue, man, About they fac'd, and in great haste Upon the booty flew, man; 100 And they, as gain for all their pain, Are deck'd wi' spoils of war, man; Fu' bald can tell how hernainsell Was ne'er sae pra before, man. At the thorn-tree, which you may see 105 Bewest the meadow-mill, man, There mony slain lay on the plain, The clans pursuing still, man. Sick unco' hacks, and deadly whacks, I never saw the like, man; 110 Lost hands and heads cost them their deads, That fell near Preston-dyke, man. That afternoon, when a was done, I gaed to see the fray, man; But had I wist what after past, 115 I'd better staid away, man: On Seaton sands, wi' nimble hands, They pick'd my pockets bare, man; But I wish ne'er to drie sick fear, For a' the sum and mair, man. 120 33. The minister of Longformacus, a volunteer; who, happening to come, the night before the battle, upon a Highlander easing nature at Preston, threw him over, and carried his gun as a trophy to Cope's camp. 41. Another volunteer Presbyterian minister, who said he would convince the rebels of their error by the dint of his pistols; having, for that purpose, two in his pockets, two in his holsters, and one in his belt. 51. Mr. Myrie was a student of physic, from Jamaica; he entered as a volunteer in Cope's army, and was miserably mangled by the broad-swords. 69. Lieutenant Smith, who left Major Bowle when lying on the field of battle, and unable to move with his wound, was of Irish extraction. It is reported that after the publication of the ballad, he sent Mr. Skirving a challenge to meet him at Haddington, and answer for his conduct in treating him with such opprobrium. "Gang awa back," said Mr. Skirving to the messenger, "and tell Mr. Smith, I have nae leisure to gae to Haddington, but if he likes to come here, I'll tak a look o' him, and if I think I can fecht him, I'll fecht him, and if no--I'll just do as he did at Preston--I'll rin awa'." STENHOUSE. APPENDIX. THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN. See p. 5. In the versions of this ballad given in the body of this work, the Earl of Douglas is represented as falling by the hand of Harry Percy. In the ballad which follows, taken from Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 211, his death is ascribed to the revenge of an offended servant. Though there is not the slightest reason to give credence to this story, it has a certain foundation in tradition. Hume of Godscroft writes "there are that say, that he [Douglas] was not slain by the enemy, but by one of his own men, a groom of his chamber, whom he had struck the day before with a truncheon, in ordering of the battle, because he saw him make somewhat slowly to. And they name this man John Bickerton of Luffness, who left a part of his armour behind unfastened, and when he was in the greatest conflict, this servant of his came behind his back, and slew him thereat." Wintown says that the Earl was so intent on marshalling his forces, and so eager to be at the foe, that he neglected to arm himself carefully.--SCOTT's _Minstrelsy_, i. 350. It fell, and about the Lammas time, When husbandmen do win their hay, Earl Douglas is to the English woods, And a' with him to fetch a prey. He has chosen the Lindsays light, 5 With them the gallant Gordons gay, And the Earl of Fyfe, withouten strife, And Sir Hugh Montgomery upon a grey. They hae taken Northumberland, And sae hae they the North-shire, 10 And the Otter-dale, they burnt it hale, And set it a' into the fire. Out then spack a bonny boy,[L13] That serv'd ane o' Earl Douglas kin, "Methinks I see an English host, 15 A-coming branken us upon." "If this be true, my little boy, An it be troth that thou tells me, The brawest bower in Otterburn This day shall be thy morning fee. 20 "But if it be false, my little boy, But and a lie that thou tells me, On the highest tree that's in Otterburn With my awin hands I'll hing thee hie." The boy's taen out his little penknife, 25 That hanget low down by his gare, And he gae Earl Douglas a deadly wound, Alas, a deep wound and a sare! Earl Douglas said to Sir Hugh Montgomery, "Tack thou the vanguard o' the three, 30 And bury me at yon bracken bush, That stands upon yon lilly lee." Then Percy and Montgomery met, And weel I wat they war na fain; They swapped swords, and they twa swat, 35 And ay the blood ran down between. "O yield thee, yield thee, Percy," he said, "Or else I vow I'll lay thee low; "Whom to shall I yield," said Earl Percy, "Now that I see it maun be so?" 40 "O yield thee to yon braken bush, That grows upon yon lilly lee; For there lies aneth yon braken bush[L43] What aft has conquer'd mae than thee." "I winna yield to a braken bush, 45 Nor yet will I unto a brier; But I wald yield to Earl Douglas, Or Sir Hugh Montgomery, if he was here." As soon as he knew it was Montgomery, He stuck his sword's point in the ground, 50 And Sir Hugh Montgomery was a courteous knight. And he quickly caught him by the hand. This deed was done at Otterburn, About the breaking o' the day; Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush, 55 And Percy led captive away. 13. At this place a recited copy, quoted by Finlay (_Scottish Ballads_, I. p. xviii.), has the following stanzas:-- Then out an spak a little wee boy, And he was near o' Percy's kin, "Methinks I see the English host, A-coming branking us upon; Wi' nine waggons scaling wide, And seven banners bearing high; It wad do any living gude To see their bonny colours fly. 43, 44. Supplied by Motherwell from a recited copy. THE BATTLE OF HARLAW. From Ramsay's _Evergreen_, i. 78. This battle took place at Harlaw, near Aberdeen, on the 24th of July, 1411. The conflict was occasioned by a dispute concerning the succession to the earldom of Ross, between Donald, Lord of the Isles, and the son of the Regent, Robert, Duke of Albany, whose claim was supported by Alexander Stewart, Earl of Mar. The consequences of this battle were of the highest importance, inasmuch as the wild Celts of the Highlands and Islands received such a check that they never again combined for the conquest of the civilized parts of Scotland. The _Battle of Harlaw_ is one of the old ballads whose titles occur in the _Complaynt of Scotland_ (1548). A bag-pipe tune of that name is mentioned in Drummond of Hawthornden's mock-heroic poem, the _Polemo Middinia_: "Interea ante alios dux Piper Laius heros, Præcedens, magnamque gerens cum burdine pypam Incipit Harlai cunctis sonare Batellum." Mr. Laing, in his _Early Metrical Tales_ (p. xlv.) speaks of an edition printed in the year 1668 as being "in the curious library of old Robert Myln." No copy is now known to exist of a date anterior to that which was published in Ramsay's _Evergreen_. Of the age of this copy the most opposite opinions have been maintained, some regarding the ballad as contemporary with the event, and others insinuating that Ramsay, or one of his friends, is chargeable with the authorship. This last notion has no other ground than the freedom which Ramsay notoriously took with his texts, and that freedom has very likely been exercised in the present case. We shall, perhaps, be going quite as far as is prudent, if we acknowledge that this may be one of "the Scots poems wrote by the ingenious before 1600." Most readers will agree with Lord Hailes that the language is as recent as the days of Queen Mary, or of James the Sixth. Sibbald, in his _Chronicle of Scottish Poetry_, iii. 288, has stated other objections to receiving this ballad for ancient, which seem, however, to be satisfactorily answered by Finlay, _Scottish Ballads_, i. 160. The copy of this ballad in _The Thistle of Scotland_, p. 75, is only Ramsay's, imperfectly remembered, or, what is quite as probable, here and there altered according to the taste of the illiterate editor. At page 92 of the same book, three stanzas are given of a burlesque song on this battle. A traditional ballad, recently recovered, is inserted at the end of this volume. Frae Dunidier as I cam throuch, Doun by the hill of Banochie, Allangst the lands of Garioch, Grit pitie was to heir and se The noys and dulesum hermonie, 5 That evir that dreiry day did daw, Cryand the corynoch on hie, Alas! alas! for the Harlaw. I marvlit quhat the matter meint, All folks war in a fiery-fairy; 10 I wist nocht quha was fae or freind, Zit quietly I did me carrie. But sen the days of auld King Hairy, Sic slauchter was not hard nor sene, And thair I had nae tyme to tairy, 15 For bissiness in Aberdene. Thus as I walkit on the way, To Inverury as I went, I met a man and bad him stay, Requeisting him to mak me quaint 20 Of the beginning and the event, That happenit thair at the Harlaw: Then he entreited me tak tent, And he the truth sould to me schaw. Grit Donald of the Yles did claim 25 Unto the lands of Ross sum richt, And to the governour he came, Them for to haif, gif that he micht: Quha saw his interest was but slicht, And thairfore answerit with disdain; 30 He hastit hame baith day and nicht, And sent nae bodward back again. But Donald richt impatient Of that answer Duke Robert gaif, He vowed to God Omnipotent, 35 All the hale lands of Ross to haif, Or ells be graithed in his graif: He wald not quat his richt for nocht, Nor be abusit lyk a slaif; That bargin sould be deirly bocht. 40 Then haistylie he did command, That all his weir-men should convene, Ilk an well harnisit frae hand, To meit and heir quhat he did mein: He waxit wrath, and vowit tein, 45 Sweirand he wald surpryse the North, Subdew the brugh of Aberdene, Mearns, Angus, and all Fyfe to Forth. Thus with the weir-men of the Yles, Quha war ay at his bidding bown, 50 With money maid, with forss and wyls, Richt far and neir, baith up and doun, Throw mount and muir, frae town to town, Allangst the lands of Ross he roars, And all obey'd at his bandown, 55 Evin frae the North to Suthren shoars. Then all the countrie men did zield; For nae resistans durst they mak, Nor offer battill in the feild, Be forss of arms to beir him bak. 60 Syne they resolvit all and spak, That best it was for thair behoif, They sould him for thair chiftain tak, Believing weil he did them luve. Then he a proclamation maid, 65 All men to meet at Inverness, Throw Murray land to mak a raid, Frae Arthursyre unto Spey-ness. And further mair, he sent express, To schaw his collours and ensenzie, 70 To all and sindry, mair and less, Throchout the bounds of Byne and Enzie. And then throw fair Straithbogie land His purpose was for to pursew, And quhasoevir durst gainstand, 75 That race they should full sairly rew. Then he bad all his men be trew, And him defend by forss and slicht, And promist them rewardis anew, And mak them men of mekle micht. 80 Without resistans, as he said, Throw all these parts he stoutly past, Quhair sum war wae, and sum war glaid, But Garioch was all agast. Throw all these feilds he sped him fast, 85 For sic a sicht was never sene; And then, forsuith, he langd at last To se the bruch of Aberdene. To hinder this prowd enterprise, The stout and michty Erle of Marr 90 With all his men in arms did ryse, Even frae Curgarf to Craigyvar: And down the syde of Don richt far, Angus and Mearns did all convene To fecht, or Donald came sae nar 95 The ryall bruch of Aberdene. And thus the martial Erle of Marr Marcht with his men in richt array; Befoir the enemie was aware, His banner bauldly did display. 100 For weil enewch they kend the way, And all their semblance weil they saw: Without all dangir, or delay, Come haistily to the Harlaw. With him the braif Lord Ogilvy, 105 Of Angus sheriff principall, The constabill of gude Dundè, The vanguard led before them all. Suppose in number they war small, Thay first richt bauldlie did pursew, 110 And maid thair faes befor them fall, Quha then that race did sairly rew. And then the worthy Lord Salton, The strong undoubted Laird of Drum, The stalwart Laird of Lawristone, 115 With ilk thair forces, all and sum. Panmuir with all his men did cum, The provost of braif Aberdene, With trumpets and with tuick of drum, Came schortly in thair armour schene. 120 These with the Earle of Marr came on, In the reir-ward richt orderlie, Thair enemies to sett upon; In awfull manner hardily, Togither vowit to live and die, 125 Since they had marchit mony mylis, For to suppress the tyrannie Of douted Donald of the Yles. But he in number ten to ane, Richt subtilè alang did ryde, 130 With Malcomtosch and fell Maclean, With all thair power at thair syde; Presumeand on thair strenth and pryde, Without all feir or ony aw, Richt bauldie battill did abyde, 135 Hard by the town of fair Harlaw. The armies met, the trumpet sounds, The dandring drums alloud did touk, Baith armies byding on the bounds, Till ane of them the feild sould bruik. 140 Nae help was thairfor, nane wald jouk, Ferss was the fecht on ilka syde, And on the ground lay mony a bouk Of them that thair did battill byd. With doutsum victorie they dealt, 145 The bludy battil lastit lang; Each man his nibours forss thair felt, The weakest aft-tymes gat the wrang: Thair was nae mowis thair them amang, Naithing was hard but heavy knocks, 150 That eccho mad a dulefull sang, Thairto resounding frae the rocks. But Donalds men at last gaif back, For they war all out of array: The Earl of Marris men throw them brak, 155 Pursewing shairply in thair way, Thair enemys to tak or slay, Be dynt of forss to gar them yield; Quha war richt blyth to win away, And sae for feirdness tint the feild. 160 Then Donald fled, and that full fast, To mountains hich for all his micht; For he and his war all agast, And ran till they war out of sicht; And sae of Ross he lost his richt, 165 Thocht mony men with hem he brocht; Towards the Yles fled day and nicht, And all he wan was deirlie bocht. This is (quod he) the richt report Of all that I did heir and knaw; 170 Thocht my discourse be sumthing schort, Tak this to be a richt suthe saw: Contrairie God and the kings law, Thair was spilt mekle Christian blude, Into the battil of Harlaw: 175 This is the sum, sae I conclude. But zit a bonny quhyle abyde, And I sall mak thee cleirly ken Quhat slauchter was on ilkay syde, Of Lowland and of Highland men: 180 Quha for thair awin haif evir bene; These lazie lowns micht weil be spaird, Chessit lyke deirs into their dens, And gat thair waiges for reward. Malcomtosh, of the clan heid cheif, 185 Macklean, with his grit hauchty heid, With all thair succour and relief, War dulefully dung to the deid: And now we are freid of thair feid, They will not lang to cum again; 190 Thousands with them, without remeid, On Donald's syd that day war slain. And on the uther syde war lost, Into the feild that dismal day, Chief men of worth, of mekle cost, 195 To be lamentit sair for ay. The Lord Saltoun of Rothemay, A man of micht and mekle main; Grit dolour was for his decay, That sae unhappylie was slain. 200 Of the best men amang them was The gracious gude Lord Ogilvy, The sheriff principal of Angus, Renownit for truth and equitie, For faith and magnanimitie: 205 He had few fallows in the field, Zet fell by fatall destinie, For he nae ways wad grant to zield. Sir James Scrimgeor of Duddap, knicht, Grit constabill of fair Dundè, 210 Unto the dulefull deith was dicht: The kingis cheif banner man was he, A valziant man of chevalrie, Quhais predecessors wan that place At Spey, with gude King William frie, 215 Gainst Murray and Macduncans race. Gude Sir Allexander Irving, The much renownit laird of Drum, Nane in his days was bettir sene, Quhen they war semblit all and sum. 220 To praise him we sould not be dumm, For valour, witt, and worthyness; To end his days he ther did cum, Quhois ransom is remeidyless. And thair the knicht of Lawriston 225 Was slain into his armour schene, And gude Sir Robert Davidson, Quha provest was of Aberdene: The knicht of Panmure, as was sene, A mortall man in armour bricht, 230 Sir Thomas Murray, stout and kene, Left to the warld thair last gude nicht. Thair was not sen King Keneths days Sic strange intestine crewel stryf In Scotland sene, as ilk man says, 235 Quhair mony liklie lost thair lyfe; Quhilk maid divorce twene man and wyfe, And mony childrene fatherless, Quhilk in this realme has bene full ryfe: Lord help these lands, our wrangs redress. 240 In July, on Saint James his even, That four and twenty dismall day, Twelve hundred, ten score and eleven Of zeirs sen Chryst, the suthe to say, Men will remember, as they may, 245 Quhen thus the veritie they knaw, And mony a ane may murn for ay, The brim battil of the Harlaw. KING HENRIE THE FIFTH'S CONQUEST. _Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England._ Percy Society, vol. xvii. p. 52. "From the singing of the late Francis King, of Skipton in Craven, an eccentric character, who was well known in the western dales of Yorkshire as 'the Skipton Minstrel.' King's version does not contain the third verse, which is obtained, as is also the title, from a modern broadside, from whence also one or two verbal corrections are made, of too trifling a nature to particularize. The tune to which King used to sing it, is the same as that of _The Bold Pedlar and Robin Hood_." Another ballad, much inferior in spirit to this, on the Battle of Agincourt, is to be found in _The Crown Garland of Golden Roses_ (ed. 1659), Percy Soc. vol. xv. p. 65. Percy inserted in the _Reliques_, ii. 26, a song on this battle. Another, quoted in Heywood's _Edward Fourth_, and therefore popular before 1600, is printed in Mr. Collier's preface to Shakespeare's _Henry Fifth_ (new edition). The story of the tennis-balls is adopted from the chronicles by Shakespeare. "It is reported by some historians," says Hume, "that the Dauphin, in derision of Henry's claims and dissolute character, sent him a box of tennis-balls, intimating that mere implements of play were better adapted to him than the instruments of war. But this story is by no means credible; the great offers made by the court of France show that they had already entertained a just idea of Henry's character, as well as of their own situation." _History of England_, ch. xix. As our king lay musing on his bed, He bethought himself upon a time Of a tribute that was due from France, Had not been paid for so long a time. _Down, a-down, a-down, a-down_, _Down, a-down, a-down._ He callèd on his trusty page, 5 His trusty page then callèd he, "O you must go to the king of France, O you must go right speedilie. "And tell him of my tribute due, Ten ton of gold that's due to me, 10 That he must send me my tribute home, Or in French land he soon will me see." O then away went the trusty page, Away, away, and away went he, Until he came to the king of France; 15 Lo! he fell down on his bended knee. "My master greets you, worthy Sire; Ten ton of gold there is due, says he; You must send him his tribute home, Or in French land you will soon him see." 20 "Your master's young, and of tender years, Not fit to come into my degree; But I will send him three tennis balls, That with them learn to play may he." O then away came the trusty page, 25 Away, and away, and away came he, Until he came to our gracious king; Lo! he fell down on his bended knee. "What news, what news, my trusty page, What news, what news, hast thou brought to me?" 30 "I've brought such news from the king of France, That you and he will ne'er agree. "He says you're young, and of tender years, Not fit to come into his degree; But he will send you three tennis balls, 35 That with them you may learn to play." O then bespoke our noble king, A solemn vow then vowèd he; "I'll promise him such tennis balls, As in French lands he ne'er did see. 40 "Go, call up Cheshire and Lancashire, And Derby hills, that are so free; Not a married man, nor a widow's son, For the widow's cry shall not go with me." They called up Cheshire and Lancashire, 45 And Derby lads that were so free; Not a married man, nor a widow's son, Yet they were a jovial bold companie. O then he sailed to fair French land, With drums and trumpets so merrilie; 50 O then bespoke the king of France, "Yonder comes proud king Henrie." The first fire that the Frenchmen gave, They killed our Englishmen so free; We killed ten thousand of the French, 55 And the rest of them they were forced to flee. And then we marched to Paris gates, With drums and trumpets so merrilie; O then bespoke the king of France, "Lord have mercy on my poor men and me! 60 "Go! tell him I'll send home his tribute due, Ten ton of gold that is due from me; And the fairest flower that is in our French land To the Rose of England it shall go free." JANE SHORE. The story and character of Jane Shore can best be read in a charmingly written passage of Sir Thomas More's _History of Edward Fifth_, quoted in Percy's _Reliques_, ii. 268. The ballad adheres to matter of fact with a fidelity very uncommon. In Drayton's _England's Heroical Epistles_ is one from Jane Shore to King Edward, and in the notes he thus gives her portrait: "Her stature was meane, her haire of a dark yellow, her face round and full, her eye gray, delicate harmony being betwixt each part's proportion, and each proportion's colour, her body fat, white, and smooth, her countenance cheerfull and like to her condition." (Cited by Percy.) This ballad is taken from the Collection of 1723, vol. i. p. 145. The full title is: _The Woeful Lamentation of Jane Shore, a Goldsmith's Wife in London, sometime King Edward the Fourth's Concubine_. The same version, with trifling variations, is found in Percy's _Reliques_, ii. 274, and Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, ii. 128. In the _Garland of Good Will_ there is another piece on the same subject, (Percy Society, vol. xxx. p. 9, _The Lamentation of Shore's Wife_,) and in the Collection of 1723, a burlesque song, called _King Edward and Jane Shore_ (vol. i. p. 153). If Rosamond, that was so fair, Had cause her sorrow to declare, Then let Jane Shore with sorrow sing, That was beloved of a king. Then, wanton wives, in time amend, For love and beauty will have end. In maiden years my beauty bright 5 Was loved dear by lord and knight; But yet the love that they requir'd, It was not as my friends desir'd. My parents they, for thirst of gain, A husband for me did obtain; 10 And I, their pleasure to fulfil, Was forc'd to wed against my will. To Matthew Shore I was a wife, Till lust brought ruin to my life; And then my life I lewdly spent, 15 Which makes my soul for to lament. In Lombard-street I once did dwell, As London yet can witness well; Where many gallants did behold My beauty in a shop of gold. 20 I spread my plumes, as wantons do, Some sweet and secret friende to wooe, Because my love I did not find Agreeing to my wanton mind. At last my name in court did ring 25 Into the ears of England's king, Who came and lik'd, and love requir'd, But I made coy what he desir'd. Yet Mistress Blague, a neighbour near, Whose friendship I esteemed dear, 30 Did say, "It is a gallant thing To be beloved of a king." By her perswasions I was led For to defile my marriage-bed, And wronge my wedded husband Shore, 35 Whom I had lov'd ten years before. In heart and mind I did rejoyce, That I had made so sweet a choice; And therefore did my state resign, To be King Edward's concubine. 40 From city then to court I went, To reap the pleasures of content; There had the joys that love could bring, And knew the secrets of a king. When I was thus advanc'd on high, 45 Commanding Edward with mine eye, For Mistress Blague I in short space Obtain'd a living from his Grace. No friend I had, but in short time I made unto promotion climb; 50 But yet for all this costly pride, My husbande could not me abide. His bed, tho' wronged by a king, His heart with deadly grief did sting; From England then he goes away 55 To end his life beyond the sea.[L56] He could not live to see his name Impaired by my wanton shame; Altho' a prince of peerless might Did reap the pleasure of his right. 60 Long time I lived in the court, With lords and ladies of great sort; And when I smil'd, all men were glad, But when I mourn'd, my prince grew sad. But yet an honest mind I bore 65 To helpless people, that were poor; I still redress'd the orphan's cry, And sav'd their lives condemn'd to dye. I still had ruth on widows tears, I succour'd babes of tender years; 70 And never look'd for other gain But love and thanks, for all my pain. At last my royal king did dye, And then my days of woe grew nigh; When crook-back'd Richard got the crown, 75 King Edward's friends were soon put down. I then was punish'd for my sin, That I so long had lived in; Yea, every one that was his friend, This tyrant brought to shameful end. 80 Then for my lewd and wanton life,[L81] That made a strumpet of a wife, I penance did in Lombard-street, In shameful manner in a sheet: Where many thousands did me view, 85 Who late in court my credit knew; Which made the tears run down my face, To think upon my foul disgrace. Not thus content, they took from mee My goods, my livings, and my fee, 90 And charg'd that none should me relieve, Nor any succour to me give. Then unto Mistress Blague I went, To whom my jewels I had sent, In hope thereby to ease my want, 95 When riches fail'd, and love grew scant. But she deny'd to me the same, When in my need for them I came; To recompence my former love, Out of her doors she did me shove. 100 So love did vanish with my state, Which now my soul repents too late; Therefore example take by me, For friendship parts in poverty. But yet one friend among the rest, 105 Whom I before had seen distress'd, And sav'd his life, condemn'd to dye, Did give me food to succour me: For which, by law it was decreed That he was hanged for that deed; 110 His death did grieve me so much more, Than had I dy'd myself therefore. Then those to whom I had done good Durst not afford mee any food;[L114] Whereby in vain I begg'd all day, 115 And still in streets by night I lay. My gowns beset with pearl and gold, Were turn'd to simple garments old; My chains and jems and golden rings, To filthy rags and loathsome things. 120 Thus was I scorn'd of maid and wife, For leading such a wicked life; Both sucking babes and children small, Did make a pastime at my fall. I could not get one bit of bread, 125 Whereby my hunger might be fed: Nor drink, but such as channels yield, Or stinking ditches in the field. Thus, weary of my life, at length I yielded up my vital strength, 130 Within a ditch of loathsome scent, Where carrion dogs do much frequent: The which now since my dying day, Is Shoreditch call'd, as writers say;[L134] Which is a witness of my sin, 135 For being concubine to a king. You wanton wives, that fall to lust, Be you assur'd that God is just; Whoredom shall not escape his hand, Nor pride unpunish'd in this land. 140 If God to me such shame did bring, That yielded only to a king, How shall they scape that daily run To practise sin with every man? You husbands, match not but for love, 145 Lest some disliking after prove; Women, be warn'd when you are wives, What plagues are due to sinful lives: Then, maids and wives, in time amend, For love and beauty will have end. 56. upon. 81. rude. 114. restore. 134. But it had this name long before; being so called from its being a common sewer (vulgarly shore) or drain.--PERCY. A TRUE RELATION OE THE LIFE AND DEATH OF SIR ANDREW BARTON, A PYRATE AND ROVER ON THE SEAS. This copy of _Sir Andrew Barton_ is to be found in _Old Ballads_ (1723) vol. i. 159, Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, ii. 204, Moore's _Pictorial Book of Ancient Ballad Poetry_, p. 256, and _Early Naval Ballads of England_, Percy Society, vol. ii. p. 4, with only exceedingly trifling variations. We have followed the last, where the ballad is given from a black-letter copy in the British Museum, "printed by and for W. O., and sold by the booksellers." When Flora with her fragrant flowers, Bedeckt the earth so trim and gay, And Neptune with his dainty showers, Came to present the month of May, King Henry would a-hunting ride; 5 Over the river Thames passed he, Unto a mountain-top also Did walk, some pleasure for to see. Where forty merchants he espy'd, With fifty sail came towards him, 10 Who then no sooner were arriv'd, But on their knees did thus complain; "An't please your grace, we cannot sail To France no voyage to be sure, But Sir Andrew Barton makes us quail, 15 And robs us of our marchant ware." Vext was the king, and turning him, Said to the lords of high degree, "Have I ne'er a lord within my realm, Dare fetch that traytor unto me?" 20 To him reply'd Charles Lord Howard, "I will, my liege, with heart and hand; If it will please you grant me leave," he said, "I will perform what you command." To him then spoke King Henry, 25 "I fear, my lord, you are too young." "No whit at all, my liege," quoth he; "I hope to prove in valour strong. The Scotch knight I vow to seek, In what place soever he be, 30 And bring ashore with all his might, Or into Scotland he shall carry me." "A hundred men," the king then said, "Out of my realm shall chosen be, Besides sailors and ship-boys, 35 To guide a great ship on the sea. Bowmen and gunners of good skill, Shall for this service chosen be, And they at thy command and will In all affairs shall wait on thee." 40 Lord Howard call'd a gunner then, Who was the best in all the realm, His age was threescore years and ten, And Peter Simon was his name. My lord call'd then a bow-man rare, 45 Whose active hands had gained fame A gentleman born in Yorkshire, And William Horsely was his name. "Horsely!" quoth he, "I must to sea, To seek a traytor, with good speed: 50 Of a hundred bow-men brave," quoth he, "I have chosen thee to be the head." "If you, my lord, have chosen me Of a hundred men to be the head, Upon the mainmast I'll hanged be, 55 If twelve-score I miss one shilling's breadth." Lord Howard then of courage bold, Went to the sea with pleasant cheer, Not curbed with winter's piercing cold, Tho' it was the stormy time of year. 60 Not long had he been on sea, More in days than number three, But one Henry Hunt then he espy'd, A merchant of Newcastle was he. To him Lord Howard call'd out amain, 65 And strictly charged him to stand; Demanding then from whence he came, Or where he did intend to land. The merchant then made answer soon, With heavy heart and careful mind, 70 "My lord, my ship it doth belong Unto New-castle upon Tine." "Canst thou show me," the lord did say, "As thou didst sail by day and night, A Scottish rover on the sea, 75 His name is Andrew Barton, knight?" Then the merchant sighed and said, With grieved mind and well-a-way, "But over well I know that wight, I was his prisoner yesterday. 80 "As I, my lord, did sail from France, A Burdeaue voyage to take so far, I met with Sir Andrew Barton thence, Who robb'd me of my merchant ware. And mickle debts God knows I owe, 85 And every man doth crave his own; And I am bound to London now, Of our gracious king to beg a boon." "Show me him," said Lord Howard then, "Let me once the villain see, 90 And every penny he hath from thee ta'en, I'll double the same with shillings three." "Now, God forbid," the merchant said, "I fear your aim that you will miss; God bless you from his tyranny, 95 For little you think what man he is. "He is brass within and steel without, His ship most huge and mighty strong, With eighteen pieces of ordinance, He carrieth on each side along. 100 With beams for his top-castle, As also being huge and high, That neither English nor Portugal Can Sir Andrew Barton pass by." "Hard news thou shewst," then said the lord, 105 "To welcome stranger to the sea; But as I said, I'll bring him aboard, Or into Scotland he shall carry me." The merchant said, "If thou will do so, Take councel, then, I pray withal: 110 Let no man to his top-castle go, Nor strive to let his beams downfall. "Lend me seven pieces of ordnance then, Of each side of my ship," said he, "And to-morrow, my Lord, 115 Again I will your honour see. A glass I set as may be seen, Whether you sail by day or night; And to-morrow, be sure before seven, You shall see Sir Andrew Barton, knight." 120 The merchant set my lord a glass, So well apparent in his sight, That on the morrow, as his promise was, He saw Sir Andrew Barton, knight: The lord then swore a mighty oath, 125 "Now by the heavens that be of might, By faith, believe me, and my troth, I think he is a worthy knight." "Fetch me my lyon out of hand,"[L129] Saith the lord, "with rose and streamer high; 130 Set up withal a willow-wand, That merchant like, I may pass by:" Thus bravely did Lord Howard pass, And on anchor rise so high; No top-sail at last he cast, 135 But as a foe did him defie. Sir Andrew Barton seeing him Thus scornfully to pass by, As tho' he cared not a pin For him and his company; 140 Then called he his men amain, "Fetch back yon pedlar now," quoth he, "And ere this way he comes again, I'll teach him well his courtesie." A piece of ordnance soon was shot 145 By this proud pirate fiercely then, Into Lord Howard's middle deck, Which cruel shot killed fourteen men. He called then Peter Simon, he: "Look how thy word do stand instead, 150 For thou shall be hanged on main-mast, If thou miss twelve score one penny breadth." Then Peter Simon gave a shot, Which did Sir Andrew mickle scare, In at his deck it came so hot, 155 Killed fifteen of his men of war. "Alas," then said the pirate stout, "I am in danger now I see; This is some lord, I greatly fear, That is set on to conquer me." 160 Then Henry Hunt, with rigour hot, Came bravely on the other side, Who likewise shot in at his deck, And killed fifty of his men beside. Then "Out alas," Sir Andrew cryd, 165 "What may a man now think or say! Yon merchant thief that pierceth me, He was my prisoner yesterday." Then did he on Gordion call Unto the top castle for to go, 170 And bid his beams he should let fall, For he greatly fear'd an overthrow. The lord call'd Horsely now in haste: "Look that thy word stand in stead, For thou shall be hanged on main mast, 175 If thou miss twelve score a shilling's breadth." Then up [the] mast tree swerved he, This stout and mighty Gordion; But Horsely he most happily Shot him under his collar-bone: 180 Then call'd he on his nephew then, Said, "Sister's son, I have no mo, Three hundred pound I will give thee, If thou will to top-castle go." Then stoutly he began to climb, 185 From off the mast scorn'd to depart; But Horsely soon prevented him, And deadly pierced him to the heart. His men being slain, then up amain Did this proud pirate climb with speed, 190 For armour of proof he had on, And did not dint of arrows dread. "Come hither, Horseley," said the lord, "See thou thy arrows aim aright; Great means to thee I will afford, 195 And if thou speedst, I'll make thee knight." Sir Andrew did climb up the tree, With right good will and all his main; Then upon the breast hit Horsley he, Till the arrow did return again. 200 Then Horsley spied a private place, With a perfect eye, in a secret part; His arrow swiftly flew apace, And smote Sir Andrew to the heart. "Fight on, fight on, my merry men all, 205 A little I am hurt, yet not slain; I'll but lie down and bleed awhile, And come and fight with you again. "And do not," said he, "fear English rogues, And of your foes stand not in awe, 210 But stand fast by St. Andrew's crosse, Until you hear my whistle blow." They never heard this whistle blow, Which made them all full sore afraid. Then Horsely said, "My Lord, aboard, 215 For now Sir Andrew Barton's dead." Thus boarded they his gallant ship, With right good will and all their main; Eighteen score Scots alive in it, Besides as many more was slain. 220 The lord went where Sir Andrew lay, And quickly thence cut off his head; "I should forsake England many a day, If thou wert alive as thou art dead." Thus from the wars Lord Howard came, 225 With mickle joy and triumphing; The pirate's head he brought along For to present unto our king: Who haply unto him did say, Before he well knew what was done, 230 "Where is the knight and pirate gay, That I myself may give the doom?" "You may thank God," then said the lord, "And four men in the ship," quoth he, "That we are safely come ashore, 235 Sith you never had such an enemy; That is Henry Hunt, and Peter Simon, William Horsely, and Peter's son;[L238] Therefore reward them for their pains, For they did service at their turn." 240 To the merchant therefore the King he said, "In lieu of what he hath from thee tane, I give thee a noble a-day, Sir Andrew's whistle and his chain: To Peter Simon a crown a-day, 245 And half-a-crown a-day to Peter's son, And that was for a shot so gay, Which bravely brought Sir Andrew down. "Horsely, I will make thee a knight, And in Yorkshire thou shalt dwell: 250 Lord Howard shall Earl Bury hight, For this act he deserveth well. Ninety pound to our Englishmen, Who in this fight did stoutly stand; And twelve-pence a-day to the Scots, till they 255 Come to my brother king's high land." 129-136. In some copies this stanza is wrongly placed after the next. 238. The services of Peter's son, not mentioned in this ballad, are duly recorded in the older, unabridged copy. See v. 53-56, on p. 64. THE BATTLE OF CORICHIE ON THE HILL OF FAIR, FOUGHT OCT. 28, 1562. From Evans's _Old Ballads_, iii. 132. The favor shown by Queen Mary to her brother Lord James Stuart, on her first coming to Scotland, excited a violent jealousy in Gordon, Earl of Huntly, who, as a Catholic, and the head of a loyal and powerful family in the North, expected no slight distinction from his sovereign. This jealousy broke out into open hostility when the Queen, in 1562, conferred on her brother the earldom of Murray, the honors and revenues of which had been enjoyed by Huntly since 1548. Mary was at this time on a progress in the northern part of her kingdom, attended by the new earl and a small escort. Huntly collected his vassals and posted himself at a place called the Fair Bank, or Corichie, near Aberdeen. Murray having increased his forces by seven or eight hundred of the Forbeses and Leslies, who, although attached to the Huntly faction, dared not disobey the Queen's summons, marched to the attack. As little confidence could be placed in the good faith of the northern recruits, he ordered them to begin the battle. In obedience to this command, they advanced against the enemy, but instantly recoiled and retreated in a pretended panic on Murray's reserve, followed by the Gordons in disorder. The Queen's party received both the flying and the pursuers with an impenetrable front of lances. Huntly was repulsed, and the other northern clans, seeing how the victory was going, turned their swords upon their friends. Many of the Gordons were slain, and the Earl, who was old and fat, being thrown from his horse, was smothered in the retreat. His sons John and Adam were taken prisoners, and the former was put to death at Aberdeen the day after the battle. The following ballad, it will be perceived, is utterly at variance with the facts of history. It was first printed in Evans's _Old Ballads_, and is said to be the composition of one Forbes, schoolmaster at Mary-Culter, on Dee-side. The dialect is broad Aberdeen. Murn ye heighlands, and murn ye leighlands, I trow ye hae meikle need; For thi bonny burn o' Corichie His run this day wi' bleid. Thi hopefu' laird o' Finliter,[L5] 5 Erle Huntly's gallant son, For thi love hi bare our beauteous quine His gar't fair Scotland mone. Hi his braken his ward in Aberdene, Throu dreid o' thi fause Murry, 10 And his gather't the gentle Gordone clan, An' his father, auld Huntly. Fain wid he tak our bonny guide quine, An' beare hir awa' wi' him; But Murry's slee wyles spoil't a' thi sport, 15 An' reft him o' lyfe and lim. Murry gar 't rayse thi tardy Merns men, An' Angis, an' mony ane mair, Erle Morton, and the Byres Lord Linsay, An' campit at thi hill o' Fare. 20 Erle Huntlie came wi' Haddo Gordone, An' countit ane thusan men; But Murry had abien twal hunder, Wi' sax score horsemen and ten. They soundit thi bougills an' the trumpits, 25 An' marchit on in brave array, Till the spiers an' the axis forgatherit, An' than did begin thi fray. Thi Gordones sae fercelie did fecht it, Withouten terrer or dreid, 30 That mony o' Murry's men lay gaspin, An' dyit thi grund wi theire bleid. Then fause Murry feingit to flee them, An' they pursuit at his backe, Whan thi haf o' thi Gordones desertit, 35 An' turnit wi' Murray in a crack. Wi hether i' thir bonnits they turnit, The traiter Haddo o' their heid, An' slaid theire brithers an' their fatheris, An' spoilit an' left them for deid. 40 Then Murry cried to tak thi auld Gordone, An' mony ane ran wi' speid; But Stuart o' Inchbraik had him stickit, An' out gushit thi fat lurdane's bleid. Then they teuke his twa sones quick an' hale, 45 An' bare them awa' to Aberdene; But fair did our guide quine lament Thi waeful chance that they were tane. Erle Murry lost mony a gallant stout man; Thi hopefu' laird o' Thornitune, 50 Pittera's sons, an Egli's far fearit laird, An mair to mi unkend, fell doune. Erle Huntly mist ten score o' his bra' men, Sum o' heigh an' sum o' leigh degree; Skeenis youngest son, thi pryde o' a' the clan, Was ther fun' dead, he widna flee. 55 This bloody fecht wis fercely faucht Octobri's aught an' twinty day, Crystis' fyfteen hundred thriscore yeir An' twa will merk thi deidlie fray. 60 But now the day maist waefu' came, That day the quine did grite her fill, For Huntly's gallant stalwart son, Wis heidit on thi heidin hill. Fyve noble Gordones wi' him hangit were 65 Upon thi samen fatal playne; Crule Murry gar't thi waefu' quine luke out, And see hir lover an' liges slayne. I wis our quine had better frinds, I wis our country better peice; 70 I wis our lords wid na' discord, I wis our weirs at hame may ceise. 5. This. THE BATTLE OF BALRINNES, (OTHERWISE CALLED THE BATTLE OF GLENLIVET.) When Philip the Second was preparing his Armada for the conquest of England, he spared no pains to induce James of Scotland to favor his enterprise. Elizabeth, on her part, was not less active to secure the friendship of a neighbor, who, by opening or closing his ports, might do so much to assist or to counteract the projects of her enemy. James had the wisdom to see that it was not for his interest to ally himself with a power that sought the extinction of the faith which he professed, and the subjugation of a kingdom to which he was the heir. The Spanish overtures were rejected, and the great body of the people, warmly applauding the king's decision, entered into a combination to resist an attempt to land at any point on the Scottish coast. There was, nevertheless, a small party in Scotland which favoured the designs of Philip. At the head of this faction were the Catholic Earls of Huntly, Errol, and Angus. Even after the dispersion of the Armada, they kept up negotiations with the Prince of Parma and the King of Spain, in the hope of restoring the ancient religion, or at least of obtaining for themselves an equality of privileges with the Protestants. More than once were the leaders of this party committed to prison for overt acts of treason, and released by the clemency of the sovereign, but suffering as the Romanists did under the oppression of a fanatical majority, rebellion was their natural condition. After various acts of insubordination, continued for a series of years, it was proved beyond question that the Catholic earls had signed papers for an invasion of Britain by 30,000 foreigners. A Convention of Estates, summoned to consider the affair, finally determined that the three earls should be exempt from further inquiry on account of this conspiracy, but that before the first day of February, 1594, they should either renounce the errors of Popery, or remove from the kingdom. The Catholic leaders, relying on the number of their supporters, and not less on the inaccessible nature of the country in which their estates lay, scornfully rejected the choice proposed to them, renewed their connections with Spain, and were accordingly declared guilty of high treason and subjected to the doom of forfeiture. King James's exchequer was at this time so low that it was impossible for him to undertake the enforcing of this sentence in person. He was obliged to delegate the office to the young Earl of Argyle, who was induced to accept the appointment by the promise of a portion of Huntly's forfeited estates. The prospect of booty and the authority of the chief of the Campbells drew together six or seven thousand Highlanders, to whom were joined some hundreds of men from the Western Islands, under the chief of Maclean. With this body, one fourth of whom carried firelocks, while the rest were armed after the Gaelic fashion, Argyle descended from the hills towards Huntly's castle of Strathbogie. The chief of the Gordons, suddenly assailed, had no time to procure assistance from Angus. He collected about a thousand gentlemen of his own name, and Errol came to his aid with two or three hundred of the Hays. All these were men of birth, well armed and mounted, and to this small, but powerful, troop of cavalry, was added a train of six field pieces (engines very terrible to Highlanders), under the management of an excellent soldier, the very same Captain Ker, who has figured already in the ballad of _Edom o' Gordon_. The armies encountered at a place called Belrinnes in a district called Glenlivet. The Highlanders were posted on a mountain-side, so steep that footmen could barely keep their hold. Notwithstanding this obstacle, the Earls determined to attempt the ascent, and Errol, supported by Sir Patrick Gordon, led the Hays up the hill in the very face of the foe. While the vanguard was advancing, Ker brought some of his artillery to bear on Argyle's front, which threw the Highlanders into confusion, and caused some of them to fly. Errol's horsemen, however, were soon forced by the steepness of the mountain to wheel and move obliquely, and their flank being thus exposed, their horses suffered considerable damage from a volley of bullets and arrows. Upon this Huntly made a fierce attack upon Argyle's centre, and bore down his banner, and his cavalry soon after attaining to more even ground, where their horses could operate with efficiency, the Highlanders, who were destitute of lances, and so unable to withstand the shock, were driven down the other side of the hill, and put to utter rout. The chief of Maclean alone withstood the assault of the horsemen, and performed marvellous feats of bravery, but was at last forced off the field by his own soldiers, and Argyle himself was compelled to fly, weeping with anger. Of the Catholics, Sir Patrick Gordon, Huntley's uncle, was slain, with only twelve others. The loss of the other party was several hundred soldiers, besides some men of note, among them Campbell of Lochinzell. This battle was fought on the third of October, 1594. The action is called the Battle of Glenlivet, or of Balrinnes, and also of Strath-aven.--See the 38th chapter of Sir W. Scott's _History of Scotland_, and the contemporary narrative in Dalzell's _Scotish Poems of the Sixteenth Century_, i. 136. The ballad which follows is taken from the publication of Dalzell just mentioned, vol. ii. p. 347. There is a copy in the Pepys Collection, and another in the Advocates' Library, printed at Edinburgh in 1681. The ballad is also printed, undoubtedly from a stall copy, in _Scarce Ancient Ballads_, p. 29. The first four stanzas had previously been given in Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, ii. 144. The older version of Dalzell is somewhat defective, and abounds in errors, which, as well as the vitiated orthography, are attributed to the ignorance of an English transcriber. The omissions are here supplied in the margin from the other copies. Betuixt Dunother and Aberdein, I rais and tuik the way, Beleiuing weill it had not beine Nought halff ane hour to day. The lift was clad with cloudis gray, 5 And owermaskit was the moone, Quhilk me deceaued whair I lay, And maid me ryss ouer soone. On Towie Mounth I mett a man, Weill grathed in his gear: 10 Quoth I, "Quhat neues?" then he begane To tell a fitt of warre. Quoth he, "Of lait I heir,[L13] Ane bloodie broust there was brouine, Zesterday, withouten moir, 15 Upone ane hill at Strathdoune." * * * * * Then I, as any man wold be, 25 Desyrous for to know Mair of that taill he told to me, The quhilk he said he sawe-- Be then the day began to daw, And back with him I red; 30 Then he began the soothe to schaw, And on this wayis he said. Macallenmore cam from the wast With many a bow and brand; To wast the Rinnes he thought best, 35 The Earll of Huntlies land.[L36] He swore that none should him gainestand, Except that he war fay; Bot all sould be at his comand That dwelt be northen Tay. 40 Then Huntlie, for to prevent that perrill, Directit hastilie Unto the noble Erll of Erroll, Besought him for supplie. Quha said, "It is my deutie 45 For to giue Huntlie support; For if he lossis Strabolgie, My Slaines will be ill hurt. "Thairfoir I hald the subject vaine, Wold rave us of our right; 50 First sall one of us be slaine, The uther tak the flight. Suppose Argyll be muche of might, Be force of Heigheland men; We's be a motte into his sight, 55 Or he pas hame againe. "Be blaithe, my mirrie men, be blaithe, Argyll sall have the worse, Give he into this countrie kaithe, I houpe in God[i]s cross." 60 Then leap this lord upon his horss, Ane warrlyk troupe at Torray; To meit with Huntlie and his force, They ryde to Elgine of Murray. The samen night thir lordis meit; 65 For utheris, who thought long, (To tell zow all, I haue forgot) The mirthe was them amonge. Then playeris played, and songsters song, To gled the mirrie host, 70 Quho feared not thair foes strong, Nor zet Argylles boste. They for two dayes wold not remove, Bot blaithlie dranck the wyne, Some to his lass, some to his loue, 75 Some to his ladeis fyne. And he that thought not for to blyne, His mistres tockin tackes; They kist it first, and set it syne Upone thair helmes and jackes. 80 They past thair tyme right wantonly, Quhill word cam at ye last, Argyll, with ane great armie, Approached wondrous fast. Then [out] of the toune thir barrones past, 85 And Huntlie to them said, "Good gentillmen, we will us cast To Strathbolgie but bed."[L88] Quhen they unto Strathbolgie came,[L89] To that castell but dreid, 90 Then to forsee how thingis might frame,[L91] For they had meikle neid, They woned them unto the dead, As kirkmen could devys; Syne prayed to God that they might speed 95 Off thair guid enterpryse. Then evirie man himself did arme, To meit Mackallanmorne, Unto Strathdoune quho did great harme The Wednesday beforne. 100 As lyounes does poore lambes devoure, With bloodie teethe and naillis, They burnt the biggingis, tuik the store, Syne slewe the peopillis sellis. Besyd all this hie crueltie, 105 He said, ere he should ceass, The standing stonnes of Strathbolgie Schould be his palione place. Bot Huntlie said, "With Godis grace, First we sall fight them ones; 110 Perchance that they may tak the chess, Ere they come to the stonnes." Thir lordis keipt on at afternoone, With all thair warrmen wight; Then sped up to Cabrach sone, 115 Whair they bed all that night. Upone the morne, quhen day was light, They rose and maid them boune Intill ane castell that stood on hight, They call it Auchindoune. 120 Besyd that castell, on a croft, They stended pallionis ther; Then spak a man that had bein oft In jeopardie of warr: "My lord, zour foes they ar to fear, 125 Thoughe we war neuir so stoute; Thairfoir comand some man of warre To watche the rest about." Be this was done, some gentillmen Of noble kin and blood, 130 To counsell with thir lordis begane, Of matteris to concluide: For weill aneughe they understood The matter was of weght, They had so manie men of good 135 In battell for to fight. The firstin man in counsall spak, Good Errol it was he; Who sayis, "I will the vaneguard tack And leiding upone me. 140 My Lord Huntlie, come succour me, When ze sie me opprest; For fra the feild I will not flie So long as I may last." Thair at some Gordones waxed wraithe, 145 And said he did them wrong; To lat this lord then they warre leath First to [the] battell gange. The meiting that was them amonge,[L149] Was no man that it hard, 150 Bot Huntlie, with ane troupe full stronge, Bed into the reir guarde. Thir wer the number of thair force Thir lordis to battell led: Ane thousand gentillmen on horss, 155 And some fotemen they had; Thrie hundreth that schot arrowes bred, Four scorr that hagbutis bore: Thir war the number that they had Of footmen with them suire. 160 This worthy chevalrie[L161] All merchand to the field; Argyll, with ane great armie, Upone ane hill had tane beild, Aboyding them [with] speare and scheild,[L165] 165 With bullettis, dartis, and bowes; The men could weill thair wapones weild;[L167] To meit them was no mowes. When they so near uther war come, That ilk man saw his foe, 170 "Goe to, and assay the gaime," said some; Bot Capitane Ker said, "No: First lat the gunes befoir us goe, That they may break the order": Quoth both the lordis, "Lat it be so, 175 Or euer we goe forder." Then Androw Gray, upone ane horss, Betuixt the battillis red; Makand the signe of holy cross, _In manus tuas_ he said.[L180] 180 He lighted thair [the] gunes to led, Quhill they cam to the rest; Then Capitane Ker unto him sped, And bad him shuit in haist. "I will not [shuit]," quothe Androw Gray, 185 "Quhill they cum over zonder hill; We have an ower guid caus this dey,[L187] Through misgydins to spill. Goe back, and bid our men byd still, Quhill they cum to the plaine; 190 Then sall my shuitting doe them ill, I will not shuit in vaine." "Shuit up, shuit up," quothe Capitane Ker, "Shuit up, to our comfort!" The firsten shot [it] was to neir, 195 It lighted all to schort. The nixtin shot thair foes hurt, It lighted wounderous weill: Quoth Androw Gray, "I sie ane sport, Quhen they began to reill. 200 "Goe toe, good mattes, and say the game, Zonder folkis ar in a fray; Lat sie how we can well with them, Into thair disaray. Goe, goe, it is not tyme to stay, 205 All for my bennisoune; Saue non this day ze may gar dye, Quhill ze the feild haue wonne."[L209] Then Errol haisted to the hight, Whair he did battell byd; With him went Auchindoune and Gight,[L219] And Bonnitoune by his syd: 220 Whair manie gentillman did with him byd, Whos prais sould not be smored; Bot Capitane Ker, that was thair gyde, Red ay befoir my lord. They war not manie men of werre, 225 Bot they war wonder trewe; With hagbutis, pistolet, bowe, and speare, They did thair foes persewe, Quhair bullettis, dartis, and arrowes flew, Als thick as haill or raine, 230 Quhilk manie hurt, and some they slew, Of horss and gentillmen. Huntlie maid haist to succour him, And charged furiouslie, Quhair manie menis sight grew dim, 235 The shottis so thick did flie; Quhilk gart right manie doghtie die, Of some on euerie syd; Argyll with his tald hoste did flie, Bot Macklenne did abyd. 240 Macklene had one ane habershoune, Ilk lord had one ane jack; Togidder feirc[e]lie are they rune, With manie a gunes crack. The splenderis of thair spearis they break, 245 Flewe up into the air, Quhilk boore doune maney on thair back, Againe ros neuer mair.[L249] "Alace, I sie ane soré sight," 265 Said the Laird of Macklenne; "Our feible folkis is tenne the flight, And left me myne allaine. Now must I flie, or els be slaine, Since they will not returne;" 270 With that he ran ouer ane dyne, Endlongis ane lytill burne. Then after great Argylles hoste Some horssmen tuik the chess, Quha turned their backes for all thair bost, 275 Contrair the fooles say[s]. They cried "oh," with manie "alace," Bot neuir for mercie sought; Thairfoir the Gordones gaue no grace, Becaus they craved it nought. 280 Then some guidman perseiued sharpe,[L281] With Erroll and Huntlie, And thai with [a] capitane did carpe, Quhais name was Ogilvie. He sayis, "Gentillmen, lat see 285 Who maniest slaine slaydis;[L286] Save non this day ze may gar die, For pleadis, nor ransome paynes."[L288] Lyk hartes, up howes and hillis thei ranne, Quhair horsmen might not winn: 290 "Reteir againe," quoth Huntlie then, "Quhair we did first begin. Heir lyes manie carved skinnes, With manie ane bloodie beard, For anie helpe, with litell dinne, 295 Sall rotte aboue the eard." When they cam to the hill againe, The sett doune one thair knees, Syne thanked God that they had slaine Soe manie enimies. 300 They ros befor Argylles eyis, Maid Capitane Ker ane knight; Syne bed among the dead bodies, Whill they war out of sight. [L305-12] [L313-20] This deid so doughtilie was done, As I hard trewe men tell, Upone ane Thursday afternoone, St. Franecis ewill befell.[L324] Guid Auchindoune was slaine himself, 325 With uther seven in battéll; So was the Laird of Lochinzell, Grate pitie was to tell. 13-24. Saying, "The ministers, I fear, A bloody browst have brown, For yesterday, withouthen mair, 15 On the hill at Stradown, I saw three lords in battle fight Right furiously awhile, Huntlie and Errol, as they hight, Were both against Argyle. 20 Turn back with me and ride a mile, And I shall make it kend, How they began, the form and stile, And of the battles end." JAMIESON. 36. landis. 88. beed. 91. fraine. 89-96. This stanza is unintelligible in Dalzell. It stands thus in Laing's copy. When they unto Strathboggy came, To council soon they geed, For to see how things might frame, For they had meikle need. They voted then to do a deed As kirkmen do devise, And pray'd that they might find good speed In that great interprise. 149. This line seems to be corrupted. 161. Some words are lost. Thus with their noble cavalry They marched to the field. LAING. 165. speares and scheildis. 167. weild thair wapones weill. 180. mannis. 187. then ower. 209-216. Then awful Erroll he can say "Good fellows, follow me: 210 I hope it shall be ours this day, Or else therefore to die. Tho they in number many be,[L213] Set on, withoutten words; Let ilk brave fellow brake his tree, 215 And then pursue with swords." 213. many were. 219. within went. 249-56. Then some men said, "We will be sure And take Maclean by course; 250 Go to, for we are men anew To bear him down by force." But noble Errol had remorse, And said, "It is not best, For tho Argyle has got the worst, 255 Let him gang with the rest. 257-64. "What greater honour could ye wish In deeds of chivalry, Or brave victory than this, Where one has chac'd thrice three? 260 Therefore, good fellows, let him be; He'll die before he yield; For he with his small company Bade langest in the field." 281. perceiued. 286, 288. corrupted. 305-12. Now I have you already tauld, 305 Huntly and Errol's men Could scarce be thirteen hundred called, The truth if ye would ken.[L308] And yet Argyle his thousands ten[L309] Were they that took the race, 310 And tho that they were nine to ane, They caused [them] take the chace. 308. he. 309. has. 313-20. Sae Argyle's boast it was in vain, (He thought sure not to tyne) That if he durst cum to the plain, 315 He would gar every nine Of his lay hold upon ilk man Huntly and Errol had: But yet for all his odds he ran[L319] To tell how ill he sped. 320 319. fled. 324. should be _eve_, or _vigil_. BONNY JOHN SETON. This ballad is taken from Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, p. 15. There is another version in Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 136 (_The Death of John Seton_). John Seton of Pitmedden, a young and brave cavalier, was shot through the middle by a cannon ball, during the skirmish at the Bridge of Dee, while engaged, under the Viscount of Aboyne, in resisting the advance of Montrose upon the town of Aberdeen, in June, 1639. It was the hard fate of Aberdeen to suffer from the arms of Montrose, first, when he was general of the Covenanters, and again while he was lieutenant for the King. The murder and pillage perpetrated in the town by the Irish after the defeat of Lord Burleigh, in 1644, have been made the subject of violent reproach by his enemies, but it may perhaps be said, that for all that exceeded the usual horrors of war, the heroic commander was not responsible. In Buchan's version of the present ballad, the clemency shown by Montrose on taking possession of the city in 1639 is commemorated in three stanzas worthy of preservation. The Covenanters were "resolved to have sacked it orderly." Out it speeks the gallant Montrose, (Grace on his fair body!) "We winna burn the bonny burgh, We'll even lat it be." Then out it speaks the gallant Montrose, "Your purpose I will break; We winna burn the bonny burgh, We'll never build its make. "I see the women and their children Climbing the craigs sae hie; We'll sleep this night in the bonny burgh, And even lat it be." * * * * * Upon the eighteenth day of June, A dreary day to see, The Southern lords did pitch their camp Just at the bridge of Dee. Bonny John Seton of Pitmeddin, 5 A bold baron was he, He made his testament ere he went out, The wiser man was he. He left his land to his young son, His lady her dowry, 10 A thousand crowns to his daughter Jean, Yet on the nurse's knee. Then out came his lady fair, A tear into her e'e; Says "Stay at home, my own good lord, 15 O stay at home with me!" He looked over his left shoulder, Cried, "Souldiers, follow me!" O then she looked in his face, An angry woman was she: 20 "God send me back my steed again, But ne'er let me see thee!" His name was Major Middleton That manned the bridge of Dee; His name was Colonel Henderson 25 That let the cannons flee. His name was Major Middleton That manned the bridge of Dee; And his name was Colonel Henderson That dung Pitmeddin in three. 30 Some rode on the black and gray, And some rode on the brown, But the bonny John Seton Lay gasping on the ground. Then bye there comes a false Forbes, 35 Was riding from Driminere; Says "Here there lies a proud Seton, This day they ride the rear." Cragievar said to his men,[L39] "You may play on your shield; 40 For the proudest Seton in all the lan' This day lies on the field." "O spoil him, spoil him," cried Cragievar, "Him spoiled let me see; For on my word," said Cragievar, 45 "He had no good will at me." They took from him his armour clear, His sword, likewise his shield; Yea they have left him naked there Upon the open field. 50 The Highland men, they're clever men At handling sword and shield, But yet they are too naked men To stay in battle field. The Highland men are clever men[L55] 55 At handling sword or gun, But yet they are too naked men To bear the cannon's rung. For a cannon's roar in a summer night Is like thunder in the air; 60 There's not a man in Highland dress Can face the cannon's fire. 39. Sir William Forbes of Cragievar. 55-62. The Highlanders were thrown into great consternation by cannon shot, to which they were not accustomed. At the Raid of Stonehaven, just previous to the affair of the Bridge of Dee, the first volley made them wheel about and fly in disorder. They declared that they could not abide "the musket's mother." THE HAWS OF CROMDALE. Ritson's _Scottish Songs_, ii. 40. Johnson's _Museum_, p. 502. This ballad, very popular in Scotland, was long sold on the stalls before it was received into the collections. A glance will show that it has at best been very imperfectly transmitted by oral tradition. In fact, the Ettrick Shepherd seems to be right in maintaining that two widely separated events are here jumbled together. The first five stanzas apparently refer to an action in May, 1690, when Sir Thomas Livingston surprised fifteen hundred Highlanders in their beds at Cromdale, and the remainder to the lost battle of Auldern, where Montrose, with far inferior forces, defeated Sir John Hurry with prodigious slaughter, on the 4th of May, 1645. Mr. Stenhouse states, indeed, that after that imprudent division of the army of the Covenant which opened the way to the disaster at Auldern, Hurry surprised and routed at Cromdale a body of Highlanders under the lion-hearted Allaster Macdonald. But this check appears, by his own language, to have been too slight an affair to call forth such verses as those with which the ballad begins. See Hogg's _Jacobite Relics_, ii. 157, Johnson's _Museum_ (1853), iv. 428. As I came in by Achendown, A little wee bit frae the town, When to the highlands I was bown, To view the haws of Cromdale, I met a man in tartan trews, 5 I spier'd at him what was the news: Quoth he, "The highland army rues That e'er we came to Cromdale." "We were in bed, sir, every man, When the English host upon us came; 10 A bloody battle then began Upon the haws of Cromdale. "The English horse they were so rude, They bath'd their hoofs in highland blood, But our brave clans they boldly stood, 15 Upon the haws of Cromdale. "But alas! we could no longer stay, For o'er the hills we came away, And sore we do lament the day That e'er we came to Cromdale." 20 * * * * * Thus the great Montrose did say, "Can you direct the nearest way? For I will o'er the hills this day, And view the haws of Cromdale." "Alas, my lord, you're not so strong; 25 You scarcely have two thousand men, And there's twenty thousand on the plain, Stand rank and file on Cromdale." Thus the great Montrose did say, "I say, direct the nearest way, 30 For I will o'er the hills this day, And see the haws of Cromdale." They were at dinner, every man, When great Montrose upon them came; A second battle then began 35 Upon the haws of Cromdale. The Grants, Mackenzies, and M'Kys, Soon as Montrose they did espy, O then they fought most vehemently, Upon the haws of Cromdale. 40 The M'Donalds, they return'd again, The Camerons did their standard join, M'Intosh play'd a bonny game, Upon the haws of Cromdale. The M'Gregors fought like lyons bold, 45 M'Phersons, none could them controul, M'Lauchlins fought like loyal souls, Upon the haws of Cromdale. [M'Leans, M'Dougals, and M'Neals, So boldly as they took the field, 50 And made their enemies to yield, Upon the haws of Cromdale.] The Gordons boldly did advance, The Fraziers [fought] with sword and lance, The Grahams they made their heads to dance, 55 Upon the haws of Cromdale. The loyal Stewarts, with Montrose, So boldly set upon their foes, And brought them down with highland blows, Upon the haws of Cromdale 60 Of twenty thousand Cromwells men Five hundred went to Aberdeen, The rest of them lyes on the plain, Upon the haws of Cromdale. THE BATTLE OF ALFORD. Two months after the defeat of Sir John Hurry at Auldern, Montrose utterly destroyed the other division of the covenanting army, under General Baillie, at Alford on the Don. On the 2d of July, the King's forces marched from Drumminor, and crossed the Don to Alford, Montrose and the Earl of Aboyne taking up their quarters in the castle of Asloun. Baillie, who was now in pursuit of the royalists, moved southward, and encamped on the day just mentioned, at Lesly. The next morning he crossed the river (halting on the way near a farm called Mill Hill), whereupon the battle took place. Montrose dearly purchased this new victory by the loss of Lord George Gordon, who commanded the _right_ wing, not the left. These fragmentary verses are from _The Thistle of Scotland_, p. 68. The Graham[s and] Gordons of Aboyne Camp'd at Drumminor bog; At the castle there they lay all night, And left them scarce a hog. The black Baillie, that auld dog, 5 Appeared on our right; We quickly raise up frae the bog, To Alford march'd that night. We lay at Lesly all night, They camped at Asloun; 10 And up we raise afore daylight, To ding the beggars doun. Before we was in battle rank, We was anent Mill Hill; I wat full weel they gar'd us rue,[L15] 15 We gat fighting our fill. They hunted us and dunted us, They drave us here and there, Untill three hundred of our men Lay gasping in their lair. 20 The Earl of Mar the right wing guided, The colours stood him by; Lord George Gordon the left wing guided, Who well the sword could ply. There came a ball shot frae the west 25 That shot him through the back; Although he was our enemy, We grieved for his wreck. We cannot say 'twas his own men, But yet it came that way; 30 In Scotland there was not a match To that man where he lay. 15. fell. THE BATTLE OF PENTLAND HILLS. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 203 "The insurrection commemorated and magnified in the following ballad, as indeed it has been in some histories, was, in itself, no very important affair. It began in Dumfries-shire, where Sir James Turner, a soldier of fortune, was employed to levy the arbitrary fines imposed for not attending the Episcopal churches. The people rose, seized his person, disarmed his soldiers, and, having continued together, resolved to march towards Edinburgh, expecting to be joined by their friends in that quarter. In this they were disappointed; and, being now diminished to half their numbers, they drew up on the Pentland Hills, at a place called Rullien Green. They were commanded by one Wallace; and here they awaited the approach of General Dalziel, of Binns; who, having marched to Calder, to meet them on the Lanark road, and finding, that, by passing through Collington, they had got to the other side of the hills, cut through the mountains and approached them. Wallace showed both spirit and judgment: he drew up his men in a very strong situation, and withstood two charges of Dalziel's cavalry; but, upon the third shock, the insurgents were broken and utterly dispersed. There was very little slaughter, as the cavalry of Dalziel were chiefly gentlemen, who pitied their oppressed and misguided countrymen. There were about fifty killed, and as many made prisoners. The battle was fought on the 28th November, 1666; a day still observed by the scattered remnant of the Cameronian sect, who regularly hear a field-preaching upon the field of battle. "I am obliged for a copy of the ballad to Mr. Livingston of Airds, who took it down from the recitation of an old woman residing on his estate. "The gallant Grahams, mentioned in the text, are Graham of Claverhouse's horse." SCOTT. The gallant Grahams cam from the west, Wi' their horses black as ony craw; The Lothian lads they marched fast, To be at the Rhyns o' Gallowa. Betwixt Dumfries town and Argyle, 5 The lads they marched mony a mile; Souters and tailors unto them drew, Their covenants for to renew. The Whigs, they, wi' their merry cracks, Gar'd the poor pedlars lay down their packs; 10 But aye sinsyne they do repent The renewing o' their Covenant. At the Mauchline muir, where they were review'd, Ten thousand men in armour show'd; But, ere they came to the Brockie's burn, 15 The half of them did back return. General Dalyell, as I hear tell, Was our lieutenant-general; And Captain Welsh, wi' his wit and skill, Was to guide them on to the Pentland hill. 20 General Dalyell held to the hill, Asking at them what was their will; And who gave them this protestation, To rise in arms against the nation? "Although we all in armour be, 25 It's not against his majesty; Nor yet to spill our neighbour's bluid, But wi' the country we'll conclude." "Lay down your arms, in the King's name, And ye shall a' gae safely hame;" 30 But they a' cried out wi' ae consent, "We'll fight for a broken Covenant." "O well," says he, "since it is so, A wilfu' man never wanted woe:" He then gave a sign unto his lads, 35 And they drew up in their brigades. The trumpets blew, and the colours flew, And every man to his armour drew; The Whigs were never so much aghast, As to see their saddles toom sae fast. 40 The cleverest men stood in the van, The Whigs they took their heels and ran; But such a raking was never seen, As the raking o' the Rullien Green. THE READING SKIRMISH. Several companies, principally Irish, belonging to the army of King James, and stationed at Reading, had quitted the town in consequence of a report that the Prince of Orange was advancing in that direction with the main body of his forces. On the departure of the garrison, the people of Reading at once invited the Prince to take possession of the place, and secure them against the Irish. But the King's troops, having learned that it was only a small detachment of William's soldiers, and not the main army, by whom they were threatened, returned and reoccupied their post. Here they were attacked by two hundred and fifty of the Dutch, and though numbering six hundred, were soon put to flight, with the loss of their colors and of fifty men, the assailants losing but five. This skirmish occurred on Sunday, the 9th of December, 1688. This piece is extracted from Croker's _Historical Songs of Ireland_, p. 14, Percy Society, vol. i., and was there given from a collection of printed ballads in the British Museum. The burden seems to be derived from the following stanza of _Lilli burlero_: "Now, now de heretics all go down, _Lilli, &c._ By Chreist and St. Patrick de nation's our own, _Lilli, &c._ THE READING SKIRMISH; OR, THE BLOODY IRISH ROUTED BY THE VICTORIOUS DUTCH. Five hundred papishes came there, To make a final end Of all the town, in time of prayer, But God did them defend. To the tune of _Lilli borlero_. Licensed according to order. Printed for J. D. in the year 1688. We came into brave Reading by night, Five hundred horsemen proper and tall; Yet not resolved fairly to fight, But for to cut the throats of them all. Most of us was Irish Papists, 5 Who vowed to kill, then plunder the town; We this never doubted, but soon we were routed, By Chreest and St. Patrick, we all go down. In Reading town we ne'er went to bed; Every soul there mounted his horse, 10 Hoping next day to fill them with dread; Yet I swear by St. Patrick's cross, We most shamefully was routed: Fortune was pleased to give us a frown, And blasted our glory: I'll tell you the story, 15 By Chreest and St. Patrick we all go down. We thought to slay them all in their sleep, But by my shoul, were never the near, The hereticks their guard did so keep, Which put us in a trembling fear. 20 We concluded something further, To seize the churches all in the town, With killing and slaying, while they were a praying, But we were routed, and soon run down. Nay, before noon, we vowed to despatch 25 Every man, nay, woman and child; This in our hearts we freely did hatch, Vowing to make a prey of the spoil. But we straightways was prevented, When we did hope for fame and renown; 30 In less than an hour we [are] forcéd to scoure; By Chreest and St. Patrick, we are run down. We were resolved Reading to clear, Having in hand the flourishing sword; The bloody sceen was soon to appear, 35 For we did then but wait for the word: While the ministers were preaching, We were resolved to have at their gown; But straight was surrounded, and clearly confounded, By Chreest and St. Patrick, we all go down. 40 Just as we all were fit to fall on, In came the Dutch with fury and speed; And amongst them there was not a man, But what was rarely mounted indeed; And rid up as fierce as tygers, 45 Knitting their brows, they on us did frown; Not one of them idle, their teeth held their bridle, By Chreest and St. Patrick, we were run down. They never stood to use many words, But in all haste up to us they flocked, 50 In their right hands their flourishing swords, And their left carbines ready cock'd. We were forced to fly before them, Thorow the lanes and streets of the town; While they pursued after, and threaten'd a slaughter, 55 By Chreest and St. Patrick, we were run down. Then being fairly put to the rout, Hunted and drove before 'um like dogs, Our captain bid us then face about, But we wisht for our Irish bogs. 60 Having no great mind for fighting, The Dutch did drive us thorow the town; Our foreheads we crossed, yet still was unhorsed, By Chreest and St. Patrick, we're all run down. We threw away our swords and carbines, 65 Pistols and cloaks lay strow'd on the lands; Cutting off boots for running, uds-doyns, One pair of heels was worth two pair of hands. Then we called on sweet St. Coleman,[L69] Hoping he might our victory crown; 70 But Dutchmen pursuing poor Teagues to our ruin, By Chreest and St. Patrick, we're all run down. Never was Teagues in so much distress, As the whole world may well understand; When we came here, we thought to possess 75 Worthy estates of houses and land: But we find 'tis all a story, Fortune is pleased on us to frown: Instead of our riches, we stink in our breeches, By Chreest and St. Patrick, we're all run down. 80 They call a thing a three-legged mare, Where they will fit each neck with a nooze, Then with our beads to say our last prayer, After all this to die in our shoes. Thence we pack to purgatory; 85 For us let all the Jesuits pray; Farewell, Father Peters, here's some of your creatures Would have you to follow the self-same way. 69, Edward Coleman, hanged at Tyburn in 1678, for his participation in the Popish Plot.--CROKER. UNDAUNTED LONDONDERRY. The story of the siege of Londonderry, "the most memorable in the annals of the British isles," is eloquently told in the twelfth chapter of Macaulay's _History of England_. It lasted one hundred and five days, from the middle of April to the first of August (1689). During that time the garrison had been reduced from about seven thousand men to about three thousand. Famine and pestilence slew more than the fire of the enemy. In the last month of the siege, there was scarcely any thing left to eat in the city but salted hides and tallow. The price of a dog's paw was five shillings and sixpence, and rats that had fed on the bodies of the dead were eagerly hunted and slain. The courage and self-devotion of the defenders, animated by a lofty public spirit and sustained by religious zeal, were at last rewarded by a glorious triumph, and will never cease to be celebrated with pride and enthusiasm by the Protestants of Ireland. The ballad is here given as printed in Croker's _Historical Songs of Ireland_, p. 46, from a black letter copy in the British Museum. The whole title runs thus: _Undaunted Londonderry; or, the Victorious Protestants' constant success against the proud French and Irish Forces_. _To the Tune of Lilli Borlero._ Protestant boys, both valliant and stout, Fear not the strength and frown of Rome, Thousands of them are put to the rout, Brave Londonderry tells 'um their doom. For their cannons roar like thunder, 5 Being resolved the town to maintain For William and Mary, still brave Londonderry Will give the proud French and Tories their bane. Time after time, with powder and balls, Protestant souls they did 'um salute, 10 That before Londonderry's stout walls Many are slain and taken to boot. Nay, their noble Duke of Berwick,[L13] Many reports, is happily tane, Where still they confine him, and will not resign him, Till they have given the Tories their bane. 16 Into the town their bombs they did throw, Being resolved to fire the same, Hoping thereby to lay it all low, Could they but raise it into a flame. 20 But the polititious Walker,[L21] By an intreague did quail them again, And blasted the glory of French, Teague, and Tory; By policy, boys, he gave them their bane. Thundering stones they laid on the wall, 25 Ready against the enemy came, With which they vow'd the Tories to mawl, Whene'er they dare approach but the same. And another sweet invention, The which in brief I reckon to name; 30 A sharp, bloody slaughter did soon follow after, Among the proud French, and gave them their bane. Stubble and straw in parcels they laid, The which they straightways kindled with speed; By this intreague the French was betrayed, 35 Thinking the town was fired indeed. Then they placed their scaling ladders, And o'er the walls did scour amain; Yet strait, to their wonder, they were cut in sunder, Thus Frenchmen and Tories met with their bane. 40 Suddenly then they opened their gate, Sallying forth with vigor and might; And, as the truth I here may relate, Protestant boys did valliantly fight, Taking many chief commanders, 45 While the sharp fray they thus did maintain, With vigorous courses, they routed their forces, And many poor Teagues did meet with their bane. While with their blood the cause they have sealed, Heaven upon their actions did frown; 50 Protestants took the spoil of the field, Cannons full five they brought to the town. With a lusty, large, great mortar, Thus they returned with honor and gain, While Papists did scour from Protestant power, 55 As fearing they all should suffer their bane. In a short time we hope to arrive With a vast army to Ireland, And the affairs so well we'll contrive That they shall ne'er have power to stand 60 Gainst King William and Queen Mary, Who on the throne does flourish and reign; We'll down with the faction that make the distraction, And give the proud French and Tories their bane. 13. In a sally which was made by the garrison towards the end of April, the Duke of Berwick is said to have received a slight wound in the back. 21. The Rev. George Walker, rector of the parish of Donaghmore, the hero of the defence. His statue now stands on a lofty pillar, rising from a bastion which for a long time sustained the heaviest fire of the besiegers. PR[OE]LIUM GILLICRANKIANUM. See p. 152. From Johnson's _Museum_, p. 105. Grahamius notabilis coegerat montanos, Qui clypeis et gladiis fugarunt Anglicanos; Fugerant Vallicolæ, atque Puritani, Cacavere Batavi et Cameroniani. Grahamius mirabilis, fortissimus Alcides, Cujus regi fuerat intemerata fides, Agiles monticolas marte inspiravit, Et duplicatum numerum hostium profligavit. Nobilis apparuit Fermilodunensis, Cujus in rebelles stringebatur ensis; Nobilis et sanguine, nobilior virtute, Regi devotissimus intus et in cute. Pitcurius heroicus, Hector Scoticanus, Cui mens fidelis fuerat et invicta manus, Capita rebellium, is excerebravit, Hostes unitissimos ille dimicavit. Glengarius magnanimus atque bellicosus, Functus ut Eneas, pro rege animosus, Fortis atque strenuus, hostes expugnavit, Sanguine rebellium campos coloravit. Surrexerat fideliter Donaldus Insulanus, Pugnaverat viriliter, cum copiis Skyanis, Pater atque filii non dissimularunt, Sed pro rege proprio unanimes pugnarunt. Macleanius, circumdatus tribo martiali, Semper, devinctissimus familiæ regali, Fortiter pugnaverat, more atavorum, Deinde dissipaverat turmas Batavorum. Strenuus Lochielius, multo Camerone, Hostes ense peremit, et abrio pugione; Istos et intrepidos Orco dedicavit, Impedimenta hostium Blaro reportavit. Macneillius de Bara, Glencous Kepochanus, Ballechinus, cum fratre, Stuartus Apianus, Pro Jacobo Septimo fortiter gessere, Pugiles fortissimi, feliciter vicere. Canonicus clarissimus Gallovidianus, Acer et indomitus, consilioque sanus, Ibi dux adfuerat, spectabilis persona, Nam pro tuenda patria, hunc peperit Bellona. Ducalidoni dominum spreverat gradivus, Nobilis et juvenis, fortis et activus: Nam cum nativum principem exulem audiret, Redit ex Hungaria ut regi inserviret. Illic et adfuerat tutor Ranaldorum, Qui strenue pugnaverat cum copiis virorum; Et ipse Capetaneus, aetate puerili, Intentus est ad pr[oe]lium, spiritu virili. Glenmoristonus junior, optimus bellator Subito jam factus, hactenus venator, Perduelles Whiggeos ut pecora prostravit, Ense et fulmineo Mackaium fugavit. Regibus et legibus, Scotici constantes, Vos clypeis et gladiis pro principe pugnantes, Vestra est victoria, vestra est et gloria, In cantis et historia perpes est memoria! THE BOYNE WATER. This momentous battle was fought on the 1st of July, 1690. James had a strong position and thirty thousand men, two thirds of whom were a worthless rabble. William had thirty-six thousand splendid soldiers. The loss on neither side was great. Of James's troops there fell fifteen hundred, the flower of his army; of the conqueror's not more than five, but with them the great Duke of Schomberg. The present version of this ballad is from Croker's _Historical Songs of Ireland_, p. 60, given from a MS. copy in the editor's possession. July the first, in Oldbridge town,[L1] There was a grievous battle, Where many a man lay on the ground, By the cannons that did rattle, King James he pitched his tents between 5 The lines for to retire; But King William threw his bomb-balls in, And set them all on fire. Thereat enraged, they vow'd revenge, Upon King William's forces; 10 And often did cry vehemently, That they would stop their courses. A bullet from the Irish came, Which grazed King William's arm; They thought his majesty was slain, 15 Yet it did him little harm. Duke Schomberg then, in friendly care, His king would often caution To shun the spot where bullets hot Retain'd their rapid motion. 20 But William said--"He don't deserve The name of Faith's defender, That would not venture life and limb To make a foe surrender." When we the Boyne began to cross, 25 The enemy they descended; But few of our brave men were lost, So stoutly we defended. The horse was the first that marchéd o'er, The foot soon followed a'ter, 30 But brave Duke Schomberg was no more, By venturing over the water. When valiant Schomberg he was slain, King William thus accosted His warlike men, for to march on, 35 And he would be the foremost. "Brave boys," he said, "be not dismayed For the losing of one commander; For God will be our king this day, And I'll be general under." 40 Then stoutly we the Boyne did cross, To give our enemies battle; Our cannon, to our foes great cost, Like thundering claps did rattle, In majestic mien our prince rode o'er, 45 His men soon followed a'ter; With blows and shouts put our foes to the route, The day we crossed the water. The Protestants of Drogheda Have reasons to be thankful, 50 That they were not to bondage brought, They being but a handful. First to the Tholsel they were brought, And tied at Milmount a'ter,[L54] But brave King William set them free, 55 By venturing over the water. The cunning French, near to Duleek[L57] Had taken up their quarters, And fenced themselves on every side, Still waiting for new orders. 60 But in the dead time of the night, They set the field on fire; And long before the morning light, To Dublin they did retire. Then said King William to his men, 65 After the French departed, "I'm glad," said he, "that none of ye Seeméd to be faint-hearted. So sheath your swords, and rest awhile, In time we'll follow a'ter:" 70 These words he uttered with a smile, The day he crossed the water. Come, let us all, with heart and voice, Applaud our lives' defender, Who at the Boyne his valour shewed, 75 And made his foes surrender, To God above the praise we'll give, Both now and ever a'ter, And bless the glorious memory 79 Of King William that crossed the Boyne water. 1. The Dutch guards first entered the river Boyne at a ford opposite to the little village of Oldbridge.--CROKER. 54. "After the battle of the Boyne, the Popish garrison of Drogheda took the Protestants out of prison, into which they had thrown them, and carried them to the Mount; where they expected the cannon would play, if King William's forces besieged the town. _They tied them together_, and set them to receive the shot; but their hearts failed them who were to defend the place, and so it pleased God to preserve the poor Protestants."--_Memoirs of Ireland, &c._, cited by Croker. 57. "When, in the course of the day, the battle approached James's position on the hill of Donore, the warlike prince retired to a more secure distance at Duleek, where he soon put himself at the head of his French allies, and led the retreat; the King and the French coming off without a scar."--O'Driscol, cited by Croker. THE WOMAN WARRIOR, Who liv'd in Cow-Cross, near West-Smithfield; who, changing her apparel, entered herself on board in quality of a soldier, and sailed to Ireland, where she valiantly behaved herself, particularly at the siege of Cork, where she lost her toes, and received a mortal wound in her body, of which she since died in her return to London. From Durfey's _Pills to Purge Melancholy_, v. 8. Cork was taken September 27-29, 1690, by the Duke (then Earl) of Marlborough, with the coöperation of the Duke of Wirtemberg. The Duke of Grafton, then serving as a volunteer, was mortally wounded while advancing to the assault. Croker suggests that this lamentation for the heroine of Cow-Cross, "the Mary Ambree of her age," was one of the many indirect efforts made to bring the military skill of Marlborough into popular notice. Let the females attend To the lines which are penn'd, For here I shall give a relation Of a young marry'd wife, Who did venture her life, 5 For a soldier, a soldier she went from the nation. She her husband did leave, And did likewise receive Her arms, and on board she did enter, And right valiantly went, 10 With a resolution bent To the ocean, the ocean, her life there to venture. Yet of all the ship's crew, Not a seaman that knew They then had a woman so near 'em; 15 On the ocean so deep She her council did keep, Ay, and therefore, and therefore she never did fear 'em. She was valiant and bold, And would not be controul'd 20 By any that dare to offend her; If a quarrel arose, She would give him dry blows, And the captain, the captain did highly commend her. For he took her to be 25 Then of no mean degree, A gentleman's son, or a squire; With a hand white and fair, There was none could compare, Which the captain, the captain did often admire. On the Irish shore, 31 Where the cannons did roar, With many stout lads she was landed; There her life to expose, She lost two of her toes, 35 And in battle, in battle was daily commended. Under Grafton she fought Like a brave hero stout, And made the proud Tories retire; She in field did appear 40 With a heart void of fear, And she bravely, she bravely did charge and give fire. While the battering balls Did assault the strong walls Of Cork, and sweet trumpets sounded, 45 She did bravely advance Where by unhappy chance This young female, young female, alas! she was wounded. At the end of the fray Still she languishing lay, 50 Then over the ocean they brought her, To her own native shore: Now they ne'er knew before That a woman, a woman had been in that slaughter. What she long had conceal'd 55 Now at length she reveal'd, That she was a woman that ventur'd; Then to London with care She did straitways repair, But she dy'd, oh she dy'd, e'er the city she enter'd. 60 When her parents beheld, They with sorrow was fill'd, For why, they did dearly adore her; In her grave now she lies, Tis not watery eyes, 65 No, nor sighing, nor sighing that e'er can restore her. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN WILL LICK-LADLE AND TOM CLEAN-COGUE, TWA SHEPHERDS, WHA WERE FEEDING THEIR FLOCKS ON THE OCHIL-HILLS ON THE DAY THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MOOR WAS FOUGHT. (See p. 156. From Ritson's _Scottish Songs_, ii. 67.) _W._ Pray came you here the fight to shun, Or keep the sheep with me, man? Or was you at the Sheriff-moor, And did the battle see, man? Pray tell whilk of the parties won? 5 For well I wat I saw them run, Both south and north, when they begun, To pell and mell, and kill and fell, With muskets snell, and pistols knell, And some to hell 10 Did flee, man. _T._ But, my dear Will, I kenna still, Whilk o' the twa did lose, man; For well I wat they had good skill To set upo' their foes, man: 15 The red-coats they are train'd, you see, The clans always disdain to flee, Wha then should gain the victory? But the Highland race, all in a brace, With a swift pace, to the Whigs disgrace, 20 Did put to chace Their foes, man. _W._ Now how diel, Tam, can this be true? I saw the chace gae north, man. _T._ But well I wat they did pursue 25 Them even unto Forth, man. Frae Dumblain they ran in my own sight, And got o'er the bridge with all their might, And those at Stirling took their flight; Gif only ye had been wi' me, 30 You had seen them flee, of each degree, For fear to die Wi' sloth, man. _W._ My sister Kate came o'er the hill, Wi' crowdie unto me, man; 35 She swore she saw them running still Frae Perth unto Dundee, man. The left wing gen'ral had na skill, The Angus lads had no good will That day their neighbours blood to spill; 40 For fear by foes that they should lose Their cogues of brose, all crying woes-- Yonder them goes, D'ye see, man? _T._ I see but few like gentlemen 45 Amang yon frighted crew, man; I fear my Lord Panmure be slain, Or that he's ta'en just now, man: For tho' his officers obey, His cowardly commons run away, 50 For fear the red-coats them should slay; The sodgers hail make their hearts fail; See how they scale, and turn their tail, And rin to flail And plow, man. 55 _W._ But now brave Angus comes again Into the second fight, man; They swear they'll either dye or gain, No foes shall them affright, man: Argyle's best forces they'll withstand, 60 And boldly fight them sword in hand, Give them a general to command, A man of might, that will but fight, And take delight to lead them right, And ne'er desire 65 The flight, man. But Flandrekins they have no skill[L67] To lead a Scotish force, man; Their motions do our courage spill, And put us to a loss, man. 70 You'll hear of us far better news, When we attack like Highland trews, To hash, and slash, and smash and bruise, Till the field, tho' braid, be all o'erspread, But coat or plaid, wi' corpse that's dead 75 In their cold bed, That's moss, man. _T._ Twa gen'rals frae the field did run, Lords Huntley and Seaforth, man; They cry'd and run grim death to shun, 80 Those heroes of the North, man; They're fitter far for book or pen, Than under Mars to lead on men; Ere they came there they might well ken That female hands could ne'er gain lands; 85 'Tis Highland brands that countermands Argathlean bands Frae Forth, man. _W._ The Camerons scow'r'd as they were mad, Lifting their neighbours cows, man, 90 M'Kenzie and the Stewart fled, Without phil'beg or trews, man: Had they behav'd like Donald's core, And kill'd all those came them before, Their king had gone to France no more: 95 Then each Whig saint wad soon repent, And strait recant his covenant, And rent It at the news, man. _T._ M'Gregors they far off did stand, 100 Badenach and Athol too, man; I hear they wanted the command, For I believe them true, man. Perth, Fife, and Angus, wi' their horse, Stood motionless, and some did worse, 105 For, tho' the red-coats went them cross, They did conspire for to admire Clans run and fire, left wings retire, While rights intire Pursue, man. 110 _W._ But Scotland has not much to say, For such a fight as this is, Where baith did fight, baith run away; The devil take the miss is That every officer was not slain 115 That run that day, and was not ta'en, Either flying from or to Dumblain; When Whig and Tory, in their 'fury,' Strove for glory, to our sorrow, The sad story 120 Hush is. 67. By Flanderkins are meant Lieutenant-General Fanderbeck and Colonels Rantzaw and Cromstrom.--HOGG. UP AND WAR THEM A', WILLIE. See p. 156. From Herd's _Scotish Songs_, ii. 234. The same in Ritson's _Scotish Songs_, ii. 73. Burns furnished a somewhat different version to Johnson's _Museum_ (p. 195, also in Cromek's _Select Scotish Songs_, ii. 29), which he obtained from one Tom Neil, a carpenter in Edinburgh, who was famous for his singing of Scottish songs. The title and burden to this version is _Up and warn a', Willie_, an allusion, says Burns, to the _crantara_, or warning of a Highland clan to arms, which the Lowlanders, not understanding, have corrupted. There is another copy in Hogg's _Jacobite Relics_, ii. 18, which is nearly the same as the following. When the Earl of Mar first raised his standard, and proclaimed the Chevalier, the ornamental ball on the top of the staff fell off, and the superstitious Highlanders interpreted the circumstance as ominous of ill for their cause. This is the incident referred to in the third stanza. When we went to the field of war, And to the weapon-shaw, Willie, With true design to stand our ground, And chace our faes awa', Willie, Lairds and lords came there bedeen, 5 And vow gin they were pra', Willie: _Up and war 'em a', Willie,_ _War 'em, war 'em a', Willie._ And when our army was drawn up, The bravest e'er I saw, Willie, 10 We did not doubt to rax the rout, And win the day and a', Willie; Pipers play'd frae right to left, "Fy, fourugh Whigs awa'," Willie. _Up and war, &c._ 15 But when our standard was set up, So fierce the wind did bla', Willie, The golden knop down from the top Unto ground did fa', Willie: Then second-sighted Sandy said, 20 "We'll do nae good at a', Willie." _Up and war, &c._ When bra'ly they attack'd our left, Our front, and flank, and a', Willie, Our bald commander on the green, Our faes their left did ca', Willie, 25 And there the greatest slaughter made That e'er poor Tonald saw, Willie. _Up and war, &c._ First when they saw our Highland mob, They swore they'd slay us a', Willie; And yet ane fyl'd his breiks for fear, 30 And so did rin awa', Willie: We drave him back to Bonnybrigs, Dragoons, and foot, and a', Willie. _Up and war, &c._ But when their gen'ral view'd our lines, And them in order saw, Willie, 35 He straight did march into the town, And back his left did draw, Willie: Thus we taught them the better gate, To get a better fa', Willie. _Up and war, &c._ And then we rally'd on the hills, 40 And bravely up did draw, Willie; But gin ye spear wha wan the day, I'll tell you what I saw, Willie: We baith did fight, and baith were beat, And baith did run awa', Willie. 45 So there's my canty Highland sang About the thing I saw, Willie. THE MARQUIS OF HUNTLEY'S RETREAT FROM THE BATTLE OF SHERIFFMUIR. See p. 156. From _A New Book of Old Ballads_, p. 30. Hogg inserted this ballad in the _Jacobite Relics_, ii. 13, using, says Maidment, the editor of the publication cited above, a very imperfect manuscript copy. The following version was taken from the original broad-side, supposed to be unique. There are very considerable variations in the language of the two copies, and the order of the stanzas is quite different. This says Hogg, "is exclusively a party song, made by some of the Grants, or their adherents, in obloquy of their more potent neighbours, the Gordons. It is in a great measure untrue; for, though the Marquis of Huntley was on the left wing at the head of a body of horse, and among the gentlemen that fled, yet two battalions of Gordons, or at least of Gordon's vassals, perhaps mostly of the Clan Chattan, behaved themselves as well as any on the field, and were particularly instrumental in breaking the Whig cavalry, or the left wing of their army, and driving them back among their foot. On this account, as well as that of the bitter personalities that it contains, the "song is only curious as an inveterate party song, and not as a genuine humorous description of the fight that the Marquis and his friends were in. The latter part of the [third] stanza seems to allude to an engagement that took place at Dollar, on the 24th October, a fortnight previous to the battle of Sheriffmuir. Mar had despatched a small body of cavalry to force an assessment from the town of Dunfermline, of which Argyle getting notice, sent out a stronger party, who surprised them early in the morning before daylight, and arrested them, killing some and taking seventeen prisoners, several of whom were Gordons. The last stanza [but one] evidently alludes to the final submission of the Marquis and the rest of the Gordons to King George's government, which they did to the Grants and the Earl of Sutherland. The former had previously taken possession of Castle Gordon; of course, the malicious bard of the Grants, with his ill-scraped pen, was not to let that instance of the humiliation of his illustrious neighbours pass unnoticed.--JACOBITE RELICS, vol. ii. p. 255. From Bogie side to Bogie Gight, The Gordons all conveen'd, man, With all their might, to battle wight,[L3] Together close they join'd, man,[L4] To set their king upon the throne, 5 And to protect the church, man; But fy for shame! they soon ran hame, And left him in the lurch, man. _Vow as the Marquis ran, Coming from Dumblane, man! Strabogie did b--t itself, And Enzie was not clean, man._ Their chieftain was a man of fame, And doughty deeds had wrought, man, 10 Which future ages still shall name, And tell how well he fought, man. For when the battle did begin, Immediately his Grace, man, Put spurs to Florance, and so ran[L15] 15 By all, and wan the race, man. _Vow, &c._ The Marquis' horse was first sent forth, Glenbucket's foot to back them, To give a proof what they were worth, If rebels durst attack them. 20 With loud huzzas to Huntly's praise, They near'd Dumfermling Green, man, But fifty horse, and de'il ane mair, Turn'd many a Highland clan, man. _Vow, &c._ The second chieftain of that clan, 25 For fear that he should die, man, To gain the honour of his name, Rais'd first the mutinie, man. And then he wrote unto his Grace, The great Duke of Argyle, man, 30 And swore, if he would grant him peace, The Tories he'd beguile, man. _Vow, &c._ The Master with the bullie's face,[L33] And with the coward's heart, man, Who never fails, to his disgrace, 35 To act a traitor's part, man, He join'd Drumboig, the greatest knave In all the shire of Fife, man. He was the first the cause did leave, By council of his wife, man. 40 _Vow, &c._ A member of the tricking trade, An Ogilvie by name, man, Consulter of the grumbling club, To his eternal shame, man, Who would have thought, when he came out, 45 That ever he would fail, man? And like a fool, did eat the cow, And worried on the tail, man. _Vow, &c._ Meffan Smith, at Sheriff Muir,[L49] Gart folk believe he fought, man; 50 But well it's known, that all he did, That day it serv'd for nought, man. For towards night, when Mar march'd off, Smith was put in the rere, man; He curs'd, he swore, he baul[lè]d out, 55 He would not stay for fear, man. _Vow, &c._ But at the first he seem'd to be A man of good renown, man; But when the grumbling work began, He prov'd an arrant lown, man. 60 Against Mar, and a royal war, A letter he did forge, man; Against his Prince, he wrote nonsense, And swore by Royal George, man.[L64] _Vow, &c._ At Poineth boat, Mr. Francis Stewart,[L65] 65 A valiant hero stood, man, In acting of a royal part, Cause of the royal blood, man. But when at Sheriff Moor he found That bolting would not do it, 70 He, brother like, did quite his ground, And ne're came back unto it. _Vow, &c._ Brunstane said it was not fear That made him stay behind, man; But that he had resolv'd that day 75 To sleep in a whole skin, man. The gout, he said, made him take [bed], When battle first began, man; But when he heard his Marquis fled, He took his heels and ran, man. 80 _Vow, &c._ Sir James of Park, he left his horse In the middle of a wall, man; And durst not stay to take him out, For fear a knight should fall, man; And Maien he let such a crack, 85 And shewed a pantick fear, man; And Craigieheads swore he was shot, And curs'd the chance of wear, man. _Vow, &c._ When they march'd on the Sheriff Moor, With courage stout and keen, man; 90 Who would have thought the Gordons gay That day should quite the green, man? Auchleacher and Auchanachie, And all the Gordon tribe, man, Like their great Marquis, they could not 95 The smell of powder bide, man. _Vow, &c._ Glenbuicket cryed, "Plague on you all, For Gordons do no good, man; For all that fled this day, it is Them of the Seaton blood, man." 100 Clashtirim said it was not so, And that he'd make appear, man; For he, a Seaton, stood that day, When Gordons ran for fear, man. _Vow, &c._ The Gordons they are kittle flaws, 105 They'll fight with heart and hand, man; When they met in Strathbogie raws On Thursday afternoon, man; But when the Grants came doun the brae, Their Enzie shook for fear, man; 110 And all the lairds rode up themselves, With horse and riding gear, man. _Vow, &c._ Cluny plays his game of chess,[L113] As sure as any thing, man; And like the royal Gordons race, 115 Gave check unto the king, man. Without a queen, its clearly seen, This game cannot recover; I'd do my best, then in great haste Play up the rook Hanover. 120 _Vow, &c._ 3. weight. 4. closs. 15. His horse, so called from having been a present from the Grand Duke of Tuscany.--M. 33. Master of Sinclair, whose Court-Martial has been printed with an exceedingly interesting preface by Sir Walter Scott, as his contribution to the Roxburgh Club. 49. David Smith was then proprietor of Methven, an estate in Perthshire. He died in 1735. Douglas, in his Baronage, terms him, "a man of good parts, great sagacity, and economy."--M. 64. Altered in MS. to "German George."--M. 65. Brother to Charles, 5th Earl of Moray. Upon his brother's death, 7th October, 1735, he became the 6th Earl. He died in the 66th year of his age, on the 11th December, 1739.--M. 113. This seems rather Gordon of Cluny than Cluny Macpherson. The estate of Cluny has passed from the ancient race, though still possessed by a Gordon.--M. JOHNIE COPE. See p. 168. Johnson's _Museum_ (1853), vol. iv. p. 220, Ritson's _Scottish Songs_, ii. 84. Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar, "Charlie meet me, an ye daur, And I'll learn you the airt of war, If you'll meet wi' me in the morning." _Hey, Johnie Cope! are ye waking yet? Or are your drums a-beating yet? If ye were waking, I would wait To gang to the coals i' the morning._ When Charlie looked the letter upon, 5 He drew his sword the scabbard from, "Come, follow me, my merry men, And we'll meet Johnie Cope i' the morning." _Hey, Johnie Cope! &c._ "Now, Johnie, be as good as your word, Come let us try baith fire and sword, 10 And dinna flee like a frighted bird, That's chased frae its nest i' the morning." _Hey, Johnie Cope! &c._ When Johnie Cope he heard of this, He thought it wadna be amiss To hae a horse in readiness, 15 To flee awa i' the morning. _Hey, Johnie Cope! &c._ "Fye now, Johnie, get up and rin, The Highland bagpipes mak a din; It's best to sleep in a hale skin, For 'twill be a bluddie morning." 20 _Hey, Johnie Cope! &c._ When Johnie Cope to Dunbar came They spear'd at him, "Where's a' your men?" "The deil confound me gin I ken, For I left them a' i' the morning." _Hey, Johnie Cope! &c._ "Now Johnie, troth, ye were na blate 25 To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat, And leave your men in sic a strait, So early in the morning." _Hey, Johnie Cope! &c._ "In faith," quo Johnie, "I got sic flegs Wi' their claymores and filabegs, 30 If I face them [again], deil break my legs, So I wish you a' good morning." _Hey, Johnie Cope! &c._ KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS. From _A Collection of Old Ballads_, ii. 8. The same, with one or two trifling verbal differences, in Percy's _Reliques_, i. 246. This story was originally told by Geoffrey of Monmouth, _Historia Britonum_, lib. ii. c. 2. It occurs in two forms in the _Gesta Romanorum_: see Madden's _Old English Versions_, p. 44, p. 450. Shakespeare's _King Lear_ was first printed in 1608, and is supposed to have been written between 1603 and 1605. Another drama on the subject was printed in 1605, called _The true Chronicle History of King Leir and his Three Daughters, Gonorill, Ragan, and Cordella_. This was probably only a new impression of a piece entered in the Stationers' Registers as early as 1594. The ballad which follows agrees with Shakespeare's play in several particulars in which Shakespeare varies from the older drama and from Holinshed, the authority of both dramas. The name Cordelia is also found in place of the Cordella of the _Chronicle History_; but, on the other hand, we have Ragan instead of Shakespeare's Regan. In the absence of a date, we are unable to determine whether the ballad was written prior to the play of _King Lear_, or was founded upon it. King Leir once ruléd in this land With princely power and peace, And had all things, with hearts content, That might his joys increase. Amongst those things that nature gave, 5 Three daughters fair had he, So princely seeming beautiful, As fairer could not be. So on a time it pleas'd the king A question thus to move, 10 Which of his daughters to his grace Could shew the dearest love: "For to my age you bring content," Quoth he, "then let me hear, Which of you three in plighted troth 15 The kindest will appear." To whom the eldest thus began: "Dear father, mind," quoth she, "Before your face, to do you good, My blood shall rendred be. 20 And for your sake my bleeding heart Shall here be cut in twain, Ere that I see your reverend age The smallest grief sustain." "And so will I," the second said; 25 "Dear father, for your sake, The worst of all extremities I'll gently undertake: And serve your highness night and day With diligence and love; 30 That sweet content and quietness Discomforts may remove." "In doing so, you glad my soul," The aged king reply'd; "But what say'st thou, my youngest girl? 35 How is thy love ally'd?" "My love," quoth young Cordelia then, "Which to your grace I owe, Shall be the duty of a child, And that is all I'll show." 40 "And wilt thou shew no more," quoth he, "Than doth thy duty bind? I well perceive thy love is small, When as no more I find. Henceforth I banish thee my court; 45 Thou art no child of mine; Nor any part of this my realm By favour shall be thine. "Thy elder sisters' loves are more Than well I can demand; 50 To whom I equally bestow My kingdom and my land, My pompous state and all my goods, That lovingly I may With those thy sisters be maintain'd 55 Until my dying day." Thus flattering speeches won renown, By these two sisters here; The third had causeless banishment, Yet was her love more dear. 60 For poor Cordelia patiently Went wandring up and down, Unhelp'd, unpitied, gentle maid, Through many an English town. Until at last in famous France 65 She gentler fortunes found; Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd The fairest on the ground: Where when the king her virtues heard, And this fair lady seen, 70 With full consent of all his court He made his wife and queen. Her father, old King Leir, this while With his two daughters staid; Forgetful of their promis'd loves, 75 Full soon the same decay'd;[L76] And living in Queen Ragan's court, The eldest of the twain, She took from him his chiefest means, And most of all his train. 80 For whereas twenty men were wont To wait with bended knee, She gave allowance but to ten, And after scarce to three, Nay, one she thought too much for him; 85 So took she all away, In hope that in her court, good king, He would no longer stay. "Am I rewarded thus," quoth he, "In giving all I have 90 Unto my children, and to beg For what I lately gave? I'll go unto my Gonorel: My second child, I know, Will be more kind and pitiful, 95 And will relieve my woe." Full fast he hies then to her court; Where, when she hears his moan, Return'd him answer, that she griev'd That all his means were gone; 100 But no way could relieve his wants; Yet if that he would stay Within her kitchen, he should have What scullions gave away. When he had heard, with bitter tears, 105 He made his answer then; "In what I did, let me be made Example to all men. I will return again," quoth he, "Unto my Ragan's court; 110 She will not use me thus, I hope, But in a kinder sort." Where when he came, she gave command To drive him thence away: When he was well within her court, 115 She said, he would not stay. Then back again to Gonorell The woeful king did hie, That in her kitchen he might have What scullion boys set by. 120 But there of that he was deny'd Which she had promis'd late: For once refusing, he should not Come after to her gate. Thus twixt his daughters for relief 125 He wandred up and down, Being glad to feed on beggars food, That lately wore a crown. And calling to remembrance then His youngest daughter's words, 130 That said, the duty of a child Was all that love affords-- But doubting to repair to her, Whom he had banish'd so, Grew frantick mad; for in his mind 135 He bore the wounds of woe. Which made him rend his milk-white locks And tresses from his head, And all with blood bestain his cheeks, With age and honour spread. 140 To hills and woods and watry founts He made his hourly moan, Till hills and woods and senseless things Did seem to sigh and groan. Ev'n thus posses'd with discontents, 145 He passed o'er to France, In hopes from fair Cordelia there To find some gentler chance. Most virtuous dame! which, when she heard Of this her father's grief, 150 As duty bound, she quickly sent Him comfort and relief. And by a train of noble peers, In brave and gallant sort, She gave in charge he should be brought 155 To Aganippus' court; Whose royal king, with noble mind,[L157] So freely gave consent To muster up his knights at arms, To fame and courage bent. 160 And so to England came with speed, To repossess King Leir, And drive his daughters from their thrones By his Cordelia dear. Where she, true-hearted, noble queen, 165 Was in the battel slain; Yet he, good king, in his old days, Possess'd his crown again. But when he heard Cordelia's death, Who died indeed for love 170 Of her dear father, in whose cause She did this battel move, He swooning fell upon her breast, From whence he never parted; But on her bosom left his life 175 That was so truly hearted. The lords and nobles, when they saw The end of these events, The other sisters unto death They doomed by consents; 180 And being dead, their crowns they left Unto the next of kin: Thus have you seen the fall of pride, And disobedient sin. 76 deny'd. 157. whose noble. FAIR ROSAMOND. The celebrated mistress of Henry the Second was daughter to Walter Clifford, a baron of Herefordshire. She bore the king two sons, one of them while he was still Duke of Normandy. Before her death she retired to the convent of Godstow, and there she was buried; but Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln, not courtly enough to distinguish between royal and vulgar immoralities, caused her body to be removed, and interred in the common cemetery, "lest Christian religion should grow in contempt." The story of Queen Eleanor's poisoning her rival is not confirmed by the old writers, though they mention the labyrinth. All the romance in Rosamond's history appears to be the offspring of popular fancy. Percy has collected the principal passages from the chronicles in his preface to the ballad. _Fair Rosamond_ is the work of Thomas Deloney, a well-known ballad-maker who died about 1600. Our copy is the earliest that is known, and is taken from Deloney's _Strange Histories_, ed. of 1607, as reprinted by the Percy Society, vol. iii. p. 54. The same is found in the _Crown Garland of Golden Roses_, ed. 1659 (Per. Soc. vol. vi. p. 12), and in the _Garland of Good Will_, ed. 1678 (Per. Soc. vol. xxx. p. 1.): and besides, with trifling variations, in _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 11, Percy's _Reliques_, ii. 151, and Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, ii. 120, from black-letter copies. Another ballad with the title of the _Unfortunate Concubine, or, Rosamond's Overthrow_, is given in the collection of 1723, vol. i. p. 1. The story is also treated in the forty-first chapter of Warner's _Albion's England_. Warner has at least one good stanza,[3] which is more than can be said of this wretched, but very popular, production. Some corrections have been adopted from the _Crown Garland of Golden Roses_. [3] With that she dasht her on the lips, So dyèd double red; Hard was the heart that gave the blow, Soft were those lips that bled. * * * * * When as King Henrie rul'd this land,[L1] The second of that name, Beside the Queene, he dearly loved A faire and princely dame. Most peerelesse was her beautie found, 5 Her favour, and her face; A sweeter creature in this world Did never prince imbrace. Her crisped locks like threades of gold Appeared to each mans sight; 10 Her comely eyes, like orient pearles, Did cast a heavenly light. The blood within her cristall cheekes Did such a cullour drive, As though the lilly and the rose 15 For maistership did strive. Yea Rosamond, fair Rosamond, Her name was called so, To whome dame Elinor, our queene, Was knowne a cruell foe. 20 The king therefore, for her defence Against the furious queene, At Woodstocke buylded such a bower, The like was never seene. Most curiously that bower was buylt, 25 Of stone and timber strong; A hundred and fiftie doores Did to that bower belong: And they so cunningly contriv'd, With turning round about, 30 That none but by a clew of thread Could enter in or out. And for his love and ladyes sake, That was so fair and bright, The keeping of this bower he gave 35 Unto a valiant knight. But fortune, that doth often frowne Where she before did smile, The kinges delight, the ladyes joy Full soone she did beguile. 40 For why, the kings ungracious sonne, Whom he did high advance, Against his father raised warres Within the realme of France. But yet before our comely king 45 The English land forsooke, Of Rosamond, his ladye faire, His farewell thus he tooke: "My Rosamond, my onely Rose, That pleaseth best mine eye, 50 The fairest Rose in all the world To feed my fantasie,-- "The flower of my affected heart, Whose sweetness doth excell, My royall Rose, a hundred times 55 I bid thee now farewell! "For I must leave my fairest flower, My sweetest Rose, a space, And crosse the seas to famous France, Proude rebels to abace. 60 "But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt My comming shortly see, And in my heart, while hence I am, Ile beare my Rose with mee." When Rosamond, that lady bright, 65 Did heare the king say so, The sorrow of her greeved heart Her outward lookes did show. And from her cleare and cristall eyes The teares gusht out apace, 70 Which, like the silver-pearled deaw, Ran downe her comely face. Her lippes, like to a corrall red, Did waxe both wan and pale, And for the sorrow she conceived 75 Her vitall spirits did fayle. And falling downe all in a swound[L77] Before King Henries face, Full oft betweene his princely armes Her corpes he did imbrace. 80 And twenty times, with waterie eyes, He kist her tender cheeke, Untill she had received againe[L83] Her senses milde and meeke. "Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?" 85 The king did ever say: "Because," quoth she, "to bloody warres My lord must part away. "But sithe your Grace in forraine coastes, Among your foes unkind, 90 Must go to hazard life and limme, Why should I stay behind? "Nay, rather let me, like a page, Your sword and target beare;[L94] That on my breast the blow may light, 95 Which should annoy you there. "O let me, in your royall tent, Prepare your bed at night, And with sweet baths refresh your grace, At your returne from fight. 100 "So I your presence may enjoy, No toyle I will refuse;[L102] But wanting you, my life is death: Which doth true love abuse." "Content thy selfe, my dearest friend, 105 Thy rest at home shall bee, In England's sweete and pleasant soyle;[L107] For travaile fits not thee. "Faire ladyes brooke not bloody warres; Sweete peace their pleasures breede, 110 The nourisher of hearts content, Which fancie first doth feede. "My Rose shall rest in Woodstocke bower, With musickes sweete delight, While I among the pierceing pikes 115 Against my foes do fight. "My Rose in robes of pearl and gold,[L117] With diamonds richly dight, Shall daunce the galliards of my love, While I my foes do smite. 120 "And you, Sir Thomas, whom I trust To be my loves defence,[L122] Be carefull of my gallant Rose When I am parted hence." And therewithall he fetcht a sigh, 125 As though his heart would breake: And Rosamond, for inward griefe, Not one plaine word could speake. And at their parting well they might In heart be grieved sore: 130 After that day, faire Rosamond The King did see no more. For when his Grace had past the seas, And into France was gone, Queene Elinor, with envious heart, 135 To Woodstocke came anone. And foorth she cald this trusty knight Which kept the curious bower, Who, with his clew of twined threed, Came from that famous flower. 140 And when that they had wounded him, The queene his threed did get, And went where lady Rosamond Was like an angell set. And when the queene with stedfast eye 145 Beheld her heavenly face, She was amazed in her minde At her exceeding grace. "Cast off from thee thy robes," she sayd, "That rich and costly be; 150 And drinke thou up this deadly draught, Which I have brought for thee." But presently upon her knees Sweet Rosamond did fall; And pardon of the queene she crav'd 155 For her offences all. "Take pittie on my youthfull yeares," Faire Rosamond did cry; "And let me not with poyson strong Inforcèd be to die. 160 "I will renounce this sinfull life, And in a cloyster bide; Or else be banisht, if you please, To range the world so wide. "And for the fault which I have done, 165 Though I was forst thereto, Preserve my life, and punish me As you thinke good to do." And with these words, her lilly hands She wrang full often there; 170 And downe along her lovely cheekes Proceeded many a teare. But nothing could this furious queene Therewith appeased bee; The cup of deadly poyson filld, 175 As she sat on her knee, She gave the comely dame to drinke; Who tooke it in her hand, And from her bended knee arose, And on her feet did stand. 180 And casting up her eyes to heaven, She did for mercy call; And drinking up the poyson then, Her life she lost withall. And when that death through every lim 185 Had done his greatest spite, Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse She was a glorious wight. Her body then they did intombe, When life was fled away, 190 At Godstow, neere [to] Oxford towne, As may be seene this day. 77. sound. 83. he had reviv'd.--_C. G._ 94. shield: sword, _Garl. G. W._ 102. must refuse. 107. England. 117. robes and pearls of gold. 122. beare. QUEEN ELEANOR'S FALL. _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 97. "I never was more surprised," says the editor of the Collection of 1723, "than at the sight of the following ballad; little expecting to see pride and wickedness laid to the charge of the most affable and most virtuous of women: whose glorious actions are not recorded by _our_ historians only; for no foreign writers, who have touched upon those early times, have in silence passed over this illustrious princess, and every nation rings with the praise of Eleonora Isabella of Castile, King Edward's Queen. Father Le Monie, who (in his _Gallérie des Femmes Fortes_) has searched all Christendom round, from its very infancy to the last age, for five heroines, very partially bestows the first place upon one of his own country-women, but gives the second, with a far superior character, to this queen." In this absurdly false and ignorant production, the well-beloved Eleonora of Castile is no doubt confounded with her most unpopular mother-in-law, Eleanor of Provence, the wife of Henry the Third, whose luxurious habits, and quarrels with the city of London, might afford some shadow of a basis for the impossible slanders of the ballad-singer. Queenhithe was a quay, the tolls of which formed part of the revenue of the Queen, and Eleanor of Provence rendered herself extremely odious by compelling vessels, for the sake of her fees, to unlade there. Charing-cross was one of thirteen monuments raised by Edward the First at the stages, where his queen's body rested, on its progress from the place of her decease to Westminster. In the connection of both these places with the name of a Queen Eleanor may be found (as Miss Strickland suggests in her _Lives of the Queens_) the germ of the marvellous story of the disappearance at Charing-cross and the resurrection at Queenhithe. That portion of the story which relates to the cruelty exercised by the queen towards the Lord Mayor's wife is borrowed from the _Gesta Romanorum_. See Madden's _Old English Versions_, &c. p. 226, _Olimpus the Emperour_. Peele's _Chronicle History of Edward the First_ exhibits the same misrepresentations of Eleanor of Castile. See what is said of this play in connection with the ballad of _Queen Eleanor's Confession_, vol. vi. p. 209. The whole title of the ballad is:-- A Warning Piece to England against Pride and Wickedness: Being the Fall of Queen Eleanor, Wife to Edward the First, King of England; who, for her pride, by God's Judgments, sunk into the Ground at Charing-cross and rose at Queenhithe. When Edward was in England king, The first of all that name, Proud Ellinor he made his queen, A stately Spanish dame: Whose wicked life, and sinful pride, 5 Thro' England did excel: To dainty dames, and gallant maids, This queen was known full well. She was the first that did invent In coaches brave to ride; 10 She was the first that brought this land To deadly sin of pride. No English taylor here could serve To make her rich attire; But sent for taylors into Spain, 15 To feed her vain desire. They brought in fashions strange and new, With golden garments bright; The farthingale, and mighty ruff, With gowns of rich delight: 20 The London dames, in Spanish pride, Did flourish every where; Our English men, like women then, Did wear long locks of hair. Both man and child, both maid and wife, 25 Were drown'd in pride of Spain: And thought the Spanish taylors then Our English men did stain: Whereat the queen did much despite, To see our English men 30 In vestures clad, as brave to see As any Spaniard then. She crav'd the king, that ev'ry man That wore long locks of hair, Might then be cut and polled all, 35 Or shaved very near. Whereat the king did seem content, And soon thereto agreed; And first commanded, that his own Should then be cut with speed: 40 And after that, to please his queen, Proclaimed thro' the land, That ev'ry man that wore long hair Should poll him out of hand. But yet this Spaniard, not content, 45 To women bore a spite, And then requested of the king, Against all law and right, That ev'ry womankind should have Their right breast cut away; 50 And then with burning irons sear'd, The blood to stanch and stay! King Edward then, perceiving well Her spite to womankind, Devised soon by policy 55 To turn her bloody mind. He sent for burning irons straight, All sparkling hot to see; And said, "O queen, come on thy way; "I will begin with thee." 60 Which words did much displease the queen, That penance to begin; But ask'd him pardon on her knees; Who gave her grace therein. But afterwards she chanc'd to pass 65 Along brave London streets, Whereas the mayor of London's wife In stately sort she meets; With music, mirth, and melody, Unto the church they went, 70 To give God thanks, that to th' lord mayor A noble son had sent. It grieved much this spiteful queen, To see that any one Should so exceed in mirth and joy, 75 Except herself alone: For which, she after did devise Within her bloody mind, And practis'd still more secretly, To kill this lady kind. 80 Unto the mayor of London then She sent her letters straight, To send his lady to the court, Upon her grace to wait. But when the London lady came 85 Before proud El'nor's face, She stript her from her rich array, And kept her vile and base. She sent her into Wales with speed, And kept her secret there, 90 And us'd her still more cruelly Than ever man did hear. She made her wash, she made her starch, She made her drudge alway; She made her nurse up children small, 95 And labour night and day. But this contented not the queen, But shew'd her most despite; She bound this lady to a post, At twelve a clock at night; 100 And as, poor lady, she stood bound, The queen, in angry mood, Bid set two snakes unto her breast, That suck'd away her blood. Thus died the mayor of London's wife, 105 Most grievous for to hear; Which made the Spaniard grow more proud, As after shall appear. The wheat that daily made her bread Was bolted twenty times; 110 The food that fed this stately dame, Was boil'd in costly wines. The water that did spring from ground, She would not touch at all; But wash'd her hands with the dew of heav'n, 115 That on sweet roses fall. She bath'd her body many a time In fountains fill'd with milk; And ev'ry day did change attire, In costly Median silk. 120 But coming then to London back, Within her coach of gold, A tempest strange within the skies This queen did there behold: Out of which storm she could not go, 125 But there remain'd a space; Four horses could not stir the coach A foot out of the place. A judgment lately sent from heav'n, For shedding guiltless blood, 130 Upon this sinful queen, that slew The London lady good! King Edward then, as wisdom will'd, Accus'd her of that deed; But she denied, and wish'd that God 135 Would send his wrath with speed,-- If that upon so vile a thing Her heart did ever think, She wish'd the ground might open wide, And she therein might sink! 140 With that, at Charing-cross she sunk Into the ground alive, And after rose with life again, In London, at Queenhithe. When, after that, she languish'd sore 145 Full twenty days in pain, At last confess'd the lady's blood Her guilty hand had slain: And likewise, how that by a fryar She had a base-born child; 150 Whose sinful lusts and wickedness Her marriage bed defil'd. Thus have you heard the fall of pride, A just reward of sin; For those who will forswear themselves, 155 God's vengeance daily win. Beware of pride, ye courtly dames, Both wives and maidens all; Bear this imprinted on your mind, That pride must have a fall. 160 THE DUCHESS OF SUFFOLK'S CALAMITY. From _Strange Histories_, p. 17 (Percy Society, vol. iii). Other copies, with variations, are in _The Crown-Garland of Golden Roses_, Part II. p. 20 (Percy Society, vol. xv.), and _A Collection of Old Ballads_, iii. 91. The editor of _Strange Histories_ informs us that a play on the same subject as the ballad was written by Thomas Drew, or Drue, early in the reign of James I., and printed in 1631, under the title of _The Duchess of Suffolk, her Life_. He remarks further that both play and ballad was founded upon the narrative of Fox, anno 1558 [_Acts and Monuments_, iii. 926, ed. 1641]; but the differences between Fox's account and the story which follows are altogether too great for this supposition to be true. Katharine, daughter of Lord Willoughby of Eresby, was first married to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and after his death to Richard Bertie, Esq., with whom she was forced to fly from persecution in 1553, taking refuge first in the Low Countries, and afterwards in Poland. When God had taken for our sinne That prudent prince, King Edward, away, Then bloudy Bonner did begin His raging mallice to bewray; All those that did the Gospell professe 5 He persecuted more or lesse. Thus, when the Lord on us did lower, Many in pryson did he throw, Tormenting them in Lollards tower,[L9] Whereby they might the trueth forgoe: 10 Then Cranmer, Ridley, and the rest, Were burnt in fire, that Christ profest. Smithfield was then with faggots fild, And many places more beside; At Coventry was Sanders kild, 15 At Glocester eke good Hooper dyde; And to escape this bloudy day, Beyond-seas many fled away. Among the rest that sought reliefe And for their faith in daunger stood, 20 Lady Elizabeth was chiefe, King Henries daughter of royall blood; Which in the Tower prisoner did lie, Looking each day when she should die. The Dutchesse of Suffolke, seeing this, 25 Whose life likewise the tyrant sought, Who in the hope of heavenly blisse Within God's word her comfort wrought,[L28] For feare of death was faine to flie, And leave her house most secretly. 30 That for the love of Christ alone, Her lands and goods she left behind, Seeking still for that pretious stone, The worde of trueth, so rare to find: She with her nurse, her husband, and child, 35 In poor array their sights beguild. Thus through London they passed along, Each one did passe a severall streete; Thus all unknowne, escaping wrong, At Billings-gate they all did meete: 40 Like people poore, in Gravesend barge, They simply went with all their charge. And all along from Gravesend towne With easie journeyes on foote they went; Unto the sea-coast they came downe, 45 To passe the seas was their intent; And God provided so that day, That they tooke shippe and sayld away. And with a prosperous gale of wind In Flanders safe they did arive; 50 This was to their great ease of minde, Which from their hearts much woe did drive; And so with thanks to God on hie, They tooke their way to Germanie. Thus as they traveld, thus disguisde, 55 Upon the high way sodainely By cruell theeves they were surprisde, Assaulting their small companie; And all their treasure and their store They tooke away, and beate them sore. 60 The nurse in middest of their fight Laid downe the child upon the ground; She ran away out of their sight, And never after that was found: Then did the Dutchesse make great mone 65 With her good husband all alone. The theeves had there their horses kilde, And all their money quite had tooke; The pretty babie, almost spild, Was by their nurse likewise forsooke, 70 And they farre from their friends did stand, All succourlesse in a strange land. The skies likewise began to scowle; It hayld and raind in pittious sort; The way was long and wonderous foule; 75 Then may I now full well report Their griefe and sorrow was not small, When this unhappy chaunce did fall. Sometime the Dutchesse bore the child, As wet as ever she could be, 80 And when the lady kind and mild Was wearie, then the child bore hee; And thus they one another easde, And with their fortunes were well pleasde. And after many wearied steppes, 85 All wet-shod both in durt and myre, After much griefe, their hearts yet leapes, (For labour doth some rest require); A towne before them they did see, But lodgd therein they could not bee. 90 From house to house they both did goe, Seeking where they that night might lie, But want of money was their woe, And still the babe with cold did crie; With capp and knee they courtsey make, 95 But none on them would pittie take. Loe here a princesse of great blood Did pray a peasant for reliefe, With tears bedewed as she stood! Yet few or none regardes her griefe; 100 Her speech they could not understand, But gave her a pennie in her hand. When all in vaine the paines was spent, And that they could not house-roome get, Into a church-porch then they went, 105 To stand out of the raine and wet: Then said the Dutchesse to her deare, "O that we had some fier heere!" Then did her husband so provide That fire and coales he got with speede; 110 She sate downe by the fiers side, To dresse her daughter, that had neede; And while she drest it in her lapp, Her husband made the infant papp. Anone the sexton thither came, 115 And finding them there by the fire, The drunken knave, all voyde of shame, To drive them out was his desire: And spurning forth this noble dame, Her husbands wrath it did inflame. 120 And all in furie as he stood, He wroung the church-keies out of his hand, And strooke him so, that all of blood His head ran downe where he did stand; Wherefor the sexton presently 125 For helpe and ayde aloude did cry. Then came the officers in hast, And tooke the Dutchesse and her child, And with her husband thus they past, Like lambes beset with tygers wild, 130 And to the governour were they brought, Who understood them not in ought. Then Maister Bartue, brave and bold, In Latine made a gallant speech, Which all their miserie did unfold, 135 And their high favour did beseech: With that, a doctor sitting by Did know the Dutchesse presently. And thereupon arising straight, With minde abashed at their sight, 140 Unto them all that there did waight, He thus brake forth, in wordes aright: "Behold within your sight," quoth hee, "A princesse of most high degree." With that the governour and the rest 145 Were all amazde the same to heare, And welcomméd these new-come guestes With reverence great and princely cheare; And afterward conveyd they were Unto their friend Prince Cassemere. 150 A sonne she had in Germanie, Peregrine Bartue cald by name, Surnamde The Good Lord Willobie, Of courage great and worthie fame. Her daughter young, which with her went, 155 Was afterward Countesse of Kent. For when Queene Mary was deceast, The Dutchesse home returnde againe, Who was of sorrow quite releast By Queene Elizabeth's happie raigne: 160 For whose life and prosperitie We may prayse God continually. 9. There is said to be a place so called in the archiepiscopal palace at Lambeth. 28. _So_, C. G. G. R., for which in. THE LIFE AND DEATH OF FAMOUS THO. STUKELY, AN ENGLISH GALLANT IN THE TIME OF QUEENE ELIZABETH, WHO ENDED HIS DAYES IN A BATTAILE OF KINGS IN BARBARIE. Thomas Stuckley, says Fuller, "was a younger brother, of an ancient, wealthy, and worshipful family, nigh Ilfracombe in this county [Devon], being one of good parts; but valued the less by others, because overprized by himself. Having prodigally mis-spent his patrimony, he entered on several projects (the issue general of all decayed estates); and first pitched on the peopling of Florida, then newly found out, in the West Indies. So confident his ambition, that he blushed not to tell Queen Elizabeth, 'that he preferred rather to be sovereign of a mole-hill, than the highest subject to the greatest king in Christendom;' adding, moreover, 'that he was assured he should be a prince before his death.' 'I hope,' said Queen Elizabeth, 'I shall hear from you, when you are stated in your principality.' 'I will write unto you,' quoth Stuckley. 'In what language?' said the Queen. He returned, 'In the style of princes: To our dear sister.' "His fair project of Florida being blasted for lack of money to pursue it, he went over into Ireland, where he was frustrated of the preferment he expected, and met such physic that turned his fever into frenzy; for hereafter resolving treacherously to attempt what he could not loyally achieve, he went over into Italy. "It is incredible how quickly he wrought himself through the notice into the favour, through the court into the chamber, yea closet, yea bosom of Pope Pius Quintus; so that some wise men thought his Holiness did forfeit a parcel of his infallibility in giving credit to such a _glorioso_, vaunting that with three thousand soldiers he would beat all the English out of Ireland. "The Pope finding it cheaper to fill Stuckley's swelling sails with airy titles than real gifts, created him Baron of Ross, Viscount Murrough, Earl of Wexford, Marquis of Leinster; and then furnished this title-top-heavy general with eight hundred soldiers, paid by the King of Spain, for the Irish expedition. "In passage thereunto, Stuckley lands at Portugal, just when Sebastian, the king thereof, with two Moorish kings, were undertaking a voyage into Africa. Stuckley, scorning to attend, is persuaded to accompany them. Some thought he wholly quitted his Irish design, partly because loath to be pent up in an island (the continent of Africa affording more elbow-room for his achievements); partly because so mutable his mind, he ever loved the last project (as mothers the youngest child) best. Others conceive he took this African in order to his Irish design; such his confidence of conquest, that his breakfast on the Turks would the better enable him to dine on the English in Ireland. "Landing in Africa, Stuckley gave council which was safe, seasonable, and necessary; namely, that for two or three days they should refresh their land soldiers; whereof some were sick, and some were weak, by reason of their tempestuous passage. This would not be heard; so furious was Don Sebastian to engage; as if he would pluck up the bays of victory out of the ground, before they were grown up; and so, in the battle of Alcaser, their army was wholly defeated: where Stuckley lost his life. 'A fatal fight, where in one day was slain, Three kings that were, and one that would be fain!' "This battle was fought anno 1578, where Stuckley, with his eight hundred men, behaved himself most valiantly, till overpowered with multitude." _Worthies of England_, by Nuttall, i. 414. Mr. Dyce, in his prefatory note to Peele's _Battle of Alcazar_, having cited the above extract with several poetical notices of Stukeley, mentions another play founded on this adventurer's exploits (_The Famous Historye of the Life and Death of Captaine Thomas Stukely_), acted in 1596, and printed in 1605 (Peele's _Works_, ii. 85). The ballad is from _The Crown-Garland of Golden Roses_ (Percy Society, vol. vi.) p. 33. There are some verses on Stukeley's projected voyage to Florida in Mr. Collier's _Old Ballads_, in the first volume of the Percy Society, p. 73. In the west of England Borne there was, I understand, A famous gallant in his dayes, By birth a wealthy clothier's sonne; Deeds of wonder he hath done, 5 To purchase him a long and lasting praise. If I should tell his story, Pride was all his glory, And lusty Stukely he was call'd in court; He serv'd a bishop of the west, 10 And did accompany the best, Maintaining still himselfe in gallant sort. Being thus esteemed, And every where well deemed, He gain'd the favour of a London dame, 15 Daughter to an alderman, Curtis he was called then, To whom a sutor gallantly he came. When she his person spied, He could not be denied, 20 So brave a gentleman he was to see; She was quickly made his wife, In weale or woe to lead her life, Her father willingly did so agree. Thus, in state and pleasure, 25 Full many daies they measure; Till cruell death, with his regardles spight, Bore old Curtis to his grave, A thing which Stukely wisht to have, That he might revell all in gold so bright. 30 He was no sooner tombed, But Stukely presumed To spend a hundred pound that day in waste: The bravest gallants of the land Had Stukelies purse at their command; 35 Thus merrily the time away he pass'd. Taverns and ordinaries Were his cheefest braveries,[L38] Goulden angells flew there up and downe; Riots were his best delight,[L40] 40 With stately feastings day and night; In court and citty thus he won renowne. Thus wasting land and living By this lawlesse giving, At last he sold the pavements of his yard, 45 Which covered were with blocks of tin; Old Curtis left the same to him, Which he consumed vainely, as you heard. Whereat his wife sore greeved, Desir'd to be releeved; 50 "Make much of me, dear husband," she did say: "I'll make much more of thee," quoth he, "Than any one shall, verily: I'll sell thy clothes, and so will go away." Cruelly thus hearted, 55 Away from her he parted, And travelled into Italy with speed: There he flourisht many a day In his silkes and rich array, And did the pleasures of a lady feed. 60 It was the ladies pleasure To give him gold and treasure, And to maintaine him in great pomp and fame; At last came newes assuredly Of a battaile fought in Barbary, 65 And he would valiantly go see the same. Many a noble gallant Sold both land and talent To follow Stukely in this famous fight; Whereas three kings in person would 70 Adventurously, with courage bould, Within the battaile shew themselves in sight.[L72] Stukely and his followers all, Of the king of Portugall Had entertainement like to gentlemen: 75 The king affected Stukely so, That he his secrets all did know, And bore his royall standard now and then. Upon this day of honour Each king did shew his banner; 80 Morocco, and the King of Barbery, Portugall, with all his train, Bravely glister'd in the plain, And gave the onset there most valiantly. The cannons they resounded, 85 Thund'ring drums rebounded, "Kill, kill!" as then was all the soldiers cry; Mangled men lay on the ground, And with blood the earth was dround, The sun was likewise darken'd in the skye. 90 Heaven was sore displeased, And would not be appeased, But tokens of God's heavy wrath did show That he was angry at this war; He sent a fearfull blazing star, 95 Whereby these kings might their misfortunes know. Bloody was this slaughter, Or rather wilfull murther, Where six score thousand fighting men were slain; Three kings within this battaile died, 100 With forty dukes and earles beside, The like will never more be fought again. With woful armes enfoulding, Stukely stood beholding This bloody sacrifice of soules that day: 105 He, sighing, said, "I, wofull wight, Against my conscience heere did fight, And brought my followers all unto decay." Being thus molested, And with greefes oppressed, 110 Those brave Italians that did sell their lands, With Stukely thus to travel forth, And venture life for little worth, Upon him all did lay their murthering hands. Unto death thus wounded, 115 His heart with sorrow swounded, And to them all he made this heavy mone: "Thus have I left my country deere, To be so vilely murthered heere, Even in this place whereas I am not known. 120 "My life I have much wronged; Of what to her belonged I vainely spent in idle course of life. What I have done is past, I see, And bringeth nought but greef to me, 125 Therefore grant now thy pardon, gentle wife! "Life, I see, consumeth, And death, I feel, presumeth To change this life of mine into a new: Yet this me greatest comfort brings, 130 I liv'd and died in love of kings, And so brave Stukely bids the world adew." Stukelys life thus ended, Was after death befrended, And like a soldier buried gallantly; 135 Where now there stands upon his grave A stately temple, builded brave, With golden turrets piercing in the skye. 38, 40 where. 72. fight. LORD DELAWARE. No plausible foundation for this ballad has as yet been found in history. It has been suggested that Delaware is a corruption of De la Mare, a speaker of the House of Commons, and a great advocate of popular rights, in the reign of Edward the Third! But there is no accounting for the Dutch lord and the Welsh Duke of Devonshire on this or any other supposition. The ballad is given from Lyle's _Ancient Ballads and Songs_, p. 135, as "noted down from the singing of a gentleman," and then "remodelled and smoothed down" by the editor. The same copy is printed in Dixon's _Ancient Poems, Ballads and Songs_ (Percy Society, vol. xvii.), p. 80, and in Bell's volume with the same title, p. 66. In the Parliament House, A great rout has been there, Betwixt our good king And the Lord Delaware: Says Lord Delaware 5 To his Majesty full soon, "Will it please you, my Liege, To grant me a boon?" "What's your boon?" says the King, "Now let me understand." 10 "It's, give me all the poor men We've starving in this land; And without delay, I'll hie me To Lincolnshire, To sow hemp-seed and flax-seed, 15 And hang them all there. "For with hempen cord it's better To stop each poor man's breath, Than with famine you should see Your subjects starve to death." 20 Up starts a Dutch lord, Who to Delaware did say, "Thou deservest to be stabb'd!" Then he turned himself away: "Thou deservest to be stabb'd, 25 And the dogs have thine ears, For insulting our king In this parliament of peers." Up sprang a Welsh lord, The brave Duke of Devonshire, 30 "In young Delaware's defence, I'll fight This Dutch lord, my Sire. "For he is in the right, And I'll make it so appear: Him I dare to single combat, 35 For insulting Delaware." A stage was soon erected, And to combat they went, For to kill, or to be kill'd, It was either's full intent. 40 But the very first flourish, When the heralds gave command, The sword of brave Devonshire Bent backward on his hand; In suspense he paused awhile, 45 Scann'd his foe before he strake, Then against the king's armour, His bent sword he brake. Then he sprang from the stage, To a soldier in the ring, 50 Saying, "Lend your sword, that to an end This tragedy we bring: Though he's fighting me in armour, While I am fighting bare, Even more than this I'd venture 55 For young Lord Delaware." Leaping back on the stage, Sword to buckler now resounds, Till he left the Dutch lord A bleeding in his wounds: 60 This seeing, cries the King To his guards without delay, "Call Devonshire down,-- Take the dead man away!" "No," says brave Devonshire, 65 "I've fought him as a man; Since he's dead, I will keep The trophies I have won. For he fought me in your armour, While I fought him bare, 70 And the same you must win back, my Liege, If ever you them wear." God bless the Church of England, May it prosper on each hand, And also every poor man 75 Now starving in this land; And while I pray success may crown Our king upon his throne, I'll wish that every poor man May long enjoy his own. 80 THE BATTLE OF HARLAW. (See p. 180.) Traditionary Version, from Aytoun's _Scottish Ballads_, i. 75. "I am indebted to the kindness of Lady John Scott for the following extremely spirited ballad, which was taken down some years ago in Aberdeenshire, where it is still very popular. It is sung to a beautiful air, with the following refrain to each stanza:-- "_Wi' a drie, drie, dredidronilie drie._" As I cam in by Garioch land, And doun by Netherha', There was fifty thousand Hielandmen, A' marching to Harlaw. As I cam on, and further on, 5 And doun and by Balquhaim, O there I met Sir James the Ross, Wi' him Sir John the Græme. "O cam ye frae the Highlands, man? O cam ye a' the way? 10 Saw ye Mac Donnell and his men, As they cam frae the Skye?" "Yes, we cam frae the Highlands, man, And we cam a' the way, And we saw Mac Donnell and his men, 15 As they cam in frae Skye." "O was ye near Mac Donnell's men? Did ye their number see? Come, tell to me, John Hielandman, What might their numbers be?" 20 "Yes, we was near, and near eneugh, And we their number saw; There was fifty thousand Hielandmen, A' marching to Harlaw." "Gin that be true," said James the Ross, 25 "We'll no come meikle speed; We'll cry upon our merry men, And turn our horses' head." "O na, O na!" says John the Græme, "That thing maun never be; 30 The gallant Græmes were never beat, We'll try what we can dee." As I cam on, and further on, And doun and by Harlaw, They fell fu' close on ilka side, 35 Sic straiks ye never saw. They fell fu' close on ilka side, Sic straiks ye never saw; For ilka sword gaed clash for clash, At the battle o' Harlaw. 40 The Hielandmen wi' their lang swords, They laid on as fu' sair, And they drave back our merry men, Three acres breadth and mair. Brave Forbés to his brother did say, 45 "O brother, dinna ye see? They beat us back on ilka side, And we'll be forced to flee." "O na! O na! my brother dear, O na! that mauna be! 50 You'll tak your gude sword in your hand, And ye'll gang in wi' me." Then back to back the brothers brave Gaed in amang the thrang, And they swept doun the Hielandmen, 55 Wi' swords baith sharp and lang. The first ae straik that Forbés strack, He gar'd Mac Donnell reel; And the neist ae straik that Forbés strack, The brave Mac Donnell fell. 60 And siccan a Pitlarichie I'm sure ye never saw, As was amang the Hielandmen, When they saw Mac Donnell fa'. And when they saw that he was dead, 65 They turn'd and ran awa', And they buried him in Legate's Den, A large mile frae Harlaw. Some rade, some ran, and some did gang, They were o' sma' record, 70 But Forbés and his merry men They slew them a' the road. On Mononday at morning, The battle it began; On Saturday at gloamin', 75 Ye'd scarce ken'd wha had wan. And sic a weary buryin' I'm sure ye never saw, As was the Sunday after that, On the muirs aneath Harlaw. 80 Gin onybody speer at ye For them we took awa', Ye may tell them plain, and very plain, They're sleeping at Harlaw. GLOSSARY. [right pointing hand]Figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. a, _of_. abien, aboun, _above_. aboyding, _abiding_. accompany, 308, _keep the company of_. ae, _one_. affected, _enamored_. all and sum, _all and several_, _one and all_. allangst, 182, _along_. ancyents, 63, _ensigns_. anent, _over against_. aneughe, _enough_. aras, _arrows_. arminge-sword, _a two-handed sword_. austerne, 99, _austere_. avowe, _vow_. awin, _own_. bade, _abode_. bald, _bold_. bale, _sorrow_; ballys bete, 42, _better_, _amend_, _our evils_. bandoun, _command_, _orders_. banket, _banquet_. barne, (A. Sax. _beorn_,) _chief_, _man_. basnites, bassonetts, _helmets_. battellis, 225, _divisions of the army_, or, _the armies_. be, _by_, _at_, _by the time that_. bearing arrow, 65, "an arrow that carries well:" Percy, who also suggests birring, i.e. _whirring_, _whizzing_. See Boucher's _Glossary_. bed, 224, 229, _abode_, _remained_. bedeen, 265, _in numbers_, _one after another_? beild, _shelter_; 224, _position of safety_. ben, _in_. bende-bow, _bent bow_. bended, 182, _bounded_? bent, _coarse grass_, _ground on which this grass grows_, _field_. berne (A. Sax. _beorn_), _chief_, _man_. ber, _bare_. beth, 98, _is_. be-west, _to the west of_. biggingis, _buildings_. bille, see sworne. billie, _comrade_. bla', _blow_. blaithe, _blithe_. blan, blane, _ceased_, _stopped_. blate, _silly_, _stupid_. bleid, _blood_. bodward, 182, _message_. borrowe, _security_, _hostage_, _ransom_; borowed, 18, _ransomed_. bouk, _body_, _carcase_. bowne, bowyn, _ready_, _prepared_; 235, _going_; bound, bowynd, 19, 5, 6, _made ready_, _went_. brace, 260, same as breeze, _hurry_? bracken, braken, _fern_. brae, _side of a hill_. braid, _broad_. bra'ly, _bravely_. branken, branking, _prancing_, _capering_. braveries, _displays_. braw, _brave_, _handsome_. bread, 59, _breadth_; bred, _broad_. breeks, _breeches_. brent, _burned_. brim, _fierce_. bronde, _brand_, _sword_. brook, _enjoy_; 186, _take_ (_possession of_). brose, 261, _pottage_. brouine, brown, _brewed_. broust, _brewage_. bruch, brugh, _burgh_, _city_. bryttlynge, _cutting up_ (_of game_.) buft, _buffeted_, _beat_. burd-alone, _alone_. burn, _brook_. but, _without_, 221; but bed, _before we sleep_. butter-box, 154, "Dutchmen." Ritson. byckarte, 30, _moved quickly, rattling their weapons_. byddys, _abides_. byears, _biers_. byll, _halbert_, _battle-axe_. ca', _call_; 265, _drive_, _beat_. caliver, 116, _large pistol_, or _blunderbuss_. can, could, used as auxiliaries to form the past tenses. canty, _merry_. carefull, _anxious_. carpe, _tell_, _discourse_. cast, _propose_, _intend_. cawte, _cautious_. chafts, _chaps_. chess, _chace_. chessit, _chased_. cheverons, _gloves_. christiantè, _Christendom_. claw, _scratch_, _fight_. clinkum clankum, a phrase for _smart blows_. cogue, _wooden pail_. cold bee, 100, _was_; see can. collayne, _Cologne_, i. e. _steel, or manufacture_: see i. 357. cor, core, _corps_. corpes, 287, _living body_. cors, _curse_. corynoch, _lamentation for the dead_. cowde dye, 16, _did die_; see can. crouse, 169, _brisk_, _brave_. crowdie, _gruel_, _porridge_. cryand, _crying_. daft, _mad_. dandering, _an epithet expressing the noise of drums_, like tantara, p. 124. de, _die_; deid, dead, _death_. decay, _destruction_, _death_. dee, _do_. deemedst, _doomedst_. demean, _punish_, _put down_. deputed, 103, used of a fugitive _carried back for trial_. diel, _devil_. dight, dicht; 61, _furnished_; 37, 189, to deth, "_done_," _wounded_; 22, _dispose of_, _handle_, _encounter_. ding, pr. dung, _strike_, _knock_, _beat_, _overcome_. dinne, _noise_. discord, _quarrel_. doghtie, _doughty_. door, 154? dorlach, which Jamieson says is a short-sword, means a _wallet_. douted, _redoubtable_, _feared_. doutsum, _doubtful_. drede, _doubt_. dre, drye, _endure_, _bear_; drie, 98, as noun, _suffering_. dulesum, _doleful_. dunted, _beat_. durk, _dirk_. dyne, garre, 10, _give one his fill of fighting_. dyne, 228, _valley_. dynte, _blow_, _stroke_. eathe, _easy_. ee, _eye_. edicang, _aide-de-camp_. eme, _uncle_. endlongis, _along_. enewch, _enough_. ensenzie, enzie, _ensign_. envye (to do), _ill-will_, _injury_. ewill, 229; qy, eve, or vigil? fa', _fall_; 162, _share_, _portion_. fach, _fetch_. fallows, _fellows_, _equals_. fare, _go_. fay, 219, _on the verge of death_, _doomed_. fayne, _glad_. feale, _fail_. fearit, _feared_. fecht, _fight_. fee, _property_, _reward_. feck, maist, _greatest part_. feid, _feud_, _enmity_. feingit, _feigned_. feirdness, _cowardice_. fell, _hide_. fells, _hills_, also, _moors_. fend, _keep_, _support_. fett, _fetched_. fiery-fairy, _confusion and consternation_. filabeg, _kilt, or short petticoat, worn by Highlanders instead of breeches_. firstin, _first_. fit, _song_, _division of a song_, _story_. flegs, _frights_. flinders, _fragments_. flyte, _scold_, _remonstrate_; 95, _rally_. forder, _further_. forefend, _forbid_. forgatherit, _met together_. forwarde, _van_. fou, _full_. fourugh, see furich. frame, 133, _succeed_. freck, freke, freyke (A. S. _one who is bold_) _warrior_, _man_. fun', _found_. furich, furichinish, Gaelic; fuirich means _wait_, _stop_; fearach is an old Irish warcry. "Fy, furich, Whigs, awa'!" was a Jacobite pipe air, says Chambers. free, frie, _noble_; 20, of metal, _precious_ (?) gade, _went_. galliards, _quick and lively dances_. gare, _gore_. See Glossary to vol. 2. garre, _make_; gart, _garde_, _made_. gate, _way_. geed, _went_. geere, 64, _business_, _affair_. gettyng, 9, _plunder_. gled, _gladden_. glede, _live coal_. glent, _glanced_, _passed swiftly_. gloamin', _dusk_, _night-fall_. glove, 121; to claim a glove worn as a lady's favor, was a form of challenge,--which is perhaps the reference here. graif, _grave_. graithed, grathed, _prepared_, _dressed_, _armed_; 183, _laid_, or _laid out_. gree, bear the, _bore the palm_. gresse, _grass_. grevis, _groves_, _bushes_. grite, _weep_. grysely, _dreadfully_. guide, _good_. habershoune, _coat of mail_. hach-borde, 60, 63, 68, (MS. has in one place, "archborde,") seems to be used for the _side of the ship_. hached, _inlaid_ or _gilded_. hagbutis, _a kind of muskets_. halched, _greeted_. hale, _whole_. hard, _heard_. harneis, _armor_. haryed, _plundered_. haws, _low grounds on the border of a river_. haylde, _hauled_. haylle, 10, _healthy_. he, _high_. heal, _hail_. heidit, _beheaded_. heidin, _beheading_. hernainsell, see note p. 154. hich, _high_. hight, _promise_, _be called_. hinde, _gentle_. hing, _hang_. his, _has_. Hogan Dutch, 155? holtes, 8, _woods_. hoved, 9, _hovered_, _hung about_, _tarried_. howe, _hollow_, _valley_. husbonds, _husbandmen_. hye, hyght, (on,) _on high_, _aloud_. hyght, _promised_. ilk, ilkay, _each_. into, _in_. is, _has_. i-wis, _certainly_. jack, _a coat of mail_, _a leather jacket_. jouk, _avoid a blow by bending the body forward_. kain, 180, _rent paid in kind_; here, paid the kain is _suffered sorely_. kaithe, _appear_, _come_. ken, _know_; kenna, _know not_. kindly, 23, _native born_. kith, _acquaintance_. kittle flaws, _variable winds_, i.e. not to be depended on for courage. knop, _knob_. knowe, _knoll_. lair, 239, _place where they were lying_. lang, _long_. lap, _leapt_. layne, _deceive_; 13, _break word_. leaguer, _camp_. leath, _loath_. leeve, _dear_, _pleasant_; lever, _rather_. lesse, 10, _lying_. let, _prevent_. lift, _air_. lifting, _stealing_. liges, _lieges_. liklie, _handsome_, _promising_. lilye, 23, lilly, 179, _covered with lilies_? lilting, _singing cheerfully_. linking, _walking quickly_. list, _please_. lithe, _list_. liverance, 95, "_money for delivering up._" Percy. logeying, _lodging_. lope, _leapt_. lucetts, 14, _luces_, _pikes_. lurdane, _a heavy, stupid fellow_. luves, _palms_, _hands_. maker, makys, _mates_. march-man, _warden of the Marches_. march-perti, 40, _the Border parts or region_. marke hym to the Trenité, 13, _commit himself to God by making the sign of the cross_? marked, 14, _fixed their eyes on_, _took aim at_? maugre, _spite_. may, _maid_. meany, _company_. merchand, _marching_. mickle, _great_. mind, _remember_. miss, 264, _evil_, _fault_, _trouble_. moe, moo, _more_, _greater_. mome, _fool_. mort, _death_ (_of the deer_.) mowes, mowis, (_mouths_,) _joke_. muir, _moor_. mykel, _great_. myllàn, 36, _Milan_, i. e. _steel or manufacture_. myne-allaine, _alone by myself_. myneyeple, 35, _maniple_ (i. e. _many folds_), _a name for a close dress with sleeves worn under the armor_. nare, _nor_. naye, _denial_. near, _nearer_. neist ae, _next_. nixtin, _next_. northen, be, _to the north of_. oh'on a ri, Gaelic, _oh, my heart!_ oh' rig in di, 155? one, _on_. ones, _once_. outrake, 100, _riding out_, _excursion_. oware, _hour_. owermaskit, _overcast_. paiks, 154, _drubbing_. palione, 222, pallion, _pavilion_, _tent_. pall, _a rich cloth_. parti, _part_. paw, pa', 158, _swift motion_; one's _part_ in a performance, 154; of the _contortions_ of a person hanged, 162; of the _movement of weapons_, 163. peart, _pert_. perseiued, _pursued_. philibeg, _kilt, or short petticoat_, worn by Highlanders instead of breeches. Pitlarichie, 319? pleadis, _prayers_. polititious, _politic_, _ingenious_. pompous, 278, _proud_, _magnificent_. pra, 173, _brave_, _fine_. presumand, _presuming_. prycked, _rode_. pyght, _pitched_. quaint, _acquaint_. quat, _quit_. quhat, &c. _what_, _&c._ quhill, _while_, _until_. quhois, _whose_. quite, _quit_. quyrry, _quarry_, _slaughtered game_. quyt, _paid_, _repaid_. race, 184, _course_. raid, _a predatory incursion_. rais, _rose_. raking, 242, _running_, _scouring along_. rave, _bereave_. raw, _row_, _rank_; upo' the raw, _in rank of battle_. rax, _reach_, _stretch_; 265, _beat_? rear, ride the, 233, _ride behind_, _have the worse_. recks, 23, _matters_. rede, _advise_; 15, _guessed_. red, _rode_. Reidswire, see vol. vi. p. 131. remeid, _remedy_. rent, _rend_. rewyth, _regrets_. riggings, 154, _backs_? rinnes, _runs_. rise on anchor, 206? roke, _reek_, _steam_. rout, _company_, _crowd_. rowght, _rout_, _strife_. rowynde, _round_. rung, _cudgel_; canon's, _figuratively_, _for shot_? ryall, _royal_. ryght, 7, _straight_. rynde, 13, _flayed_? rinde, _to destroy_, Halliwell's _Dict._ saw, _saying_, _statement_. say, _saw_. say, _assay_. sayne, _say_. scale, 262, 178, _scatter_, _spread_. schapped, 15, apparently should be "swapped;" see _post_. schoote, 12, _shot_, _let go_. sen, _since_. sene, 189, _skilled_, _experienced_. shear, 30, 31, _quickly_, _at once_. (?) Halliwell. she, used of _Highlanders in general_. siccan, _such_. sinsyne, _since_. sith, _since_. skelps, _blows_. silver wand, 100? slaydis, 228; the passage is corrupt. slicht, _slight_. sloughe, _slew_. smirkling, _smirking_, _smiling_. smored, _smothered_. snell, 269, _sharp_, _loud_. snood, _a band with which a young woman ties up her hair_. sould, _should_. souters, _cobblers_. spear, speir, _ask_. spendyd, 96, probably the same as spanned, _grasped_. splenderis, _splinters_. spole, _shoulder_. spuente, 36, _spirited_, _sprung out_. spurne, _kick_; 42, _retaliation_? stain, _outdo_, _excel_. stalwurthlye, _stoutly_, _boldly_. stane'd, _stationed_. stank, 154, _pool_. stead, 65, _place_, _post_. stell'd, _placed_. stent, _stop_. stounde, _time_. stour, stowre, (_turmoil of_) _fight_. straiks, _strokes_. stynttyde, _stopped_. styrande, 6, see note: according to Percy's reading, _driving_ the deer _from their retreats_; but adopting Motherwell's, _prancing_, _spirited_. suar, 35, 38, _sure_, _trusty_. suthe, _true_. swakked, 23, swapped, swapte, 15, 24, 36, _struck_, _smote_. swat, _sweat_. sweirand, _swearing_. sworne into my bille, 95, "_I have delivered a promise in writing, confirmed by an oath._" Percy. syne, _since_, _then_, _afterward_. tackes, _takes_. tald, 227, _tall_? talent, 310, seems to be used for property in general. tear, 42, possibly the same as dere, _injury_. teene, tene, _injury_. tenne, _taken_. tent, _heed_. the, _thee_, _they_. thi, _the_. thir, _these_, _those_. thought long, _found the time drag_. thrang, _throng_. thraw, _twist_. thrysse, _thrice_. thuds, 169, sound of blows, _noises_, _strokes_. tinkler, played the, 161, _played the coward_. tint, _lost_. tockin, _token_. ton, tone, the, _the one_. tooke, 39; supply an omitted word, as "rest." toom, _empty_. top-castle, 62, _a kind of turret built round the mast-head_. topsail, to cast, _a kind of salute_. tre-trip for hay, 131; tray-trip was a _game at dice_. tree, 226, _spear-shaft_? _cudgel_? trews, 155, _Highland pantaloons_, consisting of breeches and stockings in one piece; here used for Highlanders. trone, 143, _pillory_. trows, 156, see trews. touk, tuick, _beat_. tyll, _to_. tyne, _lose_. uds-doyns, an oath. uncouth, _unknown_. uttermost, _outmost_. valziant, _valiant_. verament, _truly_. vow, 169, _exclamation of admiration or surprise_. vowit, _vowed_. wae, _sad_, _sorry_. wald, _would_. waly, _interjection of lamentation_. wane, 36? war, _worse_; verb, _to worst_, _overcome_. war, _aware_. ward, _word_. waryson, _reward_. wast, _west_. wat, _know_. weal, 41 (of hands), to _wring_? weale, 64, qy, _well_? or _good luck_! The word is probably corrupted. weapon-shaw, _inspection of arms_, _military review_. wed, _would_. wede, 72, _shorn_? weir, _war_. well, 226, qy. mell, _meddle or fight with_. weme, 98, _belly_, _hollow_. wend, _go_. whigging, _moving fast_, _marching briskly_. whilk, _which_. whyll, 15, _till_. wid, _would_. wight, 102, _strong_, _quick_. win, _go_, _get_. win (hay), _make_, _get in_. winna, _will not_. wis, 214, _wish_. woned unto the dead, 222, qy. vowed? _devoted themselves to death_? wood, _mad_, _furious_. worried, 270, _choked at_. worthe, woe, _woe be to_. wouche, _injury_. wraithe, _wroth_. writhe, _twisted_. wyld, 30, seems to be used absolutely for _deer_. wynn, (hay), _make_, _get in_. ychone, _each one_. yebent, _bent_. yee, _eye_. ye-feth, _i-faith_. yender, _yonder_. yerlle, _earl_. yerly, _early_. ye'se, _ye shall_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yill, _ale_. yth' _in the_. zield, _yield_. zit, _yet_. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Page 39, line 101: changed "strenght" to "strength" (Many hade no strength for to stande,) Page 108: line note anchor moved from line 67 to line 68. Page 157, line 11: changed "orher" to "order" (Lord Roxburgh was there, in order to share) Page 191, line 9-12: changed indentation of this verse to be consistent with the rest of the ballad. 
22175	----	[Illustration: She was off and away to the lone plain of Carterhaugh] STORIES FROM THE BALLADS TOLD TO THE CHILDREN BY MARY MACGREGOR WITH PICTURES BY KATHARINE CAMERON LONDON: T. C. & E. C. JACK NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO. * * * * * TO DORIS * * * * * ABOUT THIS BOOK Listen, children, for you will wish to hear where I found the tales which I have told you in this little book. It is long, oh! so long ago, that they were sung up hill and down dale by wandering singers who soon became known all over the country as minstrels, or ofttimes, because they would carry with them a harp, as harpers. In court, in cottage, by princes and by humble folk, everywhere, by every one the minstrels were greeted with delight. To such sweet music did they sing the songs or ballads which they made or perchance had heard, to such sweet music, that those who listened could forget nor tale nor tune. In those far-off days of minstrelsy the country was alive with fairies. Over the mountains, through the glens, by babbling streams and across silent moors, the patter of tiny feet might be heard, feet which had strayed from Elfinland. It was of these little folk and of their visits to the homes of mortals that the minstrels sang. Sterner songs too were theirs, songs of war and bloodshed, when clan fought with clan and lives were lost and brave deeds were done. Of all indeed that made life glad or sad, of these the minstrels sang. From town to village, from court to inn they wandered, singing the old songs, adding verses to them here, dropping lines from them there, singing betimes a strain unheard before, until at length the day came when the songs were written down. It was in the old books that thus came to be written that I first found these tales, and when you have read them perhaps you will wish to go yourself to the same old books, to find many another song of love and hate, of joy and sorrow. MARY MACGREGOR. * * * * * LIST OF STORIES I. The Young Tamlane, II. Hynde Etin, III. Hynde Horn, IV. Thomas the Rhymer, V. Lizzie Lindsay, VI. The Gay Goshawk, VII. The Laird o' Logie, * * * * * LIST OF PICTURES THE YOUNG TAMLANE.-- She was off and away to the lone plain of Carterhaugh.--_Frontispiece._ 'In earth or air I dwell, as pleases me the best,' HYNDE ETIN.-- 'For twelve long years have I never been within the Holy Church, and I fear to enter now,' HYNDE HORN.-- 'Drink,' she said gently, 'drink,' THOMAS THE RHYMER.-- Under the Eildon tree Thomas met the lady, LIZZIE LINDSAY.-- 'Will ye come to the Highlands with me, Lizzie Lindsay?' THE GAY GOSHAWK.-- 'I go but to my lattice window to listen to the birds,' THE LAIRD O' LOGIE.-- She stood at the hall door gazing wistfully after the young Laird of Logie, * * * * * THE YOUNG TAMLANE The young Tamlane had lived among mortals for only nine short years ere he was carried away by the Queen of the Fairies, away to live in Fairyland. His father had been a knight of great renown, his mother a lady of high degree, and sorry indeed were they to lose their son. And this is how it happened. One day, soon after Tamlane's ninth birthday, his uncle came to him and said, 'Tamlane, now that ye are nine years old, ye shall, an ye like it, ride with me to the hunt.' And Tamlane jumped for joy, and clapped his hands for glee. Then he mounted his horse and rode away with his uncle to hunt and hawk. Over the moors they rode, and the wind it blew cold from the north. Over the moors they rode, and the cold north wind blew upon the young Tamlane until he grew cold and stiff. Then the reins they fell from his hands and down from his horse slipped Tamlane, and laid himself down to rest, so weary, so cold was he. But no sooner had he lain down on the bare earth than he closed his eyes and fell fast asleep. And no sooner had he fallen fast asleep than the Queen of the Fairies came and carried Tamlane off to Fairyland. For long years Tamlane dwelt among the little green folk, yet ofttimes he would come back to visit the land of his birth. Now many were the hills and dells haunted by the fairy folk. Yet neither hill nor dell pleased them more than the lone plain of Carterhaugh, where the soft-flowing rivers of Ettrick and Yarrow met and mingled. Many a long day after fairies were banished from the plain of Carterhaugh would the peasant folk come to gaze at the circles which still marked the green grass of the lone moor. The circles had been made, so they said, by the tiny feet of the fairies as they danced round and round in a ring. Well, in the days before the fairies were banished from the plain of Carterhaugh, strange sights were to be seen there by the light of the moon. Little folk, dressed all in green, would flit across the moor. They would form tiny rings and dance on their tiny toes until the moonlight failed. Little horsemen dressed in green would go riding by, the bells on the fairy bridles playing magic music the while. Sounds too, unknown to mortals, would tremble on the still night air. Full of mischief too were these little elfin folk, and wise mortals feared to tread where fairy feet were tripping. Wise mortals would warn the merry children and the winsome maidens lest they should venture too near the favourite haunts of fairydom. To Carterhaugh came, as I have told you, many of the fairy folk; but more often than any other came a little elfin knight, and he was the young Tamlane, who had been carried away to Fairyland when he was only nine years old. Beyond all other of the little green folk was the elf knight feared. And little was that to be wondered at, for well was it known that over many a fair-haired child, over many a beauteous maiden, he had used his magic power. Nor would he let them go until they promised to come back another moonlit eve, and as a pledge of their promise he would seize from the children a toy, from the maidens a ring, or it might be their mantle of green. Now about two miles from the plain of Carterhaugh stood a castle, and in the castle there lived a fair maiden named Janet. One day her father sent for his daughter and said, 'Janet, ye may leave the castle grounds, an ye please, but never may ye cross the plain of Carterhaugh. For there ye may be found by young Tamlane, and he it is who ofttimes casts a spell o'er bonny maidens.' Now Janet was a wilful daughter. She answered her father never a word, but when she had left his presence she laughed aloud, she tossed her head. To her ladies she said, 'Go to Carterhaugh will I an I list, and come from Carterhaugh will I an I please, and never will I ask leave of any one.' Then when the moonbeams peeped in at her lattice window, the lady Janet tucked up her green skirt, so that she might run, and she coiled her beautiful yellow hair as a crown above her brow. And she was off and away to the lone plain of Carterhaugh. The moonlight stole across the moor, and Janet laughed aloud in her glee. She ran across to the well, and there, standing alone, riderless, stood the steed of the little elfin knight. Janet put out her hand to the rose-tree that grew by the well and plucked a dark red rose. Sweet was its scent and Janet put out her hand and plucked another rose, but ere she had pulled a third, close beside her stood a little wee man. He reached no higher than the knee of the lady Janet. 'Ye have come to Carterhaugh, Janet,' he cried, 'and yet ye have not asked my leave. Ye have plucked my red roses and broken a branch of my bonny rose-tree. Have ye no fear of me, Janet?' The lady Janet tossed her head, though over her she felt creeping slow the spell of the little elfin knight. She tossed her head and she cried, 'Nay, I have no fear of you, ye little wee man. Nor will I ever ask leave of you as I come to and fro across the plain of Carterhaugh. Ye shall know that the moor belongs to me, me!' and Janet stamped her foot. 'My father made it all my own.' But the young Tamlane took the white hand of the lady Janet in his own, and so gentle were his words, so kind his ways, that soon the maiden had no wish to leave the little wee man. Hand in hand they wandered through the red rose-bushes that grew by the side of the well. And in the light of the moon the elf knight wove his spell and made the lady Janet his own. Back to the castle sped Janet when the moonlight failed, but all her smiles were gone. Lone and sad was she, all with longing for her little elfin knight. Little food would Janet eat in these days, little heed would she take of the gowns she wore. Her yellow hair hung down uncombed, unbraided around her sad, pale face. Janet had been used to join in the games her four-and-twenty maidens played. She had run the quickest, tossed the ball the highest, nor had any been more full of glee than she. Now the maidens might play as they listed, little did the lady Janet care. When evening fell, her four-and-twenty ladies would play their games of chess. Many a game had Janet won in bygone days. Now the ladies might win or lose as they pleased, little did the lady Janet care. Her heart was away on the plain of Carterhaugh with her little wee elfin knight, and soon she herself would be there. Once more the moonbeams peeped in at her lattice window, and Janet smiled, put on her fairest gown, and combed her yellow locks. She was off and away to Carterhaugh.[1] [Footnote 1: See Frontispiece.] She reached the moor, she ran to the well, and there as before, there, stood the steed of the little elfin man. And Janet put out her hand and plucked a red red rose, but ere she had plucked another, close beside her stood the young Tamlane. 'Why do ye pluck my roses?' asked the little elf man. But Janet had not come to talk about the roses, and she paid no heed to his question. 'Tell me, Tamlane,' said the lady Janet, 'tell me, have ye always been a little elfin man? Have ye never, in days gone by, been to the holy chapel, and have ye never had made over you the sign of the Holy Cross?' 'Indeed now, Janet, the truth will I tell!' cried the young Tamlane. Then the lady Janet listened, and the lady Janet wept as the little wee knight told her how he had been carried away by the Queen of the Fairies. But yet a stranger tale he told to the maiden. 'Ere I was carried off to Fairyland, Janet,' said young Tamlane, 'we played as boy and girl in the old castle grounds, and well we loved each other as we played together in those merry merry days of long ago. Ye do not forget, Janet?' Then back into the lady Janet's mind stole the memory of her childhood's merry days, and of the little lad who had shared her toys and played her games. Together they had made the walls of the old castle ring with their laughter. No, the lady Janet had not forgotten, and she knew that now, as in the days of long ago, she loved the young Tamlane. 'Tell me,' she said, 'tell me how ye do spend your day in Fairyland?' 'Blithe and gay is the life we lead,' cried the little wee knight. 'There is no sickness, no pain of any kind in Fairyland, Janet. 'In earth or air I dwell as pleases me the best. I can leave this little body of mine an it pleases me, and come back to it an I will. I am small, as you see me now, but when I will, I grow so small that a nut-shell is my home, a rosebud my bed. But I can grow big as well, Janet, so big that I needs must make my home in some lofty hall. 'Hither and thither we flit, bathe in the streams, frolic in the wind, play with the sunbeams. 'Never would I wish to leave Fairyland, Janet, were it not that at the end of each seven years an evil spirit comes to carry one of us off to his dark abode. And I, so fair and fat am I, I fear that I shall be chosen by the Evil one. [Illustration: 'In earth or air I dwell as pleases me the best,'] 'But weep not, Janet; an you wish to bring me back to the land of mortals, I will e'en show you how that may be done. Little time is there to lose, for to-night is Hallowe'en, and this same night must the deed be done. 'On Hallowe'en, at the midnight hour, the fairy court will ride a mile beyond Carterhaugh to the cross at Milestone. Wait for me there, Janet, and ye will win your own true knight.' 'But many a knight will ride amid the fairy train. How shall I know you, my little wee man?' cried Janet. 'Neither among the first nor among the second company shall ye seek for me,' said young Tamlane. 'Only when ye see the third draw nigh give heed, Janet, for among them ye will find me. 'Not on the black horse, nor yet on the brown horse, shall I ride. Let them pass, and keep ye quiet. But as the milk-white steed goes by, seize ye the bridle, Janet, and pull me down, and keep your arms ever around me. For on the milk-white steed I ride. 'On my right hand ye will see a glove, my left will be uncovered. Now, by these signs, ye will know your own true knight. 'Hold me fast, Janet, hold me fast, as you pull me down from my milk-white steed. For while your arms are around me, the fairy folk will change me into fearful shapes. 'Into an adder, and into a snake they will change me. Yet, an ye love me, Janet, fear ye nought, but hold me fast. 'They will change me into a lion, and into a bear. Yet, as I love you, Janet, fear ye nought, but hold me fast. 'A toad, an eel I shall become, yet do not let me slide from your arms, Janet, but hold me fast. 'But, an the fairy folk change me into a blazing fagot, or a bar of hot iron, then throw me far from you, Janet, into the cold, clear well, throw me with all your speed. 'There will I change into your own true knight, Janet, and ye shall throw over me your mantle of green velvet.' Dark was the night and full of gloom as the lady Janet hastened to the cross at Milestone, but her heart was glad and full of light. She would see her own true knight in mortal form before the dawn of Hallowday. It was between the hours of twelve and one o'clock when Janet stood alone at the spot where the fairy train would pass. Fearsome it was there alone in the gloom, but the lady Janet was heedful of nought. She had but to wait, to listen. Yet not a sound did she hear, save only the wind as it whistled through the long grass. Not a sound save the wind did she hear? Ah yes, now strange noises were blown to her eager ears. The bells on fairy bridles tinkled, the music of the tiny fairy band piped each moment more clear. Janet looked, and by the light of Will o' Wisp she could just catch sight of their little oaten pipes. Shrill were the notes they blew on these, but softer were the sounds they blew through tiny hemlock pipes. Then deeper came the tones of the bog-reeds and large hemlock, and Janet, looking, saw the little green folk draw nigh. How merry the music was, how glad and good! Never was known a fairy yet who sang or played of aught but joy and mirth. The first company of the little folk passed Janet as she stood patient, watchful by the cross; the second passed, and then there came the third. 'The black steed! Let it go,' said Janet to herself. 'The brown steed! It matters not to me, she whispered. 'The milk-white steed!' Ah, Janet had seized the bridle of the milk-white steed and pulled the little rider off into her strong young arms. A cry of little elfs, of angry little elfs, rang out on the chill night air. Then as he lay in Janet's arms the angry little imps changed their stolen elfin knight into an adder, a snake, a bear, a lion, a toad, an eel, and still, through all these changes, the lady Janet held him fast. 'A blazing fagot! Let him change into a blazing fagot!' cried the angry little folk. 'Then this foolish mortal will let our favorite knight alone.' And as young Tamlane changed into a blazing fagot the little folk thought they had got their will. For now the lady Janet threw him from her, far into the clear, cold well. But the little angry imps were soon shrieking in dismay. No sooner was the fagot in the well than the little elfin knight was restored to his own true mortal form. Then over the tall, strong knight Janet threw her green mantle, and the power of the fairies over the young Tamlane was for ever gone. Their spell was broken. Now, the Queen of the Fairies had hidden herself in a bush of broom to see what would happen. And when she saw her favourite knight change into his own true mortal shape, she was very cross, very cross indeed. The little fairy band was ordered to march home in silence, their pipes thrust into their tiny green girdles, and there were no more revels in the fairy court for many and many a long day to come. HYNDE ETIN May Margaret did not love to sew, yet here in the doorway of her bower she sat, her silk seam in her hand. May Margaret sat with her seam in her hand, but she did not sew, she dreamed, and her dream was all of Elmond wood. She was there herself under the greenwood gay. The tall trees bowed, the little trees nodded to her. The flowers threw their sweetest scents after her as she passed along; the little birds sang their gladdest that she might hear. How fair and green and cool it was in the wood of Elmond! On a sudden, Margaret sat upright in the doorway of her bower. She dreamed no more. The sound of the hunting-horn rang in her ear. It was blown in Elmond wood. Then down on her lap slipped the silken seam, down to her feet the needle. May Margaret was up and away to the greenwood. Down by the hazel bushes she hastened, nor noticed that the evening shadows fell; on past the birch groves she ran, nor noticed that the dew fell fast. No one did May Margaret meet until she reached a white-thorn tree. There, up from the grass on which he lay, sprang Hynde Etin. 'What do ye seek in the wood, May Margaret?' said he. 'Is it flowers, or is it for dew ye seek this bonny night of May?' But Margaret did not care to answer. She only shook her head. Then said Hynde Etin, 'I am forester of Elmond wood, nor should ye enter it without my leave.' 'Nay now,' cried the lady Margaret, 'leave will I ask of no man, for my father is earl of all this land.' 'Your father may be earl of all the land, May Margaret, yet shall ye die, because ye will not ask my leave to come to Elmond wood.' And he seized her fast and tied her to a tree by her long, yellow locks. Yet did Hynde Etin not kill the maiden, but this is what he did. He pulled up by the root the tallest tree he could see, and in the hollow he dug a deep deep cave, and into the cave he thrust May Margaret. 'Now will ye wander no more in my woods!' cried Hynde Etin. 'Here shall ye stay, or home shall ye come with me to be my wife.' 'Nay, here will I rather stay!' cried May Margaret, 'for my father will seek for me and will find me here.' But the cave was dark and cold, and the earl sought yet did not find his daughter. No bed was there in the cave for May Margaret, no bed save the rough earth, no pillow save a stone. Poor May Margaret! She did not like the dark or the cold. Ere many days had passed away, she thought it would be better to live with Hynde Etin than to stay longer alone in so dismal a cave. 'Take me out, take me out!' then cried May Margaret. Hynde Etin heard the maiden's call and he came and took her out of the cave. Deep into the greenwood he carried her, where his own home had been built, and there he made May Margaret, the earl's daughter, his wife. For twelve long years Margaret lived in the greenwood. And Hynde Etin was kind to her and she grew to love him well. Seven little sons had Margaret, and happy and gay was their life in their woodland home. Yet oft did Margaret grieve that her little wee sons had never been taken to holy church. She wished that the priest might christen them there. Now one day Hynde Etin slung his bow across his shoulder, placed a sheath of arrows in his belt, and was up and away to the hunt. With him he took his eldest wee son. Under the gay greenwood they paced, Hynde Etin and his eldest son, and the thrush sang to them his morning song. Upward over the hills they climbed, and they heard the chimes of church bells clear. Then the little wee son said to his father, 'An ye would not be angry with me, father, there is somewhat I would ask.' 'Ask what ye will, my bonny wee boy,' said Hynde Etin, 'for never will I be cross with you.' 'My mother ofttimes weeps, father. Why is it that she sobs so bitterly?' 'Your mother weeps, my little wee son, for sore she longs to see her own kin. Twelve long years is it and more since last she saw them, or heard the church bells ring. 'An earl's daughter was your mother dear, and if I had not stolen her away one bonny night in May she might have wedded a knight of high degree. 'The forester of Elmond wood was I, yet as I saw her standing by the white-thorn tree I loved her well. And ere many days had gone by thy mother loved me too, and I carried her away to our greenwood home. 'Dear to your mother are her seven little sons, dear to her, too, am I. Yet oft will the tears run down her cheek as she dreams of her old home and her father the earl.' Then upward glanced the little wee son as he cried aloud, 'I will shoot the linnet there on the tree and the larks as they wing their flight, and I will carry them home to my mother dear that she may weep no more.' Yet neither with linnet nor with lark could her little wee son woo the smiles back to his dear mother's face. Now a day came when Hynde Etin in his greenwood home thought the hours passed but slow, and that same day he took his gun and his dog and off he went alone to hunt. His seven little wee sons he left at home with their mother. 'Mother,' said the eldest little son, 'mother, will ye be angry with me an I tell you what I heard?' 'Nay now, my little wee son,' said she, 'I will never be cross with you.' 'I heard the church bells ring as I went hunting over the hill, mother. Clear did they ring and sweet.' 'Ah, would I had heard them too, my little dear son,' cried Margaret, 'for never have I been in the holy church for twelve long years and more, and never have I taken my seven bonny sons to be christened, as indeed I would they were. In the holy church will my father be, and there would I fain go too.' Then the little young Etin, for that was the name of Margaret's eldest son, took his mother's hand and called his six little brothers, and together they went through Elmond wood as fast as ever they could go. It may be that the mother led the way, it may be that so it chanced, but soon they had left the greenwood far behind and stood on an open heath. And there, before them, stood a castle. Margaret looked and Margaret smiled. She knew she was standing once again before her father's gate. She took three rings from her pocket and gave them to her eldest wee boy. 'Give one,' she said, 'to the porter. He is proud, but so he sees the ring, he will open the gate and let you enter. 'Give another to the butler, my little wee son, and he will show you where ye are to go. 'And the third ye shall hand to the minstrel. You will see him with his harp, standing in the hall. It may be he will play goodwill to my bonny wee son who has come from Elmond wood.' Then young Etin did as his mother had said. The first ring he gave to the porter, and without a word the gate was opened for the little wee boy. He gave the second ring to the butler, and without a word the little wee boy was led into the hall. The third ring he gave to the minstrel, and without a word he took his harp and forthwith played goodwill to the bonny wee boy from the greenwood. Now, when the little Etin reached the earl, he fell on his knee before him. The old earl looked upon the little lad, and his eyes they were filled with tears. 'My little wee boy, ye must haste away,' he cried. 'An I look upon you long my heart will break into three pieces, for ye have the eyes, the hair of my lost May Margaret.' 'My eyes are blue as my mother's eyes, and my yellow hair curls as does hers,' cried the little wee boy. 'Where is your mother?' then cried the earl, and the tears rolled down his cheek. 'My mother is standing at the castle gate, and with her are my six little wee brothers,' said the bonny young Etin. 'Run, porter boys, run fast,' said the earl, 'and throw wide open the gates that my daughter may come in to me.' Into the hall came Margaret, her six little sons by her side. Before the earl she fell upon her knee, but the earl he lifted her up and said, 'Ye shall dine with me to-day, ye and your seven bonny little sons.' 'No food can I eat,' said Margaret, 'until I see again my dear husband. For he knows not where he may find me and his seven dear little sons.' 'Now will I send my hunters, and they shall search the forest high and low and bring Hynde Etin unto me,' said the earl. Then up and spake the little wee Etin. 'Search for my father shall ye not, until ye do send to him a pardon full and free.' And the earl smiled at the young Etin. 'In sooth a pardon shall your father have,' said he. With his own hand the earl wrote the pardon, and he sealed it with his own seal. Then the hunters were off and away to search for Hynde Etin. They sought for him east and they sought for him west, they sought all over the countryside. And at length they found him sitting alone in his home in Elmond wood. Alone, and tearing his yellow locks, was Hynde Etin. 'Get up, Hynde Etin, get up and come with us, for the earl has sent for you,' cried the merry hunters. 'The earl may do as he lists with me,' said Etin. 'He may cut off my head, or he may hang me on a greenwood tree. Little do I care to live,' moaned Etin, 'now that I have lost my lady Margaret.' 'The lady Margaret is in her father's hall, Hynde Etin,' said the hunters, 'nor food will she eat until ye do come to her. There is a pardon for you here sealed by the earl's own hand.' Then Hynde Etin smoothed his yellow locks, and gay was he as he went with the hunters to the castle. Down on his knee before the earl fell Hynde Etin. 'Rise, Etin, rise!' cried the earl. 'This day shall ye dine with me.' Around the earl's table sat the lady Margaret, her husband dear, and her seven little wee sons. And the little Etin looked and looked and never a tear did he see on his mother's face. 'A boon I have to ask,' cried then the little wee boy; 'I would we were all in the holy church that the good priest might christen me and my six little brothers. For in the greenwood gay never a church did we see, nor the sound of church bells did we hear.' 'Soon shall your boon be granted,' cried the earl, 'for this very day to the church shall ye go, and your mother and your six little wee brothers shall be with you.' To the door of the holy church they came, but there did the lady Margaret stay. 'For twelve long years and more,' she cried, and bowed her head, 'for twelve long years have I never been within the holy church, and I fear to enter now.' Then out to her came the good priest, and his smile was sweet to see. Come hither, come hither, my lily-white flower,' said he, 'and bring your babes with you that I may lay my hands upon their heads.' Then did he christen the lady Margaret's seven little wee sons. And their names, beginning with the tiniest, were these--Charles, Vincent, Sam, Dick, James, John. And the eldest little wee son was, as you already know, named after his father, Etin. And back to the earl's gay castle went the lady Margaret with Hynde Etin and her seven little new-christened sons. And there they lived happy for ever after. [Illustration: 'For twelve long years have I never been within the Holy Church, and I fear to enter now'] HYNDE HORN Hynde Horn was a little prince. It was because he was so courteous, so kind a little lad that Prince Horn was always called Hynde Horn. For hend or hynde in the days of long ago meant just all the beautiful things which these words, courteous, kind, mean in these days. Hynde Horn lived a happy life in his home in the distant East. For it was in the bright glowing land of the sun that his father, King Allof, reigned. The Queen Godylt loved her little son too well to spoil him. She wished him to learn to share his toys, to play his games with other boys. Thus, much to the delight of little Prince Horn, two boys, almost as old as he was, came to live with him in the palace. Athulph and Fykenyld were their names. They were merry playmates for the little prince, and, as the years rolled by, Athulph and Fykenyld thought there was no one to equal their prince Hynde Horn. They would serve him loyally when he was king and they were men. All went well in the palace of this far-off eastern land until Hynde Horn was fifteen years of age. Then war came, without warning, into this country of blue sky and blazing sun. Mury, King of the Turks, landed in the kingdom of King Allof, who was all unprepared for fight. And King Mury, with his fierce soldiers, pillaged the land, killed the good King Allof, seized his crown, and placed it on his own head. Then poor Queen Godylt fled from the palace, taking with her Hynde Horn and his two playmates Prince Athulph and Prince Fykenyld. I cannot tell you what became of the beautiful queen, but Mury, the cruel king, captured Hynde Horn and made him and his two playfellows prisoners. What should he do with Prince Horn, who was heir to the kingdom he had seized? Should he kill the lad, he wondered. Yet cruel as King Mury was, he could not do so dastardly a deed. But Hynde Horn was tall and strong, and Hynde Horn was loved by the people. He must certainly be sent out of the country. So King Mury planned, and King Mury plotted, and at length he thought of a way, by which he hoped to be for ever rid of the gallant prince and his two companions. He ordered the prisoners to be brought down to the seashore, and there the lads were thrust into an open boat, and pushed out to sea. It seemed as though they must perish, for King Mury had given orders that no provisions were to be placed in the boat. There was neither helm nor oar for the little craft. The lads could do nothing to guide her on her dangerous course. Now they would drift gently on the swell of the quiet sea, now they would whirl giddily on the crest of a storm-tossed wave. Faint and weary grew Hynde Horn and his two companions. It seemed to them that they would perish from hunger or be devoured by the storm. Yet every day the little boat was drifted by soft breezes or driven by wild storm-clouds westward and always westward. At length one day a great wave came and lifted it high up on to the coast. The boys had reached Scotland, the country over which King Alymer ruled. Now it chanced that King Alymer was passing along the sea-coast, and seeing the lads lying there, pale and bruised, he ordered that they should be carried to the palace, that they might be fed and that their wounds might be bathed. So carefully were they tended in the palace of King Alymer that soon roses bloomed again on the cheeks of Hynde Horn and his two companions, strength crept back to their bruised bodies. Ere many weeks had passed all in the palace loved Hynde Horn and knew that he was a prince worthy of his name. When the prince was well, King Alymer listened to the story the lad had to tell, the story of his ruined home, his lost kingdom, his suffering at the hands of the cruel King Mury. And King Alymer, for he was gentle at heart, shed a tear as he heard. 'Thou shalt stay at our court, Hynde Horn,' he said, 'and learn all that a prince should learn. Then, when thou art older, thou shalt go to war with Mury, the cruel king of the Turks. Thou shalt win back thine own kingdom and rule over it.' Then the king called for Athelbras, his steward, and bade him care for Prince Horn and his two companions. A suite of rooms was given to the prince in the palace, and here he and his playfellows were trained in all courtly ways. When his studies were over, Hynde Horn would go out to hawk and hunt. Often, too, he would wrestle and tilt with his companions, so that in days to come he would be able to take his place in battle and in tournament. But one day King Alymer heard the young prince's voice as he sang. So pure, so sweet rang the voice that the king said to himself, 'Hynde Horn shall be trained by the best harpist in our land.' Then happy days began for the young prince. Rather would he sing, as he touched softly the cords of the harp, than would he fight or tilt; rather would he sing and play, than go to hunt and hawk. Yet well had he loved these sports in former days. Now, King Alymer had one daughter, the Princess Jean. Dearly did the king love his daughter, and ofttimes he stroked her hair and wished that she had a playfellow to cheer her in his absence. For when the king would journey from city to city to see that justice and right ruled throughout the land, his child was left alone. But now that Hynde Horn and his companions had come, the king knew that the Princess Jean would no longer be dull while he was away. She, too, in the early days after the prince came to the palace, would ride to hunt and hawk, Hynde Horn by her side. And later she would listen as he talked to her of his beautiful home under the eastern sky, of his dear lost mother, Godylt, and his father, King Allof, who was slain by the cruel Mury. She would listen, her eyes dim with tears, for she knew how well he had loved his home in the far-off East. But her eyes would flash as he told of the cruel King Mury, and of how one day he would go back to his kingdom and win it from the hand of the evil king. Her eyes would flash and her heart would beat, yet when she was alone she would weep. For what would she do if Hynde Horn went away to the far East and she was left alone? To the Princess Jean it seemed that the palace would be empty were Prince Horn no longer dwelling there. Well, the years rolled on and Hynde Horn was no longer a boy, Princess Jean no longer a girl. They both had changed in many ways, but in one way both were still as they had been when they were boy and girl together. They had loved each other then, they loved each other now. So well did they love one another that they went to King Alymer and told him that they wished to marry, and that without delay. Now the king was well pleased that Hynde Horn should marry his beautiful daughter the Princess Jean, but he was not willing that the wedding should be at once. 'Thou must wait, my daughter,' said the king; 'thou must wait to wed Hynde Horn until he has journeyed to the far East and won back the kingdom Mury so unjustly wrested from him. Then, when he has shown himself as brave as he is courteous, then shall the wedding be without delay.' Thus it was that a few days later Hynde Horn and Princess Jean stood together to say farewell one to another. Hynde Horn was going away to win his spurs, to show himself worthy of the lady whom he loved. Before he left her, he gave her a beautiful silver wand, and on the wand were perched seven living larks. They would warble to the Princess Jean when Hynde Horn was no longer near to sing to her, as had been his wont, in his soft sweet voice. And the Princess Jean drew from her own finger a ring, and seven diamonds shone therein. She placed it on the finger of her dear Hynde Horn, and said, 'As long as the diamonds in this ring flash bright, thou wilt know I love thee as I do now. Should the gleam of the diamonds fade and grow dim, thou wilt know, not that my love grows less, for that may never be, but thou wilt know that evil hath befallen me.' Then sadly they parted and Hynde Horn, the ring on his finger, hastened down to the shore. Swiftly he embarked in the ship that awaited him, and sailed away. On and on for many a long day he sailed, until he reached the kingdom which Mury the king had seized when he killed King Allof. Here Hynde Horn warred against King Mury until he overcame him and won again the kingdom of the East for himself, the rightful heir. And the people over whom he ruled rejoiced, for Hynde Horn, though he no longer was prince but king, did not forget his kind and courteous ways. For seven years King Horn ruled in this distant land, doing many a deed of daring meanwhile, and winning both gold and glory for himself. Ofttimes during these long years he would glance at the diamond ring which the Princess Jean had given to him, and always the diamonds flashed back bright. Then one day, when his work was over and he knew he was free to go again to the princess, his heart wellnigh stopped for fear. He had looked downward at his ring, and lo! the diamonds were dull and dim. Their lustre had vanished. The Princess Jean must be in trouble, or already evil had befallen her. Hynde Horn hastened down to the seashore, and there he hired a ship to sail speedily to Scotland, where King Alymer ruled. The ship sailed swiftly, yet the days seemed long to King Horn. Oft he would gaze at his ring, but only to find the diamonds growing always more dull, more dim. Hynde Horn longed as he had never longed before to be once more beside the Princess Jean that he might guard her from all harm. Fair blew the wind, onward sailed the ship, and at length Hynde Horn saw land, and knew that he was drawing near to Scotland. A little later he had reached the coast and had begun his journey towards the palace. As he hastened on, King Horn met a beggar man. 'Old man,' cried Hynde Horn, 'I have come from far across the sea. Tell me what news there is in this country, for it is many a long day since I have been in Scotland.' 'There is little news,' said the beggar, 'little news, for we dwell secure under our gracious King Alymer. To be sure, in the palace there is rejoicing. The feast has already been spread for forty days and more. To-day is the wedding-day of the king's daughter, the Princess Jean.' Ah, now Hynde Horn understood why his diamonds had grown dull and dim. His beautiful princess had not forgotten him. Of that he was quite sure. But King Alymer and his people had grown weary of waiting for his return. Seven years had seemed a long, long time, and now the king was anxious that his daughter should marry and wait no longer for the return of Hynde Horn. And, but this King Horn did not know, Fykenyld, his old companion, loved the princess, and had wooed her long and was waiting to marry her. False to Hynde Horn was Fykenyld, for ever did he say, 'Hynde Horn is dead,' or 'Hynde Horn hath forgotten the Princess Jean,' or 'Hynde Horn hath married one of the dark-haired princesses in the far-off East.' And never did he leave the palace to go in search of his old playfellow, whom he had once longed to serve. Now King Alymer had listened to Fykenyld's words, and though he did not believe Hynde Horn would forget his daughter, he did believe that Hynde Horn might be dead. Thus it was that he commanded Princess Jean to look no longer for the return of Hynde Horn, but without more delay to marry Prince Fykenyld. And the princess, pale and sad, worn out by long waiting, promised to look no more for Hynde Horn. To please her father and his people, she even promised to marry Hynde Horn's old playfellow, Prince Fykenyld. Ah, but had they only known, King Horn was already hastening towards the palace. Already he had learned that the wedding had not yet taken place. Now he was speaking to the beggar again, quickly, impatiently. 'Old man, lend me your torn and tattered coat. Thou shalt have my scarlet cloak in its place. Thy staff, too, I must have. Instead of it thou shalt have my horse.' You see the young king had made up his mind to go to the palace dressed as a beggar. But the old man was puzzled. Could the young prince from across the sea really wish to dress in his torn rags? Well, it was a strange wish, but right glad would he be to have the scarlet cloak, the gallant steed. When King Horn had donned his disguise, he cried, 'Tell me now, how dost thou behave thyself when thou comest to the palace to beg?' 'Ah, sir,' said the old man, 'thou must not walk thus upright. Thou must not look all men boldly in the face. As thou goest up the hill, thou must lean heavily on thy staff, thou must cast thine eyes low to the ground. When thou comest to the gate of the palace, thou must tarry there until the hour for the king to dine. Then mayest thou go to the great gate and ask an alms for the sake of St. Peter and St. Paul, but none shalt thou take from any hand, save from the hand of the young bride herself.' Hynde Horn thanked the old beggar man, and, bidding him farewell, set off up the hill toward the palace gate. And no one looking at him in the tattered coat, bending half double over his staff, no one could have guessed that this beggar man was the brave and courteous Hynde Horn. Now when at length King Horn reached the palace gate, the wedding feast was spread. Princess Jean was sitting on the throne beside her father, Prince Fykenyld on her other side, smiling to himself. He would soon be wedded to the princess, he thought, and in days to come he would reign with her over King Alymer's wide domains. Fykenyld had no thought to spare for his old playmate, save to be glad that he had never returned from the far East to claim his bride. But though seven long years had rolled away, Princess Jean had not forgotten Hynde Horn. Forgotten! Nay, day and night he was in her thought, in her heart. Yet was she sure that he would never now return. It is true that in her despair she had yielded to her father's wishes; she had promised to wed Prince Fykenyld that very day. It was no wonder then that she sat on the throne sad at heart, pale of face. Hynde Horn had knocked at the palace gate. It was no humble beggar's rap he gave, but a bold, impatient knock. King Horn had forgotten for the moment that he was only a beggar man. The palace gate was flung wide. One of the noble guests had arrived, thought the porter. But when he saw a beggar standing before him, he wellnigh slammed the gate in the poor man's face. Before he could do this Hynde Horn spoke, and his voice made the porter pause to listen, so sweet, so soft it was. It brought back to the rough old man the thought of Hynde Horn, for he had been used to speak in just such a tone. The porter cleared his voice, wiped his eyes, for he, as all others who dwelt in the palace, had loved Hynde Horn, and grieved sorely for his absence. For the sake of Hynde Horn it was that the porter listened to the beggar man's request. 'I have come to ask for alms, yet will I take them from none save from the hand of the Princess Jean herself, and from across the sea,' said the beggar man. Still hearing the sound of the lost prince's voice, the porter bade the beggar wait, and stealing up into the hall unnoticed, he passed through the crowd of gay lords and ladies until he reached the princess. 'A beggar from across the sea begs alms, yet none will he have save from the hand of the Princess Jean herself,' said the porter boldly. Then--for he had known the princess from the time that she was only a tiny little girl--then he added in a whisper: 'The man hath a voice soft and sweet as that of our lost Prince Horn.' Princess Jean heard, and not a moment did she pause. She stepped down from the throne, took a cup of red wine in her hand, and heeding not the astonished stare of lord and lady, she hastened out to the palace gate. Very beautiful she looked in her long white robe, her gold combs glinting in her hair. 'Drink,' she said gently, as she stood before the beggar, 'drink, and then haste to tell me what tidings thou dost bring from across the sea.' [Illustration: 'Drink,' she said gently, 'drink'] The beggar took the cup of wine and drank. As he handed back the cup to the princess he dropped into it the diamond ring, which had been dull and dim for many a long day now. Princess Jean saw the ring. She knew it was the very one she had given to Hynde Horn. Her heart bounded. Now at least she would hear tidings of her long-lost love. 'Oh tell me, tell me quick,' she cried, 'where didst thou find this ring? Was it on the sea or in a far-off country that thou didst find it, or was it on the finger of a dead man? Tell me, oh tell me quick!' cried the Princess Jean. 'Neither by sea nor by land did I find the ring,' answered the beggar, 'nor on a dead man's hand. It was given to me by one who loved me well, and I, I give it back to her on this her wedding-day.' As Hynde Horn spoke he stood up, straight and tall, and looked straight into the eyes of the Princess Jean. Then, in a flash, she understood. In spite of the tattered coat, she knew her own Hynde Horn. Her pale cheeks glowed, her dim eyes shone. 'Hynde Horn!' she cried, 'my own Hynde Horn, I will never let thee leave me again. I will throw away my golden combs, I will put on my oldest gown, and I will come with thee, and together we will beg for bread.' King Horn smiled, and his voice was soft as he answered, 'No need is there to take the gold combs from thy hair or to change thy white robe for one less fair. This is thy wedding-day, and I have come to claim my bride.' And King Horn flung aside the old torn coat, and the Princess Jean saw that beneath the rags Hynde Horn was clothed as one of kingly rank. Then throughout the palace the tidings spread, 'Hynde Horn hath come back, Hynde Horn hath come back, and now is he king of his own country.' And that very day King Horn was wedded to the beautiful Princess Jean, with her father's blessing, and amid the rejoicings of the people. And Prince Fykenyld slunk away, ashamed to look his old playmate in the face. Not many months passed ere King Horn and Queen Jean sailed away to reign together in the far East. And never again in the years to come did the diamonds on King Horn's ring grow dull or dim. THOMAS THE RHYMER It is six hundred years ago since Thomas the Rhymer lived and rhymed, and in those far-off days little need was there to tell his tale. It was known far and wide throughout the countryside. Thomas was known as Thomas the Rhymer because of the wonderful songs he sang. Never another harper in all the land had so great a gift as he. But at that no one marvelled, no one, that is to say, who knew that he had gained his gift in Elfland. When Thomas took his harp in his hand and touched the strings, a hush would fall upon those who heard, were they princes or were they peasants. For the magic of his music reached the hearts of all who stood around him. Were the strains merry, gleeful? The faces of those who heard were wreathed in smiles. Were they sad, melancholy? The faces of those who looked upon the harpist were bathed in tears. Truly Thomas the Rhymer held the hearts of the people in his hand. But the minstrel had another name, wonderful as the one I have already told to you. Thomas the Rhymer was named True Thomas, and that was because, even had he wished it, Thomas could not say or sing what was not true. This gift too, as you will hear, was given to him by the Queen of Elfland. And yet another name had this wonderful singer. He was born, so the folk said, in a little village called Ercildoune. He lived there, so the folk knew, in a castle strongly built on the banks of a little river. Thus to those who dwelt in the countryside the Rhymer was known as Thomas of Ercildoune. The river which flowed past the castle was the Leader. It flowed broader and deeper until two miles beyond the village it ran into the beautiful river Tweed. And to-day the ruins of an old tower are visited by many folk who have heard that it was once the home of the ancient harpist. Thomas of Ercildoune, Thomas the Rhymer, and True Thomas were thus only different names for one marvellous man who sang and played, never told an untruth, and who, moreover, was able to tell beforehand events that were going to take place. Listen, and I will tell you how Thomas of Ercildoune came to visit Elfland. It was one beautiful May morning that Thomas felt something stirring in his heart. Spring had come, spring was calling to him. He could stay no longer in the grim tower on the banks of the Leader. He would away, away to the woods where the thrush and the jay were singing, where the violets were peeping forth with timid eyes, where the green buds were bursting their bonds for very joy. Thomas hastened to the woods and threw himself down by the bank of a little brook. Ah yes! spring has come. How the little birds sing, how the gentle breezes whisper! Yet listen! what is it Thomas hears beyond the song of the birds, the whisper of the breeze? On the air floats the sound of silver bells. Thomas raises his head. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle! The sound draws nearer, clearer. It is music such as one might hear in Elfland. Beyond the wood, over the lonely moors, rode a lady. So fair a lady had Thomas never seen. Her palfrey was dapple-grey and she herself shone as the summer sun. Her saddle was of pure ivory, bright with many precious stones and hung with cloth of richest crimson. The girths of her saddle were of silk and the buckles were each one a beryl. Her stirrups of clear crystal and adorned with pearls hung ready for her fairy feet. The trappings of her palfrey were of finest embroidery, her bridle was a chain of gold. From the palfrey's mane hung little silver bells, nine-and-fifty little silver bells. It was the fairy music of the bells that had reached the ears of Thomas as he lay dreaming on the bank of the little brook. The lady's skirt was green, green as the leaves of spring, her cloak was of fine velvet. Her long black hair hung round her as a veil, and her brow was adorned with gems. By her side were seven greyhounds, other seven she led by a leash. From her neck hung a horn and in her belt was thrust a sheath of arrows. It seemed as though the lady gay were on her way to the hunting-field. Now she would blow her horn until the echoes answered merrily, merrily; now she would trill her songs, until the wild birds answered gaily, gaily. Thomas of Ercildoune gazed, and Thomas of Ercildoune listened, and his heart gave a great bound as he said to himself, 'Now, by my troth, the lady is none of mortal birth. She is none other than Mary, the Queen of Heaven.' Then up sprang Thomas from the little woodland brook and away sped he over the mountain-side, that he might, so it were possible, reach her as she rode by the Eildon tree, which tree grew on the side of the Eildon hills. 'For certainly,' said Thomas, 'if I do not speak with that lady bright, my heart will break in three.' And in sooth, as she dismounted under the Eildon tree, Thomas met the lady, and kneeling low beneath the greenwood, he spoke, thus eager was he to win a benison from the Queen of Heaven. 'Lovely lady, have pity upon me, even as thou art mother of the Child who died for me.' 'Nay now, nay now,' said the lady gay, 'no Queen of Heaven am I. I come but from the country thou dost call Elfland, though queen of that country in truth I am. I do but ride to the hunt with my hounds as thou mayest hear.' And she blew on her horn merrily, merrily. Now Thomas did not wish to lose sight of so fair a lady. 'Go not back to Elfland; stay by my side under the Eildon tree,' he pleaded. 'Nay,' said the Queen of Elfland, 'should I stay with thee, a mortal, my fairness would fade as fades a leaf.' But Thomas did not believe her, and, for he was a bold man, he drew near and kissed the rosy lips of the Elfland Queen. Alas, alas! no sooner had he kissed her than the lady fair changed into a tired old woman. She no longer wore a skirt of beautiful green, but a long robe of hodden grey covered her from head to foot. The light, bright as the summer sun that had shone around her, faded, and her face grew pale and thin. Her eyes no longer danced for joy, they gazed dull and dim before her. And on one side of her head the long black hair had changed to grey. [Illustration: Under the Eildon tree Thomas met the lady] It was a sight to make one sad, and Thomas, as he gazed, cried, as well he might, 'Alas, alas!' 'Thyself hast sealed thy doom, Thomas,' cried the lady. 'Thou must come with me to Elfland. Haste thou therefore to bid farewell to sun and moon, to trees and flowers, for, come weal, come woe, thou must e'en serve me for a twelvemonth.' Then Thomas fell upon his knees and prayed to Mary mild that she would have pity upon him. But when he arose the Queen of Elfland bade him mount behind her, and Thomas could do nought save obey her command. Her steed flew forward, the Eildon hills opened, and horse and riders were in the caverns of the earth. Thomas felt darkness close around him. On they rode, on and yet on; swift as the wind they rode. Water reached to his knee, above and around him was darkness, and ever and anon the booming of the waves. For three days they rode. Then Thomas grew faint with hunger and cried, 'Woe is me, I shall die for lack of food.' As he cried, the darkness grew less thick, and they were riding forward into light. Bright sunlight lay around them as they rode toward a garden. It was a garden such as Thomas had never seen on earth. All manner of fruit was there, apples and pears, dates and damsons, figs and currants, all ripe, ready to be plucked. In this beautiful garden, too, there were birds, nightingales building their nests, gay popinjays flitting hither and thither among the trees, thrushes singing their sweetest songs. But these Thomas neither saw nor heard. Thomas had eyes only for the fruit, and he thrust forth his hand to pluck it, so hungry, so faint was he. 'Let be the fruit, Thomas,' cried the lady, 'let be the fruit. For dost thou pluck it, thy soul will go to an evil place, nor shall it escape until the day of doom. Leave the fruit, Thomas, and come lay thy head upon my knee, and I will show thee a sight fairer than ever mortal hath seen. And Thomas, being fain to rest, lay down as he was bid, and closed his eyes. 'Now open thine eyes, Thomas,' said the lady, 'and thou shalt see three roads before thee. Narrow and straight is the first, and hard is it to walk there, for thorns and briars grow thick, and spread themselves across the pathway. Straight up over the mountain-tops on into the city of God runs this straight and narrow road. It is named the path of Goodness. And ever will the thorns prick and the briars spread, for few there be who tread far on this rough and prickly road. 'Look yet again, Thomas,' said the lady. And Thomas saw stretching before him a long white road. It ran smooth and broad across a grassy plain, and roses blossomed, and lilies bloomed by the wayside. 'That,' said the lady, 'is named the path of Evil, and many there be who saunter along its broad and easy surface.' Thomas said no word, but lay looking at the third pathway as it twisted and twined in and out amid the cool, green nooks of the woodland. Tiny rills caught the sunlight and tossed it back to the cold, grey rock down which they trickled; tiny ferns waved a welcome from their sheltered crevices. 'This,' said the lady, 'this is the fair road to Elfland, and along its beauteous way must thou and I ride this very night. But speak thou to none, Thomas, when thou comest to Elfland. Though strange the sights you see, the sounds you hear, speak thou to none, for never mortal returns to his own country does he speak one word in the land of Elfs.' Then once again Thomas mounted behind the lady, and hard and fast did they ride until they saw before them a castle. It stood on a high hill, fair and strong, and as it came in sight the lady reined in her white steed. 'See, Thomas, see!' she cried, 'here is the castle that is mine and his who is king of this country. None like it is there, for beauty or for strength, in the land from which thou comest. My lord is waited on by knights, of whom there are thirty in this castle. A noble lord is mine, nor would he wish to hear how thou wert bold and kissed me under the Eildon tree. Bear thou in mind, Thomas, that thou speak no word, nay, not though thou art commanded to tell thy tale. I will say to my courtiers that I took from thee the power of speech ere ever we crossed the sea.' Thomas listened, and dared not speak. Thomas stood still, still as a stone, and gazed upon the lady, and lo! a great wonder came to pass. Once more the lady shone bright as the sun upon a summer's morn, once more she wore her skirt of green, green as the leaves of spring, and her velvet cloak hung around her shoulders. Her eyes flashed and her long hair waved once more black in the breeze. And Thomas, looking at his own garments, started to see that they too were changed. For he was now clothed in a suit of beautiful soft cloth, and on his feet were a pair of green velvet shoes. Clear and loud the lady fair blew her horn, clear and loud, and forward she rode toward the castle gate. Then down to welcome their queen trooped all the fairy court, and kneeling low before her, they did her reverence. Into the hall she stepped, Thomas following close at her side, silent as one who had no power to speak. They crowded around him, the knights and squires; they asked him questions about his own country, yet no word dared Thomas answer. Then arose great revelry and feasting in the castle of the Elfin Queen. Harps and fiddles played their wildest and most gladsome tunes, knights and ladies danced, and all went merry as a marriage bell. Across the hall Thomas looked, and there a strange sight met his glance. Thirty harts and as many deer lay on the oaken floor, and bending over them, their knives in their hands, were elfin cooks, making ready for the feast. Thomas wondered if it were but a dream, so strange seemed the sights he saw. Gaily passed the days, and Thomas had no wish to leave the strange Elfland. But a day came when the queen said to Thomas, 'Now must thou begone from Elfland, Thomas, and I, myself, will ride with you back to your own country.' 'Nay now, but three days have I dwelt in thy realm,' said Thomas, 'with but little cheer. Give me leave to linger yet a little while.' 'Indeed, indeed, Thomas,' cried the Queen of Elfland, 'thou hast been with me for seven long years and more, but now thou must away ere the dawn of another day. To-morrow there comes an evil spirit from the land of darkness to our fair realm. He comes each year to claim our most favoured and most courteous guest, and it will be thou, Thomas, thou, whom he will wish to carry to his dark abode. But we tarry not his coming. By the light of the moon we ride to-night to the land of thy birth.' Once again the lady fair mounted her white palfrey, and Thomas rode behind until she brought him safe back to the Eildon tree. There, under the leaves of the greenwood, while the little birds sang their lays, the Queen of Elfland said farewell to Thomas. 'Farewell, Thomas, farewell, I may no longer stay with thee.' 'Give me a token,' pleaded Thomas, 'a token ere thou leavest me, that mortals may know that I have in truth been with thee in Elfland.' 'Take with thee, then,' said the lady, 'take with thee the gift of harp and song, and likewise the power to tell that which will come to pass in future days. Nor ever shall thy tales be false, Thomas, for I have taken from thee the power to speak aught save only what is true.' She turned to ride away, away to Elfland. Then Thomas was sad, and tears streamed from his grey eyes, and he cried, 'Tell me, lady fair, shall I never meet thee more?' 'Yea,' said the Elf Queen, 'we shall meet again, Thomas. When thou art in thy castle of Ercildoune and hearest of a hart and hind that come out of the forest and pace unafraid through the village, then come thou down to seek for me here, under the Eildon tree.' Then loud and clear blew she her horn and rode away. Thus Thomas parted from the Elfin Queen. On earth seven slow long years had passed away since Thomas had been seen in the little village of Ercildoune, and the villagers rubbed their eyes and stared with open mouth as they saw him once again in their midst. Ofttimes now Thomas was to be seen wandering down from his grim old castle down to the bonny greenwood. Ofttimes was he to be found lying on the bank of the little brook that babbled to itself as it ran through the forest, or under the Eildon tree, where he had met the Elf Queen so long before. He would be dreaming as he lay there of the songs he would sing to the country folk. So beautiful were these songs that people hearing them knew that Thomas the Rhymer had a gift that had been given to him by no mortal hand. He would be thinking, too, as he lay by the babbling brook, of the wars and dangers that in years to come would fall upon his country. And those who hearkened to the woes he uttered found that the words of True Thomas never failed to come to pass. Seven long years passed away since Thomas had parted from the Elfland Queen, and yet another seven. War had raged here and there throughout the land, when on a time it chanced that the Scottish army encamped close to the castle of Ercildoune where Thomas the Rhymer dwelt. It was a time of truce, and Thomas wished to give a feast to the gallant soldiers who had been fighting for their country. Thus it was that the doors of the old castle were flung wide, and noise and laughter filled the banquet-hall. Merry were the tales, loud the jests, bright the minstrel strains that night in the castle of Ercildoune. But when the feast was over Thomas himself arose, the harp he had brought from Elfland in his hand, and a hush fell upon the throng, upon lords and ladies, and upon rough armed men. The cheeks of rugged warriors that day were wet ere ever Thomas ceased to sing. Nor ever in the years to come did those who heard forget the magic of his song. Night fell, those who had feasted had gone to rest, when in the bright moonlight a strange sight was seen by the village folk. Along the banks of the Leader there paced side by side a hart and a hind, each white, white as newly fallen snow. Slowly and with stately steps they moved, nor were they affrighted by the crowd which gathered to gaze at them. Then, for True Thomas would know the meaning of so strange a sight, then a messenger was sent in haste to the castle of Ercildoune. As he listened to the tale the messenger brought, Thomas started up out of bed and in haste he put on his clothes. Pale and red did he grow in turn as he listened to the tale, yet all he said was this: 'My sand is run, my thread is spun, this token is for me.' Thomas hung his elfin harp around his neck, his minstrel cloak across his shoulders, and out into the pale moonlight he walked. And as he walked the wind touched the strings of the elfin harp and drew forth a wail so full of dole that those who heard it whispered: 'It is a note of death.' On walked Thomas, slow and sad, and oft he turned to look again at the grim walls of the castle, which he knew he would never see again. And the moonbeams fell upon the grey tower, and in the soft light the walls grew less grim, less stern, so thought Thomas. 'Farewell,' he cried, 'farewell. Nor song nor dance shall evermore find place within thy walls. On thy hearthstone shall the wild hare seek a refuge for her young. Farewell to Leader, the stream I love, farewell to Ercildoune, my home.' As Thomas tarried for a last look, the hart and the hind drew near. Onward then he went with them toward the banks of the Leader, and there, before the astonished folk, he crossed the stream with his strange companions, and nevermore was Thomas the Rhymer seen again. For many a day among the hills and through the glens was Thomas sought, but never was he found. There be some who say that he is living yet in Elfland, and that one day he will come again to earth. Meanwhile he is not forgotten. The Eildon tree no longer waves its branches in the breeze, but a large stone named the Eildon-tree stone marks the spot where once it grew. And near to the stone flows a little river which has been named the Goblin Brook, for by its banks it was believed that Thomas the Rhymer used to talk with little men from the land of Elf. LIZZIE LINDSAY In the fair city of Edinburgh there lived many many years ago a beautiful maiden named Lizzie Lindsay. Her home was in the Canongate, which is now one of the poorest parts of the city. But in the days when Lizzie danced and sang, and made her father's and mother's heart rejoice, the Canongate was the home of all the richest lords and ladies. For close to the Canongate was Holyrood, the palace where the king held his court. And it was well, thought the lords and ladies of long ago, to live near the palace where there were many gay sights to be seen. Lizzie had been a bonny wee girl, and as she grew up she grew bonnier still, until, not only in Edinburgh, but far and wide throughout the country, people would speak of her beauty. Even the folk who dwelt away over the hills in the Highlands heard of the beauty of Lizzie Lindsay. Dame Lindsay loved her daughter well, and gave her beautiful gowns of silk and velvet. Her father, too, would bring her home many a sparkling jewel, many a brilliant gem. It seemed as though Lizzie Lindsay had all that her heart could wish. Certainly she did not wish to leave her home in the Canongate, for though lord after lord, noble after noble begged for her hand, Lizzie but tossed her beautiful head high in the air as she said them nay. But though it was well known that the lovely maiden had kind looks and gentle words to spare for none save only her dear father and her doting mother, yet still the lords and nobles would dance more gladly with Lizzie than with any other maiden. And a ball, even a ball given by the court at the palace of Holyrood, seemed to be less gladsome were it known that the fair maiden would not be there. Now, as I have told you, the fame of Lizzie Lindsay's beauty had spread even to the Highlands. And Donald, the young laird of Kingcaussie, heard that she was fairer than any other maiden in the land, and that she was haughtier and more wilful as well. For she would have nought to say, to any of the rich suitors who surrounded her. Then Donald, who was tall and handsome, and who was used to have his own way, smiled as he heard of Lizzie's wilful spirit and her great beauty. He made up his mind that he would go to Edinburgh and try to win as his bride the bonnie lassie who would have nought to do with noble or with lord. The young laird lived with his father and mother in a castle built high amid the heather-covered hills, and little until now had Donald cared for city ways or city walls. To hunt the deer, to chase the roe, to spend the long hours from early morn until even among the heathery moors which were all his own, had been happiness enough for him. But now, now the glory faded from the heather, and the hunt and chase lost their delight. Sir Donald's heart was in the fair city of Edinburgh with beautiful Lizzie Lindsay, whom, though he had not seen, he loved. At length one day the young laird went to his lady mother and, kissing her hand right courteously, he begged her to grant him a boon. For Donald had been well trained, and, though he was no longer a boy, he did not dream of leaving his home among the hills until he had gained his mother's consent. 'Grant me a boon, lady mother,' said the young laird. 'Send me away to the fair city of Edinburgh, for it is there that my true love dwells. And if ye will do this I will bring you home a daughter more beautiful than any other maiden in the land.' Now the young laird's mother had heard of Lizzie Lindsay, and it may be that she was glad that her son should wish to bring to the castle so beautiful a bride. Yet she had no wish for the maiden to be won by aught save by love for her dear son alone. Lizzie had refused to wed with lord or noble, it was true, yet the broad lands, the ancient castle of the MacDonalds, might please her fancy. But the Lady of Kingcaussie determined that neither for land nor for castle should bonnie Lizzie Lindsay come to the Highlands. When she saw young Donald at her side, and heard him begging leave to go to the fair city of Edinburgh, she smiled as she looked into his eager face, and answered slowly, 'My son, ye shall go to Edinburgh an it please you, and so ye are able ye shall bring back with you Lizzie Lindsay as your bride. A fairer maiden, I can well believe, has never graced these walls. Yet, if ye go, it shall not be as Sir Donald MacDonald, the heir to broad lands and ancient castles, but as a simple stranger, without riches and without rank. Then, if ye do win your bride, it will be through love alone,' said his mother gravely. But her eyes shone bright and glad, for she thought that there was not a maiden in all the land who would not be proud to wed her son, though he had neither riches nor lands. As for the old laird, he laughed when he heard why his son had grown weary at the hunt and listless at the chase. He laughed and cried, 'Let the lad go to the city; before a year has passed away he will be home again and the beautiful Lizzie Lindsay with him.' For his old father, too, thought that no maiden could refuse to love his bonny self-willed son. Well, young Donald was too anxious to be off and away to Edinburgh to be grieved to go as a simple Highlander. Before the day was over he had said farewell to his light-hearted old father and to his gentle lady mother, and clad in a rough tartan kilt and without a servant to follow him, the young laird was off to the fair city of Edinburgh. When Donald reached Edinburgh he wondered how he would see the maiden of whose beauty and of whose cleverness he had so often heard. He had not long to wait, for he had scarce been a day in the city when he heard that a great ball was to be given and to be graced by the presence of the fair maiden whom he hoped to win as his bride. Donald made up his mind that he too would go to the ball, and it was easy for him to do this, as there were many in the city who knew the young laird. When he entered the ballroom he saw that the lords and nobles were dressed in suits of velvet or silk and satins, while he wore only his kilt of rough tartan. The lords and ladies too stared at the tall handsome young Highlander in his strange garments, and some, who did not know him, forgot their good manners and smiled and nudged each other as he passed down the room. But the young laird had no thought to spare for the crowd. He was making his way to the circle, in the midst of which stood Lizzie Lindsay. He had heard too often of the beautiful maiden not to be sure it was she as soon as his eyes fell upon her face. Young Donald, in his homespun tartan, stood on the outskirt of the little crowd that surrounded her, listening. The lords in their gay suits were doing their utmost to win the goodwill of the maiden, but their flattery and foolish words seemed to give her little pleasure. Indeed she was too used to them to find them aught but a weariness. Soon Donald was bowing before the maiden he had left his home to win, and begging her to dance with him. And something in the bright eyes and gallant bearing of young Donald pleased the petted maiden, and, despite his rough suit, she had nought but smiles for the young stranger from the Highlands. The lords, in their silks and velvets, opened their eyes wide in astonishment as Lizzie glided past them with young Donald; the ladies smiled and flouted her, but the maiden paid no heed to their words or looks. Donald was not flattering her as she was used to be flattered, he was telling her of the country in which he dwelt. And Lizzie as she listened heard the hum of the bees, smelt the fragrance of the heather. Nay, she even forgot the ballroom, and she was out on the silent moorland or climbing the steep mountains side by side with the young stranger whose face was so eager, whose eyes were so bright. She was stooping to pluck the wildflowers that grew in the nooks of some sheltered glen, or she was kilting her dainty gown and crossing the mountain streamlets, and ever the tall, young stranger was by her side. Before the ball was over Donald knew that Lizzie Lindsay's home was in the Canongate, and he had begged to be allowed to see her there. Lizzie had no wish to lose sight of the bright young Highlander, and she told him gaily that if he came to the Canongate to see her he should be welcome, both to her and her dear father and mother. When the dance ended the young laird went to his lodgings, and his heart was light and his dreams glad. His old father had thought he might be in Edinburgh a year ere he won his bride. But young Donald murmured to himself that it would scarce be twelve long months before he was back again to the Highlands with his bonny Lizzie Lindsay. The next day Donald was at the Canongate betimes, and Lizzie welcomed him merrily, and her father and mother looked in kindly fashion at the young stranger, for indeed Donald had the gift of winning hearts. But neither father nor mother dreamed that the country clad youth would win their beautiful daughter's hand, for had she not refused it to many a lordly earl and noble knight. Yet the more Lizzie heard about the Highlands, the more she longed to be there with young Donald by her side. At length a day came when Donald, with little fear and much hope in his heart, asked the maiden if she would go with him to the Highlands. 'We will feed on curds and whey,' cried the daring young Donald; 'your cheeks will grow more pink, and your brow more white with our simple fare. Your bed shall be made on the fresh green bracken and my plaid shall wrap you round. Will ye come to the Highlands with me, Lizzie Lindsay?' Now Lizzie had listened to young Donald's words with joy, but also with some fear. Her food had been of the daintiest, her bed of the softest down, and the young stranger, who was indeed scarce a stranger now, had, it seemed, but little to offer her save his love. Yet Lizzie still wished to go to the Highlands. [Illustration: 'Will ye come to the Highlands with me, Lizzie Lindsay?'] But when Dame Lindsay heard what young Donald had said she hardened her heart against the bonny young Highlander. 'Ye shall speak no more to my daughter,' she cried, 'until ye have told me where your home is, and how many broad lands are your own?' For it seemed to the old dame that a penniless lad would never dare to win her daughter, when lords and nobles had wooed her in vain. But Donald's head was high, and he seemed to feel no shame as he answered the old dame bravely-- 'My name is Donald MacDonald, and I hold it high in honour. My father is an old shepherd and my mother a dairymaid. Yet kind and gentle will they be to your beautiful daughter if she will come with me to the Highlands.' Dame Lindsay could scarce believe she had heard aright. Her daughter marry a shepherd lad! Nay, that should never be, though indeed the lad was a bonny one and brave. Then in her anger she bade young Donald begone. 'If ye do steal away my daughter, then, without doubt ye shall hang for it!' she cried. The young laird turned haughtily on his heel. He had little patience, nor could his spirit easily brook such scorn as the old Dame flung at him. He turned on his heel and he said, 'There is no law in Edinburgh city this day which can hang me.' But before he could say more Lizzie was by his side. 'Come to my room, Donald,' she pleaded; and as he looked at the beautiful girl the young laird's wrath vanished as quickly as it had come. 'Come to my room for an hour until I draw a fair picture of you to hang in my bower. Ye shall have ten guineas if you will but come.' 'Your golden guineas I will not have!' cried Donald quickly. 'I have plenty of cows in the Highlands, and they are all my own. Come with me, Lizzie, and we will feed on curds and whey, and thou shalt have a bonnie blue plaid with red and green strips. Come with me, Lizzie Lindsay; we will herd the wee lambs together.' Yet, though Lizzie loved young Donald MacDonald, she still hesitated to leave her kind parents and her beautiful home. She sat in her bower and she said to her maid, 'Helen, what shall I do, for my heart is in the Highlands with Donald?' Then the maid, who was wellnigh as beautiful as her mistress, cried, 'Though I were a princess and sat upon a throne, yet would I leave all to go with young Donald MacDonald.' 'O Helen!' cried Lizzie, 'would ye leave your chests full of jewels and silk gowns, and would ye leave your father and mother, and all your friends to go away with a Highland laddie who wears nought but a homespun kilt?' But before her maid could answer her, Lizzie had sprung from her chair, saying, 'Yet I think he must be a wizard, and have enchanted me, for, come good or come ill, I must e'en go to the Highlands.' Then early one morning Lizzie tied up her silk robes in a bundle and clad herself in one of Helen's plain gowns. With her bundle over her arm, Lizzie Lindsay was off to the Highlands with Donald MacDonald. Donald's heart was glad as he left the fair city of Edinburgh behind him, Lizzie by his side. He had so much to tell his beautiful bride, so much, too, to show her, that at first the road seemed neither rough nor long. But as the hours passed the way grew rougher, the hills steeper, and Lizzie's strength began to fail. Her shoes, too, which were not made for such rough journeys, were soon so worn that her feet grew hot and blistered. 'Alas!' sighed Lizzie Lindsay, 'I would I were back in Edinburgh, sitting alone in my bower.' 'We are but a few miles away from the city,' said Donald; 'will you even now go back?' But the tears trickled slowly down the maiden's cheeks, and she sobbed, 'Now would I receive no welcome from my father, no kiss from my mother, for sore displeased will they be that I have left them for you, Donald MacDonald.' On and on they trudged in silence, and as evening crept on Donald cried aloud, 'Dry your tears now, Lizzie, for there before us is our home,' and he pointed to a tiny cottage on the side of the hill. An old woman stood at the door, gazing down the hill, and as they drew near she came forward with outstretched hands. 'Welcome, Sir Donald,' she said, 'welcome home to your own.' 'She spoke in Gaelic, as Highlanders do, so Lizzie did not know what she said. Sir Donald whispered quickly in the same language, 'Hush, call me only Donald, and pretend that I am your son.' The old woman, though sore dismayed at having to treat the young laird in so homely a way, promised to do his bidding. Then Donald turned to Lizzie. 'Here mother,' he said, 'is my lady-love, whom I have won in the fair city of Edinburgh.' The old woman drew Lizzie into the cottage, and spoke kindly to her, but the maiden's heart sank. For a peat fire smouldered on the hearth and the room was filled with smoke. There was no easy chair, no couch on which to rest her weary body, so Lizzie dropped down on to a heap of green turf. Her sadness did not seem to trouble Donald. He seemed gayer, happier, every moment. 'We are hungry, mother,' he said; 'make us a good supper of curds and whey, and then make us a bed of green rushes and cover us with yonder grey plaids.' The old woman moved about eagerly as though overjoyed to do all that she could for her son and his young bride. Curds and whey was a supper dainty enough for a queen, as Lizzie whispered to her shepherd lad with a little sigh. Even the bed of green rushes could not keep her awake. No sooner had she lain down than, worn out with her long journey, she fell fast asleep, nor did she awake until the sun was high in the sky. As she awoke she heard Donald's voice. He was reproaching her, and she had not been used to reproach. 'It would have been well,' said Donald, 'that you had risen an hour ago to milk the cows, to tend the flock.' The tears gathered in Lizzie's eyes and trickled down her cheeks. 'Alas, alas!' she sighed, 'I would I had never left my home, for here I am of little use. I have never milked a cow, nor do I know how to begin, and flocks have I never tended. Alas that I ever came to the Highlands! Yet well do I love Donald MacDonald, and long and dull would the days have been had he left me behind him in Edinburgh.' 'Shed no more tears, Lizzie,' said Donald gently. 'Get up and dress yourself in your silk gown, for to-day I will take you over the hills of Kingcaussie and show you the glens and dales where I used to play when I was but a little lad.' Then Lizzie dried her tears and soon she was up and dressed in her finest gown, and leaning on Donald's arm she wandered with him over the heathery hills until they reached a noble castle. Joyously then laughed the young laird, as he bade Lizzie gaze all around her and be glad. 'I am the lord of all you see, Lizzie,' cried he, 'for this castle is my home and the mountains are my own broad lands.' Then joyously too laughed Lizzie Lindsay, for she knew that her shepherd lad was none other than the far-famed Sir Donald MacDonald. At that moment the castle gates were flung wide, and the old Laird of Kingcaussie came out to greet the bride. 'Ye are welcome, Lizzie Lindsay, welcome to our castle,' he said right courteously. 'Many were the lords and nobles who begged for your hand, but it is young Donald, my son, who has won it, with no gift save the glance of his bonny blue eyes.' And the old laird laughed merrily as he looked up at his son. The laird's gracious mother too came down to greet her, and well was she pleased that her boy had won the beautiful maiden he loved. As for Lizzie Lindsay, she sent to Edinburgh to fetch her father and mother, that they might see for themselves how wise their daughter had been to follow Donald MacDonald to the Highlands. THE GAY GOSHAWK Lord William sat alone in his grey northern castle. He had come but lately from the sunny South, and the room in which he sat struck chill after the sun-warmed rooms to which he had grown used. Little joy had Lord William in his old grey castle, for his heart was far away in the sunny South. All alone he sat save for his favourite bird, the gay goshawk. And it, for it loved its master well, blinked a tear from its eye as it peered into Lord William's gloomy face, blinked and peered again, so pale and lean had his master grown. 'Now what ill has befallen,' thought the bird, and it ruffled its feathers in its distress. Lord William looked up and stroked the glossy plumage of his gay goshawk. 'Be still, my bonny bird, be still,' said Lord William, 'and I will smooth your ruffled wings.' The goshawk blinked and peered more close into the tired face of his master. Then he began to speak. 'Have you lost your sword or spear in the tournament, have you lost them in sunny England?' asked the bird, 'or are you pale with grief because your true love is far away?' 'By my troth!' cried Lord William, 'I have lost nor sword nor spear, yet do I mourn, for my true love whom I fain would see. 'You shall carry a message to her, my gay goshawk, for you can fly over hill and dale. You shall carry a letter to my love, and you shall e'en bring me an answer,' said Lord William, 'for you can speak as well as fly, my bonny bird.' 'But how shall I know your true love?' said the bird. 'Never have I seen her face or heard her voice.' 'O well will you know my true love,' cried Lord William, 'for in all England lives there none so fair as she. The cheeks of my love are red as the red red rose, and her neck, it is whiter than new-fallen snow. 'Near to her lattice window grows a birch, whose leaves tremble in the breeze. There shall you sit, my gay goshawk, and you shall sing to her as she goes to holy church. 'With four-and-twenty maidens will she go, yet well will you know my own true love, for she is the fairest of them all. You shall know her, too, by the gold that bedecks her skirt, by the light that glimmers in her hair.' Then Lord William sat down and wrote a letter to his love, and fastened it firm under the pinion of his gay goshawk. Away flew the bird, swift did it fly to do its master's will. O'er hill and dale it winged its flight until at length it saw the birch-tree that grew near the lady's bower. There, on the birch-tree, did the goshawk perch, and there did he sing his song as the lady with her four-and-twenty maidens passed beneath its branches towards the church. The sharp eyes of the goshawk glanced at each beautiful maiden, and quick was he to see Lord William's love, for sweet was she as the flowers that spring in May. Gold was embroidered on her skirt, sunlight glistened in her beautiful yellow hair. When another day dawned the gay goshawk left the birch-tree and alighted on the gate, a little nearer to the lattice window where sat the beautiful lady to whom he had been sent. Here again he sang his song. Loud and clear he sang it first, loud and clear that all might hear. Soft and sweet he sang it after, soft and sweet that only Lord William's lady might catch the note of love. And ever, loud or soft, the last words of his song were these, 'Your true love cannot come to you here.' Then said the lady to her four-and-twenty maidens, 'Eat, my merry maidens, eat and drink, for the feast is spread. I go but to my lattice window to listen to the birds, for hark! they are singing their evensong.' But in her heart the lady knew there was only one song she longed to hear. Wide she opened her lattice window and, leaning out, she hearkened to the song of the gay goshawk. 'Sing on, ye bonny bird,' she cried, 'sing on, for I know no song could be so sweet that came not from my own true love.' A little nearer flew the gay goshawk, and first his song was merry as a summer morn, and then it was sad as an autumn eve. As she listened, tears dropped from the eyes of the beautiful lady. She put out her hand and stroked the pinions of the gay goshawk, and lo! there dropped from beneath his wing Lord William's letter. 'Five letters has my master sent to you,' said the bird, 'and long has he looked for one from you, yet never has it come, and he is weary with long waiting.' Then the lady sighed, for no letter had she ever had from her true love. 'My stepmother has hidden the letters, for never one have I seen,' she cried. [Illustration: 'I go but to my lattice window to listen to the birds'] Her fingers tore open the letter which had dropped from beneath the bird's wing, and she read, and as she read she laughed aloud. Lord William had written a letter that was full of grief, because he could not come to the lady he loved, yet did the lady laugh. And this is why she laughed both long and glad. Because she had made up her mind that as he could not come to her she herself would go to Lord William. 'Carry this message to my own true love,' said she then to the gay goshawk. 'Since you cannot come to me, I myself will come to you in your cold northern country. And as a token of my love I send you by your gay goshawk a ring from off my finger, a wreath from off my yellow hair. And lest these should not please you I send my heart, and more than that can you not wish. 'Prepare the wedding feast, invite the guests, and then haste you to meet me at St. Mary's Church, for there, ere long, will you find me. 'Fly, gay goshawk, fly and carry with you my message to Lord William.' And the bird flew o'er hill and dale until once again he reached the grey northern castle in which his master dwelt. And he saw his master's eye grow glad, his pale cheek glow as he listened to the message, as he held the tokens of his own true love. Then the lady, left alone, closed her lattice window and went up to her own room followed by her maidens. Here she began to moan and cry as though she were in great pain, or seized by sudden illness. So ill she seemed that those who watched her feared that she would die. 'My father!' moaned the lady, 'tell my father that I am ill; bid him come to me without delay.' Up to her room hastened her father, and sorely did he grieve when he saw that his daughter was so ill. 'Father, dear father,' she cried, holding his strong hand in her pale white one, 'grant me a boon ere I die.' 'An you ask not for the lord who lives in the cold north country, my daughter, you may ask for what you will, and it shall be granted.' 'Promise me, then,' said his daughter, 'that though I die here in the sunny South, you will carry me when I am dead to the cold grey North. 'And at the first church to which we come, tarry, that a mass may be said for my soul. At the second let me rest until the bells be tolled slow and solemn. When you come to the third church, which is named St. Mary's, grant that from thence you will not bear me until the night shades fall.' Then her father pledged his word that all should be done as she wished. Now as her father left her room, the lady sent her four-and-twenty maidens down to her bower that they might eat and drink. And when she was left alone she hastened to drink a sleeping draught which she had already prepared in secret. This draught would make her seem as one who was dead. And indeed no sooner had she drunk it than she grew pale and still. Her cruel stepmother came up into the room. She did not love the beautiful maiden, and when she saw her lying thus, so white, so cold, she laughed, and said, 'We shall soon see if she be really dead.' Then she lit a fire in the silent room, and placing some lead in a little goblet, she stirred it over the flames with an iron spoon until it melted. When the lead was melted the stepmother carried a spoonful carefully to the side of the bed, and stood there looking down upon the still white form. It neither moved nor moaned. 'She is not dead,' murmured the cruel woman to herself; 'she deceives us, that she may be carried away to the land of her own true love. She will not lie there silent long.' And she let some drops of the burning lead fall on to the heart of the quiet maiden. Yet still the maiden never moved nor cried. 'Send for her father,' shouted the cruel stepmother, going to the door of the little room, for now she believed the maiden was really dead. 'Alas, alas!' cried her father when he came and saw his daughter lying on her white bed, so pale, so cold. 'Alas, alas, my child is dead indeed!' Then her seven brothers wept for their beautiful sister; but when they had dried their tears, they arose and went into the forest. There they cut down a tall oak-tree and made a bier for the maiden, and they covered the oak with silver. Her seven sisters wept for their beautiful sister when they saw that she neither stirred nor moaned. They wept, but when they had dried their tears they arose and sewed a shroud for the maiden, and at each stitch they took they fastened into it a little silver bell. Now the duke, her father, had pledged his word that his daughter should be carried, ere she was buried, to St. Mary's Church. Her seven brothers therefore set out on the long sad journey toward the gloomy north country, carrying their sister in the silver-mounted bier. She was clad in the shroud her seven sisters had sewed, and the silver bells tinkled softly at each step her seven strong brothers took along the road. The stepmother had no tears to shed. Indeed she had no time to weep, for she must keep strict watch over the dead maiden's seven sisters, lest they too grew ill and thus escaped her power. As for the poor old father, he shut himself up alone to grieve for his dear lost child. When the seven brothers reached the first church, they remembered their father's promise to their sister. They set down the bier and waited, that a mass might be sung for the lady's soul. Then on again they journeyed until before them they saw another church. 'Here will we rest until the bell has been tolled,' they said, and again the bier was placed in the holy church. 'We will come to St. Mary's ere we tarry again,' said the seven brothers, and there they knew that their journey would be over. Yet little did they know in how strange a way it would end. Slow and careful were the brothers' steps as they drew near to the church of St. Mary, slow and sad, for there they must part from their beautiful pale sister. The chime of the silver bells floated on the still air, dulling the sound of the seven strong brothers' footsteps. They were close to St. Mary's now, and as they laid the bier down the brothers started, for out of the shadows crept tall armed men, and in their midst stood Lord William. He had come as he had been bidden to meet his bride. The brothers knew him well, the lord from the cold grey country, who had stolen the heart of their beautiful sister. 'Stand back,' commanded Lord William, and his voice was stern, for not thus had he thought to meet the lady he loved. 'Stand back and let me look once more upon the face of my own true love.' Then the seven brothers, though they had but little goodwill for the northern lord, lifted the bier and laid it at his feet, that once again he might look upon the face of their pale cold sister. And lo! as Lord William took the hand, the cold white hand, of his true love in his own, it grew warm, as his lips touched hers they grew rosy, and the colour crept into her cheeks. Ere long she lay smiling back at her own true love with cheeks that bloomed and eyes that shone. The power of the sleeping draught was over. 'Give me bread, dear lord,' cried the lady, 'for no food have I tasted for three long days and nights, and this have I done that I might come to you, my own true love.' When the lady had eaten she turned to her seven strong brothers. 'Begone, my seven bold brothers,' she cried, 'begone to your home in the sunny South, and tell how your sister has reached her lord.' 'Now woe betide you,' answered her bold brothers, 'for you have left your seven sisters and your old father at home to weep for you.' 'Carry my love to my old father,' cried the lady, 'and to my sisters seven. Bid them that they dry their tears nor weep for me, for I am come to my own true love.' Then the seven brothers turned away in anger and went back to their home in the South. But Lord William carried his own true love off to the old grey castle where they were married. And the gay goshawk sang their wedding song. THE LAIRD O' LOGIE It was when James the Sixth was king in Scotland that the young Wemyss of Logie got into sore trouble. Wemyss of Logie was one of the king's courtiers; a tall, handsome lad he was, and a favourite with both king and queen. Now King James had brought his wife, Queen Anne, across the sea to Scotland. Her home was in Denmark, and when she came, a royal bride, to Scotland, she brought with her a few fair Danish maids. She thought it would be dull in her new home unless she had some of her own country-folk around her. Among these maids was a tall, beautiful girl named Margaret Twynlace. Her the queen loved well, and oft would she speak with Margaret of their old free life in the country over the sea. It chanced on a day that the young Laird of Logie was in attendance upon the king, and the Danish maid, Margaret Twynlace, in waiting upon the queen; and that day they two looked at each other, and yet another day they two talked to each other, indeed many were the times they met. And before long it was well known at court that the young Laird of Logie loved the Danish maid Margaret, and would marry her an he could. But now trouble befell the young laird. He had been seen talking with the Earl of Bothwell, and he a traitor to the king. Nor was it alone that Wemyss of Logie had been seen to speak with Bothwell. It was even said that he had letters written by the traitor in his room at Holyrood. No sooner had this rumour reached the king than orders were given to search both young Logie himself and the room in which he was used to sleep. On his person no letters were found, but in his room, flung carelessly into his trunk, lay a packet of letters tied and sealed. And the seal was that of the traitor, the Earl of Bothwell. The young laird was taken at once before the king. He spoke in his usual fearless tones. 'It is true,' said he, 'that I have ofttimes spoken to the Earl of Bothwell, and it is true that I received from him the sealed packet which was found in my trunk. But of that which is written in the packet know I nought. The seal is, as you see, unbroken. Nor knew I that the earl was still acting as traitor,' added the lad, as he saw displeasure written on the face of the king. But despite all he could say, the young laird was arrested as a traitor and thrown into prison. Margaret Twynlace with her own eyes saw Sir John Carmichael, keeper of the prison, turn the key in the lock. Margaret went quickly to the queen's house, but there did she neither sew nor sing. She sat twining her fingers in and out, while she cried, 'Woe is me that ever I was born, or that ever I left my home in Denmark. I would I had never seen the young Laird of Logie.' And then Margaret wept bitterly, for having seen the young laird, she loved him well. When the queen came to her bower, she was grieved to see her favourite maid in tears. Yet had she no comfort to offer her, for well she knew that, even should he wish it, little power had the king to save the young Laird of Logie. But the queen spoke kindly to the maid, and told her that she, Margaret, might e'en go herself to King James to beg for the life of the young Laird of Logie. For it was well known that the sentence passed on him would be death. Then Margaret Twynlace wiped from her face all traces of her tears. She put on her soft green silk gown, and she combed out her bonny yellow hair. Thus she went into the presence of the king and fell on her knee before him. 'Why, May Margaret,' said the king, 'is it thou? What dost thou at my feet, my bonny maid?' 'Ah, sire,' cried she, 'I have come to beg of thee a boon. Nor ever since I came over the sea have I begged of thee until now. Give me, I beseech of thee, the life of the young Laird of Logie.' 'Alas, May Margaret,' cried the king, 'that cannot I do! An thou gavest to me all the gold that is in Scotland yet could I not save the lad.' Then Margaret Twynlace turned away and crept back to the queen's bower. Yet now no tears fell from her blue eyes, for if neither king nor queen could help the young Laird of Logie, she herself would save him from death. She would wait until night, when the king and queen slumbered, and then she would carry out her plan. A brave plan it was, for Margaret Twynlace was no coward maid. Quiet and patient she waited in the little ante-room, close to the queen's bedchamber, waited until she felt sure the royal pair were fast asleep. Then tripping lightly on tiptoe, she stole into the bedroom, where, as she had guessed, both king and queen were slumbering sound. She crossed the room, quiet as any mouse, and reached the toilet table. There lay the king's gold comb, and close to it the little pearl knife, the king's wedding gift to his queen. Back tripped Margaret, still on tiptoe, to the ante-room, and stood, her breath coming quick. Had she roused the king or queen? Was that the bed creaking? No, there was not a sound. The royal pair slept sound as before. Then downstairs in the dark fled Margaret, down to the room where Sir John Carmichael lay slumbering, without a thought of his prisoner, the young Laird of Logie. Loud did the maiden knock at his door, loud and long, until at last Sir John was roused. 'Sir John,' cried the maid, 'haste thee and wake thy prisoner, the young Laird of Logie, for the king would speak to him this very moment. Open the door, for here be the tokens he sends to thee,' and Margaret held out to Carmichael the gold comb and the pearl knife. Now, when Sir John had opened the door, he saw the tokens that the maid held out to him. He knew them well and hastened to do the king's will, rubbing his sleepy eyes the while, and muttering under his breath, 'The king holds audience at strange hours; yet must his orders be obeyed.' He took the great key in his hand and went to the prison door. Margaret followed close, her heart bounding, not wholly in fear, nor yet wholly in hope. Sir John turned the prison lock and roused the young Laird of Logie from his dreams, saying only, 'The king would speak with thee, without delay.' Thus in the dead of night Margaret led the captain and his prisoner to the door of the ante-room. 'Wait thou here, Sir John,' said the maid, until thy prisoner returns.' The young laird started as Margaret spoke. He had not guessed that the maid wrapped in the rough cloak was his own dear Margaret Twynlace. But Sir John noticed nothing. He was wondering how long it would be ere he would be again in his comfortable bed. Margaret drew the prisoner into her own little room. He tried to speak, but not a word would she let him utter. She led him to the window, and shewed him a rope which she herself had fastened there. She pushed a purse of gold into his hand, a pistol into his belt, and bade him shoot when he was free, that she might know that he was safe. 'Then haste,' said Margaret, 'haste with all thy might to the pier at Leith. Ships wilt thou find there in plenty to carry thee into a safe haven.' The young Laird of Logie would fain have tarried with the brave Danish maid, but not a moment was there to lose. The king might wake, Sir John might grow impatient and come in search of his prisoner; thus whispered the maid as she urged young Wemyss of Logie to flee. He knew she spoke the truth, and he slipped down the rope, and in a moment was standing on the ground. He hastened to the palace gates, and getting safely through, he stayed only to fire his pistol that Margaret Twynlace might know that no evil had befallen. When Margaret heard the shot she stole softly downstairs and stood at the hall door gazing wistfully after the young Laird of Logie. Yet not long dare she tarry there, lest the queen should need her services. Noiselessly she crept back into the ante-room. Hark! what was that? The king was moving! Indeed, the pistol-shot had roused King James, and he jumped out of bed crying, 'That pistol was fired by none other than the young Laird of Logie.' [Illustration: She stood at the hall door gazing wistfully after the young Lard of Logie] He shouted for his guards and bade them go send their captain, Sir John Carmichael, to his presence. Sir John, fearing nothing, came before the king, and falling on his knee before him he said, 'Sire, what is thy will?' 'Where is thy prisoner, where is the young Laird of Logie?' demanded the king. Sir John stared. Had not the king himself sent for his prisoner? 'The young Laird of Logie!' he said. 'Sire, thou didst send thy tokens to me, a golden comb, a pearl knife. See, they are here,' and Sir John drew them from his pocket and held them up before the bewildered king. 'And with the tokens came an order to send my prisoner at once to thy presence. I brought him to the door of the ante-room, where I was bidden to wait thy will.' 'If thou hast played me false, Carmichael, if thou hast played me false,' said the king, 'thou shalt thyself be tried to-morrow in the court of justice in place of the prisoner, the young Laird of Logie.' Then Carmichael hastened to the door of the ante-room as fast as ever he could go. And he called out, 'O young Wemyss of Logie, an thou art within, come out, for I must speak to thee.' Margaret Twynlace smiled to herself as she opened the door of the ante-room. Carmichael stepped into the room, stopped short, and stared. The open window, the rope that hung there, told him all he had come to ask. He stared, but never a word did he find to say. Then maid Margaret laughed aloud and clapped her hands for glee. 'Dost wish thy prisoner, the Laird of Logie?' she cried. 'Thou shalt not see him again for many a long day. Long ere the morning dawned he was on board one of the ships at Leith, and now he is sailing on the sea. He is free, he is free!' King James did not punish the brave Danish maid. Nor when he heard from Queen Anne all that the maid had done did he blame Sir John Carmichael. Indeed ere many months had passed away the king sent a pardon to the young laird. Then was he not long in coming back to bonny Scotland to marry brave Margaret Twynlace, who had saved his life. * * * * * 
37738	----	images generously made available by the Digital & Multimedia Center, Michigan State University Libraries.) Transcriber's Notes In this Plain Text version, ASCII and Latin-1 character sets have been used; italic typeface is represented by _surrounding underscores_; small caps typeface is represented by ALL CAPS. Linenotes have been grouped at the end of each ballad. Linenote anchors in the form [L##] have been added to the text (they are not in the original but alert the reader to the presence of a note refering to line number ##). Irregular and inconsistent spellings have been retained as in the original. Typographical errors such as wrongly placed line numbers, punctuation or inconsistent formatting have been corrected without comment. Where changes have been made to the wording these are listed at the end of the book. * * * * * ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH BALLADS. EDITED BY FRANCIS JAMES CHILD. VOLUME II. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY. M.DCCC.LX. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. CONTENTS OF VOLUME SECOND. BOOK II. Page 1 a. Glasgerion 3 1 b. Glenkindie 8 2 a. Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard 15 2 b. Lord Randal (A) 22 3 a. Gil Morrice 28 3 b. Child Noryce 40 4. Clerk Saunders 45 5 a. Sweet Willie and Lady Margerie 53 5 b. Willie and Lady Maisry 57 6. The Clerk's Twa Sons o' Owsenford 63 7. Childe Vyet 72 8. Lady Maisry 78 9 a. Fair Janet 86 9 b. Sweet Willie 93 10 a. Fair Annie of Lochroyan 98 10 b. The Lass of Lochroyan 106 11. The Douglas Tragedy 114 12 a. Lord Thomas and Fair Ellinor 121 12 b. Lord Thomas and Fair Annet 125 12 c. Sweet Willie and Fair Annie 131 12 d. Fair Margaret and Sweet William 140 13 a. Sweet William's Ghost 145 13 b. William and Marjorie 149 13 c. Sweet William and May Margaret 152 14 a. Bonny Barbara Allan 155 14 b. Barbara Allen's Cruelty 158 15. Lord Lovel 162 16 a. Lord Salton and Auchanachie, [Maidment] 165 16 b. Lord Salton and Auchanachie, [Buchan] 167 17 a. Willie and May Margaret 171 17 b. The Drowned Lovers 175 18. Willie's Drowned in Gamery 181 19. Annan Water 186 20 a. Andrew Lammie 190 20 b. The Trumpeter of Fyvie 201 21. Fair Helen of Kirconnel 207 22. The Lowlands of Holland 213 BOOK III. 1 a. The Twa Brothers 219 1 b. Edward, Edward 225 1 c. Son Davie, Son Davie 228 2 a. The Cruel Sister 231 2 b. The Twa Sisters 238 3 a. Lord Donald 244 3 b. Lord Randal (B) 248 4 a. The Cruel Brother, [Jamieson] 251 4 b. The Cruel Brother, [Herd] 257 5 a. Lady Anne 262 5 b. Fine Flowers in the Valley 265 5 c. The Cruel Mother, [Motherwell] 267 5 d. The Cruel Mother, [Kinloch] 269 6. May Colvin 271 7 a. Babylon 277 7 b. Duke of Perth's Three Daughters 281 8. Jellon Grame 285 9. Young Johnstone 291 10. Young Benjie 298 APPENDIX. Lord Barnaby 307 Child Maurice 313 Clerk Saunders 318 Lord Wa'yates and Auld Ingram 326 Sweet Willie and Fair Maisry 332 Lady Marjorie 338 Leesome Brand 342 The Youth of Rosengord 347 The Blood-Stained Son 350 The Twa Brothers 353 The Miller and the King's Daughter 357 The Bonny Bows o' London 360 The Croodlin Doo 363 The Snake-Cook 364 The Child's Last Will 366 The Three Knights 368 The Cruel Mother 372 The Minister's Dochter o' Newarke 376 Bondsey and Maisry 379 Ladye Diamond 382 The West-Country Damosel's Complaint 384 The Brave Earl Brand and the King of England's Daughter 388 La Vendicatrice--supplement to May Colvin 392 GLOSSARY 395 BOOK II. GLASGERION. The two following ballads have the same subject, and perhaps had a common original. The "Briton GLASKYRION" is honourably mentioned as a harper by Chaucer, in company with Chiron, Orion, and Orpheus, (_House of Fame_, B. iii. v. 118,) and with the last he is also associated, as Mr. Finlay has pointed out, by Bishop Douglas, in the _Palice of Honour_. "The Scottish writers," says Jamieson, "adapting the name to their own meridian, call him GLENKINDY, GLENSKEENIE, &c." _Glasgerion_ is reprinted from Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 83. Glasgerion was a kings owne sonne, And a harper he was goode; He harped in the kings chambere, Where cuppe and caudle stoode, And soe did hee in the queens chambere, 5 Till ladies waxed wood, And then bespake the kinges daughter, And these wordes thus shee sayd:-- "Strike on, strike on, Glasgerion, Of thy striking doe not blinne; 10 Theres never a stroke comes oer thy harpe, But it glads my hart withinne." "Faire might him fall,[L13] ladye," quoth hee, "Who taught you nowe to speake! I have loved you, ladye, seven longe yeere, 15 My harte I neere durst breake." "But come to my bower, my Glasgerion, When all men are att rest: As I am a ladie true of my promise, Thou shalt bee a welcome guest." 20 Home then came Glasgerion, A glad man, lord! was hee: "And, come thou hither, Jacke my boy, Come hither unto mee. "For the kinges daughter of Normandye 25 Hath granted mee my boone; And att her chambere must I bee Beffore the cocke have crowen." "O master, master," then quoth hee, "Lay your head downe on this stone; 30 For I will waken you, master deere, Afore it be time to gone." But up then rose that lither ladd, And hose and shoone did on; A coller he cast upon his necke, 35 Hee seemed a gentleman. And when he came to the ladyes chamber, He thrild upon a pinn: The lady was true of her promise, And rose and lett him inn. 40 He did not take the lady gaye To boulster nor to bed: [Nor thoughe hee had his wicked wille, A single word he sed.] He did not kisse that ladyes mouthe, 45 Nor when he came, nor yode: And sore that ladye did mistrust, He was of some churls bloud. But home then came that lither ladd, And did off his hose and shoone; 50 And cast the coller from off his necke: He was but a churlès sonne. "Awake, awake, my deere master, The cock hath well-nigh crowen; Awake, awake, my master deere, 55 I hold it time to be gone. "For I have saddled your horsse, master, Well bridled I have your steede, And I have served you a good breakfast, For thereof ye have need." 60 Up then rose good Glasgerion, And did on hose and shoone, And cast a coller about his necke: For he was a kinge his sonne. And when he came to the ladyes chambere, 65 He thrilled upon the pinne; The ladye was more than true of promise, And rose and let him inn. "O whether have you left with me Your bracelet or your glove? 70 Or are you returned back againe To know more of my love?" Glasgerion swore a full great othe, By oake, and ashe, and thorne; "Ladye, I was never in your chambere, 75 Sith the time that I was borne." "O then it was your lither[L77] foot-page, He hath beguiled mee:" Then shee pulled forth a little pen-knìffe, That hanged by her knee. 80 Sayes, "there shall never noe churlès blood Within my bodye spring: No churlès blood shall e'er defile The daughter of a kinge." Home then went Glasgerion, 85 And woe, good lord! was hee: Sayes, "come thou hither, Jacke my boy, Come hither unto mee. "If I had killed a man to-night, Jack, I would tell it thee: 90 But if I have not killed a man to-night, Jacke, thou hast killed three." And he puld out his bright browne sword, And dryed it on his sleeve, And he smote off that lither ladds head, 95 Who did his ladye grieve. He sett the swords poynt till his brest, The pummil untill a stone: Throw the falsenesse of that lither ladd, These three lives werne all gone. 100 13, him fall. 77, MS. litle. GLENKINDIE. From Jamieson's _Popular Ballads and Songs_, i. 91. The copy in the _Thistle of Scotland_, p. 31, is the same. Glenkindie was ance a harper gude, He harped to the king; And Glenkindie was ance the best harper That ever harp'd on a string. He'd harpit a fish out o' saut water,[L5] 5 Or water out o' a stane; Or milk out o' a maiden's breast, That bairn had never nane. He's taen his harp intil his hand, He harpit and he sang; 10 And ay as he harpit to the king, To haud him unthought lang. "I'll gie you a robe, Glenkindie, A robe o' the royal pa', Gin ye will harp i' the winter's night 15 Afore my nobles a'." And the king but and his nobles a'[L17] Sat birling at the wine; And he wad hae but his ae dochter, To wait on them at dine. 20 He's taen his harp intill his hand, He's harpit them a' asleep, Except it was the young countess, That love did waukin keep. And first he has harpit a grave tune,[L25] 25 And syne he has harpit a gay; And mony a sich atween hands I wat the lady gae. Says, "Whan day is dawen, and cocks hae crawen, And wappit their wings sae wide, 30 It's ye may come to my bower door, And streek you by my side. "But look that ye tell na Gib your man, For naething that ye dee; For, an ye tell him, Gib your man, 35 He'll beguile baith you and me." He's taen his harp intill his hand; He harpit and he sang; And he is hame to Gib his man, As fast as he could gang. 40 "O mith I tell you, Gib, my man, Gin I a man had slain?" "O that ye micht, my gude master, Altho' ye had slain ten." "Then tak ye tent now, Gib, my man, 45 My bidden for to dee; And, but an ye wauken me in time, Ye sall be hangit hie. "Whan day has dawen, and cocks hae crawen, And wappit their wings sae wide, 50 I'm bidden gang till yon lady's bower, And streek me by her side." "Gae hame to your bed, my good master; Ye've waukit, I fear, o'er lang; For I'll wauken you in as good time, 55 As ony cock i' the land." He's taen his harp intill his hand, He harpit and he sang, Until he harpit his master asleep, Syne fast awa did gang. 60 And he is till that lady's bower, As fast as he could rin; When he cam till that lady's bower, He chappit at the chin.[L64] "O wha is this," says that lady, 65 "That opens nae and comes in?" "It's I, Glenkindie, your ain true love, O open and lat me in!" She kent he was nae gentle knicht That she had latten in; 70 For neither whan he gaed nor cam, Kist he her cheek or chin. He neither kist her whan he cam, Nor clappit her when he gaed; And in and at her bower window, 75 The moon shone like the gleed. "O, ragged is your hose, Glenkindie, And riven is your sheen, And reavel'd is your yellow hair That I saw late yestreen." 80 "The stockings they are Gib my man's, They came first to my hand; And this is Gib my man's shoon; At my bed feet they stand. I've reavell'd a' my yellow hair 85 Coming against the wind." He's taen the harp intill his hand, He harpit and he sang, Until he cam to his master, As fast as he could gang. 90 "Won up, won up, my good master; I fear ye sleep o'er lang; There's nae a cock in a' the land But has wappit his wings and crawn." Glenkindie's tane his harp in hand, 95 He harpit and he sang, And he has reach'd the lady's bower, Afore that e'er he blan. When he cam to the lady's bower, He chappit at the chin; 100 "O, wha is that at my bower door, That opens na and comes in?" "It's I, Glenkindie, your ain true love, And in I canna win." * * * * * "Forbid it, forbid it," says that lady, 105 "That ever sic shame betide; That I should first be a wild loon's lass, And than a young knight's bride." There was nae pity for that lady, For she lay cald and dead; 110 But a' was for him, Glenkindie, In bower he must go mad. He'd harpit a fish out o' saut water; The water out o' a stane; The milk out o' a maiden's breast, 115 That bairn had never nane. He's taen his harp intill his hand; Sae sweetly as it rang, And wae and weary was to hear Glenkindie's dowie sang.[L120] 120 But cald and dead was that lady, Nor heeds for a' his maen; An he wad harpit till domisday, She'll never speak again. He's taen his harp intill his hand; 125 He harpit and he sang; And he is hame to Gib his man As fast as he could gang. "Come forth, come forth, now, Gib, my man, Till I pay you your fee; 130 Come forth, come forth, now, Gib, my man; Weel payit sall ye be!" And he has taen him, Gib, his man, And he has hang'd him hie; And he's hangit him o'er his ain yate, 135 As high as high could be. 5-8, These feats are all but equalled by the musician in the Swedish and Danish _Harpans Kraft_. "He harped the bark from every tree, And he harped the young from folk and from fee. "He harped the hind from the wild-wood home, He harped the bairn from its mother's womb." ARWIDSSON, No. 149. "Villemand takes his harp in his hand, He goes down by the water to stand. "He struck the harp with his hand, And the fish leapt out upon the strand." GRUNDTVIG, No. 40. 17-20. This stanza is found in the opening of _Brown Robin_, which commences thus:-- "The king but and his nobles a' Sat birling at the wine, [_bis_] He would hae nane but his ae daughter To wait on them at dine. "She served them but, she served them ben, Intill a gown o' green; But her e'e was ay on Brown Robin, That stood low under the rain," &c. J. 25-28. The following stanza occurs in one of the editor's copies of _The Gay Gosshawk_:-- "O first he sang a merry song, And then he sang a grave; And then he pecked his feathers gray, To her the letter gave." J. 64, at the chin. Sic. 120. This stanza has been altered, to introduce a little variety, and prevent the monotonous tiresomeness of repetition. J. THE OLD BALLAD OF LITTLE MUSGRAVE AND THE LADY BARNARD. The popularity of this ancient ballad is evinced by its being frequently quoted in old plays. In Beaumont and Fletcher's _Knight of the Burning Pestle_, (produced in 1611,) the fourteenth stanza is cited, thus: "And some they whistled and some they sung, _Hey, down, down!_ And some did loudly say, Ever as the lord Barnet's horn blew, Away, Musgrave, away." _Act V. Scene 3._ The oldest known copy of this piece is found in _Wit Restor'd_, (1658,) p. 174, and from the reprint of that publication we have taken it, (p. 293.) Dryden seems to have adopted it from the same source into his _Miscellanies_, and Ritson has inserted Dryden's version in _Ancient Songs and Ballads_, ii. 116. Percy's copy (_Reliques_, iii. 106,) was inferior to the one here used, and was besides somewhat altered by the editor. A Scottish version, furnished by Jamieson, is given in the Appendix to this volume, and another, extending to forty-eight stanzas, in _Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads_, Percy Society, vol. xvii. p. 21. Similar incidents, with a verbal coincidence in one stanza, occur in the ballad immediately succeeding the present. As it fell one holy-day, _hay downe_, As manybe in the yeare, When young men and maids together did goe, Their mattins and masse to heare, Little Musgrave came to the church dore, 5 The preist was at private masse; But he had more minde of the faire women, Then he had of our ladys[L8] grace. The one of them was clad in green, Another was clad in pall;[L10] 10 And then came in my lord Barnards[L11] wife, The fairest amonst them all. She cast an eye on little Musgrave, As bright as the summer sun, And then bethought this little Musgrave, 15 "This ladys heart have I woonn." Quoth she, "I have loved thee, little Musgrave, Full long and many a day:" "So have I loved you, fair lady, Yet never word durst I say." 20 "I have a bower at Buckelsfordbery, Full daintyly it is deight;[L22] If thou wilt wend thither, thou little Musgrave, Thou's lig in mine armes all night." Quoth he, "I thank yee, faire lady, 25 This kindnes thou showest to me; But whether it be to my weal or woe, This night I will lig[L28] with thee." All that heard[L29] a little tinny page, By his ladyes coach as he ran: 30 [Quoth he,] "allthough I am my ladyes foot-page, Yet I am lord Barnards man. "My lord Barnard shall knowe of this, Whether I sink or swimm:"[L34] And ever where the bridges were broake, 35 He laid him downe to swimme. "Asleepe, awake![L37] thou lord Barnard, As thou art a man of life; For little Musgrave is at Bucklesfordbery, Abed with thy own wedded wife." 40 "If this be true, thou little tinny page, This thing thou tellest to mee, Then all the land in Bucklesfordbery I freely will give to thee. "But if it be a ly, thou little tinny page, 45 This thing thou tellest to me, On the hyest tree in Bucklesfordbery There hanged shalt thou be." He called up his merry men all:-- "Come saddle me my steed; 50 This night must I to Buckellsfordbery, For I never had greater need." And some of them whistl'd, and some of them sung, And some these words did say, Ever[L55] when my lord Barnards horn blew, 55 "Away, Musgrave, away!" "Methinks I hear the thresel-cock, Methinks I hear the jaye; Methinks I hear my Lord Barnard,-- And I would I were away." 60 "Lye still, lye still, thou little Musgrave, And huggell me from the cold; Tis nothing but a shephards boy, A driving his sheep to the fold. "Is not thy hawke upon a perch? 65 Thy steed eats oats and hay, And thou [a] fair lady in thine armes,-- And wouldst thou bee away?" With that my lord Barnard came to the dore, And lit a stone upon; 70 He plucked out three silver keys, And he open'd the dores each one. He lifted up the coverlett, He lifted up the sheet; "How now, how now, thou little Musgrave, 75 Doest thou find my lady sweet?" "I find her sweet," quoth little Musgrave, "The more 'tis to my paine; I would gladly give three hundred pounds That I were on yonder plaine." 80 "Arise, arise, thou littell Musgrave, And put thy clothés on; It shal ne'er be said in my country, I have killed a naked man. "I have two swords in one scabberd, 85 Full deere they cost my purse; And thou shalt have the best of them, And I will have the worse." The first stroke that little Musgrave stroke, He hurt Lord Barnard sore; 90 The next stroke that Lord Barnard stroke, Little Musgrave ne're struck more. With that bespake this faire lady, In bed whereas she lay; "Although thou'rt dead, thou little Musgrave, 95 Yet I for thee will pray; "And wish well to thy soule will I, So long as I have life; So will I not for thee, Barnard, Although I am thy wedded wife." 100 He cut her paps from off her brest, (Great pity it was to see,) That some drops of this ladies heart's blood Ran trickling downe her knee. "Woe worth you, woe worth [you], my mery men all, 105 You were ne're borne for my good; Why did you not offer to stay my hand, When ye saw[L108] me wax so wood! "For I have slaine the bravest sir knight That ever rode on steed; 110 So have I done the fairest lady That ever did womans deed. "A grave, a grave," Lord Barnard cryd, "To put these lovers in; But lay my lady on [the] upper hand, 115 For she came of the better kin." 8, lady. 10, pale. 11, Bernards. 22, geight. 28, wed. 29, With that he heard: tyne. 34, sinn. 37, or wake. 55, And ever. 108, see. LORD RANDAL (A). From Jamieson's _Popular Ballads and Songs_, i. 162. "The story of this ballad very much resembles that of _Little Musgrave and Lord Barnard_. The common title is, _The Bonny Birdy_. The first stanza is sung thus:-- 'There was a knight, on a summer's night, Was riding o'er the lee, _diddle_; And there he saw a bonny birdy Was singing on a tree, _diddle_: O wow for day, _diddle_! And dear gin it were day! Gin it were day, and I were away, For I ha'ena lang time to stay.' In the text, the burden of _diddle_ has been omitted; and the name of Lord Randal introduced, for the sake of distinction, and to prevent the ambiguity arising from 'the knight', which is equally applicable to both." The lines supplied by Jamieson have been omitted. Allan Cunningham's "improved" version of the _Bonny Birdy_ may be seen in his _Songs of Scotland_, ii. 130. Lord Randal wight, on a summer's night, Was riding o'er the lee, And there he saw a bonny birdie Was singin' on a tree: "O wow for day! 5 And dear gin it were day! Gin it were day, and I were away, For I ha'ena lang time to stay! "Mak haste, mak haste, ye wicht baron; What keeps ye here sae late? 10 Gin ye kent what was doing at hame, I trow ye wad look blate. "And O wow for day! And dear gin it were day. Gin it were day, and ye were away; 15 For ye ha'ena lang time to stay!" "O what needs I toil day and night, My fair body to spill, When I ha'e knichts at my command, And ladies at my will?" 20 "O weel is he, ye wight baron, Has the blear drawn o'er his e'e; But your lady has a knight in her arms twa, That she lo'es far better nor thee. "And O wow for day! 25 And dear gin it were day! Gin it were day, and ye were away; For ye ha'ena lang time to stay!" "Ye lie, ye lie, ye bonny birdie; How you lie upon my sweet; 30 I will tak out my bonny bow, And in troth I will you sheet." "But afore ye ha'e your bow weel bent, And a' your arrows yare, I will flee till anither tree, 35 Whare I can better fare. "And O wow for day And dear gin it were day! Gin it were day, and I were away; For I ha'ena lang time to stay!" 40 "O whare was ye gotten, and where was ye clecked, My bonny birdie, tell me?" "O, I was clecked in good green wood, Intill a holly tree; A baron sae bald my nest herried, 45 And ga'e me to his ladie. "Wi' good white bread, and farrow-cow milk, He bade her feed me aft; And ga'e her a little wee summer-dale wandie, To ding me sindle and saft. 50 "Wi' good white bread, and farrow-cow milk, I wat she fed me nought; But wi' a little wee summer-dale wandie, She dang me sair and oft:-- Gin she had done as ye her bade, 55 I wadna tell how she has wrought. "And O wow for day! And dear gin it were day! Gin it were day, and ye were away; For ye ha'ena lang time to stay." 60 Lord Randal rade, and the birdie flew, The live-lang summer's night, Till he cam till his lady's bower-door, Then even down he did light. The birdie sat on the crap o' a tree, 65 And I wat it sang fu' dight: "O wow for day! And dear gin it were day! Gin it were day, and I were away; For I ha'ena lang time to stay!" 70 * * * * * * * "O wow for day! And dear gin it were day! Gin it were day, and ye were away; For ye ha'ena lang time to stay!" "Now Christ assoile me o' my sin," 75 The fause knight he could say; "It's nae for nought that the hawk whistles;[L77] And I wish that I were away! "And O wow for day! And dear gin it were day! 80 Gin it were day, and I were away; For I ha'ena lang time to stay!" "What needs ye lang for day, And wish that ye were away? Is na your hounds in my cellar 85 Eating white meal and gray?" "Yet, O wow for day! And dear gin it were day! Gin it were day, and I were away, For I ha'ena lang time to stay!" 90 "Is na your horse in my stable, Eating good corn and hay? Is na your hawk on my perch tree, Just perching for his prey? And isna yoursel in my arms twa; 95 Then how can ye lang for day?" "Yet, O wow for day! And dear gin it were day! Gin it were day, and I were away, For I ha'ena lang time to stay. 100 "Yet, O wow for day! And dear gin it were day! For he that's in bed wi' anither man's wife, Has never lang time to stay." * * * * * * * Then out Lord Randal drew his brand, 105 And straiked it o'er a strae; And through and through the fause knight's waste He gar'd cald iron gae; And I hope ilk ane sall sae be serv'd, That treats an honest man sae! 110 77, This is a proverbial saying in Scotland. J. GIL MORRICE. "Of the many ancient ballads which have been preserved by tradition among the peasantry of Scotland, none has excited more interest in the world of letters than the beautiful and pathetic tale of _Gil Morice_; and this, no less on account of its own intrinsic merits as a piece of exquisite poetry, than of its having furnished the plot of the justly celebrated tragedy of _Douglas_. It has likewise supplied Mr. Langhorne with the principal materials from which he has woven the fabric of his sweet, though prolix poem of _Owen of Carron_. Perhaps the list could be easily increased of those who have drawn their inspiration from this affecting strain of Olden Minstrelsy. "If any reliance is to be placed on the traditions of that part of the country where the scene of the ballad is laid, we will be enforced to believe that it is founded on facts which occurred at some remote period of Scottish History. The 'grene wode' of the ballad was the ancient forest of Dundaff, in Stirlingshire, and Lord Barnard's Castle is said to have occupied a precipitous cliff, overhanging the water of Carron, on the lands of Halbertshire. A small burn, which joins the Carron about five miles above these lands, is named the Earlsburn, and the hill near the source of that stream is called the Earlshill, both deriving their appellations, according to the unvarying traditions of the country, from the unfortunate Erle's son who is the hero of the ballad. He, also, according to the same respectable authority, was 'beautiful exceedingly', and especially remarkable for the extreme length and loveliness of his yellow hair, which shrouded him as it were a golden mist. To these floating traditions we are, probably, indebted for the attempts which have been made to improve and embellish the ballad, by the introduction of various new stanzas since its first appearance in a printed form. "In Percy's _Reliques_, it is mentioned that it had run through two editions in Scotland, the second of which appeared at Glasgow in 1755, 8vo.; and that to both there was prefixed an advertisement, setting forth that the preservation of the poem was owing 'to a lady, who favoured the printers with a copy, as it was carefully collected from the mouths of old women and nurses', and requesting that 'any reader, who could render it more correct or complete, would oblige the public with such improvements'. This was holding out too tempting a bait not to be greedily snapped at by some of those 'Ingenious Hands' who have corrupted the purity of legendary song in Scotland by manifest forgeries and gross impositions. Accordingly, sixteen additional verses soon appeared in manuscript, which the Editor of the _Reliques_ has inserted in their proper places, though he rightly views them in no better light than that of an ingenious interpolation. Indeed, the whole ballad of _Gil Morice_, as the writer of the present notice has been politely informed by the learned and elegant Editor of the _Border Minstrelsy_, underwent a total revisal about the period when the tragedy of _Douglas_ was in the zenith of its popularity, and this improved copy, it seems, embraced the ingenious interpolation above referred to. Independent altogether of this positive information, any one, familiar with the state in which traditionary poetry has been transmitted to the present times, can be at no loss to detect many more 'ingenious interpolations', as well as paraphrastic additions, in the ballad as now printed. But, though it has been grievously corrupted in this way, the most scrupulous inquirer into the authenticity of ancient song can have no hesitation in admitting that many of its verses, even as they now stand, are purely traditionary, and fair, and genuine parcels of antiquity, unalloyed with any base admixture of modern invention, and in nowise altered, save in those changes of language to which all oral poetry is unavoidably subjected, in its progress from one age to another." MOTHERWELL. We have given _Gil Morrice_ as it stands in the _Reliques_, (iii. 132,) degrading to the margin those stanzas which are undoubtedly spurious, and we have added an ancient traditionary version, obtained by Motherwell, which, if it appear short and crude, is at least comparatively incorrupt. _Chield Morice_, taken down from recitation, and printed in Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, (p. 269,) nearly resembles _Gil Morrice_, as here exhibited. We have also inserted in the Appendix _Childe Maurice_, "the very old imperfect copy," mentioned in the _Reliques_, and first published from the Percy MS. by Jamieson. The sets of _Gil Morrice_ in the collections of Herd, Pinkerton, Ritson, &c., are all taken from Percy. Gil Morrice was an erles son, His name it waxed wide: It was nae for his great riches, Nor zet his mickle pride; Bot it was for a lady gay[L5] 5 That liv'd on Carron side. "Quhair sall I get a bonny boy, That will win hose and shoen; That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha', And bid his lady cum? 10 "And ze maun rin my errand, Willie, And ze may rin wi' pride; Quhen other boys gae on their foot, On horseback ze sall ride." "O no! O no! my master dear! 15 I dare nae for my life; I'll no gae to the bauld barons, For to triest furth his wife." "My bird Willie, my boy Willie, My dear Willie," he sayd: 20 "How can ze strive against the stream? For I sall be obeyd." "Bot, O my master dear!" he cry'd, "In grene wod ze're zour lain; Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede, 25 For fear ze should be tain." "Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha', Bid hir cum here wi' speid: If ze refuse my heigh command, I'll gar zour body bleid. 30 "Gae bid hir take this gay mantel, 'T is a' gowd bot the hem; Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode, And bring nane hot hir lain: "And there it is, a silken sarke, 35 Hir ain hand sewd the sleive; And bid hir cum to Gill Morice, Speir nae bauld barons leave." "Yes, I will gae zour black errand, Though it be to zour cost; 40 Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd, In it ze sall find frost. "The baron he is a man of might, He neir could bide to taunt; As ze will see, before it's nicht, 45 How sma' ze hae to vaunt. "And sen I maun zour errand rin Sae sair against my will, I'se mak a vow and keip it trow, It sall be done for ill." 50 And quhen he came to broken brigue,[L51] He bent his bow and swam; And quhen he came to grass growing, Set down his feet and ran. And quhen he came to Barnard's ha', 55 Would neither chap nor ca'; Bot set his bent bow to his breist, And lichtly lap the wa'. He wauld nae tell the man his errand, Though he stude at the gait; 60 Bot straiht into the ha' he cam, Quhair they were set at meit. "Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame! My message winna waite; Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod, 65 Before that it be late. "Ze're bidden tak this gay mantel, 'Tis a' gowd bot the hem: Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode, Ev'n by your sel alane. 70 "And there it is, a silken sarke, Your ain hand sewd the sleive: Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice; Speir nae bauld barons leave." The lady stamped wi' hir foot, 75 And winked wi' hir ee; But a' that she could say or do, Forbidden he wad nae bee. "It's surely to my bow'r-woman; It neir could be to me." 80 "I brocht it to Lord Barnard's lady; I trow that ze be she." Then up and spack the wylie nurse, (The bairn upon hir knee): "If it be cum frae Gill Morice, 85 It's deir welcum to mee." "Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse, Sae loud I heird ze lee; I brocht it to Lord Barnard's lady; I trow ze be nae shee." 90 Then up and spack the bauld baron, An angry man was hee; He's tain the table wi' his foot, Sae has he wi' his knee, Till siller cup and ezer[L95] dish 95 In flinders he gard flee. "Gae bring a robe of zour cliding, That hings upon the pin; And I'll gae to the gude grene wode, And speik wi' zour lemman." 100 "O bide at hame, now, Lord Barnard, I warde ze bide at hame; Neir wyte a man for violence, That neir wate ze wi' nane." Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode, 105 He whistled and he sang: "O what mean a' the folk coming? My mother tarries lang." The baron came to the grene wode,[L109] Wi' mickle dule and care; 110 And there he first spied Gill Morice Kameing his zellow hair. "Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice, My lady loed thee weel; The fairest part of my bodie 115 Is blacker than thy heel. "Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice, For a' thy great beautie, Ze's rew the day ze eir was born; That head sall gae wi' me." 120 Now he has drawn his trusty brand, And slait it[L122] on the strae; And thro' Gill Morice' fair body He's gar cauld iron gae. And he has tain Gill Morice' head,[L125] 125 And set it on a speir: The meanest man in a' his train Has gotten that head to bear. And he has tain Gill Morice up, Laid him across his steid, 130 And brocht him to his painted bowr, And laid him on a bed. The lady sat on castil wa', Beheld baith dale and doun; And there she saw Gill Morice' head 135 Cum trailing to the toun. "Far better I loe that bluidy head, Bot and that zellow hair, Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands, As they lig here and thair." 140 And she has tain her Gill Morice, And kissd baith mouth and chin: "I was once as fow of Gill Morice, As the hip is o' the stean. "I got ze in my father's house, 145 Wi' mickle sin and shame; I brocht thee up in gude green wode, Under the heavy rain. "Oft have I by thy cradle sitten, And fondly seen thee sleip; 150 Bot now I gae about thy grave, The saut tears for to weip." And syne she kissd[L153] his bluidy cheik, And syne his bluidy chin: "O better I loe my Gill Morice 155 Than a' my kith and kin!" "Away, away, ze il woman,[L157] And an ill deith mait ze dee: Gin I had ken'd he'd bin zour son, He'd neir bin slain for mee." 160 5. The stall copies of the ballad complete the stanza thus: _His face was fair, lang was his hair, In the wild woods he staid_; But his fame was for a fair lady That lived on Carronside. Which is no injudicious interpolation, inasmuch as it is founded upon the traditions current among the vulgar, regarding Gil Morice's comely face and long yellow hair. MOTHERWELL. 51-58. A familiar commonplace in ballad poetry. See _Childe Vyet_, _Lady Maisry_, _Lord Barnaby_, &c. 95, mazer. 109 His hair was like the threeds of gold Drawne frae Minerva's loome; His lipps like roses drapping dew; His breath was a' perfume. His brow was like the mountain snae Gilt by the morning beam; His cheeks like living roses glow; His een like azure stream. The boy was clad in robes of grene, Sweete as the infant spring; And like the mavis on the bush, He gart the vallies ring. 122, slaited. 125 That sweetly wavd around his face, That face beyond compare; He sang sae sweet, it might dispel A' rage but fell dispair. 153. Stall copy, And _first_ she kissed. 157 "Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard! Obraid me not for shame! Wi' that saim speir, O pierce my heart! And put me out o' pain. "Since nothing bot Gill Morice' head Thy jelous rage could quell, Let that saim hand now tak hir life That neir to thee did ill. "To me nae after days nor nichts Will eir be saft or kind; I'll fill the air with heavy sighs, And greet till I am blind." "Enouch of blood by me's bin spilt, Seek not zour death frae me; I rather lourd it had been my sel Than eather him or thee. "With waefo wae I hear zour plaint; Sair, sair I rew the deid, That eir this cursed hand of mine Had gard his body bleid. "Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, Ze neir can heal the wound; Ze see his head upon the speir, His heart's blude on the ground. "I curse the hand that did the deid, The heart that thocht the ill; The feet that bore me wi' sik speid, The comely zouth to kill. "I'll ay lament for Gill Morice, As gin he were mine ain; I'll neir forget the dreiry day On which the zouth was slain." CHILD NORYCE. From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 282. "By testimony of a most unexceptionable description,--but which it would be tedious here to detail,--the Editor can distinctly trace this ballad as existing in its present shape at least a century ago, which carries it decidedly beyond the date of the first printed copy of _Gil Morice_; and this with a poem which has been preserved but by oral tradition, is no mean _positive_ antiquity." In the Introduction to his collection, Motherwell mentions his having found a more complete copy of this ballad under the title of _Babe Nourice_. Child Noryce is a clever young man, He wavers wi' the wind; His horse was silver shod before, With the beaten gold behind. He called to his little man John, 5 Saying, "You don't see what I see; For O yonder I see the very first woman That ever loved me. "Here is a glove, a glove," he said, "Lined with the silver gris; 10 You may tell her to come to the merry green wood, To speak to Child Nory. "Here is a ring, a ring," he says, "It's all gold but the stane; You may tell her to come to the merry green wood, 15 And ask the leave o' nane." "So well do I love your errand, my master, But far better do I love my life; O would ye have me go to Lord Barnard's castel, To betray away his wife?" 20 "O don't I give you meat," he says, "And don't I pay you fee? How dare you stop my errand?" he says; "My orders you must obey." O when he came to Lord Barnard's castel, 25 He tinkled at the ring; Who was as ready as Lord Barnard[L27] himself To let this little boy in? "Here is a glove, a glove," he says, "Lined with the silver gris; 30 You are bidden to come to the merry green wood, To speak to Child Nory. "Here is a ring, a ring," he says, "It's all gold but the stane: You are bidden to come to the merry green wood, 35 And ask the leave o' nane." Lord Barnard he was standing by, And an angry man was he: "O little did I think there was a lord in this world My lady loved but me!" 40 O he dressed himself in the Holland smocks, And garments that was gay; And he is away to the merry green wood, To speak to Child Nory. Child Noryce sits on yonder tree, 45 He whistles and he sings: "O wae be to me," says Child Noryce, "Yonder my mother comes!" Child Noryce he came off the tree, His mother to take off the horse: 50 "Och alace, alace," says Child Noryce, "My mother was ne'er so gross." Lord Barnard he had a little small sword, That hung low down by his knee; He cut the head off Child Noryce, 55 And put the body on a tree. And when he came to his castel, And to his lady's hall, He threw the head into her lap, Saying, "Lady, there is a ball!" 60 She turned up the bloody head, She kissed it frae cheek to chin: "Far better do I love this bloody head Than all my royal kin. "When I was in my father's castell, 65 In my virginitie, There came a lord into the North, Gat Child Noryce with me." "O wae be to thee, Lady Margaret," he said, "And an ill death may you die; 70 For if you had told me he was your son, He had ne'er been slain by me." 27. This unquestionably should be Lady Barnard, instead of her lord. See third stanza under. M. CLERK SAUNDERS. From the _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, (iii. 175,) where it was first published. It was "taken from Mr. Herd's MSS., with several corrections from a shorter and more imperfect copy in the same volume, and one or two conjectural emendations in the arrangement of the stanzas." That that part of the ballad which follows the death of the lovers is an independent story, is obvious both from internal evidence, and from the separate existence of those concluding stanzas in a variety of forms: as, _Sweet William's Ghost_, (_Tea-Table Miscellany_, ii. 142,) _Sweet William and May Margaret_, (Kinloch, p. 241,) _William and Marjorie_, (Motherwell, p. 186.) Of this second part, Motherwell observes, that it is often made the tail-piece to other ballads where a deceased lover appears to his mistress. The two were, however, combined by Sir Walter Scott, and the present Editor has contented himself with indicating distinctly the close of the proper story. An inferior copy of _Clerk Saunders_, published by Jamieson, is inserted in the Appendix, for the sake of a few valuable stanzas. It resembles the Swedish ballad of _The Cruel Brother_, (_Svenska Folk-Visor_, iii. 107,) which, however, is much shorter. The edition of Buchan, (i. 160,) is entirely worthless. A North-Country version of the First Part is given by Kinloch, _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, 233. PART FIRST. Clerk Saunders and may Margaret, Walked ower yon garden green; And sad and heavy was the love That fell thir twa between. "A bed, a bed," Clerk Saunders said, 5 "A bed for you and me!"-- "Fye na, fye na," said may Margaret, "Till anes we married be; "For in may come my seven bauld brothers, Wi' torches burning bright; 10 They'll say--'We hae but ae sister, And behold she's wi' a knight!'"-- "Then take the sword from my scabbard, And slowly lift the pin; And you may swear, and safe your aith, 15 Ye never let Clerk Saunders in. "And take a napkin in your hand, And tie up baith your bonny een; And you may swear, and safe your aith, Ye saw me na since late yestreen."[L20] 20 It was about the midnight hour, When they asleep were laid, When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning red. When in and came her seven brothers, 25 Wi' torches burning bright; They said, "We hae but ae sister, And behold her lying with a knight!" Then out and spake the first o' them, "I bear the sword shall gar him die!" 30 And out and spake the second o' them, "His father has nae mair than he!" And out and spake the third o' them, "I wot that they are lovers dear!" And out and spake the fourth o' them, 35 "They hae been in love this mony a year!" Then out and spake the fifth o' them, "It were great sin true love to twain!" And out and spake the sixth of them, "It were shame to slay a sleeping man!" 40 Then up and gat the seventh o' them, And never a word spake he; But he has striped his bright brown brand Out through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye. Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn'd 45 Into his arms as asleep she lay; And sad and silent was the night That was atween thir twae. And they lay still and sleeped sound, Until the day began to daw; 50 And kindly to him she did say, "It is time, true love, you were awa." But he lay still, and sleeped sound, Albeit the sun began to sheen; She looked atween her and the wa', 55 And dull and drowsie were his een. Then in and came her father dear, Said--"Let a' your mourning be: I'll carry the dead corpse to the clay, And I'll come back and comfort thee."-- 60 "Comfort weel your seven sons, For comforted will I never be: I ween 'twas neither knave nor loon Was in the bower last night wi' me."-- 20. In Kinloch's version of this ballad we have an additional stanza here:-- ----"Ye'll take me in your arms twa, Ye'll carry me into your bed, And ye may swear, and save your aith, That in your bour floor I ne'er gae'd." PART SECOND. The clinking bell gaed through the town,[L1] To carry the dead corse to the clay; And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret's window, I wot, an hour before the day. "Are ye sleeping, Margaret?" he says, 5 "Or are ye waking presentlie? Give me my faith and troth again, I wot, true love, I gied to thee."-- "Your faith and troth ye sall never get, Nor our true love sall never twin, 10 Until ye come within my bower, And kiss me cheik and chin."-- "My mouth it is full cold, Margaret, It has the smell, now, of the ground; And if I kiss thy comely mouth, 15 Thy days of life will not be lang. "O cocks are crowing a merry midnight, I wot the wild fowls are boding day; Give me my faith and troth again, And let me fare me on my way."-- 20 "Thy faith and troth thou sall na get, And our true love shall never twin, Until ye tell what comes of women, I wot, who die in strong traiveling." "Their beds are made in the heavens high, 25 Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee, Weel set about wi' gillyflowers; I wot sweet company for to see. "O cocks are crowing a merry midnight, I wot the wild fowl are boding day; 30 The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, And I, ere now, will be miss'd away."-- Then she has ta'en a crystal[L33] wand, And she has stroken her troth thereon; She has given it him out at the shot-window, 35 Wi' mony a sad sigh, and heavy groan. "I thank ye, Marg'ret; I thank ye, Marg'ret; And aye I thank ye heartilie; Gin ever the dead come for the quick, Be sure, Marg'ret, I'll come for thee."-- 40 It's hosen and shoon and gown alone, She climb'd the wall, and follow'd him, Until she came to the green forest, And there she lost the sight o' him. "Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? 45 Is there ony room at your feet? Or ony room at your side, Saunders, Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?"-- "There's nae room at my head, Marg'ret, There's nae room at my feet; 50 My bed it is full lowly now: Amang the hungry worms I sleep. "Cauld mould is my covering now, But and my winding-sheet; The dew it falls nae sooner down, 55 Than my resting place is weet. "But plait a wand o' bonny birk,[L57] And lay it on my breast; And shed a tear upon my grave, And wish my saul gude rest. 60 "And fair Marg'ret, and rare Marg'ret, And Marg'ret o' veritie, Gin e'er ye love another man, Ne'er love him as ye did me."-- Then up and crew the milk-white cock, 65 And up and crew the grey; Her lover vanish'd in the air, And she gaed weeping away. 1. The custom of the passing bell is still kept up in many villages in Scotland. The sexton goes through the town, ringing a small bell, and announcing the death of the departed, and the time of the funeral. SCOTT. 33. Chrisom. 57. The custom of binding the new-laid sod of the churchyard with osiers, or other saplings, prevailed both in England and Scotland, and served to protect the turf from injury by cattle, or otherwise. SCOTT. SWEET WILLIE AND LADY MARGERIE. From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 370. "This Ballad, which possesses considerable beauty and pathos, is given from the recitation of a lady, now far advanced in years, with whose grandmother it was a deserved favourite. It is now for the first time printed. It bears some resemblance to _Clerk Saunders_." Subjoined is a different copy from Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_. Sweet Willie was a widow's son, And he wore a milk-white weed O; And weel could Willie read and write, Far better ride on steed O. Lady Margerie was the first ladye 5 That drank to him the wine O; And aye as the healths gaed round and round, "Laddy, your love is mine O." Lady Margerie was the first ladye That drank to him the beer O; 10 And aye as the healths gaed round and round, Laddy, ye're welcome here O. "You must come intill my bower, When the evening bells do ring O; And you must come intill my bower, 15 When the evening mass doth sing O." He's taen four-and-twenty braid arrows, And laced them in a whang O; And he's awa to Lady Margerie's bower, As fast as he can gang O. 20 He set his ae foot on the wa', And the other on a stane O; And he's kill'd a' the king's life guards, He's kill'd them every man O. "O open, open, Lady Margerie, 25 Open and let me in O; The weet weets a' my yellow hair, And the dew draps on my chin O." With her feet as white as sleet, She strode her bower within O; 30 And with her fingers lang and sma', She's looten sweet Willie in O. She's louted down unto his foot, To lowze sweet Willie's shoon O; The buckles were sae stiff they wadna lowze, 35 The blood had frozen in O. "O Willie, O Willie, I fear that thou Hast bred me dule and sorrow; The deed that thou hast done this nicht Will kythe upon the morrow." 40 In then came her father dear, And a braid sword by his gare O; And he's gien Willie, the widow's son, A deep wound and a sair O. "Lye yont, lye yont, Willie," she says, 45 "Your sweat weets a' my side O; Lye yont, lye yont, Willie," she says, "For your sweat I downa bide O." She turned her back unto the wa', Her face unto the room O; 50 And there she saw her auld father, Fast walking up and doun O. "Woe be to you, father," she said, "And an ill deid may you die O; For ye've killed Willie, the widow's son, 55 And he would have married me O." She turned her back unto the room, Her face unto the wa' O; And with a deep and heavy sich, Her heart it brak in twa O. 60 WILLIE AND LADY MAISRY. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 155. _The Bent sae Brown_, in the same volume, p. 30, resembles both _Clerk Saunders_ and the present ballad, but has a different catastrophe. Sweet Willie was a widow's son, And milk-white was his weed; It sets him weel to bridle a horse, And better to saddle a steed, my dear, And better to saddle a steed. 5 But he is on to Maisry's bower door, And tirled at the pin; "Ye sleep ye, wake ye, Lady Maisry, Ye'll open, let me come in, my dear, Ye'll open, let me come in." 10 "O who is this at my bower door, Sae well that knows my name?" "It is your ain true love, Willie, If ye love me, lat me in, my dear, If ye love me, lat me in." 15 Then huly, huly raise she up, For fear o' making din; Then in her arms lang and bent, She caught sweet Willie in, my dear, She caught sweet Willie in. 20 She lean'd her low down to her toe, To loose her true love's sheen; But cauld, cauld were the draps o' bleed, Fell fae his trusty brand, my dear, Fell fae his trusty brand. 25 "What frightfu' sight is that, my love? A frightfu' sight to see; What bluid is this on your sharp brand, O may ye not tell me, my dear? O may ye not tell me?" 30 "As I came thro' the woods this night, The wolf maist worried me; O shou'd I slain the wolf, Maisry? Or shou'd the wolf slain me, my dear? Or shou'd the wolf slain me?" 35 They hadna kiss'd nor love clapped, As lovers when they meet, Till up it starts her auld father, Out o' his drowsy sleep, my dear, Out o' his drowsy sleep. 40 "O what's become o' my house cock Sae crouse at ane did craw? I wonder as much at my bold watch, That's nae shootin ower the wa', my dear, That's nae shooting ower the wa'. 45 "My gude house cock, my only son, Heir ower my land sae free; If ony ruffian hae him slain, High hanged shall he be, my dear, High hanged shall he be." 50 Then he's on to Maisry's bower door, And tirled at the pin; "Ye sleep ye, wake ye, daughter Maisry, Ye'll open, lat me come in, my dear, Ye'll open, lat me come in." 55 Between the curtains and the wa', She row'd her true love then; And huly went she to the door, And let her father in, my dear, And let her father in. 60 "What's become o' your maries, Maisry, Your bower it looks sae teem? What's become o' your green claithing? Your beds they are sae thin, my dear, Your beds they are sae thin." 65 "Gude forgie you, father," she said, "I wish ye be't for sin; Sae aft as ye hae dreaded me, But never found me wrang, my dear, But never found me wrang." 70 He turn'd him right and round about, As he'd been gaun awa'; But sae nimbly as he slippet in, Behind a screen sae sma', my dear, Behind a screen sae sma'. 75 Maisry thinking a' dangers past, She to her love did say; "Come, love, and take your silent rest, My auld father's away, my dear, My auld father's away!" 80 Then baith lock'd in each other's arms, They fell full fast asleep; When up it starts her auld father, And stood at their bed feet, my dear, And stood at their bed feet. 85 "I think I hae the villain now, That my dear son did slay; But I shall be reveng'd on him, Before I see the day, my dear, Before I see the day." 90 Then he's drawn out a trusty brand, And stroak'd it o'er a stray; And thro' and thro' sweet Willie's middle He's gart cauld iron gae, my dear, He's gart cauld iron gae. 95 Then up it waken'd Lady Maisry, Out o' her drowsy sleep; And when she saw her true love slain, She straight began to weep, my dear, She straight began to weep. 100 "O gude forgie you now, father," she said, "I wish ye be't for sin; For I never lov'd a love but ane, In my arms ye've him slain, my dear, In my arms ye've him slain." 105 "This night he's slain my gude bold watch, Thirty stout men and twa; Likewise he's slain your ae brother, To me was worth them a', my dear, To me was worth them a'." 110 "If he has slain my ae brither, Himsell had a' the blame; For mony a day he plots contriv'd, To hae sweet Willie slain, my dear, To hae sweet Willie slain. 115 "And tho' he's slain your gude bold watch, He might hae been forgien; They came on him in armour bright, When he was but alane, my dear, When he was but alane." 120 Nae meen was made for this young knight, In bower where he lay slain; But a' was for sweet Maisry bright, In fields where she ran brain, my dear, In fields where she ran brain. 125 THE CLERK'S TWA SONS O' OWSENFORD. "This singularly wild and beautiful old ballad," says Chambers, (_Scottish Ballads_, p. 345,) "is chiefly taken from the recitation of the editor's grandmother, who learned it, when a girl, nearly seventy years ago, from a Miss Anne Gray, resident at Neidpath Castle, Peeblesshire; some additional stanzas, and a few various readings, being adopted from a less perfect, and far less poetical copy, published in Mr. Buchan's [_Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland_, i. 281,] and from a fragment in the _Border Minstrelsy_, entitled _The Wife of Usher's Well_, [vol. i. p. 214, of this collection,] but which is evidently the same narrative."[A] [A] There is to a certain extent a resemblance between this ballad and the German ballad _Das Schloss in Oesterreich_, found in most of the German collections, and in Swedish and Danish. "The editor has been induced to divide this ballad into two parts, on account of the _great superiority of what follows over what goes before, and because the latter portion is in a great measure independent of the other_, so far as sense is concerned. The first part is composed of the Peeblesshire version, mingled with that of the northern editor: the second is formed of the Peeblesshire version, mingled with the fragment called _The Wife of Usher's Well_." The natural desire of men to hear more of characters in whom they have become strongly interested, has frequently stimulated the attempt to continue successful fictions, and such supplements are proverbially unfortunate. A ballad-singer would have powerful inducements to gratify this passion of his audience, and he could most economically effect the object by stringing two ballads together. When a tale ended tragically, the sequel must of necessity be a ghost-story, and we have already had, in _Clerk Saunders_, an instance of this combination. Mr. Chambers has furnished the best possible reasons for believing that the same process has taken place in the case of the present ballad, and that the two parts, (which occur separately,) having originally had no connection, were arbitrarily united, to suit the purposes of some unscrupulous rhapsodist. PART FIRST. O I will sing to you a sang, Will grieve your heart full sair; How the Clerk's twa sons o' Owsenford Have to learn some unco lear. They hadna been in fair Parish 5 A twelvemonth and a day, Till the Clerk's twa sons fell deep in love Wi' the Mayor's dauchters twae. And aye as the twa clerks sat and wrote, The ladies sewed and sang; 10 There was mair mirth in that chamber, Than in a' fair Ferrol's land. But word's gane to the michty Mayor, As he sailed on the sea, That the Clerk's twa sons made licht lemans 15 O' his fair dauchters twae. "If they hae wranged my twa dauchters, Janet and Marjorie, The morn, ere I taste meat or drink, Hie hangit they shall be." 20 And word's gane to the clerk himsell, As he was drinking wine, That his twa sons at fair Parish Were bound in prison strang. Then up and spak the Clerk's ladye, 25 And she spak tenderlie: "O tak wi' ye a purse o' gowd, Or even tak ye three; And if ye canna get William, Bring Henry hame to me." 30 O sweetly sang the nightingale, As she sat on the wand; But sair, sair mourned Owsenford, As he gaed in the strand. When he came to their prison strang, 35 He rade it round about, And at a little shot-window, His sons were looking out. "O lie ye there, my sons," he said, "For owsen or for kye? 40 Or what is it that ye lie for, Sae sair bound as ye lie?" "We lie not here for owsen, father; Nor yet do we for kye; But it's for a little o' dear-boucht love, 45 Sae sair bound as we lie. "O borrow us, borrow us, father," they said, "For the luve we bear to thee!" "O never fear, my pretty sons, Weel borrowed ye sall be." 50 Then he's gane to the michty Mayor, And he spak courteouslie: "Will ye grant my twa sons' lives, Either for gold or fee? Or will ye be sae gude a man, 55 As grant them baith to me?" "I'll no grant ye your twa sons' lives, Neither for gold nor fee; Nor will I be sae gude a man, As gie them baith to thee; 60 But before the morn at twal o'clock, Ye'll see them hangit hie!" Ben it came the Mayor's dauchters, Wi' kirtle coat alone; Their eyes did sparkle like the gold, 65 As they tripped on the stone. "Will ye gie us our loves, father, For gold, or yet for fee? Or will ye take our own sweet lives, And let our true loves be?" 70 He's taen a whip into his hand, And lashed them wondrous sair; "Gae to your bowers, ye vile limmers; Ye'se never see them mair." Then out it speaks auld Owsenford; 75 A sorry man was he: "Gang to your bouirs, ye lilye flouirs; For a' this maunna be." Then out it speaks him Hynde Henry: "Come here, Janet, to me; 80 Will ye gie me my faith and troth, And love, as I gae thee?" "Ye sall hae your faith and troth, Wi' God's blessing and mine:" And twenty times she kissed his mouth, 85 Her father looking on. Then out it speaks him gay William: "Come here, sweet Marjorie; Will ye gie me my faith and troth, And love, as I gae thee?" 90 "Yes, ye sall hae your faith and troth, Wi' God's blessing and mine:" And twenty times she kissed his mouth, Her father looking on. * * * * * "O ye'll tak aff your twa black hats, 95 Lay them down on a stone, That nane may ken that ye are clerks, Till ye are putten doun." The bonnie clerks they died that morn; Their loves died lang ere noon; 100 And the waefu' Clerk o' Owsenford To his lady has gane hame. PART SECOND. His lady sat on her castle wa', Beholding dale and doun; And there she saw her ain gude lord Come walking to the toun. "Ye're welcome, ye're welcome, my ain gude lord, 5 Ye're welcome hame to me; But where-away are my twa sons? Ye suld hae brought them wi' ye." "O they are putten to a deeper lear, And to a higher scule: 10 Your ain twa sons will no be hame Till the hallow days o' Yule." "O sorrow, sorrow, come mak my bed; And, dule, come lay me doun; For I will neither eat nor drink, 15 Nor set a fit on groun'!" The hallow days o' Yule were come, And the nights were lang and mirk, When in and cam her ain twa sons, And their hats made o' the birk. 20 It neither grew in syke nor ditch, Nor yet in ony sheuch; But at the gates o' Paradise That birk grew fair eneuch. "Blow up the fire, now, maidens mine, 25 Bring water from the well; For a' my house shall feast this night, Since my twa sons are well. "O eat and drink, my merry-men a', The better shall ye fare; 30 For my two sons they are come hame To me for evermair." And she has gane and made their bed, She's made it saft and fine; And she's happit them wi' her gay mantil, 35 Because they were her ain. But the young cock crew in the merry Linkum, And the wild fowl chirped for day; And the aulder to the younger said, "Brother, we maun away. 40 "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin worm doth chide; Gin we be missed out o' our place, A sair pain we maun bide." "Lie still, lie still a little wee while, 45 Lie still but if we may; Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes, She'll gae mad ere it be day." * * * * * O it's they've taen up their mother's mantil, And they've hung it on a pin: 50 "O lang may ye hing, my mother's mantil, Ere ye hap us again." CHILDE VYET. First printed in a complete form in Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, p. 24. The same editor contributed a slightly different copy to Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, (p. 173.) An inferior version is furnished by Buchan, i. 234, and Jamieson has published a fragment on the same story, here given in the Appendix. Lord Ingram and Childe Vyet, Were both born in ane bower, Had both their loves on one Lady, The less was their honour.[L4] Childe Vyet and Lord Ingram, 5 Were both born in one hall, Had both their loves on one Lady The worse did them befall. Lord Ingram woo'd the Lady Maiserey, From father and from mother; 10 Lord Ingram woo'd the Lady Maiserey, From sister and from brother. Lord Ingram wooed the Lady Maiserey, With leave of all her kin; And every one gave full consent, 15 But she said no, to him. Lord Ingram wooed the Lady Maiserey, Into her father's ha'; Childe Vyet wooed the Lady Maiserey, Among the sheets so sma'. 20 Now it fell out upon a day, She was dressing her head, That ben did come her father dear, Wearing the gold so red. "Get up now, Lady Maiserey, 25 Put on your wedding gown, For Lord Ingram will be here, Your wedding must be done!" "I'd rather be Childe Vyet's wife, The white fish for to sell, 30 Before I were Lord Ingram's wife, To wear the silk so well! "I'd rather be Childe Vyet's wife, With him to beg my bread, Before I'd be Lord Ingram's wife, 35 To wear the gold so red. "Where will I get a bonny boy, Will win gold to his fee, Will run unto Childe Vyet's ha', With this letter from me?" 40 "O here, I am the boy," says one, "Will win gold to my fee, And carry away any letter, To Childe Vyet from thee." And when he found the bridges broke, 45 He bent his bow and swam; And when he found the grass growing, He hasten'd and he ran. And when he came to Vyet's castle, He did not knock nor call, 50 But set his bent bow to his breast, And lightly leaped the wall; And ere the porter open'd the gate, The boy was in the hall. The first line that Childe Vyet read, 55 A grieved man was he; The next line that he looked on, A tear blinded his e'e. "What ails my own brother," he says, "He'll not let my love be; 60 But I'll send to my brother's bridal; The woman shall be free. "Take four and twenty bucks and ewes, And ten tun of the wine, And bid my love be blythe and glad, 65 And I will follow syne." There was not a groom about that castle, But got a gown of green; And a' was blythe, and a' was glad, But Lady Maiserey was wi' wean.[L70] 70 There was no cook about the kitchen, But got a gown of gray; And a' was blythe, and a' was glad, But Lady Maiserey was wae. 'Tween Mary Kirk and that castle, 75 Was all spread o'er with garl,[L76] To keep the lady and her maidens, From tramping on the marl.[L78] From Mary Kirk to that castle, Was spread a cloth of gold, 80 To keep the lady and her maidens, From treading on the mould. When mass was sung, and bells were rung, And all men bound for bed, Then Lord Ingram and Lady Maiserey, 85 In one bed they were laid. When they were laid upon their bed, It was baith soft and warm, He laid his hand over her side, Says he, "you are with bairn." 90 "I told you once, so did I twice, When ye came as my wooer, That Childe Vyet, your one brother, One night lay in my bower. "I told you twice, so did I thrice, 95 Ere ye came me to wed, That Childe Vyet, your one brother, One night lay in my bed!" "O will you father your bairn on me, And on no other man? 100 And I'll gie him to his dowry, Full fifty ploughs of land." "I will not father my bairn on you, Nor on no wrongous man, Tho' you'd gie him to his dowry, 105 Five thousand ploughs of land." Then up did start him Childe Vyet, Shed by his yellow hair, And gave Lord Ingram to the heart, A deep wound and a sair. 110 Then up did start him Lord Ingram, Shed by his yellow hair, And gave Childe Vyet to the heart, A deep wound and a sair. There was no pity for the two lords, 115 Where they were lying slain, All was for Lady Maiserey: In that bower she gaed brain! There was no pity for the two lords, When they were lying dead, 120 All was for Lady Maiserey: In that bower she went mad! "O get to me a cloak of cloth, A staff of good hard tree; If I have been an evil woman, 125 I shall beg till I die. "For ae bit I'll beg for Childe Vyet, For Lord Ingram I'll beg three, All for the honourable marriage, that At Mary Kirk he gave me!" 130 4. The less was their bonheur. MOTHERWELL. 70, she was neen. Motherwell. 76, gold. 78, mould. N. C. G. LADY MAISRY. This ballad, said to be very popular in Scotland, was taken down from recitation by Jamieson, and is extracted from his collection, vol. i. p. 73. A different copy, from Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 234, is given in the Appendix. Another, styled _Young Prince James_, may be seen in Buchan's _Ballads_, vol. i. 103. _Bonnie Susie Cleland_, Motherwell, p. 221, is still another version. In _Lady Maisry_ we seem to have the English form of a tragic story which, starting from Denmark, has spread over almost all the north of Europe, that of _King Waldemar and his Sister_. Grundtvig's collection gives seven copies of the Danish ballad upon this subject (_Kong Valdemar og hans Söster_, No. 126), the oldest from a manuscript of the beginning of the 17th century. Five Icelandic versions are known, one Norse, one Faroish, five Swedish (four of them in Arwidsson, No. 53, _Liten Kerstin och Fru Sofia_), and several in German, as _Graf Hans von Holstein und seine Schwester Annchristine_, Erk, _Liederhort_, p. 155; _Der Grausame Bruder_, Erk, p. 153, and Hoffmann, _Schlesische Volkslieder_, No. 27; _Der Grobe Bruder_, _Wunderhorn_, ii. 272; _Der Pfalzgraf am Rhein_, _id._ i. 259, etc.; also a fragment in Wendish. The relationship of the English ballad to the rest of the cycle can perhaps be easiest shown by comparison with the simplified and corrupted German versions. The story appears to be founded on facts which occurred during the reign and in the family of the Danish king, Waldemar the First, sometime between 1157 and 1167. Waldemar is described as being, with all his greatness, of a relentless and cruel disposition (_in ira pertinax_; _in suos tantum plus justo crudelior_). Tradition, however, has imputed to him a brutal ferocity beyond belief. In the ballad before us, Lady Maisry suffers for her weakness by being burned at the stake, but in the Danish, Swedish, and German ballads, the king's sister is beaten to death with leathern whips, by her brother's own hand. "Er schlug sie so sehre, er schlug sie so lang, Bis Lung und Leber aus dem Leib ihr sprang!" The Icelandic and Faroe ballads have nothing of this horrible ferocity, but contain a story which is much nearer to probability, if not to historical truth. While King Waldemar is absent on an expedition against the Wends, his sister Kristín is drawn into a _liaison_ with her second-cousin, the result of which is the birth of two children. Sofía, the Queen, maliciously makes the state of things known to the king the moment he returns (which is on the very day of Kristín's lying in, according to the Danish ballad), but he will not believe the story,--all the more because the accused parties are within prohibited degrees of consanguinity. Kristín is summoned to come instantly to her brother, and obeys the message, though she is weak with childbirth, and knows that the journey will cost her her life. She goes to the court on horseback (in the Danish ballads falling from the saddle once or twice on the way), and on her arrival is put to various tests to ascertain her condition, concluding with a long dance with the king, to which, having held out for a considerable time, she at last succumbs, and falls dead in her brother's arms. The incidents of the journey on horseback, and the cruel probation by the dance, are found in the ballad which follows the present (_Fair Janet_), and these coincidences Grundtvig considers sufficient to establish its derivation from the Danish. The _general_ similarity of _Lady Maisry_ to _King Waldemar and his Sister_ is, however, much more striking. For our part, we are inclined to believe that _both_ the English ballads had this origin, but the difference in their actual form is so great, that, notwithstanding this conviction, we have not felt warranted in putting them together. The young lords o' the north country Have all a-wooing gane, To win the love of lady Maisry, But o' them she wou'd hae nane. O thae hae sought her, lady Maisry, 5 Wi' broaches, and wi' rings; And they hae courted her, lady Maisry, Wi' a' kin kind of things. And they hae sought her, lady Maisry, Frae father and frae mither; 10 And they hae sought her, lady Maisry, Frae sister and frae brither. And they hae follow'd her, lady Maisry, Thro' chamber, and through ha'; But a' that they could say to her, 15 Her answer still was "Na." "O haud your tongues, young men," she said, "And think nae mair on me; For I've gi'en my love to an English lord, Sae think nae mair on me." 20 Her father's kitchey-boy heard that, (An ill death mot he die!) And he is in to her brother, As fast as gang cou'd he. "O is my father and my mother weel, 25 But and my brothers three? Gin my sister lady Maisry be weel, There's naething can ail me." "Your father and your mother is weel, But and your brothers three; 30 Your sister, lady Maisry's, weel, Sae big wi' bairn is she." "A malison light on the tongue, Sic tidings tells to me!-- But gin it be a lie you tell, 35 You shall be hanged hie." He's doen him to his sister's bower, Wi' mickle dool and care; And there he saw her, lady Maisry, Kembing her yellow hair. 40 "O wha is aucht that bairn," he says,[L41] "That ye sae big are wi'? And gin ye winna own the truth, This moment ye sall die." She's turned her richt and round about, 45 And the kembe fell frae her han'; A trembling seized her fair bodie, And her rosy cheek grew wan. "O pardon me, my brother dear, And the truth I'll tell to thee; 50 My bairn it is to Lord William, And he is betrothed to me." "O cou'dna ye gotten dukes, or lords, Intill your ain countrie, That ye drew up wi' an English dog, 55 To bring this shame on me? "But ye maun gi'e up your English lord, Whan your young babe is born; For, gin ye keep by him an hour langer, Your life shall be forlorn." 60 "I will gi'e up this English lord, Till my young babe be born; But the never a day nor hour langer, Though my life should be forlorn." "O whare is a' my merry young men, 65 Wham I gi'e meat and fee, To pu' the bracken and the thorn, To burn this vile whore wi'?" "O whare will I get a bonny boy, To help me in my need, 70 To rin wi' haste to Lord William, And bid him come wi' speed?" O out it spak a bonny boy, Stood by her brother's side; "It's I wad rin your errand, lady, 75 O'er a' the warld wide. "Aft ha'e I run your errands, lady, When blawin baith wind and weet; But now I'll rin your errand, lady, With saut tears on my cheek." 80 O whan he came to broken briggs, He bent his bow and swam; And whan he came to the green grass growin', He slack'd his shoon and ran. And when he came to Lord William's yeats, 85 He badena to chap or ca'; But set his bent bow to his breast, And lightly lap the wa'; And, or the porter was at the yeat, The boy was in the ha'. 90 "O is my biggins broken, boy? Or is my towers won? Or is my lady lighter yet, O' a dear daughter or son?" "Your biggin isna broken, sir, 95 Nor is your towers won; But the fairest lady in a' the land This day for you maun burn." "O saddle to me the black, the black, Or saddle to me the brown; 100 Or saddle to me the swiftest steed That ever rade frae a town." Or he was near a mile awa', She heard his weir-horse sneeze; "Mend up the fire, my fause brother, 105 It's nae come to my knees." O whan he lighted at the yeat, She heard his bridle ring: "Mend up the fire, my fause brother; It's far yet frae my chin. 110 "Mend up the fire to me, brother, Mend up the fire to me; For I see him comin' hard and fast, Will soon men't up for thee. "O gin my hands had been loose, Willy, 115 Sae hard as they are boun', I wadd hae turn'd me frae the gleed, And casten out your young son." "O I'll gar burn for you, Maisry, Your father and your mother; 120 And I'll gar burn for you, Maisry, Your sister and your brother; "And I'll gar burn for you, Maisry, The chief o' a' your kin; And the last bonfire that I come to, 125 Mysell I will cast in." v. 41. See preface to _Clerk Saunders_, p. 319. FAIR JANET. From Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 1. "This ballad, the subject of which appears to have been very popular, is printed as it was sung by an old woman in Perthshire. The air is extremely beautiful." Herd gave an imperfect version of this ballad under the title of _Willie and Annet_, in his _Scottish Songs_, i. 219; repeated after him in Ritson's _Scottish Songs_, and in Johnson's _Museum_. Finlay's copy, improved, but made up of fragments, follows the present, and in the Appendix is _Sweet Willie and Fair Maisry_, from Buchan's collection. We have followed Motherwell by inserting (in brackets) three stanzas from _Willie and Annet_ and _Sweet Willie_, which contribute slightly to complete Sharpe's copy. None of these ballads is satisfactory, though Sharpe's is the best. Touching the relation of _Fair Janet_ to the Danish ballad of _King Waldemar and his Sister_, the reader will please look at the preface to the preceding ballad. "Ye maun gang to your father, Janet, Ye maun gang to him soon; Ye maun gang to your father, Janet, In case that his days are dune!" Janet's awa' to her father, 5 As fast as she could hie; "O what's your will wi' me, father? O what's your will wi' me?" "My will wi' you, Fair Janet," he said, "It is both bed and board; 10 Some say that ye lo'e Sweet Willie, But ye maun wed a French lord." "A French lord maun I wed, father? A French lord maun I wed? Then, by my sooth," quo' Fair Janet, 15 "He's ne'er enter my bed." Janet's awa' to her chamber, As fast as she could go; Wha's the first ane that tapped there, But Sweet Willie her jo! 20 "O we maun part this love, Willie, That has been lang between; There's a French lord coming o'er the sea To wed me wi' a ring; There 's a French lord coming o'er the sea, 25 To wed and tak me hame." "If we maun part this love, Janet, It causeth mickle woe; If we maun part this love, Janet, It makes me into mourning go." 30 "But ye maun gang to your three sisters, Meg, Marion, and Jean; Tell them to come to Fair Janet, In case that her days are dune." Willie's awa' to his three sisters, 35 Meg, Marion, and Jean; "O haste, and gang to Fair Janet, I fear that her days are dune." Some drew to them their silken hose, Some drew to them their shoon, 40 Some drew to them their silk manteils, Their coverings to put on; And they're awa' to Fair Janet, By the hie light o' the moon. * * * * * * * "O I have born this babe, Willie, 45 Wi' mickle toil and pain; Take hame, take hame, your babe, Willie, For nurse I dare be nane." He's tane his young son in his arms, And kist him cheek and chin,-- 50 And he's awa' to his mother's bower, By the hie light o' the moon. "O open, open, mother," he says, "O open, and let me in; The rain rains on my yellow hair, 55 And the dew drops o'er my chin,-- And I hae my young son in my arms, I fear that his days are dune." With her fingers lang and sma' She lifted up the pin; 60 And with her arms lang and sma' Received the baby in. "Gae back, gae back now, Sweet Willie, And comfort your fair lady; For where ye had but ae nourice, 65 Your young son shall hae three." Willie he was scarce awa', And the lady put to bed, When in and came her father dear: "Make haste, and busk the bride." 70 "There's a sair pain in my head, father, There's a sair pain in my side; And ill, O ill, am I, father, This day for to be a bride." "O ye maun busk this bonny bride, 75 And put a gay mantle on; For she shall wed this auld French lord, Gin she should die the morn." Some put on the gay green robes, And some put on the brown; 80 But Janet put on the scarlet robes, To shine foremost through the town. And some they mounted the black steed, And some mounted the brown; But Janet mounted the milk-white steed, 85 To ride foremost through the town. "O wha will guide your horse, Janet? O wha will guide him best?" "O wha but Willie, my true love, He kens I lo'e him best!" 90 And when they cam to Marie's kirk, To tye the haly ban, Fair Janet's cheek looked pale and wan, And her colour gaed and cam. When dinner it was past and done, 95 And dancing to begin, "O we'll go take the bride's maidens, And we'll go fill the ring." O ben than cam the auld French lord, Saying, "Bride, will ye dance with me?" "Awa', awa', ye auld French Lord, 100 Your face I downa see." O ben than cam now Sweet Willie, He cam with ane advance: "O I'll go tak the bride's maidens, 105 And we'll go tak a dance." "I've seen ither days wi' you, Willie, And so has mony mae; Ye would hae danced wi' me mysel', Let a' my maidens gae." 110 O ben than cam now Sweet Willie, Saying, "Bride, will ye dance wi' me?" "Aye, by my sooth, and that I will, Gin my back should break in three." [And she's ta'en Willie by the hand, 115 The tear blinded her e'e; "O I wad dance wi' my true love, Tho' bursts my heart in three!"] She hadna turned her throw the dance, Throw the dance but thrice, 120 Whan she fell doun at Willie's feet, And up did never rise! [She's ta'en her bracelet frae her arm, Her garter frae her knee: "Gie that, gie that, to my young son; 125 He'll ne'er his mother see."] Willie's ta'en the key of his coffer, And gi'en it to his man; "Gae hame, and tell my mother dear, My horse he has me slain; 130 Bid her be kind to my young son, For father he has nane." ["Gar deal, gar deal the bread," he cried, "Gar deal, gar deal the wine; This day has seen my true love's death, 135 This night shall witness mine."] The tane was buried in Marie's kirk, And the tither in Marie's quire: Out of the tane there grew a birk, And the tither a bonny brier. 140 SWEET WILLIE. "This ballad has had the misfortune, in common with many others, of being much mutilated by reciters. I have endeavoured, by the assistance of some fragments, to make it as complete as possible; and have even taken the liberty of altering the arrangement of some of the stanzas of a lately-procured copy, that they might the better cohere with those already printed." FINLAY'S _Scottish Ballads_, ii. 61. "Will you marry the southland lord, A queen o' fair England to be? Or will you mourn for sweet Willie, The morn upon yon lea?" "I will marry the southland lord, 5 Father, sen it is your will; But I'd rather it were my burial day, For my grave I'm going till. "O go, O go now my bower wife, O go now hastilie, 10 O go now to sweet Willie's bower, And bid him cum speak to me.-- "Now, Willie, gif ye love me weel, As sae it seems to me, Gar build, gar build a bonny ship, 15 Gar build it speedilie! "And we will sail the sea sae green Unto some far countrie; Or we'll sail to some bonny isle, Stands lanely midst the sea." 20 But lang or e'er the ship was built, Or deck'd or rigged out, Cam sic a pain in Annet's back, That down she cou'dna lout. "Now, Willie, gin ye love me weel, 25 As sae it seems to me, O haste, haste, bring me to my bower, And my bower maidens three." He's ta'en her in his arms twa, And kiss'd her cheek and chin, 30 He's brocht her to her ain sweet bower, But nae bower maid was in. "Now leave my bower, Willie," she said, "Now leave me to my lane; Was never man in a lady's bower 35 When she was travailing." He's stepped three steps down the stair, Upon the marble stane, Sae loud's he heard his young son greet, But and his lady mane. 40 "Now come, now come, Willie," she said, "Tak your young son frae me, And hie him to your mother's bower, With speed and privacie." And he is to his mother's bower, 45 As fast as he could rin; "Open, open, my mother dear, Open, and let me in; "For the rain rains on my yellow hair, The dew stands on my chin, 50 And I have something in my lap, And I wad fain be in." "O go, O go now, sweet Willie, And make your lady blithe, For wherever you had ae nourice, 55 Your young son shall hae five."-- Out spak Annet's mother dear, An' she spak a word o' pride; Says, "Whare is a' our bride's maidens, They're no busking the bride?" 60 "O haud your tongue, my mother dear, Your speaking let it be, For I'm sae fair and full o' flesh, Little busking will serve me." Out an' spak the bride's maidens, 65 They spak a word o' pride; Says, "Whare is a' the fine cleiding? Its we maun busk the bride." "Deal hooly wi' my head, maidens, Deal hooly wi' my hair, 70 For it was washen late yestreen, And it is wonder sair. "My maidens, easy wi' my back, And easy wi' my side; O set my saddle saft, Willie, 75 I am a tender bride." O up then spak the southland lord, And blinkit wi' his ee; "I trow this lady's born a bairn," Then laucht loud lauchters three. 80 "Ye hae gi'en me the gowk, Annet, But I'll gie you the scorn; For there's no a bell in a' the town Shall ring for you the morn." Out and spak then sweet Willie, 85 "Sae loud's I hear you lie, There's no a bell in a' the town But shall ring for Annet and me." And Willie swore a great great oath, And he swore by the thorn, 90 That she was as free o' a child that night, As the night that she was born. O up an' spak the brisk bridegroom,[L93] And he spak up wi' pride, "Gin I should lay my gloves in pawn, 95 I will dance wi' the bride." "Now haud your tongue, my lord," she said,[L97] "Wi' dancing let me be, I am sae thin in flesh and blude, Sma' dancing will serve me." 100 But she's ta'en Willie by the hand, The tear blinded her ee; "But I wad dance wi' my true love, But bursts my heart in three." She's ta'en her bracelet frae her arm, 105 Her garter frae her knee, "Gie that, gie that, to my young son; He'll ne'er his mother see." 93. _Sic_ Herd. Finlay, then sweet Willie. 97. _Sic_ Herd. Finlay, Willie, she said. FAIR ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN. Of this beautiful piece a complete copy was first published by Scott, another afterwards by Jamieson. Both are here given, the latter, as in some respects preferable, having the precedence. The ballad is found almost entire in Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 206, a short fragment in Johnson's _Museum_, p. 5, and a more considerable one, called _Love Gregory_, in Buchan's collection, ii. 199. This last has been unnecessarily repeated in a very indifferent publication of the Percy Society, vol. xvii. Dr. Wolcot, Burns, and Jamieson have written songs on the story of Fair Annie, and Cunningham has modernized Sir Walter Scott's version, after his fashion, in the _Songs of Scotland_, i. 298. Of his text, Jamieson remarks, "it is given _verbatim_ from the large MS. collection, transmitted from Aberdeen, by my zealous and industrious friend, Professor Robert Scott of that university. I have every reason to believe, that no liberty whatever has been taken with the text, which is certainly more uniform than any copy heretofore published. It was first written down many years ago, with no view towards being committed to the press; and is now given from the copy then taken, with the addition only of stanzas twenty-two and twenty-three, which the editor has inserted from memory." _Popular Ballads_, i. 36. "Lochryan is a beautiful, though somewhat wild and secluded bay, which projects from the Irish Channel into Wigtonshire, having the little seaport of Stranraer situated at its bottom. Along its coast, which is in some places high and rocky, there are many ruins of such castles as that described in the ballad." CHAMBERS. "O wha will shoe my fair foot, And wha will glove my han'? And wha will lace my middle jimp Wi' a new-made London ban'? "Or wha will kemb my yellow hair 5 Wi' a new-made silver kemb? Or wha'll be father to my young bairn, Till love Gregor come hame?" "Your father'll shoe your fair foot, Your mother glove your han'; 10 Your sister lace your middle jimp Wi' a new-made London ban'; "Your brethren will kemb your yellow hair Wi' a new-made silver kemb; And the king o' Heaven will father your bairn, 15 Till love Gregor come hame." "O gin I had a bonny ship, And men to sail wi' me, It's I wad gang to my true love, Sin he winna come to me!" 20 Her father's gien her a bonny ship, And sent her to the stran'; She's taen her young son in her arms, And turn'd her back to the lan'. She hadna been o' the sea sailin' 25 About a month or more, Till landed has she her bonny ship Near her true-love's door. The nicht was dark, and the wind blew cald, And her love was fast asleep, 30 And the bairn that was in her twa arms Fu' sair began to greet. Lang stood she at her true love's door, And lang tirl'd at the pin; At length up gat his fause mother, 35 Says, "Wha's that wad be in?" "O it is Annie of Lochroyan, Your love, come o'er the sea, But and your young son in her arms; So open the door to me." 40 "Awa, awa, ye ill woman, You're nae come here for gude; You're but a witch, or a vile warlock, Or mermaid o' the flude." "I'm nae a witch or vile warlock, 45 Or mermaiden," said she;-- "I'm but your Annie of Lochroyan;-- O open the door to me!" "O gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan, As I trust not ye be, 50 What taiken can ye gie that e'er I kept your companie?" "O dinna ye mind, love Gregor," she says, "Whan we sat at the wine, How we changed the napkins frae our necks? 55 It's nae sae lang sinsyne. "And yours was gude, and gude enough, But nae sae gude as mine; For yours was o' the cambrick clear, But mine o' the silk sae fine. 60 "And dinna ye mind, love Gregor," she says, "As we twa sat at dine, How we chang'd the rings frae our fingers, And I can shew thee thine: "And yours was gude, and gude enough, 65 Yet nae sae gude as mine; For yours was o' the gude red gold, But mine o' the diamonds fine. "Sae open the door, now, love Gregor, And open it wi' speed; 70 Or your young son, that is in my arms, For cald will soon be dead." "Awa, awa, ye ill woman, Gae frae my door for shame; For I hae gotten anither fair love, 75 Sae ye may hie you hame." "O hae ye gotten anither fair love, For a' the oaths ye sware? Then fare ye weel, now, fause Gregor; For me ye's never see mair!" 80 O hooly, hooly gaed she back, As the day began to peep; She set her foot on good ship board, And sair, sair did she weep. "Tak down, tak down the mast o' goud; 85 Set up the mast o' tree; Ill sets it a forsaken lady To sail sae gallantlie. "Tak down, tak down the sails o' silk; Set up the sails o' skin; 90 Ill sets the outside to be gay, Whan there's sic grief within!" Love Gregor started frae his sleep, And to his mother did say, "I dreamt a dream this night, mither, 95 That maks my heart richt wae; "I dreamt that Annie of Lochroyan, The flower o' a' her kin, Was standin' mournin' at my door, But nane wad lat her in." 100 "O there was a woman stood at the door, Wi' a bairn intill her arms; But I wadna let her within the bower, For fear she had done you harm." O quickly, quickly raise he up, 105 And fast ran to the strand; And there he saw her, fair Annie, Was sailing frae the land. And "heigh, Annie!" and "how, Annie! O, Annie, winna ye bide?" 110 But ay the louder that he cried "Annie," The higher rair'd the tide. And "heigh, Annie!" and "how, Annie! O, Annie, speak to me!" But ay the louder that he cried "Annie," 115 The louder rair'd the sea. The wind grew loud, and the sea grew rough, And the ship was rent in twain; And soon he saw her, fair Annie, Come floating o'er the main. 120 He saw his young son in her arms, Baith toss'd aboon the tide; He wrang his hands, and fast he ran, And plunged in the sea sae wide. He catch'd her by the yellow hair, 125 And drew her to the strand; But cald and stiff was every limb, Before he reach'd the land. O first he kist her cherry cheek, And syne he kist her chin; 130 And sair he kist her ruby lips, But there was nae breath within. O he has mourn'd o'er fair Annie, Till the sun was ganging down; Syne wi' a sich his heart it brast, 135 And his saul to heaven has flown. THE LASS OF LOCHROYAN. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 199. "This edition of the ballad is composed of verses selected from three MS. copies, and two obtained from recitation. Two of the copies are in Herd's MS.; the third in that of Mrs. Brown of Falkland." Lord Gregory is represented in Scott's version, "as confined by fairy charms in an enchanted castle situated in the sea." But Jamieson assures us that when a boy he had frequently heard this ballad chanted in Morayshire, and no mention was ever made of enchantment, or "fairy charms." "Indeed," he very justly adds, "the two stanzas on that subject [v. 41-52,] are in a style of composition very peculiar, and different from the rest of the piece, and strongly remind us of the interpolations in the ballad of _Gil Morris_." "O wha will shoe my bonny foot? And wha will glove my hand? And wha will lace my middle jimp Wi' a lang, lang linen band? "O wha will kame my yellow hair, 5 With a new-made silver kame? And wha will father my young son, Till Lord Gregory come hame?"-- "Thy father will shoe thy bonny foot, Thy mother will glove thy hand, 10 Thy sister will lace thy middle jimp, Till Lord Gregory come to land. "Thy brother will kame thy yellow hair With a new-made silver kame, And God will be thy bairn's father 15 Till Lord Gregory come hame."-- "But I will get a bonny boat, And I will sail the sea; And I will gang to Lord Gregory, Since he canna come hame to me." 20 Syne she's gar'd build a bonny boat, To sail the salt, salt sea; The sails were o' the light green silk, The tows o' taffety. She hadna sailed but twenty leagues, 25 But twenty leagues and three, When she met wi' a rank robber, And a' his company. "Now whether are ye the queen hersell, (For so ye weel might be,) 30 Or are ye the Lass of Lochroyan, Seekin' Lord Gregory?"-- "O I am neither the queen," she said, "Nor sic I seem to be; But I am the Lass of Lochroyan, 35 Seekin' Lord Gregory."-- "O see na thou yon bonny bower, It's a' cover'd o'er wi' tin? When thou hast sail'd it round about, Lord Gregory is within." 40 And when she saw the stately tower Shining sae clear and bright, Whilk stood aboon the jawing wave, Built on a rock of height; Says--"Row the boat, my mariners, 45 And bring me to the land! For yonder I see my love's castle Close by the salt-sea strand." She sail'd it round, and sail'd it round, And loud, loud cried she-- 50 "Now break, now break, ye fairy charms, And set my true love free!" She's ta'en her young son in her arms, And to the door she's gane; And long she knock'd, and sair she ca'd, 55 But answer got she nane. "O open the door, Lord Gregory! O open and let me in! For the wind blaws through my yellow hair, And the rain draps o'er my chin."-- 60 "Awa, awa, ye ill woman! Ye're no come here for good! Ye're but some witch or wil warlock, Or mermaid o' the flood."-- "I am neither witch, nor wil warlock, 65 Nor mermaid o' the sea; But I am Annie of Lochroyan; O open the door to me!"-- "Gin thou be Annie of Lochroyan, (As I trow thou binna she,) 70 Now tell me some o' the love tokens That past between thee and me."-- "O dinna ye mind, Lord Gregory, As we sat at the wine, We changed the rings frae our fingers? 75 And I can show thee thine. "O yours was gude, and gude enough, But aye the best was mine; For yours was o' the gude red gowd, But mine o' the diamond fine. 80 "And has na thou mind, Lord Gregory, As we sat on the hill, Thou twin'd me o' my maidenheid Right sair against my will? "Now open the door, Lord Gregory! 85 Open the door, I pray! For thy young son is in my arms, And will be dead ere day."-- "If thou be the lass of Lochroyan, (As I kenna thou be,) 90 Tell me some mair o' the love tokens Past between me and thee." Fair Annie turn'd her round about-- "Weel! since that it be sae, May never a woman that has borne a son, 95 Hae a heart sae fou o' wae! "Take down, take down, that mast o' gowd! Set up a mast o' tree! It disna become a forsaken lady To sail sae royallie." 100 When the cock had crawn, and the day did dawn, And the sun began to peep, Then up and raise him Lord Gregory, And sair, sair did he weep. "Oh I hae dream'd a dream, mother, 105 I wish it may prove true! That the bonny Lass of Lochroyan Was at the yate e'en now. "O I hae dream'd a dream, mother, The thought o't gars me greet! 110 That fair Annie o' Lochroyan Lay cauld dead at my feet."-- "Gin it be for Annie of Lochroyan That ye make a' this din, She stood a' last night at your door, 115 But I true she wan na in."-- "O wae betide ye, ill woman! An ill deid may ye die! That wadna open the door to her, Nor yet wad waken me." 120 O he's gane down to yon shore side As fast as he could fare; He saw fair Annie in the boat, But the wind it toss'd her sair. "And hey, Annie, and how, Annie! 125 O Annie, winna ye bide!" But aye the mair he cried Annie, The braider grew the tide. "And hey, Annie, and how, Annie! Dear Annie, speak to me!" 130 But aye the louder he cried Annie, The louder roar'd the sea. The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough, And dash'd the boat on shore; Fair Annie floated through the faem, 135 But the babie rose no more. Lord Gregory tore his yellow hair, And made a heavy moan; Fair Annie's corpse lay at his feet, Her bonny young son was gone. 140 O cherry, cherry was her cheek, And gowden was her hair; But clay-cold were her rosy lips-- Nae spark o' life was there. And first he kiss'd her cherry cheek, 145 And syne he kiss'd her chin, And syne he kiss'd her rosy lips-- There was nae breath within. "O wae betide my cruel mother! An ill death may she die! 150 She turn'd my true love frae my door, Wha came sae far to me. "O wae betide my cruel mother! An ill death may she die! She turn'd fair Annie frae my door, 155 Wha died for love o' me." THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 3. This ballad, of which more than thirty versions have been published in the Northern languages, is preserved in English in several forms, all of them more or less unsatisfactory. Of these the present copy comes nearest to the pure original, as it is found in Danish. The next best is _The Brave Earl Brand and The King of England's Daughter_, recently printed for the first time in Bell's _Ballads of the Peasantry_, and given at the end of this volume. _Erlinton_ (vol. iii. 220) is much mutilated, and has a perverted conclusion, but retains a faint trace of one characteristic trait of the ancient ballad, which really constitutes the turning point of the story, but which all the others lack. (See _Erlinton_.) A fragment exists in the Percy MS., of which we can only say that if it much resembled Percy's _Child of Elle_ (which it cannot), it might without loss be left undisturbed forever. In the only remaining copy Robin Hood appears as the hero. (See vol. v. p. 334.) It is of slight value, but considerably less insipid than the _Child of Elle_. Motherwell (_Minstrelsy_, p. 180) has given a few variations to Scott's ballad, but they are of no importance.--Of the corresponding Danish ballad, _Ribolt og Guldborg_, Grundtvig has collected more than twenty versions, some of them ancient, many obtained from recitation, and eight of the kindred _Hildebrand og Hilde_. There have also been printed of the latter, three versions in Swedish, and of the former, three in Icelandic, two in Norse, and seven in Swedish. (_Danmarks Gamle Folkeviser_, ii. 308-403, 674-81.) Jamieson has translated an inferior copy of the Danish ballad in _Illustrations of North. Antiq._, p. 317. "The ballad of _The Douglas Tragedy_," says Scott, "is one of the few (?) to which popular tradition has ascribed complete locality. "The farm of Blackhouse, in Selkirkshire, is said to have been the scene of this melancholy event. There are the remains of a very ancient tower, adjacent to the farm-house, in a wild and solitary glen, upon a torrent named Douglas burn, which joins the Yarrow, after passing a craggy rock, called the Douglas craig.... From this ancient tower Lady Margaret is said to have been carried by her lover. Seven large stones, erected upon the neighboring heights of Blackhouse, are shown, as marking the spot where the seven brethren were slain; and the Douglas burn is averred to have been the stream at which the lovers stopped to drink: so minute is tradition in ascertaining the scene of a tragical tale, which, considering the rude state of former times, had probably foundation in some real event." Were it not for Scott's concluding remark, and the obstinate credulity of most of the English and Scotch editors, we should hardly think it necessary to say that the locality of some of the incidents in _Ribolt and Guldborg_, is equally well ascertained (Grundtvig, 342, 343). "Popular tales and anecdotes of every kind," as Jamieson well remarks, "soon obtain locality wherever they are told; and the intelligent and attentive traveller will not be surprised to find the same story which he had learnt when a child, with every appropriate circumstance of names, time, and place, in a Glen of Morven, Lochaber, or Rannoch, equally domesticated among the mountains of Norway, Caucasus, or Thibet." _Ill. North. Ant._ p. 317. "Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, "And put on your armour so bright; Let it never be said that a daughter of thine Was married to a lord under night. "Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, 5 And put on your armour so bright, And take better care of your youngest sister, For your eldest's awa' the last night."-- He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, 10 With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And lightly they rode away. Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, To see what he could see, And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold, 15 Come riding o'er the lee. "Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret," he said, "And hold my steed in your hand, Until that against your seven brethren bold, And your father, I make a stand."-- 20 She held his steed in her milk-white hand, And never shed one tear, Until that she saw her seven brethren fa', And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. "O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, 25 "For your strokes they are wondrous sair; True lovers I can get many a ane, But a father I can never get mair."-- O she's ta'en out her handkerchief, It was o' the holland sae fine, 30 And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, That were redder than the wine. "O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg'ret," he said, "O whether will ye gang or bide?"-- "I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, 35 "For you have left me no other guide."-- He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And slowly they baith rade away. 40 O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they came to yon wan water, And there they lighted down. They lighted down to tak a drink 45 Of the spring that ran sae clear; And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, And sair she 'gan to fear. "Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, "For I fear that you are slain!"-- 50 "'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, That shines in the water sae plain."-- O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they cam to his mother's ha' door, 55 And there they lighted down. "Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "Get up, and let me in!-- Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "For this night my fair lady I've win. 60 "O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, "O mak it braid and deep! And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back, And the sounder I will sleep."-- Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, 65 Lady Marg'ret lang ere day-- And all true lovers that go thegither, May they have mair luck than they! Lord William was buried in St. Marie's kirk,[L69] Lady Marg'ret in Marie's quire; 70 Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, And out o' the knight's a brier. And they twa met, and they twa plat, And fain they wad be near; And a' the warld might ken right weel, 75 They were twa lovers dear. But bye and rade the Black Douglas, And wow but he was rough! For he pull'd up the bonny brier, And flang't in St. Marie's Loch. 80 69-80. This miracle is frequently witnessed over the graves of faithful lovers.--King Mark, according to the German romance, planted a rose on Tristan's grave, and a vine on that of Isold. The roots struck down into the very hearts of the dead lovers, and the stems twined lovingly together. The French account is somewhat different. An eglantine sprung from the tomb of Tristan, and twisted itself round the monument of Isold. It was cut down three times, but grew up every morning fresher than before, so that it was allowed to stand. Other examples are, in this volume, _Fair Janet_, _Lord Thomas and Fair Annet_; in the third volume, _Prince Robert_, &c. The same phenomenon is exhibited in the Swedish ballads of _Hertig Fröjdenborg och Fröken Adelin_, _Lilla Rosa_, _Hilla Lilla_, _Hertig Nils_, (_Svenska Folk-Visor_, i. 95, 116, Arwidsson, ii. 8, 21, 24,) in the Danish ballad of _Herr Sallemand_, (_Danske Viser_, iii. 348,) in the Breton ballad of _Lord Nann and the Korrigan_, translated in Keightley's _Fairy Mythology_, p. 433, in a Servian tale cited by Talvi, _Versuch_, &c., p. 139, and in the Afghan poem of _Audam and Doorkhaunee_, described by Elphinstone, _Account of the Kingdom of Caubul_, i. 295,--which last reference we owe to Talvi.--In the case of the Danish ballad it is certain, and in some of the other cases probable, that the idea was derived from the romance of _Tristan_. LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ELLINOR. The four pieces which follow have all the same subject. _Lord Thomas and Fair Ellinor_, is given from the _Collection of Old Ballads_, 1723, vol. i. p. 249, where it is entitled, _A Tragical Ballad on the unfortunate Love of Lord Thomas and Fair Ellinor, together with the Downfal of the Brown Girl_. The text differs but slightly from that of Percy, (iii. 121,) and Ritson, _Ancient Songs_, ii. 89. Lord Thomas he was a bold forrester, And a chaser of the king's deer; Fair Ellinor was a fine woman, And Lord Thomas he loved her dear. "Come riddle my riddle, dear mother," he said, 5 "And riddle us both as one; Whether I shall marry with fair Ellinor, And let the brown girl alone?" "The brown girl she has got houses and land, And fair Ellinor she has got none; 10 Therefore I charge you on my blessing, Bring me the brown girl home." As it befell on a high holiday, As many more did beside, Lord Thomas he went to fair Ellinor, 15 That should have been his bride. But when he came to fair Ellinors bower, He knocked there at the ring; But who was so ready as fair Ellinor, For to let Lord Thomas in. 20 "What news, what news, Lord Thomas?" she said, "What news hast thou brought unto me?" "I am come to bid thee to my wedding, And that is bad news for thee." "O God forbid, Lord Thomas," she said, 25 "That such a thing should be done; I thought to have been thy bride my own self, And you to have been the bridegrom." "Come riddle my riddle, dear mother," she said, "And riddle it all in one; 30 Whether I shall go to Lord Thomas's wedding, Or whether I shall tarry at home?" "There are many that are your friends, daughter, And many that are your foe; Therefore I charge you on my blessing, 35 To Lord Thomas's wedding don't go." "There's many that are my friends, mother; And if a thousand more were my foe, Betide my life, betide my death, To Lord Thomas's wedding I'll go." 40 She cloathed herself in gallant attire, And her merry men all in green; And as they rid through every town, They took her to be some queen. But when she came to Lord Thomas's gate, She knocked there at the ring; 45 But who was so ready as Lord Thomas, To let fair Ellinor in. "Is this your bride?" fair Ellinor said; "Methinks she looks wonderful brown; 50 Thou might'st have had as fair a woman, As ever trod on the ground." "Despise her not, fair Ellin," he said, "Despise her not unto me; For better I love thy little finger, 55 Than all her whole body." This brown bride had a little penknife, That was both long and sharp, And betwixt the short ribs and the long, Prick'd fair Ellinor to the heart. 60 "O Christ now save thee," Lord Thomas he said, "Methinks thou look'st wondrous wan; Thou us'd to look with as fresh a colour, As ever the sun shin'd on." "O art thou blind, Lord Thomas?" she said, 65 "Or canst thou not very well see? O dost thou not see my own heart's blood Run trickling down my knee?" Lord Thomas he had a sword by his side; As he walk'd about the hall, 70 He cut off his bride's head from her shoulders, And threw it against the wall. He set the hilt against the ground, And the point against his heart; There never were three lovers met, 75 That sooner did depart. LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET. From Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 290, where it was "given, with some corrections, from a MS. copy transmitted from Scotland." There is a corresponding Swedish Ballad, _Herr Peder och Liten Kerstin_, in the _Svenska Folk-Visor_, i. 49. It is translated in _Literature and Romance of Northern Europe_, by William and Mary Howitt, i. 258. Lord Thomas and fair Annet Sate a' day on a hill; Whan night was cum, and sun was sett, They had not talkt their fill. Lord Thomas said a word in jest, 5 Fair Annet took it ill: "A' I will nevir wed a wife Against my ain friends will." "Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife, A wife wull neir wed yee:" 10 Sae he is hame to tell his mither, And knelt upon his knee. "O rede, O rede, mither," he says, "A gude rede gie to mee: O sall I tak the nut-browne bride, 15 And let faire Annet bee?" "The nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear, Fair Annet she has gat nane; And the little beauty fair Annet has, O it wull soon be gane." 20 And he has till his brother gane: "Now, brother, rede ye mee; A', sall I marrie the nut-browne bride, And let fair Annet bee?" "The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother, 25 The nut-browne bride has kye: I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride, And cast fair Annet bye." "Her oxen may dye i' the house, billie, And her kye into the byre, 30 And I sall hae nothing to mysell, Bot a fat fadge by the fyre." And he has till his sister gane: "Now sister, rede ye mee; O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride, 35 And set fair Annet free?" "Ise rede ye tak fair Annet, Thomas, And let the browne bride alane; Lest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace, What is this we brought hame!" 40 "No, I will tak my mithers counsel, And marrie me owt o' hand; And I will tak the nut-browne bride; Fair Annet may leive the land." Up then rose fair Annets father, 45 Twa hours or it wer day, And he is gane into the bower Wherein fair Annet lay. "Rise up, rise up, fair Annet," he says, "Put on your silken sheene; 50 Let us gae to St. Maries kirke, And see that rich weddeen." "My maides, gae to my dressing-roome, And dress to me my hair; Whair-eir yee laid a plait before, 55 See yee lay ten times mair. "My maids, gae to my dressing-room, And dress to me my smock; The one half is o' the holland fine, The other o' needle-work." 60 The horse fair Annet rade upon, He amblit like the wind; Wi' siller he was shod before, Wi' burning gowd behind. Four and twanty siller bells 65 Wer a' tyed till his mane, And yae tift o' the norland wind, They tinkled ane by ane. Four and twanty gay gude knichts Rade by fair Annets side, 70 And four and twanty fair ladies, As gin she had bin a bride. And whan she cam to Maries kirk, She sat on Maries stean: The cleading that fair Annet had on 75 It skinkled in their een. And whan she cam into the kirk, She shimmer'd like the sun; The belt that was about her waist, Was a' wi' pearles bedone. 80 She sat her by the nut-browne bride, And her een they wer sae clear, Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride, Whan fair Annet she drew near. He had a rose into his hand, 85 And he gave it kisses three, And reaching by the nut-browne bride, Laid it on fair Annets knee. Up than spak the nut-browne bride, She spak wi' meikle spite; 90 "And whair gat ye that rose-water, That does mak yee sae white?" "O I did get the rose-water Whair ye wull neir get nane, For I did get that very rose-water 95 Into my mithers wame." The bride she drew a long bodkin Frae out her gay head-gear, And strake fair Annet unto the heart, That word she nevir spak mair. 100 Lord Thomas he saw fair Annet wex pale, And marvelit what mote bee: But whan he saw her dear hearts blude, A' wood-wroth wexed hee. He drew his dagger, that was sae sharp, 105 That was sae sharp and meet, And drave into the nut-browne bride, That fell deid at his feit. "Now stay for me, dear Annet," he sed, "Now stay, my dear," he cry'd; 110 Then strake the dagger untill his heart, And fell deid by her side. Lord Thomas was buried without kirk-wa', Fair Annet within the quiere; And o' the tane thair grew a birk, 115 The other a bonny briere. And ay they grew, and ay they threw, As they wad faine be neare; And by this ye may ken right weil, They were twa luvers deare. 120 SWEET WILLIE AND FAIR ANNIE Is another version of the foregoing piece, furnished by Jamieson, _Popular Ballads_, i. 22. "The text of _Lord Thomas and Fair Annet_," remarks Jamieson, "seems to have been adjusted, previous to its leaving Scotland, by some one who was more of a scholar than the reciters of ballads generally are; and, in attempting to give it an antique cast, it has been deprived of somewhat of that easy facility which is the distinguished characteristic of the traditionary ballad narrative. With the text of the following ditty, no such experiment has been made. It is here given pure and entire, as it was taken down by the editor, from the recitation of a lady in Aberbrothick, (Mrs. W. Arrot.) As she had, when a child, learnt the ballad from an elderly maid-servant, and probably had not repeated it for a dozen years before I had the good fortune to be introduced to her, it may be depended upon, that every line was recited to me as nearly as possible in the exact form in which she learnt it." Mr. Chambers, in conformity with the plan of his work, presents us with an edition composed out of Percy's and Jamieson's, with some amended readings and additional verses from a manuscript copy, (_Scottish Ballads_, p. 269.) Sweet Willie and fair Annie Sat a' day on a hill; And though they had sitten seven year, They ne'er wad had their fill. Sweet Willie said a word in haste, 5 And Annie took it ill: "I winna wed a tocherless maid, Against my parent's will." "Ye're come o' the rich, Willie, And I'm come o' the poor; 10 I'm o'er laigh to be your bride, And I winna be your whore." O Annie she's gane till her bower, And Willie down the den; And he's come till his mither's bower, 15 By the lei light o' the moon. "O sleep ye, wake ye, mither?" he says, "Or are ye the bower within?" "I sleep richt aft, I wake richt aft;[L19] What want ye wi' me, son? 20 "Whare hae ye been a' night, Willie? O wow! ye've tarried lang!" "I have been courtin' fair Annie, And she is frae me gane. "There is twa maidens in a bower; 25 Which o' them sall I bring hame? The nut-brown maid has sheep and cows, And fair Annie has nane." "It's an ye wed the nut-brown maid, I'll heap gold wi' my hand; 30 But an ye wed her, fair Annie, I'll straik it wi' a wand. "The nut-brown maid has sheep and cows, And fair Annie has nane; And Willie, for my benison, 35 The nut-brown maid bring hame." "O I sall wed the nut-brown maid, And I sall bring her hame; But peace nor rest between us twa, Till death sinder's again. 40 "But, alas, alas!" says sweet Willie, "O fair is Annie's face!" "But what's the matter, my son Willie, She has nae ither grace." "Alas, alas!" says sweet Willie, 45 "But white is Annie's hand!" "But what's the matter, my son Willie, She hasna a fur o' land." "Sheep will die in cots, mither, And owsen die in byre; 50 And what's this warld's wealth to me, An I get na my heart's desire? "Whare will I get a bonny boy, That wad fain win hose and shoon, That will rin to fair Annie's bower, 55 Wi' the lei light o' the moon? "Ye'll tell her to come to Willie's weddin', The morn at twal at noon; Ye'll tell her to come to Willie's weddin', The heir o' Duplin town.[L60] 60 "She manna put on the black, the black, Nor yet the dowie brown; But the scarlet sae red, and the kerches sae white, And her bonny locks hangin' down." He is on to Annie's bower, 65 And tirled at the pin; And wha was sae ready as Annie hersel, To open and let him in. "Ye are bidden come to Willie's weddin', The morn at twal at noon; 70 Ye are bidden come to Willie's weddin', The heir of Duplin town. "Ye manna put on the black, the black, Nor yet the dowie brown; But the scarlet sae red, and the kerches sae white, 75 And your bonny locks hangin' down." "Its I will come to Willie's weddin', The morn at twal at noon; Its I will come to Willie's weddin', But I rather the mass had been mine. 80 "Maidens, to my bower come, And lay gold on my hair; And whare ye laid ae plait before, Ye'll now lay ten times mair. "Taylors, to my bower come, 85 And mak to me a weed; And smiths unto my stable come, And shoe to me a steed." At every tate o' Annie's horse' mane There hang a silver bell; 90 And there came a wind out frae the south, Which made them a' to knell. And whan she came to Mary-kirk, And sat down in the deas, The light, that came frae fair Annie, 95 Enlighten'd a' the place. But up and stands the nut-brown bride, Just at her father's knee; "O wha is this, my father dear, That blinks in Willie's e'e?" 100 "O this is Willie's first true love, Before he loved thee." "If that be Willie's first true love, He might ha'e latten me be; She has as much gold on ae finger, 105 As I'll wear till I die. "O whare got ye that water, Annie, That washes you sae white?" "I got it in my mither's wambe, Whare ye'll ne'er get the like. 110 "For ye've been wash'd in Dunny's well, And dried on Dunny's dyke; And a' the water in the sea Will never wash ye white." Willie's ta'en a rose out o' his hat, 115 Laid it in Annie's lap; "[The bonniest to the bonniest fa's,] Hae, wear it for my sake." "Tak up and wear your rose, Willie, And wear't wi' mickle care, 120 For the woman sall never bear a son, That will mak my heart sae sair." Whan night was come, and day was gane, And a' man boun to bed, Sweet Willie and the nut-brown bride 125 In their chamber were laid. They werena weel lyen down, And scarcely fa'n asleep, Whan up and stands she, fair Annie, Just up at Willie's feet. 130 "Weel brook ye o' your brown brown bride, Between ye and the wa'; And sae will I o' my winding sheet, That suits me best ava. "Weel brook ye o' your brown brown bride, 135 Between ye and the stock; And sae will I o' my black black kist, That has neither key nor lock." Sad Willie raise, put on his claise, Drew till him his hose and shoon, 140 And he is on to Annie's bower, By the lei light o' the moon. The firsten bower that he came till, There was right dowie wark; Her mither and her three sisters 145 Were makin' to Annie a sark. The nexten bower that he came till, There was right dowie cheir; Her father and her seven brethren Were makin' to Annie a bier. 150 The lasten bower, that he came till, [O heavy was his care! The waxen lights were burning bright,] And fair Annie streekit there. He's lifted up the coverlet, 155 [Where she, fair Annie, lay; Sweet was her smile, but wan her cheek; O wan, and cald as clay!] "It's I will kiss your bonny cheek, And I will kiss your chin; 160 And I will kiss your clay-cald lip; But I'll never kiss woman again. "The day ye deal at Annie's burial The bread but and the wine; Before the morn at twall o'clock, 165 They'll deal the same at mine." The tane was buried in Mary's kirk, The tither in Mary's quire; And out o' the tane there grew a birk, And out o' the tither a brier. 170 And ay they grew, and ay they drew, Untill they twa did meet; And every ane that past them by, Said, "Thae's been lovers sweet!" 19. That is, my slumbers are short, broken, and interrupted. J. 60. _Duplin town._ Duplin is the seat of the earl of Kinnoul, from which he derives his title of viscount. It is in the neighborhood of Perth. It is observable, that ballads are very frequently adapted to the meridian of the place where they are found. J. FAIR MARGARET AND SWEET WILLIAM. From Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 164. "This seems to be the old song quoted in Fletcher's _Knight of the Burning Pestle_, acts ii. and iii.; although the six lines there preserved are somewhat different from those in the ballad, as it stands at present. The reader will not wonder at this, when he is informed that this is only given from a modern printed copy picked up on a stall. Its full title is _Fair Margaret's misfortunes; or Sweet William's frightful dreams on his wedding night, with the sudden death and burial of those noble lovers_. "The lines preserved in the play are this distich: "You are no love for me, Margaret, I am no love for you." Act iii. 5. And the following stanza: "When it was grown to dark midnight, And all were fast asleep, In came Margarets grimly ghost, And stood at Williams feet. Act ii. 8. "These lines have acquired an importance by giving birth to one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or any other language: [Mallet's _Margaret's Ghost_.] "Since the first edition, some improvements have been inserted, which were communicated by a lady of the first distinction, as she had heard this song repeated in her infancy." The variations in Herd's copy, (i. 145,) and in Ritson's (_Ancient Songs_, ii. 92,) are unimportant. In the main the same is the widely known ballad, _Der Ritter und das Mägdlein_, Erk, p. 81, Hoffmann's _Schlesische Volkslieder_, p. 9; _Herr Malmstens Dröm, Svenska Folkvisor_, iii. 104; Arwidsson, ii. 21; _Volkslieder der Wenden_, by Haupt and Schmaler, i. 159-162 (Hoffmann); in Dutch, with a different close, Hoffmann's _Niederländische Volkslieder_, p. 61: also _Lord Lovel_, _post_, p. 162. As it fell out on a long summer's day, Two lovers they sat on a hill; They sat together that long summer's day, And could not talk their fill. "I see no harm by you, Margaret, 5 And you see none by mee; Before to-morrow at eight o' the clock A rich wedding you shall see." Fair Margaret sat in her bower-window, Combing her yellow hair; 10 There she spyed sweet William and his bride, As they were a riding near. Then down she layd her ivory combe, And braided her hair in twain: She went alive out of her bower, 15 But ne'er came alive in't again. When day was gone, and night was come, And all men fast asleep, Then came the spirit of fair Marg'ret, And stood at Williams feet. 20 "Are you awake, sweet William?" shee said,[L21] "Or, sweet William, are you asleep? God give you joy of your gay bride-bed, And me of my winding-sheet." When day was come, and night 'twas gone, 25 And all men wak'd from sleep, Sweet William to his lady sayd, "My dear, I have cause to weep. "I dreamt a dream, my dear ladye, Such dreames are never good: 30 I dreamt my bower was full of red swine, And my bride-bed full of blood." "Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir, They never do prove good; To dream thy bower was full of red swine, 35 And thy bride-bed full of blood." He called up his merry men all, By one, by two, and by three; Saying, "I'll away to fair Marg'ret's bower, By the leave of my ladie." 40 And when he came to fair Marg'ret's bower, He knocked at the ring; And who so ready as her seven brethren, To let sweet William in. Then he turned up the covering-sheet; 45 "Pray let me see the dead; Methinks she looks all pale and wan, She hath lost her cherry red. "I'll do more for thee, Margaret, Than any of thy kin: 50 For I will kiss thy pale wan lips, Though a smile I cannot win." With that bespake the seven brethren, Making most piteous mone, "You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, 55 And let our sister alone." "If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, I do but what is right; I neer made a vow to yonder poor corpse, By day, nor yet by night. 60 "Deal on, deal on, my merry men all, Deal on your cake and your wine:[L62] For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine." Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day, 65 Sweet William dyed the morrow: Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love, Sweet William dyed for sorrow. Margaret was buryed in the lower chancel, And William in the higher: 70 Out of her brest there sprang a rose, And out of his a briar. They grew till they grew unto the church top, And then they could grow no higher; And there they tyed in a true lovers knot, 75 Which made all the people admire. Then came the clerk of the parish, As you the truth shall hear, And by misfortune cut them down, Or they had now been there. 80 21-24. God give you joy, you lovers true, In bride-bed fast asleep; Lo! I am going to my green-grass grave, And I'm in my winding sheet. HERD'S copy. 62. Alluding to the dole anciently given at funerals. P. SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST As already remarked, is often made the sequel to other ballads. (See _Clerk Saunders_, p. 45.) It was first printed in the fourth volume of Ramsay's _Tea Table Miscellany_, with some imperfections, and with two spurious stanzas for a conclusion. We subjoin to Ramsay's copy the admirable version obtained by Motherwell from recitation, and still another variation furnished by Kinloch. Closely similar in many respects are the Danish _Fæstemanden i Graven (Aage og Else)_, Grundtvig, No. 90, and the Swedish _Sorgens Magt_, _Svenska F. V._, i. 29, ii. 204, or Arwidsson, ii. 103. Also _Der Todte Freier_, Erk's _Liederhort_, 24, 24 a. In the Danish and Swedish ballads it is the uncontrolled grief of his mistress that calls the lover from his grave: in the English, the desire to be freed from his troth-plight.--See vol. i. p. 213, 217. There came a ghost to Margaret's door, With many a grievous groan, And ay he tirled at the pin, But answer made she none. "Is that my father Philip, 5 Or is't my brother John? Or is't my true love Willy, From Scotland new come home?" "Tis not thy father Philip, Nor yet thy brother John; 10 But 'tis thy true love Willy, From Scotland new come home. "O sweet Margaret! O dear Margaret! I pray thee speak to mee: Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, 15 As I gave it to thee." "Thy faith and troth thou's never get, Nor yet will I thee lend, Till that thou come within my bower, And kiss my cheek and chin." 20 "If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man: And should I kiss thy rosy lips, Thy days will not be lang. "O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret, 25 I pray thee speak to mee: Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, As I gave it to thee." "Thy faith and troth thou's never get, Nor yet will I thee lend, 30 Till you take me to yon kirk-yard, And wed me with a ring." "My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard, Afar beyond the sea, And it is but my spirit, Margaret, 35 That's now speaking to thee." She stretched out her lily-white hand, And for to do her best; "Hae there[L39] your faith and troth, Willy, God send your soul good rest." 40 Now she has kilted her robes of green A piece below her knee, And a' the live-lang winter night The dead corps followed she. "Is there any room at your head, Willy, 45 Or any room at your feet? Or any room at your side, Willy, Wherein that I may creep?" "There's no room at my head, Margaret, There's no room at my feet; 50 There's no room at my side, Margaret, My coffin's made so meet." Then up and crew the red red cock, And up then crew the gray: "Tis time, tis time, my dear Margaret, 55 That you were going away." No more the ghost to Margaret said, But, with a grievous groan, Evanish'd in a cloud of mist, And left her all alone. 60 "O stay, my only true love, stay," The constant Margaret cried: Wan grew her cheeks, she closed her een, Stretch'd her soft limbs, and died. 39. ther's. WILLIAM AND MARJORIE. Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 186. Lady Marjorie, Lady Marjorie, Sat sewing her silken seam, And by her came a pale, pale ghost, Wi' mony a sigh and mane. "Are ye my father the king?" she says, 5 "Or are ye my brither John? Or are ye my true love, sweet William, From England newly come?" "I'm not your father the king," he says, "No, no, nor your brither John; 10 But I'm your true love, sweet William, From England that's newly come." "Have ye brought me any scarlets sae red, Or any of the silks sae fine; Or have ye brought me any precious things, 15 That merchants have for sale?" "I have not brought you any scarlets sae red, No, no, nor the silks sae fine; But I have brought you my winding-sheet Ower many a rock and hill. 20 "Lady Marjorie, Lady Marjorie, For faith and charitie, Will ye gie to me my faith and troth, That I gave once to thee?" "O your faith and troth I'll not gie to thee, 25 No, no, that will not I, Until I get ae kiss of your ruby lips, And in my arms you lye." "My lips they are sae bitter," he says, "My breath it is sae strang, 30 If you get ae kiss of my ruby lips, Your days will not be lang. "The cocks are crawing, Marjorie," he says,-- "The cocks are crawing again; It's time the dead should part the quick,-- 35 Marjorie, I must be gane." She followed him high, she followed him low, Till she came to yon churchyard green; And there the deep grave opened up, And young William he lay down. 40 "What three things are these, sweet William," she says, "That stand here at your head?" "O it's three maidens, Marjorie," he says, "That I promised once to wed." "What three things are these, sweet William," she says, 45 "That stand close at your side?" "O it's three babes, Marjorie," he says, "That these three maidens had." "What three things are these, sweet William," she says, "That lye close at your feet?" 50 "O it's three hell-hounds, Marjorie," he says, "That's waiting my soul to keep." O she took up her white, white hand, And she struck him on the breast, Saying,--"Have there again your faith and troth, 55 And I wish your saul gude rest." SWEET WILLIAM AND MAY MARGARET. Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 241. As May Marg'ret sat in her bouerie, In her bouer all alone, At the very parting o' midnicht, She heard a mournfu' moan. "O is it my father, O is it my mother, 5 Or is it my brother John? Or is it sweet William, my ain true love, To Scotland new come home?" "It is na your father, it is na your mother, It is na your brother John; 10 But it is sweet William, your ain true love, To Scotland new come home."-- "Hae ye brought me onie fine things, Onie new thing for to wear? Or hae ye brought me a braid o' lace, 15 To snood up my gowden hair?" "I've brought ye na fine things at all, Nor onie new thing to wear, Nor hae I brought ye a braid of lace, To snood up your gowden hair. 20 "But Margaret, dear Margaret, I pray ye speak to me; O gie me back my faith and troth, As dear as I gied it thee!" "Your faith and troth ye sanna get, 25 Nor will I wi' ye twin, Till ye come within my bower, And kiss me, cheek and chin." "O Margaret, dear Margaret, I pray ye speak to me; 30 O gie me back my faith and troth, As dear as I gied it thee." "Your faith and troth ye sanna get, Nor will I wi' ye twin, Till ye tak me to yonder kirk, 35 And wed me wi' a ring." "O should I come within your bouer, I am na earthly man: If I should kiss your red, red lips, Your days wad na be lang. 40 "My banes are buried in yon kirk-yard, It's far ayont the sea; And it is my spirit, Margaret, That's speaking unto thee." "Your faith and troth ye sanna get, 45 Nor will I twin wi' thee, Tell ye tell me the pleasures o' Heaven, And pains of hell how they be." "The pleasures of heaven I wat not of, But the pains of hell I dree; 50 There some are hie hang'd for huring, And some for adulterie." Then Marg'ret took her milk-white hand, And smooth'd it on his breast;-- "Tak your faith and troth, William, 55 God send your soul good rest!" BONNY BARBARA ALLAN Was first published in Ramsay's _Tea-Table Miscellany_, (ii. 171,) from which it is transferred verbatim into Herd's _Scottish Songs_, Johnson's _Museum_, Ritson's _Scottish Songs_, &c. Percy printed it, "with a few conjectural emendations, from a written copy," _Reliques_, iii. 175, together with another version, which follows the present. Mr. G. F. Graham, _Songs of Scotland_, ii. 157, has pointed out an allusion to the "little Scotch Song of _Barbary Allen_," in Pepys's _Diary_, 2 Jan. 1665-6. It was in and about the Martinmas time, When the green leaves were a falling, That Sir John Graeme in the west country Fell in love with Barbara Allan. He sent his man down through the town, 5 To the place where she was dwelling; "O haste and come to my master dear, Gin ye be Barbara Allan." O hooly, hooly rose she up, To the place where he was lying, 10 And when she drew the curtain by, "Young man, I think you're dying." "O it's I'm sick, and very, very sick, And 'tis a' for Barbara Allan:" "O the better for me ye's never be, 15 Tho' your heart's blood were a spilling. "O dinna ye mind, young man," said she, "When ye was in the tavern a drinking, That ye made the healths gae round and round, And slighted Barbara Allan." 20 He turn'd his face unto the wall, And death was with him dealing; "Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, And be kind to Barbara Allan." And slowly, slowly raise she up, 25 And slowly, slowly left him; And sighing said, she cou'd not stay, Since death of life had reft him. She had not gane a mile but twa, When she heard the dead-bell ringing, 30 And every jow that the dead-bell geid, It cry'd "Woe to Barbara Allan!" "O mother, mother, make my bed, O make it saft and narrow; Since my love died for me today, 35 I'll die for him tomorrow." BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY. From Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 169. "Given, with some corrections, from an old blackletter copy, entitled, _Barbara Allen's Cruelty, or the Young Man's Tragedy_." In Scarlet towne, where I was borne, There was a faire maid dwellin, Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye! Her name was Barbara Allen. All in the merrye month of May, 5 When greene buds they were swellin, Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen. He sent his man unto her then, To the towne where shee was dwellin; 10 "You must come to my master deare, Giff your name be Barbara Allen. "For death is printed on his face, And ore his hart is stealin: Then haste away to comfort him, 15 O lovelye Barbara Allen." "Though death be printed on his face, And ore his harte is stealin, Yet little better shall he bee For bonny Barbara Allen." 20 So slowly, slowly, she came up, And slowly she came nye him; And all she sayd, when there she came, "Yong man, I think y'are dying." He turned his face unto her strait, 25 With deadlye sorrow sighing; "O lovely maid, come pity mee, I'me on my death-bed lying." "If on your death-bed you doe lye, What needs the tale you are tellin? 30 I cannot keep you from your death; Farewell," sayd Barbara Allen. He turnd his face unto the wall, As deadlye pangs he fell in: "Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all, 35 Adieu to Barbara Allen!" As she was walking ore the fields, She heard the bell a knellin; And every stroke did seem to saye, "Unworthy Barbara Allen!" 40 She turnd her bodye round about, And spied the corps a coming: "Laye down, laye down the corps," she sayd, "That I may look upon him." With scornful eye she looked downe, 45 Her cheeke with laughter swellin, Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine, "Unworthye Barbara Allen!" When he was dead, and laid in grave, Her harte was struck with sorrowe; 50 "O mother, mother, make my bed, For I shall dye to-morrowe. "Hard-harted creature him to slight, Who loved me so dearlye: O that I had beene more kind to him, 55 When he was alive and neare me!" She, on her death-bed as she laye, Beg'd to be buried by him, And sore repented of the daye, That she did ere denye him. 60 "Farewell," she sayd, "ye virgins all, And shun the fault I fell in: Henceforth take warning by the fall Of cruel Barbara Allen." LORD LOVEL. "This ballad, taken down from the recitation of a lady in Roxburghshire, appears to claim affinity to Border Song; and the title of the 'discourteous squire', would incline one to suppose that it has derived its origin from some circumstance connected with the county of Northumberland, where Lovel was anciently a well-known name." Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 31. A version from a recent broadside is printed in _Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England_, Percy Society, vol. xvii. p. 78. A fragment of a similar story, the relations of the parties being reversed, is _Lady Alice_, given in Bell's Ballads of the Peasantry, p. 127, and _Notes and Queries_, 2d S, i. 418.--Compare also _Fair Margaret_, &c. p. 140. Lord Lovel stands at his stable door, Mounted upon a grey steed; And bye came Ladie Nanciebel, And wish'd Lord Lovel much speed. "O whare are ye going, Lord Lovel, 5 My dearest tell to me?" "O I am going a far journey, Some strange countrie to see; "But I'll return in seven long years, Lady Nanciebel to see." 10 "O seven, seven, seven long years, They are much too long for me." * * * * * * * He was gane a year away, A year but barely ane, When a strange fancy cam into his head, 15 That fair Nanciebel was gane. It's then he rade, and better rade, Until he cam to the toun, And then he heard a dismal noise, For the church bells a' did soun'. 20 He asked what the bells rang for; They said, "It's for Nanciebel; She died for a discourteous squire, And his name is Lord Lovel." The lid o' the coffin he opened up, 25 The linens he faulded doun; And ae he kiss'd her pale, pale lips, And the tears cam trinkling doun. "Weill may I kiss those pale, pale lips, For they will never kiss me;-- 30 I'll mak a vow, and keep it true, That they'll ne'er kiss ane but thee." Lady Nancie died on Tuesday's nicht, Lord Lovel upon the niest day; Lady Nancie died for pure, pure love, 35 Lord Lovel, for deep sorray. LORD SALTON AND AUCHANACHIE. The following fragment was first published in Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, p. 10; shortly after, in Buchan's _Gleanings_, p. 161. A more complete copy, from Buchan's larger collection, is annexed. * * * * * * Ben came her father, Skipping on the floor, Said, "Jeanie, you're trying The tricks of a whore. "You're caring for him 5 That cares not for thee, And I pray you take Salton, Let Auchanachie be." "I will not have Salton, It lies low by the sea; 10 He is bowed in the back, He's thrawen in the knee; And I'll die if I get not My brave Auchanachie." "I am bowed in the back, 15 Lassie as ye see, But the bonny lands of Salton Are no crooked tee." And when she was married She would not lie down, 20 But they took out a knife, And cuttit her gown; Likewise of her stays The lacing in three, And now she lies dead 25 For her Auchanachie. Out comes her bower-woman, Wringing her hands, Says, "Alas for the staying So long on the sands! 30 "Alas for the staying So long on the flood! For Jeanie was married, And now she is dead." LORD SALTON AND AUCHANACHIE. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 133. "Auchanachie Gordon is bonny and braw, He would tempt any woman that ever he saw; He would tempt any woman, so has he tempted me, And I'll die if I getna my love Auchanachie." In came her father, tripping on the floor, 5 Says, "Jeanie, ye're trying the tricks o' a whore; Ye're caring for them that cares little for thee, Ye must marry Salton, leave Auchanachie. "Auchanachie Gordon, he is but a man, Altho' he be pretty, where lies his free land? 10 Salton's lands they lie broad, his towers they stand hie, Ye must marry Salton, leave Auchanachie. "Salton will gar you wear silk gowns fring'd to thy knee, But ye'll never wear that wi' your love Auchanachie." "Wi' Auchanachie Gordon I would beg my bread, 15 Before that wi' Salton I'd wear gowd on my head; "Wear gowd on my head, or gowns fring'd to the knee, And I'll die if I getna my love Auchanachie; O Salton's valley lies low by the sea, He's bowed on the back, and thrawin on the knee." 20 "O Salton's a valley lies low by the sea; Though he's bowed on the back, and thrawin on the knee, Though he's bowed on the back, and thrawin on the knee, The bonny rigs of Salton they're nae thrawin tee." "O you that are my parents to church may me bring, 25 But unto young Salton I'll never bear a son; For son, or for daughter, I'll ne'er bow my knee, And I'll die if I getna my love Auchanachie." When Jeanie was married, from church was brought hame, When she wi' her maidens sae merry shou'd hae been, 30 When she wi' her maidens sae merry shou'd hae been, She's called for a chamber to weep there her lane. "Come to your bed, Jeanie, my honey and my sweet, For to stile you mistress I do not think it meet." "Mistress, or Jeanie, it is a' ane to me, 35 It's in your bed, Salton, I never will be." Then out spake her father, he spake wi' renown, "Some of you that are maidens, ye'll loose aff her gown; Some of you that are maidens, ye'll loose aff her gown, And I'll mend the marriage wi' ten thousand crowns." 40 Then ane of her maidens they loosed aff her gown, But bonny Jeanie Gordon, she fell in a swoon; She fell in a swoon low down by their knee; Says, "Look on, I die for my love Auchanachie!" That very same day Miss Jeanie did die, 45 And hame came Auchanachie, hame frae the sea; Her father and mither welcom'd him at the gate; He said, "Where's Miss Jeanie, that she's nae here yet?" Then forth came her maidens, all wringing their hands, Saying, "Alas! for your staying sae lang frae the land: 50 Sae lang frae the land, and sae lang fra the fleed, They've wedded your Jeanie, and now she is dead!" "Some of you, her maidens, take me by the hand, And show me the chamber Miss Jeanie died in;" He kiss'd her cold lips, which were colder than stane, 55 And he died in the chamber that Jeanie died in. WILLIE AND MAY MARGARET. A fragment obtained by Jamieson from the recitation of Mrs. Brown, of Falkland. _Popular Ballads_, i. 135. In connection with this we give the complete story from Buchan. Aytoun has changed the title to _The Mother's Malison_. An Italian ballad, containing a story similar to that of this ballad and the two following (but of independent origin), is _La Maledizione Materna_, in Marcoaldi's _Canti Popolari_, p. 170. "Gie corn to my horse, mither; Gie meat unto my man; For I maun gang to Margaret's bower, Before the nicht comes on." "O stay at hame now, my son Willie! 5 The wind blaws cald and sour; The nicht will be baith mirk and late, Before ye reach her bower." "O tho' the nicht were ever sae dark, Or the wind blew never sae cald, 10 I will be in my Margaret's bower Before twa hours be tald." "O gin ye gang to May Margaret, Without the leave of me, Clyde's water's wide and deep enough;-- 15 My malison drown thee!" He mounted on his coal-black steed, And fast he rade awa'; But, ere he came to Clyde's water, Fu' loud the wind did blaw. 20 As he rode o'er yon hich, hich hill, And down yon dowie den, There was a roar in Clyde's water Wad fear'd a hunder men. His heart was warm, his pride was up; 25 Sweet Willie kentna fear; But yet his mither's malison Ay sounded in his ear. O he has swam through Clyde's water, Tho' it was wide and deep; 30 And he came to May Margaret's door, When a' were fast asleep. O he's gane round and round about, And tirled at the pin; But doors were steek'd, and window's bar'd, 35 And nane wad let him in. "O open the door to me, Margaret,-- O open and lat me in! For my boots are full o' Clyde's water, And frozen to the brim." 40 "I darena open the door to you, Nor darena lat you in; For my mither she is fast asleep, And I darena mak nae din." "O gin ye winna open the door, 45 Nor yet be kind to me, Now tell me o' some out-chamber, Where I this nicht may be." "Ye canna win in this nicht, Willie, Nor here ye canna be; 50 For I've nae chambers out nor in, Nae ane but barely three: "The tane o' them is fu' o' corn, The tither is fu' o' hay; The tither is fu' o' merry young men;-- 55 They winna remove till day." "O fare ye weel, then, May Margaret, Sin better manna be; I've win my mither's malison, Coming this nicht to thee." 60 He's mounted on his coal-black steed,-- O but his heart was wae! But, ere he came to Clyde's water, 'Twas half up o'er the brae. * * * * * * * ---- he plunged in, But never raise again. THE DROWNED LOVERS. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 140. The copy in the Appendix to Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. iii., is nearly the same. Willie stands in his stable door, And clapping at his steed; And looking o'er his white fingers, His nose began to bleed. "Gie corn to my horse, mother; 5 And meat to my young man; And I'll awa' to Meggie's bower, I'll win ere she lie down." "O bide this night wi' me, Willie, O bide this night wi' me; 10 The best an' cock o' a' the reest, At your supper shall be. "A' your cocks, and a' your reests, I value not a prin; For I'll awa' to Meggie's bower, 15 I'll win ere she lie down." "Stay this night wi' me, Willie, O stay this night wi' me; The best an' sheep in a' the flock At your supper shall be." 20 "A' your sheep, and a' your flocks, I value not a prin; For I'll awa' to Meggie's bower, I'll win ere she lie down." "O an' ye gang to Meggie's bower, 25 Sae sair against my will, The deepest pot in Clyde's water, My malison ye's feel." "The guid steed that I ride upon Cost me thrice thretty pound; 30 And I'll put trust in his swift feet, To hae me safe to land." As he rade ower yon high, high hill, And down yon dowie den, The noise that was in Clyde's water 35 Wou'd fear'd five huner men. "O roaring Clyde, ye roar ower loud, Your streams seem wond'rous strang; Make me your wreck as I come back,[L39] But spare me as I gang." 40 Then he is on to Meggie's bower, And tirled at the pin; "O sleep ye, wake ye, Meggie," he said, "Ye'll open, lat me come in." "O wha is this at my bower door, 45 That calls me by my name?" "It is your first love, sweet Willie, This night newly come hame." "I hae few lovers thereout, thereout, As few hae I therein; 50 The best an' love that ever I had, Was here just late yestreen." "The warstan stable in a' your stables, For my puir steed to stand; The warstan bower in a' your bowers, 55 For me to lie therein: My boots are fu' o' Clyde's water, I'm shivering at the chin." "My barns are fu' o' corn, Willie, My stables are fu' o' hay; 60 My bowers are fu' o' gentlemen;-- They'll nae remove till day." "O fare-ye-well, my fause Meggie, O farewell, and adieu; I've gotten my mither's malison, 65 This night coming to you." As he rode ower yon high, high hill, And down yon dowie den; The rushing that was in Clyde's water Took Willie's cane frae him. 70 He lean'd him ower his saddle bow, To catch his cane again; The rushing that was in Clyde's water Took Willie's hat frae him. He lean'd him ower his saddle bow, 75 To catch his hat thro' force; The rushing that was in Clyde's water Took Willie frae his horse. His brither stood upo' the bank, Says, "Fye, man, will ye drown? 80 Ye'll turn ye to your high horse head, And learn how to sowm." "How can I turn to my horse head, And learn how to sowm? I've gotten my mither's malison, 85 Its here that I maun drown!" The very hour this young man sank Into the pot sae deep, Up it waken'd his love, Meggie, Out o' her drowsy sleep. 90 "Come here, come here, my mither dear, And read this dreary dream; I dream'd my love was at our gates, And nane wad let him in." "Lye still, lye still now, my Meggie. 95 Lye still and tak your rest; Sin' your true love was at your yates, It's but twa quarters past." Nimbly, nimbly raise she up, And nimbly pat she on; 100 And the higher that the lady cried, The louder blew the win'. The first an' step that she stepp'd in, She stepped to the queet; "Ohon, alas!" said that lady, 105 "This water's wond'rous deep." The next an' step that she wade in, She wadit to the knee; Says she, "I cou'd wide farther in, If I my love cou'd see." 110 The next an' step that she wade in, She wadit to the chin; The deepest pot in Clyde's water She got sweet Willie in. "You've had a cruel mither, Willie, 115 And I have had anither; But we shall sleep in Clyde's water, Like sister an' like brither." 39, 40. Found also in _Leander on the Bay_, and taken from the epigram of Martial: "Clamabat tumidis audax Leander in undis, Mergite me fluctus, cum rediturus ero." WILLIE'S DROWNED IN GAMERY. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 245. A fragment, exhibiting some differences, is among those ballads of Buchan which are published in the Percy Society's volumes, xvii. 66. Four stanzas, of a superior cast, upon the same story, are printed in the _Tea-Table Miscellany_, (ii. 141.) _Rare Willy drown'd in Yarrow._ "Willy's rare, and Willy's fair, And Willy's wond'rous bonny; And Willy heght to marry me, Gin e'er he married ony. "Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, This night I'll make it narrow; For a' the livelang winter night I ly twin'd of my marrow. "O came you by yon water-side? Pou'd you the rose or lilly? Or came you by yon meadow green? Or saw you my sweet Willy?" She sought him east, she sought him west, She sought him braid and narrow; Syne in the cleaving of a craig, She found him drown'd in Yarrow. These stanzas furnished the theme to Logan's _Braes of Yarrow_. "O Willie is fair, and Willie is rare, And Willie is wond'rous bonny; And Willie says he'll marry me, Gin ever he marry ony." "O ye'se get James, or ye'se get George, 5 Or ye's get bonny Johnnie; Ye'se get the flower o' a' my sons, Gin ye'll forsake my Willie." "O what care I for James or George, Or yet for bonny Peter? 10 I dinna value their love a leek, An' I getna Willie the writer." "O Willie has a bonny hand, And dear but it is bonny;" "He has nae mair for a' his land; 15 What wou'd ye do wi' Willie?" "O Willie has a bonny face, And dear but it is bonny;" "But Willie has nae other grace; What wou'd ye do wi' Willie?" 20 "Willie's fair, and Willie's rare, And Willie's wond'rous bonny; There's nane wi' him that can compare, I love him best of ony." On Wednesday, that fatal day, 25 The people were convening; Besides all this, threescore and ten, To gang to the bridesteel wi' him. "Ride on, ride on, my merry men a', I've forgot something behind me; 30 I've forgot to get my mother's blessing, To gae to the bridesteel wi' me." "Your Peggy she's but bare fifteen, And ye are scarcely twenty; The water o' Gamery is wide and braid, 35 My heavy curse gang wi' thee!" Then they rode on, and further on, Till they came on to Gamery; The wind was loud, the stream was proud, And wi' the stream gaed Willie. 40 Then they rode on, and further on, Till they came to the kirk o' Gamery; And every one on high horse sat, But Willie's horse rade toomly. When they were settled at that place, 45 The people fell a mourning; And a council held amo' them a', But sair, sair wept Kinmundy. Then out it speaks the bride hersell, Says, "What means a' this mourning? 50 Where is the man amo' them a', That shou'd gie me fair wedding?" Then out it speaks his brother John, Says, "Meg, I'll tell you plainly; The stream was strong, the clerk rade wrong, 55 And Willie's drown'd in Gamery." She put her hand up to her head, Where were the ribbons many; She rave them a', let them down fa', And straightway ran to Gamery. 60 She sought it up, she sought it down, Till she was wet and weary; And in the middle part o' it, There she got her deary. Then she stroak'd back his yellow hair, 65 And kiss'd his mou' sae comely; "My mother's heart's be as wae as thine; We'se baith asleep in the water o' Gamery." ANNAN WATER. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 282. "The following verses are the original words of the tune of _Allan Water_, by which name the song is mentioned in Ramsay's _Tea-Table Miscellany_. The ballad is given from tradition; and it is said that a bridge over the Annan, was built in consequence of the melancholy catastrophe which it narrates. Two verses are added in this edition, from another copy of the ballad, in which the conclusion proves fortunate. By the _Gatehope-Slack_, is perhaps meant the _Gate-Slack_, a pass in Annandale. The Annan, and the Frith of Solway, into which it falls, are the frequent scenes of tragical accidents. The Editor trusts he will be pardoned for inserting the following awfully impressive account of such an event, contained in a letter from Dr. Currie, of Liverpool, by whose correspondence, while in the course of preparing these volumes for the press, he has been alike honoured and instructed. After stating that he had some recollection of the ballad which follows, the biographer of Burns proceeds thus:--'I once in my early days heard (for it was night, and I could not see) a traveller drowning; not in the Annan itself, but in the Frith of Solway, close by the mouth of that river. The influx of the tide had unhorsed him, in the night, as he was passing the sands from Cumberland. The west wind blew a tempest, and, according to the common expression, brought in the water _three foot a-breast_. The traveller got upon a standing net, a little way from the shore. There he lashed himself to the post, shouting for half an hour for assistance--till the tide rose over his head! In the darkness of the night, and amid the pauses of the hurricane, his voice, heard at intervals, was exquisitely mournful. No one could go to his assistance--no one knew where he was--the sound seemed to proceed from the spirit of the waters. But morning rose--the tide had ebbed--and the poor traveller was found lashed to the pole of the net, and bleaching in the wind.'" SCOTT. "Annan water's wading deep, And my love Annie's wondrous bonny; And I am laith she suld weet her feet, Because I love her best of ony. "Gar saddle me the bonny black, 5 Gar saddle sune, and make him ready; For I will down the Gatehope-Slack, And all to see my bonny ladye."-- He has loupen on the bonny black, He stirr'd him wi' the spur right sairly; 10 But, or he wan the Gatehope-Slack, I think the steed was wae and weary. He has loupen on the bonny grey, He rade the right gate and the ready; I trow he would neither stint nor stay, 15 For he was seeking his bonny ladye. O he has ridden o'er field and fell, Through muir and moss, and mony a mire: His spurs o' steel were sair to bide, And fra her fore-feet flew the fire. 20 "Now, bonny grey, now play your part! Gin ye be the steed that wins my deary, Wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye, And never spur sall make you wearie."-- The grey was a mare, and a right good mare; 25 But when she wan the Annan water, She couldna hae ridden a furlong mair, Had a thousand merks been wadded at her. "O boatman, boatman, put off your boat! Put off your boat for gowden money! 30 I cross the drumly stream the night, Or never mair I see my honey."-- "O I was sworn sae late yestreen, And not by ae aith, but by many; And for a' the gowd in fair Scotland, 35 I dare na take ye through to Annie." The side was stey, and the bottom deep, Frae bank to brae the water pouring; And the bonny grey mare did sweat for fear, For she heard the water-kelpy roaring. 40 O he has pou'd aff his dapperby coat, The silver buttons glanced bonny; The waistcoat bursted aff his breast, He was sae full of melancholy. He has ta'en the ford at that stream tail; 45 I wot he swam both strong and steady; But the stream was broad, and his strength did fail, And he never saw his bonny ladye! "O wae betide the frush saugh wand! And wae betide the bush of brier! 50 It brake into my true love's hand, When his strength did fail, and his limbs did tire. "And wae betide ye, Annan Water, This night that ye are a drumlie river! For over thee I'll build a bridge, 55 That ye never more true love may sever."-- ANDREW LAMMIE. "From a stall copy published at Glasgow several years ago, collated with a recited copy, which has furnished one or two verbal improvements." Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 239. Mr. Jamieson has published two other sets of this simple, but touching ditty, (i. 126, ii. 382,) one of which is placed after the present. Motherwell's text is almost verbatim that of Buchan's _Gleanings_, p. 98. The _Thistle of Scotland_ copies Buchan and Jamieson without acknowledgment. The story has been made the foundation of a rude drama in the North of Scotland. For a description of similar entertainments, see Cunningham's Introduction to his _Songs of Scotland_, i. 148. The unfortunate maiden's name, according to Buchan, (_Gleanings_, p. 197,) "was Annie, or Agnes, (which are synonymous in some parts of Scotland,) Smith, who died of a broken heart on the 9th of January, 1631, as is to be found on a roughly cut stone, broken in many pieces, in the green churchyard of Fyvie." "What afterwards became of Bonny Andrew Lammie," says Jamieson, "we have not been able to learn; but the current tradition of the 'Lawland leas of Fyvie', says, that some years subsequent to the melancholy fate of poor Tifty's Nanny, her sad story being mentioned, and the ballad sung in a company in Edinburgh when he was present, he remained silent and motionless, till he was discovered by a groan suddenly bursting from him, and _several of the buttons flying from his waistcoat_." At Mill o' Tifty liv'd a man, In the neighbourhood of Fyvie; He had a lovely daughter fair, Was called bonny Annie. Her bloom was like the springing flower 5 That salutes the rosy morning; With innocence and graceful mien Her beauteous form adorning. Lord Fyvie had a trumpeter Whose name was Andrew Lammie; 10 He had the art to gain the heart Of Mill o' Tiftie's Annie. Proper he was, both young and gay, His like was not in Fyvie; No one was there that could compare 15 With this same Andrew Lammie. Lord Fyvie he rode by the door, Where lived Tiftie's Annie; His trumpeter rode him before, Even this same Andrew Lammie. 20 Her mother call'd her to the door: "Come here to me, my Annie; Did you ever see a prettier man Than this Trumpeter of Fyvie?" She sighed sore, but said no more, 25 Alas, for bonny Annie! She durst not own her heart was won By the Trumpeter of Fyvie. At night when they went to their beds, All slept full sound but Annie; 30 Love so opprest her tender breast, Thinking on Andrew Lammie. "Love comes in at my bed side, And love lies down beyond me; Love has possess'd my tender breast, 35 And love will waste my body. "The first time I and my love met Was in the woods of Fyvie; His lovely form and speech so sweet Soon gain'd the heart of Annie. 40 "He called me mistress; I said, No, I'm Tiftie's bonny Annie; With apples sweet he did me treat, And kisses soft and many. "It's up and down in Tiftie's den, 45 Where the burn runs clear and bonny, I've often gone to meet my love, My bonny Andrew Lammie." But now, alas! her father heard That the Trumpeter of Fyvie 50 Had had the art to gain the heart Of Tiftie's bonny Annie. Her father soon a letter wrote, And sent it on to Fyvie, To tell his daughter was bewitch'd 55 By his servant Andrew Lammie. When Lord Fyvie had this letter read, O dear! but he was sorry; The bonniest lass in Fyvie's land Is bewitched by Andrew Lammie. 60 Then up the stair his trumpeter He called soon and shortly: "Pray tell me soon, what's this you've done To Tiftie's bonny Annie?" "In wicked art I had no part, 65 Nor therein am I canny; True love alone the heart has won Of Tiftie's bonny Annie. "Woe betide Mill o' Tiftie's pride, For it has ruin'd many; 70 He'll no ha'e 't said that she should wed The Trumpeter of Fyvie. "Where will I find a boy so kind, That'll carry a letter canny, Who will run on to Tiftie's town, 75 Give it to my love Annie?" "Here you shall find a boy so kind, Who'll carry a letter canny, Who will run on to Tiftie's town, And gi'e 't to thy love Annie." 80 "It's Tiftie he has daughters three, Who all are wondrous bonny; But ye'll ken her o'er a' the lave, Gi'e that to bonny Annie." "It's up and down in Tiftie's den, 85 Where the burn runs clear and bonny; There wilt thou come and meet thy love, Thy bonny Andrew Lammie. "When wilt thou come, and I'll attend? My love, I long to see thee." 90 "Thou may'st come to the bridge of Sleugh, And there I'll come and meet thee." "My love, I go to Edinbro', And for a while must leave thee;" She sighed sore, and said no more 95 But "I wish that I were wi' thee." "I'll buy to thee a bridal gown, My love, I'll buy it bonny;" "But I'll be dead, ere ye come back To see your bonnie Annie." 100 "If you'll be true and constant too, As my name's Andrew Lammie, I shall thee wed, when I come back To see the lands of Fyvie." "I will be true, and constant too, 105 To thee, my Andrew Lammie; But my bridal bed will ere then be made, In the green churchyard of Fyvie." "Our time is gone, and now comes on, My dear, that I must leave thee; 110 If longer here I should appear, Mill o' Tiftie he would see me." "I now for ever bid adieu To thee, my Andrew Lammie; Ere ye come back, I will be laid 115 In the green churchyard of Fyvie." He hied him to the head of the house, To the house top of Fyvie; He blew his trumpet loud and schill; 'Twas heard at Mill o' Tiftie. 120 Her father lock'd the door at night, Laid by the keys fu' canny; And when he heard the trumpet sound, Said, "Your cow is lowing, Annie." "My father dear, I pray forbear, 125 And reproach no more your Annie; For I'd rather hear that cow to low, Than ha'e a' the kine in Fyvie. "I would not, for my braw new gown, And a' your gifts sae many, 130 That it were told in Fyvie's land How cruel you are to Annie. "But if ye strike me, I will cry, And gentlemen will hear me; Lord Fyvie will be riding by, 135 And he'll come in and see me." At the same time, the Lord came in; He said, "What ails thee, Annie?" "'Tis all for love now I must die, For bonny Andrew Lammie." 140 "Pray, Mill o' Tifty, gi'e consent, And let your daughter marry." "It will be with some higher match Than the Trumpeter of Fyvie." "If she were come of as high a kind 145 As she's adorned with beauty, I would take her unto myself, And make her mine own lady." "It's Fyvie's lands are fair and wide, And they are rich and bonny; 150 I would not leave my own true love, For all the lands of Fyvie." Her father struck her wondrous sore, And also did her mother; Her sisters always did her scorn; 155 But woe be to her brother! Her brother struck her wondrous sore, With cruel strokes and many; He brake her back in the hall door, For liking Andrew Lammie. 160 "Alas! my father and mother dear, Why so cruel to your Annie? My heart was broken first by love, My brother has broken my body. "O mother dear, make ye my bed, 165 And lay my face to Fyvie; Thus will I ly, and thus will die, For my love, Andrew Lammie! "Ye neighbours, hear, both far and near; Ye pity Tiftie's Annie, 170 Who dies for love of one poor lad, For bonny Andrew Lammie. "No kind of vice e'er stain'd my life, Nor hurt my virgin honour; My youthful heart was won by love, 175 But death will me exoner." Her mother then she made her bed, And laid her face to Fyvie; Her tender heart it soon did break, And ne'er saw Andrew Lammie. 180 But the word soon went up and down, Through all the lands of Fyvie, That she was dead and buried, Even Tiftie's bonny Annie. Lord Fyvie he did wring his hands, 185 Said, "Alas, for Tiftie's Annie! The fairest flower's cut down by love, That e'er sprung up in Fyvie. "O woe betide Mill o' Tiftie's pride! He might have let them marry; 190 I should have giv'n them both to live Into the lands of Fyvie." Her father sorely now laments The loss of his dear Annie, And wishes he had gi'en consent 195 To wed with Andrew Lammie. Her mother grieves both air and late; Her sisters, 'cause they scorn'd her; Surely her brother doth mourn and grieve, For the cruel usage he'd giv'n her. 200 But now, alas! it was too late, For they could not recal her; Through life, unhappy is their fate, Because they did controul her. When Andrew hame from Edinburgh came, 205 With meikle grief and sorrow, "My love has died for me to-day, I'll die for her to-morrow. "Now I will on to Tiftie's den, Where the burn runs clear and bonny; 210 With tears I'll view the bridge of Sleugh,[L211] Where I parted last with Annie. "Then will I speed to the churchyard, To the green churchyard of Fyvie; With tears I'll water my love's grave, 215 Till I follow Tiftie's Annie." Ye parents grave, who children have, In crushing them be canny, Lest when too late you do repent; Remember Tiftie's Annie. 220 211. "In one printed copy this is 'Sheugh', and in a recited copy it was called 'Skew'; which is the right reading, the editor, from his ignorance of the topography of the lands of Fyvie, is unable to say. It is a received superstition in Scotland, that, when friends or lovers part at a bridge, they shall never again meet." MOTHERWELL. THE TRUMPETER OF FYVIE. "The ballad was taken down by Dr. Leyden from the recitation of a young lady (Miss Robson) of Edinburgh, who learned it in Teviotdale. It was current in the Border counties within these few years, as it still is in the northeast of Scotland, where the scene is laid." Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, i. 129. At Fyvie's yetts there grows a flower, It grows baith braid and bonny; There's a daisie in the midst o' it, And it's ca'd by Andrew Lammie. "O gin that flower war in my breast, 5 For the love I bear the laddie; I wad kiss it, and I wad clap it, And daut it for Andrew Lammie. "The first time me and my love met, Was in the woods of Fyvie; 10 He kissed my lips five thousand times, And ay he ca'd me bonny; And a' the answer he gat frae me, Was, My bonny Andrew Lammie!" "'Love, I maun gang to Edinburgh; 15 Love, I maun gang and leave thee;' I sighed right sair, and said nae mair, But, O gin I were wi' ye!" "But true and trusty will I be, As I am Andrew Lammie; 20 I'll never kiss a woman's mouth, Till I come back and see thee." "And true and trusty will I be, As I am Tiftie's Annie; I'll never kiss a man again, 25 Till ye come back and see me." Syne he's come back frae Edinburgh, To the bonny hows o' Fyvie; And ay his face to the nor-east, To look for Tiftie's Annie. 30 "I ha'e a love in Edinburgh, Sae ha'e I intill Leith, man; I hae a love intill Montrose, Sae ha'e I in Dalkeith, man. "And east and west, where'er I go, 35 My love she's always wi' me; For east and west, where'er I go, My love she dwells in Fyvie. "My love possesses a' my heart, Nae pen can e'er indite her; 40 She's ay sae stately as she goes, That I see nae mae like her. "But Tiftie winna gi'e consent His dochter me to marry, Because she has five thousand marks, 45 And I have not a penny. "Love pines away, love dwines away, Love, love, decays the body; For love o' thee, oh I must die; Adieu, my bonny Annie!" 50 Her mither raise out o' her bed, And ca'd on baith her women: "What ails ye, Annie, my dochter dear? O Annie, was ye dreamin'? "What dule disturb'd my dochter's sleep? 55 O tell to me, my Annie!" She sighed right sair, and said nae mair, But, "O for Andrew Lammie!" Her father beat her cruellie, Sae also did her mother; 60 Her sisters sair did scoff at her; But wae betide her brother! Her brother beat her cruellie, Till his straiks they werena canny; He brak her back, and he beat her sides, 65 For the sake o' Andrew Lammie. "O fie, O fie, my brother dear, The gentlemen 'll shame ye; The laird o' Fyvie he's gaun by, And he'll come in and see me. 70 And he'll kiss me, and he'll clap me, And he will speer what ails me; And I will answer him again, It's a' for Andrew Lammie." Her sisters they stood in the door, 75 Sair griev'd her wi' their folly; "O sister dear, come to the door, Your cow is lowin on you." "O fie, O fie, my sister dear, Grieve me not wi' your folly; 80 I'd rather hear the trumpet sound, Than a' the kye o' Fyvie. "Love pines away, love dwines away, Love, love decays the body; For love o' thee now I maun die-- 85 Adieu to Andrew Lammie!" But Tiftie's wrote a braid letter, And sent it into Fyvie, Saying, his daughter was bewitch'd By bonny Andrew Lammie. 90 "Now, Tiftie, ye maun gi'e consent, And lat the lassie marry." "I'll never, never gi'e consent To the Trumpeter of Fyvie." When Fyvie looked the letter on, 95 He was baith sad and sorry: Says--"The bonniest lass o' the country-side Has died for Andrew Lammie." O Andrew's gane to the house-top O' the bonny house o' Fyvie; 100 He's blawn his horn baith loud and shill O'er the lawland leas o' Fyvie. "Mony a time ha'e I walk'd a' night, And never yet was weary; But now I may walk wae my lane, 105 For I'll never see my deary. "Love pines away, love dwines away, Love, love, decays the body: For the love o' thee, now I maun die-- I come, my bonny Annie!" 110 FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNELL. "The following very popular ballad has been handed down by tradition in its present imperfect state. The affecting incident on which it is founded is well known. A lady, of the name of Helen Irving, or Bell, (for this is disputed by the two clans,) daughter of the Laird of Kirconnell, in Dumfries-shire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen in the neighbourhood. The name of the favoured suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick; that of the other has escaped tradition: though it has been alleged that he was a Bell, of Blacket House. The addresses of the latter were, however, favoured by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the churchyard of Kirconnell, a romantic spot, almost surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of these private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carabine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces. Other accounts say, that Fleming pursued his enemy to Spain, and slew him in the streets of Madrid. "The ballad, as now published, consists of two parts. The first seems to be an address, either by Fleming or his rival, to the lady; if, indeed, it constituted any portion of the original poem. For the Editor cannot help suspecting, that these verses have been the production of a different and inferior bard, and only adapted to the original measure and tune. But this suspicion being unwarranted by any copy he has been able to procure, he does not venture to do more than intimate his own opinion. The second part, by far the most beautiful, and which is unquestionably original, forms the lament of Fleming over the grave of fair Helen. "The ballad is here given, without alteration or improvement, from the most accurate copy which could be recovered. The fate of Helen has not, however, remained unsung by modern bards. A lament, of great poetical merit, by the learned historian, Mr. Pinkerton, with several other poems on this subject, have been printed in various forms.[B] "The grave of the lovers is yet shown in the churchyard of Kirconnell, near Springkell. Upon the tombstone can still be read--_Hic jacet Adamus Fleming_; a cross and sword are sculptured on the stone. The former is called by the country people, the gun with which Helen was murdered; and the latter the avenging sword of her lover. _Sit illis terra levis!_ A heap of stones is raised on the spot where the murder was committed; a token of abhorrence common to most nations." _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 98. [B] For Pinkerton's elegy, see his _Select Scottish Ballads_, i. 109; for Mayne's, the _Gentleman's Magazine_, vol. 86, Part ii. 64. Jamieson has enfeebled the story in _Popular Ballads_, i. 205, and Wordsworth's _Ellen Irwin_ hardly deserves more praise. ED. Versions of the Second Part, (which alone deserves notice,) nearly agreeing with Scott's, are given in the Illustrations to the new edition of Johnson's _Museum_, p. 143, by Mr. Stenhouse, p. 210, by Mr. Sharpe. Inferior and fragmentary ones in Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 257; Johnson's _Museum_, 163; Ritson's _Scottish Song_, i. 145; Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, i. 203. FAIR HELEN. PART FIRST. O! sweetest sweet, and fairest fair, Of birth and worth beyond compare, Thou art the causer of my care, Since first I loved thee. Yet God hath given to me a mind, 5 The which to thee shall prove as kind As any one that thou shalt find, Of high or low degree. The shallowest water makes maist din, The deadest pool the deepest linn; 10 The richest man least truth within, Though he preferred be. Yet, nevertheless, I am content, And never a whit my love repent, But think the time was a' weel spent, 15 Though I disdained be. O! Helen sweet, and maist complete, My captive spirit's at thy feet! Thinks thou still fit thus for to treat Thy captive cruelly? 20 O! Helen brave! but this I crave, Of thy poor slave some pity have, And do him save that's near his grave, And dies for love of thee. FAIR HELEN. PART SECOND. I wish I were where Helen lies, Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirconnell Lee! Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 5 And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me! O think na ye my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spak nae mair! 10 There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirconnell Lee. As I went down the water side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, 15 On fair Kirconnell Lee; I lighted down my sword to draw, I hacked him in pieces sma', I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me. 20 O Helen fair, beyond compare! I'll make a garland of thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I die. O that I were where Helen lies! 25 Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "Haste and come to me!"-- O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I were blest, 30 Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest, On fair Kirconnell Lee. I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, And I in Helen's arms lying, 35 On fair Kirconnell Lee. I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me. 40 THE LOWLANDS OF HOLLAND. Mr. Stenhouse was informed that this ballad was composed, about the beginning of the last century, by a young widow in Galloway, whose husband was drowned on a voyage to Holland. (_Musical Museum_, ed. 1853, iv. 115.) But some of the verses appear to be old, and one stanza will be remarked to be of common occurrence in ballad poetry. A fragment of this piece was published in Herd's collection, (ii. 49.) Our copy is from Johnson's _Museum_, p. 118, with the omission, however, of one spurious and absurd stanza, while another, not printed by Johnson, is supplied from the note above cited to the new edition. Cunningham makes sense of the interpolated verses and retains them; otherwise his version is nearly the same as the present. (_Songs of Scotland_, ii. 181.) "The love that I have chosen, I'll therewith be content, The saut sea shall be frozen Before that I repent; Repent it shall I never, 5 Until the day I die, But the lowlands of Holland Hae twinn'd my love and me. "My love lies in the saut sea, And I am on the side, 10 Enough to break a young thing's heart, Wha lately was a bride; Wha lately was a bonnie bride, And pleasure in her e'e, But the lowlands of Holland 15 Hae twinn'd my love and me. "My love he built a bonnie ship, And set her to the sea, Wi' seven score brave mariners To bear her companie; 20 Threescore gaed to the bottom, And threescore died at sea, And the lowlands of Holland Hae twinn'd my love and me. "My love has built another ship 25 And set her to the main; He had but twenty mariners, And all to bring her hame; The stormy winds did roar again, The raging waves did rout, 30 And my love and his bonnie ship Turn'd widdershins about. "There shall nae mantle cross my back,[L33] Nor kame gae in my hair, Neither shall coal nor candle light 35 Shine in my bower mair; Nor shall I chuse anither love, Until the day I die, Since the lowlands of Holland Hae twinn'd my love and me." 40 "O haud your tongue, my daughter dear, Be still, and be content; There are mair lads in Galloway, Ye need nae sair lament." "O there is nane in Galloway,[L45] 45 There's nane at a' for me; For I never loved a lad but ane, And he's drowned in the sea." 33-36, 45-48. With the conclusion of this piece may be compared a passage from _Bonny Bee-Ho'm_, vol. iii. p. 57. "Ohon, alas! what shall I do, Tormented night and day! I never loved a love but ane, And now he's gone away. "But I will do for my true love What ladies would think sair; For seven years shall come and gae, Ere a kaime gae in my hair. "There shall neither a shoe gae on my foot, Nor a kaime gae in my hair, Nor ever a coal or candle light Shine in my bower nae mair." See also _The Weary Coble o' Cargill_. BOOK III. THE TWA BROTHERS. From Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, i. 59. The ballad of the _Twa Brothers_, like many of the domestic tragedies with which it is grouped in this volume, is by no means the peculiar property of the island of Great Britain. It finds an exact counterpart in the Swedish ballad _Sven i Rosengård_, _Svenska F. V._, No. 67, Arwidsson, No. 87, A, B, which, together with a Finnish version of the same story, thought to be derived from the Swedish, will be found translated in our Appendix. _Edward_, in Percy's _Reliques_, has the same general theme, with the difference that a father is murdered instead of a brother. Motherwell[C] has printed a ballad (_Son Davie_) closely agreeing with _Edward_, except that the crime is again fratricide. He has also furnished another version of _The Twa Brothers_, in which the catastrophe is the consequence of an accident, and this circumstance has led the excellent editor to tax Jamieson with altering one of the most essential features of the ballad, by filling out a defective stanza with four lines that make one brother to have slain the other in a quarrel. Jamieson is, however, justified in giving this more melancholy character to the story, by the tenor of all the kindred pieces, and by the language of his own. It will be observed that both in _Edward_ and _Son Davie_, the wicked act was not only deliberate, but was even instigated by the mother. The departure from the original is undoubtedly on the part of Motherwell's copy, which has softened down a shocking incident to accommodate a modern and refined sentiment. But Jamieson is artistically, as well as critically right, since the effect of the contrast of the remorse of one party and the generosity of the other is heightened by representing the terrible event as the result of ungoverned passion. [C] The stanza mentioned by Motherwell, as occurring in Werner's _Twenty Fourth of February_, (Scene i.) is apparently only a quotation from memory of Herder's translation of _Edward_. When Motherwell became aware that a similar tradition was common to the Northern nations of Europe, he could no longer have thought it possible that an occurrence in the family history of the Somervilles gave rise to _The Twa Brothers_. The three Scottish ballads mentioned above, here follow, and Motherwell's _Twa Brothers_ will be found in the Appendix. Mr. Sharpe has inserted a third copy of this in his _Ballad Book_, p. 56. Another is said to be in _The Scot's Magazine_, for June, 1822. Placing no confidence in any of Allan Cunningham's _souvenirs_ of Scottish Song, we simply state that one of them, composed upon the theme of the _Twa Brothers_, is included in the _Songs of Scotland_, ii. 16. "The common title of this ballad is, _The Twa Brothers_, or, _The Wood o' Warslin_, but the words _o' Warslin_ appearing to the editor, as will be seen in the text, to be a mistake for _a-wrestling_, he took the liberty of altering it accordingly. After all, perhaps, the title may be right; and the wood may afterwards have obtained its denomination from the tragical event here celebrated. A very few lines inserted by the editor to fill up chasms, [some of which have been omitted,] are inclosed in brackets; the text, in other respects, is given genuine, as it was taken down from the recitation of Mrs. Arrott." JAMIESON. "O will ye gae to the school, brother? Or will ye gae to the ba'? Or will ye gae to the wood a-warslin, To see whilk o's maun fa'?" "It's I winna gae to the school, brother; 5 Nor will I gae to the ba'? But I will gae to the wood a-warslin; And it is you maun fa'." They warstled up, they warstled down, The lee-lang simmer's day; 10 [And nane was near to part the strife, That raise atween them tway, Till out and Willie's drawn his sword, And did his brother slay.] "O lift me up upon your back; 15 Tak me to yon wall fair; You'll wash my bluidy wounds o'er and o'er, And syne they'll bleed nae mair. "And ye'll tak aff my Hollin sark, And riv't frae gair to gair; 20 Ye'll stap it in my bluidy wounds, And syne they'll bleed nae mair." He's liftit his brother upon his back; Ta'en him to yon wall fair; He's washed his bluidy wounds o'er and o'er, 25 But ay they bled mair and mair. And he's ta'en aff his Hollin sark, And riven't frae gair to gair; He's stappit it in his bluidy wounds; But ay they bled mair and mair. 30 "Ye'll lift me up upon your back, Tak me to Kirkland fair;[L32] Ye'll mak my greaf baith braid and lang, And lay my body there. "Ye'll lay my arrows at my head, 35 My bent bow at my feet; My sword and buckler at my side, As I was wont to sleep. "Whan ye gae hame to your father, He'll speer for his son John:-- 40 Say, ye left him into Kirkland fair, Learning the school alone. "When ye gae hame to my sister, She'll speer for her brother John:-- Ye'll say, ye left him in Kirkland fair, 45 The green grass growin aboon. "Whan ye gae hame to my true love, She'll speer for her lord John:-- Ye'll say, ye left him in Kirkland fair, But hame ye fear he'll never come."-- 50 He's gane hame to his father; He speered for his son John: "It's I left him into Kirkland fair, Learning the school alone." And whan he gaed hame to his sister, 55 She speered for her brother John:-- "It's I left him into Kirkland fair, The green grass growin aboon." And whan he gaed hame to his true love, She speer'd for her lord John: 60 "It's I left him into Kirkland fair, And hame I fear he'll never come." "But whaten bluid's that on your sword, Willie? Sweet Willie, tell to me." "O it is the bluid o' my grey hounds; 65 They wadna rin for me." "It's nae the bluid o' your hounds, Willie; Their bluid was never so red; But it is the bluid o' my true love, That ye hae slain indeed." 70 That fair may wept, that fair may mourn'd, That fair may mourn'd and pin'd; "When every lady looks for her love, I ne'er need look for mine." "O whaten a death will ye die, Willie? 75 Now, Willie, tell to me." "Ye'll put me in a bottomless boat, And I'll gae sail the sea." "Whan will ye come hame again, Willie? Now, Willie, tell to me." 80 "Whan the sun and moon dances on the green, And that will never be." 32. "The house of Inchmurry, formerly called Kirkland, was built of old by the abbot of Holyrood-house, for his accommodation when he came to that country, and was formerly the minister's manse." _Stat. Ac. of Scotland_, vol. xiii. p. 506. J. EDWARD, EDWARD. "This curious Song was transmitted to the Editor by Sir David Dalrymple, Bart., late Lord Hailes." PERCY, _Reliques_, i. 61. "Quhy dois zour brand sae drop w' bluid, Edward, Edward? Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, And quhy sae sad gang zee O?" "O I hae killed my hauke sae guid, 5 Mither, mither: O I hae killed my hauke sae guid, And I had nae mair bot hee O." "Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, Edward, Edward: 10 Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, My deir son I tell thee O." "O I hae killed my reid-roan steid, Mither, mither: O I hae killed my reid-roan steid, 15 That erst was sae fair and free O." "Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, Edward, Edward: Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, Sum other dule ze drie O." 20 "O I hae killed my fadir deir, Mither, mither: O I hae killed my fadir deir, Alas! and wae is mee O!" "And quhatten penance wul ze drie, for that, 25 Edward, Edward? And quhatten penance will ze drie for that? My deir son, now tell me O." "Ile set my feit in zonder boat, Mither, mither: 30 Ile set my feit in zonder boat, And Ile fare ovir the sea O." "And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', Edward, Edward? And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', 35 That were sae fair to see O?" "Ile let thame stand til they doun fa', Mither, mither: Ile let thame stand til they doun fa', For here nevir mair maun I bee O." 40 "And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, Edward, Edward? And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, Quhan ze gang ovir the sea O?" "The warldis room, late them beg throw life, 45 Mither, mither: The warldis room, late them beg throw life, For thame nevir mair wul I see O." "And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir, Edward, Edward? 50 And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir? My deir son, now tell me O." "The curse of hell frae me sall ze beir, Mither, mither: The curse of hell frae me sall ze beir, 55 Sic counseils ze gave to me O." SON DAVIE, SON DAVIE. From the recitation of an old woman. Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, 339. "What bluid's that on thy coat lap? Son Davie! son Davie! What bluid's that on thy coat lap? And the truth come tell to me O." "It is the bluid of my great hawk, 5 Mother lady! mother lady! It is the bluid of my great hawk, And the truth I hae tald to thee O." "Hawk's bluid was ne'er sae red, Son Davie! son Davie! 10 Hawk's bluid was ne'er sae red, And the truth come tell to me O." "It is the bluid o' my grey hound, Mother lady! mother lady! It is the bluid of my grey hound, 15 And it wudna rin for me O." "Hound's bluid was ne'er sae red, Son Davie! son Davie! Hound's bluid was ne'er sae red, And the truth come tell to me O." 20 "It is the bluid o' my brother John, Mother lady! mother lady! It is the bluid o' my brother John, And the truth I hae tald to thee O." "What about did the plea begin? 25 Son Davie! son Davie!" "It began about the cutting o' a willow wand, That would never hae been a tree O." "What death dost thou desire to die? Son Davie! son Davie! 30 What death dost thou desire to die? And the truth come tell to me O." "I'll set my foot in a bottomless ship, Mother lady! mother lady! I'll set my foot in a bottomless ship, 35 And ye'll never see mair o' me O." "What wilt thou leave to thy poor wife? Son Davie! son Davie!" "Grief and sorrow all her life, And she'll never get mair frae me O." 40 "What wilt thou leave to thy auld son? Son Davie! son Davie!" "The weary warld to wander up and down, And he'll never get mair o' me O." "What wilt thou leave to thy mother dear? 45 Son Davie! son Davie!" "A fire o' coals to burn her wi' hearty cheer, And she'll never get mair o' me O." THE CRUEL SISTER. The earliest printed copy of this ballad is the curious piece in _Wit Restor'd_, (1658,) called _The Miller and the King's Daughter_, improperly said to be a parody, by Jamieson and others. (See Appendix.) Pinkerton inserted in his _Tragic Ballads_, (p. 72,) a ballad on the subject, which preserves many genuine lines, but is half his own composition. Complete versions were published by Scott and Jamieson, and more recently a third has been furnished in Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 30, and a fourth in Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_ (given at the end of this volume). The burden of Mr. Sharpe's copy is nearly the same as that of the _Cruel Mother_, _post_, p. 372. Jamieson's copy had also this burden, but he exchanged it for the more popular, and certainly more tasteful, _Binnorie_. No ballad furnishes a closer link than this between the popular poetry of England and that of the other nations of Northern Europe. The same story is found in Icelandic, Norse, Faroish, and Estnish ballads, as well as in the Swedish and Danish, and a nearly related one in many other ballads or tales, German, Polish, Lithuanian, etc., etc.--See _Svenska Folk-Visor_, iii. 16, i. 81, 86, Arwidsson, ii. 139, and especially _Den Talende Strengeleg_, Grundtvig, No. 95, and the notes to _Der Singende Knochen_, _K. u. H. Märchen_, iii. 55, ed. 1856. Of the edition in the _Border Minstrelsy_, Scott gives the following account, (iii. 287.) "It is compiled from a copy in Mrs. Brown's MSS., intermixed with a beautiful fragment, of fourteen verses, transmitted to the Editor by J. C. Walker, Esq. the ingenious historian of the Irish bards. Mr. Walker, at the same time, favored the Editor with the following note: 'I am indebted to my departed friend, Miss Brook, for the foregoing pathetic fragment. Her account of it was as follows: This song was trans-scribed, several years ago, from the memory of an old woman, who had no recollection of the concluding verses; probably the beginning may also be lost, as it seems to commence abruptly.' The first verse and burden of the fragment ran thus:-- 'O sister, sister, reach thy hand! _Hey ho, my Nanny, O_; And you shall be heir of all my land, _While the swan swims bonney, O_.'" There were two sisters sat in a bour; _Bínnorie, O Bínnorie_; There came a knight to be their wooer; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. He courted the eldest with glove and ring, 5 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; But he lo'ed the youngest abune a' thing; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. He courted the eldest with broach and knife, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; 10 But he lo'ed the youngest abune his life; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. The eldest she was vexed sair, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; And sore envied her sister fair; 15 _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. The eldest said to the youngest ane, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; "Will ye go and see our father's ships come in?" _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. 20 She's ta'en her by the lily hand, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; And led her down to the river strand; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. The youngest stude upon a stane, 25 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; The eldest came and pushed her in; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. She took her by the middle sma', _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; 30 And dash'd her bonny back to the jaw; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. "O sister, sister, reach your hand, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; And ye shall be heir of half my land."-- 35 _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. "O sister, I'll not reach my hand, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; And I'll be heir of all your land; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. 40 "Shame fa' the hand that I should take, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; It's twin'd me and my world's make."-- _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. "O sister, reach me but your glove, 45 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; And sweet William shall be your love."-- _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. "Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove! _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; 50 And sweet William shall better be my love, _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. "Your cherry cheeks and your yellow hair, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_, Garr'd me gang maiden evermair."-- 55 _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. Sometimes she sunk, and sometimes she swam, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; Until she cam to the miller's dam; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. 60 "O father, father, draw your dam! _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; There's either a mermaid, or a milk-white swan." _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. The miller hasted and drew his dam, 65 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; And there he found a drown'd woman; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. You could not see her yellow hair, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; 70 For gowd and pearls that were so rare; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. You could not see her middle sma', _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; Her gowden girdle was sae bra'; 75 _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. A famous harper passing by, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; The sweet pale face he chanced to spy; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. 80 And when he looked that lady on, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; He sigh'd and made a heavy moan; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. He made a harp of her breast-bone, 85 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; Whose sounds would melt a heart of stone; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. The strings he framed of her yellow hair, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; 90 Whose notes made sad the listening ear; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. He brought it to her father's hall, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; And there was the court assembled all; 95 _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. He laid his harp upon a stone, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; And straight it began to play alone; _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. 100 "O yonder sits my father, the king, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; And yonder sits my mother, the queen;" _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. "And yonder stands my brother Hugh, 105 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; And by him my William, sweet and true." _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. But the last tune that the harp play'd then, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; 110 Was--"Woe to my sister, false Helen!" _By the bonny milldams of Binnorie_. THE TWA SISTERS. _Verbatim_ (with one interpolated stanza) from the recitation of Mrs. Brown. Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, i. 50. There was twa sisters liv'd in a bower, _Bínnorie, O Bínnorie_! There came a knight to be their wooer, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. He courted the eldest wi' glove and ring, 5 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! But he loved the youngest aboon a' thing, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. He courted the eldest wi' broach and knife, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! 10 But he loved the youngest as his life, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. The eldest she was vexed sair, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! And sair envied her sister fair, 15 _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. Intill her bower she coudna rest, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! Wi' grief and spite she maistly brast, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. 20 Upon a morning fair and clear, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! She cried upon her sister dear, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. "O sister, come to yon sea strand, 25 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! And see our father's ships come to land," _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. She's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! 30 And led her down to yon sea strand, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. The youngest stood upon a stane, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! The eldest came and threw her in, 35 _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. She took her by the middle sma' _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! And dashed her bonny back to the jaw, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. 40 "O sister, sister, tak my hand, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! And I'se mak ye heir to a' my land, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. "O sister, sister, tak my middle, 45 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! And ye's get my goud and my gouden girdle, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. "O sister, sister, save my life, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! 50 And I swear I'se never be nae man's wife," _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. "Foul fa' the hand that I should tak, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! It twin'd me o' my warldes mak, 55 _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. "Your cherry cheeks and yellow hair _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! Gars me gang maiden for evermair," _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. 60 Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! Till she came to the mouth o' yon mill-dam, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. O out it came the miller's son, 65 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! And saw the fair maid soummin in, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. "O father, father, draw your dam, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! 70 There's either a mermaid or a swan," _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. [The miller quickly drew the dam, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! And there he found a drown'd woman, 75 _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_.] "And sair and lang mat their teen last, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! That wrought thee sic a dowie cast," _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_! 80 You coudna see her yellow hair _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! For goud and pearl that was sae rare, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. You coudna see her middle sma' 85 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! For gouden girdle that was sae braw, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. You coudna see her fingers white, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! 90 For gouden rings that were sae gryte, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. And by there came a harper fine, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! That harped to the king at dine, 95 _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. Whan he did look that lady upon, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! He sigh'd and made a heavy moan, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. 100 He's ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! And wi' them strung his harp sae fair, _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. The first tune it did play and sing, 105 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! Was, "Fareweel to my father the king," _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. The nexten tune that it play'd seen, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! 110 Was, "Fareweel to my mither the queen," _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_. The thirden tune that it play'd then, _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! Was, "Wae to my sister, fair Ellen," 115 _By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie_! LORD DONALD. Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 110. Like the two which preceded it, this ballad is common to the Gothic nations. It exists in a great variety of forms. Two stanzas, recovered by Burns, were printed in Johnson's _Museum_, i. 337; two others were inserted by Jamieson, in his _Illustrations_, p. 319. The _Border Minstrelsy_ furnished five stanzas, giving the _story_, without the bequests. Allan Cunningham's alteration of Scott's version, (_Scottish Songs_, i. 285,) has one stanza more. Kinloch procured from the North of Scotland the following complete copy. In the Appendix, we have placed a nursery song on the same subject, still familiar in Scotland, and translations of the corresponding German and Swedish ballads--both most remarkable cases of parallelism in popular romance. Lord Donald, as Kinloch remarks, would seem to have been poisoned by eating toads prepared as fishes. Scott, in his introduction to _Lord Randal_, has quoted from an old chronicle, a fabulous account of the poisoning of King John by means of a cup of ale, in which the venom of this reptile had been infused. "O whare hae ye been a' day, Lord Donald, my son? O whare hae ye been a' day, my jollie young man?" "I've been awa courtin':--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What wad ye hae for your supper, Lord Donald, my son? 5 What wad ye hae for your supper, my jollie young man?" "I've gotten my supper:--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What did ye get for your supper, Lord Donald, my son? What did ye get for your supper, my jollie young man?" 10 "A dish of sma' fishes:--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "Whare gat ye the fishes, Lord Donald, my son? Whare gat ye the fishes, my jollie young man?" "In my father's black ditches:--mither, mak my bed sune, 15 For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What like were your fishes, Lord Donald, my son? What like were your fishes, my jollie young man?" "Black backs and spreckl'd bellies:--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." 20 "O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Donald, my son! O I fear ye are poison'd, my jollie young man!" "O yes! I am poison'd:--mither mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What will ye leave to your father, Lord Donald my son? 25 What will ye leave to your father, my jollie young man?" "Baith my houses and land:--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What will ye leave to your brither, Lord Donald, my son? What will ye leave to your brither, my jollie young man?" 30 "My horse and the saddle:--mither, mak my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What will ye leave to your sister, Lord Donald, my son? What will ye leave to your sister, my jollie young man?" "Baith my gold box and rings:--mither, mak my bed sune, 35 For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun." "What will ye leave to your true-love, Lord Donald, my son? What will ye leave to your true-love, my jollie young man?" "The tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree, And lat her hang there for the poysoning o' me." 40 LORD RANDAL (B). From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, (iii. 49.) Scott changed the name of the hero of this piece from _Lord Ronald_ to _Lord Randal_, on the authority of a single copy. The change is unimportant, but the reason will appear curious, if we remember that the Swedes and Germans have the ballad as well as the Scotch;--"because, though the circumstances are so very different, I think it not impossible, that the ballad may have originally regarded the death of Thomas Randolph, or Randal, Earl of Murray, nephew to Robert Bruce, and governor of Scotland." "O where hae ye been Lord Randal, my son? O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?"-- "I hae been to the wild wood; mother make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."-- "Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? 5 Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?" "I dined wi' my true-love; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."-- "What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?"-- 10 "I gat eels boil'd in broo; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."-- "What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my son? What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?"-- "O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon, 15 For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."-- "O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Randal, my son! O I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young man!"-- "O yes! I am poison'd; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down." 20 THE CRUEL BROTHER: OR, THE BRIDE'S TESTAMENT. Of this ballad, which is still commonly recited and sung in Scotland, four copies have been published. The following is from Jamieson's collection, i. 66, where it was printed _verbatim_ after the recitation of Mrs. Arrott. A copy from Aytoun's collection is subjoined, which is nearly the same as a less perfect one in Herd, i. 149, and the fourth, from Gilbert's _Ancient Christmas Carols_, &c., is in the Appendix to this volume. The conclusion, or testamentary part, occurs very frequently in ballads, e. g. _Den lillas Testamente_, _Svenska Folk-Visor_, No. 68, translated in the Appendix to this volume, the end of _Den onde Svigermoder_, _Danske Viser_, i. 261, translated in _Illustrations of Northern Antiquities_, p. 344, _Möen paa Baalet_, Grundtvig, No. 109, A, st. 18-21, and _Kong Valdemar og hans Söster_, Grundtvig, No. 126, A, st. 101-105. See also _Edward_, and _Lord Donald_, p. 225, p. 244. There was three ladies play'd at the ba', _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; There came a knight, and play'd o'er them a', _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. The eldest was baith tall and fair, 5 _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; But the youngest was beyond compare, _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. The midmost had a gracefu' mien, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; 10 But the youngest look'd like beauty's queen, _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. The knight bow'd low to a' the three, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; But to the youngest he bent his knee, 15 _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. The lady turned her head aside, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; The knight he woo'd her to be his bride, _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. 20 The lady blush'd a rosy red, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; And said, "Sir knight, I'm o'er young to wed," _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "O lady fair, give me your hand, 25 _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; And I'll mak you ladie of a' my land," _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "Sir knight, ere you my favor win, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; 30 Ye maun get consent frae a' my kin," _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. He has got consent fra her parents dear, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; And likewise frae her sisters fair, 35 _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. He has got consent frae her kin each one, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; But forgot to speer at her brother John, _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. 40 Now, when the wedding day was come, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; The knight would take his bonny bride home, _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. And many a lord and many a knight, 45 _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; Came to behold that lady bright, _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. And there was nae man that did her see, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_, 50 But wished himself bridegroom to be, _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. Her father dear led her down the stair, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; And her sisters twain they kiss'd her there, 55 _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. Her mother dear led her through the close, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; And her brother John set her on her horse, _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. 60 She lean'd her o'er the saddle-bow, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_, To give him a kiss ere she did go, _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. He has ta'en a knife, baith lang and sharp, 65 _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_, And stabb'd the bonny bride to the heart, _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. She hadna ridden half thro' the town, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_, 70 Until her heart's blood stained her gown, _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "Ride saftly on," said the best young man, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; "For I think our bonny bride looks pale and wan," 75 _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "O lead me gently up yon hill, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_, And I'll there sit down, and make my will," _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. 80 "O what will you leave to your father dear?" _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; "The silver-shod steed that brought me here," _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "What will you leave to your mother dear?" 85 _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; "My velvet pall and silken gear," _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "And what will ye leave to your sister Ann?" _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; 90 "My silken scarf, and my golden fan," _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "What will ye leave to your sister Grace?" _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; "My bloody cloaths to wash and dress," 95 _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "What will ye leave to your brother John?" _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; "The gallows-tree to hang him on," _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. 100 "What will ye leave to your brother John's wife?" _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; "The wilderness to end her life," _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. This fair lady in her grave was laid, 105 _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; And a mass was o'er her said, _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. But it would have made your heart right sair, _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; 110 To see the bridegroom rive his hair, _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_. THE CRUEL BROTHER. From Aytoun's _Ballads of Scotland_ (2d ed.), i. 232, "taken down from recitation." Found also, but with several stanzas wanting, in Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 149. The title in both collections is _Fine Flowers i' the Valley_. This part of the refrain is found in one of the versions of the _Cruel Mother_, p. 269. To Herd's copy are annexed two fragmentary stanzas with nearly the same burden as that of the foregoing ballad. She louted down to gie a kiss, _With a hey and a lily gay_; He stuck his penknife in her hass, _And the rose it smells so sweetly_. "Ride up, ride up," cry'd the foremost man, _With a hey and a lily gay_; "I think our bride looks pale and wan," _And the rose it smells so sweetly_. There were three sisters in a ha', _Fine flowers i' the valley_, There came three lords amang them a', _The red, green, and the yellow_. The first o' them was clad in red, 5 _Fine flowers i' the valley_; "O lady, will ye be my bride?" _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. The second o' them was clad in green, _Fine flowers i' the valley_; 10 "O lady, will ye be my queen?" _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. The third o' them was clad in yellow, _Fine flowers i' the valley_; "O lady, will ye be my marrow?" 15 _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "O ye maun ask my father dear," _Fine flowers i' the valley_, "Likewise the mother that did me bear," _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. 20 "And ye maun ask my sister Ann," _Fine flowers i' the valley_; "And not forget my brother John," _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "O I have asked thy father dear," 25 _Fine flowers i' the valley_, "Likewise the mother that did thee bear," _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "And I have asked your sister Ann," _Fine flowers i' the valley_; 30 "But I forgot your brother John;" _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. Now when the wedding-day was come, _Fine flowers i' the valley_, The knight would take his bonny bride home, 35 _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. And mony a lord, and mony a knight, _Fine flowers i' the valley_, Cam to behold that lady bright, _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. 40 There was nae man that did her see, _Fine flowers i' the valley_, But wished himsell bridegroom to be, _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. Her father led her down the stair, 45 _Fine flowers i' the valley_, And her sisters twain they kissed her there, _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. Her mother led her through the close, _Fine flowers i' the valley_; 50 Her brother John set her on her horse, _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "You are high and I am low," _Fine flowers i' the valley_; "Give me a kiss before you go," 55 _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. She was louting down to kiss him sweet, _Fine flowers i' the valley_; When wi' his knife he wounded her deep, _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. 60 She hadna ridden through half the town, _Fine flowers i' the valley_, Until her heart's blood stained her gown, _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "Ride saftly on," said the best young man, 65 _Fine flowers i' the valley_; "I think our bride looks pale and wan!" _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "O lead me over into yon stile," _Fine flowers i' the valley_, 70 "That I may stop and breathe awhile," _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "O lead me over into yon stair," _Fine flowers i' the valley_, "For there I'll lie and bleed nae mair," 75 _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "O what will you leave to your father dear?" _Fine flowers i' the valley_; "The siller-shod steed that brought me here," _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. 80 "What will you leave to your mother dear?" _Fine flowers i' the valley_; "My velvet pall, and my pearlin' gear," _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "What will you leave to your sister Ann?" 85 _Fine flowers i' the valley_; "My silken gown that stands its lane," _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "What will you leave to your sister Grace?" _Fine flowers i' the valley_; 90 "My bluidy shirt to wash and dress," _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "What will you leave to your brother John?" _Fine flowers i' the valley_; "The gates o' hell to let him in," 95 _Wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. LADY ANNE. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 18. "This ballad was communicated to me by Mr. Kirkpatrick Sharpe of Hoddom, who mentions having copied it from an old magazine. Although it has probably received some modern corrections, the general turn seems to be ancient, and corresponds with that of a fragment which I have often heard sung in my childhood." The version to which Sir Walter Scott refers, and part of which he proceeds to quote, had been printed in Johnson's _Museum_. It is placed immediately after the present, with other copies of the ballad from Motherwell and Kinloch. In Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_ there are two more, which are repeated with slight variations in the XVII. Vol. of the Percy Society, p. 46, p. 50. Both will be found in the Appendix. The copy in Buchan's _Gleanings_, p. 90, seems to be taken from Scott. Smith's _Scottish Minstrel_, iv. 33, affords still another variety. In German, _Die Kindesmörderin_, Erk's _Liederhort_, No. 41, five copies; Erlach, iv. 148; Hoffmann, _Schlesische V. L._, No. 31, 32; _Wunderhorn_, ii. 202; Zuccalmaglio, No. 97; Meinert, No. 81; Simrock, p. 87. (But some of these are repetitions.) Wendish, Haupt and Schmaler, I. No. 292, and with considerable differences, I. No. 290, II. 197. This last reference is taken from Grundtvig, ii. 531. Fair Lady Anne sate in her bower, Down by the greenwood side, And the flowers did spring, and the birds did sing, 'Twas the pleasant May-day tide. But fair Lady Anne on Sir William call'd, 5 With the tear grit in her ee, "O though thou be fause, may Heaven thee guard, In the wars ayont the sea!"-- Out of the wood came three bonnie boys, Upon the simmer's morn, 10 And they did sing and play at the ba', As naked as they were born. "O seven lang years wad I sit here, Amang the frost and snaw, A' to hae but ane o' these bonnie boys, 15 A playing at the ba'."-- Then up and spake the eldest boy, "Now listen, thou fair ladie, And ponder well the rede that I tell, Then make ye a choice of the three. 20 "'Tis I am Peter, and this is Paul, And that ane, sae fair to see, But a twelve-month sinsyne to paradise came, To join with our companie."-- "O I will hae the snaw-white boy, 25 The bonniest of the three."-- "And if I were thine, and in thy propine, O what wad ye do to me?"-- "'Tis I wad clead thee in silk and gowd, And nourice thee on my knee."-- 30 "O mither! mither! when I was thine, Sic kindness I couldna see. "Beneath the turf, where now I stand, The fause nurse buried me; The cruel penknife sticks still in my heart, 35 And I come not back to thee."-- * * * * * * * FINE FLOWERS IN THE VALLEY. From Johnson's _Musical Museum_, p. 331. The first line of the burden is found also in _The Cruel Brother_, p. 258. She sat down below a thorn, _Fine flowers in the valley_; And there she has her sweet babe born, _And the green leaves they grow rarely_. "Smile na sae sweet, my bonnie babe, 5 _Fine flowers in the valley_, And ye smile sae sweet, ye'll smile me dead," _And the green leaves they grow rarely_. She's taen out her little penknife, _Fine flowers in the valley_, 10 And twinn'd the sweet babe o' its life, _And the green leaves they grow rarely_. She's howket a grave by the light o' the moon, _Fine flowers in the valley_, And there she's buried her sweet babe in, 15 _And the green leaves they grow rarely_. As she was going to the church, _Fine flowers in the valley_, She saw a sweet babe in the porch, _And the green leaves they grow rarely_. 20 "O sweet babe, and thou were mine, _Fine flowers in the valley_, I wad cleed thee in the silk so fine," _And the green leaves they grow rarely_. "O mother dear, when I was thine, 25 _Fine flowers in the valley_, Ye did na prove to me sae kind," _And the green leaves they grow rarely_. THE CRUEL MOTHER. From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 161. She leaned her back unto a thorn, _Three, three, and three by three_; And there she has her two babes born, _Three, three, and thirty-three_. She took frae 'bout her ribbon-belt, 5 And there she bound them hand and foot. She has ta'en out her wee penknife, And there she ended baith their life. She has howked a hole baith deep and wide, She has put them in baith side by side. 10 She has covered them o'er wi' a marble stane, Thinking she would gang maiden hame. As she was walking by her father's castle wa', She saw twa pretty babes playing at the ba'. "O bonnie babes! gin ye were mine, 15 I would dress you up in satin fine! "O I would dress you in the silk, And wash you ay in morning milk!" "O cruel mother! we were thine, And thou made us to wear the twine. 20 "O cursed mother! heaven's high, And that's where thou will ne'er win nigh. "O cursed mother! hell is deep, And there thou'll enter step by step." THE CRUEL MOTHER. From Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 46. Three stanzas of a Warwickshire version closely resembling Kinloch's are given in _Notes and Queries_, vol. viii. p. 358. There lives a lady in London-- _All alone, and alonie_; She's gane wi' bairn to the clerk's son-- _Doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. She has tane her mantel her about-- 5 _All alone, and alonie_; She's gane aff to the gude greenwud-- _Doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. She has set her back until an aik-- _All alone, and alonie_; 10 First it bowed, and syne it brake-- _Doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. She has set her back until a brier-- _All alone, and alonie_; Bonnie were the twa boys she did bear-- 15 _Doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. But out she's tane a little penknife-- _All alone, and alonie_; And she's parted them and their sweet life-- _Doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. 20 She's aff unto her father's ha'-- _All alone, and alonie_; She seem'd the lealest maiden amang them a'-- _Doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. As she lookit our the castle wa'-- 25 _All alone, and alonie_; She spied twa bonnie boys playing at the ba'-- _Doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. "O an thae twa babes were mine"-- _All alone, and alonie_; 30 "They should wear the silk and the sabelline"-- _Doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. "O mother dear, when we were thine," _All alone, and alonie_; "We neither wore the silks nor the sabelline"-- 35 _Doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. "But out ye took a little penknife"-- _All alone, and alonie_; "An ye parted us and our sweet life"-- _Doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. 40 "But now we're in the heavens hie"-- _All alone, and alonie_; "And ye have the pains o' hell to dree"-- _Doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. MAY COLVIN, OR FALSE SIR JOHN. In the very ancient though corrupted ballads of _Lady Isabel and the Elf-Knight_, and _The Water o' Wearie's Well_ (vol. i. p. 195, 198), an Elf or a Merman occupies the place here assigned to False Sir John. Perhaps _May Colvin_ is the result of the same modernizing process by which _Hynde Etin_ has been converted into _Young Hastings the Groom_ (vol. i. p. 294, 189). The coincidence of the name with _Clerk Colvill_, in vol. i. p. 192, may have some significance. This, however, would not be the opinion of Grundtvig, who regards the Norse and German ballads resembling _Lady Isabel_, &c., as compounded of two independent stories. If this be so, then we should rather say that a ballad similar to _May Colvin_ has been made to furnish the conclusion to the pieces referred to. The story of this ballad has apparently some connection with _Bluebeard_, but it is hard to say what the connection is. (See _Fitchers Vogel_ in the Grimms' _K. u. H.-Märchen_, No. 46, and notes.) The versions of the ballad in other languages are all but innumerable: e. g. _Röfvaren Rymer_, _Röfvaren Brun_, _Svenska F.-V._, No. 82, 83; _Den Falske Riddaren_, Arwidsson, No. 44; _Ulrich und Aennchen_, _Schön Ulrich u. Roth-Aennchen_, _Schön Ulrich und Rautendelein_, _Ulinger_, _Herr Halewyn_, etc., in _Wunderhorn_, i. 274; Uhland, 141-157 (four copies); Erk, _Liederhort_, 91, 93; Erlach, iii. 450; Zuccalmaglio, _Deutsche Volkslieder_, No. 15; Hoffmann, _Schlesische Volkslieder_, No. 12, 13, and _Niederländische Volkslieder_, No. 9, 10; etc. etc. A very brief Italian ballad will be found in the Appendix, p. 391, which seems to have the same theme. In some of the ballads the treacherous seducer is an enchanter, who prevails upon the maid to go with him by the power of a spell. _May Colvin_ was first published in Herd's Collection, vol. i. 153. The copy here given is one obtained from recitation by Motherwell, (_Minstrelsy_, p. 67,) collated by him with that of Herd. It is defective at the end. The other versions in Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 45, and Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 45, though they are provided with some sort of conclusion, are not worth reprinting. A modernized version, styled _The Outlandish Knight_, is inserted in the Notes to _Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads_, Percy Society, vol. xvii. 101. Carlton Castle, on the coast of Carrick, is affirmed by the country people, according to Mr. Chambers, to have been the residence of the perfidious knight, and a precipice overhanging the sea, called "Fause Sir John's Loup," is pointed out as the place where he was wont to drown his wives. May Colvin is equally well ascertained to have been "a daughter of the family of Kennedy of Colzean, now represented by the Earl of Cassilis." Buchan's version assigns a different locality to the transaction--that of "Binyan's Bay," which, says the editor, is the old name of the mouth of the river Ugie. False Sir John a wooing came To a maid of beauty fair; May Colvin was the lady's name, Her father's only heir. He's courted her butt, and he's courted her ben, 5 And he's courted her into the ha', Till once he got this lady's consent To mount and ride awa'. She's gane to her father's coffers, Where all his money lay; 10 And she's taken the red, and she's left the white, And so lightly as she tripped away. She's gane down to her father's stable, Where all his steeds did stand; And she's taken the best, and she's left the warst, 15 That was in her father's land. He rode on, and she rode on, They rode a lang simmer's day, Until they came to a broad river, An arm of a lonesome sea. 20 "Loup off the steed," says false Sir John; "Your bridal bed you see; For it's seven king's daughters I have drowned here, And the eighth I'll out make with thee. "Cast off, cast off your silks so fine, 25 And lay them on a stone, For they are o'er good and o'er costly To rot in the salt sea foam. "Cast off, cast off your Holland smock, And lay it on this stone, 30 For it is too fine and o'er costly To rot in the salt sea foam." "O turn you about, thou false Sir John, And look to the leaf o' the tree; For it never became a gentleman 35 A naked woman to see." He's turn'd himself straight round about, To look to the leaf o' the tree; She's twined her arms about his waist, And thrown him into the sea. 40 "O hold a grip of me, May Colvin, For fear that I should drown; I'll take you hame to your father's gates, And safely I'll set you down." "O lie you there, thou false Sir John, 45 O lie you there," said she; "For you lie not in a caulder bed Than the ane you intended for me." So she went on her father's steed, As swift as she could flee, 50 And she came hame to her father's gates At the breaking of the day. Up then spake the pretty parrot: "May Colvin, where have you been? What has become of false Sir John, 55 That wooed you so late yestreen?" Up then spake the pretty parrot, In the bonnie cage where it lay: "O what hae ye done with the false Sir John, That he behind you does stay? 60 "He wooed you butt, he wooed you ben, He wooed you into the ha', Until he got your own consent For to mount and gang awa'." "O hold your tongue, my pretty parrot, 65 Lay not the blame upon me; Your cage will be made of the beaten gold, And the spakes of ivorie." Up then spake the king himself, In the chamber where he lay: 70 "O what ails the pretty parrot, That prattles so long ere day?" "It was a cat cam to my cage door; I thought 't would have worried me; And I was calling on fair May Colvin 75 To take the cat from me." BABYLON, OR, THE BONNIE BANKS O' FORDIE. "This ballad is given from two copies obtained from recitation, which differ but little from each other. Indeed, the only variation is in the verse where the outlawed brother unweetingly slays his sister. One reading is,-- 'He's taken out his wee penknife, _Hey how bonnie_; And he's twined her o' her ain sweet life, _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_.' The other reading is that adopted in the text. This ballad is popular in the southern parishes of Perthshire: but where the scene is laid the editor has been unable to ascertain. Nor has any research of his enabled him to throw farther light on the history of its hero with the fantastic name, than what the ballad itself supplies." Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 88. Another version is subjoined, from Kinloch's collection. This ballad is found in Danish; _Herr Truels's Doettre_, _Danske Viser_, No. 164. In a note the editor endeavors to show that the story is based on fact! There were three ladies lived in a bower, _Eh vow bonnie_, And they went out to pull a flower, _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. They hadna pu'ed a flower but ane, 5 _Eh vow bonnie_, When up started to them a banisht man, _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. He's ta'en the first sister by her hand, _Eh vow bonnie_, 10 And he's turned her round and made her stand, _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. "It's whether will ye be a rank robber's wife, _Eh vow bonnie_, Or will ye die by my wee penknife," 15 _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_? "It's I'll not be a rank robber's wife, _Eh vow bonnie_, But I'll rather die by your wee penknife," _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. 20 He's killed this may and he's laid her by, _Eh vow bonnie_, For to bear the red rose company, _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. He's taken the second ane by the hand, 25 _Eh vow bonnie_, And he's turned her round and made her stand, _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. "It's whether will ye be a rank robber's wife, _Eh vow bonnie_, 30 Or will ye die by my wee penknife," _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_? "I'll not be a rank robber's wife, _Eh vow bonnie_, But I'll rather die by your wee penknife," 35 _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. He's killed this may and he's laid her by, _Eh vow bonnie_, For to bear the red rose company, _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. 40 He's taken the youngest ane by the hand, _Eh vow bonnie_, And he's turned her round and made her stand, _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. Says, "Will ye be a rank robber's wife, 45 _Eh vow bonnie_, Or will ye die by my wee penknife," _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_? "I'll not be a rank robber's wife, _Eh vow bonnie_, 50 Nor will I die by your wee penknife, _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. "For I hae a brother in this wood, _Eh vow bonnie_, And gin ye kill me, it's he'll kill thee," 55 _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. "What's thy brother's name? come tell to me," _Eh vow bonnie_; "My brother's name is Babylon," _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. 60 "O sister, sister, what have I done, _Eh vow bonnie_? O have I done this ill to thee, _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_? "O since I've done this evil deed, 65 _Eh vow bonnie_, Good sall never be seen o' me," _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. He's taken out his wee penknife, _Eh vow bonnie_, 70 And he's twyned himsel o' his ain sweet life, _On the bonnie banks o' Fordie_. DUKE OF PERTH'S THREE DAUGHTERS. From Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 212. The Duke o' Perth had three daughters, Elizabeth, Margaret, and fair Marie; And Elizabeth's to the greenwud gane, To pu' the rose and the fair lilie. But she hadna pu'd a rose, a rose, 5 A double rose, but barely three, Whan up and started a Loudon lord, Wi' Loudon hose, and Loudon sheen. "Will ye be called a robber's wife? Or will ye be stickit wi' my bloody knife? 10 For pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, For pu'in them sae fair and free." "Before I'll be called a robber's wife, I'll rather be stickit wi' your bloody knife, For pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, 15 For pu'in them sae fair and free." Then out he's tane his little penknife, And he's parted her and her sweet life, And thrown her o'er a bank o' brume, There never more for to be found. 20 The Duke o' Perth had three daughters, Elizabeth, Margaret, and fair Marie; And Margaret's to the greenwud gane, To pu' the rose and the fair lilie. She hadna pu'd a rose, a rose, 25 A double rose, but barely three, When up and started a Loudon lord, Wi' Loudon hose, and Loudon sheen. "Will ye be called a robber's wife? Or will ye be stickit wi' my bloody knife? 30 For pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, For pu'in them sae fair and free." "Before I'll be called a robber's wife, I'll rather be sticket wi' your bloody knife, For pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, 35 For pu'in them sae fair and free." Then out he's tane his little penknife, And he's parted her and her sweet life, For pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, For pu'in them sae fair and free. 40 The Duke o' Perth had three daughters, Elizabeth, Margaret, and fair Marie; And Mary's to the greenwud gane, To pu' the rose and the fair lilie. She hadna pu'd a rose, a rose, 45 A double rose, but barely three, When up and started a Loudon lord, Wi' Loudon hose, and Loudon sheen. "O will ye be called a robber's wife? Or will ye be stickit wi' my bloody knife? 50 For pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, For pu'in them sae fair and free." "Before I'll be called a robber's wife, I'll rather be stickit wi' your bloody knife, For pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, 55 For pu'in them sae fair and free." But just as he took out his knife, To tak frae her her ain sweet life, Her brother John cam ryding bye, And this bloody robber he did espy. 60 But when he saw his sister fair, He kenn'd her by her yellow hair; He call'd upon his pages three, To find this robber speedilie. "My sisters twa that are dead and gane, 65 For whom we made a heavy maene, It's you that's twinn'd them o' their life, And wi' your cruel bloody knife. Then for their life ye sair shall dree: Ye sall be hangit on a tree, 70 Or thrown into the poison'd lake, To feed the toads and rattle-snake." JELLON GRAME. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 162. "This ballad is published from tradition, with some conjectural emendations. It is corrected by a copy in Mrs. Brown's MS., from which it differs in the concluding stanzas. Some verses are apparently modernized. "_Jellon_ seems to be the same name with _Jyllian_, or _Julian_. 'Jyl of Brentford's Testament' is mentioned in Warton's _History of Poetry_, vol. ii. p. 40. The name repeatedly occurs in old ballads, sometimes as that of a man, at other times as that of a woman. Of the former is an instance in the ballad of _The Knight and the Shepherd's Daughter_. [See this collection, vol. iii. p. 253.] 'Some do call me Jack, sweetheart, And some do call me _Jille_.' "Witton Gilbert, a village four miles west of Durham, is, throughout the bishopric, pronounced Witton Jilbert. We have also the common name of Giles, always in Scotland pronounced Jill. For Gille, or Juliana, as a female name, we have _Fair Gillian_ of Croyden, and a thousand authorities. Such being the case, the Editor must enter his protest against the conversion of _Gil_ Morrice into _Child_ Maurice, an epithet of chivalry. All the circumstances in that ballad argue, that the unfortunate hero was an obscure and very young man, who had never received the honour of knighthood. At any rate there can be no reason, even were internal evidence totally wanting, for altering a well-known proper name, which, till of late years, has been the uniform title of the ballad." SCOTT. _May-a-Row_, in Buchan's larger collection, ii. 231, is another, but an inferior, version of this ballad. O Jellon Grame sat in Silverwood,[L1] He sharp'd his broadsword lang; And he has call'd his little foot-page An errand for to gang. "Win up, my bonny boy," he says, 5 "As quickly as ye may; For ye maun gang for Lillie Flower Before the break of day."-- The boy has buckled his belt about, And through the green-wood ran; 10 And he came to the ladye's bower Before the day did dawn. "O sleep ye, wake ye, Lillie Flower? The red sun's on the rain: Ye're bidden come to Silverwood, 15 But I doubt ye'll never win hame."-- She hadna ridden a mile, a mile, A mile but barely three, Ere she came to a new-made grave, Beneath a green aik tree. 20 O then up started Jellon Grame, Out of a bush thereby; "Light down, light down, now, Lillie Flower, For it's here that ye maun lye."-- She lighted aff her milk-white steed, 25 And kneel'd upon her knee; "O mercy, mercy, Jellon Grame, For I'm no prepared to die! "Your bairn, that stirs between my sides, Maun shortly see the light: 30 But to see it weltering in my blood, Would be a piteous sight."-- "O should I spare your life," he says, "Until that bairn were born, Full weel I ken your auld father 35 Would hang me on the morn."-- "O spare my life, now, Jellon Grame! My father ye needna dread: I'll keep my babe in gude green-wood, Or wi' it I'll beg my bread."-- 40 He took no pity on Lillie Flower, Though she for life did pray; But pierced her through the fair body As at his feet she lay. He felt nae pity for Lillie Flower, 45 Where she was lying dead; But he felt some for the bonny bairn, That lay weltering in her bluid. Up has he ta'en that bonny boy, Given him to nurses nine; 50 Three to sleep, and three to wake, And three to go between. And he bred up that bonny boy, Call'd him his sister's son; And he thought no eye could ever see 55 The deed that he had done. O so it fell upon a day, When hunting they might be, They rested them in Silverwood, Beneath that green aik tree. 60 And many were the green-wood flowers Upon the grave that grew, And marvell'd much that bonny boy To see their lovely hue. "What's paler than the prymrose wan? 65 What's redder than the rose? What's fairer than the lilye flower On this wee know that grows?"-- O out and answer'd Jellon Grame, And he spak hastilie-- 70 "Your mother was a fairer flower, And lies beneath this tree. "More pale she was, when she sought my grace, Than prymrose pale and wan; And redder than rose her ruddy heart's blood, 75 That down my broadsword ran."-- Wi' that the boy has bent his bow, It was baith stout and lang; An thro' and thro' him, Jellon Grame, He gar'd an arrow gang. 80 Says,--"Lie ye there, now, Jellon Grame! My malisoun gang you wi'! The place that my mother lies buried in Is far too good for thee." 1. Silverwood, mentioned in this ballad, occurs in a medley MS. song, which seems to have been copied from the first edition of the Aberdeen Cantus, _penes_ John G. Dalyell, Esq. advocate. One line only is cited, apparently the beginning of some song:-- "Silverwood, gin ye were mine." SCOTT. YOUNG JOHNSTONE. A fragment of this fine ballad (which is commonly called _The Cruel Knight_) was published by Herd, (i. 222,) and also by Pinkerton, (_Select Scottish Ballads_, i. 69,) with variations. Finlay constructed a nearly complete edition from two recited copies, but suppressed some lines. (_Scottish Ballads_, ii. 72.) The present copy is one which Motherwell obtained from recitation, with a few verbal emendations by that editor from Finlay's. With respect to the sudden and strange catastrophe, Motherwell remarks:-- "The reciters of old ballads frequently supply the best commentaries upon them, when any obscurity or want of connection appears in the poetical narrative. This ballad, as it stands, throws no light on young Johnstone's motive for stabbing his lady; but the person from whose lips it was taken down alleged that the barbarous act was committed unwittingly, through young Johnstone's suddenly waking from sleep, and, in that moment of confusion and alarm, unhappily mistaking his mistress for one of his pursuers. It is not improbable but the ballad may have had, at one time, a stanza to the above effect, the substance of which is still remembered, though the words in which it was couched have been forgotten." _Minstrelsy_, p. 193. Buchan's version, (_Lord John's Murder_, ii. 20,) it will be seen, supplies this deficiency. Young Johnstone and the young Col'nel Sat drinking at the wine: "O gin ye wad marry my sister, It's I wad marry thine." "I wadna marry your sister, 5 For a' your houses and land; But I'll keep her for my leman, When I come o'er the strand. "I wadna marry your sister, For a' your gowd so gay; 10 But I'll keep her for my leman, When I come by the way." Young Johnstone had a nut-brown sword, Hung low down by his gair, And he ritted[L15] it through the young Col'nel, 15 That word he ne'er spak mair. But he's awa' to his sister's bower, He's tirled at the pin: "Whare hae ye been, my dear brither, Sae late a coming in?" 20 "I hae been at the school, sister, Learning young clerks to sing." "I've dreamed a dreary dream this night, I wish it may be for good; They were seeking you with hawks and hounds, 25 And the young Col'nel was dead." "Hawks and hounds they may seek me, As I trow well they be; For I have killed the young Col'nel, And thy own true love was he." 30 "If ye hae killed the young Col'nel, O dule and wae is me; But I wish ye may be hanged on a hie gallows, And hae nae power to flee." And he's awa' to his true love's bower, 35 He's tirled at the pin: "Whar hae ye been, my dear Johnstone, Sae late a coming in?" "It's I hae been at the school," he says, "Learning young clerks to sing." 40 "I have dreamed a dreary dream," she says, "I wish it may be for good; They were seeking you with hawks and hounds, And the young Col'nel was dead." "Hawks and hounds they may seek me, 45 As I trow well they be; For I hae killed the young Col'nel, And thy ae brother was he." "If ye hae killed the young Col'nel, O dule and wae is me; 50 But I care the less for the young Col'nel, If thy ain body be free. "Come in, come in, my dear Johnstone, Come in and take a sleep; And I will go to my casement, 55 And carefully I will thee keep." He had not weel been in her bower door, No not for half an hour, When four-and-twenty belted knights Came riding to the bower. 60 "Well may you sit and see, Lady, Well may you sit and say; Did you not see a bloody squire Come riding by this way?" "What colour were his hawks?" she says, 65 "What colour were his hounds? What colour was the gallant steed That bore him from the bounds?" "Bloody, bloody were his hawks, And bloody were his hounds; 70 But milk-white was the gallant steed That bore him from the bounds." "Yes, bloody, bloody were his hawks, And bloody were his hounds; And milk-white was the gallant steed 75 That bore him from the bounds. "Light down, light down now, gentlemen, And take some bread and wine; And the steed be swift that he rides on, He's past the brig o' Lyne." 80 "We thank you for your bread, fair Lady, We thank you for your wine; But I wad gie thrice three thousand pound, That bloody knight was ta'en." "Lie still, lie still, my dear Johnstone, 85 Lie still and take a sleep; For thy enemies are past and gone, And carefully I will thee keep." But young Johnstone had a little wee sword, Hung low down by his gair, 90 And he stabbed it in fair Annet's breast, A deep wound and a sair. "What aileth thee now, dear Johnstone? What aileth thee at me? Hast thou not got my father's gold, 95 Bot and my mither's fee?"[L96] "Now live, now live, my dear Ladye, Now live but half an hour, And there's no a leech in a' Scotland But shall be in thy bower." 100 "How can I live, how shall I live? Young Johnstone, do not you see The red, red drops o' my bonny heart's blood Rin trinkling down my knee? "But take thy harp into thy hand, 105 And harp out owre yon plain, And ne'er think mair on thy true love Than if she had never been." He hadna weel been out o' the stable, And on his saddle set, 110 Till four-and-twenty broad arrows Were thrilling in his heart. 15. In the copy obtained by the Editor, the word "ritted" did not occur, instead of which the word "stabbed" was used. The "nut-brown sword" was also changed into "a little small sword." MOTHERWELL. 96. Buchan's version furnishes the necessary explanation of Young Johnstone's apparent cruelty:-- "Ohon, alas, my lady gay, To come sae hastilié! I thought it was my deadly foe, Ye had trysted in to me." YOUNG BENJIE. From the _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 10. _Bondsey and Maisry_, another version of the same story, from Buchan's collection, is given in the Appendix. "In this ballad the reader will find traces of a singular superstition, not yet altogether discredited in the wilder parts of Scotland. The lykewake, or watching a dead body, in itself a melancholy office, is rendered, in the idea of the assistants, more dismally awful, by the mysterious horrors of superstition. In the interval betwixt death and interment, the disembodied spirit is supposed to hover round its mortal habitation, and, if invoked by certain rites, retains the power of communicating, through its organs, the cause of its dissolution. Such inquiries, however, are always dangerous, and never to be resorted to, unless the deceased is suspected to have suffered _foul play_, as it is called. It is the more unsafe to tamper with this charm in an unauthorized manner, because the inhabitants of the infernal regions are, at such periods, peculiarly active. One of the most potent ceremonies in the charm, for causing the dead body to speak, is, setting the door ajar, or half open. On this account, the peasants of Scotland sedulously avoid leaving the door ajar, while a corpse lies in the house. The door must either be left wide open, or quite shut; but the first is always preferred, on account of the exercise of hospitality usual on such occasions. The attendants must be likewise careful never to leave the corpse for a moment alone, or, if it is left alone, to avoid, with a degree of superstitious horror, the first sight of it. "The following story, which is frequently related by the peasants of Scotland, will illustrate the imaginary danger of leaving the door ajar. In former times, a man and his wife lived in a solitary cottage, on one of the extensive Border fells. One day the husband died suddenly; and his wife, who was equally afraid of staying alone by the corpse, or leaving the dead body by itself, repeatedly went to the door, and looked anxiously over the lonely moor for the sight of some person approaching. In her confusion and alarm she accidentally left the door ajar, when the corpse suddenly started up, and sat in the bed, frowning and grinning at her frightfully. She sat alone, crying bitterly, unable to avoid the fascination of the dead man's eye, and too much terrified to break the sullen silence, till a Catholic priest, passing over the wild, entered the cottage. He first set the door quite open, then put his little finger in his mouth, and said the paternoster backwards; when the horrid look of the corpse relaxed, it fell back on the bed, and behaved itself as a dead man ought to do. "The ballad is given from tradition. I have been informed by a lady, [Miss Joanna Baillie,] of the highest literary eminence, that she has heard a ballad on the same subject, in which the scene was laid upon the banks of the Clyde. The chorus was, "O Bothwell banks bloom bonny," and the watching of the dead corpse was said to have taken place in Bothwell church." SCOTT. Of a' the maids o' fair Scotland, The fairest was Marjorie; And young Benjie was her ae true love, And a dear true love was he. And wow but they were lovers dear, 5 And loved fu' constantlie; But aye the mair when they fell out, The sairer was their plea. And they hae quarrell'd on a day, Till Marjorie's heart grew wae; 10 And she said she'd chuse another luve, And let young Benjie gae. And he was stout, and proud-hearted, And thought o't bitterlie; And he's gane by the wan moonlight, 15 To meet his Marjorie. "O open, open, my true love, O open, and let me in!"-- "I darena open, young Benjie, My three brothers are within."-- 20 "Ye lied, ye lied, ye bonny burd, Sae loud's I hear ye lie; As I came by the Lowden banks, They bade gude e'en to me. "But fare ye weel, my ae fause love, 25 That I have loved sae lang! It sets ye chuse another love, And let young Benjie gang."-- Then Marjorie turn'd her round about, The tear blinding her ee,-- 30 "I darena, darena let thee in, But I'll come down to thee."-- Then saft she smiled, and said to him, "O what ill hae I done?"-- He took her in his armis twa, 35 And threw her o'er the linn. The stream was strang, the maid was stout, And laith, laith to be dang, But, ere she wan the Lowden banks, Her fair colour was wan. 40 Then up bespak her eldest brother, "O see na ye what I see?"-- And out then spak her second brother, "It's our sister Marjorie!"-- Out then spak her eldest brother, 45 "O how shall we her ken?"-- And out then spak her youngest brother, "There's a honey mark on her chin."-- Then they've ta'en up the comely corpse, And laid it on the ground: 50 "O wha has killed our ae sister, And how can he be found? "The night it is her low lykewake, The morn her burial day, And we maun watch at mirk midnight, 55 And hear what she will say."-- Wi' doors ajar, and candle light, And torches burning clear, The streikit corpse, till still midnight, They waked, but naething hear. 60 About the middle o' the night, The cocks began to craw; And at the dead hour o' the night, The corpse began to thraw. "O whae has done the wrang, sister, 65 Or dared the deadly sin? Whae was sae stout, and fear'd nae dout, As thraw ye o'er the linn?" "Young Benjie was the first ae man I laid my love upon; 70 He was sae stout and proud-hearted, He threw me o'er the linn."-- "Sall we young Benjie head, sister, Sall we young Benjie hang, Or sall we pike out his twa gray een, 75 And punish him ere he gang?" "Ye maunna Benjie head, brothers, Ye maunna Benjie hang, But ye maun pike out his twa gray een, And punish him ere he gang. 80 "Tie a green gravat round his neck, And lead him out and in, And the best ae servant about your house To wait young Benjie on. "And aye, at every seven years' end, 85 Ye'l tak him to the linn; For that's the penance he maun dree, To scug his deadly sin." APPENDIX. LORD BARNABY. Scottish version of _Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard_. See p. 15. From Jamieson's _Popular Ballads and Songs_, i. 170. "I have a tower in Dalisberry, Which now is dearly dight, And I will gie it to young Musgrave To lodge wi' me a' night." "To lodge wi' thee a' night, fair lady, 5 Wad breed baith sorrow and strife; For I see by the rings on your fingers, You're good lord Barnaby's wife." "Lord Barnaby's wife although I be, Yet what is that to thee? 10 For we'll beguile him for this ae night-- He's on to fair Dundee. "Come here, come here, my little foot-page, This gold I will give thee, If ye will keep thir secrets close 15 'Tween young Musgrave and me. "But here I hae a little pen-knife, Hings low down by my gare; Gin ye winna keep thir secrets close, Ye'll find it wonder sair." 20 Then she's ta'en him to her chamber, And down in her arms lay he: The boy coost aff his hose and shoon, And ran to fair Dundee. When he cam to the wan water, 25 He slack'd[L26] his bow and swam; And when he cam to growin grass, Set down his feet and ran. And when he cam to fair Dundee, Wad neither chap nor ca'; 30 But set his brent[L31] bow to his breast, And merrily jump'd the wa'. "O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord, Waken, and come away!"-- "What ails, what ails my wee foot-page, 35 He cries sae lang ere day. "O is my bowers brent, my boy? Or is my castle won? Or has the lady that I lo'e best Brought me a daughter or son?" 40 "Your ha's are safe, your bowers are safe, And free frae all alarms; But, oh! the lady that ye lo'e best Lies sound in Musgrave's arms." "Gae saddle to me the black," he cried, 45 "Gae saddle to me the gray; Gae saddle to me the swiftest steed, To hie me on my way." "O lady, I heard a wee horn toot, And it blew wonder clear; 50 And ay the turning o' the note, Was, 'Barnaby will be here!' "I thought I heard a wee horn blaw, And it blew loud and high; And ay at ilka turn it said, 55 'Away, Musgrave, away!'" "Lie still, my dear; lie still, my dear; Ye keep me frae the cold; For it is but my father's shepherds Driving their flocks to the fold." 60 Up they lookit, and down they lay, And they're fa'en sound asleep; Till up stood good lord Barnaby, Just close at their bed feet. "How do you like my bed, Musgrave? 65 And how like ye my sheets? And how like ye my fair lady, Lies in your arms and sleeps? "Weel like I your bed, my lord, And weel like I your sheets; 70 But ill like I your fair lady, Lies in my arms and sleeps. "You got your wale o' se'en sisters, And I got mine o' five; Sae tak ye mine, and I's tak thine, 75 And we nae mair sall strive." "O my woman's the best woman That ever brak world's bread; And your woman's the worst woman That ever drew coat o'er head. 80 "I hae twa swords in ae scabbert, They are baith sharp and clear; Take ye the best, and I the warst, And we'll end the matter here. "But up, and arm thee, young Musgrave, 85 We'll try it han' to han'; It's ne'er be said o' lord Barnaby, He strack at a naked man." The first straik that young Musgrave got, It was baith deep and sair; 90 And down he fell at Barnaby's feet, And word spak never mair. * * * * * * "A grave, a grave!" lord Barnaby cried, "A grave to lay them in; My lady shall lie on the sunny side, 95 Because of her noble kin." But oh, how sorry was that good lord, For a' his angry mood, Whan he beheld his ain young son All welt'ring in his blood! 100 26. For _slack'd_ read _bent_. J. [NOTE.] [In v. 31] the term "_braid_ bow" has been altered by the editor into "_brent_ bow," i. e. _straight_, or _unbent_ bow. In most of the old ballads, where a page is employed as the bearer of a message, we are told, that, "When he came to wan water, He _bent_ his bow and swam;" And "He set his _bent_ bow to his breast, And lightly lap the wa'," &c. The application of the term _bent_, in the latter instance, does not seem correct, and is probably substituted for _brent_. In the establishment of a feudal baron, every thing wore a military aspect; he was a warrior by profession; every man attached to him, particularly those employed about his person, was a soldier; and his little foot-page was very appropriately equipped in the light accoutrements of an archer. His bow, in the old ballad, seems as inseparable from his character as the bow of Cupid or of Apollo, or the caduceus of his celestial prototype Mercury. This bow, which he carried unbent, he seems to have _bent_ when he had occasion to swim, in order that he might the more easily carry it in his teeth, to prevent the string from being injured by getting wet. At other times he availed himself of its length and elasticity in the _brent_, or straight state, and used it (as hunters do a leaping pole) in vaulting over the wall of the outer court of a castle, when his business would not admit of the tedious formality of blowing a horn, or ringing a bell, and holding a long parley with the porter at the gate, before he could gain admission. This, at least, appears to the editor to be the meaning of these passages in the old ballads. JAMIESON. CHILDE MAURICE. See p. 30. From Jamieson's _Popular Ballads and Songs_, i. 8. Childe Maurice hunted i' the silver[L1] wood, He hunted it round about, And noebody yt he found theren, Nor noebody without. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * And tooke his silver combe in his hand 5 To kembe his yellow lockes. He sayes, "come hither, thou litle footpage, That runneth lowly by my knee; Ffor thou shalt goe to John Steward's wiffe, And pray her speake with mee. 10 "And as it ffalls out,[L11] many times As knotts been knitt on a kell, Or merchant men gone to leeve London, Either to buy ware or sell, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * And grete thou doe that ladye well, 15 Ever soe well ffroe mee. "And as it ffalls out, many times As any harte can thinke, As schoole masters are in any schoole house, Writting with pen and inke, 20 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Ffor if I might as well as shee may, This night I wold with her speake. "And heere I send a mantle of greene, As greene as any grasse, And bid her come to the silver wood,[L25] 25 To hunt with Child Maurice. "And there I send her a ring of gold, A ring of precyous stone; And bid her come to the silver wood, Let for no kind of man." 30 One while this litle boy he yode, Another while he ran; Until he came to John Steward's hall, Iwis he never blan. And of nurture the child had good; 35 He ran up hall and bower ffree, And when he came to this lady ffaire, Sayes, "God you save and see. "I am come ffrom Childe Maurice, A message unto thee, 40 And Childe Maurice he greetes you well, And ever soe well ffrom me. "And as it ffalls out, oftentimes As knotts been knitt on a kell, Or merchant men gone to leeve London 45 Either to buy or sell; "And as oftentimes he greetes you well, As any hart can thinke, Or schoolemaster in any schoole, Wryting with pen and inke. 50 "And heere he sends a mantle of greene, As greene as any grasse, And he bidds you come to the silver wood, To hunt with child Maurice. "And heere he sends you a ring of gold, 55 A ring of precyous stone; He prayes you to come to the silver wood, Let for no kind of man." "Now peace, now peace, thou litle fotpage, Ffor Christes sake I pray thee; 60 Ffor if my lord heare one of those words, Thou must be hanged hye." John Steward stood under the castle wall, And he wrote the words every one; * * * * * * * * * * * * * * And he called unto his horssekeeper, 65 "Make ready you my steede;" And soe he did to his chamberlaine, "Make readye then my weed." And he cast a lease upon his backe, And he rode to the silver wood, 70 And there he sought all about, About the silver wood. And there he found him Childe Maurice, Sitting upon a blocke, With a silver combe in his hand, 75 Kembing his yellow locke. He sayes, "how now, how now, Childe Maurice, Alacke how may this bee?" But then stood by him Childe Maurice, And sayd these words trulye: 80 "I do not know your ladye," he said, "If that I doe her see." "Ffor thou hast sent her love tokens, More now than two or three. "For thou hast sent her a mantle of greene, 85 As greene as any grasse, And bade her come to the silver wood, To hunt with Childe Maurice. "And by my faith now, Childe Maurice, The tane of us shall dye;" 90 "Now by my troth," sayd Childe Maurice, "And that shall not be I." But he pulled out a bright browne sword, And dryed it on the grasse, And soe fast he smote at John Steward, 95 Iwis he never rest. Then hee pulled forth his bright browne sword, And dryed itt on his sleeve, And the ffirst good stroke John Steward stroke, Child Maurice head he did cleeve. 100 And he pricked it on his swords poynt, Went singing there beside, And he rode till he came to the ladye ffaire, Whereas his ladye lyed. And sayes, "dost thou know Child Maurice head, 105 Iff that thou dost it see? And llap it soft, and kisse itt offt, Ffor thou lovedst him better than mee." But when shee looked on Child Maurice head, Shee never spake words but three: 110 "I never beare noe child but one, And you have slain him trulye." Sayes, "wicked be my merry men all, I gave meate, drinke, and clothe; But cold they not have holden me, 115 When I was in all that wrath! "Ffor I have slaine one of the courteousest knights That ever bestrode a steede; Soe have I done one of the fairest ladyes That ever ware womans weede." 120 1. MS. silven. See vv. 25, 53, 70, 72. 11. out out. 25. Sic in MS. CLERK SAUNDERS. See p. 45. From Jamieson's _Popular Ballads and Songs_, i. 83. "The following copy was transmitted by Mrs. Arrott of Aberbrothick. The stanzas, where the seven brothers are introduced, have been enlarged from two fragments, which, although very defective in themselves, furnished lines which, when incorporated with the text, seemed to improve it. Stanzas 21 and 22, were written by the editor; the idea of the _rose_ being suggested by the gentleman who recited, but who could not recollect the language in which it was expressed." This copy of _Clerk Saunders_ bears traces of having been made up from several sources. A portion of the concluding stanzas (v. 107-130) have a strong resemblance to the beginning and end of _Proud Lady Margaret_ (vol. viii. 83, 278), which ballad is itself in a corrupt condition. It may also be doubted whether the fragments Jamieson speaks of did not belong to a ballad resembling _Lady Maisry_, p. 78 of this volume. Accepting the ballad as it stands here, there is certainly likeness enough in the first part to suggest a community of origin with the Swedish ballad _Den Grymma Brodern_, _Svenska Folk-Visor_, No. 86 (translated in _Lit. and Rom. of Northern Europe_, p. 261). W. Grimm mentions (_Altdän. Heldenl._, p. 519) a Spanish ballad, _De la Blanca Niña_, in the _Romancero de Amberes_, in which the similarity to _Den Grymma Brodern_ is very striking. The series of questions (v. 30-62) sometimes appears apart from the story, and with a comic turn, as in _Det Hurtige Svar_, _Danske V._, No. 204, or _Thore och hans Syster_, Arwidsson, i. 358. In this shape they closely resemble the familiar old song, _Our gudeman came hame at e'en_, Herd, _Scottish Songs_, ii. 74. Clerk Saunders was an earl's son, He liv'd upon sea-sand; May Margaret was a king's daughter, She liv'd in upper land. Clerk Saunders was an earl's son, 5 Weel learned at the scheel; May Margaret was a king's daughter; They baith lo'ed ither weel. He's throw the dark, and throw the mark, And throw the leaves o' green; 10 Till he came to May Margaret's door, And tirled at the pin. "O sleep ye, wake ye, May Margaret, Or are ye the bower within?" "O wha is that at my bower door, 15 Sae weel my name does ken?" "It's I, Clerk Saunders, your true love, You'll open and lat me in. "O will ye to the cards, Margaret, Or to the table to dine? 20 Or to the bed, that's weel down spread, And sleep when we get time." "I'll no go to the cards," she says, "Nor to the table to dine; But I'll go to a bed, that's weel down spread, 25 And sleep when we get time." They were not weel lyen down, And no weel fa'en asleep, When up and stood May Margaret's brethren, Just up at their bed feet. 30 "O tell us, tell us, May Margaret, And dinna to us len, O wha is aught yon noble steed, That stands your stable in? "The steed is mine, and it may be thine, 35 To ride whan ye ride in hie---- * * * * * * * "But awa', awa', my bald brethren, Awa', and mak nae din; For I am as sick a lady the nicht As e'er lay a bower within." 40 "O tell us, tell us, May Margaret, And dinna to us len, O wha is aught yon noble hawk, That stands your kitchen in?" "The hawk is mine, and it may be thine, 45 To hawk whan ye hawk in hie---- * * * * * * * "But awa', awa', my bald brethren! Awa', and mak nae din; For I'm ane o' the sickest ladies this nicht That e'er lay a bower within." 50 "O tell us, tell us, May Margaret, And dinna to us len, O wha is that, May Margaret, You and the wa' between?" "O it is my bower-maiden," she says, 55 "As sick as sick can be; O it is my bower maiden," she says, And she's thrice as sick as me." "We hae been east, and we've been west, And low beneath the moon; 60 But a' the bower-women e'er we saw Hadna goud buckles in their shoon." Then up and spak her eldest brither, Ay in ill time spak he: "It is Clerk Saunders, your true love, 65 And never mat I the, But for this scorn that he has done, This moment he sall die." But up and spak her youngest brother, Ay in good time spak he: 70 "O but they are a gudelie pair!-- True lovers an ye be, The sword that hangs at my sword belt Sall never sinder ye!" Syne up and spak her nexten brother, 75 And the tear stood in his ee: "You've lo'ed her lang, and lo'ed her weel, And pity it wad be, The sword that hangs at my sword-belt Shoud ever sinder ye!" 80 But up and spak her fifthen brother, "Sleep on your sleep for me; But we baith sall never sleep again, For the tane o' us sall die!" [But up and spak her midmaist brother; 85 And an angry laugh leugh he: "The thorn that dabs, I'll cut it down, Though fair the rose may be. "The flower that smell'd sae sweet yestreen Has lost its bloom wi' thee; 90 And though I'm wae it should be sae, Clerk Saunders, ye maun die."] And up and spak her thirden brother, Ay in ill time spak he: "Curse on his love and comeliness!-- 95 Dishonour'd as ye be, The sword that hangs at my sword-belt Sall quickly sinder ye!" Her eldest brother has drawn his sword; Her second has drawn anither; 100 Between Clerk Saunders' hause and collar bane The cald iron met thegither. "O wae be to you, my fause brethren, And an ill death mat ye die! Ye mith slain Clerk Saunders in open field, 105 And no in the bed wi' me." When seven years were come and gane, Lady Margaret she thought lang; And she is up to the hichest tower, By the lee licht o' the moon. 110 She was lookin o'er her castle high, To see what she might fa'; And there she saw a grieved ghost Comin waukin o'er the wa'.[L114] "O are ye a man of mean," she says, 115 "Seekin ony o' my meat? Or are you a rank robber, Come in my bower to break?" "O I'm Clerk Saunders, your true love; Behold, Margaret, and see, 120 And mind, for a' your meikle pride, Sae will become of thee." "Gin ye be Clerk Saunders, my true love, This meikle marvels me: O wherein is your bonny arms 125 That wont to embrace me?" "By worms they're eaten, in mools they're rotten, Behold, Margaret, and see; And mind, for a' your mickle pride, Sae will become o' thee!" 130 * * * * * * * O, bonny, bonny sang the bird, Sat on the coil o' hay; But dowie, dowie was the maid, That follow'd the corpse o' clay. "Is there ony room at your head, Saunders, 135 Is there ony room at your feet? Is there ony room at your twa sides, For a lady to lie and sleep?" "There is nae room at my head, Margaret, As little at my feet; 140 There is nae room at my twa sides, For a lady to lie and sleep. "But gae hame, gae hame, now, May Margaret, Gae hame and sew your seam; For if ye were laid in your weel-made bed, 145 Your days will nae be lang." 114. The _wa'_ here is supposed to mean the wall, which, in some old castles, surrounded the court. J. LORD WA'YATES AND AULD INGRAM. A FRAGMENT. See p. 72. Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, ii. 265. "From Mr. Herd's MS., transmitted by Mr. Scott." Lady Maisery was a lady fair, She made her mother's bed; Auld Ingram was an aged knight, And her he sought to wed. "Its I forbid ye, auld Ingram, 5 For to seek me to spouse; For Lord Wa'yates, your sister's son, Has been into my bowers. "Its I forbid ye, auld Ingram, For to seek me to wed; 10 For Lord Wa'yates, your sister's son, Has been into my bed." He has brocht to this ladie The robis of the brown; And ever, "Alas!" says this ladie, 15 "Thae robes will put me down." And he has brocht to that ladie The robis of the red; And ever, "Alas!" says that ladie, "Thae robes will be my dead." 20 And he has brocht to that ladie The chrystal and the laumer; Sae has he brocht to her mither The curches o' the cannel. Every ane o' her seven brethren 25 They had a hawk in hand, And every lady in the place They got a goud garland. Every cuik in that kitchen They got a noble claith; 30 A' was blyth at auld Ingram's coming, But Lady Maisery was wraith. "Whare will I get a bonny boy, Wad fain win hose and shoon, That wad rin on to my Wa'yates, 35 And quickly come again?" "Here am I, a bonny boy, Wad fain win hose and shoon; Wha will rin on to your Wa'yates, And quickly come again." 40 "Ye'll bid him, and ye'll pray him baith, Gin ony prayer may dee, To Marykirk to come the morn, My weary wadding to see." Lord Wa'yates lay o'er his castle wa', 45 Beheld baith dale and down; And he beheld a bonny boy Come running to the town. "What news, what news, ye bonny boy? What news hae ye to me? 50 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "O are my ladie's fauldis brunt, Or are her towers won? Or is my Maisery lichter yet O' a dear dochter or son?" "Your ladie's faulds are neither brunt, 55 Nor are her towers won; Nor is your Maisery lichter yet O' a dear dochter or son: "But she bids you, and she prays you baith, Gin ony prayer can dee, 60 To Mary Kirk to come the morn, Her weary wadding to see." He dang the buird up wi' his fit, Sae did he wi' his knee; The silver cup, that was upon't, 65 I' the fire he gar'd it flee: "O whatten a lord in a' Scotland Dare marry my Maisery? "O it is but a feeble thocht, To tell the tane and nae the tither; 70 O it is but a feeble thocht To tell it's your ain mither's brither." "Its I will send to that wadding, And I will follow syne, The fitches o' the fallow deer, 75 And the gammons o' the swine; And the nine hides o' the noble cow-- 'Twas slain in season time. "Its I will send to that wadding Ten tun o' the red wine; 80 And mair I'll send to that waddin', And I will follow syne." Whan he came in into the ha', Lady Maisery she did ween; And twenty times he kist her mou', 85 Afore auld Ingram's een. And till the kirk she wadna gae, Nor tillt she wadna ride, Till four-and-twenty men she gat her before, And twenty on ilka side, 90 And four-and-twenty milk white dows, To flee aboon her head. A loud lauchter gae Lord Wa'yates, 'Mang the mids o' his men; "Marry that lady wha that will, 95 A maiden she is nane." "O leuch ye at my men, Wa'yates, Or did ye lauch at me? Or leuch ye at the bierdly bride, That's gaun to marry me?" 100 "I leuchna at your men, uncle, Nor yet leuch I at thee; But I leuch at my lands so braid, Sae weel's I do them see." When e'en was come, and e'en-bells rung, 105 And a' man gane to bed, The bride but and the silly bridegroom In ae chamber were laid. Wasna't a fell thing for to see Twa heads upon a cod; 110 Lady Maisery's like the mo'ten goud, Auld Ingram's like a toad. He turn'd his face unto the stock, And sound he fell asleep; She turn'd her face unto the wa', 115 And saut tears she did weep. It fell about the mirk midnicht, Auld Ingram began to turn him; He put his hand on's ladie's side, And waly, sair was she mournin'. 120 "What aileth thee, my lady dear? Ever alas, and wae is me! There is a babe betwixt thy sides,-- Oh! sae sair's it grieves me!" "O didna I tell ye, auld Ingram, 125 Ere ye socht me to wed, That Lord Wa'yates, your sister's son, Had been into my bed?" "Then father that bairn on me, Maisery, O father that bairn on me; 130 And ye sall hae a rigland shire Your mornin' gift to be." "O sarbit!" says the Ladie Maisery, "That ever the like me befa', To father my bairn on auld Ingram, 135 Lord Wa'yates in my father's ha'. "O sarbit!" says the Ladie Maisery, "That ever the like betide, To father my bairn on auld Ingram, And Lord Wa'yates beside." 140 * * * * * * * SWEET WILLIE AND FAIR MAISRY. See p. 79. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 97. "Hey love Willie, and how love Willie, And Willie my love shall be; They're thinking to sinder our lang love, Willie; It's mair than man can dee. "Ye'll mount me quickly on a steed, 5 A milk-white steed or gray; And carry me on to gude greenwood Before that it be day." He mounted her upon a steed, He chose a steed o' gray; 10 He had her on to gude greenwood Before that it was day. "O will ye gang to the cards, Meggie? Or will ye gang wi' me? Or will ye ha'e a bower woman, 15 To stay ere it be day?" "I winna gang to the cards," she said, "Nor will I gae wi' thee, Nor will I hae a bower woman, To spoil my modestie. 20 "Ye'll gie me a lady at my back, An' a lady me beforn; An' a midwife at my twa sides Till your young son be born. "Ye'll do me up, and further up, 25 To the top o' yon greenwood tree; For every pain myself shall ha'e, The same pain ye maun drie." The first pain that did strike sweet Willie, It was into the side; 30 Then sighing sair said sweet Willie, "These pains are ill to bide." The nextan pain that strake sweet Willie, It was into the back; Then sighing sair said sweet Willie, 35 "These pains are women's wreck." The nextan pain that strake sweet Willie, It was into the head; Then sighing sair said sweet Willie, "I fear my lady's dead." 40 Then he's gane on, and further on, At the foot o' yon greenwood tree; There he got his lady lighter, Wi' his young son on her knee. Then he's ta'en up his little young son, 45 And kiss'd him cheek and chin; And he is on to his mother, As fast as he could gang. "Ye will take in my son, mother, Gi'e him to nurses nine; 50 Three to wauk, and three to sleep, And three to gang between." Then he has left his mother's house, And frae her he has gane; And he is back to his lady, 55 And safely brought her hame. Then in it came her father dear, Was belted in a brand; "It's nae time for brides to lye in bed, When the bridegroom's send's in town. 60 "There are four-and-twenty noble lords A' lighted on the green; The fairest knight amang them a', He must be your bridegroom." "O wha will shoe my foot, my foot? 65 And wha will glove my hand? And wha will prin my sma' middle, Wi' the short prin and the lang?" Now out it speaks him, sweet Willie, Who knew her troubles best; 70 "It is my duty for to serve, As I'm come here as guest. "Now I will shoe your foot, Maisry, And I will glove your hand, And I will prin your sma' middle, 75 Wi' the sma' prin and the lang." "Wha will saddle my steed," she says, "And gar my bridle ring? And wha will ha'e me to gude church-door, This day I'm ill abound?" 80 "I will saddle your steed, Maisry, And gar your bridle ring; And I'll hae you to gude church-door, And safely set you down." "O healy, healy take me up, 85 And healy set me down; And set my back until a wa', My foot to yird-fast stane." He healy took her frae her horse, And healy set her down; 90 And set her back until a wa', Her foot to yird-fast stane. When they had eaten and well drunken, And a' had thorn'd fine; The bride's father he took the cup, 95 For to serve out the wine. Out it speaks the bridegroom's brother, An ill death mat he die! "I fear our bride she's born a bairn, Or else has it a dee." 100 She's ta'en out a Bible braid, And deeply has she sworn; "If I ha'e born a bairn," she says, "Sin' yesterday at morn; "Or if I've born a bairn," she says, 105 "Sin' yesterday at noon; There's nae a lady amang you a' That wou'd been here sae soon." Then out it spake the bridegroom's man, Mischance come ower his heel! 110 "Win up, win up, now bride," he says, "And dance a shamefu' reel."[L112] Then out it speaks the bride hersell, And a sorry heart had she; "Is there nae ane amang you a' 115 Will dance this dance for me?" Then out it speaks him, sweet Willie, And he spake aye thro' pride; "O draw my boots for me, bridegroom, Or I dance for your bride." 120 Then out it spake the bride hersell, "O na, this maunna be; For I will dance this dance mysell, Tho' my back shou'd gang in three." She hadna well gane thro' the reel, 125 Nor yet well on the green, Till she fell down at Willie's feet As cauld as ony stane. He's ta'en her in his arms twa, And ha'ed her up the stair; 130 Then up it came her jolly bridegroom, Says, "What's your business there?" Then Willie lifted up his foot, And dang him down the stair; And brake three ribs o' the bridegroom's side, 135 And a word he spake nae mair. Nae meen was made for that lady, When she was lying dead; But a' was for him, sweet Willie, On the fields for he ran mad. 140 112. The first reel, danced with the bride, her maiden, and two young men, and called the Shame Spring, or Reel, as the bride chooses the tune that is to be played. B. LADY MARJORIE. See p. 92. "Given from the recitation of an old woman in Kilbarchan, Renfrewshire, from whom the Editor has obtained several valuable pieces of a like nature. In singing, O is added at the end of the second and fourth line of each stanza." Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 234. Lady Marjorie was her mother's only daughter, Her father's only heir; And she is awa to Strawberry Castle, To get some unco lair. She had na been in Strawberry Castle 5 A twelvemonth and a day, Till Lady Marjorie she gangs big wi' child, As big as she can gae. Word is to her father gane, Before he got on his shoon, 10 That Lady Marjorie she gaes wi' child, And it is to an Irish groom. But word is to her mother gone, Before she got on her goun, That Lady Marjorie she gaes wi' child 15 To a lord of high renown. "O wha will put on the pat," they said, "Or wha will put on the pan, Or wha will put on a bauld, bauld fire, To burn Lady Marjorie in?" 20 Her father he put on the pat, Her sister put on the pan, And her brother he put on a bauld, bauld fire, To burn Lady Marjorie in; And her mother she sat in a golden chair, 25 To see her daughter burn. "But where will I get a pretty little boy, That will win hose and shoon; That will go quickly to Strawberry Castle, And bid my lord come doun?" 30 "O here am I, a pretty little boy, That will win hose and shoon; That will rin quickly to Strawberry Castle, And bid thy lord come doun." O when he cam to broken brigs, 35 He bent his bow and swam; And when he cam to gude dry land, He set doun his foot and ran. When he cam to Strawberry Castle, He tirled at the pin; 40 Nane was sae ready as the gay lord himsell To open and let him in. "O is there any of my towers burnt, Or any of my castles won? Or is Lady Marjorie brought to bed, 45 Of a daughter or a son?" "O there is nane of thy towers burnt, Nor nane of thy castles broken; But Lady Marjorie is condemned to die, To be burnt in a fire of oaken." 50 "O gar saddle to me the black," he says, "Gar saddle to me the broun; Gar saddle to me the swiftest steed That e'er carried a man frae toun!" He left the black into the slap, 55 The broun into the brae; But fair fa' that bonnie apple-gray That carried this gay lord away! "Beet on, beet on, my brother dear, I value you not one straw; 60 For yonder comes my ain true luve, I hear his horn blaw. "Beet on, beet on, my father dear, I value you not a pin; For yonder comes my ain true luve, 65 I hear his bridle ring." He took a little horn out of his pocket, And he blew't baith loud and schill; And wi' the little life that was in her, She hearken'd to it full weel. 70 But when he came into the place, He lap unto the wa'; He thought to get a kiss o' her bonnie lips, But her body fell in twa! "O vow! O vow! O vow!" he said, 75 "O vow! but ye've been cruel: Ye've taken the timber out of my ain wood, And burnt my ain dear jewel! "Now for thy sake, Lady Marjorie, I'll burn baith father and mother; 80 And for thy sake, Lady Marjorie, I'll burn baith sister and brother. "And for thy sake, Lady Marjorie, I'll burn baith kith and kin; But I'll aye remember the pretty little boy 85 That did thy errand rin." LEESOME BRAND. Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 38. This is properly a tragic story, as may be perceived by comparing the present corrupted version (evidently made up from several different sources) with the Danish and Swedish ballads. See _Herr Medelvold_, _Danske Viser_, iii. 361, _Die wahrsagenden Nachtigallen_, in Grimm's _Altdänische Heldenlieder_, p. 88, _Fair Midel and Kirsten Lyle_, translated by Jamieson, _Illustrations_, p. 377; and _Herr Redevall_, _Svenska Folkvisor_, ii. 189, _Krist' Lilla och Herr Tideman_, Arwidsson, i. 352, _Sir Wal and Lisa Lyle_, translated by Jamieson, p. 373. My boy was scarcely ten years auld, Whan he went to an unco land, Where wind never blew, nor cocks ever crew, Ohon! for my son, Leesome Brand. Awa' to that king's court he went, 5 It was to serve for meat an' fee; Gude red gowd it was his hire, And lang in that king's court stay'd he. He hadna been in that unco land, But only twallmonths twa or three; 10 Till by the glancing o' his ee, He gain'd the love o' a gay ladye. This ladye was scarce eleven years auld, When on her love she was right bauld; She was scarce up to my right knee, 15 When oft in bed wi' men I'm tauld. But when nine months were come and gane, This ladye's face turn'd pale and wane; To Leesome Brand she then did say, "In this place I can nae mair stay. 20 "Ye do you to my father's stable, Where steeds do stand baith wight and able; Strike ane o' them upo' the back, The swiftest will gie his head a wap. "Ye take him out upo' the green, 25 And get him saddled and bridled seen; Get ane for you, anither for me, And lat us ride out ower the lee. "Ye do you to my mother's coffer, And out of it ye'll take my tocher; 30 Therein are sixty thousand pounds, Which all to me by right belongs." He's done him to her father's stable, Where steeds stood baith wicht and able; Then he strake ane upon the back, 35 The swiftest gae his head a wap. He's ta'en him out upo' the green, And got him saddled and bridled seen; Ane for him, and another for her, To carry them baith wi' might and virr. 40 He's done him to her mother's coffer, And there he's taen his lover's tocher; Wherein were sixty thousand pounds, Which all to her by right belong'd. When they had ridden about six mile, 45 His true love then began to fail; "O wae's me," said that gay ladye, "I fear my back will gang in three! "O gin I had but a gude midwife,[L49] Here this day to save my life, 50 And ease me o' my misery, O dear, how happy I wou'd be!" "My love, we're far frae ony town; There is nae midwife to be foun'; But if ye'll be content wi' me, 55 I'll do for you what man can dee." "For no, for no, this maunna be," Wi' a sigh, replied this gay ladye; "When I endure my grief and pain, My companie ye maun refrain. 60 "Ye'll take your arrow and your bow, And ye will hunt the deer and roe; Be sure ye touch not the white hynde, For she is o' the woman kind." He took sic pleasure in deer and roe, 65 Till he forgot his gay ladye; Till by it came that milk-white hynde, And then he mind on his ladye syne. He hasted him to yon greenwood tree, For to relieve his gay ladye; 70 But found his ladye lying dead, Likeways her young son at her head. His mother lay ower her castle wa', And she beheld baith dale and down; And she beheld young Leesome Brand, 75 As he came riding to the town. "Get minstrels for to play," she said, "And dancers to dance in my room; For here comes my son, Leesome Brand, And he comes merrilie to the town." 80 "Seek nae minstrels to play, mother, Nor dancers to dance in your room; But tho' your son comes, Leesome Brand, Yet he comes sorry to the town. "O I hae lost my gowden knife, 85 I rather had lost my ain sweet life; And I hae lost a better thing, The gilded sheath that it was in." "Are there nae gowdsmiths here in Fife, Can make to you anither knife? 90 Are there nae sheath-makers in the land, Can make a sheath to Leesome Brand?" "There are nae gowdsmiths here in Fife, Can make me sic a gowden knife; Nor nae sheath-makers in the land, 95 Can make to me a sheath again. "There ne'er was man in Scotland born, Ordain'd to be so much forlorn; I've lost my ladye I lov'd sae dear, Likeways the son she did me bear." 100 "Put in your hand at my bed head, There ye'll find a gude grey horn; In it three draps o' Saint Paul's ain blude, That hae been there sin' he was born. "Drap twa o' them o' your ladye, 105 And ane upo' your little young son; Then as lively they will be As the first night ye brought them hame." He put his hand at her bed head, And there he found a gude grey horn; 110 Wi' three draps o' Saint Paul's ain blude, That had been there sin' he was born. Then he drapp'd twa on his ladye, And ane o' them on his young son; And now they do as lively be, 115 As the first day he brought them hame. NOTE to v. 49-72.--A similar passage is found at p. 94 of this volume, v. 33-36, also vol. v. p. 178, v. 97-108, and p. 402, v. 169-176, and in the Scandinavian ballads cited in the preface to this ballad. In these last the lady frees herself from the presence of the knight by sending him to get her some water, and she is found dead on his return. This incident, remarks Grimm, (_Altdänische Heldenlieder_, p. 508), is also found in _Wolfdietrich_, Str. 1680-96. THE YOUTH OF ROSENGORD. See p. 219. _Sven i Rosengård_, _Svenska Folk-Visor_, iii. 3, and Arwidsson's _Fornsånger_, ii. 83: translated in _Literature and Romance of Northern Europe_, i. 263. "So long where hast thou tarried, Young man of Rosengord?" "I have been into my stable, Our mother dear." Long may you look for me, or look for me never. 5 "What hast thou done in the stable, Young man of Rosengord?" "I have watered the horses, Our mother dear." Long may ye look for me, or look for me never. 10 "Why is thy foot so bloody, Young man of Rosengord?" "The black horse has trampled me, Our mother dear." Long may you look for me, or look for me never. 15 "Why is thy sword so bloody, Young man of Rosengord?" "I have murdered my brother, Our mother dear." Long may you look for me, or look for me never. 20 "Whither wilt thou betake thee, Young man of Rosengord?" "I shall flee my country, Our mother dear." Long may you look for me, or look for me never. 25 "What will become of thy wedded wife, Young man of Rosengord?" "She must spin for her living, Our mother dear." Long may you look for me, or look for me never. 30 "What will become of thy children small, Young man of Rosengord?" "They must beg from door to door, Our mother dear." Long may you look for me, or look for me never. 35 "When comest thou back again, Young man of Rosengord?" "When the swan is black as night, Our mother dear." Long may you look for me, or look for me never. 40 "And when will the swan be black as night, Young man of Rosengord?" "When the raven shall be white as snow, Our mother dear." Long may you look for me, or look for me never. 45 "And when will the raven be white as snow, Young man of Rosengord?" "When the grey rocks take to flight, Our mother dear." Long may you look for me, or look for me never. 50 "And when will fly the grey rocks, Young man of Rosengord?" "The rocks they will fly never, Our mother dear." Long may you look for me, or look for me never. 55 THE BLOOD-STAINED SON.--See p. 219. A translation, nearly word for word, of _Der Blutige Sohn_, printed from oral tradition in Schröter's _Finnische Runen_, (_Finnisch und Deutsch_,) ed. 1834, p. 151. "Say whence com'st thou, say whence com'st thou, Merry son of mine?" "From the lake-side, from the lake-side, O dear mother mine." "What hast done there, what hast done there, 5 Merry son of mine?" "Steeds I watered, steeds I watered, O dear mother mine." "Why thus clay-bedaubed thy jacket, Merry son of mine?" 10 "Steeds kept stamping, steeds kept stamping, O dear mother mine." "But how came thy sword so bloody, Merry son of mine?" "I have stabbed my only brother, 15 O dear mother mine." "Whither wilt thou now betake thee, Merry son of mine?" "Far away to foreign countries, O dear mother mine." 20 "Where leav'st thou thy gray-haired father, Merry son of mine?" "Let him chop wood in the forest, Never wish to see me more, O dear mother mine." 25 "Where leav'st thou thy gray-haired mother, Merry son of mine?" "Let her sit, her flax a-picking, Never wish to see me more, O dear mother mine." 30 "Where leav'st thou thy wife so youthful, Merry son of mine?" "Let her deck her, take another, Never wish to see me more, O dear mother mine." 35 "Where leav'st thou thy son so youthful, Merry son of mine?" "He to school, and bear the rod there, [Never wish to see me more,] O dear mother mine." 40 "Where leav'st thou thy youthful daughter, Merry son of mine?" "She to the wood and eat wild berries, Never wish to see me more, O dear mother mine." 45 "Home when com'st thou back from roaming, Merry son of mine?" "In the north when breaks the morning, O dear mother mine." "In the north when breaks the morning, 50 Merry son of mine?" "When stones dance upon the water, O dear mother mine." "When shall stones dance on the water, Merry son of mine?" 55 "When a feather sinks to the bottom, O dear mother mine." "When shall feathers sink to the bottom, Merry son of mine?" "When we all shall come to judgment, 60 O dear mother mine." THE TWA BROTHERS. See p. 220. From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 61. There were twa brothers at the scule, And when they got awa',-- "It's will ye play at the stane-chucking, Or will ye play at the ba', Or will ye gae up to yon hill head, 5 And there we'll warsel a fa'?" "I winna play at the stane-chucking, Nor will I play at the ba'; But I'll gae up to yon bonnie green hill, And there we'll warsel a fa'." 10 They warsled up, they warsled down, Till John fell to the ground; A dirk fell out of William's pouch, And gave John a deadly wound. "O lift me upon your back, 15 Take me to yon well fair, And wash my bluidy wounds o'er and o'er, And they'll ne'er bleed nae mair." He's lifted his brother upon his back, Ta'en him to yon well fair; 20 He's wash'd his bluidy wounds o'er and o'er, But they bleed ay mair and mair. "Tak ye aff my Holland sark, And rive it gair by gair, And row it in my bluidy wounds, 25 And they'll ne'er bleed nae mair." He's taken aff his Holland sark, And torn it gair by gair; He's rowit it in his bluidy wounds, But they bleed ay mair and mair. 30 "Tak now aff my green cleiding, And row me saftly in; And tak me up to yon kirk style, Whare the grass grows fair and green." He's taken aff the green cleiding, 35 And rowed him saftly in; He's laid him down by yon kirk style, Whare the grass grows fair and green. "What will ye say to your father dear, When ye gae hame at e'en?" 40 "I'll say ye're lying at yon kirk style, Whare the grass grows fair and green." "O no, O no, my brother dear, O you must not say so; But say that I'm gane to a foreign land, 45 Whare nae man does me know." When he sat in his father's chair, He grew baith pale and wan: "O what blude 's that upon your brow? O dear son, tell to me." 50 "It is the blude o' my gude gray steed, He wadna ride wi' me." "O thy steed's blude was ne'er sae red, Nor e'er sae dear to me: O what blude 's this upon your cheek? 55 O dear son, tell to me." "It is the blude of my greyhound, He wadna hunt for me." "O thy hound's blude was ne'er sae red, Nor e'er sae dear to me: 60 O what blude 's this upon your hand? O dear son, tell to me." "It is the blude of my gay goss hawk, He wadna flee for me." "O thy hawk's blude was ne'er sae red, 65 Nor e'er sae dear to me: O what blude 's this upon your dirk? Dear Willie, tell to me." "It is the blude of my ae brother, O dule and wae is me!" 70 "O what will ye say to your father? Dear Willie, tell to me." "I'll saddle my steed, and awa I'll ride To dwell in some far countrie." "O when will ye come hame again? 75 Dear Willie, tell to me." "When sun and mune leap on yon hill, And that will never be." She turn'd hersel' right round about, And her heart burst into three: 80 "My ae best son is deid and gane, And my tother ane I'll ne'er see." THE MILLER AND THE KING'S DAUGHTER. See p. 231. From _Wit Restor'd_, (1658,) reprinted, London, 1817, i. 153. It is there ascribed to "Mr. Smith," (Dr. James Smith, the author of many of the pieces in that collection,) who may have written it down from tradition, and perhaps added a verse or two. Mr. Rimbault has printed the same piece from a broadside dated 1656, in _Notes and Queries_, v. 591. A fragment of it is given from recitation at p. 316 of that volume, and a copy quite different from any before published, at p. 102 of vol. vi. Although two or three stanzas are ludicrous, and were probably intended for burlesque, this ballad is by no means to be regarded as a parody. There were two sisters, they went a-playing, _With a hie downe, downe, a downe a_; To see their fathers ships sayling in. _With a hy downe, downe, a downe o._ And when they came into the sea brym, _With_, &c. The elder did push the younger in. _With_, &c. "O sister, O sister, take me by the gowne, 5 _With_, &c. And drawe me up upon the dry ground." _With_, &c. "O sister, O sister, that may not bee, _With_, &c. Till salt and oatmeale grow both of a tree." _With_, &c. Somtymes she sanke, somtymes she swam, _With_, &c. Untill she came unto the mildam. 10 _With_, &c. The miller runne hastily downe the cliffe, _With_, &c. And up he betook her withouten her life. _With_, &c. What did he doe with her brest bone? _With_, &c. He made him a viall to play thereupon. _With_, &c. What did he doe with her fingers so small? 15 _With_, &c. He made him peggs to his violl withall. _With_, &c. What did he doe with her nose-ridge? _With_, &c. Unto his violl he made him a bridge. _With_, &c. What did he do with her veynes so blewe? _With_, &c. He made him strings to his viole thereto. 20 _With_, &c. What did he doe with her eyes so bright? _With_, &c. Upon his violl he played at first sight. _With_, &c. What did he doe with her tongue soe rough? _With_, &c. Unto the violl it spake enough. _With_, &c. What did he doe with her two shinnes? 25 _With_, &c. Unto the violl they danct Moll Syms. _With_, &c. Then bespake the treble string, _With_, &c. "O yonder is my father the king." _With_, &c. Then bespake the second string, _With_, &c. "O yonder sitts my mother the queen." 30 _With_, &c. And then bespake the stringes all three, _With_, &c. "O yonder is my sister that drowned mee." _With_, &c. Now pay the miller for his payne, _With_, &c. And let him bee gone in the divels name. _With_, &c. THE BONNY BOWS O' LONDON. See p. 231. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 128. There were twa sisters in a bower, _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; And ae king's son hae courted them baith, _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. He courted the youngest wi' broach and ring, 5 _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; He courted the eldest wi' some other thing, _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. It fell ance upon a day, _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_, 10 The eldest to the youngest did say, _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_: "Will ye gae to yon Tweed mill dam," _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_, "And see our father's ships come to land?" 15 _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. They baith stood up upon a stane, _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; The eldest dang the youngest in, _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. 20 She swimmed up, sae did she down, _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; Till she came to the Tweed mill-dam, _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. The miller's servant he came out, 25 _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; And saw the lady floating about, _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. "O master, master, set your mill," _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; 30 "There is a fish, or a milk-white swan," _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. They could not ken her yellow hair, _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; [For] the scales o' gowd that were laid there, 35 _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. They could not ken her fingers sae white, _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; The rings o' gowd they were sae bright, _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. 40 They could not ken her middle sae jimp, _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; The stays o' gowd were so well laced, _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. They could not ken her foot sae fair, 45 _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; The shoes o' gowd they were so rare, _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. Her father's fiddler he came by, _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; 50 Upstarted her ghaist before his eye, _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. "Ye'll take a lock o' my yellow hair," _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; "Ye'll make a string to your fiddle there," 55 _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. "Ye'll take a lith o' my little finger bane," _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; "And ye'll make a pin to your fiddle then," _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. 60 He's ta'en a lock o' her yellow hair, _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; And made a string to his fiddle there, _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. He's taen a lith o' her little finger bane, 65 _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; And he's made a pin to his fiddle then, _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. The firstand spring the fiddle did play, _Hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; 70 Said, "Ye'll drown my sister, as she's dune me." _At the bonny, bonny bows o' London_. I. THE CROODLIN DOO. See _Lord Donald_, p. 244. From Chambers's _Scottish Ballads_, p. 324. Other copies in _The Scot's Musical Museum_, (1853,) vol. iv. 364*, and Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 179. "O whaur hae ye been a' the day, My little wee croodlin doo?" "O I've been at my grandmother's; Mak my bed, mammie, noo." "O what gat ye at your grandmother's, 5 My little wee croodlin doo?" "I got a bonnie wee fishie; Mak my bed, mammie, noo." "O whaur did she catch the fishie, My bonnie wee croodlin doo?" 10 "She catch'd it in the gutter-hole; Mak my bed, mammie, noo." "And what did she do wi' the fish, My little wee croodlin doo?" "She boiled it in a brass pan; 15 O mak my bed, mammie, noo." "And what did ye do wi' the banes o't, My bonnie wee croodlin doo?" "I gied them to my little dog; Mak my bed, mammie, noo," 20 "And what did your little doggie do, My bonnie wee croodlin doo?" "He stretch'd out his head, his feet, and dee'd, And so will I, mammie, noo!" II. THE SNAKE-COOK. From oral tradition, in Erk's _Deutscher Leiderhort_, p. 6. Our homely translation is, as far as possible, word for word. Other German versions are _The Stepmother_, at p. 5 of the same collection, (or Uhland, i. 272,) and _Grandmother Adder-cook_, at p. 7. The last is translated by Jamieson, _Illustrations of Northern Antiquities_, p. 320. "Where hast thou been away so long, Henry, my dearest son?" "O I have been at my true-love's, Lady mother, ah me! _My young life, 5 She has poisoned for me_." "What gave she thee to eat, Henry, my dearest son?" "She cooked me a speckled fish, Lady mother, ah me!" &c. 10 "And how many pieces cut she thee, Henry my dearest son?" "She cut three little pieces from it, Lady mother, ah me!" &c. "Where left she then the third piece, 15 Henry, my dearest son?" "She gave it to her dark-brown dog, Lady mother, ah me!" &c. "And what befell the dark-brown dog, Henry, my dearest son?" 20 "His belly burst in the midst in two, Lady mother, ah me!" &c. "What wishest thou for thy father, Henry, my dearest son?" "I wish him a thousandfold boon and blessing, 25 Lady mother, ah me!" &c. "What wishest thou for thy mother, Henry, my dearest son?" "I wish for her eternal bliss, Lady mother, ah me!" &c. 30 "What wishest thou for thy true-love, Henry, my dearest son?" "I wish her eternal hell and torment, Lady mother, ah me!" &c. III. THE CHILD'S LAST WILL. _Den lillas Testamente: Svenska Folk-Visor_, iii. 13. Translated in _Literature and Romance of Northern Europe_, i. 265. See also Arwidsson's _Fornsånger_, ii. 90. "So long where hast thou tarried, Little daughter dear?" "I have tarried with my old nurse, Sweet step-mother mine." _For ah, ah!--I am so ill--ah!_ 5 "What gave she thee for dinner, Little daughter dear?" "A few small speckled fishes, Sweet step-mother mine." _For ah, ah!--I am so ill--ah!_ 10 "What didst thou do with the fish-bones, Little daughter dear?" "Gave them to the beagle, Sweet step-mother mine." _For ah, ah!--I am so ill--ah!_ 15 "What wish leav'st thou thy father, Little daughter dear?" "The blessedness of heaven, Sweet step-mother mine." _For ah, ah!--I am so ill--ah!_ 20 "What wish leav'st thou thy mother, Little daughter dear?" "All the joys of heaven, Sweet step-mother mine." _For ah, ah!--I am so ill--ah!_ 25 "What wish leav'st thou thy brother, Little daughter dear?" "A fleet ship on the waters, Sweet step-mother mine." _For ah, ah!--I am so ill--ah!_ 30 "What wish leav'st thou thy sister, Little daughter dear?" "Golden chests and caskets, Sweet step-mother mine." _For ah, ah!--I am so ill--ah!_ 35 "What wish leav'st thou thy step-mother, Little daughter dear?" "Of hell the bitter sorrow Sweet step-mother mine." _For ah, ah!--I am so ill--ah!_ 40 "What wish leav'st thou thy old nurse, Little daughter dear?" "For her I wish the same pangs, Sweet step-mother mine. _For ah, ah!--I am so ill--ah!_ 45 "But now the time is over When I with you can stay; The little bells of heaven Are ringing me away." _For ah, ah!--I am so ill--ah!_ 50 THE THREE KNIGHTS. See p. 251. From the second edition of Gilbert's _Ancient Christmas Carols_, &c. p. 68. There did three Knights come from the West, _With the high and the lily oh_! And these three Knights courted one Lady, _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. The first Knight came was all in white, 5 _With the high and the lily oh_! And asked of her, if she'd be his delight, _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. The next Knight came was all in green, _With the high and the lily oh_! 10 And asked of her, if she'd be his Queen, _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. The third Knight came was all in red, _With the high and the lily oh_! And asked of her, if she would wed, 15 _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. "Then have you asked of my Father dear, _With the high and the lily oh_! Likewise of her who did me bear? _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. 20 "And have you asked of my brother John? _With the high and the lily oh_! And also of my sister Anne?" _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. "Yes, I have asked of your Father dear, 25 _With the high and the lily oh_! Likewise of her who did you bear, _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. "And I have asked of your sister Anne, _With the high and the lily oh_! 30 But I've not asked of your brother John," _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. [Here some verses seem to be wanting.] For on the road as they rode along, _With the high and the lily oh_! There did they meet with her brother John, 35 _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. She stooped low to kiss him sweet, _With the high and the lily oh_! He to her heart did a dagger meet, _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. 40 "Ride on, ride on," cried the serving man, _With the high and the lily oh_! "Methinks your bride she looks wond'rous wan," _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. "I wish I were on yonder stile, 45 _With the high and the lily oh_! For there I would sit and bleed awhile, _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. "I wish I were on yonder hill, _With the high and the lily oh_! 50 There I'd alight and make my will," _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. "What would you give to your Father dear?" _With the high and the lily oh_! "The gallant steed which doth me bear," 55 _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. "What would you give to your Mother dear?" _With the high and the lily oh_! "My wedding shift which I do wear, _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. 60 "But she must wash it very clean, _With the high and the lily oh_! For my heart's blood sticks in every seam," _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. "What would you give to your sister Anne?" 65 _With the high and the lily oh_! "My gay gold ring, and my feathered fan," _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. "What would you give to your brother John?" _With the high and the lily oh_! 70 "A rope and gallows to hang him on," _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. "What would you give to your brother John's wife?" _With the high and the lily oh_! "A widow's weeds, and a quiet life," 75 _As the rose was so sweetly blown_. THE CRUEL MOTHER. See p. 262. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 222. It fell ance upon a day, _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, It fell ance upon a day, _Stirling for aye_; It fell ance upon a day, The clerk and lady went to play, _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 5 "If my baby be a son, _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, If my baby be a son, _Stirling for aye_; If my baby be a son, I'll make him a lord o' high renown," _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 10 She's lean'd her back to the wa', _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, She's lean'd her back to the wa', _Stirling for aye_; She's lean'd her back to the wa', Pray'd that her pains might fa', _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 15 She's lean'd her back to the thorn, _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, She's lean'd her back to the thorn, _Stirling for aye_; She's lean'd her back to the thorn, There has her baby born, _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 20 "O bonny baby, if ye suck sair, _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, O bonny baby, if ye suck sair, _Stirling for aye_; O bonny baby, if ye suck sair, You'll never suck by my side mair," _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 25 She's riven the muslin frae her head, _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, She's riven the muslin frae her head, _Stirling for aye_; She's riven the muslin frae her head, Tied the baby hand and feet, _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 30 Out she took her little penknife, _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, Out she took her little penknife, _Stirling for aye_; Out she took her little penknife, Twin'd the young thing o' its life, _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 35 She's howk'd a hole anent the meen, _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, She's howk'd a hole anent the meen, _Stirling for aye_; She's howk'd a hole anent the meen, There laid her sweet baby in, _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 40 She had her to her father's ha', _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, She had her to her father's ha', _Stirling for aye_; She had her to her father's ha', She was the meekest maid amang them a', _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 45 It fell ance upon a day, _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, It fell ance upon a day, _Stirling for aye_; It fell ance upon a day, She saw twa babies at their play, _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 50 "O bonny babies, gin ye were mine, _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, O bonny babies, gin ye were mine, _Stirling for aye_; O bonny babies, gin ye were mine, I'd cleathe you in the silks sae fine," _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 55 "O wild mother, when we were thine, _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, O wild mother, when we were thine, _Stirling for aye_; O wild mother, when we were thine, You cleath'd us not in silks sae fine, _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 60 "But now we're in the heavens high, _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, But now we're in the heavens high, _Stirling for aye_; But now we're in the heavens high, And you've the pains o' hell to try," _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 65 She threw hersell ower the castle-wa', _Edinbro'_, _Edinbro'_, She threw hersell ower the castle-wa', _Stirling for aye_; She threw hersell ower the castle-wa', There I wat she got a fa', _So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay_. 70 THE MINISTER'S DOCHTER O' NEWARKE. See p. 262. From _Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads_, Percy Society, vol. xvii. p. 51. This is the same ballad, with trifling variations, as _The Minister's Daughter of New York_, Buchan, ii. 217. The Minister's dochter o' Newarke, _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, Has fa'en in luve wi' her father's clerk, _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. She courted him sax years and a day, 5 _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, At length her fause-luve did her betray, _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. She did her doun to the green woods gang, _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, 10 To spend awa' a while o' her time, _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. She lent her back unto a thorn, _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_; And she's got her twa bonnie boys born, 15 _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. She's ta'en the ribbons frae her hair, _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, Boun' their bodies fast and sair, _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. 20 She's put them aneath a marble stane, _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, Thinkin' a may to gae her hame, _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. Leukin' o'er her castel wa', 25 _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, She spied twa bonny boys at the ba', _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. "O bonny babies, if ye were mine, _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, 30 I woud feed ye wi' the white bread and wine, _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. "I wou'd feed ye with the ferra cow's milk, _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, An' dress ye i' the finest silk," 35 _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. "O cruel mother, when we were thine, _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, We saw nane o' your bread and wine, _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. 40 "We saw nane o' your ferra cow's milk, _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, Nor wore we o' your finest silk," _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. "O bonny babies, can ye tell me, 45 _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, What sort o' death for ye I maun dee," _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. "Yes, cruel mother, we'll tell to thee, _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, 50 What sort o' death for us ye maun dee, _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. "Seven years a fool i' the woods, _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, "Seven years a fish i' the floods, 55 _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. "Seven years to be a church bell, _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, Seven years a porter i' hell," _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. 60 "Welcome, welcome, fool i' the wood, _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, Welcome, welcome, fish i' the flood, _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. "Welcome, welcome, to be a church bell, 65 _Hey wi' the rose and the lindie O_, But heavens keep me out o' hell," _Alane by the green burn sidie O_. BONDSEY AND MAISRY. See p. 298. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 265. "O come along wi' me, brother, Now come along wi' me; And we'll gae seek our sister Maisry, Into the water o' Dee." The eldest brother he stepped in, 5 He stepped to the knee; Then out he jump'd upo' the bank, Says, "This water's nae for me." The second brother he stepped in, He stepped to the quit; 10 Then out he jump'd upo' the bank, Says, "This water's wond'rous deep." When the third brother stepped in, He stepped to the chin; Out he got, and forward wade, 15 For fear o' drowning him. The youngest brother he stepped in, Took 's sister by the hand; Said, "Here she is, my sister Maisry, Wi' the hinny draps on her chin. 20 "O if I were in some bonny ship, And in some strange countrie, For to find out some conjurer, To gar Maisry speak to me!" Then out it speaks an auld woman, 25 As she was passing by; "Ask of your sister what you want, And she will speak to thee." "O sister, tell me who is the man, That did your body win? 30 And who is the wretch, tell me, likewise, That threw you in the lin?" "O Bondsey was the only man That did my body win; And likewise Bondsey was the man 35 That threw me in the lin." "O will we Bondsey head, sister? Or will we Bondsey hang? Or will we set him at our bow end, Lat arrows at him gang?" 40 "Ye winna Bondsey head, brothers, Nor will ye Bondsey hang; But ye'll take out his twa grey e'en, Make Bondsey blind to gang. "Ye'll put to the gate a chain o' gold, 45 A rose garland gar make; And ye'll put that in Bondsey's head, A' for your sister's sake." LADY DIAMOND. From the Percy Society Publications, xvii. 71. The same in Buchan, ii. 206. The ballad is given in Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, under the title of _Dysmal_, and by Aytoun, _Ballads of Scotland_, 2d ed., ii. 173, under that of _Lady Daisy_. All these names are corruptions of Ghismonda, on whose well-known story (_Decamerone_, iv. 1, 9) the present is founded.--This piece and the next might better have been inserted at p. 347, as a part of the Appendix to Book III. There was a king, an' a curious king, An' a king o' royal fame; He had ae dochter, he had never mair, Ladye Diamond was her name. She's fa'en into shame, an' lost her gude name, 5 An' wrought her parents 'noy; An' a' for her layen her luve so low, On her father's kitchen boy. Ae nicht as she lay on her bed, Just thinkin' to get rest, 10 Up it came her old father, Just like a wanderin' ghaist. "Rise up, rise up, ladye Diamond," he says, "Rise up, put on your goun; Rise up, rise up, ladye Diamond," he says, 15 "For I fear ye gae too roun'." "Too roun I gae, yet blame me nae; Ye'll cause me na to shame; For better luve I that bonnie boy Than a' your weel-bred men." 20 The king's ca'd up his wa'-wight men, That he paid meat an' fee: "Bring here to me that bonnie boy, An' we'll smore him right quietlie." Up hae they ta'en that bonnie boy, 25 Put him 'tween twa feather beds; Naethin' was dane, nor naethin' said, Till that bonnie bonnie boy was dead. The king's ta'en out a braid braid sword, An' streak'd it on a strae; 30 An' thro' an' thro' that bonnie boy's heart He's gart cauld iron gae. Out has he ta'en his poor bluidie heart, Set it in a tasse o' gowd, And set it before ladye Diamonds face, 35 Said "Fair ladye, behold!" Up has she ta'en this poor bludie heart, An' holden it in her han'; "Better luved I that bonnie bonnie boy Than a' my father's lan'." 40 Up has she ta'en his poor bludie heart, An' laid it at her head; The tears awa' frae her eyne did flee, An' ere midnicht she was dead. THE WEST COUNTRY DAMOSELS COMPLAINT. From Collier's _Book of Roxburghe Ballads_, p. 202. After a broadside "printed by P. Brooksby, at the Golden Bull in Westsmith-field, neer the Hospitall Gate." The first ten or twelve stanzas seem to be ancient. "When will you marry me, William, And make me your wedded wife? Or take you your keen bright sword, And rid me out of my life." "Say no more then so,[L5] lady, 5 Say you no more then so, For you shall unto the wild forrest, And amongst the buck and doe. "Where thou shalt eat of the hips and haws, And the roots that are so sweet, 10 And thou shalt drink of the cold water That runs underneath your feet." Now had she not been in the wild forrest Passing three months and a day, But with hunger and cold she had her fill, 15 Till she was quite worn away. At last she saw a fair tyl'd house, And there she swore by the rood, That she would to that fair tyl'd house, There for to get her some food. 20 But when she came unto the gates, Aloud, aloud she cry'd, "An alms, an alms, my own sister! I ask you for no pride." Her sister call'd up her merry men all, 25 By one, by two, and by three, And bid them hunt away that wild doe, As far as e'er they could see. They hunted her o're hill and dale, And they hunted her so sore, 30 That they hunted her into the forrest, Where her sorrows grew more and more. She laid a stone all at her head, And another all at her feet, And down she lay between these two, 35 Till death had lull'd her asleep. When sweet Will came and stood at her head, And likewise stood at her feet, A thousand times he kiss'd her cold lips, Her body being fast asleep. 40 Yea, seaven times he stood at her feet, And seaven times at her head; A thousand times he shook her hand, Although her body was dead. "Ah wretched me!" he loudly cry'd, 45 "What is it that I have done? O wou'd to the powers above I'de dy'd, When thus I left her alone! "Come, come, you gentle red-breast now, And prepare for us a tomb, 50 Whilst unto cruel Death I bow, And sing like a swan my doom. "Why could I ever cruel be Unto so fair a creature; Alas! she dy'd for love of me, 55 The loveliest she in nature! "For me she left her home so fair To wander in this wild grove, And there with sighs and pensive care She ended her life for love. 60 "O constancy, in her thou'rt lost! Now let women boast no more; She's fled unto the Elizian coast, And with her carry'd the store. "O break, my heart, with sorrow fill'd, 65 Come, swell, you strong tides of grief! You that my dear love have kill'd, Come, yield in death to me relief. "Cruel her sister, was't for me That to her she was unkind? 70 Her husband I will never be, But with this my love be joyn'd. "Grim Death shall tye the marriage bands, Which jealousie shan't divide; Together shall tye our cold hands, 75 Whilst here we lye side by side. "Witness, ye groves, and chrystal streams, How faithless I late have been; But do repent with dying leaves Of that my ungrateful sin; 80 "And wish a thousand times that I Had been but to her more kind, And not have let a virgin dye, Whose equal there's none can find. "Now heaps of sorrow press my soul; 85 Now, now 'tis she takes her way; I come, my love, without controule, Nor from thee will longer stay." With that he fetch'd a heavy groan, Which rent his tender breast, 90 And then by her he laid him down, When as Death did give him rest. Whilst mournful birds, with leavy bows, To them a kind burial gave, And warbled out their love-sick vows, 95 Whilst they both slept in their grave. 5, so then. THE BRAVE EARL BRAND AND THE KING OF ENGLAND'S DAUGHTER. See p. 114. From Bell's _Ballads of the Peasantry of England_, p. 122. This ballad, which was printed by Bell from the recitation of an old Northumberland fiddler, is defective in the tenth and the last stanzas, and has suffered much from corruption in the course of transmission. The name of the hero, however, is uncommonly well preserved, and affords a link, rarely occurring in English, with the corresponding Danish and Swedish ballads, a good number of which have Hildebrand, though more have Ribold. It may be observed that in _Hildebrand og Hilde_ (Grundtvig, No. 83), the knight has the rank here ascribed to the lady. "Hand heede hertug Hyldebraand, Kongens sönn aff Engeland." The "old Carl Hood" who gives the alarm in this ballad, is called in most of the Danish ballads "a rich earl"; in one a treacherous man, in another a young Carl, and in a third an old man; which together furnish the elements of his character here of a treacherous old Carl. O did you ever hear of the brave Earl Brand? _Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie!_ He's courted the king's daughter o' fair England, _I' the brave nights so early._ She was scarcely fifteen years that tide, When sae boldly she came to his bed-side. "O Earl Brand, how fain wad I see 5 A pack of hounds let loose on the lea." "O lady fair, I have no steed but one, But thou shalt ride and I will run." "O Earl Brand, but my father has two, And thou shalt have the best of tho." 10 Now they have ridden o'er moss and moor, And they have met neither rich nor poor. Till at last they met with old Carl Hood, He's aye for ill, and never for good. "Now, Earl Brand, an ye love me, 15 Slay this old carl, and gar him dee." "O lady fair, but that would be sair, To slay an auld carl that wears grey hair. "My own lady fair, I'll not do that, I'll pay him his fee......." 20 "O where have ye ridden this lee lang day, And where have ye stown this fair lady away?" "I have not ridden this lee lang day, Nor yet have I stown this lady away. "For she is, I trow, my sick sister, 25 Whom I have been bringing fra Winchester." "If she's been sick, and nigh to dead, What makes her wear the ribbon so red? "If she's been sick, and like to die, What makes her wear the gold sae high?" 30 When came the carl to the lady's yett, He rudely, rudely rapped thereat. "Now where is the lady of this hall?" "She's out with her maids a-playing at the ball." "Ha, ha, ha! ye are all mista'en; 35 Ye may count your maidens owre again. "I met her far beyond the lea, With the young Earl Brand, his leman to be." Her father of his best men armed fifteen, And they're ridden after them bidene. 40 The lady looked owre her left shoulder then; Says, "O Earl Brand, we are both of us ta'en." "If they come on me one by one, You may stand by till the fights be done. "But if they come on me one and all, 45 You may stand by and see me fall." They came upon him one by one, Till fourteen battles he has won. And fourteen men he has them slain, Each after each upon the plain. 50 But the fifteenth man behind stole round, And dealt him a deep and deadly wound. Though he was wounded to the deid, He set his lady on her steed. They rode till they came to the river Doune, 55 And there they lighted to wash his wound. "O Earl Brand, I see your heart's blood!" "It's nothing but the glent and my scarlet hood."[L58] They rode till they came to his mother's yett, So faint and feebly he rapped thereat. 60 "O my son's slain, he is falling to swoon, And it's all for the sake of an English loon!" "O say not so, my dearest mother, But marry her to my youngest brother. "To a maiden true he'll give his hand, 65 To the king's daughter o' fair England. "[To the king's daughter o' fair England,] _Hey lillie, ho lillie lallie!_ To a prize that was won by a slain brother's brand," _I' the brave nights so early._ 58. Qy.? _of_ my scarlet hood. LA VENDICATRICE. See p. 273. From _Canti Popolari Inediti Umbri, Piceni, Piemontesi, Latini, raccolti e illustrati da_ ORESTE MARCOALDI. Genova, 1855. p. 167.--From Alessandria. "Oh varda ben, Munfrenna,[L1] Oh varda qul castè:[L2] I'è trentatrè fantenni[L3] Ch' a j' ho menaji me.[L4] I m' han negà[L5] l' amure, La testa a j' ho tajè."[L6] "Ch' u 'm digga lü, Sior[L7] Conte; Ch' u 'm lassa la so' spà."[L8] "Oh dimì ti, Monfrenna, Cosa ch' a 't na voi fa'?"[L10] "A voi tajè[L11] 'na frasca, Per ombra al me' cavà."[L12] Lesta con la spadenna[L13] Al cor a j' ha passà. "Va là, va là, Sior Conte, Va là 'nte quei boscon;[L16] Le spenni[L17] e li serpenti Saran toi[L18] compagnon." 1 guarda ben, Monferina. 2 quel castello. 3 fanciulle. 4 menate io. 5 negato. 6 tagliato. 7 dica lei, signor. 8 sua spada. 10 vuoi fare. 11 tagliare. 12 cavallo. 13 spadina. 16 (_boscon_) cespugli. 17 spine. 18 tuoi. GLOSSARY. [pointing hand] Figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. aboon, _above_, _upon_. abound, 335, _bound_. abune a' thing, _above all things_. a dee, 335, _to do_. ae, _one_. aft, _oft_. aith, _oath_. an, _if_. ance, _once_. anent, _opposite to_. are, _early_. assoile, _absolve_. aucht, _owns_; wha is aucht that bairn? _who is it owns that child?_ ava, _of all_. a-warslin, _a wrestling_. ayont, _beyond_. ba', _ball_. badena, _abode not_. bairn, _child_. baith, _both_. ban, 89, _bond_. beet, 340, _add fuel_. bierdly, _large and well-made_, _stately_. biggins, _buildings_. ben, _in_, _within_. bestan, _best_. best young man, _bridesman_. bidden, _bidding_. bidene, _in a company_, _forthwith_ (?) billie, _comrade_, _brother_. binna, _beest not_. birk, _birch_. birling, _pouring out_ [_drink_], _drinking_. blan, _ceased_, _stopped_. blate, _sheepish_, _ashamed_. blear, [noun,] _dimness_. blinkit, _blinked_, _winked_. blinne, _cease_. borrow, _ransom_. bouerie, _chamber_. boun, _ready_. bour, bower, _chamber_. bra', braw, _handsome_. bracken, _female fern_. brae, _hill-side_. braid, _broad_. brain, _mad_. brent, _burnt_; 308, v. 31, _straight_? bridesteel, (Buchan,) 183, _bridal_? brigg, brigue, _bridge_. broo, _broth_. brook, _enjoy_. brunt, _burnt_. buird, _board_. burd, _lady_. burn, _brook_. busking, _dressing_, _making ready_. but, butt, _without_. but and, _and also_. byre, _cow-house_. ca', _call_. cannel, 327. Qy. a corruption? canny, _knowing_, _expert_, _gentle_, _adroitly_, _carefully_. cast, _trick_, _turn_. channerin, _fretting_. chap, _tap_, _rap_; chappit, 11, _tapped_, _rapped_; at the chin, _should probably be_ at the pin, _or tongue of the latch_. cheir, _cheer_. claise, _clothes_. clap, _fondle_; clappit, _patted_, _fondled_. cleading, _clothing_. clecked, _hatched_. cleed, _clothe_. cleiding, _clothing_. clerks, _scholars_. cliding, _clothing_. close, _lane_. cod, _pillow_. coil, 324, _cock of hay_. coost, _cast_. could, _used with the infinitive as an auxiliary, to form a past tense_. crap, _crop_, _top_. croodlin doo, _cooing dove_. crowse, _brisk_. cuik, _cook_. curches, _kerchiefs_. R. Jamieson, "_linen caps tying under the chin._" cuttit, _cut_. dabs, _pricks_. dang, 301, _overcome_; 361, _pushed_. dapperby, 189, _dapper_? daut, _fondle_, _caress_. daw, _dawn_. dead, _death_. dear-boucht, _dear-bought_. deas, _sometimes a pew in a church_. dee, _die_. dee, do, _avail_. deid, _death_. deight, dight, _decked_. den, _valley_. depart, 124, _part_. dight, 253, _skilfully_, _readily_? dighted, _dressed_, _wiped_. dine, _dinner_. ding, _strike_. dinna, _do not_. disna, _does not_. dool, _sorrow_. dout, _fear_. dowie, _mournful_, _sad_, _gloomy_. downa, _cannot_. dows, _doves_. dreaded, _doubted_. dree, _suffer_. drew up with, 94, _formed relations of love with_. drie, _suffer_. drumly, _troubled_. dule, _grief_, _sorrow_. dune, _done_. dwines, _dwindles_. e'e, _eye_. een, _eye_, _eyes_. eneuch, _enough_. ezer, _azure_. fadge, _clumsy woman_. faem, _foam_. fare, _go_. farrow-cow, _a barren cow_. fee, _property_, _wages_. fell, _hill_. fell, _strange_. ferra cow, _farrow cow_, _a cow not with calf_. ffree, _noble_. firstan, firstand, _first_. fit, _foot_. fitches, 329, _flitches_? flang'd, _flung_. fleed, _flood_. foremost man, _bridesman_. forlorn, _lost_. fou, fow, _full_. frush, _brittle_. fur, furrow, _a furrows length_, _furlong_. gaed, _went_. gair, 354, _gore_, _strip_. See gare. gang, _go_; gangs, _goes_. gar, _make_. gare, 55, _gore_; apparently, here, _skirt_. So, hung low down by his gair, 296, _by the edge of his frock_. The word seems also to be used vaguely in romances for _clothing_. garl, _gravel_. gate, _way_. gear, _goods_, _clothes_. gin, _trick_, _wile_. gleed, _a burning coal_; 97, _blaze_. glent, _gleam_, _glimmer_. gone, _go_. gowd, _gold_; gowden, _golden_. gowk, _fool_. gravat, _cravat_? greaf, _grave_. greet, _cry_, _weep_. gris, _a costly fur_. grit, _big_. groom, _man_. gross, _heavy_. gryte, _great_, _big_. Gude, _God_. ha', _hall_. had her, _betook her_. hallow-days, _holidays_. haly, _holy_. happit, _covered_. hass, _neck_. haud, _hold_; haud unthought lang, _keep from ennui_. hause, _neck_. head, _behead_. healy, _slowly_, _softly_. heght, _promised_. her lane, _herself alone_. herried, _robbed_. hich, _high_. hinny, _honey_. hip, _the berry which contains the stones or seeds of the dog-rose_. hooly, _slowly_, _gently_. how, _ho!_ hows, _hollows_, _dells_. howket, _dug_. huggell, _huddle_, _cuddle_. huly, _slowly_. intill, _into_, _in_. into, _on_. iwis, _certainly_. jaw, 233, _wave_. jawing, _dashing_. jimp, _slender_. jo, _sweetheart_. jollie, _handsome_. jow, _stroke in tolling_. kell, _caul_, _a species of cap, or net-work, worn by women as a head-dress_. kembe, _comb_; kembing, _combing_. kenna, _know not_; kentna, _knew not_. kens, _knows_. kerches, _kerchiefs_. kilted, _tucked up_. kin, _kind_; a' kin, _all kind_. kist, _chest_. kitchey, _kitchen_. know, _knoll_. kye, _cows_. kythe, _become_, _manifest_. laigh, _low_. lain, _alone_; ye're your lain, _you are alone_; hir lain, _her alone_. lair, _learning_. lane, _alone_; the same in combination with the pronouns _my_, _his_, _her_, _its_, _&c._ lap, _leapt_. latten, _let_. lauch, _laugh_. laumer, 327, _amber_. lave, _rest_. lealest, _truest_, _chastest_. lear, _lore_, _lesson_. lease, _leash_. lee, _lonesome_. lee-lang, _livelong_. lei, 132, _lonesome_. len, _lie_. lent, _leaned_. let, _stop_, _delay_. leuch, leugh, _laughed_. lichtly, _lightly_. lig, _lie_. lighter, _delivered_. limmers, _strumpets_. linn, _the pool under a cataract_, _cataract_. lith, _joint_. lither, _naughty_, _wicked_. looten, _let_. loup, _leap_. lourd, _liefer_, _rather_. louted, _bent_. louze, _loosen_. lykewake, _watching of a dead body_. mae, _more_. maene, moan, _lamentation_. maist, 58, maistly, _almost_. make, _mate_. mane, _moan_. maries, _maids_. marrow, _mate_. mat, _may_. maun, _must_. maunna, _may not_. may, _maid_. meen, _moan_, _lament_. message, _messenger_. micht, _might_. mind, _remember_. mirk, _murky_. mith, _might_. Moll Syms, 359, _a celebrated dance tune of the 16th century_. mools, _the earth of the grave_, _the dust of the dead_. mot, _may_. my lane, _alone by myself_. niest, _next_. nourice, _nurse_. oer, ower, _over_, _too_. ohon, _alas_. owsen, _oxen_. Owsenford, _Oxford_. pa', pall, _rich cloth_. Parish, _Paris_. part, 151, _separate from_. pat, _pot_. pearlin' gear, _pearl ornaments_. pin, _door-latch_. plat, _plaited_. plea, _quarrel_. pot, _a pool_, _or deep place, in a river_. prin, _pin_. propine, _gift_. putten down, _hung_. queet, quit, _ancle_. quhair, quhat, quhy, &c., _where_, _what_, _why_, _&c._ rair'd, _roared_. rave, _tore off_. reavel'd, _tangled_. rede, _advice_, _advise_; 263, _story_. reest, _roost_. renown, [Buchan,] 169, _haughtiness_? rigland shire, 331? rin, _run_. ritted, _routed_, _struck_. riv't, _tear it_. row, _roll_. row'd, _rolled_. sabelline, _sable_. sanna, _shall not_. sarbit, _an exclamation of sorrow_. sark, _shirt_. saugh, _willow_. scheet, _school_. schill, _shrill_. scug, _expiate_. see, (save and,) _protect_. seen, sen, _then_, _since_. send, 334, _the messengers sent for the bride at a wedding_. sets, _suits_. shed by, 77, _parted_, _put back_. sheen, _shine_. sheen, _shoes_. sheet, _shoot_. sheuch, _furrow_, _ditch_. shimmerd, _shone_. shot-window, _a projected window_. sic, _such_. sich, _sigh_. sindle, _seldom_. sinsyne, _since_. skinkled, _sparkled_. slack, _a gap or pass between two hills_. slait, _passed across_, _whetted_. slap, _a narrow pass between two hills_. smore, _smother_. snood, _a fillet or ribbon for the hair_. socht, _sought_. sorray, _sorrow_. soum, sowm, _swim_. spakes, _spokes_, _bars_. speer, speir, _ask_. spreckl'd, _speckled_. stap, _stuff_. stean, _stone_. steek'd, _fastened_. stey, _steep_. stint, _stop_. stock, _the forepart of a bed_. stout, 300, _haughty_. strae, stray, _straw_. straiked, streaked, _stroked_, _drew_. streek, _stretch_; streekit, _stretched_; streikit, _laid out_. striped, _thrust_. suld, _should_. syke, _marshy bottom_. syne, _then_, _afterwards_. tane, _one_, [_after the._] tasse, _cup_. tate, _lock_ (_of hair_). tee, _too_. teem, _empty_. teen, _sorrow_, _suffering_. tent, _heed_. thae, _these_. the, _thrive_. thegither, _together_. thir, tho, _these_, _those_. thorn'd, 335, _eaten_? thought lang, _felt ennui_. thouth, _thought_, _seemed_. thraw, 302, _writhe_, _twist_; thrawen, _crooked_. thresel-cock, _throstle_, _thrush_. threw, 130, _throve_. thrild upon a pinn. See _tirled_ below. tift, _puff_ (_of wind_). till, _to_, _on_. tirled at the pin, _trilled or rattled, at the door-latch, to obtain entrance_. tither, _other_. tocher, _dowry_. toomly, _empty_. tow, _rope_. triest, tryst, _make an assignation_. true, _trow_. twain, _part_. twal, _twelve_. twin, _part_; twinn'd, _deprived_, _parted_. unco, _unknown_, _strange_. virr, _strength_. vow, _interjection of surprise_. wad, _would_. wadded, _wagered_, _staked_. wadding, _wedding_. wae, waeful', _sad_, _sorrowful_. waked, _watched_. walde, _would_. wale, _choice_. wambe, wame, _womb_. wan, _reached_. wand, wandie, _bough_, _wand_, _stick_. wan na in, _got not in_. wap, _throw_. wappit, _beat_, _fluttered_. warde, 35, _advise_, _forewarn_. wark, _work_. warlock, _wizzard_. warstan, _worst_. warstled, _wrestled_. wat, _know_. water-kelpy, _a malicious spirit thought to haunt fords and ferries, especially in storms, and to swell the waters beyond their ordinary limit, for the destruction of luckless travellers_. wavers, 40, _wanders_. wa'-wight, 383, _waled_, _picked_, _strong-men or warriors_. See vol. vi. 220, v. 15. wean, _child_. wee, _little_. weed, _dress_. weir-horse, _war-horse_. werne, _were_. wha is aught, _who is it owns_. whang, _thong_. whaten, _what_. wicht, _strong_, _agile_. widdershins, _the contrary way_, _round about_. wide, _wade_. wight, _strong_, _agile_. win, _arrive_, _reach_, _come_, _get_. winna, _will not_. winsome, _charming_, _attractive_. woe, _sad_. won up, _got up_. wood, _mad_; wood-wroth, _mad with anger_. worth, _be_; wae worth you, _sorrow come upon you_. wow, _alas_. wraith, _wroth_. wrongous, _wrong_. wull, _will_. wyte, _punish_, _blame_. yae, _every_. yare, _ready_. yeats, yetts, _gates_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yird-fast, _fixed in the earth_. yode, _went_. yont, _beyond_, _further off_. Yule, _Christmas_. ze, zet, zour, &c., _ye_, _yet_, _your_. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Irregular and inconsistent spellings have been retained as in the original. Typographical errors such as wrongly placed line numbers and punctuation have been corrected without comment. Where changes have been made to the wording these are listed as follows: Page 10, line 33: added missing opening quotation mark ("But look that ye tell na Gib your man,...) Page 38, line note 157: reference originally read "177". Page 55, line 47, 48: added missing quotation marks (Lye yont, lye yont, Willie," she says, / "For your sweat I downa bide O.") Page 97, line 97: added final comma ("Now haud your tongue, my lord," she said, ...) Page 118, line 58, 59: removed unnecessary quotation mark ("Get up, and let me in!-- / Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, ...) Page 119, line 71: deleted duplicate "the" (Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose). Page 184, line 50: deleted erroneous closing quotation mark (Says, "What means a' this mourning?) Page 189, line 41 and page 396: "dapperpy" appears in the text but is "dapperby" in the Glossary (O he has pou'd aff his dapperby coat, ...) Page 227, line 41: added open quotation mark ("And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,) Page 263 line 16: added missing period (A playing at the ba'."--) Page 270, line 24: changed "Doan" to "Doun" (Doun by the greenwud sae bonnie) Page 300: added missing closing quotation mark (... taken place in Bothwell church." SCOTT.) Page 338, line 11: changed "Majorie" to "Marjorie" (That Lady Marjorie she gaes wi' child, ...) Page 347: heading "Book IV" removed. Note that it does not appear in the Table of Contents and there are several references to ballads and page numbers after this point as part of the Appendix. Note also that Volume 3 starts with "Book III (continued)". Page 352, line 42: added closing quotation mark ("Where leav'st thou thy youthful daughter, / Merry son of mine?") Page 401, changed "widdershius" to "widdershins" (widdershins, _the contrary way_, _round about_.) 
38416	----	generously made available by the Digital & Multimedia Center, Michigan State University Libraries.) Transcriber's Notes Archaic, dialect and inconsistent spellings have been retained as they appear in the original. With the exception of minor changes to format or punctuation, any changes to the text have been listed at the end of the book. In this Plain Text version of the e-book, symbols from the ASCII and Latin-1 character sets only are used. The following substitutions are made for other symbols in the text: [OE] and [oe] = oe-ligature (upper and lower case). [hand] = a right pointing hand symbol. Other conventions used to represent the original text are as follows: Italic typeface is indicated by _underscores_. Small caps typeface is represented by UPPER CASE. Footnotes are numbered in sequence throughout the book and presented at the end of the section or ballad in which the footnote anchor appears. Notes with reference to ballad line numbers are presented at the end of each ballad and are indicated in the form [Lnn] at line number nn. * * * * * ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH BALLADS. EDITED BY FRANCIS JAMES CHILD. VOLUME IV. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY. M.DCCC.LX. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857 by LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. BOOK IV. CONTINUED. CONTENTS OF VOLUME FOURTH. BOOK IV. (continued.) Page 9 a. Young Beichan and Susie Pye 1 9 b. Young Bekie 10 10 a. Hynd Horn, [Motherwell] 17 10 b. Hynd Horn, [Buchan] 25 11 a. Katharine Janfarie 29 11 b. Catherine Johnstone 34 12. Bonny Baby Livingston 38 13. The Broom of Cowdenknows 45 14. Johnie Scot 50 15. Brown Adam 60 16 a. Lizie Lindsay, [Jamieson] 63 16 b. Lizzie Lindsay, [Whitelaw] 68 17. Lizae Baillie 73 18. Glasgow Peggy 76 19. Glenlogie 80 20. John O'Hazelgreen 83 21. The Fause Lover 89 22. The Gardener 92 23. The Duke of Athol 94 24. The Rantin' Laddie 97 25. The Duke of Gordon's Daughter 102 26. The Laird o'Logie 109 27. The Gypsie Laddie 114 28. Laird of Drum 118 29 a. Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament, [Ramsay] 123 29 b. Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament, [Percy] 129 30 a. Waly, waly, but Love be bonny 132 30 b. Lord Jamie Douglas 135 31. The Nutbrowne Maide 143 32. The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington 158 33. The Blind Beggar's Daughter of Bednall Green 161 34. The Famous Flower of Serving Men 174 35. The Fair Flower of Northumberland 180 36. Gentle Herdsman, Tell to me 187 37. As I came from Walsingham 191 38. King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid 195 39. The Spanish Lady's Love 201 40. Patient Grissel 207 41. The King of France's Daughter 216 42. Constance of Cleveland 225 43. Willow, Willow, Willow 234 44. Greensleeves 240 45. Robene and Makyne 245 APPENDIX. Lord Beichan and Susie Pye 253 Sweet William 261 Young Child Dyring 265 Barbara Livingston 270 Lang Johnny Moir 272 Lizie Baillie 280 Johnnie Faa and the Countess o'Cassilis 283 Jamie Douglas 287 Laird of Blackwood 290 The Provost's Dochter 292 Blancheflour and Jellyflorice 295 Chil Ether 299 Young Bearwell 302 Lord Thomas of Winesberry and the King's Daughter 305 Lady Elspat 308 The Lovers Quarrel 311 The Merchant's Daughter of Bristow 328 GLOSSARY 339 YOUNG BEICHAN AND SUSIE PYE. An inspection of the first hundred lines of Robert of Gloucester's _Life and Martyrdom of Thomas Beket_, (edited for the Percy Society by W. H. Black, vol. xix,) will leave no doubt that the hero of this ancient and beautiful tale is veritably Gilbert Becket, father of the renowned Saint Thomas of Canterbury. Robert of Gloucester's story coincides in all essential particulars with the traditionary legend, but Susie Pye is, unfortunately, spoken of in the chronicle by no other name than the daughter of the Saracen Prince Admiraud. We have thought it well to present the three best versions of so popular and interesting a ballad. The two which are given in the body of this work are Jamieson's, from _Popular Ballads_, ii. 117, and ii. 127. In the Appendix is Kinloch's, from _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 260. Other printed copies are _Lord Beichan_, in Richardson's _Borderer's Table Book_, vii. 20, communicated by J. H. Dixon, who has inserted the same in _Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs_, Percy Society, vol. xvii. p. 85; _Lord Bateman_, the common English broadside (at p. 95 of the collection just cited); and _Young Bondwell_, published from Buchan's MS. in _Scottish Traditionary Versions of Ancient Ballads_, p. 1, (Percy Soc. vol. xvii.) identical, we suppose, with the copy referred to by Motherwell in _Scarce Ancient Ballads_, Peterhead, 1819. There is a well-known burlesque of the ordinary English ballad, called _The Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman_, with comical illustrations by Cruikshank. On this was founded a burlesque drama, produced some years ago at the Strand Theatre, London, with great applause. "This ballad, and that which succeeds it in this collection, (both on the same subject,) are given from copies taken from Mrs. Brown's recitation, collated with two other copies procured from Scotland, one in MS., another very good one printed for the stalls; a third, in the possession of the late Reverend Jonathan Boucher of Epsom, taken from recitation in the North of England; and a fourth, about one third as long as the others, which the Editor picked off an old wall in Piccadilly." Jamieson's interpolations have been omitted. In London was young Beichan born, He longed strange countries for to see; But he was taen by a savage moor, Who handled him right cruellie; For he viewed the fashions of that land; 5 Their way of worship viewed he; But to Mahound, or Termagant, Would Beichan never bend a knee. So in every shoulder they've putten a bore; In every bore they've putten a tree; 10 And they have made him trail the wine And spices on his fair bodie. They've casten him in a dungeon deep, Where he could neither hear nor see; For seven years they kept him there, 15 Till he for hunger's like to die. This Moor he had but ae daughter, Her name was called Susie Pye; And every day as she took the air, Near Beichan's prison she passed by. 20 O so it fell, upon a day She heard young Beichan sadly sing; "My hounds they all go masterless; My hawks they flee from tree to tree; My younger brother will heir my land; 25 Fair England again I'll never see!" All night long no rest she got, Young Beichan's song for thinking on; She's stown the keys from her father's head, And to the prison strong is gone. 30 And she has open'd the prison doors, I wot she open'd two or three, Ere she could come young Beichan at, He was locked up so curiouslie. But when she came young Beichan before, 35 Sore wonder'd he that may to see; He took her for some fair captive;-- "Fair Lady, I pray, of what countrie?" "O have ye any lands," she said, "Or castles in your own countrie, 40 That ye could give to a lady fair, From prison strong to set you free?" "Near London town I have a hall, With other castles two or three; I'll give them all to the lady fair 45 That out of prison will set me free." "Give me the truth of your right hand, The truth of it give unto me, That for seven years ye'll no lady wed, Unless it be along with me." 50 "I'll give thee the truth of my right hand, The truth of it I'll freely gie, That for seven years I'll stay unwed, For the kindness thou dost show to me." And she has brib'd the proud warder 55 Wi' mickle gold and white monie; She's gotten the keys of the prison strong, And she has set young Beichan free. She's gi'en him to eat the good spice-cake, She's gi'en him to drink the blood-red wine; She's bidden him sometimes think on her, 60 That sae kindly freed him out of pine. She's broken a ring from her finger, And to Beichan half of it gave she: "Keep it, to mind you of that love 65 The lady bore that set you free. "And set your foot on good ship-board, And haste ye back to your own countrie; And before that seven years have an end, Come back again, love, and marry me." 70 But long ere seven years had an end, She long'd full sore her love to see; For ever a voice within her breast Said, "Beichan has broke his vow to thee." So she's set her foot on good ship-board, 75 And turn'd her back on her own countrie. She sailed east, she sailed west, Till to fair England's shore she came; Where a bonny shepherd she espied, Feeding his sheep upon the plain. 80 "What news, what news, thou bonny shepherd? What news hast thou to tell to me?" "Such news I hear, ladie," he says, "The like was never in this countrie. "There is a wedding in yonder hall, 85 Has lasted these thirty days and three; Young Beichan will not bed with his bride, For love of one that's yond the sea." She's put her hand in her pocket, Gi'en him the gold and white monie; 90 "Hae, take ye that, my bonny boy, For the good news thou tell'st to me." When she came to young Beichan's gate, She tirled softly at the pin; So ready was the proud porter 95 To open and let this lady in. "Is this young Beichan's hall," she said, "Or is that noble lord within?" "Yea, he's in the hall among them all, And this is the day o' his weddin." 100 "And has he wed anither love? And has he clean forgotten me?" And, sighin', said that gay ladie, "I wish I were in my own conntrie." And she has taen her gay gold ring, 105 That with her love she brake so free; Says, "Gie him that, ye proud porter, And bid the bridegroom speak to me." When the porter came his lord before,[L109] He kneeled down low on his knee---- 110 "What aileth thee, my proud porter, Thou art so full of courtesie?" "I've been porter at your gates, It's thirty long years now and three; But there stands a lady at them now, 115 The like o' her did I never see; "For on every finger she has a ring, And on her mid finger she has three; And as meickle gold aboon her brow As would buy an earldom to me." 120 Its out then spak the bride's mother, Aye and an angry woman was shee; "Ye might have excepted our bonny bride, And twa or three of our companie." "O hold your tongue, thou bride's mother; 125 Of all your folly let me be; She's ten times fairer nor the bride, And all that's in your companie. "She begs one sheave of your white bread, But and a cup of your red wine; 130 And to remember the lady's love, That last reliev'd you out of pine." "O well-a-day!" said Beichan then, "That I so soon have married thee! For it can be none but Susie Pye, 135 That sailed the sea for love of me." And quickly hied he down the stair; Of fifteen steps he made but three; He's ta'en his bonny love in his arms, And kist, and kist her tenderlie. 140 "O hae ye ta'en anither bride? And hae ye quite forgotten me? And hae ye quite forgotten her, That gave you life and libertie?" She looked o'er her left shoulder, 145 To hide the tears stood in her e'e: "Now fare thee well, young Beichan," she says, "I'll try to think no more on thee." "O never, never, Susie Pye, For surely this can never be; 150 Nor ever shall I wed but her That's done and dree'd so much for me." Then out and spak the forenoon bride,-- "My lord, your love it changeth soon; This morning I was made your bride, 155 And another chose ere it be noon." "O hold thy tongue, thou forenoon bride; Ye're ne'er a whit the worse for me; And whan ye return to your own countrie, A double dower I'll send with thee." 160 He's taen Susie Pye by the white hand, And gently led her up and down; And ay as he kist her red rosy lips, "Ye're welcome, jewel, to your own." He's taen her by the milk-white hand, 165 And led her to yon fountain stane; He's changed her name from Susie Pye, And he's call'd her his bonny love, Lady Jane. 109-112. But when he came Lord Jockey before, He kneeled lowly on his knee: "What news, what news, thou Tommy Pots, Thou art so full of courtesie?" _The Lovers' Quarrel_, v. 133-136. YOUNG BEKIE. Young Bekie was as brave a knight As ever sail'd the sea; And he's doen him to the court o' France,[L3] To serve for meat and fee. He hadna been in the court o' France 5 A twelvemonth nor sae lang, Till he fell in love wi' the king's daughter, And was thrown in prison strang. The king he had but ae daughter, Burd Isbel was her name; 10 And she has to the prison gane, To hear the prisoner's mane. "O gin a lady wad borrow me, At her stirrup I wad rin; Or gin a widow wad borrow me, 15 I wad swear to be her son. "Or gin a virgin wad borrow me, I wad wed her wi' a ring; I'd gi'e her ha's, I'd gi'e her bowers, The bonny towers o' Linne." 20 O barefoot barefoot gaed she but, And barefoot cam she ben; It wasna for want o' hose and shoon, Nor time to put them on; But a' for fear that her father 25 Had heard her makin' din; For she's stown the keys of the prison, And gane the dungeon within. And when she saw him, young Bekie, Wow, but her heart was sair! 30 For the mice, but and the bald rattons, Had eaten his yellow hair. She's gotten him a shaver for his beard, A comber till his hair; Five hundred pound in his pocket, 35 To spend, and nae to spare. She's gi'en him a steed was good in need, And a saddle o' royal bane; A leash o' hounds o' ae litter, And Hector called ane. 40 Atween thir twa a vow was made, 'Twas made full solemnlie, That or three years were come and gane, Weel married they should be. He hadna been in's ain countrie 45 A twelvemonth till an end, Till he's forced to marry a duke's daughter, Or than lose a' his land. "Ochon, alas!" says young Bekie, "I kenna what to dee; 50 For I canna win to Burd Isbel, And she canna come to me." O it fell out upon a day Burd Isbel fell asleep, And up it starts the Billy Blin, 55 And stood at her bed feet. "O waken, waken, Burd Isbel; How can ye sleep so soun'; When this is Bekie's wedding day, And the marriage gaing on? 60 "Ye do ye till your mither's bower, As fast as ye can gang; And ye tak three o' your mother's marys, To haud ye unthocht lang. "Ye dress yoursel i' the red scarlet, 65 And your marys in dainty green; And ye put girdles about your middle Wad buy an earldome. "Syne ye gang down by yon sea-side, And down by yon sea-strand; 70 And bonny will the Hollans boats Come rowin' till your hand. "Ye set your milk-white foot on board, Cry, 'Hail ye, Domine!' And I will be the steerer o't, 75 To row you o'er the sea." She's ta'en her till her mither's bower, As fast as she could gang; And she's ta'en twa o' her mither's marys, To haud her unthocht lang. 80 She's drest hersel i' the red scarlet, Her marys i' the dainty green; And they've put girdles about their middle Would buy an earldome. And they gaed down by yon sea-side, 85 And down by yon sea-strand; And sae bonny as the Hollans boats Come rowin' till their hand. She set her milk-white foot on board, Cried, "Hail ye, Domine!" 90 And the Billy Blin was the steerer o't, To row her o'er the sea. Whan she cam to young Bekie's gate, She heard the music play; And her mind misgae by a' she heard, 95 That 'twas his wedding day. She's pitten her hand in her pocket, Gi'en the porter markis three; "Hae, take ye that, ye proud porter, Bid your master speake to me." 100 O whan that he cam up the stair, He fell low down on his knee: He hail'd the king, and he hail'd the queen, And he hail'd him, young Bekie. "O I have been porter at your gates 105 This thirty years and three; But there are three ladies at them now, Their like I did never see. "There's ane o' them drest in red scarlet, And twa in dainty green; 110 And they hae girdles about their middles Would buy an earldome." Then out and spak the bierdly bride, "Was a' goud to the chin; "Gin she be fine without," she says, 115 "We's be as fine within." Then up it starts him, young Bekie, And the tear was in his e'e: "I'll lay my life it's Burd Isbel, Come o'er the sea to me." 120 O quickly ran he down the stair; And whan he saw 'twas she, He kindly took her in his arms, And kist her tenderlie. "O hae ye forgotten now, young Bekie, 125 The vow ye made to me, When I took you out of prison strang, When ye was condemned to die? "I gae you a steed was good in need, And a saddle o' royal bane; 130 A leash o' hounds o' ae litter; And Hector called ane." It was weel kent what the lady said, That it was nae a lie; For at the first word the lady spak, 135 The hound fell at her knee. "Tak hame, tak hame your daughter dear; A blessing gang her wi'; For I maun marry my Burd Isbel, That's come o'er the sea to me." 140 "Is this the custome o' your house, Or the fashion o' your land, To marry a maid in a May morning, Send her back a maid at e'en?" 3. _Court o' France._ "And first, here to omit the programe of him and his mother, named Rose, whom Polyd. Virgilius falsely nameth to be a Saracen, when indeed she came out of the parts bordering neere to _Normandy_." Fox, _Acts and Monuments_, cited by Motherwell, p. xvi. HYND HORN. Those metrical romances, which in the chivalrous ages, constituted the most refined pastime of a rude nobility, are known in many cases to have been adapted for the entertainment of humbler hearers, by abridgment in the form of ballads. Such was the case with the ancient _gest_ of _King Horn_. Preserved in several MSS., both French and English, in something of its original proportions, an epitome of it has also descended to us through the mouths of the people. An imperfect copy of the following piece was inserted by Cromek in his _Select Scottish Songs_, (London, 1810, vol. ii. p. 204-210.) Better editions have since been furnished by Kinloch, _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 138; Motherwell, _Minstrelsy_, p. 95; and Buchan, _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 268. Of these, we reprint the last two. All the poems relating to Horn, in French and English, including the Scottish ballads above mentioned, are collected by Michel in a beautiful volume of the Bannatyne Club, _Horn et Rimenhild_, Paris, 1845. From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 35. Near Edinburgh was a young child born, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; And his name it was called Young Hynd Horn, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. Seven lang years he served the King, 5 _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; And it's a' for the sake of his dochter Jean, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. The King an angry man was he, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; 10 He sent young Hynd Horn to the sea, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "O I never saw my love before, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; Till I saw her thro' an augre bore, 15 _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "And she gave to me a gay gold ring, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; With three shining diamonds set therein, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. 20 "And I gave to her a silver wand, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; With three singing laverocks set thereon, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "What if those diamonds lose their hue, 25 _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; Just when my love begins for to rew, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_?" "For when your ring turns pale and wan, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; 30 Then I'm in love with another man, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." He's left the land, and he's gone to the sea, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; And he's stayed there seven years and a day, 35 _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. Seven lang years he has been on the sea, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; And Hynd Horn has looked how his ring may be, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. 40 But when he looked this ring upon, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; The shining diamonds were both pale and wan, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. O the ring it was both black and blue, 45 _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; And she's either dead, or she's married, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. He's left the seas, and he's come to the land, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; 50 And the first he met was an auld beggar man, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "What news, what news, my silly auld man? _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; For it's seven years since I have seen land, 55 _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "What news, what news, thou auld beggar man? _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; What news, what news, by sea or land? _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." 60 "No news at all," said the auld beggar man, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; "But there is a wedding in the King's hall, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "There is a King's dochter in the West, 65 _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; And she has been married thir nine nights past, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "Into the bride-bed she winna gang, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; 70 Till she hears tell of her ain Hynd Horn, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." "Wilt thou give to me thy begging coat? _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; And I'll give to thee my scarlet cloak, 75 _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "Wilt thou give to me thy begging staff? _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; And I'll give to thee my good gray steed, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." 80 The auld beggar man cast off his coat, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; And he's ta'en up the scarlet cloak, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. The auld beggar man threw down his staff, 85 _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; And he has mounted the good gray steed, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. The auld beggar man was bound for the mill, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; 90 But young Hynd Horn for the King's hall, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. The auld beggar man was bound for to ride, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; But young Hynd Horn was bound for the bride, 95 _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. When he came to the King's gate, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; He asked a drink for young Hynd Horn's sake, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. 100 These news unto the bonnie bride came, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; That at the yett there stands an auld man, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "There stands an auld man at the King's gate, 105 _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; He asketh a drink for young Hynd Horn's sake, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "I'll go through nine fires so hot, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; 110 But I'll give him a drink for young Hynd Horn's sake, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." She went to the gate where the auld man did stand, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; And she gave him a drink out of her own hand, 115 _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. She gave him a cup out of her own hand, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; He drunk out the drink, and dropt in the ring, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. 120 "Got thou it by sea, or got thou it by land? _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; Or got thou it off a dead man's hand? _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." "I got it not by sea, but I got it by land, 125 _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; For I got it out of thine own hand, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." "I'll cast off my gowns of brown, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; 130 And I'll follow thee from town to town, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "I'll cast off my gowns of red, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; And along with thee I'll beg my bread, 135 _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." "Thou need not cast off thy gowns of brown, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; For I can make thee lady of many a town, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. 140 "Thou need not cast off thy gowns of red, _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; For I can maintain thee with both wine and bread, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." The bridegroom thought he had the bonnie bride wed, 145 _With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; But young Hynd Horn took the bride to the bed, _And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. HYND HORN. From Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, ii. 268. "Hynd Horn fair, and Hynd Horn free, O where were you born, in what countrie?" "In gude greenwood, there I was born, And all my forbears me beforn. "O seven years I served the king, 5 And as for wages, I never gat nane; But ae sight o' his ae daughter, And that was thro' an augre bore. "My love gae me a siller wand, 'Twas to rule ower a' Scotland; 10 And she gae me a gay gowd ring, The virtue o't was above a' thing." "As lang's this ring it keeps the hue, Ye'll know I am a lover true; But when the ring turns pale and wan, 15 Ye'll know I love another man." He hoist up sails, and awa' sail'd he, And sail'd into a far countrie; And when he look'd upon his ring, He knew she loved another man. 20 He hoist up sails and home came he, Home unto his ain countrie; The first he met on his own land, It chanc'd to be a beggar man. "What news, what news, my gude auld man? 25 What news, what news, hae ye to me?" "Nae news, nae news," said the auld man, "The morn's our queen's wedding day." "Will ye lend me your begging weed, And I'll lend you my riding steed?" 30 "My begging weed will ill suit thee, And your riding steed will ill suit me." But part be right, and part be wrang, Frae the beggar man the cloak he wan; "Auld man, come tell to me your leed, 35 What news ye gie when ye beg your bread." "As ye walk up unto the hill, Your pike staff ye lend ye till; But whan ye come near by the yett, Straight to them ye will upstep. 40 "Take nane frae Peter, nor frae Paul, Nane frae high or low o' them all; And frae them all ye will take nane, Until it comes frae the bride's ain hand." He took nane frae Peter, nor frae Paul, 45 Nane frae the high nor low o' them all; And frae them all he would take nane, Until it came frae the bride's ain hand. The bride came tripping down the stair, The combs o' red gowd in her hair; 50 A cup o' red wine in her hand, And that she gae to the beggar man. Out o' the cup he drank the wine, And into the cup he dropt the ring; "O got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land, 55 Or got ye't on a drown'd man's hand?" "I got it not by sea, nor got it by land, Nor got I it on a drown'd man's hand; But I got it at my wooing gay, And I'll gie't you on your wedding day." 60 "I'll take the red gowd frae my head, And follow you, and beg my bread; I'll take the red gowd frae my hair, And follow you for evermair." Atween the kitchen and the ha', 65 He loot his cloutie cloak down fa'; And wi' red gowd shone ower them a', And frae the bridegroom the bride he sta'. KATHARINE JANFARIE. A story similar to this occurs in various forms both in Scotland and the Scandinavian kingdoms. Scott inserted the ballad in his first edition under the title of _The Laird of Laminton_; the present copy is an improved one obtained by him from several recitations. (_Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 122.) Other versions are Motherwell's, printed with this, Maidment's, in his _North Countrie Garland_, p. 34, (_Catharine Jaffery_), and Buchan's, in his _Gleanings_, p. 74, (_Loch-in-var._) _Sweet William_, in Motherwell's collection, (see Appendix,) is still another variety. Jamieson has translated a Danish ballad which, though not cognate with these, exhibits nearly the same incidents, and we have inserted it in the Appendix. It need hardly be remarked that the spirited ballad of _Lochinvar_ in _Marmion_ is founded on this ancient legend. There was a may, and a weel-far'd may, Lived high up in yon glen: Her name was Katharine Janfarie, She was courted by mony men. Up then came Lord Lauderdale, 5 Up frae the Lawland Border; And he has come to court this may, A' mounted in good order. He told na her father, he told na her mother, And he told na ane o' her kin; 10 But he whisper'd the bonnie lassie hersell, And has her favour won. But out then cam Lord Lochinvar, Out frae the English Border, All for to court this bonny may, 15 Weel mounted, and in order. He told her father, he told her mother, And a' the lave o' her kin; But he told na the bonnie may hersell, Till on her wedding e'en. 20 She sent to the Lord o' Lauderdale, Gin he wad come and see; And he has sent word back again, Weel answer'd she suld be. And he has sent a messenger, 25 Right quickly through the land, And raised mony an armed man To be at his command. The bride looked out at a high window, Beheld baith dale and down, 30 And she was aware of her first true love, With riders mony a one. She scoffed him, and scorned him, Upon her wedding day; And said--it was the fairy court, 35 To see him in array! "O come ye here to fight, young lord, Or come ye here to play, Or come ye here to drink good wine Upon the wedding day?" 40 "I come na here to fight," he said, "I come na here to play; I'll but lead a dance wi' the bonny bride, And mount, and go my way." It is a glass of the blood-red wine 45 Was filled up them between, And aye she drank to Lauderdale, Wha her true love had been. He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, And by the grass-green sleeve; 50 He's mounted her hie behind himsell, At her kinsmen speir'd na leave. "Now take your bride, Lord Lochinvar, Now take her, if you may! But if you take your bride again, 55 We'll call it but foul play." There were four-and-twenty bonnie boys, A' clad in the Johnstone grey; They said they would take the bride again, By the strong hand, if they may. 60 Some o' them were right willing men, But they were na willing a'; And four-and-twenty Leader lads Bid them mount and ride awa'. Then whingers flew frae gentles' sides, 65 And swords flew frae the shea's, And red and rosy was the blood Ran down the lily braes. The blood ran down by Caddon bank, And down by Caddon brae; 70 And, sighing, said the bonnie bride, "O wae's me for foul play!" My blessing on your heart, sweet thing, Wae to your wilfu' will! There's mony a gallant gentleman 75 Whae's bluid ye have garr'd to spill. Now a' you lords of fair England, And that dwell by the English Border, Come never here to seek a wife, For fear of sic disorder. 80 They'll haik ye up, and settle ye bye, Till on your wedding day, Then gie ye frogs instead of fish, And play ye foul foul play. CATHERINE JOHNSTONE. Obtained from recitation, in the West of Scotland. Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 225. There was a lass, as I heard say, Liv'd low doun in a glen; Her name was Catherine Johnstone, Weel known to many men. Doun came the laird o' Lamington, 5 Doun from the South Countrie; And he is for this bonnie lass, Her bridegroom for to be. He's ask'd her father and mother, The chief of a' her kin; 10 And then he ask'd the bonnie lass, And did her favour win. Doun came an English gentleman, Doun from the English border; He is for this bonnie lass, 15 To keep his house in order. He ask'd her father and mother, As I do hear them say; But he never ask'd the lass hersell, Till on her wedding day. 20 But she has wrote a long letter, And sealed it with her hand; And sent it to Lord Lamington, To let him understand. The first line o' the letter he read, 25 He was baith glad and fain; But or he read the letter o'er, He was baith pale and wan. Then he has sent a messenger, And out through all his land; 30 And four-and-twenty armed men Was all at his command. But he has left his merry men all, Left them on the lee; And he's awa to the wedding house, 35 To see what he could see. But when he came to the wedding house, As I do understand, There were four-and-twenty belted knights Sat at a table round. 40 They rose all to honour him, For he was of high renown; They rose all for to welcome him, And bade him to sit down. O meikle was the good red wine 45 In silver cups did flow; But aye she drank to Lamington, For with him would she go. O meikle was the good red wine In silver cups gaed round; 50 At length they began to whisper words, None could them understand. "O came ye here for sport, young man, Or came ye here for play? Or came ye for our bonnie bride, 55 On this her wedding day?" "I came not here for sport," he said, "Neither did I for play; But for one word o' your bonnie bride, I'll mount and go away." 60 They set her maids behind her, To hear what they would say; But the first question he ask'd at her Was always answered nay; The next question he ask'd at her 65 Was, "Mount and come away?" It's up the Couden bank, And doun the Couden brae; And aye she made the trumpet sound, It's a weel won play. 70 O meikle was the blood was shed Upon the Couden brae; And aye she made the trumpet sound, It's a' fair play. Come, a' ye English gentlemen, 75 That is of England born, Come na doun to Scotland, For fear ye get the scorn. They'll feed ye up wi' flattering words, And that's foul play; 80 And they'll dress you frogs instead of fish, Just on your wedding day. BONNY BABY LIVINGSTON. Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, ii. 135, from Mrs. Brown's recitation. _Barbara Livingston_, a shorter piece, with a different catastrophe, is given in the Appendix, from Motherwell's collection. O bonny Baby Livingstone Gaed out to view the hay; And by it cam him Glenlyon, Staw bonny Baby away. And first he's taen her silken coat, 5 And neist her satten gown; Syne row'd her in his tartan plaid, And happ'd her round and roun'. He's mounted her upon a steed, And roundly rade away; 10 And ne'er loot her look back again The lee-lang simmer day. He's carried her o'er yon hich hich hill, Intill a Highland glen, And there he met his brother John 15 Wi' twenty armed men. And there were cows, and there were ewes, And there were kids sae fair; But sad and wae was bonny Baby, Her heart was fu' o' care. 20 He's taen her in his arms twa, And kist her cheek and chin; "I wad gi'e a' my flocks and herds, Ae smile frae thee to win." "A smile frae me ye'se never win; 25 I'll ne'er look kind on thee; Ye've stown me awa frae a' my kin, Frae a' that's dear to me. "Dundee, kind sir, Dundee, kind sir, Tak me to bonny Dundee; 30 For ye sall ne'er my favour win Till it ance mair I see." "Dundee, Baby! Dundee, Baby! Dundee ye ne'er shall see; But I will carry you to Glenlyon, 35 Where you my bride shall be. "Or will ye stay at Achingour, And eat sweet milk and cheese; Or gang wi' me to Glenlyon, And there we'll live at our ease?" 40 "I winna stay at Achingour; I care neither for milk nor cheese; Nor gang wi' thee to Glenlyon; For there I'll ne'er find ease." Then out it spak his brother John; 45 "If I were in your place, I'd send that lady hame again, For a' her bonny face. "Commend me to the lass that's kind, Though nae sae gently born; 50 And, gin her heart I coudna win, To take her hand I'd scorn." "O haud your tongue, my brother John; Ye wisna what ye say; For I hae lued that bonny face 55 This mony a year and day. "I've lued her lang, and lued her weel, But her love I ne'er could win; And what I canna fairly gain, To steal I think nae sin." 60 Whan they cam to Glenlyon castle, They lighted at the yett; And out they cam, his three sisters, Their brother for to greet. And they have taen her, bonny Baby, 65 And led her o'er the green; And ilka lady spak a word, But bonny Baby spake nane. Then out it spak her, bonny Jane, The youngest o' the three: 70 "O lady, why look ye sae sad? Come tell your grief to me." "O wharefore should I tell my grief, Since lax I canna find? I'm far frae a' my kin and friends, 75 And my love I left behind. "But had I paper, pen, and ink, Afore that it were day, I yet might get a letter wrate, And sent to Johnie Hay. 80 "And gin I had a bonny boy, To help me in my need, That he might rin to bonny Dundee, And come again wi' speed!" And they hae gotten a bonny boy 85 Their errand for to gang; And bade him run to Bonny Dundee, And nae to tarry lang. The boy he ran o'er muir and dale, As fast as he could flee; 90 And e'er the sun was twa hours hight, The boy was at Dundee. Whan Johnie lookit the letter on, A hearty laugh leuch he; But ere he read it till an end, 95 The tear blinded his e'e. "O wha is this, or wha is that, Has stown my love frae me? Although he were my ae brither, An ill dead sall he die. 100 "Gae, saddle to me the black," he says; "Gae, saddle to me the brown; Gae, saddle to me the swiftest steed, That ever rade frae the town." He's call'd upon his merry men a', 105 To follow him to the glen; And he's vow'd he'd neither eat nor sleep Till he got his love again. He's mounted him on a milk-white steed, And fast he rade away; 110 And he's come to Glenlyon's yett, About the close o' day. As Baby at her window stood, And the west-wind saft did blaw, She heard her Johnie's well-kent voice 115 Aneath the castle wa'. "O Baby, haste, the window loup; I'll kep you in my arm; My merry men a' are at the yett To rescue you frae harm." 120 She to the window fix'd her sheets, And slipped safely down; And Johnie catched her in his arms, Ne'er loot her touch the groun'. Glenlyon and his brother John 125 Were birling in the ha', When they heard Johnie's bridle ring As fast he rade awa'. "Rise, Jock; gang out and meet the priest; I hear his bridle ring; 130 My Baby now shall be my wife, Before the laverock sing." "O brother, this is nae the priest; I fear he'll come o'er late; For armed men wi' shining brands 135 Stand at the castle yett." "Haste, Donald, Duncan, Dugald, Hugh, Haste, tak your sword and spear; We'll gar these traytors rue the hour That e'er they ventured here." 140 The Highlandmen drew their claymores, And gae a warlike shout; But Johnie's merry men kept the yett, Nae ane durst venture out. The lovers rade the lee-lang night, 145 And safe got on their way; And Bonny Baby Livingstone Has gotten Johny Hay. "Awa, Glenlyon! fy for shame! Gae hide you in some den; 150 You've latten your bride be stown frae you, For a' your armed men." THE BROOM OF COWDENKNOWS. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 37. For other versions, see _Bonny May_, Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 159, and Johnson's _Museum_, p. 113; _Broom o' the Cowdenknowes_, Buchan, i. 172; _Laird of Ochiltree_, Kinloch, 160; _Laird of Lochnie_, Kinloch, 167. O the broom, and the bonny bonny broom, And the broom of the Cowdenknows! And aye sae sweet as the lassie sang, I' the bought, milking the ewes. The hills were high on ilka side, 5 An' the bought i' the lirk o' the hill, And aye, as she sang, her voice it rang, Out o'er the head o' yon hill. There was a troup o' gentlemen Came riding merrilie by, 10 And one of them has rode out o' the way, To the bought to the bonny may. "Weel may ye save an' see, bonny lass, An' weel may ye save an' see."-- "An' sae wi' you, ye weel-bred knight, 15 And what's your will wi' me?"-- "The night is misty and mirk, fair may, And I have ridden astray, And will you be so kind, fair may, As come out and point my way?"-- 20 "Ride out, ride out, ye ramp rider! Your steed's baith stout and strang; For out of the bought I dare na come, For fear 'at ye do me wrang."-- "O winna ye pity me, bonny lass, 25 O winna ye pity me? An' winna ye pity my poor steed, Stands trembling at yon tree?"-- "I wadna pity your poor steed, Though it were tied to a thorn; 30 For if ye wad gain my love the night, Ye wad slight me ere the morn. "For I ken you by your weel-busket hat, And your merrie twinkling ee, That ye're the Laird o' the Oakland hills, 35 An' ye may weel seem for to be."-- "But I am not the Laird o' the Oakland hills, Ye're far mista'en o' me; But I'm ane o' the men about his house, An' right aft in his companie."-- 40 He's ta'en her by the middle jimp, And by the grass-green sleeve; He's lifted her over the fauld-dyke, And speer'd at her sma' leave. O he's ta'en out a purse o' gowd, 45 And streek'd her yellow hair; "Now, take ye that, my bonny may, Of me till you hear mair."-- O he's leapt on his berry-brown steed, An' soon he's o'erta'en his men; 50 And ane and a' cried out to him, "O master, ye've tarry'd lang!"-- "O I hae been east, and I hae been west, An' I hae been far o'er the knowes, But the bonniest lass that ever I saw 55 Is i' the bought, milking the ewes."-- She set the cog upon her head, An' she's gane singing hame; "O where hae ye been, my ae daughter? Ye hae na been your lane."-- 60 "O naebody was wi' me, father, O naebody has been wi' me; The night is misty and mirk, father, Yee may gang to the door and see. "But wae be to your ewe-herd, father, 65 And an ill deed may he die; He bug the bought at the back o' the knowe, And a tod has frighted me. "There came a tod to the bought door, The like I never saw; 70 And ere he had ta'en the lamb he did, I had lourd he had ta'en them a'."-- O whan fifteen weeks was come and gane, Fifteen weeks and three, That lassie began to look thin and pale, 75 An' to long for his merry-twinkling ee. It fell on a day, on a het simmer day, She was ca'ing out her father's kye, Bye came a troop o' gentlemen, A' merrilie riding bye. 80 "Weel may ye save an' see, bonny may, Weel may ye save and see! Weel I wat, ye be a very bonny may, But whae's aught that babe ye are wi'?"-- Never a word could that lassie say, 85 For never a ane could she blame, An' never a word could the lassie say, But "I have a gudeman at hame."-- "Ye lied, ye lied, my very bonny may, Sae loud as I hear you lie; 90 For dinna ye mind that misty night I was i' the bought wi' thee? "I ken you by your middle sae jimp, An' your merry-twinkling ee, That ye're the bonny lass i' the Cowdenknow, 95 An' ye may weel seem for to be."-- Then he's leapt off his berry-brown steed, An' he's set that fair may on-- "Ca' out your kye, gude father, yoursell, For she's never ca' them out again. 100 "I am the Laird of the Oakland hills, I hae thirty plows and three; An' I hae gotten the bonniest lass That's in a' the south countrie." JOHNIE SCOT. The edition of this ballad here printed was prepared by Motherwell from three copies obtained from recitation, (_Minstrelsy_, p. 204.) Other versions have been published in Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 78, Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 248, and his _Gleanings_, p. 122. The proper names which occur in the course of the piece vary considerably in the different copies. In two of Motherwell's, the hero's designation was Johnie Scot, in a third, Johnie M'Nauchton. In one of Buchan's he is styled Love John, in the other, Lang Johnny Moir. In Kinloch's copy, "Buneftan is his name," and he is also called "Jack that little Scot," which seems to have been the title of the ballad in an unpublished collection quoted by Ritson in his _Dissertation on Scottish Song_, p. lxxxi. In like manner, for the King of Aulsberry, (v. 111,) we have the various readings, Duke of Marlborough, Duke of Mulberry, Duke of York, and Duke of Winesberrie, and in the following verse, James the Scottish King, for the King of Spain. The following passage, illustrative of the feat of arms accomplished by Johnie Scot, was pointed out to Motherwell by Mr. Sharpe:--James Macgill, of Lindores, having killed Sir Robert Balfour, of Denmiln, in a duel, "immediately went up to London in order to procure his pardon, which, it seems, the King (Charles the Second) offered to grant him, upon condition of his fighting an Italian gladiator, or bravo, or, as he was called, a bully, which, it is said, none could be found to do. Accordingly, a large stage was erected for the exhibition before the King and court. Sir James, it is said, stood on the defensive till the bully had spent himself a little; being a taller man than Sir James, in his mighty gasconading and bravadoing, he actually leapt over the knight as if he would swallow him alive; but, in attempting to do this a second time, Sir James ran his sword up through him, and then called out, 'I have spitted him, let them roast him who will.' This not only procured his pardon, but he was also knighted on the spot."--Small's _Account of Roman Antiquities recently discovered in Fife_, p. 217. From Buchan's _Lang Johnny Moir_, printed in the Appendix, it will be seen that the title of Little Scot is not to be taken literally, but that the doughty champion was a man of huge stature. O Johnie Scot 's to the hunting gane, Unto the woods sae wild; And Earl Percy's ae daughter To him goes big wi' child. O word is to the kitchen gane, 5 And word is to the ha', And word is to the highest towers, Among the nobles a'. "If she be wi' child," her father said, "As woe forbid it be! 10 I'll put her into a prison strang, And try the veritie." "But if she be wi' child," her mother said, "As woe forbid it be! I'll put her intill a dungeon dark, 15 And hunger her till she die." O Johnie 's called his waiting man, His name was Germanie: "It 's thou must to fair England gae, Bring me that gay ladie. 20 "And here it is a silken sark, Her ain hand sewed the sleeve; Bid her come to the merry green wood, To Johnie her true love." He rode till he came to Earl Percy's gate, 25 He tirled at the pin: "O wha is there?" said the proud porter; "But I daurna let thee in." It's he rode up, and he rode down, He rode the castle about, 30 Until he spied a fair ladie At a window looking out. "Here is a silken sark," he said, "Thy ain hand sewed the sleeve; And ye must gae to the merry green woods, 35 To Johnie Scot thy love." "The castle it is high, my boy, And walled round about; My feet are in the fetters strong, And how can I get out? 40 "My garters are o' the gude black iron, And O but they be cold; My breast-plate's o' the sturdy steel, Instead of beaten gold. "But had I paper, pen, and ink, 45 Wi' candle at my command, It's I would write a lang letter To John in fair Scotland." Then she has written a braid letter, And sealed it wi' her hand, 50 And sent it to the merry green wood, Wi' her own boy at command. The first line of the letter Johnie read, A loud, loud lauch leuch he; But he had not read ae line but twa, 55 Till the saut tears did blind his ee. "O I must up to England go, Whatever me betide, For to relieve mine own fair ladie, That lay last by my side." 60 Then up and spak Johnie's auld mither, A weel spoke woman was she: "If you do go to England, Johnie, I may take fareweel o' thee." And out and spak his father then, 65 And he spak well in time: "If thou unto fair England go, I fear ye'll ne'er come hame." But out and spak his uncle then, And he spak bitterlie: 70 "Five hundred of my good life-guards Shall bear him companie." When they were all on saddle set, They were comely to behold; The hair that hung owre Johnie's neck shined 75 Like the links o' yellow gold. When they were all marching away, Most pleasant for to see, There was not so much as a married man In Johnie's companie. 80 Johnie Scot himsell was the foremost man In the company that did ride; His uncle was the second man, Wi' his rapier by his side. The first gude town that Johnie came to, 85 He made the bells be rung; And when he rode the town all owre, He made the psalms be sung. The next gude town that Johnie came to, He made the drums beat round; 90 And the third gude town that he came to, He made the trumpets sound, Till King Henry and all his merry men A-marvelled at the sound. And when they came to Earl Percy's yates, 95 They rode them round about; And who saw he but his own true love At a window looking out? "O the doors are bolted with iron and steel, So are the windows about; 100 And my feet they are in fetters strong; And how can I get out? "My garters they are of the lead, And O but they be cold; My breast-plate's of the hard, hard steel, 105 Instead of beaten gold." But when they came to Earl Percy's yett, They tirled at the pin; None was so ready as Earl Percy himsell To open and let them in. 110 "Art thou the King of Aulsberry, Or art thou the King of Spain? Or art thou one of our gay Scots lords, M'Nachton be thy name?" "I'm not the King of Aulsberry, 115 Nor yet the King of Spain; But am one of our gay Scots lords, Johnie Scot I am called by name." When Johnie came before the king, He fell low down on his knee: 120 "If Johnie Scot be thy name," he said, "As I trew weel it be, Then the brawest lady in a' my court Gaes big wi' child to thee." "If she be with child," fair Johnie said, 125 "As I trew weel she be, I'll make it heir owre a' my land, And her my gay ladie." "But if she be wi' child," her father said, "As I trew weel she be, 130 To-morrow again eight o'clock, High hanged thou shalt be." Out and spoke Johnie's uncle then, And he spak bitterlie: "Before that we see fair Johnie hanged, 135 We'll a' fight till we die." "But is there ever an Italian about your court,[L137] That will fight duels three? For before that I be hanged," Johnie said, "On the Italian's sword I'll die." 140 "Say on, say on," said then the king, "It is weel spoken of thee; For there is an Italian in my court Shall fight you three by three." O some is to the good green wood, 145 And some is to the plain, The queen with all her ladies fair, The king with his merry men, Either to see fair Johnie flee, Or else to see him slain. 150 They fought on, and Johnie fought on, Wi' swords o' temper'd steel, Until the draps o' red, red blood Ran trinkling down the field. They fought on, and Johnie fought on, 155 They fought right manfullie; Till they left not alive, in a' the king's court, A man only but three. And they begoud at eight of the morn, And they fought on till three; 160 When the Italian, like a swallow swift,[L161] Owre Johnie's head did flee: But Johnie being a clever young boy, He wheeled him round about; And on the point of Johnie's broad-sword, 165 The Italian he slew out. "A priest, a priest," fair Johnie cried, "To wed my love and me;" "A clerk, a clerk," her father cried, "To sum her tocher free." 170 "I'll hae none of your gold," fair Johnie cried, "Nor none of your other gear; But I will have my own fair bride, For this day I've won her dear." He's ta'en his true love by the hand, 175 He led her up the plain: "Have you any more of your English dogs You want for to have slain?" He put a little horn to his mouth, He blew 't baith loud and shill; 180 And honour is into Scotland gone, In spite of England's skill. He put his little horn to his mouth, He blew it owre again; And aye the sound the horn cryed 185 Was "Johnie and his men!" 137, 140, 143, Taillant. 161, 166 Taillant. BROWN ADAM. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 159. "There is a copy of this ballad in Mrs. Brown's collection. The editor has seen one, printed on a single sheet. The epithet, "Smith," implies, probably, the sirname, not the profession, of the hero, who seems to have been an outlaw. There is, however, in Mrs. Brown's copy, a verse of little merit, here omitted, alluding to the implements of that occupation." SCOTT. O wha wad wish the wind to blaw, Or the green leaves fa' therewith? Or wha wad wish a lealer love Than Brown Adam the Smith? But they hae banished him, Brown Adam, 5 Frae father and frae mother; And they hae banish'd him, Brown Adam, Frae sister and frae brother. And they hae banish'd him, Brown Adam, The flower o' a' his kin; 10 And he's bigged a bour in gude green-wood Atween his ladye and him. It fell upon a summer's day, Brown Adam he thought lang; And, for to hunt some venison, 15 To green-wood he wald gang. He has ta'en his bow his arm o'er, His bolts and arrows lang; And he is to the gude green-wood As fast as he could gang. 20 O he's shot up, and he's shot down, The bird upon the brier; And he sent it hame to his ladye, Bade her be of gude cheir. O he's shot up, and he's shot down, 25 The bird upon the thorn; And sent it hame to his ladye, Said he'd be hame the morn. When he cam to his lady's bour door He stude a little forbye, 30 And there he heard a fou fause knight Tempting his gay ladye. For he's ta'en out a gay goud ring, Had cost him many a poun', "O grant me love for love, ladye, 35 And this sall be thy own."-- "I lo'e Brown Adam weel," she said; "I trew sae does he me; I wadna gie Brown Adam's love For nae fause knight I see."-- 40 Out has he ta'en a purse o' gowd, Was a' fou to the string, "O grant me love for love, ladye, And a' this sall be thine."-- "I lo'e Brown Adam weel," she says; 45 "I wot sae does he me: I wadna be your light leman, For mair than ye could gie."-- Then out he drew his lang bright brand, And flash'd it in her een; 50 "Now grant me love for love, ladye, Or thro' ye this sall gang!"-- Then, sighing, says that ladye fair, "Brown Adam tarries lang!"-- Then in and starts him Brown Adam, 55 Says--"I'm just at your hand."-- He's gar'd him leave his bonny bow, He's gar'd him leave his brand, He's gar'd him leave a dearer pledge-- Four fingers o' his right hand. 60 LIZIE LINDSAY. Complete copies of this pretty ballad are given in Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 102, and in Whitelaw's _Book of Scottish Ballads_, p. 51. The latter we have printed with the present version, which, though lacking a stanza or two, is better in some respects than either of the others.--Robert Allan has made a song out of this ballad, Smith's _Scottish Minstrel_, ii. 100. "Transmitted to the Editor by Professor SCOTT of Aberdeen, as it was taken down from the recitation of an old woman. It is very popular in the north-east of Scotland, and was familiar to the editor in his early youth; and from the imperfect recollection which he still retains of it, he has corrected the text in two or three unimportant passages." JAMIESON'S _Popular Ballads_, ii. 149. "Will ye go to the Highlands, Lizie Lindsay, Will ye go to the Highlands wi' me? Will ye go to the Highlands, Lizie Lindsay, And dine on fresh cruds and green whey?" Then out spak Lizie's mother, 5 A good old lady was she, "Gin ye say sic a word to my daughter, I'll gar ye be hanged high." "Keep weel your daughter frae me, madam; Keep weel your daughter frae me; 10 I care as little for your daughter, As ye can care for me." Then out spak Lizie's ain maiden, A bonny young lassie was she; Says,--"were I the heir to a kingdom, 15 Awa' wi' young Donald I'd be." "O say you sae to me, Nelly? And does my Nelly say sae? Maun I leave my father and mother, Awa' wi' young Donald to gae?" 20 And Lizie's ta'en till her her stockings, And Lizie's ta'en till her her shoen; And kilted up her green claithing, And awa' wi' young Donald she's gane. The road it was lang and weary; 25 The braes they were ill to climb; Bonny Lizie was weary wi' travelling, And a fit furder coudna win. And sair, O sair did she sigh, And the saut tear blin'd her e'e; 30 "Gin this be the pleasures o' looing, They never will do wi' me!" "Now, haud your tongue, bonny Lizie; Ye never shall rue for me; Gi'e me but your love for my love, 35 It is a' that your tocher will be. "And haud your tongue, bonny Lizie; Altho' that the gait seem lang, And you's ha'e the wale o' good living Whan to Kincawsen we gang. 40 "There my father he is an auld cobler, My mother she is an auld dey; And we'll sleep on a bed o' green rashes, And dine on fresh cruds and green whey." "You're welcome hame, Sir Donald, 45 You're welcome hame to me." "O ca' me nae mair Sir Donald; There's a bonny young lady to come; Sae ca' me nae mair Sir Donald, But ae spring Donald your son." 50 "Ye're welcome hame, young Donald; Ye're welcome hame to me; Ye're welcome hame, young Donald, And your bonny young lady wi' ye." She's made them a bed of green rashes, 55 Weel cover'd wi' hooding o' grey; Bonny Lizie was weary wi' travelling, And lay till 'twas lang o' the day. "The sun looks in o'er the hill-head, And the laverock is liltin' gay; 60 Get up, get up, bonny Lizie, You've lain till its lang o' the day. "You might ha'e been out at the shealin, Instead o' sae lang to lye, And up and helping my mother 65 To milk baith her gaits and kye." Then out spak Lizie Lindsay, The tear blindit her eye; "The ladies o' Edinburgh city They neither milk gaits nor kye." 70 Then up spak young Sir Donald, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "For I am the laird o' Kincawsyn, And you are the lady free; And * * * * * * * * * * * LIZZIE LINDSAY. "This version of _Lizzie Lindsay_ is given from the recitation of a lady in Glasgow, and is a faithful transcript of the ballad as it used to be sung in the West of Scotland." WHITELAW'S _Book of Scottish Ballads_, p. 51.--A very good copy, from Mr. Kinloch's MS., is printed in Aytoun's _Ballads of Scotland_, i. 269, (_Donald of the Isles_.) There was a braw ball in Edinburgh And mony braw ladies were there, But nae ane at a' the assembly Could wi' Lizzie Lindsay compare. In cam' the young laird o' Kincassie, 5 An' a bonnie young laddie was he-- "Will ye lea' yere ain kintra, Lizzie, An' gang to the Hielands wi' me?" She turned her roun' on her heel, An' a very loud laughter gaed she-- 10 "I wad like to ken whar I was ganging, And wha I was gaun to gang wi'." "My name is young Donald M'Donald, My name I will never deny; My father he is an auld shepherd, 15 Sae weel as he can herd the kye! "My father he is an auld shepherd, My mother she is an auld dame; If ye'll gang to the Hielands, bonnie Lizzie, Ye's neither want curds nor cream." 20 "If ye'll call at the Canongate port, At the Canongate port call on me, I'll give you a bottle o' sherry, And bear you companie." He ca'd at the Canongate port, 25 At the Canongate port called he; She drank wi' him a bottle o' sherry, And bore him guid companie. "Will ye go to the Hielands, bonnie Lizzie, Will ye go to the Hielands wi' me? 30 If ye'll go to the Hielands, bonnie Lizzie, Ye shall not want curds nor green whey." In there cam' her auld mither, A jolly auld lady was she-- "I wad like to ken whar she was ganging, 35 And wha she was gaun to gang wi'." "My name is young Donald M'Donald, My name I will never deny, My father he is an auld shepherd, Sae weel as he can herd the kye! 40 "O but I would give you ten guineas, To have her one hour in a room, To get her fair body a picture To keep me from thinking long." "O I value not your ten guineas, 45 As little as you value mine; But if that you covet my daughter, Take her with you, if you do incline." "Pack up my silks and my satins, And pack up my hose and my shoon, 50 And likewise my clothes in small bundles, And away wi' young Donald I'll gang." They pack'd up her silks and her satins, They pack'd up her hose and her shoon, And likewise her clothes in small bundles, 55 And away with young Donald she's gane. When that they cam' to the Hielands, The braes they were baith lang and stey; Bonnie Lizzie was wearied wi' ganging-- She had travell'd a lang summer day. 60 "O are we near hame, Sir Donald, O are we near hame, I pray?" "We're no near hame, bonnie Lizzie, Nor yet the half o' the way." They cam' to a homely poor cottage, 65 An auld man was standing by; "Ye're welcome hame, Sir Donald, Ye've been sae lang away." "O call me no more Sir Donald, But call me young Donald your son; 70 For I have a bonnie young lady Behind me for to come in." "Come in, come in, bonnie Lizzie, Come in, come in," said he, "Although that our cottage be little, 75 Perhaps the better we'll 'gree. "O make us a supper, dear mother, And make it of curds an' green whey; And make us a bed o' green rushes, And cover it o'er wi' green hay." 80 "Rise up, rise up, bonnie Lizzie, Why lie ye so long in the day; Ye might ha'e been helping my mother To make the curds and green whey." "O haud your tongue, Sir Donald, 85 O haud your tongue I pray; I wish I had ne'er left my mother, I can neither make curds nor whey." "Rise up, rise up, bonnie Lizzie, And put on your satins so fine; 90 For we maun to be at Kincassie Before that the clock strikes nine." But when they came to Kincassie The porter was standing by;-- "Ye're welcome home, Sir Donald, 95 Ye've been so long away." It's down then came his auld mither, With all the keys in her hand, Saying, "Take you these, bonnie Lizzie, All under them's at your command." LIZAE BAILLIE. From Herd's _Scottish Songs_, ii. 50. A longer version, from Buchan's larger collection, is in the Appendix. Mr. Chambers, assuming that the foregoing ballad of _Lizie Lindsay_ was originally the same as _Lizie Baillie_, has made out of various copies of both one story in two parts: _The Scottish Ballads_, p. 158. Smith has somewhat altered the language of this ballad: _Scottish Minstrel_, iv. 90. Lizae Baillie's to Gartartan gane, To see her sister Jean; And there she's met wi' Duncan Græme, And he's convoy'd her hame. "My bonny Lizae Baillie, 5 I'll row ye in my plaidie, And ye maun gang alang wi' me, And be a Highland lady." "I'm sure they wadna ca' me wise, Gin I wad gang wi' you, Sir; 10 For I can neither card nor spin, Nor yet milk ewe or cow, Sir." "My bonny Lizae Baillie, Let nane o' these things daunt ye; Ye'll hae nae need to card or spin, 15 Your mither weel can want ye." Now she's cast aff her bonny shoen, Made o' the gilded leather, And she's put on her highland brogues, To skip amang the heather: 20 And she's cast aff her bonny gown, Made o' the silk and sattin, And she's put on a tartan plaid, To row amang the braken. She wadna hae a Lawland laird, 25 Nor be an English lady; But she wad gang wi' Duncan Græme, And row her in his plaidie. She was nae ten miles frae the town, When she began to weary; 30 She aften looked back, and said, "Farewell to Castlecarry. "The first place I saw my Duncan Græme, Was near yon holland bush; My father took frae me my rings, 35 My rings but and my purse. "But I wadna gie my Duncan Græme For a' my father's land, Though it were ten times ten times mair, And a' at my command." 40 * * * * * * * * * Now wae be to you, loggerheads, That dwell near Castlecarry, To let awa' sic a bonny lass, A Highlandman to marry. 45 GLASGOW PEGGY. From recitation, in Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 174. Other copies are printed in Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 155, (_Donald of the Isles_,) Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 40, (and Chambers's _Popular Rhymes_, p. 27,) Smith's _Scottish Minstrel_, iv. 78. The Lawland lads think they are fine, But the hieland lads are brisk and gaucy; And they are awa near Glasgow toun, To steal awa a bonnie lassie. "I wad gie my gude brown steed, 5 And sae wad I my gude grey naigie, That I war fifty miles frae the toun, And nane wi' me but my bonnie Peggy." But up then spak the auld gudman, And vow but he spak wondrous saucie;-- 10 "Ye may steal awa our cows and ewes, But ye sanna get our bonnie lassie." "I have got cows and ewes anew, I've got gowd and gear already; Sae I dinna want your cows nor ewes, 15 But I will hae your bonnie Peggy." "I'll follow you oure moss and muir, I'll follow you oure mountains many, I'll follow you through frost and snaw, I'll stay na langer wi' my daddie." 20 He set her on a gude brown steed, Himself upon a gude grey naigie; They're oure hills, and oure dales, And he's awa wi' his bonnie Peggy. As they rade out by Glasgow toun, 25 And doun by the hills o' Achildounie, There they met the Earl of Hume, And his auld son, riding bonnie. Out bespak the Earl of Hume, And O but he spak wondrous sorry,-- 30 "The bonniest lass about a' Glasgow toun, This day is awa wi' a hieland laddie." As they rade bye auld Drymen toun, The lassies leuch and lookit saucy, That the bonniest lass they ever saw, 35 Sud be riding awa wi' a hieland laddie. They rode on through moss and muir, And so did they owre mountains many, Until they cam to yonder glen, And she's lain doun wi' her hieland laddie. 40 Gude green hay was Peggy's bed, And brakens war her blankets bonnie; Wi' his tartan plaid aneath her head, And she's lain doun wi' her hieland laddie. "There's beds and bowsters in my father's house, 45 There's sheets and blankets, and a' thing ready, And wadna they be angry wi' me, To see me lie sae wi' a hieland laddie." "Tho' there's beds and beddin in your father's house, Sheets and blankets and a' made ready, 50 Yet why sud they be angry wi' thee, Though I be but a hieland laddie? "It's I hae fifty acres of land, It's a' plow'd and sawn already; I am Donald the Lord of Skye, 55 And why sud na Peggy be call'd a lady? "I hae fifty gude milk kye, A' tied to the staws already; I am Donald the Lord of Skye, And why sud na Peggy be call'd a lady! 60 "See ye no a' yon castles and tow'rs? The sun sheens owre them a sae bonnie; I am Donald the Lord of Skye, I think I'll mak ye as blythe as onie. "A' that Peggy left behind 65 Was a cot-house and a wee kail-yardie; Now I think she is better by far, Than tho' she had got a lawland lairdie." GLENLOGIE. First published in the fourth volume of Smith's _Scottish Minstrel_. Great liberties, says Motherwell, have been taken with the songs in that work. Other versions are given in Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, and in Buchan's larger collection, i. 188, (_Jean o' Bethelnie's Love for Sir G. Gordon._) Three score o' nobles rade up the king's ha', But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a'; Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie black e'e, "Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for me!" "O haud your tongue, dochter, ye'll get better than he;" 5 "O say nae sae, mither, for that canna be; Though Drumlie is richer, and greater than he, Yet if I maun tak him, I'll certainly dee. "Where will I get a bonnie boy, to win hose and shoon, Will gae to Glenlogie, and cum again shun?"[L10] 10 "O here am I, a bonnie boy, to win hose and shoon, Will gae to Glenlogie, and cum again shun." When he gaed to Glenlogie, 'twas "wash and go dine;" 'Twas "wash ye, my pretty boy, wash and go dine;" "O 'twas ne'er my father's fashion, and it ne'er shall be mine, 15 To gar a lady's hasty errand wait till I dine. "But there is, Glenlogie, a letter for thee;" The first line that he read, a low smile ga'e he, The next line that he read, the tear blindit his e'e; But the last line that he read, he gart the table flee. 20 "Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown; Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae a town;" But lang ere the horse was drawn and brought to the green, O bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane. "When he cam' to Glenfeldy's door, little mirth was there; 25 Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing her hair; "Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye're welcome," said she, "Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie to see." Pale and wan was she, when Glenlogie gaed ben, But red and rosy grew she whene'er he sat down; 30 She turned awa' her head, but the smile was in her e'e, "O binna feared, mither, I'll maybe no dee." 10, 12 shun again. JOHN O' HAZELGREEN. Neither the present version of this ballad, (taken from Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 253,) nor that furnished by Kinloch, (_Jock o' Hazelgreen_, p. 206,) is at all satisfactory. Another, much superior in point of taste, but made up from four different copies, is given in Chambers's _Scottish Ballads_, p. 319. Sir W. Scott's song of _Jock o' Hazeldean_ was suggested by a single stanza of this ballad, which he had heard as a fragment, thus: "'Why weep ye by the tide ladye, Why weep ye by the tide? I'll wed ye to my youngest son, And ye shall be his bride; And ye shall be his bride, ladye, Sae comely to be seen:' But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock o' Hazeldean." As I went forth to take the air Intill an evening clear, And there I spied a lady fair Making a heavy bier. Making a heavy bier, I say, 5 But and a piteous meen; And aye she sigh'd, and said, alas! For John o' Hazelgreen. The sun was sinking in the west, The stars were shining clear; 10 When thro' the thickets o' the wood, A gentleman did appear. Says, "who has done you the wrong, fair maid, And left you here alane; Or who has kiss'd your lovely lips, 15 That ye ca' Hazelgreen?" "Hold your tongue, kind sir," she said, "And do not banter so; How will ye add affliction Unto a lover's woe? 20 For none's done me the wrong," she said, "Nor left me here alane; Nor none has kiss'd my lovely lips, That I ca' Hazelgreen." "Why weep ye by the tide, lady? 25 Why weep ye by the tide? How blythe and happy might he be Gets you to be his bride! Gets you to be his bride, fair maid, And him I'll no bemean; 30 But when I take my words again, Whom call ye Hazelgreen? "What like a man was Hazelgreen? Will ye show him to me?" "He is a comely proper youth, 35 I in my sleep did see; Wi' arms tall, and fingers small,-- He's comely to be seen;" And aye she loot the tears down fall For John o' Hazelgreen. 40 "If ye'll forsake young Hazelgreen, And go along with me, I'll wed you to my eldest son, Make you a lady free." "It's for to wed your eldest son 45 I am a maid o'er mean; I'll rather stay at home," she says, "And die for Hazelgreen." "If ye'll forsake young Hazelgreen, And go along with me, 50 I'll wed you to my second son, And your weight o' gowd I'll gie." "It's for to wed your second son I am a maid o'er mean; I'll rather stay at home," she says, 55 "And die for Hazelgreen." Then he's taen out a siller comb, Comb'd down her yellow hair; And looked in a diamond bright, To see if she were fair. 60 "My girl, ye do all maids surpass That ever I have seen; Cheer up your heart, my lovely lass, And hate young Hazelgreen." "Young Hazelgreen he is my love, 65 And ever mair shall be; I'll nae forsake young Hazelgreen For a' the gowd ye'll gie." But aye she sigh'd, and said, alas! And made a piteous meen; 70 And aye she loot the tears down fa', For John o' Hazelgreen. He looked high, and lighted low, Set her upon his horse; And they rode on to Edinburgh, 75 To Edinburgh's own cross. And when she in that city was, She look'd like ony queen; "'Tis a pity such a lovely lass Shou'd love young Hazelgreen." 80 "Young Hazelgreen, he is my love, And ever mair shall be; I'll nae forsake young Hazelgreen For a' the gowd ye'll gie." And aye she sigh'd, and said, alas! 85 And made a piteous meen; And aye she loot the tears down fa', For John o' Hazelgreen. "Now hold your tongue, my well-far'd maid, Lat a' your mourning be, 90 And a' endeavours I shall try, To bring that youth to thee; If ye'll tell me where your love stays, His stile and proper name." "He's laird o' Taperbank," she says, 95 "His stile, Young Hazelgreen." Then he has coft for that lady A fine silk riding gown; Likewise he coft for that lady A steed, and set her on; 100 Wi' menji feathers in her hat, Silk stockings and siller sheen; And they are on to Taperbank, Seeking young Hazelgreen. They nimbly rode along the way, 105 And gently spurr'd their horse, Till they rode on to Hazelgreen, To Hazelgreen's own close. Then forth he came, young Hazelgreen, To welcome his father free; 110 "You're welcome here, my father dear, And a' your companie." But when he look'd o'er his shoulder, A light laugh then gae he; Says, "If I getna this lady, 115 It's for her I must die; I must confess this is the maid I ance saw in a dream, A walking thro' a pleasant shade, As fair's a cypress queen." 120 "Now hold your tongue, young Hazelgreen, Lat a' your folly be; If ye be wae for that lady, She's thrice as wae for thee. She's thrice as wae for thee, my son; 125 As bitter doth complain; Well is she worthy o' the rigs That lie on Hazelgreen." He's taen her in his arms twa, Led her thro' bower and ha'; 130 "Cheer up your heart, my dearest dear, Ye're flower out o'er them a'. This night shall be our wedding e'en, The morn we'll say, Amen; Ye'se never mair hae cause to mourn,-- 135 Ye're lady o' Hazelgreen." THE FAUSE LOVER. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 268. The fourth and fifth stanzas are found as a fragment in Herd's _Scottish Songs_, ii. 6, (ed. 1776,) thus: "False luve, and hae ze played me this, In the simmer, mid the flowers? I sall repay ze back again, In the winter mid the showers. "Bot again, dear luve, and again, dear luve, Will ze not turn again? As ze look to ither women Shall I to ither men." Sir Walter Scott, also, as Chambers has pointed out, has, in _Waverley_, put two similar stanzas into the mouth of Davie Gellatley. "False love, and hast thou played me this, In summer, among the flowers? I will repay thee back again, In winter, amid the showers. "Unless again, again, my love, Unless ye turn again, As you with other maidens rove, I'll smile on other men." A fair maid sat in her bower door, Wringing her lily hands; And by it came a sprightly youth, Fast tripping o'er the strands. "Where gang ye, young John," she says, 5 "Sae early in the day? It gars me think, by your fast trip, Your journey's far away." He turn'd about wi' surly look, And said, "What's that to thee? 10 I'm gaen to see a lovely maid, Mair fairer far than ye." "Now hae ye play'd me this, fause love, In simmer, 'mid the flowers? I sall repay ye back again, 15 In winter, 'mid the showers. "But again, dear love, and again, dear love, Will ye not turn again? For as ye look to ither women, Shall I to ither men." 20 "Make your choose o' whom you please, For I my choice will have; I've chosen a maid mair fair than thee, I never will deceive." But she's kilt up her claithing fine, 25 And after him gaed she; But aye he said, "ye'll turn back, Nae farder gang wi' me." "But again, dear love, and again, dear love, Will ye never love me again? 30 Alas! for loving you sae well, And you nae me again." The first an' town that they came till, He bought her brooch and ring; But aye he bade her turn again, 35 And gang nae farder wi' him. "But again, dear love, and again, dear love, Will ye never love me again? Alas! for loving you sae well, And you nae me again." 40 The niest an' town that they came till, His heart it grew mair fain; And he was deep in love wi' her, As she was ower again. The niest an' town that they came till, 45 He bought her wedding gown; And made her lady o' ha's and bowers, In bonny Berwick town. THE GARDENER. From Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 74. The last stanza but one is found in the preceding ballad. Another copy is given by Buchan, _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 187. The gard'ner stands in his bouer door, Wi' a primrose in his hand, And bye there cam a leal maiden, As jimp as a willow wand; And bye there cam a leal maiden, As jimp as a willow wand. "O ladie can ye fancy me, 5 For to be my bride; Ye'se get a' the flowers in my garden, To be to you a weed. "The lily white sall be your smock; It becomes your body best; 10 Your head sall be buskt wi' gelly-flower, Wi' the primrose in your breist. "Your goun sall be the Sweet William; Your coat the camovine; Your apron o' the sallads neat, 15 That taste baith sweet and fine. "Your hose sall be the brade kail-blade, That is baith brade and lang; Narrow, narrow, at the cute, And brade, brade at the brawn. 20 "Your gloves sall be the marigold, All glittering to your hand, Weel spread owre wi' the blue blaewort, That grows amang corn-land." "O fare ye weil, young man," she says, 25 "Fareweil, and I bid adieu; Sin ye've provided a weed for me Amang the simmer flowers, It's I'se provide anither for you, Amang the winter-showers: 30 "The new fawn snaw to be your smock; It becomes your bodie best; Your head sall be wrapt wi' the eastern wind, And the cauld rain on your breist." THE DUKE OF ATHOL. "Taken down from the recitation of an idiot boy in Wishaw." Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 170. "I am gaing awa, Jeanie, I am gaing awa, I am gaing ayont the saut seas, I'm gaing sae far awa." "What will ye buy to me, Jamie, 5 What will ye buy to me?" "I'll buy to you a silken plaid, And send it wi' vanitie." "That's na love at a', Jamie, That's na love at a'; 10 All I want is love for love, And that's the best ava. "Whan will ye marry me, Jamie, Whan will ye marry me? Will ye tak me to your countrie,-- 15 Or will ye marry me?" "How can I marry thee, Jeanie, How can I marry thee? Whan I've a wife and bairns three,-- Twa wad na weill agree." 20 "Wae be to your fause tongue, Jamie, Wae be to your fause tongue; Ye promised for to marry me, And has a wife at hame! "But if your wife wad dee, Jamie, 25 And sae your bairns three, Wad ye tak me to your countrie,-- Or wad ye marry me? "But sin they're all alive, Jamie, But sin they're all alive, 30 We'll tak a glass in ilka hand, And drink, 'Weill may they thrive.'" "If my wife wad dee, Jeanie, And sae my bairns three, I wad tak ye to my ain countrie, 35 And married we wad be." "O an your head war sair, Jamie, O an your head war sair, I'd tak the napkin frae my neck, And tie doun your yellow hair." 40 "I hae na wife at a', Jeanie, I hae na wife at a', I hae neither wife nor bairns three; I said it to try thee." "Licht are ye to loup, Jamie, 45 Licht are ye to loup, Licht are ye to loup the dyke, Whan I maun wale a slap." "Licht am I to loup, Jeanie, Licht am I to loup; 50 But the hiest dyke that we come to, I'll turn and tak you up. "Blair in Athol is mine, Jeanie, Blair in Athol is mine; Bonnie Dunkel is whare I dwell, 55 And the boats o' Garry's mine. "Huntingtower is mine, Jeanie, Huntingtower is mine, Huntingtower, and bonnie Belford, And a' Balquhither's mine." 60 THE RANTIN' LADDIE. An imperfect copy of this ballad was printed in Johnson's _Museum_, (p. 474,) contributed, Mr. Stenhouse informs us, by Burns. The present copy is from the _Thistle of Scotland_, p. 7. Another, shorter than either, is given in Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 66, _Lord Aboyne_. (Also in Smith's _Scottish Minstrel_, iv. 6.) "Aft hae I playd at cards and dice For the love o' a bonny rantin' laddie, But now I maun sit i' my father's kitchen nook, And sing, 'Hush, balow, my baby.' "If I had been wise, and had ta'en advice, 5 And dane as my bonny love bade me, I would hae been married at Martinmas, And been wi' my rantin' laddie. "But I was na wise, I took nae advice, Did not as my bonny love bade me, 10 And now I maun sit by mysel' i' the nook, And rock my bastard baby. "If I had horse at my command, As often I had many, I would ride on to the Castle o' Aboyne, 15 Wi' a letter to my rantin' laddie." Down the stair her father came, And looked proud and saucy; "Who is the man, and what is his name, That ye ca' your rantin' laddie? 20 "Is he a lord, or is he a laird, Or is he but a caddie? Or is it the young Earl o' Aboyne, That ye ca' your rantin' laddie?" "He is a young and noble lord, 25 He never was a caddie; It is the noble Earl o' Aboyne That I ca' my rantin' laddie." "Ye shall hae a horse at your command, As ye had often many, 30 To go to the Castle o' Aboyne, Wi' a letter to your rantin' laddie." "Where will I get a little page, Where will I get a caddie, That will run quick to bonny Aboyne, 35 Wi' this letter to my rantin' laddie?" Then out spoke the young scullion boy, Said, "Here am I, a caddie; I will run on to bonny Aboyne Wi' the letter to your rantin' laddie." 40 "Now when ye come to bonny Deeside, Where woods are green and bonny, Then will ye see the Earl o' Aboyne, Among the bushes mony. "And when ye come to the lands o' Aboyne, 45 Where all around is bonny, Ye'll take your hat into your hand, Gie this letter to my rantin' laddie." When he came near the banks of Dee, The birks were blooming bonny, 50 And there he saw the Earl o' Aboyne Among the bushes mony. "Where are ye going, my bonny boy, Where are ye going, my caddie?" "I am going to the Castle o' Aboyne 55 Wi' a letter to the rantin' laddie." "See yonder is the castle there, My young and handsome caddie, And I myself am the Earl o' Aboyne, Tho they ca' me the rantin' laddie." 60 "O pardon, my lord, if I've done wrong; Forgive a simple caddie; O pardon, pardon, Earl o' Aboyne, I said but what she bade me." "Ye've done no wrong, my bonny boy, 65 Ye've done no wrong, my caddie;" Wi' hat in hand he bowed low, Gave the letter to the rantin' laddie. When young Aboyne looked the letter on, O but he blinkit bonny; 70 But ere he read four lines on end, The tears came trickling mony. "My father will no pity shew, My mother still does slight me, And a' my friends have turned from me, 75 And servants disrespect me." "Who are they dare be so bold To cruelly use my lassie? But I'll take her to bonny Aboyne, Where oft she did caress me. 80 "Go raise to me five hundred men, Be quick and make them ready; Each on a steed, to haste their speed, To carry home my lady." As they rode on thro' Buchanshire, 85 The company were many, Wi' a good claymore in every hand, That glanced wondrous bonny. When he came to her father's gate He called for his lady; 90 "Come down, come down, my bonny maid, And speak wi' your rantin' laddie." When she was set on high horseback, Row'd in the highland plaidie, The bird i' the bush sung not so sweet, 95 As sung this bonny lady. As they rode on thro' Buchanshire, He cried, "Each lowland lassie, Lay your love on some lowland lown, And soon will he prove fause t' ye. 100 "But take my advice, and make your choice Of some young highland laddie, Wi' bonnet and plaid, whose heart is staid, And he will not beguile ye." As they rode on thro' Garioch land, 105 He rode up in a fury, And cried, "Fall back each saucy dame, Let the Countess of Aboyne before ye." THE DUKE OF GORDON'S DAUGHTER. Ritson's _Scottish Songs_, ii. 169. "Alexander, third Earl of Huntly, was succeeded, in 1523, by his grandson Alexander, Lord Gordon, who actually had three daughters. I. Lady Elizabeth, the eldest, married to John, Earl of Athol. II. Lady Margaret, married to John, Lord Forbes. III. Lady Jean, the youngest, married _first_, to James, Earl of Bothwell, from whom she was divorced in 1568; she married, _secondly_, Alexander, Earl of Southerland, who died in 1594; and surviving him, she married, _thirdly_, Captain Alexander Ogilvie, son and successor of Sir Walter Ogilvie of Boym, who died in 1606 without issue." STENHOUSE, _Musical Museum_, iv. 378. The dukedom of Gordon was not created until 1684, and therefore the first line should probably run as quoted by Burns,-- "The _Lord_ of Gordon had three daughters." The duke of Gordon has three daughters, Elizabeth, Margaret, and Jean; They would not stay in bonny Castle-Gordon, But they would go to bonny Aberdeen. They had not been in Aberdeen 5 A twelvemonth and a day, Till Lady Jean fell in love with Captain Ogilvie, And away with him she would gae. Word came to the duke of Gordon, In the chamber where he lay, 10 Lady Jean has fell in love with Captain Ogilvie, And away with him she would gae. "Go saddle me the black horse, And you'll ride on the grey; And I will ride to bonny Aberdeen, 15 Where I have been many a day." They were not a mile from Aberdeen, A mile but only three, Till he met with his two daughters walking, But away was Lady Jean. 20 "Where is your sister, maidens? Where is your sister, now? Where is your sister, maidens, That she is not walking with you?" "O pardon us, honoured father, 25 O pardon us," they did say; "Lady Jean is with Captain Ogilvie, And away with him she will gae." When he came to Aberdeen, And down upon the green, 30 There did he see Captain Ogilvie, Training up his men. "O wo to you, Captain Ogilvie, And an ill death thou shalt die; For taking to my daughter, 35 Hanged thou shalt be." Duke Gordon has wrote a broad letter, And sent it to the king, To cause hang Captain Ogilvie, If ever he hanged a man. 40 "I will not hang Captain Ogilvie, For no lord that I see; But I'll cause him to put off the lace and scarlet, And put on the single livery." Word came to Captain Ogilvie, 45 In the chamber where he lay, To cast off the gold lace and scarlet, And put on the single livery. "If this be for bonny Jeany Gordon, This pennance I'll take wi'; 50 If this be bonny Jeany Gordon, All this I will dree." Lady Jean had not been married, Not a year but three, Till she had a babe in every arm, 55 Another upon her knee. "O but I'm weary of wandering! O but my fortune is bad! It sets not the duke of Gordon's daughter To follow a soldier lad. 60 "O but I'm weary of wandering! O but I think lang! It sets not the duke of Gordon's daughter, To follow a single man." When they came to the Highland hills, 65 Cold was the frost and snow; Lady Jean's shoes they were all torn, No farther could she go. "O wo to the hills and the mountains! Wo to the wind and the rain! 70 My feet is sore with going barefoot, No further am I able to gang. "Wo to the hills and the mountains! Wo to the frost and the snow! My feet is sore with going barefoot, 75 No farther am I able for to go. "O! if I were at the glens of Foudlen, Where hunting I have been, I would find the way to bonny Castle-Gordon, Without either stockings or shoon." 80 When she came to Castle-Gordon, And down upon the green, The porter gave out a loud shout, "O yonder comes Lady Jean." "O you are welcome, bonny Jeany Gordon, 85 You are dear welcome to me; You are welcome, dear Jeany Gordon, But away with your Captain Ogilvie." Now over seas went the captain, As a soldier under command; 90 A message soon followed after, To come and heir his brother's land. "Come home, you pretty Captain Ogilvie, And heir your brother's land; Come home, ye pretty Captain Ogilvie, 95 Be earl of Northumberland." "O what does this mean?" says the captain; "Where's my brother's children three?" "They are dead and buried, And the lands they are ready for thee." 100 "Then hoist up your sails, brave captain, Let's be jovial and free; I'll to Northumberland, and heir my estate, Then my dear Jeany I'll see." He soon came to Castle-Gordon, 105 And down upon the green; The porter gave out with a loud shout, "Here comes Captain Ogilvie." "You're welcome, pretty Captain Ogilvie, Your fortune's advanced I hear; 110 No stranger can come unto my gates, That I do love so dear." "Sir, the last time I was at your gates, You would not let me in; I'm come for my wife and children, 115 No friendship else I claim." "Come in, pretty Captain Ogilvie, And drink of the beer and the wine; And thou shalt have gold and silver, To count till the clock strike nine." 120 "I'll have none of your gold and silver, Nor none of your white money; But I'll have bonny Jeany Gordon; And she shall go now with me." Then she came tripping down the stair, 125 With the tear into her eye; One babe was at her foot, Another upon her knee. "You're welcome, bonny Jeany Gordon, With my young family; 130 Mount and go to Northumberland, There a countess thou shalt be." THE LAIRD O'LOGIE. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 131. An edition of this ballad was published in Herd's _Scottish Songs_, (i. 54,) and there is styled _The Young Laird of Ochiltrie_. Scott recovered the following copy from recitation, which is to be preferred to the other, as agreeing more closely with the real fact, both in the name and the circumstances. The incident here celebrated occurred in the year 1592. Francis, Earl Bothwell, being then engaged in a wild conspiracy against James VI., succeeded in obtaining some followers even among the king's personal attendants. Among these was a gentleman named Weymis of Logie. Accused of treasonable converse with Bothwell, he confessed to the charge, and was, of course, in danger of expiating his crime by death. But he was rescued through the address and courage of Margaret Twynstoun, a lady of the court, to whom he was attached. It being her duty to wait on the queen the night of Logie's accusation, she left the royal chamber while the king and queen were asleep, passed to the room where he was kept in custody, and ordered the guard to bring the prisoner into the presence of their majesties. She received her lover at the chamber door, commanding the guard to wait there, and conveyed him to a window, from which he escaped by a long cord. This is the story as related in _The Historie of King James the Sext_, quoted by Scott. I will sing, if ye will hearken, If ye will hearken unto me; The king has ta'en a poor prisoner, The wanton laird o' young Logie. Young Logie's laid in Edinburgh chapel, 5 Carmichael's the keeper o' the key; And May Margaret's lamenting sair, A' for the love of young Logie. May Margaret sits in the queen's bouir,[L9] Knicking her fingers ane by ane, 10 Cursing the day that she e'er was born, Or that she e'er heard o' Logie's name. "Lament, lament na, May Margaret, And of your weeping let me be; For ye maun to the king himsell, 15 To seek the life o' young Logie." May Margaret has kilted her green cleiding, And she has curl'd back her yellow hair,-- "If I canna get young Logie's life, Farewell to Scotland for evermair." 20 When she came before the king, She knelit lowly on her knee. "O what's the matter, May Margaret? And what need's a' this courtesie?" "A boon, a boon, my noble liege, 25 A boon, a boon, I beg o' thee! And the first boon that I come to crave Is to grant me the life o' young Logie." "O na, O na, May Margaret, Forsooth, and so it mauna be; 30 For a' the gowd o' fair Scotland Shall not save the life o' young Logie." But she has stown the king's redding kaim, Likewise the queen her wedding knife; And sent the tokens to Carmichael, 35 To cause young Logie get his life. She sent him a purse o' the red gowd, Another o' the white monie; She sent him a pistol for each hand, And bade him shoot when he gat free. 40 When he came to the Tolbooth stair, There he let his volley flee; It made the king in his chamber start, E'en in the bed where he might be. "Gae out, gae out, my merrymen a', 45 And bid Carmichael come speak to me; For I'll lay my life the pledge o' that, That yon's the shot o' young Logie." When Carmichael came before the king, He fell low down upon his knee; 50 The very first word that the king spake Was,--"Where's the laird of young Logie?" Carmichael turn'd him round about, (I wot the tear blinded his e'e,)-- "There came a token frae your grace 55 Has ta'en away the laird frae me." "Hast thou play'd me that, Carmichael? And hast thou play'd me that?" quoth he; "The morn the Justice Court's to stand, And Logie's place ye maun supplie." 60 Carmichael's awa to Margaret's bower, Even as fast as he may drie,-- "O if young Logie be within, Tell him to come and speak with me!" May Margaret turn'd her round about, 65 (I wot a loud laugh laughed she,)-- "The egg is chipp'd, the bird is flown, Ye'll see nae mair of young Logie." The tane is shipped at the pier of Leith, The tother at the Queen's Ferrie; 70 And she's gotten a father to her bairn, The wanton laird of young Logie. v. 9-12. This stanza was obtained by Motherwell from recitation. THE GYPSIE LADDIE. This ballad first appeared in print in the _Tea-Table Miscellany_, (ii. 282,) from which it was adopted into Herd's and Pinkerton's collections, Johnson's _Museum_, and Ritson's _Scottish Songs_. The version here selected, that of Finlay, (_Scottish Ballads_, ii. 39,) is nearly the same, but has two more stanzas, the third and the fourth. Different copies are given in Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 360, Smith's _Scottish Minstrel_, iii. 90, _The Songs of England and Scotland_, (by Peter Cunningham,) ii. 346, and Sheldon's _Minstrelsy of the English Border_, p. 329, (see our Appendix;) others, which we have not seen, in Mactaggart's _Gallovidian Dictionary_, Chambers's _Scottish Gypsies_, and _The Scot's Magazine_ for November, 1817. There is a popular tradition, possessing, we believe, no foundation in fact, that the incidents of this ballad belong to the history of the noble family of Cassilis. The Lady Jean Hamilton, daughter of the Earl of Waddington, is said to have been constrained to marry a grim Covenanter, John, Earl of Cassilis, though her affections were already engaged to Sir John Faa of Dunbar. In 1643, several years after their union, when the Countess had given birth to two or three children, her husband being absent from home on a mission to the Assembly of Divines at Westminster, Sir John presented himself at Cassilis Castle, attended by a small band of gypsies, and himself disguised as one. The recollection of her early passion proved stronger than the marriage vow, and the lady eloped with her former lover. But before she had got far from home, the Earl happened to return. Learning what had occurred, he set out in pursuit with a considerable body of followers, and, arresting the fugitives, brought them back to his castle, where he hanged Sir John and his companions on a great tree before the gate. The Countess was obliged to witness the execution from a chamber window, and after a short confinement in the castle, was shut up for the rest of her life in a house at Maybole, four miles distant, which had been fitted up for her, with a staircase on which were carved a set of heads representing her lover and his troop. Unfortunately for the truth of the story, letters are in existence, written by the Earl of Cassilis to the Lady Jean after the date of these events, which prove the subsistence of a high degree of mutual affection and confidence; and Finlay assures us that after a diligent search, he had been able to discern nothing that in the slightest confirmed the popular tale. The whole story is perhaps the malicious invention of an enemy of the house of Cassilis, and as such would not be unparalleled in the history of ballad poetry. See Dauney's _Ancient Scottish Melodies_, p. 269, and Chambers's _Scottish Ballads_, p. 143. The gypsies came to our good lord's gate, And wow but they sang sweetly; They sang sae sweet and sae very complete, That down came the fair lady. And she came tripping doun the stair, 5 And a' her maids before her; As soon as they saw her weel-far'd face, They coost the glamer o'er her. "O come with me," says Johnie Faw, "O come with me, my dearie; 10 For I vow and I swear by the hilt of my sword, That your lord shall nae mair come near ye." Then she gied them the beer and the wine, And they gied her the ginger; But she gied them a far better thing, 15 The goud ring aff her finger. "Gae tak frae me this gay mantle, And bring to me a plaidie; For if kith and kin and a' had sworn, I'll follow the gypsie laddie. 20 "Yestreen I lay in a weel-made bed, Wi' my good lord beside me; But this night I'll lye in a tennant's barn, Whatever shall betide me." "Come to your bed," says Johnie Faw, 25 "O come to your bed, my dearie; For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword, That your lord shall nae mair come near ye." "I'll go to bed to my Johnie Faw, I'll go to bed to my dearie; 30 For I vow and I swear by the fan in my hand, That my lord shall nae mair come near me. "I'll mak a hap to my Johnie Faw, I'll mak a hap to my dearie; And he's get a' the coat gaes round, 35 And my lord shall nae mair come near me." And when our lord came hame at e'en, And spier'd for his fair lady, The tane she cry'd, and the other replied, "She's away wi' the gypsie laddie." 40 "Gae saddle to me the black black steed, Gae saddle and make him ready; Before that I either eat or sleep, I'll gae seek my fair lady." And we were fifteen weel-made men, 45 Altho' we were na bonny; And we were a' put down but ane, For a fair young wanton lady. LAIRD OF DRUM. From Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 200, obtained from recitation. Another copy is furnished by Buchan, _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 194, which, with some variations, is printed again in _Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads_, Percy Society, vol. xvii. p. 53. "This ballad," says Kinloch, was composed on the marriage of Alexander Irvine of Drum to his second wife, Margaret Coutts, a woman of inferior birth and manners, which step gave great offence to his relations. He had previously, in 1643, married Mary, fourth daughter of George, second Marquis of Huntly. The Laird o' Drum is a wooing gane, It was on a morning early, And he has fawn in wi' a bonnie may A-shearing at her barley. "My bonnie may, my weel-faur'd may, 5 O will ye fancy me, O; And gae and be the lady o' Drum, And lat your shearing abee, O?" "It's I canna fancy thee, kind sir, I winna fancy thee, O, 10 I winna gae and be Lady o' Drum, And lat my shearing abee, O. "But set your love on anither, kind sir, Set it not on me, O, For I am not fit to be your bride, 15 And your hure I'll never be, O. "My father he is a shepherd mean, Keeps sheep on yonder hill, O, And ye may gae and speir at him, For I am at his will, O." 20 Drum is to her father gane, Keeping his sheep on yon hill, O; And he has gotten his consent That the may was at his will, O. "But my dochter can neither read nor write, 25 She was ne'er brought up at scheel, O; But weel can she milk cow and ewe, And mak a kebbuck weel, O. "She'll win in your barn at bear-seed time, Cast out your muck at Yule, O, 30 She'll saddle your steed in time o' need, And draw aff your boots hersell, O." "Have not I no clergymen? Pay I no clergy fee, O? I'll scheel her as I think fit, 35 And as I think weel to be, O. "I'll learn your lassie to read and write, And I'll put her to the scheel, O; She'll neither need to saddle my steed, Nor draw aff my boots hersell, O. 40 "But wha will bake my bridal bread, Or brew my bridal ale, O; And wha will welcome my bonnie bride, Is mair than I can tell, O." Drum is to the hielands gane, 45 For to mak a' ready, And a' the gentry round about, Cried, "Yonder's Drum and his lady! "Peggy Coutts is a very bonnie bride, And Drum is a wealthy laddie, 50 But he micht hae chosen a hier match, Than onie shepherd's lassie." Then up bespak his brither John, Says, "Ye've deen us meikle wrang, O; Ye've married een below our degree, 55 A lake to a' our kin, O." "Hold your tongue, my brither John, I have deen you na wrang, O; For I've married een to wirk and win, And ye've married een to spend, O. 60 "The first time that I had a wife, She was far abeen my degree, O; I durst na come in her presence, But wi' my hat upo' my knee, O. "The first wife that I did wed, 65 She was far abeen my degree, O; She wadna hae walk'd to the yetts o' Drum, But the pearls abeen her bree, O. "But an she was ador'd for as much gold, As Peggy's for beautie, O, 70 She micht walk to the yetts o' Drum, Amang gueed companie, O." There war four and twenty gentlemen Stood at the yetts o' Drum, O; There was na ane amang them a' 75 That welcom'd his lady in, O. He has tane her by the milk-white hand, And led her in himsel, O, And in thro' ha's, and in thro' bouers,-- "And ye're welcome, Lady o' Drum, O." 80 Thrice he kissed her cherry cheek, And thrice her cherry chin, O; And twenty times her comely mou',-- "And ye're welcome, Lady o' Drum, O. "Ye sall be cook in my kitchen, 85 Butler in my ha', O; Ye sall be lady in my command, Whan I ride far awa, O."-- "But I told ye afore we war wed, I was owre low for thee, O; 90 But now we are wed, and in ae bed laid, And ye maun be content wi' me, O. "For an I war dead, and ye war dead, And baith in ae grave laid, O, And ye and I war tane up again, 95 Wha could distan your mouls frae mine, O?" LADY ANNE BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. The unhappy lady into whose mouth some unknown poet has put this lament, is now ascertained to have been Anne, daughter to Bothwell, Bishop of Orkney. Her faithless lover was her cousin, Alexander Erskine, son to the Earl of Mar. Lady Anne is said to have possessed great beauty, and Sir Alexander was reputed the handsomest man of his age. He was first a colonel in the French army, but afterwards engaged in the service of the Covenanters, and came to his death by being blown up, with many other persons of rank, in Douglass Castle, on the 30th of August, 1640. The events which occasioned the ballad seem to have taken place early in the seventeenth century. Of the fate of the lady subsequent to this period nothing is known. See Chambers, _Scottish Ballads_, p. 150, and _The Scots Musical Museum_, (1853,) iv. 203*. In Brome's comedy of _The Northern Lass, or the Nest of Fools_, acted in 1632, occur the two following stanzas. They are, perhaps, a part of the original Lament, which certainly has undergone great alterations in its progress down to our times. "Peace, wayward barne! Oh cease thy moan! Thy farre more wayward daddy's gone, And never will recalled be, By cryes of either thee or me: For should wee cry Until we dye, Wee could not scant his cruelty. _Ballow, ballow, &c._ "He needs might in himselfe foresee What thou successively might'st be; And could hee then (though me foregoe) His infant leave, ere hee did know How like the dad Would be the lad, In time to make fond maydens glad? _Ballow, ballow, &c._" The first professed edition of this piece is in the Third Part of Watson's _Collection of Comic and Serious Scots Poems_, p. 79; the next in the _Tea-Table Miscellany_, i. 161. Both of these copies have been modernized, but Ramsay's is the better of the two, and equally authentic. We therefore select Ramsay's, and add to it Percy's, which contains three stanzas not found in the others, and preserves somewhat more of the air of antiquity. There is a version extending to fifteen stanzas, arranged in a very different order, in Evans's _Old Ballads_, i. 259. Herd, Ritson, &c., have followed Ramsay. Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep, It grieves me sore to hear thee weep: If thou'lt be silent, I'll be glad, Thy mourning makes my heart full sad. Balow, my boy, thy mother's joy, 5 Thy father bred me great annoy. _Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep_, _It grieves me sore to hear thee weep_. Balow, my darling, sleep a while, And when thou wak'st, then sweetly smile; 10 But smile not as thy father did, To cozen maids, nay, God forbid; For in thine eye his look I see, The tempting look that ruin'd me, _Balow, my boy, &c._ 15 When he began to court my love, And with his sugar'd words to move, His tempting face, and flatt'ring chear In time to me did not appear; But now I see that cruel he 20 Cares neither for his babe nor me. _Balow, my boy, &c._ Fareweel, fareweel, thou falsest youth That ever kist a woman's mouth; Let never any after me 25 Submit unto thy courtesy! For, if they do, O! cruel thou Wilt her abuse, and care not how. _Balow, my boy, &c._ I was too cred'lous at the first, 30 To yield thee all a maiden durst; Thou swore for ever true to prove, Thy faith unchang'd, unchang'd thy love; But quick as thought the change is wrought, Thy love's no mair, thy promise nought. 35 _Balow, my boy, &c._ I wish I were a maid again! From young men's flatt'ry I'd refrain; For now unto my grief I find They all are perjur'd and unkind; 40 Bewitching charms bred all my harms;-- Witness my babe lies in my arms. _Balow, my boy, &c._ I take my fate from bad to worse, That I must needs be now a nurse, 45 And lull my young son on my lap: From me, sweet orphan, take the pap. Balow, my child, thy mother mild Shall wail as from all bliss exil'd. _Balow, my boy, &c._ 50 Balow, my boy, weep not for me, Whose greatest grief's for wronging thee; Nor pity her deserved smart, Who can blame none but her fond heart; For, too soon trusting latest finds 55 With fairest tongues are falsest minds. _Balow, my boy, &c._ Balow, my boy, thy father's fled, When he the thriftless son has played; Of vows and oaths forgetful, he 60 Preferr'd the wars to thee and me. But now, perhaps, thy curse and mine Make him eat acorns with the swine. _Balow, my boy, &c._ But curse not him; perhaps now he, 65 Stung with remorse, is blessing thee: Perhaps at death; for who can tell, Whether the judge of heaven or hell, By some proud foe has struck the blow, And laid the dear deceiver low? 70 _Balow, my boy, &c._ I wish I were into the bounds Where he lies smother'd in his wounds, Repeating, as he pants for air, My name, whom once he call'd his fair; 75 No woman's yet so fiercely set, But she'll forgive, though not forget. _Balow, my boy, &c._ If linen lacks, for my love's sake, Then quickly to him would I make 80 My smock, once for his body meet, And wrap him in that winding-sheet Ah me! how happy had I been, If he had ne'er been wrapt therein. _Balow, my boy, &c._ Balow, my boy, I'll weep for thee: 85 Too soon, alake, thou'lt weep for me: Thy griefs are growing to a sum, God grant thee patience when they come; Born to sustain thy mother's shame, A hapless fate, a bastard's name. 90 _Balow, my boy, ly still and sleep_, _It grieves me sore to hear thee weep_. LADY ANNE BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. From Percy's _Reliques_, ii. 207. "From a copy in the Editor's folio MS., corrected by another in Allan Ramsay's _Miscellany_." Balow, my babe, lye still and sleipe! It grieves me sair to see thee weipe: If thoust be silent, Ise be glad, Thy maining maks my heart ful sad. Balow, my boy, thy mothers joy, 5 Thy father breides me great annoy. _Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe_, _It grieves me sair to see thee weepe_. Whan he began to court my luve, And with his sugred wordes to muve, 10 His faynings fals and flattering cheire To me that time did not appeire: But now I see, most cruell hee Cares neither for my babe nor mee. _Balow, &c._ 15 Lye still, my darling, sleipe a while, And when thou wakest, sweitly smile: But smile not, as thy father did, To cozen maids; nay, God forbid! But yett I feire, thou wilt gae neire 20 Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. _Balow, &c._ I cannae chuse, but ever will Be luving to thy father still: Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde, 25 My luve with him doth still abyde: In weil or wae, whaireir he gae, Mine hart can neire depart him frae. _Balow, &c._ But doe not, doe not, pretty mine, 30 To faynings fals thine hart incline; Be loyal to thy luver trew, And nevir change her for a new: If gude or faire, of hir have care, For womens banning 's wonderous sair. 35 _Balow, &c._ Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine; My babe and I'll together live, He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve: My babe and I right saft will ly, 40 And quite forgeit man's cruelty. _Balow, &c._ Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, That evir kist a womans mouth! 45 I wish all maides be warned by mee Nevir to trust mans curtesy; For if we doe bot chance to bow, They'll use us then they care not how. _Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe_, _It grieves me sair to see thee weipe_. 50 WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. These beautiful verses are thought to be only a part of _Lord Jamie Douglas_, (see the next piece,) in one copy or another of which, according to Motherwell, nearly all of them are to be found. They were first published in the _Tea-Table Miscellany_, (i. 231,) and are here given as they there appear, separate from an explicit story. Although in this condition they must be looked upon as a fragment, still, they are too awkwardly introduced in the ballad above mentioned, and too superior to the rest of the composition, to allow of our believing that they have as yet found their proper connection. In Johnson's _Museum_, (i. 166,) besides several trifling variations from Ramsay's copy, the fourth is replaced by the following: When cockle shells turn siller bells, And mussels grow on every tree, When frost and snaw shall warm us a', Then shall my love prove true to me. The third stanza stands thus in a Christmas medley, quoted by Leyden from a "MS. Cantus of the latter part of the 17th century:" Hey troly loly, love is joly, A whyle whill it is new; When it is old, it grows full cold,-- Woe worth the love untrue! _Complaynt of Scotland_, i. 278. O waly, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn side, Where I and my love wont to gae. I lean'd my back unto an aik, 5 I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true love did lightly me! O waly, waly, but love be bonny, A little time while it is new; 10 But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades away like the morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my head? Or wherfore should I kame my hair? For my true love has me forsook, 15 And says he'll never love me mair. Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne'er be fyl'd by me: Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, Since my true love has forsaken me. 20 Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree? O gentle death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I'm weary. 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 25 Nor blawing snaw's inclemency; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; 30 My love was clad in the black velvet, And I my sell in cramasie. But had I wist, before I kiss'd, That love had been sae ill to win, I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, 35 And pin'd it with a silver pin. Oh, oh, if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee, And I my sell were dead and gane! For a maid again I'll never be. 40 LORD JAMIE DOUGLAS. From the appendix to Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. v. An imperfect copy of this ballad was printed in Finlay's collection, vol. ii. p. 4; another, called the _Laird of Blackwood_, in Kinloch's, p. 60. Both of them may be seen at the end of this volume. Chambers has compiled a ballad in four parts from these three versions, another in manuscript, furnished by Kinloch, and the verses just given from Ramsay's _Miscellany_; and Aytoun, more recently, has made up a ballad from two copies obtained from recitation by Kinloch, and called it _The Marchioness of Douglas. Ballads of Scotland_, 2d ed. i. 135. The circumstances which gave rise to the ballad are thus stated by Chambers: "James, second Marquis of Douglas, when aged twenty-four, married at Edinburgh, on the 7th of September, 1670, Lady Barbara Erskine, eldest daughter of John, ninth Earl of Mar. This lady is said to have been previously wooed, without success, by a gentleman of the name of Lowrie, who on account of his afterwards marrying Mariotte Weir, heiress of Blackwood, in Lanarkshire, was commonly called, according to the custom of Scotland, the Tutor, and sometimes the Laird, of Blackwood. Lowrie, who seems to have been considerably advanced in life at the time, was chamberlain or factor to the Marquis of Douglas; a circumstance which gave him peculiar facilities for executing an atrocious scheme of vengeance he had projected against the lady. By a train of proceedings somewhat similar to those of Iago, and in particular, by pretending to have discovered a pair of men's shoes underneath the Marchioness's bed, he completely succeeded in breaking up the affection of the unfortunate couple. Lord Douglas, who, though a man of profligate conduct, had hitherto treated his wife with some degree of politeness, now rendered her life so miserable, that she was obliged to seek refuge with her father. The earl came with a large retinue to carry her off, when, according to the ballad, as well as the tradition of the country, a most affecting scene took place. The Marquis himself was so much overcome by the parting of his wife and child--for she had now borne a son--that he expressed, even in that last hour, a desire of being reconciled to her. But the traitorous Lowrie succeeded in preventing him from doing so, by a well-aimed sarcasm at his weakness.... Regarding the ultimate fate of the Marchioness I am altogether ignorant. It is, however, very improbable that any reconciliation ever took place between her and her husband, such as is related in the ballad." _Scottish Ballads_, p. 150. O waly, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly by yon burn side, Where me and my lord was wont to gae. Hey nonny nonnie, but love is bonnie, 5 A little while when it is new; But when love grows auld it grows mair cauld, And fades away like the morning dew. I lean'd my back against an aik, I thocht it was a trustie tree; 10 But first it bowed, and syne it break, And sae did my fause luve to me. My mother tauld me when I was young, That young man's love was ill to trow; But untill her I would give nae ear, 15 And alace my ain wand dings me now! O wherefore need I busk my head? O wherefore should I kaim my hair? For my good lord has me forsook, And says he'll never love me mair. 20 Gin I had wist or I had kisst That young man's love was sae ill to win, I would hae lockt my hert wi' a key o' gowd, And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. An I had kent what I ken now, 25 I'd never crosst the water Tay, But stayed still at Athole's gates;-- He would have made me his lady gay. When lords and lairds cam to this toun, And gentlemen o' a high degree, 30 I took my auld son in my arms, And went to my chamber pleasantlie. But when lords and lairds come through this toun,[L33] And gentlemen o' a high degree, I must sit alane intill the dark, 35 And the babie on the nurse's knee. I had a nurse, and she was fair; She was a dearly nurse to me; She took my gay lord frae my side, And used him in her companie. 40 Awa, awa, thou fause Blackwood, Aye, and an ill death may thou die! Thou wert the first and occasion last Of parting my gay lord and me. When I lay sick, and very sick, 45 Sick I was and like to die, A gentleman, a friend of mine, He came on purpose to visit me; But Blackwood whisper'd in my lord's ear He was ower lang in chamber with me. 50 When I was sick, and very sick, Sick I was and like to die, I drew me near to my stairhead, And I heard my ain lord lichtly me. "Come down, come down, O Jamie Douglas, 55 And drink the orange wine with me; I'll set thee on a chair of gold, And daut thee kindly on my knee." "When sea and sand turn far inland, And mussels grow on ilka tree, 60 When cockle shells turn siller bells, I'll drink the orange wine wi' thee." "What ails you at our youngest son, That sits upon the nurse's knee? I'm sure he's never done any harm, 65 An it's not to his ain nurse and me." If I had kent what I ken now, That love it was sae ill to win, I should ne'er hae wet my cherry cheek For onie man or woman's son. 70 When my father came to hear That my gay lord had forsaken me, He sent five score of his soldiers bright To take me safe to my ain countrie. Up in the mornin' when I arose, 75 My bonnie palace for to lea', I whispered in at my lord's window, But the never a word he would answer me. "Fare ye weel, then, Jamie Douglas, I need care as little as ye care for me; 80 The Earl of Mar is my father dear, And I soon will see my ain countrie. "Ye thought that I was like yoursell, And loving ilk ane I did see; But here I swear by the heavens clear, 85 I never loved a man but thee." Slowly, slowly rose I up, And slowly, slowly I cam down; And when he saw me sit in my coach, He made his drums and trumpets sound. 90 When I into my coach was set, My tenants all were with me tane; They set them down upon their knees, And they begg'd me to come back again. It's "fare ye weel, my bonnie palace; 95 And fare ye weel, my children three: God grant your father may get mair grace, And love thee better than he has done me." It's "fare ye weel, my servants all; And you, my bonnie children three: 100 God grant your father grace to be kind Till I see you safe in my ain countrie. "But wae be to you, fause Blackwood, Aye, and ill death may you die! Ye are the first, and I hope the last, 105 That put strife between my good lord and me." When I came in through Edinburgh town, My loving father came to meet me, With trumpets sounding on every side; But it was no comfort at all to me: 110 For no mirth nor music sounds in my ear, Since the Earl of March has forsaken me. "Hold your tongue, my daughter dear, And of your weeping pray let abee; For I'll send to him a bill of divorce, 115 And I'll get as good a lord to thee." "Hold your tongue, my father dear, And of your scoffing pray let abee; I would rather hae a kiss of my ain lord's mouth As all the lords in the north countrie." 120 When she came to her father's land, The tenants a' cam her to see; Never a word she could speak to them, But the buttons aff her clothes did flee.[L124] "The linnet is a bonnie bird, 125 And aften flees far frae its nest; So all the world may plainly see They 're far awa that I love best!" She looked out at her father's window, To take a view of the countrie; 130 Who did she see but Jamie Douglas, And along with him her children three. There came a soldier to the gate, And he did knock right hastilie: "If Lady Douglas be within, 135 Bid her come down and speak to me." "O come away, my lady fair, Come away, now, alang with me: For I have hanged fause Blackwood At the very place where he told the lie." 140 33, cam. 124. See _Andrew Lammie_, vol. ii. 191. THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE. We owe the preservation of this beautiful old ballad to _Arnold's Chronicle_, of which the earliest edition is thought to have been printed in 1502. In Laneham's account of Elizabeth's visit to Kenilworth, the _Nut-brown Maid_ is mentioned as a book by itself, and there is said to be at Oxford a list of books offered for sale at that place in 1520, among which is the _Not-Broon Mayd_, price one penny; still, the ballad is not known to exist at present in any other ancient form than that of the Chronicle. We have no means of determining the date of the composition, but Percy has justly remarked that it is not probable that an antiquary would have inserted a piece in his historical collections which he knew to be modern. The language is that of the time at which it was printed. The ballad seems to have been long forgotten, when it was revived in _The Muse's Mercury_ for June, 1707, (Percy.) There Prior met with it, and, charmed with its merit, he took the story for the foundation of his _Henry and Emma_. Capel, in 1760, published a collated text from two different editions of the Chronicle,--we suppose that of 1502, and the second, which was printed in 1521, and exhibits some differences. Percy adopted Capel's text with a few alterations, (_Reliques_, ii. 30.) The text of the edition of 1502 has been twice reprinted since Percy's time: in the _Censura Literaria_, vol. i. p. 15, and by Mr. Wright, in a little black-letter volume, London, 1836. We have adopted Mr. Wright's text, not neglecting to compare it with that of Sir Egerton Brydges. It will be interesting to compare with this matchless poem a ballad in other languages, which has the same drift;--_Die Lind im Thale_, or _Liebesprobe_, Erk, _Deutscher Liederhort_, p. 1, 3; Uhland, No. 116; Hoffmann, _Schlesische_ V. L., No. 22, _Niederländische V. L._, No. 26; Haupt and Schmaler, _V. L. der Wenden_, i. 72 (Hoffmann). In the sixteenth century a ridiculous attempt was made to supplant the popular ballads in the mouths and affections of the people by turning them into pious parodies. _The Nut-Brown Maid_ was treated in this way, and the result may be seen in _The New Not-borune Mayd_, printed by the Roxburghe Club, and by the Percy Society, vol. vi. "Be it right or wrong, these men among On women do complaine, Affermyng this, how that it is A labour spent in vaine To love them wele, for never a dele 5 They love a man agayne: For lete a man do what he can Ther favour to attayne, Yet yf a newe do them pursue,[L9] Ther furst trew lover than 10 Laboureth for nought, and from her thought He is a bannished man." "I say not nay, but that all day It is bothe writ and sayde, That womans fayth is, as who sayth, 15 All utterly decayed: But nevertheles, right good witnes In this case might be layde, That they love trewe, and contynew,-- Recorde THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE; 20 Whiche from her love, whan her to prove He cam to make his mone, Wolde not departe, for in her herte She lovyd but hym allone." "Than betwene us lete us discusse 25 What was all the manér Betwene them too; we wyl also Telle all the peyne and fere[L28] That she was in; nowe I begynne, See that ye me answére:[L30] 30 Wherfore [all] ye that present be, I pray you geve an eare. I am the knyght, I cum be nyght, As secret as I can, Sayng 'Alas! thus stondyth the case,[L35] 35 I am a bannisshed man!'" "And I your wylle for to fulfylle In this wyl not refuse, Trusting to shewe, in wordis fewe, That men have an ille use, 40 To ther owne shame, wymen to blame, And causeles them accuse: Therfore to you I answere now, Alle wymen to excuse, 'Myn owne hert dere, with you what chiere? 45 I prey you telle anoon: For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you allon.'" "It stondith so: a deed is do Wherof moche harme shal growe.[L50] 50 My desteny is for to dey A shamful dethe, I trowe, Or ellis to flee,--the ton must be: None other wey I knowe, But to withdrawe as an outlaw, 55 And take me to my bowe. Wherfore, adew, my owne hert trewe, None other red I can; For I muste to the grene wode goo, Alone, a bannysshed man." 60 "O Lorde, what is this worldis blisse That chaungeth as the mone! My somers day in lusty May Is derked before the none. I here you saye Farwel: nay, nay, 65 We departe not soo sone. Why say ye so? Wheder wyl ye goo? Alas, what have ye done? Alle my welfare to sorow and care Shulde chaunge, yf ye were gon: 70 For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone." "I can beleve it shal you greve, And somewhat you distrayne; But aftyrwarde your paynes harde, 75 Within a day or tweyne, Shal sone aslake, and ye shal take Confort to you agayne. Why shuld ye nought? for, to make thought Your labur were in vayne: 80 And thus I do, and pray you, too, As hertely as I can: For I muste too the grene wode goo, Alone, a banysshed man." "Now syth that ye have shewed to me 85 The secret of your mynde, I shal be playne to you agayne, Lyke as ye shal me fynde: Syth it is so that ye wyll goo, I wol not leve behynde; 90 Shal never be sayd the Nutbrowne Mayd Was to her love unkind. Make you redy, for soo am I, All though it were anoon; For in my mynde, of all mankynde 95 I love but you alone." "Yet I you rede to take good hede What men wyl thinke and sey;[L98] Of yonge and olde it shal be told, That ye be gone away 100 Your wanton wylle for to fulfylle, In grene wood you to play; And that ye myght from your delyte Noo lenger make delay. Rather than ye shuld thus for me 105 Be called an ylle woman, Yet wolde I to the grene wodde goo Alone, a banysshed man." "Though it be songe of olde and yonge That I shuld be to blame, 110 Theirs be the charge that speke so large In hurting of my name. For I wyl prove that feythful love It is devoyd of shame, In your distresse and hevynesse, 115 To parte wyth you the same; And sure all thoo that doo not so, Trewe lovers ar they noon; But in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone." 120 "I counsel yow remembre how It is noo maydens lawe, Nothing to dought, but to renne out To wod with an outlawe. For ye must there in your hande bere 125 A bowe to bere and drawe, And as a theef thus must ye lyeve, Ever in drede and awe; By whiche to yow gret harme myght grow;-- Yet had I lever than 130 That I had too the grenewod goo Alone, a banysshyd man." "I thinke not nay; but, as ye saye, It is noo maydens lore; But love may make me for your sake, 135 As ye have said before, To com on fote, to hunte and shote To gete us mete and store; For soo that I your company May have, I aske noo more; 140 From whiche to parte, it makith myn herte As colde as ony ston: For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone." "For an outlawe this is the lawe, 145 That men hym take and binde, Without pytee hanged to bee, And waver with the wynde. Yf I had neede, as God forbede, What rescous coude ye finde? 150 For sothe, I trowe, you and your bowe Shuld drawe for fere behynde:[L152] And noo merveyle; for lytel avayle Were in your councel than; Wherfore I too the woode wyl goo 155 Alone, a banysshed man." "Ful wel knowe ye that wymen bee Ful febyl for to fyght; Noo womanhed is it indeede, To bee bolde as a knight. 160 Yet in suche fere yf that ye were, Amonge enemys day and nyght, I wolde wythstonde, with bowe in hande, To greeve them as I myght, And you to save, as wymen have, 165 From deth many one: For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone." "Yet take good hede; for ever I drede That ye coude not sustein 170 The thorney wayes, the depe valeis, The snowe, the frost, the reyn, The colde, the hete; for, drye or wete, We must lodge on the playn; And us aboove noon other rove 175 But a brake bussh or twayne; Whiche sone shulde greve you, I beleve, And ye wolde gladly than That I had too the grenewode goo Alone, a banysshyd man." 180 "Syth I have here been partynere With you of joy and blysse, I must also parte of your woo Endure, as reason is; Yet am I sure of oo plesure, 185 And shortly, it is this; That where ye bee, mesemeth, perdé, I coude not fare amysse. Wythout more speche, I you beseche That we were soon agone; 190 For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone." "Yf ye goo thedyr, ye must consider, Whan ye have lust to dyne, Ther shel no mete be fore to gete, 195 Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wine; Ne shetis clene to lye betwene, Made of thred and twyne: Noon other house but levys and bowes To kever your hed[200] and myn.[L200] 200 Loo, myn herte swete, this ylle dyet Shuld make you pale and wan: Wherfore I to the wood wyl goo Alone, a banysshid man." "Amonge the wylde dere suche an archier 205 As men say that ye bee Ne may not fayle of good vitayle, Where is so grete plente; And watir cleere of the ryvere Shal be ful swete to me, 210 Wyth whiche in hele I shal right wele Endure, as ye shall see: And er we go, a bed or too I can provide anoon; For in my mynde, of all mankynde 215 I love but you alone." "Loo, yet before, ye must doo more, Yf ye wyl goo with me, As cutte your here up by your ere, Your kirtel by the knee; 220 Wyth bowe in hande, for to withstonde Your enmys, yf nede bee; And this same nyght, before daylight, To woodward wyl I flee; And [if] ye wyl all this fulfylle, 225 Doo it shortely as ye can: Ellis wil I to the grene wode goo Alone, a banysshyd man." "I shal as now do more for you Than longeth to womanhede,[L230] 230 To short my here, a bowe to bere, To shote in tyme of nede: O my swete moder, before all other, For you have I most drede! But now, adiew! I must ensue 235 Wher fortune duth me leede. All this make ye; now lete us flee; The day cums fast upon;[L238] For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone." 240 "Nay, nay, not soo; ye shal not goo; And I shal telle you why; Your appetyte is to be lyght Of love, I wele aspie: For right as ye have sayd to me, 245 In lyke wyse, hardely, Ye wolde answere, who so ever it were, In way of company. It is sayd of olde, sone hote, sone colde, And so is a woman; 250 Wherfore I too the woode wyl goo Alone, a banysshid man." "Yef ye take hede, yt is noo nede[L253] Suche wordis to say bee me; For ofte ye preyd, and longe assayed, 255 Or I you lovid, perdé. And though that I of auncestry A barons doughter bee, Yet have you proved how I you loved, A squyer of lowe degree; 260 And ever shal, what so befalle, To dey therfore anoon; For in my mynde, of al mankynde I love but you alone." "A barons childe to be begyled, 265 It were a curssed dede! To be felow with an outlawe, Almyghty God forbede! Yet bettyr were the power squyer Alone to forest yede, 270 Than ye shal saye another day, That be [my] wyked dede Ye were betrayed; wherfore, good maide, The best red that I can Is that I too the greene wode goo 275 Alone, a banysshed man." "Whatsoever befalle, I never shal Of this thing you upbraid; But yf ye goo, and leve me soo, Than have ye me betraied. 280 Remembre you wele, how that ye dele, For yf ye, as ye sayde, Be so unkynde to leve behynd Your love, the Notbrowne Maide, Trust me truly, that I shal dey, 285 Sone after ye be gone; For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone." "Yef that ye went, ye shulde repent, For in the forest now 290 I have purveid me of a maide, Whom I love more than you: Another fayrer than ever ye were, I dare it wel avowe; And of you bothe eche shulde be wrothe 295 With other, as I trowe. It were myn ease to lyve in pease; So wyl I, yf I can; Wherfore I to the wode wyl goo Alone, a banysshid man." 300 "Though in the wood I undirstode Ye had a paramour, All this may nought remeve my thought, But that I wil be your; And she shal fynde me softe and kynde, 305 And curteis every our, Glad to fulfylle all that she wylle Commaunde me, to my power; For had ye, loo, an hundred moo, Yet wolde I be that one.[L310] 310 For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone." "Myn oune dere love, I see the prove That ye be kynde and trewe; Of mayde and wyf, in all my lyf, 315 The best that ever I knewe. Be mery and glad, be no more sad, The case is chaunged newe; For it were ruthe that for your trouth You shuld have cause to rewe. 320 Be not dismayed: whatsoever I sayd To you whan I began, I wyl not too the grene wod goo; I am noo banysshyd man." "Theis tidingis be more glad to me 325 Than to be made a quene, Yf I were sure they shuld endure; But it is often seen, When men wyl breke promyse, they speke The wordis on the splene. 330 Ye shape some wyle me to begyle, And stele fro me, I wene; Then were the case wurs than it was, And I more woo-begone; For in my mynde, of all mankynde 335 I love but you alone." "Ye shal not nede further to drede: I wyl not disparage You, God defende! sith you descende Of so grete a lynage. 340 Nou understonde, to Westmerlande, Which is my herytage, I wyl you bringe, and wyth a rynge, Be wey of maryage, I wyl you take, and lady make, 345 As shortly as I can: Thus have ye wone an erles son, And not a banysshyd man." Here may ye see, that wymen be In love meke, kinde, and stable: 350 Late never man repreve them than, Or calle them variable; But rather prey God that we may To them be comfortable, Whiche somtyme provyth suche as loveth, 355 Yf they be charitable. For sith men wolde that wymen sholde Be meke to them echeon, Moche more ought they to God obey, And serve but hym alone. 360 9, to. 28, they. 30, Soe. 35, cause. 50. Wherfore. v. 98, Whan. v. 152, Shul. 200, bed, Wright. v. 230, That, womanhod. 238, cum. v. 253, yet is. v. 310, Of them I wolde be one. Percy MS. THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON. From _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, iii. 177. Another copy is in Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, ii. 134. "From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, with some improvements communicated by a lady as she had heard the same recited in her youth. The full title is, _True love requited: Or, the Bailiff's daughter of Islington_."--PERCY. There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, And he was a squires son: He loved the bayliffes daughter deare, That lived in Islington. Yet she was coye, and would not believe 5 That he did love her soe, Noe nor at any time would she Any countenance to him showe. But when his friendes did understand His fond and foolish minde, 10 They sent him up to faire London, An apprentice for to binde. And when he had been seven long yeares, And never his love could see,-- "Many a teare have I shed for her sake, 15 When she little thought of mee." Then all the maids of Islington Went forth to sport and playe, All but the bayliffes daughter deare; She secretly stole awaye. 20 She pulled off her gowne of greene, And put on ragged attire, And to faire London she would go, Her true love to enquire. And as she went along the high road, 25 The weather being hot and drye, She sat her downe upon a green bank, And her true love came riding bye. She started up, with a colour soe redd, Catching hold of his bridle-reine; 30 "One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, "Will ease me of much paine." "Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, Praye tell me where you were borne." "At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee, 35 "Where I have had many a scorne." "I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, O tell me, whether you knowe The bayliffes daughter of Islington." "She is dead, sir, long agoe." 40 "If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also; For I will into some farr countrye, Where noe man shall me knowe." "O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, 45 She standeth by thy side; She is here alive, she is not dead, And readye to be thy bride." "O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, Ten thousand times therefore; 50 For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, Whom I thought I should never see more." THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN. The copy here given of this favorite popular ballad is derived from _Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England_, Percy Society, xvii. 60. It is there printed from a modern broadside, "carefully collated" with a copy in the Bagford collection. In Percy's edition, (_Reliques_, ii. 171,) besides many trivial emendations, eight modern stanzas (said to be the work of Robert Dodsley) are substituted for the first five of the Beggar's second song, "to remove absurdities and inconsistencies," and to reconcile the story to probability and true history! The copy in _A Collection of Old Ballads_, ii. 202, is not very different from the present, and the few changes that have been made in the text selected, unless otherwise accounted for, are adopted from that. "Pepys, in his diary, 25th June, 1663, speaks of going with Sir William and Lady Batten, and Sir J. Minnes, to Sir W. Rider's at Bednall Green, to dinner, 'a fine place;' and adds, 'This very house was built by the Blind Beggar of Bednall Green, so much talked of and sung in ballads; but they say it was only some outhouses of it.'" CHAPPELL, _Popular Musk of the Olden Time_, p. 159. This song's of a beggar who long lost his sight, And had a fair daughter, most pleasant and bright; And many a gallant brave suitor had she, And none was so comely as pretty Bessee. And though she was of complexion most fair, 5 Yet seeing she was but a beggar his heir,[L6] Of ancient housekeepers despised was she, Whose sons came as suitors to pretty Bessee. Wherefore in great sorrow fair Bessee did say, "Good father and mother, let me now go away, 10 To seek out my fortune, whatever it be;" This suit then was granted to pretty Bessee. This Bessee, that was of a beauty most bright, They clad in gray russet, and late in the night From father and mother alone parted she, 15 Who sighed and sobbed for pretty Bessee. She went till she came to Stratford-at-Bow, Then she knew not whither or which way to go; With tears she lamented her sad destiny, So sad and so heavy was pretty Bessee. 20 She kept on her journey until it was day, And went unto Rumford along the highway; And at the King's Arms entertained was she, So fair and well-favoured was pretty Bessee. She had not been there one month at an end, 25 But master and mistress and all was her friend; And every brave gallant that once did her see Was straightway in love with pretty Bessee. Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, And in their songs daily her love they extoll'd; 30 Her beauty was blazed in every degree, So fair and so comely was pretty Bessee. The young men of Rumford in her had their joy; She shewed herself courteous, but never too coy, And at their commandment still she would be, 35 So fair and so comely was pretty Bessee. Four suitors at once unto her did go, They craved her favour, but still she said no; "I would not have gentlemen marry with me,"-- Yet ever they honoured pretty Bessee. 40 Now one of them was a gallant young knight, And he came unto her disguised in the night; The second, a gentleman of high degree, Who wooed and sued for pretty Bessee. A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small, 45 Was then the third suitor, and proper withal; Her master's own son the fourth man must be, Who swore he would die for pretty Bessee. "If that thou wilt marry with me," quoth the knight, "I'll make thee a lady with joy and delight; 50 My heart is enthralled in thy fair beauty, Then grant me thy favour, my pretty Bessee." The gentleman said, "Come marry with me, In silks and in velvets my Bessee shall be; My heart lies distracted, oh hear me!" quoth he, 55 "And grant me thy love, my dear pretty Bessee." "Let me be thy husband," the merchant did say, "Thou shalt live in London most gallant and gay; My ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee, And I will for ever love pretty Bessee." 60 Then Bessee she sighed, and thus she did say; "My father and mother I mean to obey; First get their goodwill, and be faithful to me, And you shall enjoy your dear pretty Bessee." To every one of them that answer she made; 65 Therefore unto her they joyfully said, "This thing to fulfill we all now agree; But where dwells thy father, my pretty Bessee?" "My father," quoth she, "is soon to be seen; The silly blind beggar of Bednall Green, 70 That daily sits begging for charity, He is the kind father of pretty Bessee. "His marks and his token are knowen full well; He always is led by a dog and a bell; A poor silly old man, God knoweth, is he, 75 Yet he is the true father of pretty Bessee." "Nay, nay," quoth the merchant, "thou art not for me;" "She," quoth the innholder, "my wife shall not be;" "I loathe," said the gentleman, "a beggars degree, Therefore, now farewell, my pretty Bessee." 80 "Why then," quoth the knight, "happ better or worse, I weigh not true love by the weight of the purse, And beauty is beauty in every degree; Then welcome to me, my dear pretty Bessee. "With thee to thy father forthwith I will go." 85 "Nay, forbear," quoth his kinsman, "it must not be so: A poor beggars daughter a lady sha'nt be; Then take thy adieu of thy pretty Bessee." As soon then as it was break of the day, The knight had from Rumford stole Bessee away; 90 The young men of Rumford, so sick as may be,[L91] Rode after to fetch again pretty Bessee. As swift as the wind to ride they were seen, Until they came near unto Bednall Green, And as the knight lighted most courteously, 95 They fought against him for pretty Bessee. But rescue came presently over the plain, Or else the knight there for his love had been slain; The fray being ended, they straightway did see His kinsman come railing at pretty Bessee. 100 Then bespoke the Blind Beggar, "Altho' I be poor, Rail not against my child at my own door; Though she be not decked in velvet and pearl, Yet I will drop angels with thee for my girl; "And then if my gold should better her birth, 105 And equal the gold you lay on the earth, Then neither rail you, nor grudge you to see The Blind Beggars daughter a lady to be. "But first, I will hear, and have it well known, The gold that you drop it shall be all you own;" 110 "With that," they replied, "contented we be;" "Then heres," quoth the beggar, "for pretty Bessee." With that an angel he dropped on the ground, And dropped, in angels, full three thousand pound; And oftentimes it proved most plain, 115 For the gentlemans one, the beggar dropped twain. So that the whole place wherein they did sit With gold was covered every whit; The gentleman having dropt all his store, Said, "Beggar, your hand hold, for I have no more. 120 "Thou hast fulfilled thy promise aright;" "Then marry my girl," quoth he to the knight; "And then," quoth he, "I will throw you down, An hundred pound more to buy her a gown." The gentlemen all, who his treasure had seen, 125 Admired the Beggar of Bednall Green. And those that had been her suitors before, Their tender flesh for anger they tore. Thus was the fair Bessee matched to a knight, And made a lady in others despite: 130 A fairer lady there never was seen Than the Blind Beggars daughter of Bednall Green. But of her sumptuous marriage and feast, And what fine lords and ladies there prest, The second part shall set forth to your sight, 135 With marvellous pleasure, and wished for delight. 6. And seeing. 91. Percy has _thicke_. PART II. Of a blind beggars daughter so bright,[L1] That late was betrothed to a young knight, All the whole discourse therof you did see, But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee. It was in a gallant palace most brave, 5 Adorned with all the cost they could have, This wedding it was kept most sumptuously, And all for the love of pretty Bessee. And all kind of dainties and delicates sweet Was brought to their banquet, as it was thought meet; 10 Partridge, and plover, and venison most free, Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee. The wedding thro' England was spread by report, So that a great number thereto did resort, Of nobles and gentles of every degree, 15 And all for the fame of pretty Bessee. To church then away went this gallant young knight, His bride followed after, an angel most bright, With troops of ladies, the like was ne'er seen, As went with sweet Bessee of Bednall Green. 20 This wedding being solemnized then, With music performed by skilfullest men, The nobles and gentles sat down at that tide,[L23] Each one beholding the beautiful bride. But after the sumptuous dinner was done, 25 To talk and to reason a number begun, And of the Blind Beggars daughter most bright, And what with his daughter he gave to the knight. Then spoke the nobles, "Much marvel have we This jolly blind beggar we cannot yet see!" 30 "My lords," quoth the bride, "my father so base Is loathe with his presence these states to disgrace." "The praise of a woman in question to bring, Before her own face, is a flattering thing; But we think thy fathers baseness," quoth they, 35 "Might by thy beauty be clean put away." They no sooner this pleasant word spoke, But in comes the beggar in a silken cloak, A velvet cap and a feather had he, And now a musician, forsooth, he would be. 40 And being led in, from catching of harm, He had a dainty lute under his arm; Said, "Please you to hear any music of me, A song I will give you of pretty Bessee." With that his lute he twanged straightway, 45 And thereon began most sweetly to play, And after a lesson was played two or three, He strained out this song most delicately:-- _"A beggars daughter did dwell on a green, Who for her beauty might well be a queen,[L50] 50 A blythe bonny lass, and dainty was she, And many one called her pretty Bessee._ _"Her father he had no goods nor no lands, But begged for a penny all day with his hands, And yet for her marriage gave thousands three, 55 Yet still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee._ _"And here if any one do her disdain, Her father is ready with might and with main, To prove she is come of noble degree, Therefore let none flout at my pretty Bessee."_ 60 With that the lords and the company round With a hearty laughter were ready to swound; At last said the lords, "Full well we may see, The bride and the bridegroom's beholden to thee." With that the fair bride all blushing did rise, 65 With chrystal water all in her bright eyes; "Pardon my father, brave nobles," quoth she, "That through blind affection thus doats upon me." "If this be thy father," the nobles did say, "Well may he be proud of this happy day, 70 Yet by his countenance well may we see, His birth with his fortune could never agree. "And therefore, blind beggar, we pray thee bewray, And look that the truth to us thou dost say,[L74] Thy birth and thy parentage what it may be, 75 E'en for the love thou bearest to pretty Bessee." "Then give me leave, ye gentles each one, A song more to sing and then I'll begone; And if that I do not win good report, Then do not give me one groat for my sport:-- 80 _"When first our king his fame did advance, And sought his title in delicate France, In many places great perils past he, But then was not born my pretty Bessee._ _"And at those wars went over to fight, 85 Many a brave duke, a lord, and a knight, And with them young Monford of courage so free, But then was not born my pretty Bessee._ _"And there did young Monford with a blow on the face Lose both his eyes in a very short space; 90 His life had been gone away with his sight, Had not a young woman gone forth in the night._ _"Among the slain men, her fancy did move[L93] To search and to seek for her own true love, Who seeing young Monford there gasping to die, 95 She saved his life through her charity._ _"And then all our victuals in beggars attire, At the hands of good people we then did require; At last into England, as now it is seen, We came, and remained in Bednall Green._ 100 _"And thus we have lived in Fortune's despyght, Though poor, yet contented, with humble delight, And in my old years, a comfort to me, God sent me a daughter, called pretty Bessee._ _"And thus, ye nobles, my song I do end, 105 Hoping by the same no man to offend; Full forty long winters thus I have been, A silly blind beggar of Bednall Green."_ Now when the company every one Did hear the strange tale he told in his song, 110 They were amazed, as well as they might be, Both at the blind beggar and pretty Bessee. With that the fair bride they all bid embrace, Saying, "You are come of an honourable race; Thy father likewise is of high degree, 115 And thou art right worthy a lady to be." Thus was the feast ended with joy and delight; A happy bridegroom was made the young knight, Who lived in great joy and felicity, With his fair lady, dear pretty Bessee. 120 1-4. This stanza is wrongly placed at the end of the First Part in the copy from which we reprint. In ed. 1723 it does not occur. v. 3. therof you did, Percy, for, _therefore you may_. 23. gentlemen down at the side. 50. may. 74. look to us then the truth. 93. said men. THE FAMOUS FLOWER OF SERVING-MEN OR, THE LADY TURNED SERVING-MAN. From _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 216. Percy's edition, (iii. 126,) was from a written copy, "containing some improvements, (perhaps modern ones.") Mr. Kinloch has printed a fragment of this piece in its Scottish dress, as taken down from the recitation of an old woman in Lanark,--_Sweet Willie_, p. 96. Several of the verses in the following are found also in _The Lament of the Border Widow_; see _ante_, iii. 86. A similar story is found in Swedish and Danish: _Liten Kerstin_, or _Stolts Botelid, Stalldräng, Svenska Folk-Visor_, ii. 15, 20, Arwidsson, ii. 179: _Stolt Ingeborgs Forklædning, Danske Viser_, No. 184. You beauteous ladies, great and small, I write unto you one and all, Whereby that you may understand What I have suffer'd in this land. I was by birth a lady fair, 5 My father's chief and only heir, But when my good old father died, Then I was made a young knight's bride. And then my love built me a bower, Bedeck'd with many a fragrant flower; 10 A braver bower you ne'er did see, Than my true love did build for me. But there came thieves late in the night, They robb'd my bower, and slew my knight, And after that my knight was slain, 15 I could no longer there remain. My servants all from me did fly, In the midst of my extremity, And left me by myself alone, With a heart more cold than any stone. 20 Yet, though my heart was full of care, Heaven would not suffer me to despair; Wherefore in haste I chang'd my name From Fair Elise to Sweet William. And therewithall I cut my hair, 25 And dress'd myself in man's attire, My doublet, hose, and beaver hat, And a golden band about my neck. With a silver rapier by my side, So like a gallant I did ride; 30 The thing that I delighted on, It was to be a serving-man. Thus in my sumptuous man's array I bravely rode along the way; And at the last it chanced so, 35 That I to the king's court did go. Then to the king I bow'd full low, My love and duty for to show; And so much favour I did crave, That I a serving-man's place might have. 40 "Stand up, brave youth," the king replied, "Thy service shall not be denied; But tell me first what thou canst do; Thou shalt be fitted thereunto. "Wilt thou be usher of my hall, 45 To wait upon my nobles all? Or wilt thou be taster of my wine, To wait on me when I do dine? "Or wilt thou be my chamberlain, To make my bed both soft and fine? 50 Or wilt thou be one of my guard? And I will give thee thy reward." Sweet William, with a smiling face, Said to the king, "If't please your grace To show such favour unto me, 55 Your chamberlain I fain would be." The king then did the nobles call, To ask the counsel of them all; Who gave consent Sweet William he The king's own chamberlain should be. 60 Now mark what strange thing came to pass: As the king one day a hunting was, With all his lords and noble train, Sweet William did at home remain. Sweet William had no company then 65 With him at home, but an old man; And when he saw the house was clear, He took a lute which he had there: Upon the lute Sweet William play'd, And to the same he sung and said, 70 With a sweet and noble voice, Which made the old man to rejoice: "My father was as brave a lord As ever Europe did afford, My mother was a lady bright, 75 My husband was a valiant knight: "And I myself a lady gay, Bedeck'd with gorgeous rich array; The bravest lady in the land Had not more pleasure at command. 80 "I had my music every day, Harmonious lessons for to play; I had my virgins fair and free, Continually to wait on me. "But now, alas! my husband's dead, 85 And all my friends are from me fled; My former joys are pass'd and gone, For I am now a serving-man." At last the king from hunting came, And presently, upon the same, 90 He called for this good old man, And thus to speak the king began: "What news, what news, old man?" quoth he; "What news hast thou to tell to me?" "Brave news," the old man he did say, 95 "Sweet William is a lady gay." "If this be true thou tell'st to me I'll make thee lord of high degree; But if thy words do prove a lie, Thou shall be hang'd up presently." 100 But when the king the truth had found, His joys did more and more abound: According as the old man did say, Sweet William was a lady gay. Therefore the king without delay 105 Put on her glorious rich array, And upon her head a crown of gold, Which was most famous to behold. And then, for fear of further strife, He took Sweet William for his wife: 110 The like before was never seen,-- A serving-man to be a queen. THE FAIR FLOWER OF NORTHUMBERLAND. _Ritson's Ancient Songs and Ballads_, ii. 75. Preserved in Thomas Deloney's _History of Jack of Newbery_, whence it was extracted by Ritson. In that extraordinary book, _The Minstrelsy of the English Border_, (p. 201,) Ritson's copy is inserted without acknowledgment, and with a few alterations for the worse. Scottish versions of this ballad are given by Kinloch, (_The Provost's Dochter_, p. 131,) and by Buchan, (_The Betrayed Lady_, ii. 208.) The former of these is printed in our Appendix. It was a Knight in Scotland born, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, Was taken prisoner, and left forlorn, Even by the good Earl of Northumberland. Then was he cast in prison strong, 5 _Follow, my love, 'come' over the strand_, Where he could not walk nor lye along, Even by the good Earl of Northumberland. And as in sorrow thus he lay, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, 10 The Earl [s] sweet daughter walks that way, And she is the fair Flower of Northumberland. And passing by like an angel bright, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, The prisoner had of her a sight, 15 And she the fair Flower of Northumberland. And aloud to her this knight did cry, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, The salt tears standing in his eye, And she the fair Flower of Northumberland. "Fair lady," he said, "take pity on me, 21 _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, And let me not in prison die, And you the fair Flower of Northumberland." "Fair Sir, how should I take pity on thee, 25 _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, Thou being a foe to our country, And I the fair Flower of Northumberland." "Fair lady, I am no foe," he said, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, 30 "Through thy sweet love here was I stay'd, For thee, the fair Flower of Northumberland." "Why shouldst thou come here for love of me, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, Having wife and children in thy country, 35 And I the fair Flower of Northumberland." "I swear by the blessed Trinity, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, I have no wife nor children, I, Nor dwelling at home in merry Scotland. 40 "If courteously thou wilt set me free, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, I vow that I will marry thee, So soon as I come in fair Scotland. "Thou shalt be a lady of castles and towers, 45 _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, And sit like a queen in princely bowers, Were I at home in fair Scotland." Then parted hence this lady gay, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, 50 And got her fathers ring away, To help this knight into fair Scotland. Likewise much gold she got by sleight, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, And all to help this forlorn knight, 55 To wend from her father to fair Scotland. Two gallant steeds, both good and able, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, She likewise took out of the stable, To ride with the knight into fair Scotland. 60 And to the jaylor she sent this ring, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, The knight from prison forth 'to' bring, To wend with her into fair Scotland. This token set the prisoner free, 65 _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, Who straight went to this fair lady, To wend with her into fair Scotland. A gallant steed he did bestride, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, 70 And with the lady away did ride, And she the fair Flower of Northumberland. They rode till they came to a water clear, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, "Good Sir, how should I follow you here, 75 And I the fair Flower of Northumberland? "The water is rough and wonderful deep, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, And on my saddle I shall not keep, And I the fair Flower of Northumberland." 80 "Fear not the foard, fair lady," quoth he, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, "For long I cannot stay for thee, And thou the fair Flower of Northumberland." The lady prickt her wanton steed, 85 _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, And over the river swom with speed, And she the fair Flower of Northumberland. From top to toe all wet was she, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_; 90 "Thus have I done for love of thee, And I the fair Flower of Northumberland." Thus rode she all one winters night, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, Till Edenborough they saw in sight, 95 The fairest town in all Scotland. "Now chuse," quoth he, "thou wanton flower, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, 'Whether' thou wilt be my paramour, Or get thee home to Northumberland. 100 "For I have wife, and children five, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_; In Edenborough they be alive, Then get thee home to fair England. "This favour thou shalt have to boot, 105 _Follow, my love, come over the strand_; I'le have 'thy' horse, go thou on foot, Go, get thee home to Northumberland." "O false and faithless knight," quoth she, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, 110 "And canst thou deal so bad with me, And I the fair Flower of Northumberland? "Dishonour not a ladies name, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, But draw thy sword and end my shame, 115 And I the fair Flower of Northumberland." He took her from her stately steed, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, And left her there in extream need, And she the fair Flower of Northumberland. 120 Then sat she down full heavily, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_; At length two knights came riding by, Two gallant knights of fair England. She fell down humbly on her knee, 125 _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, Saying, "Courteous 'knights,' take pity on me, And I the fair Flower of Northumberland. "I have offended my father dear, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, 130 And by a false knight, who brought me here From the good Earl of Northumberland." They took her up behind them then _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, And brought her to her father again, 135 And he the good Earl of Northumberland. All you fair maidens be warned by me, _Follow, my love, come over the strand_, Scots never were true, nor never will be, To lord, nor lady, nor fair England. 140 GENTLE HERDSMAN, TELL TO ME. From _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, ii. 82. "The scene of this beautiful old ballad is laid near Walsingham, in Norfolk, where was anciently an image of the Virgin Mary, famous over all Europe for the numerous pilgrimages made to it, and the great riches it possessed. Erasmus has given a very exact and humorous description of the superstitions practised there in his time. See his account of the Virgo Parathalassia, in his colloquy entitled, _Peregrinatio Religionis Ergo_. He tells us, the rich offerings in silver, gold, and precious stones that were there shown him were incredible, there being scarce a person of any note in England, but what some time or other paid a visit or sent a present to Our Lady of Walsingham. At the dissolution of the monasteries in 1538, this splendid image, with another from Ipswich, was carried to Chelsea, and there burnt in the presence of commissioners; who, we trust, did not burn the jewels and the finery. "This poem is printed from a copy in the Editor's folio MS. which had greatly suffered by the hand of time; but vestiges of several of the lines remaining, some conjectural supplements have been attempted, which, for greater exactness, are in this one ballad distinguished by italics." PERCY. Gentle heardsman, tell to me, Of curtesy I thee pray, Unto the towne of Walsingham Which is the right and ready way. "Unto the towne of Walsingham 5 The way is hard for to be gon; And verry crooked are those pathes For you to find out all alone." Weere the miles doubled thrise, And the way never soe ill, 10 Itt were not enough for mine offence, Itt is soe grievous and soe ill. "Thy yeeares are young, thy face is faire, Thy witts are weake, thy thoughts are greene; Time hath not given thee leave, as yett, 15 For to committ so great a sinne." Yes, heardsman, yes, soe woldest thou say, If thou knewest soe much as I; My witts, and thoughts, and all the rest, Have well deserved for to dye. 20 I am not what I seeme to bee, My clothes and sexe doe differ farr: I am a woman, woe is me! _Born_ to greeffe and irksome care. _For_ my beloved, and well-beloved, 25 _My wayward cruelty could kill: And though my teares will nought avail, Most dearely I bewail him_ still. _He was the flower of n_oble wights, _None ever more sincere colde_ bee; 30 _Of comely mien and shape_ hee was, _And tenderlye he_e loved mee. _When thus I saw he lo_ved me well, _I grewe so proud his pa_ine to see, _That I, who did not_ know myselfe, 35 _Thought scorne_ of _such a youth_ as hee. And grew soe coy and nice to please, As women's lookes are often soe, He might not kisse, nor hand forsooth, Unlesse I willed him soe to doe. 40 Thus being wearyed with delayes[L41] To see I pittyed not his greeffe, He gott him to a secrett place, And there he dyed without releeffe. And for his sake these weeds I weare, 45 And sacriffice my tender age; And every day Ile begg my bread, To undergoe this pilgrimage. Thus every day I fast and pray, And ever will doe till I dye; 50 And gett me to some secrett place, For soe did hee, and soe will I. Now, gentle heardsman, aske no more, But keepe my secretts I thee pray: Unto the towne of Walsingham 55 Show me the right and readye way. "Now goe thy wayes, and God before! For he must ever guide thee still: Turne downe that dale, the right hand path, And soe, faire pilgrim, fare thee well!" 60 41-52. Stanzas 11, 12, 13, have been paraphrased by Goldsmith in his ballad of _Edwin and Emma_. AS I CAME FROM WALSINGHAM. From _The Garland of Good Will_, as reprinted by the Percy Society, vol. XXX. p. 111. Percy's copy was communicated to him by Shenstone, and was retouched by that poet. "The pilgrimage to Walsingham," remarks the Bishop, "suggested the plan of many popular pieces. In the Pepys collection, vol. i. p. 226, is a kind of interlude in the old ballad style, of which the first stanza alone is worth reprinting. As I went to Walsingham, To the shrine with speede, Met I with a jolly palmer In a pilgrimes weede. 'Now God you save, you jolly palmer!' 'Welcome, lady gay! Oft have I sued to thee for love.' 'Oft have I said you nay.' The pilgrimages undertaken on pretence of religion were often productive of affairs of gallantry, and led the votaries to no other shrine than that of Venus.[1]" "The following ballad was once very popular; it is quoted in Fletcher's '_Knight of the Burning Pestle_,' Act ii. sc. ult., and in another old play, called "_Hans Beer-pot, his invisible Comedy_, &c. 4to 1618, Act i." "_As I went to Walsingham_ is quoted in Nashe's _Have with you to Saffron-Walden_, 1596, sign. L." CHAPPELL. [1] 'Hermets on a heape, with hoked staves, Wenten to Walsingham, and her wenches after.' _Visions of Pierce Plowman_, fo. i. "As you came from the holy-land Of Walsingham, Met you not with my true love By the way as you came?" "How should I know your true love, 5 That have met many a one, As I came from the holy-land, That have come, that have gone?" "She is neither white nor brown, But as the heavens fair; 10 There is none hath a form so divine, On the earth, in the air." "Such a one did I meet, good sir, With angellike face, Who like a queen did appear 15 In her gait, in her grace." "She hath left me here all alone, All alone and unknown, Who sometime lov'd me as her life, And call'd me her own." 20 "What's the cause she hath left thee alone, And a new way doth take, That sometime did love thee as her life, And her joy did thee make?" "I loved her all my youth, 25 But now am old, as you see; Love liketh not the fallen fruit, Nor the withered tree. "For love is a careless child, And forgets promise past; 30 He is blind, he is deaf, when he list, And in faith never fast. "For love is a great delight, And yet a trustless joy; He is won with a word of despair, 35 And is lost with a toy. "Such is the love of womankind, Or the word abus'd, Under which many childish desires And conceits are excus'd. 40 "But love is a durable fire, In the mind ever burning; Never sick, never dead, never cold, From itself never turning." KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR-MAID. From Richard Johnson's _Crowne-Garland of Goulden Roses_, (1612,) as reprinted by the Percy Society, vi. 45. It is there simply entitled _A Song of a Beggar and a King_. Given in Percy's _Reliques_, i. 202, "corrected by another copy." This story, and it would appear this very ballad, is alluded to by Shakespeare and others of the dramatists. Thus, the 13th verse is partly quoted in _Romeo and Juliet_, A. ii. sc. 1: "Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid." Again in _Love's Labour's Lost_, (printed in 1598,) A. i. sc. 2. _Arm._ Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar? _Moth._ The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since, but, I think, now 'tis not to be found. See also _Henry Fourth_, P. ii. A. v. sc. 3, _Richard Second_, A. v. sc. 3, and Ben Jonson's _Every Man in his Humour_, A. iii. sc. 4,--all these cited by Percy. In _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 138, is a _rifacimento_ of this piece, in a different stanza, but following the story closely and preserving much of the diction. It is also printed in Evans's _Old Ballads_, ii. 361. I read that once in Affrica A prince that there did raine, Who had to name Cophetua, As poets they did faine. From natures workes he did incline, 5 For sure he was not of my minde, He cared not for women-kind, But did them all disdain. But marke what happen'd by the way; As he out of his window lay, 10 He saw a beggar all in grey, Which did increase his paine. The blinded boy that shootes so trim From heaven downe so high, He drew a dart and shot at him, 15 In place where he did lye: Which soone did pierce him to the quick, For when he felt the arrow prick, Which in his tender heart did stick, He looketh as he would dye. 20 "What sudden change is this," quoth he, "That I to love must subject be, Which never thereto would agree, But still did it defie?" Then from his window he did come, 25 And laid him on his bed; A thousand heapes of care did runne Within his troubled head. For now he means to crave her love, And now he seeks which way to proove 30 How he his fancie might remove, And not this beggar wed. But Cupid had him so in snare, That this poore beggar must prepare A salve to cure him of his care, 35 Or els he would be dead. And as he musing thus did lie, He thought for to devise How he might have her company, That so did maze his eyes. 40 "In thee," quoth he, "doth rest my life; For surely thou shalt be my wife, Or else this hand with bloody knife, The gods shall sure suffice." Then from his bed he 'soon' arose, 45 And to his pallace gate he goes; Full little then this beggar knowes When she the king espies[L48]. "The gods preserve your majesty," The beggars all gan cry; 50 "Vouchsafe to give your charity, Our childrens food to buy!" The king to them his purse did cast, And they to part it made great haste; This silly woman was the last 55 That after them did hye. The king he cal'd her back again, And unto her he gave his chaine; And said, "With us you shall remain Till such time as we dye. 60 "For thou," quoth he, "shalt be my wife, And honoured like the queene; With thee I meane to lead my life, As shortly shall be seene: Our wedding day shall appointed be, 65 And every thing in their degree; Come on," quoth he, "and follow me, Thou shalt go shift thee cleane. What is thy name?--go on," quoth he. "Penelophon, O King!" quoth she; 70 With that she made a lowe courtsey; A trim one as I weene. Thus hand in hand along they walke Unto the kings palace: The king with courteous, comly talke 75 This beggar doth embrace. The beggar blusheth scarlet read, And straight againe as pale as lead, But not a word at all she said, She was in such amaze. 80 At last she spake with trembling voyce, And said, "O King, I do rejoyce That you will take me for your choice, And my degree so base!" And when the wedding day was come, 85 The king commanded straight The noblemen, both all and some, Upon the queene to waight. And she behavd herself that day As if she had never walkt the way; 90 She had forgot her gowne of gray, Which she did wear of late. The proverb old is come to passe, The priest, when he begins the masse, Forgets that ever clarke he was; 95 He knowth not his estate. Here you may read Cophetua, Through fancie long time fed, Compelled by the blinded boy The beggar for to wed: 100 He that did lovers lookes disdaine, To do the same was glad and fain, Or else he would himself have slaine, In stories as we read. Disdaine no whit, O lady deere, 105 But pitty now thy servant heere, Lest that it hap to thee this yeare, As to the king it did. And thus they lead a quiet life During their princely raigne, 110 And in a tombe were buried both, As writers shew us plaine. The lords they tooke it grievously, The ladies tooke it heavily, The commons cryed pittiously, 115 Their death to them was pain. Their fame did sound so passingly, That it did pierce the starry sky, And throughout all the world did flye To every princes realme. 120 48, espied. THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE. From _The Garland of Good-Will_, as reprinted by the Percy Society, xxx. 125. Other copies, slightly different, in _A Collection of Old Ballads_, ii. 191, and in Percy's _Reliques_, ii. 246. Percy conjectures that this ballad "took its rise from one of those descents made on the Spanish coasts in the time of Queen Elizabeth." The weight of tradition is decidedly, perhaps entirely, in favor of the hero's having been one of Essex's comrades in the Cadiz expedition, but _which_ of his gallant captains achieved the double conquest of the Spanish Lady is by no means satisfactorily determined. Among the candidates put forth are Sir Richard Levison of Trentham, Staffordshire, Sir John Popham of Littlecot, Wilts, Sir Urias Legh of Adlington, Cheshire, and Sir John Bolle of Thorpe Hall, Lincolnshire. The right of the last to this distinction has been recently warmly contended for, and, as is usual in similar cases, strong circumstantial evidence is urged in his favor. The reader will judge for himself of its probable authenticity. "On Sir John Bolle's departure from Cadiz," it is said, "the Spanish Lady sent as presents to his wife a profusion of jewels and other valuables, among which was her portrait drawn in green; plate, money, and other treasures." Some of these articles are maintained to be still in possession of the family, and also a portrait of Sir John, drawn in 1596, at the age of thirty-six, in which he wears the gold chain given him by his enamored prisoner. See _The Times_ newspaper of April 30 and May 1, 1846, (the latter article cited in _Notes and Queries_, ix. 573,) and the _Quarterly Review_, Sept. 1846, Art. III. The literary merits of the ballad are also considered in the _Edinburgh Review_, of April, 1846. Shenstone has essayed in his _Moral Tale of Love and Honour_ to bring out "the Spanish Ladye and her Knight in less grovelling accents than the simple guise of ancient record," while Wordsworth, in a more reverential spirit, has taken this noble old romance as the model of his _Armenian Lady's Love_. Will you hear a Spanish lady, How she woo'd an English man? Garments gay as rich as may be, Decked with jewels, had she on; Of a comely countenance and grace was she, 5 And by birth and parentage of high degree. As his prisoner there he kept her, In his hands her life did lie; Cupid's bands did tie her faster, By the liking of an eye; 10 In his courteous company was all her joy, To favour him in any thing she was not coy. At the last there came commandment For to set the ladies free, With their jewels still adorned, 15 None to do them injury: "Alas," then said this lady gay, "full woe is me; O let me still sustain this kind captivity! "O gallant captain, shew some pity To a lady in distress; 20 Leave me not within the city, For to die in heaviness; Thou hast set this present day my body free, But my heart in prison strong remains with thee." "How should'st thou, fair lady, love me, 25 Whom thou know'st thy country's foe? Thy fair words make me suspect thee; Serpents are where flowers grow." "All the evil I think to thee, most gracious knight, God grant unto myself the same may fully light! 30 "Blessed be the time and season, That you came on Spanish ground; If you may our foes be termed, Gentle foes we have you found. With our city, you have won our hearts each one; 35 Then to your country bear away that is your own." "Rest you still, most gallant lady, Rest you still, and weep no more; Of fair lovers there are plenty; Spain doth yield a wondrous store." 40 "Spaniards fraught with jealousie we often find; But English men throughout the world are counted kind. "Leave me not unto a Spaniard; You alone enjoy my heart; I am lovely, young, and tender, 45 And so love is my desert. Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; The wife of every English man is counted blest." "It would be a shame, fair lady, For to bear a woman hence; 50 English soldiers never carry Any such without offence." "I will quickly change myself, if it be so, And like a page I'll follow thee, where'er thou go." "I have neither gold nor silver 55 To maintain thee in this case, And to travel, 'tis great charges, As you know, in every place." "My chains and jewels every one shall be thine own, And eke ten thousand pounds in gold that lies unknown." 60 "On the seas are many dangers; Many storms do there arise, Which will be to ladies dreadful, And force tears from wat'ry eyes." "Well in worth I could endure extremity, 65 For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee." "Courteous lady, be contented; Here comes all that breeds the strife; I in England have already A sweet woman to my wife: 70 I will not falsifie my vow for gold or gain, Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain." "Oh how happy is that woman That enjoys so true a friend! Many days of joy God send you! 75 Of my suit I'll make an end: On my knees I pardon crave for this offence, Which love and true affection did first commence. "Commend me to thy loving lady; Bear to her this chain of gold, 80 And these bracelets for a token; Grieving that I was so bold. All my jewels in like sort bear thou with thee, For these are fitting for thy wife, and not for me. "I will spend my days in prayer, 85 Love and all her laws defie; In a nunnery will I shroud me, Far from other company: But ere my prayers have end, be sure of this, [To pray] for thee and for thy love I will not miss. 90 "Thus farewell, most gentle captain, And farewell my heart's content! Count not Spanish ladies wanton, Though to thee my love was bent: Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee!" 95 "The like fall ever to thy share, most fair lady." PATIENT GRISSEL. The story of Griselda was first told in the _Decameron_. Boccaccio derived the incidents from Petrarch, and Petrarch seems to have communicated them also to Chaucer, who (in his _Clerk of Oxenford's Tale_) first made known the tale to English readers. The theme was subsequently treated in a great variety of ways.[2] Two plays upon the subject are known to have been written, one of which (by Dekker, Chettle and Haughton) has been printed by the Shakespeare Society, while the other, an older production of the close of Henry VIII.'s reign, is lost. About the middle of the sixteenth century, (1565,) a _Song of Patient Grissell_ is entered in the Stationers' Registers, and a prose history the same year. The earliest edition of the popular prose history as yet recovered, dated 1619, has been reprinted in the third volume of the Percy Society's Publications. The ballad here given is taken from Thomas Deloney's _Garland of Good Will_, a collection which was printed some time before 1596. It was circulated after that time, and probably even before the compilation of the Garland, as a broadside, in black-letter, and also, with the addition of a prose introduction and conclusion, as a tract or chap-book. In this last form it is printed in the above-mentioned volume of the Percy Society. The ballad in its proper simplicity is inserted in _A Collection of Old Ballads_, i. 252. Percy's _Patient Countess_ (_Reliques_, i. 310) is extracted from _Albion's England_. The title in _The Garland of Good Will_ is, _Of Patient Grissel and a Noble Marquess_. _To the tune of the Bride's Good Morrow._ Percy Society, vol. XXX. p. 82. [2] For the bibliography see Grässe's _Sagenkreise_, p. 282. The story is also found, says some one, in the Swedish saga of _Hakon Borkenbart_. A noble marquess, as he did ride a-hunting, Hard by a river side, A proper maiden, as she did sit a-spinning, His gentle eye espy'd: Most fair and lovely, and of comely grace was she, 5 Although in simple attire; She sang most sweetly, with pleasant voice melodiously, Which set the lord's heart on fire. The more he lookt, the more he might; Beauty bred his hearts delight, 10 And to this damsel he went. "God speed," quoth he, "thou famous flower, Fair mistress of this homely bower, Where love and vertue live with sweet content." With comely gesture and modest mild behaviour 15 She bad him welcome then; She entertain'd him in a friendly manner, And all his gentlemen. The noble marquess in his heart felt such flame Which set his senses all at strife; 20 Quoth he, "Fair maiden, shew soon what is thy name: I mean to take thee to my wife." "Grissel is my name," quoth she, "Far unfit for your degree; A silly maiden, and of parents poor." 25 "Nay, Grissel, thou art rich," he said, "A vertuous, fair, and comely maid; Grant me thy love, and I will ask no more." At length she consented, and being both contented, They married were with speed; 30 Her country russet was turn'd to silk and velvet, As to her state agreed: And when that she was trimly attired in the same, Her beauty shin'd most bright, Far staining every other brave and comely dame 35 That did appear in sight.[L36] Many envied her therefore, Because she was of parents poor, And twixt her lord and her great strife did raise: Some said this, and some said that, 40 Some did call her beggar's brat, And to her lord they would her oft dispraise. "O noble marquess," quoth they, "why do you wrong us, Thus basely for to wed, That might have got an honourable lady 45 Into your princely bed? Who will not now your noble issue still deride, Which shall be hereafter born, That are of blood so base by the mother's side, The which will bring them to scorn? 50 Put her, therefore, quite away; Take to you a lady gay, Whereby your lineage may renownèd be." Thus every day they seem'd to prate At malic'd Grissel's good estate, 55 Who took all this most mild and patiently. When that the marquess did see that they were bent thus Against his faithful wife, Whom most dearly, tenderly, and intirely He loved as his life; 60 Minding in secret for to prove her patient heart, Thereby her foes to disgrace; Thinking to play a hard discourteous part, That men might pity her case,-- Great with child this lady was, 65 And at length it came to pass, Two lovely children at one birth she had; A son and daughter God had sent, Which did their father well content, And which did make their mothers heart full glad. 70 Great royal feasting was at the childrens christ'ning, And princely triumph made; Six weeks together, all nobles that came thither Were entertain'd and staid. And when that these pleasant sportings quite were done, 75 The marquess a messenger sent For his young daughter and his pretty smiling son, Declaring his full intent, How that the babes must murthered be, For so the marquess did decree. 80 "Come, let me have the children," he said: With that fair Grissel wept full sore, She wrung her hands, and said no more; "My gracious lord must have his will obey'd." She took the babies from the nursing-ladies, 85 Between her tender arms; She often wishes, with many sorrowful kisses, That she might help their harms. "Farewel," quoth she, "my children dear; Never shall I see you again; 90 'Tis long of me, your sad and woful mother dear, For whose sake you must be slain. Had I been born of royal race, You might have liv'd in happy case; But now you must die for my unworthiness. 95 "Come, messenger of death," quoth she, "Take my despised babes to thee, And to their father my complaints express." He took the children, and to his noble master He brought them forth with speed; 100 Who secretly sent them unto a noble lady, To be nurst up indeed. Then to fair Grissel with a heavy heart he goes, Where she sat mildly all alone; A pleasant gesture and a lovely look she shows, 105 As if grief she had never known. Quoth he, "My children now are slain; What thinks fair Grissel of the same? Sweet Grissel, now declare thy mind to me." "Since you, my lord, are pleas'd with it, 110 Poor Grissel thinks the action fit; Both I and mine at your command will be." "The nobles murmur, fair Grissel, at thine honour, And I no joy can have Till thou be banisht from my court and presence, 115 As they unjustly crave. Thou must be stript out of thy stately garments; And as thou camest to me, In homely gray, instead of silk and purest pall, Now all thy cloathing must be. 120 My lady thou must be no more, Nor I thy lord, which grieves me sore; The poorest life must now content thy mind: A groat to thee I may not give, Thee to maintain, while I do live; 125 'Gainst my Grissel such great foes I find." When gentle Grissel heard these woful tidings, The tears stood in her eyes; She nothing said, no words of discontentment Did from her lips arise. 130 Her velvet gown most patiently she stript off, Her girdle of silk with the same; Her russet gown was brought again with many a scoff; To bear them all, herself [she] did frame. When she was drest in this array, 135 And ready was to part away, "God send long life unto my lord," quoth she; "Let no offence be found in this, To give my lord a parting kiss." With wat'ry eyes, "Farewel, my dear!" quoth he. 140 From stately palace, unto her father's cottage, Poor Grissel now is gone; Full fifteen winters she lived there contented, No wrong she thought upon; And at that time thro' all the land the speeches went, 145 The marquess should married be Unto a noble lady of high descent, And to the same all parties did agree. The marquess sent for Grissel fair The bride's bed-chamber to prepare, 150 That nothing should therein be found awry; The bride was with her brother come, Which was great joy to all and some; And Grissel took all this most patiently. And in the morning when that they should be wedded, 155 Her patience now was try'd; Grissel was charged in princely manner For to attire the bride. Most willingly she gave consent unto the same; The bride in her bravery was drest, 160 And presently the noble marquess thither came, With all the ladies at his request. "Oh Grissel, I would ask of thee If to this match thou wouldst agree? Methinks thy looks are waxed wondrous coy." 165 With that they all began to smile, And Grissel she replies the while, "God send lord marquess many years of joy!" The marquis was movèd to see his best belovèd Thus patient in distress; 170 He stept unto her, and by the hand he took her; These words he did express: "Thou art the bride, and all the brides I mean to have; These two thy own children be." The youthful lady on her knees did blessing crave, 175 The brother as willing as she. "And you that envy her estate, Whom I have made my loving mate, Now blush for shame, and honour vertuous life; The chronicles of lasting fame 180 Shall evermore extol the name Of patient Grissel, my most constant wife." 36, G. G. W., in her sight. THE KING OF FRANCE'S DAUGHTER. From Thomas Deloney's _Garland of Good Will_, as reprinted by the Percy Society, vol. xxx. p. 52. Other copies are in _Old Ballads_, (1723,) i. 181, Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, ii. 136, and Percy's _Reliques_, iii. 207,--the last altered by the editor. In the days of old, When fair France did flourish, Stories plainly told Lovers felt annoy. The king a daughter had, 5 Beauteous, fair, and lovely, Which made her father glad, She was his only joy. A prince of England came, Whose deeds did merit fame, 10 He woo'd her long, and lo, at last, Look, what he did require,[L12] She granted his desire, Their hearts in one were linked fast. Which when her father proved, 15 Lord, how he was moved And tormented in his mind; He sought for to prevent them, And to discontent them,-- Fortune crosses lovers kind. 20 Whenas these princely twain Were thus debarr'd of pleasure, Through the king's disdain, Which their joys withstood, The lady lockt up close 25 Her jewels and her treasure, Having no remorse Of state or royal blood. In homely poor array, She went from court away,[L30] 30 To meet her love and heart's delight; Who in a forest great, Had taken up his seat, To wait her coming in the night. But lo, what sudden danger, 35 To this princely stranger, Chancèd as he sat alone, By outlaws he was robbed, And with poinard stabbed, Uttering many a dying groan. 40 The princess, armed by him, And by true desire, Wandering all that night, Without dread at all, Still unknown, she past 45 In her strange attire, Coming at the last Within echo's call. "You fair woods," quoth she, "Honoured may you be, 50 Harbouring my heart's delight, Which doth encompass here, My joy and only dear, My trusty friend, and comely knight. Sweet, I come unto thee, 55 Sweet, I come to wooe thee, That thou may'st not angry be; For my long delaying, And thy courteous staying, Amends for all I make to thee." 60 Passing thus alone Through the silent forest, Many a grievous groan Sounded in her ear; Where she heard a man 65 To lament the sorest Chance that ever came, Forc'd by deadly fear. "Farewel, my dear!" quoth he, "Whom I shall never see, 70 For why, my life is at an end; For thy sweet sake I die, Through villain's cruelty, To shew I am a faithful friend. Here lie I a-bleeding, 75 While my thoughts are feeding On the rarest beauty found; O hard hap that may be, Little knows my lady My heart-blood lies on the ground!" 80 With that he gave a groan That did break asunder All the tender strings Of his gentle heart: She, who knew his voice, 85 At his tale did wonder; All her former joys Did to grief convert. Straight she ran to see Who this man should be, 90 That so like her love did speak; And found, whenas she came, Her lovely lord lay slain, Smeer'd in blood which life did break. Which when that she espied, 95 Lord, how sore she cried! Her sorrows could not counted be; Her eyes like fountains running, While she cryed out, "My darling, Would God that I had dy'd for thee!" 100 His pale lips, alas! Twenty times she kisséd, And his face did wash With her brinish tears; Every bleeding wound 105 Her fair face bedewed, Wiping off the blood With her golden hairs. ["Speak, my love," quoth she,][L109] "Speak, fair prince, to me; 110 One sweet word of comfort give; Lift up thy fair eyes, Listen to my cries, Think in what great grief I live." All in vain she sued, 115 All in vain she wooed, The prince's life was fled and gone; There stood she still mourning 'Till the sun's returning, And bright day was coming on. 120 In this great distress Quoth this royal lady, "Who can now express What will become of me? To my father's court 125 Never will I wander, But some service seek Where I may placed be." Whilst she thus made her moan, Weeping all alone, 130 In this deep and deadly fear, A forester all in green, Most comely to be seen, Ranging the wood did find her there, Round beset with sorrow. 135 "Maid," quoth he, "good morrow. What hard hap hath brought you here?" "Harder hap did never Chance to a maiden ever; Here lies slain my brother dear. 140 "Where might I be plac'd, Gentle forester tell me; Where might I procure A service in my need? Pains I will not spare, 145 But will do my duty; Ease me of my care, Help my extream need." The forester all amazed On her beauty gazed, 150 'Till his heart was set on fire: "If, fair maid," quoth he, "You will go with me, You shall have your heart's desire." He brought her to his mother, 155 And above all other He set forth this maiden's praise: Long was his heart inflamed, At length her love he gained, So fortune did his glory raise. 160 Thus unknown he matcht With the king's fair daughter; Children seven he had, Ere she to him was known. But when he understood 165 She was a royal princess, By this means at last He shewèd forth her fame: He cloath'd his children then[L169] Not like other men, 170 In party colours strange to see; The right side cloth of gold, The left side to behold Of woollen cloth still framèd he. Men thereat did wonder, 175 Golden fame did thunder This strange deed in every place; The king of France came thither[L178] Being pleasant weather, In the woods the hart to chase. 180 The children there did stand, As their mother willèd, Where the royal king Must of force come by; Their mother richly clad 185 In fair crimson velvet, Their father all in gray, Most comely to the eye. When this famous king, Noting every thing, 190 Did ask him how he durst be so bold, To let his wife to wear, And deck his children there, In costly robes of pearl and gold,-- The forester bold replièd, 195 And the cause descrièd, And to the king he thus did say: "Well may they by their mother Wear rich gold like other, Being by birth a princess gay." 200 The king upon these words More heedfully beheld them, Till a crimson blush His conceit did cross. "The more I look," quoth he, 205 "Upon thy wife and children, The more I call to mind My daughter whom I lost." "I am that Child," quoth she, Falling on her knee; 210 "Pardon me my soveraign liege!" The king perceiving this His daughter dear did kiss, Till joyful tears did stop his speech. With his train he turnèd, 215 And with her sojournèd; Straight he dubb'd her husband knight; He made him Earl of Flanders, One of his chief commanders;-- Thus was their sorrow put to flight. 220 12, Took. 30, to court. 109, from _Old Ballads_, 1723. 169-174. "This will remind the reader of the livery and device of Charles Brandon, a private gentleman, who married the Queen Dowager of France, sister of Henry VIII. At a tournament which he held at his wedding, the trappings of his horse were half cloth of gold, and half frieze, with the following motto: 'Cloth of Gold, do not despise, Tho' thou art matcht with Cloth of Frize; Cloth of Frize, be not too bold, Tho' thou art matcht with Cloth of Gold.' See Sir W. Temple's Misc. vol. iii. p. 356." PERCY. 178, king he coming. CONSTANCE OF CLEVELAND. From Collier's _Book of Roxburghe Ballads_, p. 163. "This romantic ballad, in a somewhat plain and unpretending style, relates incidents that may remind the reader of the old story of Titus and Gisippus, which was told in English verse by Edw. Lewicke, as early as 1562: the ballad is not so ancient by, perhaps, thirty or forty years; and the printed copy that has come down to our day is at least fifty years more recent than the date when we believe the ballad to have been first published. The title the broadside ('Printed for F. Coles, J. W., T. Vere, W. Gilbertson,') bears is, '_Constance of Cleveland: A very excellent Sonnet of the most fair Lady Constance of Cleveland, and her disloyal Knight_.' We conclude that the incidents are mere invention, but _Constance of Rome_ is the name of a play, by Drayton, Munday and Hathway, mentioned in Henslowe's Diary under the year 1600, (p. 171.) The tune of _Crimson Velvet_ was highly popular in the reigns of Elizabeth and her successor." To the Tune of _Crimson Velvet_. It was a youthfull knight Lov'd a gallant lady; Fair she was and bright, And of vertues rare: Herself she did behave 5 So courteously as may be; Wedded they were brave; Joy without compare. Here began the grief, Pain without relief: 10 Her husband soon her love forsook, To women lewd of mind, Being bad inclin'd, He only lent a pleasant look. The lady she sate weeping, 15 While that he was keeping Company with others moe: Her words, "My love, beleeve not, Come to me, and grieve not; Wantons will thee overthrow." 20 His fair Ladie's words Nothing he regarded; Wantonnesse affords Such delightfull sport. While they dance and sing, 25 With great mirth prepared, She her hands did wring In most grievous sort. "O what hap had I Thus to wail and cry, 30 Unrespected every day, Living in disdain, While that others gain All the right I should enjoy! I am left forsaken, 35 Others they are taken: Ah my love! why dost thou so? Her flatteries beleeve not, Come to me, and grieve not; Wantons will thee overthrow." 40 The Knight with his fair peece At length the Lady spied, Who did him daily fleece Of his wealth and store: Secretly she stood, 45 While she her fashions tryed, With a patient mind, While deep the strumpet swore. "O Sir Knight, O Sir Knight," quoth she, "So dearly I love thee, 50 My life doth rest at thy dispose: By day, and eke by night, For thy sweet delight, Thou shalt me in thy arms inclose. I am thine for ever; 55 Still I will persever True to thee, where ere I go." "Her flatteries believe not, Come to me, and grieve not; Wantons will thee overthrow." 60 The vertuous Lady mild Enters then among them, Being big with child As ever she might be: With distilling tears 65 She looked then upon them; Filled full of fears, Thus replyed she: "Ah, my love and dear! Wherefore stay you here, 70 Refusing me, your loving wife, For an harlot's sake, Which each one will take; Whose vile deeds provoke much strife? Many can accuse her: 75 O my love, O my love, refuse her! With thy lady home return. Her flatteries beleeve not, Come to me, and grieve not; Wantons will thee overthrow." 80 All in a fury then The angry Knight up started, Very furious when He heard his Ladie's speech. With many bitter terms 85 His wife he ever thwarted, Using hard extreams, While she did him beseech. From her neck so white He took away in spite 90 Her curious chain of purest gold, Her jewels and her rings, And all such costly things As he about her did behold. The harlot in her presence 95 He did gently reverence, And to her he gave them all: He sent away his Lady, Full of wo as may be, Who in a swound with grief did fall. 100 At the Ladie's wrong The harlot fleer'd and laughed; Enticements are so strong, They overcome the wise. The Knight nothing regarded 105 To see the Lady scoffed: Thus was she rewarded For her enterprise. The harlot, all this space, Did him oft embrace; 110 She flatters him, and thus doth say: "For thee Ile dye and live, For thee my faith Ile give, No wo shall work my love's decay; Thou shalt be my treasure, 115 Thou shalt be my pleasure, Thou shalt be my heart's delight: I will be thy darling, I will be thy worldling, In despight of fortune's spight." 120 Thus he did remain In wastfull great expences, Till it bred his pain, And consumed him quite. When his lands were spent, 125 Troubled in his sences, Then he did repent Of his late lewd life. For relief he hies, For relief he flyes 130 To them on whom he spent his gold: They do him deny, They do him defie; They will not once his face behold. Being thus distressed, 135 Being thus oppressed, In the fields that night he lay; Which the harlot knowing, Through her malice growing, Sought to take his life away. 140 A young and proper lad They had slain in secret For the gold he had, Whom they did convey By a ruffian lewd 145 To that place directly, Where the youthful Knight Fast a sleeping lay. The bloody dagger than, Wherewith they kill'd the man, 150 Hard by the Knight he likewise laid, Sprinkling him with blood, As he thought it good, And then no longer there he stayd. The Knight, being so abused, 155 Was forthwith accused For this murder which was done; And he was condemned That had not offended; Shamefull death he might not shun. 160 When the Lady bright Understood the matter, That her wedded Knight Was condemn'd to dye, To the King she went 165 With all the speed that might be, Where she did lament Her hard destiny. "Noble King!" quoth she, "Pitty take on me, 170 And pardon my poor husbands life; Else I am undone, With my little son: Let mercy mitigate this grief." "Lady fair, content thee; 175 Soon thou wouldst repent thee, If he should be saved so: Sore he hath abus'd thee, Sore he hath misus'd thee; Therefore, Lady, let him go." 180 "O my liege!" quoth she, "Grant your gracious favour: Dear he is to me, Though he did me wrong." The King reply'd again, 185 With a stern behaviour, "A subject he hath slain, Dye he shall ere long: Except thou canst find Any one so kind, 190 That will dye and set him free." "Noble King!" she said, "Glad am I apaid; That same person will I be. I will suffer duly, 195 I will suffer truly, For my love and husbands sake." The King thereat amazed, Though he her beauty praised, He bad from thence they should her take. It was the King's command, 201 On the morrow after She should out of hand To the scaffold go: Her husband was 205 To bear the sword before her; He must eke, alas! Give the deadly blow. He refus'd the deed; She bid him to proceed, 210 With a thousand kisses sweet. In this wofull case They did both imbrace, Which mov'd the ruffians in that place Straight for to discover 215 This concealed murder; Whereby the lady saved was. The harlot then was hanged, As she well deserved: This did vertue bring to passe. 220 WILLOW, WILLOW, WILLOW. From Percy's _Reliques_, i. 210. This is the "song of willow" from which Desdemona sings snatches in the Fourth Act of _Othello_, (Sc. 3.) The portions which occur in Shakespeare are the first stanza, and fragments of the fifth, sixth, and seventh; he also introduces a couplet which does not belong to the ballad as here given. The Second Part is very likely a separate composition. Songs upon this model or with the same burden were not infrequent. See one in Park's _Heliconia_, Part i. 132, and another in _The Moral Play of Wit and Science_, (Shakespeare Society,) p. 86. Percy gave this song from a black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, entitled _A Lover's Complaint, being forsaken of his Love_. Another version, differing principally in arrangement, is printed in the above cited publication of the Shakespeare Society, p. 126, from a MS. in the British Museum, "written about the year 1633." A poore soule sat sighing under a sicamore tree; _O willow, willow, willow!_ With his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee. _O willow, willow, willow!_ _O willow, willow, willow!_ 5 _Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland._ He sigh'd in his singing, and after each grone, _Come willow, &c._ "I am dead to all pleasure, my true-love is gone. _O willow, &c._ 10 _Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland._ "My love she is turned; untrue she doth prove; _O willow, &c._ She renders me nothing but hate for my love. _O willow, &c._ 15 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c._ "O pitty me," cried he, "ye lovers, each one; _O willow, &c._ Her heart's hard as marble; she rues not my mone. _O willow, &c._ 20 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c."_ The cold streams ran by him, his eyes wept apace; _O willow, &c._ The salt tears fell from him, which drowned his face. _O willow, &c._ 25 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c._ The mute birds sate by him, made tame by his mones; _O willow, &c._ The salt tears fell from him, which softened the stones. _O willow, &c._ 30 _Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland._ "Let nobody blame me, her scornes I do prove; _O willow, &c._ She was borne to be faire; I, to die for her love. _O willow, &c._ 35 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c._ "O that beauty should harbour a heart that's so hard! _Sing willow, &c._ My true love rejecting without all regard. _O willow, &c._ 40 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c._ "Let love no more boast him in palace or bower; _O willow, &c._ For women are trothles, and flote in an houre. _O willow, &c._ 45 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c._ "But what helps complaining? In vaine I complaine: _O willow, &c._ I must patiently suffer her scorne and disdaine. _O willow, &c._ 50 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c._ "Come, all you forsaken, and sit down by me, _O willow, &c._ He that 'plaines of his false love, mine's falser than she. _O willow, &c._ 55 _Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland._ "The willow wreath weare I, since my love did fleet; _O willow, &c._ A garland for lovers forsaken most meete. _O willow, &c._ 60 _Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland!_" PART THE SECOND. "Lowe lay'd by my sorrow, begot by disdaine, _O willow, willow, willow!_ Against her too cruell, still, still I complaine. _O willow, willow, willow!_ _O willow, willow, willow!_ 5 _Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland!_ "O love too injurious, to wound my poore heart, _O willow, &c._ To suffer the triumph, and joy in my smart! _O willow, &c._ 10 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c._ "O willow, willow, willow! the willow garlànd, _O willow, &c._ A sign of her falsenesse before me doth stand. _O willow, &c._ 15 _Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland._ "As here it doth bid to despair and to dye, _O willow, &c._ So hang it, friends, ore me in grave where I lye. _O willow, &c._ 20 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c._ "In grave where I rest mee, hang this to the view, _O willow, &c._ Of all that doe knowe her, to blaze her untrue. _O willow, &c._ 25 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c._ "With these words engraven, as epitaph meet, _O willow, &c._ 'Here lyes one, drank poyson for potion most sweet.' _O willow, &c._ 30 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c._ "Though she thus unkindly hath scorned my love, _O willow, &c._ And carelesly smiles at the sorrowes I prove; _O willow, &c._ 35 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c._ "I cannot against her unkindly exclaim, _O willow, &c._ Cause once well I loved her, and honoured her name. _O willow, &c._ 40 _Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland._ "The name of her sounded so sweete in mine eare, _O willow, &c._ It rays'd my heart lightly, the name of my deare; _O willow, &c._ 45 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c._ "As then 'twas my comfort, it now is my griefe; _O willow, &c._ It now brings me anguish; then brought me reliefe. _O willow, &c._ 50 _Sing, O the greene willow, &c._ "Farewell, faire false hearted, plaints end with my breath! _O willow, willow, willow!_ Thou dost loath me, I love thee, though cause of my death. _O willow, willow, willow!_ 55 _O willow, willow, willow!_ _Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland._" GREENSLEEVES. From _A Handefull of Pleasant Delites_, &c., London, 1584, as reprinted in Park's _Heliconia_, vol. ii. p. 23. It is there entitled _A New Courtly Sonet of the Lady Greensleeves. To the new Tune of Greensleeves_. "The earliest mention of the ballad of _Green Sleeves_, in the Registers of the Stationers' Company, is in September, 1580, when Richard Jones had licensed to him _A New Northern Dittye of the Lady Green Sleeves_." "_Green Sleeves_, or _Which nobody can deny_, has been a favorite tune from the time of Elizabeth to the present day, and is still frequently to be heard in the streets of London to songs with the old burden, _Which nobody can deny_. It will also be recognized as the air of _Christmas comes but once a year_, and many another merry ditty." CHAPPELL'S _Popular Music of the Olden Time_, p. 227. _Greensleeves_ is twice alluded to by Shakespeare in _The Merry Wives of Windsor_; Act ii. Sc. 1; Act v. Sc. 5. Alas, my love, ye do me wrong To cast me oft discurteously, And I have loved you so long, Delighting in your companie. _Greensleeves was all my joy_, _Greensleeves was my delight_, _Greensleeves was my heart of gold_, _And who but Ladie Greensleeves_. I have been readie at your hand 5 To grant what ever you would crave; I have both waged life and land, Your love and good will for to have. _Greensleeves was all my joy, &c._ I bought thee kerchers to thy head That were wrought fine and gallantly; 10 I kept thee both at boord and bed, Which cost my purse well favouredly. _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ I bought thee peticotes of the best, The cloth so fine as fine might be; I gave thee jewels for thy chest, 15 And all this cost I spent on thee. _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ Thy smock of silke, both faire and white, With gold embrodered gorgeously, Thy peticote of sendall right, And this I bought thee gladly.[L20] 20 _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ Thy girdle of gold so red, With pearles bedecked sumtuously,-- The like no other lasses had,-- And yet thou wouldest not love me. _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ Thy purse, and eke thy gay guilt knives, 25 Thy pincase, gallant to the eie,-- No better wore the burgesse wives,-- And yet thou wouldst not love me. _Greensleeves was all my joy, &c._ Thy crimson stockings, all of silk, With golde all wrought above the knee; 30 Thy pumps, as white as was the milk, And yet thou wouldst not love me. _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ Thy gown was of the grassie green, Thy sleeves of satten hanging by, Which made thee be our harvest queen, 35 And yet thou wouldst not love me. _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ Thy garters fringed with the golde, And silver aglets hanging by, Which made thee blithe for to beholde,-- And yet thou wouldst not love me. 40 _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ My gayest gelding I thee gave, To ride where ever liked thee, No ladie ever was so brave, And yet thou wouldst not love me. _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ My men were clothed all in green, 45 And they did ever wait on thee; All this was gallant to be seen, And yet thou wouldst not love me. _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ They set thee up, they took thee downe, They served thee with humilitie; 50 Thy foote might not once touch the ground, And yet thou wouldst not love me. _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ For everie morning, when thou rose, I sent thee dainties, orderly, To cheare thy stomack from all woes, 55 And yet thou wouldst not love me. _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ Thou couldst desire no earthly thing But stil thou hadst it readily; Thy musicke still to play and sing, And yet thou wouldst not love me. 60 _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ And who did pay for all this geare, That thou didst spend when pleased thee? Even I that am rejected here, And thou disdainst to love me. _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ Wel, I wil pray to God on hie 65 That thou my constancie maist see, And that yet once before I die Thou will vouchsafe to love me. _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ Greensleeves, now farewel, adue! God I pray to prosper thee, 70 For I am stil thy lover true; Come once againe, and love me! _Greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ 20, And thus. ROBENE AND MAKYNE. This exceedingly pretty pastoral, the earliest poem of the kind in the Scottish language, is ascribed in the Bannatyne MS., where it is preserved, to Robert Henryson, who appears to have written in the latter half of the fifteenth century. All that is certainly known of the author is that he was chief schoolmaster of Dunfermline. _Robene and Makyne_ was first printed by Ramsay in his _Evergreen_, (i. 56,) and afterwards by Lord Hailes, in _Ancient Scottish Poems published from the MS. of George Bannatyne_, (p. 98.) Some freedoms were taken with the text by Ramsay, and one line was altered by Lord Hailes. Our copy is given from Sibbald's _Chronicle of Scottish Poetry_, (i. 115,) where the manuscript is faithfully adhered to. Robene sat on gud grene hill, Keipand a flok of fie: Mirry Makyne said him till, "Robene, thow rew on me; I haif thé luvit, lowd and still, 5 Thir yeiris two or thré; My dule in dern bot gif thow dill, Doutles bot dreid I dé." Robene answerit, "Be the rude, Na thing of lufe I knaw, 10 Bot keipis my scheip undir yone wud; Lo quhair thay raik on raw. Quhat hes marrit thé in thy mude, Makyne, to me thow schaw; Or quhat is love, or to be lude? 15 Faine wald I leir that law." "At luvis lair gife thow will leir, Tak thair ane A, B, C; Be kynd, courtas, and fair of feir, Wyse, hardy, and fré. 20 Sé that no denger do thé deir, Quhat dule in dern thow dré; Preiss thé with pane at all poweir, Be patient and previe." Robene answerit her agane: 25 "I wait nocht quhat is luve, Bot I haif mervell in certaine, Quhat makis thé this wanrufe; The weddir is fair, and I am fane, My scheip gois haill aboif, 30 And we wald play us in this plane, They wald us bayth reproif." "Robene, tak tent unto my taill, And wirk all as I reid, And thow sall haif my hairt all haill, 35 Eik and my madinheid. Sen God sendis bute for baill, And for murning remeid, I dern with thé bot gif I daill, Dowbtles I am bot deid." 40 "Makyne, to morne this ilka tyde, And ye will meit me heir; Perventure my scheip ma gang besyd, Quhyll we haif liggit full neir: Bot maugre haif I, and I byd, 45 Fra they begin to steir; Quhat lyis on hairt I will nocht hyd; Makyne, than mak gud cheir." "Robene, thou reivis me roiss and rest; I luve bot thé allone." 50 "Makyne, adew, the sone gois west, The day is neirhand gone." "Robene, in dule I am so drest, That lufe will be my bone." "Ga lufe, Makyne, quhair evir thou list, 55 For leman I lue none." "Robene, I stand in sic a style, I sicht, and that full sair." "Makyne, I haif bene heir this quyle: At hame God gif I wair!" 60 "My hinny, Robene, talk ane quhyle, Gif thou wilt do na mair." "Makyne, sum uthir man begyle, For hamewart I will fair." Robene on his wayis went, 65 As licht as leif of tré; Makyne murnit in her intent, And trowd him nevir to sé. Robene brayd attour the bent; Than Makyne cryit on hie, 70 "Now ma thow sing, for I am schent! Quhat alis lufe with me?" Makyne went hame withouttin faill, Full werry eftir cowth weip: Than Robene in a ful fair daill 75 Assemblit all his scheip. Be that sum parte of Makyne's ail Out throw his hairt cowd creip; He followit hir fast thair till assail, And till her tuke gude keep. 80 "Abyd, abyd, thou fair Makyne, A word for ony thing; For all my luve it sall be thyne, Withouttin departing. All haill! thy harte for till haif myne, 85 Is all my cuvating; My scheip to morn, quhill houris nyne, Will neid of no keping." "Robene, thou hes hard soung and say, In gestis and storeis auld, 90 _The man that will not quhen he may, Sall haif nocht quhen he wald._ I pray to Jesu every day, Mot eik thair cairis cauld, That first preissis with thé to play, 95 Be firth, forrest, or fawld." "Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry, The wedder is warme and fair, And the grene woud rycht neir us by To walk attour all quhair: 100 Thair ma na janglour us espy, That is to lufe contrair; Thairin, Makyne, bath ye and I, Unsene we ma repair." "Robene, that warld is all away, 105 And quyt brocht till ane end, And nevir again thereto, perfay, Sall it be as thou wend; For of my pane thou maide it play, And all in vane I spend: 110 As thou hes done, sa sall I say, Murne on, I think to mend." "Makyne, the howp of all my heill, My hairt on thé is sett, And evir mair to thé be leill, 115 Quhile I may leif but lett; Nevir to faill, as utheris faill, Quhat grace that evir I gett." "Robene, with thé I will not deill; Adew, for thus we mett." 120 Makyne went hame blyth anewche, Attoure the holtis hair; Robene murnit, and Makyne lewche; Scho sang, he sichit sair: And so left him, bayth wo and wreuch, 125 In dolour and in cair, Kepand his hird under a huche, Amang the holtis hair. APPENDIX. LORD BEICHAN AND SUSIE PYE. See p. 1. _From Kinloch's Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 260. Young Beichan was in London born, He was a man of hie degree; He past thro' monie kingdoms great, Until he cam unto Grand Turkie. He view'd the fashions of that land, 5 Their way of worship viewed he; But unto onie of their stocks He wadna sae much as bow a knee: Which made him to be taken straight, And brought afore their hie jurie; 10 The savage Moor did speak upricht, And made him meikle ill to dree. In ilka shoulder they've bor'd a hole, And in ilka hole they've put a tree; They've made him to draw carts and wains, 15 Till he was sick and like to dee. But young Beichan was a Christian born, And still a Christian was he; Which made them put him in prison strang, And cauld and hunger sair to dree; 20 And fed on nocht but bread and water, Until the day that he mot dee. In this prison there grew a tree, And it was unco stout and strang; Where he was chained by the middle, 25 Until his life was almaist gane. The savage Moor had but ae dochter, And her name it was Susie Pye; And ilka day as she took the air, The prison door she passed bye. 30 But it fell ance upon a day, As she was walking, she heard him sing; She listen'd to his tale of woe, A happy day for young Beichan! "My hounds they all go masterless, 35 My hawks they flee frae tree to tree, My youngest brother will heir my lands, My native land I'll never see." "O were I but the prison-keeper, As I'm a ladie o' hie degree, 40 I soon wad set this youth at large, And send him to his ain countrie." She went away into her chamber, All nicht she never clos'd her ee; And when the morning begoud to dawn, 45 At the prison door alane was she. She gied the keeper a piece of gowd, And monie pieces o' white monie, To tak her thro' the bolts and bars; The lord frae Scotland she lang'd to see;-- 50 She saw young Beichan at the stake, Which made her weep maist bitterlie. "O hae ye got onie lands," she says, "Or castles in your ain countrie? It's what wad ye gie to the ladie fair 55 Wha out o' prison wad set you free?" "It's I hae houses, and I hae lands, Wi' monie castles fair to see, And I wad gie a' to that ladie gay, Wha out o' prison wad set me free." 60 The keeper syne brak aff his chains, And set Lord Beichan at libertie:-- She fill'd his pockets baith wi' gowd, To tak him till his ain countrie. She took him frae her father's prison, 65 And gied to him the best o' wine; And a brave health she drank to him; "I wish, Lord Beichan, ye were mine! "It's seven lang years I'll mak a vow, And seven lang years I'll keep it true; 70 If ye'll wed wi' na ither woman, It's I will wed na man but you." She's tane him to her father's port, And gien to him a ship o' fame:-- "Farewell, farewell, my Scottish lord, 75 I fear I'll ne'er see you again." Lord Beichan turn'd him round about, And lowly, lowly, loutit he:-- "Ere seven lang years come to an end, I'll tak you to mine ain countrie." 80 * * * * Then when he cam to Glasgow town, A happy, happy man was he; The ladies a' around him thrang'd, To see him come frae slaverie. His mother she had died o' sorrow, 85 And a' his brothers were dead but he; His lands they a' were lying waste, In ruins were his castles free. Na porter there stood at his yett Na human creature he could see, 90 Except the screeching owls and bats, Had he to bear him companie. But gowd will gar the castles grow, And he had gowd and jewels free; And soon the pages around him thrang'd, 95 To serve him on their bended knee. His hall was hung wi' silk and satin, His table rung wi' mirth and glee; He soon forgot the lady fair, That lows'd him out o' slaverie. 100 Lord Beichan courted a lady gay, To heir wi' him his lands sae free, Ne'er thinking that a lady fair Was on her way frae Grand Turkie. For Susie Pye could get na rest, 105 Nor day nor nicht could happy be, Still thinking on the Scottish Lord, Till she was sick and like to dee. But she has builded a bonnie ship, Weel mann'd wi' seamen o' hie degree; 110 And secretly she stept on board, And bid adieu to her ain countrie. But whan she cam to the Scottish shore, The bells were ringing sae merrilie; It was Lord Beichan's wedding day, 115 Wi' a lady fair o' hie degree. But sic a vessel was never seen; The very masts were tapp'd wi' gold; Her sails were made o' the satin fine, Maist beautiful for to behold. 120 But whan the lady cam on shore, Attended wi' her pages three, Her shoon were of the beaten gowd, And she a lady of great beautie. Then to the skipper she did say, 125 "Can ye this answer gie to me-- Where are Lord Beichan's lands sae braid? He surely lives in this countrie." Then up bespak the skipper bold,-- For he could speak the Turkish tongue,-- 130 "Lord Beichan lives not far away; This is the day of his wedding." "If ye will guide me to Beichan's yetts, I will ye well reward," said she,-- Then she and all her pages went, 135 A very gallant companie. When she cam to Lord Beichan's yetts, She tirl'd gently at the pin; Sae ready was the proud porter To let the wedding guests come in. 140 "Is this Lord Beichan's house," she says, "Or is that noble lord within?" "Yes, he is gane into the hall, With his brave bride and monie ane." "Ye'll bid him send me a piece of bread, 145 Bot and a cup of his best wine; And bid him mind the lady's love That ance did lowse him out o' pyne." Then in and cam the porter bold,-- I wat he gae three shouts and three,-- 150 "The fairest lady stands at your yetts That ever my twa een did see." Then up bespak the bride's mither,-- I wat an angry woman was she,-- "You micht hae excepted our bonnie bride, 155 Tho' she'd been three times as fair as she." "My dame, your daughter's fair enough, And aye the fairer mot she be! But the fairest time that e'er she was, She'll na compare wi' this ladie. 160 "She has a gowd ring on ilka finger, And on her mid-finger she has three; She has as meikle gowd upon her head, As wad buy an earldom o' land to thee. "My lord, she begs some o' your bread, 165 Bot and a cup o' your best wine, And bids you mind the lady's love That ance did lowse ye out o' pyne." Then up and started Lord Beichan,-- I wat he made the table flee,-- 170 "I wad gie a' my yearlie rent 'Twere Susie Pye come owre the sea." Syne up bespak the bride's mother,-- She was never heard to speak sae free,-- "Ye'll no forsake my ae dochter, 175 Tho' Susie Pye has cross'd the sea?" "Tak hame, tak hame, your dochter, madam, For she is ne'er the waur o' me; She cam to me on horseback riding, And she sall gang hame in chariot free." 180 He's tane Susie Pye by the milk-white hand, And led her thro' his halls sae hie: "Ye're now Lord Beichan's lawful wife, And thrice ye're welcome unto me." Lord Beichan prepar'd for another wedding, 185 Wi' baith their hearts sae fu' o' glee;-- Says, "I'll range na mair in foreign lands, Sin Susie Pye has cross'd the sea. "Fy! gar a' our cooks mak ready; And fy! gar a' our pipers play; 190 And fy! gar trumpets gae thro' the toun, That Lord Beichan's wedded twice in a day!" SWEET WILLIAM. See p. 29. "Given from the chanting of an old woman. It has never been before printed." Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 307. Other versions may be seen in that careless publication of the Percy Society, _Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads_, vol. xvii. p. 57, _Lord William_, and in Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 57, _Lord Lundy_. Sweet William's gane over seas, Some unco lair to learn, And our gude Bailie's ae dochter Is awa to learn the same. In ae braid buik they learned baith, 5 In ae braid bed they lay; But when her father cam to know, He gart her come away. "It's you must marry that Southland lord, His lady for to be; 10 It's ye maun marry that Southland lord, Or nocht ye'll get frae me." "I must marry that Southland lord, Father, an it be your will; But I'd rather it were my burial day, 15 My grave for to fill." She walked up, she walked down, Had nane to mak her moan, Nothing but the pretty bird Sat on the causey stone. 20 "If thou could speak, wee bird," she says, "As weel as thou can flee, I would write a lang letter To Will ayont the sea." "What thou wants wi' Will," it says, 25 "Thou'll seal it wi' thy ring; Tak a thread o' silk, and anither o' twine, And about my neck it hing." What she wanted wi' Willie She sealed it wi' a ring; 30 Took a thread o' silk, anither of twine, About its neck did hing. This bird flew high, this bird flew low, This bird flew owre the sea, Until it entered the same chamber 35 Wherein was sweet Willie. This bird flew high, this bird flew low,-- Poor bird, it was mista'en,-- It loot the letter fa' on Baldie's breast, Instead of sweet William. 40 "Here's a letter, William," he says, "I'm sure it's not to me; And gin the morn gin twelve o'clock Your love shall married be." "Come saddle to me my horse," he said, 45 "The brown and a' that's speedie, And I'll awa' to Old England, To bring hame my ladie." Awa he gade, awa he rade, Awa wi' meikle speed; 50 He lichtit at every twa miles' end, Lichtit and changed his steed. When she entered the church style, The tear was in her e'e; But when she entered the church door, 55 A blythe sight did she see. "O hold your hand, you minister, Hold it a little wee, Till I speak wi' the bonnie bride, For she's a friend to me. 60 "Stand off, stand off, you braw bridegroom, Stand off a little wee; Stand off, stand off, you braw bridegroom, For the bride shall join wi' me." Up and spak the bride's father, 65 And an angry man was he,-- "If I had pistol, powther and lead, And all at my command, It's I would shoot thee stiff and dead, In the place where thou dost stand." 70 Up and spoke then sweet William, And a blithe blink from his e'e: "If ye ne'er be shot till I shoot you, Ye'se ne'er be shot for me. "Come out, come out, my foremost man, 75 And lift my lady on; Commend me all to my goodmother, At night when you gang home." YOUNG CHILD DYRING. See p. 29. Translated from the _Kj[oe]mpeviser_, in _Illustrations of Northern Antiquities_, p. 335. It was the young Child Dyring, Wi' his mither rede did he: "I will me out ride Sir Magnus's bride to see." _His leave the page takes to-day from his master._ "Will thou thee out ride, 5 Sir Magnus's bride to see? Sae beg I thee by Almighty God Thou speed thee home to me." _His leave, &c._ Syne answer'd young Child Dyrè; He rode the bride to meet; 10 The silk but and the black sendell Hang down to his horse feet. _His leave, &c._ All rode they there, the bride-folk, On row sae fair to see, Excepting Sir Svend Dyrè, 15 And far about rode he. _His leave, &c._ It was the young Child Dyrè rode Alone along the strand; The bridle was of the red gold That glitter'd in his hand. 20 _His leave, &c._ 'Twas then proud Lady Ellensborg, And under weed smil'd she; "And who is he, that noble child That rides sae bold and free?" _His leave, &c._ Syne up and spak the maiden fair 25 Was next unto the bride; "It is the young Child Dyrè That stately steed does ride." _His leave, &c._ "And is't the young Child Dyrè That rides sae bold and free? 30 God wot, he's dearer that rides that steed Nor a' the lave to me!" _His leave, &c._ All rode they there, the bridal train, Each rode his steed to stall; All but Child Dyrè, that look'd whare he 35 Should find his seat in the hall. _His leave, &c._ "Sit whare ye list, my lordings; For me, whate'er betide, Here I shall sickerly sit the day, To hald the sun frae the bride." 40 _His leave, &c._ Then up spak the bride's father, And an angry man was he; "Whaever sits by my dochter the day, Ye better awa' wad be." _His leave, &c._ "It's I have intill Paris been, 45 And well my drift can spell; And ay, whatever I have to say, I tell it best my sell." _His leave, &c._ "Sooth thou hast intill Paris lear'd A worthless drift to spell, 50 And ay, whatever thou hast to say, A rogue's tale thou must tell." _His leave, &c._ Ben stept he, young Child Dyrè, Nor reck'd he wha might chide; And he has ta'en a chair in hand, 55 And set him by the bride. _His leave, &c._ 'Twas lang i' the night; the bride-folk Ilk ane look'd for his bed; And young Child Dyrè amang the lave Speer'd whare he should be laid. 60 _His leave, &c._ "Without, afore the stair steps, Or laigh on the cawsway stane, And there may lye Sir Dyrè, For ither bed we've nane." _His leave, &c._ 'Twas ate intill the evening; 65 The bride to bed maun ga; And out went he, Child Dyring, To rouse his menyie a'. _His leave, &c._ "Now busk and d'on your harnass, But and your brynies blae, 70 And boldly to the bride-bower Full merrily we'll gae." _His leave, &c._ Sae follow'd they to the bride-bower That bride sae young and bright, And forward stept Child Dyrè, 75 And quenched the marriage light. _His leave, &c._ The cresset they've lit up again, But and the taper clear, And followed to the bride-bower That bride without a peer. 80 _His leave, &c._ * * * * * * And up Child Dyrè snatch'd the bride, All in his mantle blae, And swung her all so lightly Upon his ambler gray. _His leave, &c._ They lock'd the bower, they lit the torch, 85 'Twas hurry-scurry a', While merrily ay the lovers gay Rode roundly to the shaw. _His leave, &c._ In Rosen-wood they turn'd about To pray their bridal prayer; 90 "Good night and joy, Sir Magnus! For us ye'll see nae mair." _His leave, &c._ Sae rode he to the green wood, And o'er the meadow green, Till he came to his mither's bower, 95 Ere folks to bed were gane. _His leave, &c._ Out came proud Lady Metelild, In menevair sae free; She welcom'd him, Child Dyring, And his young bride him wi'. 100 _His leave, &c._ Now joys attend Child Dyring, Sae leal but and sae bold; He's ta'en her to his ain castell, His bride-ale there to hold. _His leave the page takes to-day frae his master._ BARBARA LIVINGSTON. See p. 38. Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 304, from recitation. Four-and-twenty ladies fair Were playing at the ba', And out cam Barbara Livingston, The flower amang them a'. Out cam Barbara Livingston, 5 The flower amang them a';-- The lusty Laird of Linlyon[L7] Has stoun her clean awa'. "The hielands is no for me, kind sir, The hielands is no for me; 10 But if you would my favour win, Ye 'll tak me to Dundee." "The hielands 'll be for thee, my dear, The hielands will be for thee; To the lusty Laird o' Linlyon 15 A-married ye shall be." When they cam to Linlyon's yetts, And lichtit on the green, Every ane spak Earse to her,-- The tears cam trickling down. 20 When they went to bed at nicht, To Linlyon she did say, "Och and alace! a weary nicht, Oh! but it's lang till day." "Your father's steed 's in my stable, 25 He 's eating corn and hay, And you 're lying in my twa arms; What need you lang for day?" "If I had paper, pen, and ink, And candle for to see, 30 I would write a lang letter To my love in Dundee." They brocht her paper, pen, and ink, And candle for to see, And she did write a lang letter 35 To her love in Dundee. When he cam to Linlyon's yetts, And lichtit on the green; But lang or he wan up the stair His love was dead and gane. 40 Woe be to thee, Linlyon, An ill death may thou die! Thou might hae ta'en anither woman, And let my lady be. 7. Mr. Jamieson has "Glenlyon," which is probably the right name. M. LANG JOHNNY MOIR. See p. 50. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 248. There lives a man in Rynie's land, Anither in Auchindore; The bravest lad amo' them a', Was lang Johnny Moir. Young Johnny was an airy blade, 5 Fu' sturdy, stout, and strang; The sword that hang by Johnny's side, Was just full ten feet lang. Young Johnny was a clever youth, Fu' sturdy, stout, and wight; 10 Just full three yards around the waist, And fourteen feet in hight. But if a' be true they tell me now, And a' be true I hear, Young Johnny's on to Lundan gane, 15 The king's banner to bear. He hadna been in fair Lundan But twalmonths twa or three, Till the fairest lady in a' Lundan Fell in love wi' young Johnny. 20 This news did sound thro' Lundan town, Till it came to the king, That the muckle Scot had fa'in in love Wi' his daughter, Lady Jean. When the king got word o' that, 25 A solemn oath sware he; "This weighty Scott sall strait a rope, And hanged he shall be." When Johnny heard the sentence past, A light laugh then gae he; 30 "While I hae strength to yield my blade, Ye darena a' hang me." The English dogs were cunning rogues; About him they did creep, And ga'e him draps o' lodomy 35 That laid him fast asleep. Whan Johnny waken'd frae his sleep, A sorry heart had he; His jaws and hands in iron bands, His feet in fetters three. 40 "O whar will I get a little wee boy Will work for meat and fee, That will rin on to my uncle, At the foot of Benachie?" "Here am I, a little wee boy, 45 Will work for meat and fee, That will rin on to your uncle, At the foot of Benachie." "Whan ye come whar grass grows green, Slack your shoes and rin; 50 And whan ye come whar water's strong, Ye'll bend your bow and swim. "And whan ye come to Benachie, Ye'll neither chap nor ca'; Sae well's ye'll ken auld Johnny there, 55 Three feet abeen them a'. "Ye'll gie to him this braid letter, Seal'd wi' my faith and troth; And ye'll bid him bring alang wi' him The body, Jock o' Noth." 60 "Whan he came whar grass grew green, He slack't his shoes and ran; And whan he came whar water's strong, He bent his bow and swam. And whan he came to Benachie, 65 Did neither chap nor ca'; Sae well's he kent auld Johnny there, Three feet abeen them a'. "What news, what news, my little wee boy? Ye never were here before;" 70 "Nae news, nae news, but a letter from Your nephew, Johnny Moir. "Ye'll take here this braid letter, Seal'd wi' his faith and troth; And ye're bidden bring alang wi' you 75 The body, Jock o' Noth." Benachie lyes very low, The tap o' Noth lyes high; For a' the distance that's between, He heard auld Johnny cry. 80 Whan on the plain these champions met, Twa grizly ghosts to see, There were three feet between her brows, And shoulders were yards three. These men they ran ower hills and dales, 85 And ower mountains high; Till they came on to Lundan town, At the dawn o' the third day. And whan they came to Lundan town, The yetts were lockit wi' bands; 90 And wha were there but a trumpeter, Wi' trumpet in his hands. "What is the matter, ye keepers all, Or what's the matter within, That the drums do beat, and bells do ring, 95 And make sic dolefu' din?" "There's naething the matter," the keeper said, "There's naething the matter to thee; But a weighty Scot to strait the rope, And the morn he maun die." 100 "O open the yetts, ye proud keepers, Ye'll open without delay;" The trembling keeper smiling said, "O I hae not the key." "Ye'll open the yetts, ye proud keepers, 105 Ye'll open without delay; Or here is a body at my back Frae Scotland hae brought the key." "Ye'll open the yetts," says Jock o' Noth, "Ye'll open them at my call;" 110 Then wi' his foot he has drove in Three yards braid o' the wall. As they gaed in by Drury-lane, And down by the town's hall; And there they saw young Johnny Moir, 115 Stand on their English wall. "Ye're welcome here, my uncle dear, Ye're welcome unto me; Ye'll loose the knot, and slack the rope, And set me frae the tree." 120 "Is it for murder, or for theft? Or is it for robberie? If it is for ony heinous crime, There's nae remeid for thee." "It's nae for murder, nor for theft, 125 Nor yet for robberie; A' is for the loving a gay lady, They're gaun to gar me die." "O whar's thy sword," says Jock o' Noth, "Ye brought frae Scotland wi' thee? 130 I never saw a Scotsman yet, But coud wield a sword or tree." "A pox upo' their lodomy On me had sic a sway; Four o' their men, the bravest four, 135 They bore my blade away." "Bring back his blade," says Jock o' Noth, "And freely to him it gie; Or I hae sworn a black Scot's oath, I'll gar five million die." 140 "Now whar's the lady?" says Jock o' Noth, "Sae fain I would her see;" "She's lock'd up in her ain chamber, The king he keeps the key." So they hae gane before the king, 145 With courage bauld and free; Their armour bright cast sic a light, That almost dim'd his e'e. "O whar's the lady," says Jock o' Noth, "Sae fain as I wou'd her see; 150 For we are come to her wedding, Frae the foot o' Benachie." "O take the lady," said the king, "Ye welcome are for me; I never thought to see sic men 155 Frae the foot o' Benachie." "If I had ken'd," said Jock o' Noth, "Ye'd wonder'd sae muckle at me, I wou'd hae brought ane larger far By sizes three times three." 160 "Likewise if I had thought I'd been Sic a great fright to thee, I'd brought Sir John o' Erskine park; He's thretty feet and three." "Wae to the little boy," said the King, 165 "Brought tidings unto thee; Let all England say what they will, High hanged shall he be." "O if ye hang the little wee boy Brought tidings unto me, 170 We shall attend his burial, And rewarded ye shall be." "O take the lady," said the king, "And the boy shall be free:" "A priest, a priest," then Johnny cried, 175 "To join my love and me." "A clerk, a clerk," the king replied, "To seal her tocher wi' thee." Out it speaks auld Johnny then, These words pronounced he: 180 "I wantnae lands and rents at hame, I'll ask nae gowd frae thee; I am possess'd o' riches great, Hae fifty ploughs and three; Likewise fa's heir to ane estate 185 At the foot o' Benachie. "Hae ye ony masons in this place, Or ony at your call, That ye may now send some of them, To build your broken wall?" 190 "Yes, there are masons in this place, And plenty at my call; But ye may gang frae whence ye came, Never mind my broken wall." They've ta'en the lady by the hand, 195 And set her prison free; Wi' drums beating, and fifes playing, They spent the night wi' glee. Now auld Johnny Moir, and young Johnny Moir, And Jock o' Noth, a' three, 200 The English lady, and little wee boy, Went a' to Benachie. LIZIE BAILLIE. See p. 73. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 173. It fell about the Lammas time, When flowers were fresh and green, Lizie Baillie to Gartartan went, To see her sister Jean. She meant to go unto that place, 5 To stay a little while; But mark what fortune her befell, When she went to the isle.[L8] It fell out upon a day, Sheep-shearing at an end, 10 Lizie Baillie she walk'd out, To see a distant friend. But going down in a low glen, She met wi' Duncan Græme, Who courted her along the way, 15 Likewise convoyed her hame. "My bonny Lizie Baillie, I'll row you in my plaidie, If ye'll gang ower the hills wi' me, And be a Highland ladie." 20 "I winna gang alang wi' you; Indeed I maun confess, I can neither milk cow nor ewe, Nor yet can I speak Earse." "O never fear, Lizie," he said, 25 "If ye will gang wi' me, All that is into my place, Can speak as gude Scotch as thee. "But for a time we now maun part; I hinna time to tarry; 30 Next when we twa meet again, Will be in Castlecarry." When Lizie tarried out her time, Unto her father's came, The very first night she arrived, 35 Wha comes but Duncan Græme. Says, "Bonny Lizie Baillie, A gude deed mat ye die; Altho' to me ye brake your tryst, Now I am come for thee." 40 "O stay at hame," her father said, "Your mither cannot want thee; And gin ye gang awa' this night, We'll hae a Killycrankie." "My bonny Lizie Baillie, 45 O come to me without delay; O wou'd ye hae sae little wit, As mind what odd folks wad say?" She wou'dna hae the Lowlandman, That wears the coat sae blue; 50 But she wou'd hae the Highlandman, That wears the plaid and trews. Out it spake her mother then, A sorry heart had she; Says, "Wae be to his Highland face, 55 That's taen my lass frae me!" 8. The island of Inchmahome, in the Lake of Menteith. THE RARE BALLAD OF JOHNNIE FAA AND THE COUNTESS O'CASSILIS. See p. 114. From Sheldon's _Minstrelsy of the English Border_, p. 329. The editor (or author, as he styles himself, indifferently) of that audacious work, asserts that he has "heard this ballad sung repeatedly by Willie Faa," and has "endeavored to preserve as much of his version as recollection would allow." There were seven Gipsies in a gang, They were both brisk and bonny O, They rode till they came to the Earl of Castle's house, And there they sung so sweetly O. The Earl of Castle's lady came down, 5 With her waiting maid beside her O; As soon as her handsome face they saw, They cast the glamour o'er her O. They gave to her a nutmeg brown, Which was of the belinger O; 10 She gave to them a far better thing, The ring from off her finger O. The Earl he flang his purse to them, For wow! but they sung bonny O; Gied them red wine and manchet cake, 15 And all for the Gipsy laddie O. The Earl wad gae hunt in Maybole woods, For blythsome was the morning O, To hunt the deer wi' the yelping curs, Wi' the huntsman bugle sounding O. 20 The Countess went doun to the ha', To hae a crack at them fairly O; "And och," she cried, "I wad follow thee, To the end o' the world or nearly O." He kist the Countess lips sae red, 25 And her jimp white waist he cuddled O; She smoothed his beard wi' her luvely hand, And a' for her Gipsy laddie O. "And och," she cried, "that I should love thee, And ever wrong my Earlie O; 30 I ken there's glamour in mine e'ee, To follow a Gipsy laddie O." Quo he, "Thou art ane Earl's ladye, And that is kent fu' fairly O; But if thou comest awa wi' me, 35 Thou'lt be a queen so rarely O. "I'm Johnny Faa o' Yetholm town,[L37] There dwall my min and daddie O; And sweet Countess, I'm nothing less Than King o' the Gipsy laddies O." 40 She pull'd off her high heel'd shoes,-- They were made of Spanish leather O,-- She put on her Highland brogues, To follow the Gipsy laddie O. At night, when my lord came riding home, 45 Enquiring for his lady O, The waiting maid made this reply-- "She's following the Gipsy laddie O." "O now then," quo' the bonny Earl, "That ever siccan a thing suld be; 50 All ye that love, oh never build Your nest upon the topmost tree. "For oh the green leaves they will fall, And roots and branches wither O; But the virtue o' a leal woman, 55 I trow wad never swither O. "Go saddle me my mylk white steed, Go saddle it so sadly O, And I will ride out oure the lea, To follow her Gipsy laddie O. 60 "Go saddle me my bonny black, And eke my gray cowt quickly O; Gin I hae not Johnny Faa his head, The de'il may claw me tightly O. "Have you been east, or have you been west, 65 Or have you been brisk and bonny O, Or have you seen a gay lady Following a Gipsy laddie O?" He rode all the summer's night, And part of the next morning O; 70 At length he espied his own wedded wife, She was cold, wet, and weary O. The leddy sabbed, the leddy cried, And wrung her hands sae sadly O; And aye her moan was to the Earl, 75 To spare her Gipsy laddie O. "Why did you leave your houses and lands, Or why did you leave your money O, Or why did you leave your own wedded lord, To follow the Gipsy laddie O?" 80 "O what care I for houses and lands, Or what care I for money O? So as I have brew'd, so I will drink, So fare you well, my honey O." They marched them to the gallows tree, 85 Whilst the Earl stood at the window O; And aye the smile was on his lip, As he thocht on the Gipsy laddie O. There were seven Gipsies in a gang, They were so brisk and bonny O, 90 And they're to be hang'd all in a row, For the Earl o' Castle's leddy O. 37. "Yetholm, on the borders of Northumberland, situated among the recesses of the Cheviots, has ever been the headquarters of the Gipsy tribes. The Faas, (a corruption of Fall, their original designation,) the Youngs, Armstrongs, and Gordons still look up to this straggling village as their city of refuge." SHELDON. JAMIE DOUGLAS. See p. 135. From Finlay's _Scottish Ballads_, ii. 4. When I fell sick, an' very sick, An' very sick, just like to die, A gentleman of good account He cam on purpose to visit me; But his blackie whispered in my lord's ear, 5 He was owre lang in the room wi' me. "Gae little page, an' tell your lord, Gin he will come and dine wi' me, I'll set him on a chair of gold, And serve him on my bended knee." 10 The little page gaed up the stair,-- "Lord Douglass, dine wi' your ladie: She'll set ye on a chair of gold, And serve you on her bended knee." "When cockle shells turn silver bells, 15 When wine drieps red frae ilka tree, When frost and snaw will warm us a', Then I'll cum down an' dine wi' thee." But whan my father gat word o' this, O what an angry man was he! 20 He sent fourscore o' his archers bauld To bring me safe to his countrie. When I rose up then in the morn, My goodly palace for to lea', I knocked at my lord's chamber door, 25 But ne'er a word wad he speak to me. But slowly, slowly, rose he up, And slowly, slowly, cam he down, And when he saw me set on my horse, He caused his drums and trumpets soun. 30 "Now fare ye weel my goodly palace, And fare ye weel, my children three; God grant your father grace to love you, Far more than ever he loved me." He thocht that I was like himsel, 35 That had a woman in every hall; But I could swear by the heavens clear, I never loved man but himsel. As on to Embro' town we cam, My guid father he welcomed me; 40 He caused his minstrels meet to sound,-- It was nae music at a' to me. "Now haud your tongue, my daughter dear, Leave off your weeping, let it be; For Jamie's divorcement I'll send over; 45 Far better lord I'll provide for thee." "O haud your tongue, my father dear, And of such talking let me be; For never a man shall come to my arms, Since my lord has sae slighted me." 50 O an' I had ne'er crossed the Tweed, Nor yet been owre the river Dee, I might hae staid at Lord Orgul's gate, Where I wad hae been a gay ladie. The ladies they will cum to town, 55 And they will cum and visit me; But I'll set me down now in the dark, For ochanie! who'll comfort me? An' wae betide ye, black fastness,[L59] Ay, and an ill deid may ye die! 60 Ye was the first and foremost man Wha parted my true lord and me. 59: fastness, printed Fastness by Finlay, is, says Motherwell, merely falsetness, falseness. LAIRD OF BLACKWOOD. See p. 135. Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 60. "I lay sick, and very sick, And I was bad, and like to die, A friend o' mine cam to visit me;-- And Blackwood whisper'd in my lord's ear, That he was owre lang in chamber wi' me. 5 "O what need I dress up my head, Nor what need I kaim doun my hair, Whan my gude lord has forsaken me, And says he will na love me mair! "But O! an my young babe was born, 10 And set upon some nourice knee, And I mysel war dead and gane,-- For a maid again I'll never be."-- "Na mair o' this, my dochter dear, And of your mourning let abee; 15 For a bill of divorce I'll gar write for him, A mair better lord I'll get for thee." "Na mair o' this, my father dear, And of your folly let abee; For I wad na gie ae look o' my lord's face, 20 For a' the lords in the haill countrie. "But I'll cast off my robes o' red, And I'll put on my robes o' blue; And I will travel to some other land, To see gin my love will on me rue. 25 "There sall na wash come on my face, There sall na kaim come on my hair; There sall neither coal nor candle licht Be seen intil my bouer na mair. "O! wae be to thee Blackwood, 30 And an ill death may ye die, For ye've been the haill occasion Of parting my lord and me." THE PROVOST'S DOCHTER. See p. 180. Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 131. The Provost's dochter went out a walking, _A may's love whiles is easie won_; She heard a puir prisoner making his meane, And she was the fair flow'r o' Northumberland. "Gif onie ladie wad borrow me 5 Out into this prison strang, I wad make her a ladie o' hie degree, For I am a gret lard in fair Scotland." She has dune her to her father's bed-stock, _A may's love whiles is easie won_! 10 She has stown the keys o' monie braw lock, And she has lows'd him out o' prison strang. She has dune her to her father's stable, _A may's love whiles is easie won_! She has tane out a steed, baith swift and able, 15 To carry them baith to fair Scotland. Whan they cam to the Scottish corss, _A may's love whiles is easie won_! "Ye brazen-faced hure, licht aff o' my horse, And go, get ye back to Northumberland." 20 Whan they cam to the Scottish muir, _A may's love whiles is easie won_! "Get aff o' my horse, ye brazen-fac'd hure, So, go, get ye back to Northumberland." "O pity on me! O pity!" said she, 25 "O that my love was so easie won! Have pity on me, as I had upon thee, Whan I lows'd ye out o' prison strang." "O how can I hae pity on thee? O why was your love sae easie won? 30 Whan I hae a wife and children three, Mair worthy than a' in Northumberland." "Cook in your kitchen I will be,-- O that my love was sae easie won! And serve your lady maist reverentlie, 35 For I darna gang back to Northumberland." "Cook in my kitchen, ye sall not be,-- Why was your love so easie won? For I will hae na sic servants as thee, So, get ye back to Northumberland. 40 But laith was he the lassie to tyne, _A may's love whiles is easie won_! He hired an auld horse, and fee'd an auld man, To carry her back to Northumberland. Whan she cam her father afore, 45 _A may's love whiles is easie won_! She fell at his feet on her knees sae low,-- She was the fair flow'r o' Northumberland. "O dochter, dochter, why was ye bauld, O why was your love sae easie won! 50 To be a Scot's hure in your fifteen year auld, And ye the fair flow'r o' Northumberland!" Her mother on her sae gentlie smil'd,-- "O that her love was sae easie won! She's na the first that the Scots hae beguil'd, 55 And she's still the fair flow'r o' Northumberland. "She shanna want gowd, she shanna want fee, Although her love was easie won; She shanna want gowd to gain a man wi', And she'll still be the fair flow'r o' Northumberland." 60 BLANCHEFLOUR, AND JELLYFLORICE. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 125. A fragment of the ancient English romance of _Florice and Blancheflour_ is printed in Hartshorne's _Metrical Tales_, p. 81. For the complete story (hardly a trace of which is retained in the following ballad) see Ellis's _Early English Metrical Romances_. There was a maid, richly array'd, In robes were rare to see; For seven years and something mair, She serv'd a gay ladie. But being fond o' a higher place, 5 In service she thought lang; She took her mantle her about, Her coffer by the band. And as she walk'd by the shore side, As blythe's a bird on tree, 10 Yet still she gaz'd her round about, To see what she could see. At last she spied a little castle, That stood near by the sea; She spied it far, and drew it near, 15 To that castle went she. And when she came to that castle, She tirled at the pin; And ready stood a little wee boy To lat this fair maid in. 20 "O who's the owner of this place, O porter boy, tell me?" "This place belongs unto a queen O' birth and high degree." She put her hand in her pocket, 25 And ga'e him shillings three; "O porter bear my message well, Unto the queen frae me." The porter's gane before the queen, Fell low down on his knee; 30 "Win up, win up, my porter boy, What makes this courtesie?" "I ha'e been porter at your yetts, My dame, these years full three, But see a ladie at your yetts, 35 The fairest my eyes did see." "Cast up my yetts baith wide and braid, Lat her come in to me; And I'll know by her courtesie, Lord's daughter if she be." 40 When she came in before the queen, Fell low down on her knee; "Service frae you, my dame, the queen, I pray you grant it me." "If that service ye now do want, 45 What station will ye be? Can ye card wool, or spin, fair maid, Or milk the cows to me?" "No, I can neither card nor spin, Nor cows I canno' milk; 50 But sit into a lady's bower, And sew the seams o' silk." "What is your name, ye comely dame? Pray tell this unto me: "O Blancheflour, that is my name, 55 Born in a strange countrie." "O keep ye well frae Jellyflorice; My ain dear son is he; When other ladies get a gift, O' that ye shall get three." 60 It wasna tald into the bower, Till it went thro' the ha', That Jellyflorice and Blancheflour Were grown ower great witha'. When the queen's maids their visits paid, 65 Upo' the gude Yule day, When other ladies got horse to ride, She boud take foot and gae. The queen she call'd her stable groom, To come to her right seen; 70 Says, "Ye'll take out yon wild waith steed, And bring him to the green. "Ye'll take the bridle frae his head, The lighters frae his e'en; Ere she ride three times roun' the cross, 75 Her weel days will be dune." Jellyflorice his true love spy'd, As she rade roun' the cross; And thrice he kiss'd her lovely lips, And took her frae her horse. 80 "Gang to your bower, my lily flower, For a' my mother's spite; There's nae other amang her maids, In whom I take delight. "Ye are my jewel, and only ane, 85 Nane's do you injury; For ere this-day-month come and gang, My wedded wife ye'se be." CHIL ETHER. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 228. Chil Ether and Lady Maisry Were baith born at ae birth; They lov'd each other tenderlie, Boon every thing on earth. "They ley likes na the summer shower, 5 Nor girse the mornin' dew, Better, dear Lady Maisry, Than Chil Ether loves you." "The bonny doo likes na its mate, Nor babe at breast its mither, 10 Better, my dearest Chil Ether, Than Maisry loves her brither." But he needs gae to gain renown, Into some far countrie; And Chil Ether has gaen abroad, 15 To fight in Paynimie. And he has been in Paynimie A twalvemonth and a day; But never nae tidings did there come, Of his welfare to say. 20 Then she's ta'en ship, awa' to sail, Out ower the roaring faem; A' for to find him, Chil Ether, And for to bring him hame. She hadna sail'd the sea a month, 25 A month but barely three, Until she landit on Ciper's shore, By the meen-licht sae lie. Lady Maisry did on her green mantle, Took her purse in her hand, 30 And call'd to her her mariners, Syne walk'd up thro' the land. She walked up, sae did she down, Till she came till castell high; There she sat down on the door stane, 35 And weepit bitterlie. Then out it spake a sweet, sweet voice, Out ower the castell wa', "Now isna that Lady Maisry That makes sic a dolefu' fa'? 40 "But gin that be Lady Maisry, Lat her make mirth and glee; For I'm her brother, Chil Ether, That loves her tenderlie. "But gin that be Lady Maisry, 45 Lat her take purse in hand; And gang to yonder castell wa',-- They call it Gorinand. "Spier for the lord o' that castell, Gie'm dollars thirty-three; 50 Tell him to ransom Chil Ether, That loves you tenderlie." She's done her up to that castell, Paid down her gude monie; And sae she's ransom'd Chil Ether, 55 And brought him hame her wi'. YOUNG BEARWELL. "A fragment, and now printed in the hope that the remainder of it may hereafter be recovered. From circumstances, one would almost be inclined to trace it to a Danish source; or it may be an episode of some forgotten Metrical Romance: but this cannot satisfactorily be ascertained, from its catastrophe being unfortunately wanting." _Motherwell's Minstrelsy_, p. 345. The same is in Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 75. When two lovers love each other weel, Great sin it were them to twinn; And this I speak from young Bearwell; He loved a lady ying, The Mayor's daughter of Birktoun-brae, 5 That lovely leesome thing. One day when she was looking out, When washing her milk-white hands, Then she beheld him young Bearwell,[L9] As he came in the sands. 10 Says,--"Wae 's me for you, young Bearwell, Such tales of you are tauld; They 'll cause you sail the salt sea so far As beyond Yorkisfauld." "O shall I bide in good green wood, 15 Or stay in bower with thee?" * * * * * * * * * * * * "The leaves are thick in good green wood, Would hold you from the rain; And if you stay in bower with me, You will be taken and slain. 20 "But I caused build a ship for you, Upon Saint Innocent's day; I 'll bid Saint Innocent be your guide, And Our Lady, that meikle may. You are a lady's first true love; 25 God carry you weel away!" Then he sailed east and he sailed west, By many a comely strand; At length a puff of northern wind Did blow him to the land. 30 When he did see the king and court, Were playing at the ba'; Gave him a harp into his hand, Says,--"Stay, Bearwell, and play." He had not been in the king's court 35 A twelvemonth and a day, Till there came lairds and lords enew, To court that lady gay. They wooed her with broach and ring, They nothing could keep back; 40 The very charters of their lands Into her hands they pat. She 's done her down to Heyvalin, With the light of the mune: Says,--"Will ye do this deed for me, 45 And will ye do it sune? "Will ye go seek him young Bearwell, On seas wherever he be? And if I live and bruik my life, Rewarded ye shall be." 50 "Alas, I am too young a skipper, So far to sail the faem; But if I live and bruik my life, I 'll strive to bring him hame." So he has sail'd east and then sail'd west, 55 By many a comely strand; Till there came a blast of northern wind, And blew him to the land. And there the king and all his court Were playing at the ba'; 60 Gave him a harp into his hand, Says,--"Stay, Heyvalin, and play." He has tane up the harp in hand, And unto play went he; And young Bearwell was the first man 65 In all that companie. 9, That. LORD THOMAS OF WINESBERRY AND THE KING'S DAUGHTER. From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 212. Another version is given in Buchan's _Gleanings_, p. 127, and a third by Kinloch, p. 93. Kinloch considers that the ballad may relate to the secret expedition of James V. to France, in 1536, in search of a wife. In the last verse of his copy of the ballad, Lord Thomas turns out to be no less a man than the King of Scotland. Seven years the king he staid Into the land of Spain, And seven years true Thomas was His daughter's chamberlain. But it fell ance upon a day 5 The king he did come home; She beked and she benjed ben, And did him there welcome. "What aileth you, my daughter, Janet, You look sae pale and wan? 10 There is a dreder in your heart, Or else ye love a man." "There is no dreder in my heart, Nor do I love a man; But it is for your long byding 15 Into the land of Spain." "Ye'll cast aff your bonny brown gown, And lay it on a stane; And I'll tell you, my jelly Janet, If ever ye loved a man." 20 She's cast off her bonny brown gown, And laid it on a stane; Her belly was big, her twa sides high, Her colour it was quite gane. "O is it to a man o' might, Janet? 25 Or is it till a man that's mean? Or is it to one of my poor soldiers, That I've brought hame frae Spain?" "It's not till a man o' might," she says, "Nor yet to a man that's mean; 30 But it is to Thomas o' Winesberry, That cannot langer len'." "O where are all my wall-wight men, That I pay meat and fee; That will gae for him, true Thomas, 35 And bring him here to me? For the morn, ere I eat or drink, High hanged shall he be." She's turn'd her right and round about, The tear blindet her e'e; 40 "If ye do any ill to true Thomas, Ye'se never get guid o' me." When Thomas came before the king, He glanced like the fire; His hair was like the threads o' gowd, 45 His eyes like crystal clear. "It was nae wonder, my daughter, Janet, Altho' ye loved this man; If he were a woman, as he is a man, My bed-fellow he would been. 50 "O will ye marry my daughter Janet? The truth's in your right hand; Ye'se hae some o' my gowd, and some o' my gear, And the twalt part o' my land." "It's I will marry your daughter Janet; 55 The truth's in my right hand; I'll hae nane o' your gowd, nor nane o' your gear, I've enough in my own land. "But I will marry your daughter Janet, With thirty ploughs and three, 60 And four an' twenty bonny breast-mills, All on the water of Dee. LADY ELSPAT. Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, ii. 191. From the recitation of Mrs. Brown. "How brent's your brow, my Lady Elspat? How gouden yellow is your hair? O' a' the maids o' fair Scotland, There's nane like Lady Elspat fair." "Perform your vows, sweet William," she says, 5 "The vows which ye ha' made to me; And at the back o' my mither's castell, This night I'll surely meet wi' thee." But wae be to her brother's page, That heard the words thir twa did say; 10 He's tald them to her lady mither, Wha wrought sweet William mickle wae. For she has ta'en him, sweet William, And she's gar'd bind him wi' his bow string, Till the red bluid o' his fair body 15 Frae ilka nail o' his hand did spring. O it fell ance upon a time That the Lord-justice came to town; Out has she ta'en him, sweet William, Brought him before the Lord-justice boun'. 20 "And what is the crime, now, lady," he says, "That has by this young man been dane?" "O he has broken my bonny castell, That was weel biggit wi' lime and stane. "And he has broken my bonny coffers, 25 That was weel bandit wi' aiken ban; And he has stown my rich jewels; I wot he has stown them every ane." Then out it spak her Lady Elspat, As she sat by Lord-justice' knee; 30 "Now ye hae told your tale, mither, I pray, Lord-justice, ye'll now hear me. "He hasna broken her bonny castell, That was weel biggit wi' lime and stane; Nor has he stown her rich jewels, 35 For I wat she has them every ane. "But though he was my first true love, And though I had sworn to be his bride, 'Cause he hadna a great estate, She would this way our loves divide." 40 Syne out and spak the Lord-justice, I wat the tear was in his e'e; "I see nae faut in this young man; Sae loose his bands, and set him free. "And tak your love, now, Lady Elspat, 45 And my best blessin' you baith upon; For gin he be your first true love, He is my eldest sister's son. "There stands a steed in my stable, Cost me baith gold and white mony; 50 Ye's get as mickle o' my free land As he'll ride about in a summer's day." THE LOVERS QUARREL; OR, CUPIDS TRIUMPH. "This 'pleasant History,' which 'may be sung to the tune of Floras Farewell,' is here republished from a copy printed at London for F. Cotes and others, 1677, 12mo. bl. 1., preserved in the curious and valuable collection of that excellent and most respected antiquary Antony à Wood, in the Ashmolean Museum; compared with another impression, for the same partners, without date, in the editor's possession. A different copy of the poem, more in the ballad form, was published, and may be found among the king's pamphlets in the British Museum. Both copies are conjectured to have been modernized, by different persons, from some common original, which has hitherto eluded the vigilance of collectors, but is strongly suspected to have been the composition of an old North country minstrel. "The full title is, _The Lovers Quarrel: or Cupids Triumph: being the pleasant history of Fair Rosamond of Scotland. Being daughter to the Lord Arundel, whose love was obtained by the valour of Tommy Pots: who conquered the Lord Phenix, and wounded him, and after obtained her to be his wife. Being very delightful to read_." RITSON, _Pieces of Ancient Popular Poetry_, p. 135. Of all the lords in Scotland fair, And ladies that been so bright of blee, There is a noble lady among them all, And report of her you shall hear by me. For of her beauty she is bright, 5 And of her colour very fair, She's daughter to Lord Arundel, Approv'd his parand and his heir. "Ile see this bride," Lord Phenix said, "That lady of so bright a blee, 10 And if I like her countenance well, The heir of all my lands she'st be." But when he came the lady before, Before this comely maid came he, "O God thee save, thou lady sweet, 15 My heir and parand thou shalt be." "Leave off your suit," the lady said, "As you are a lord of high degree; You may have ladies enough at home, And I have a lord in mine own country: 20 "For I have a lover true of mine own, A serving-man of low degree, One Tommy Pots it is his name, My first love, and last that ever shall be." "If that Tom Pots [it] is his name, 25 I do ken him right verily; I am able to spend fourty pounds a week, Where he is not able to spend pounds three." "God give you good of your gold," she said, "And ever God give you good of your fee, 30 Tom Pots was the first love that ever I had, And I do mean him the last to be." With that Lord Phenix soon was mov'd; Towards the lady did he threat; He told her father, and so it was prov'd, 35 How his [fair] daughters mind was set. "O daughter dear, thou art my own, The heir of all my lands to be; Thou shalt be bride to the Lord Phenix, If that thou mean to be heir to me." 40 "O father dear, I am your own, And at your command I needs must be, But bind my body to whom you please, My heart, Tom Pots, shall go with thee." Alas! the lady her fondness must leave, 45 And all her foolish wooing lay aside; The time is come her friends have appointed, That she must be Lord Phenix bride. With that the lady began to weep; She knew not well then what to say, 50 How she might Lord Phenix deny, And escape from marriage quite away. She call'd unto her little foot-page, Saying, "I can trust none but thee; Go carry Tom Pots this letter fair, 55 And bid him on Guildford-green meet me: "For I must marry against my mind, Or in faith well proved it shall be; And tell to him I am loving and kind, And wishes him this wedding to see. 60 "But see that thou note his countenance well, And his colour, and shew it to me; And go thy way and hie thee again,[L63] And forty shillings I will give thee. "For if he smile now with his lips, 65 His stomach will give him to laugh at the heart; Then may I seek another true love, For of Tom Pots small is my part. "But if he blush now in his face, Then in his heart he will sorry be; 70 Then to his vow he hath some grace, And false to him I'le never be." Away this lacky-boy he ran, And a full speed forsooth went he, Till he came to Strawberry-castle, 75 And there Tom Pots came he to see. He gave him the letter in his hand; Before that he began to read, He told him plainly by word of mouth, His love was forc'd to be Lord Phenix bride. 80 When he look'd on the letter fair, The salt tears blemished his eye; Says, "I cannot read this letter fair, Nor never a word to see or spy. "My little boy, be to me true, 85 Here is five marks I will give thee; And all these words I must peruse; And tell my lady this from me: "By faith and troth she is my own, By some part of promise, so it's to be found; 90 Lord Phenix shall not have her night nor day, Except he can win her with his own hand. "On Guildford-green I will her meet; Say that I wish her for me to pray, For there I'le lose my life so sweet, 95 Or else the wedding I mean to stay." Away this lackey-boy he ran, Then as fast as he could hie; The lady she met him two miles of the way; Says, "Why hast thou staid so long, my boy? 100 "My little boy, thou art but young, It gives me at heart thou'l mock and scorn; Ile not believe thee by word of mouth, Unless on this book thou wilt be sworn." "Now by this book," the boy did say, 105 "And Jesus Christ be as true to me, Tom Pots could not read the letter fair, Nor never a word to spy or see. "He says, by faith and troth you are his own, By some part of promise, so it's to be found; 110 Lord Phenix shall not have you night nor day, Except he win you with his own hand. "On Guildford-green he will you meet; He wishes you for him to pray, For there he'l lose his life so sweet, 115 Or else the wedding he means to stay." "If this be true, my little boy, These tidings which thou tellest to me, Forty shillings I did thee promise, Here is ten pounds I will give thee. 120 "My maidens all," the lady said, "That ever wish me well to prove, Now let us all kneel down and pray, That Tommy Pots may win his love. "If it be his fortune the better to win, 125 As I pray to Christ in trinity, Ile make him the flower of all his kin, For the young Lord Arundel he shall be." 63, high. THE SECOND PART. Let's leave talking of this lady fair, In prayers full good where she may be; 130 Now let us talk of Tommy Pots; To his lord and master for aid went he. But when he came Lord Jockey before, He kneeled lowly on his knee; "What news, what news, thou Tommy Pots, 135 Thou art so full of courtesie? "What tydings, what tydings, thou Tommy Pots, Thou art so full of courtesie? Thou hast slain some of thy fellows fair, Or wrought to me some villany." 140 "I have slain none of my fellows fair, Nor wrought to you no villany, But I have a love in Scotland fair, And I fear I shall lose her with poverty. "If you'l not believe me by word of mouth, 145 But read this letter, and you shall see, Here by all these suspitious words That she her own self hath sent to me." But when he had read the letter fair, Of all the suspitious words in it might be, 150 "O Tommy Pots, take thou no care, Thou'st never lose her with poverty. "For thou'st have forty pounds a week, In gold and silver thou shalt row, And Harvy town I will give thee, 155 As long as thou intend'st to wooe. "Thou'st have forty of thy fellows fair, And forty horses to go with thee, Forty of the best spears I have, And I myself in thy company." 160 "I thank you, master," said Tommy Pots, "That proffer is too good for me; But, if Jesus Christ stand on my side, My own hands shall set her free. "God be with you, master," said Tommy Pots, 165 "Now Jesus Christ you save and see; If ever I come alive again, Staid the wedding it shall be." "O God be your speed, thou Tommy Pots, Thou art well proved for a man; 170 See never a drop of blood thou spil, Nor yonder gentleman confound. "See that some truce with him thou take, And appoint a place of liberty; Let him provide him as well as he can, 175 As well provided thou shalt be." But when he came to Guildford-green, And there had walkt a little aside, There he was ware of Lord Phenix come, And Lady Rosamond his bride. 180 Away by the bride then Tommy Pots went, But never a word to her he did say, Till he the Lord Phenix came before; He gave him the right time of the day. "O welcome, welcome, thou Tommy Pots, 185 Thou serving-man of low degree; How doth thy lord and master at home, And all the ladies in that country?" "My lord and master is in good health, I trust since that I did him see; 190 Will you walk with me to an out-side, Two or three words to talk with me? "You are a noble man," said Tom, "And born a lord in Scotland free; You may have ladies enough at home, 195 And never take my love from me." "Away, away, thou Tommy Pots; Thou serving-man, stand thou aside; It is not a serving-man this day, That can hinder me of my bride." 200 "If I be a serving-man," said Tom, "And you a lord of high degree, A spear or two with you I'le run, Before I'le lose her cowardly. "Appoint a place, I will thee meet, 205 Appoint a place of liberty; For there I'le lose my life so sweet, Or else my lady I'le set free." "On Guildford-green I will thee meet; No man nor boy shall come with me." 210 "As I am a man," said Tommy Pots, "I'le have as few in my company." And thus staid the marriage was, The bride unmarried went home again; Then to her maids fast did she laugh, 215 And in her heart she was full fain. "My maidens all," the lady said, "That ever wait on me this day, Now let us all kneel [lowly] down, And for Tommy Pots let us all pray. 220 "If it be his fortune the better to win, As I trust to God in trinity, Ile make him the flower of all his kin, For the young Lord Arundel he shall be." THE THIRD PART. When Tom Pots came home again, 225 To try for his love he had but a week; For sorrow, God wot, he need not care, For four days that he fel sick. With that his master to him came, Says, "Pray thee, Tom Pots, tell me if thou doubt Whether thou hast gotten thy gay lady, 231 Or thou must go thy love without." "O master, yet it is unknown; Within these two days well try'd it must be; He is a lord, I am but a serving-man, 235 I fear I shall lose her with poverty." "I prethee, Tom Pots, get thee on thy feet, My former promises kept shall be; As I am a lord in Scotland fair, Thou'st never lose her with poverty. 240 "For thou'st have the half of my lands a year, And that will raise thee many a pound; Before thou shalt out-braved be, Thou shalt drop angels with him on the ground." "I thank you, master," said Tommy Pots, 245 "Yet there is one thing of you I would fain; If that I lose my lady sweet, How I'st restore your goods again?" "If that thou win the lady sweet, Thou mayst well forth thou shalt pay me: 250 If thou losest thy lady, thou losest enough; Thou shalt not pay me one penny." "You have thirty horses in one close, You keep them all both frank and free; Amongst them all there's an old white horse 255 This day would set my lady free. "That is an old horse with a cut tail, Full sixteen years of age is he; If thou wilt lend me that old horse, Then could I win her easily." 260 "That's a foolish opinion," his master said, "And a foolish opinion thou tak'st to thee; Thou'st have a better then ever he was, Though forty pounds more it should cost me." "O your choice horses are wild and tough, 265 And little they can skill of their train; If I be out of my saddle cast, They are so wild they'l ne'r be tain." "Thou'st have that horse," his master said, "If that one thing thou wilt tell me;[L270] 270 Why that horse is better than any other, I pray thee, Tom Pots, shew thou to me." "That horse is old, of stomach bold, And well can he skill of his train; If I be out of my saddle cast, 275 He'l either stand still, or turn again." "Thou'st have the horse with all my heart, And my plate coat of silver free; An hundred men to stand at thy back, To fight if he thy master be." 280 "I thank you master," said Tommy Pots, "That proffer is too good for me; I would not for ten thousand pounds, Have man or boy in my company. "God be with you, master," said Tommy Pots, 285 "Now, as you are a man of law, One thing let me crave at your hand; Let never a one of my fellows know. "For if that my fellows they did wot, Or ken of my extremity, 290 Except you keep them under a lock, Behind me I'm sure they would not be." But when he came to Guildford-green, He waited hours two or three; There he was ware of Lord Phenix come, 295 And four men in his company. "You have broken your vow," said Tommy Pots, "The vow which you did make to me; You said you would bring neither man nor boy, And now has brought more than two or three." 300 "These are my men," Lord Phenix said, "Which every day do wait on me; If any of them dare proffer to strike, I'le run my spear through his body." "I'le run no race now," said Tommy Pots, 305 "Except now this may be; If either of us be slain this day, The other shall forgiven be." "I'le make that vow with all my heart, My men shall bear witness with me; 310 And if thou slay me here this day, In Scotland worse belov'd thou never shalt be." They turn'd their horses thrice about, To run the race so eagerly; Lord Phenix he was fierce and stout, 315 And ran Tom Pots through the thick o' th' thigh. He bor'd him out of the saddle fair, Down to the ground so sorrowfully: "For the loss of my life I do not care, But for the loss of my fair lady. 320 "Now for the loss of my lady sweet, Which once I thought to have been my wife, I pray thee, Lord Phenix, ride not away, For with thee I would end my life." Tom Pots was but a serving-man, 325 But yet he was a doctor good; He bound his handkerchief on his wound, And with some kind of words he stancht his blood.[L329] He leapt into his saddle again, The blood in his body began to warm; 330 He mist Lord Phenix body fair, And ran him through the brawn of the arm. He bor'd him out of his saddle fair, Down to the ground most sorrowfully; Says, "Prethee, Lord Phenix, rise up and fight, 335 Or yield my lady unto me." "Now for to fight I cannot tell, And for to fight I am not sure; Thou hast run me throw the brawn o' the arm, That with a spear I may not endure. 340 "Thou'st have the lady with all my heart; It was never likely better to prove With me, or any nobleman else, That would hinder a poor man of his love." "Seeing you say so much," said Tommy Pots, 345 I will not seem your butcher to be; But I will come and stanch your blood, If any thing you will give me." As he did stanch Lord Phenix blood, Lord! in his heart he did rejoice; 350 "I'le not take the lady from you thus, But of her you'st have another choice. "Here is a lane of two miles long; At either end we set will be; The lady shall stand us among, 355 Her own choice shall set her free." "If thou'l do so," Lord Phenix said, "To lose her by her own choice it's honesty; Chuse whether I get her, or go her without, Forty pounds I will give thee." 360 But when they in that lane was set, The wit of a woman for to prove, "By the faith of my body," the lady said, "Then Tom Pots must needs have his love." Towards Tom Pots the lady did hie, 365 To get behind him hastily; "Nay stay, nay stay," Lord Phenix said, "Better proved it shall be. "Stay you with your maidens here, In number fair they are but three; 370 Tom Pots and I will go behind yonder wall, That one of us two be proved to dye." But when they came behind the wall, The one came not the other nigh; For the Lord Phenix had made a vow, 375 That with Tom Pots he would never fight. "O give me this choice," Lord Phenix said, "To prove whether true or false she be, And I will go to the lady fair, And tell her Tom Pots slain is he." 380 When he came from behind the wall, With his face all bloody as it might be, "O lady sweet, thou art my own, For Tom Pots slain is he. "Now have I slain him, Tommy Pots, 385 And given him deaths wounds two or three; O lady sweet, thou art my own; Of all loves, wilt thou live with me?" "If thou hast slain him, Tommy Pots, And given him deaths wounds two or three, 390 I'le sell the state of my fathers lands, But hanged shall Lord Phenix be." With that the lady fell in a swound, For a grieved woman, God wot, was she; Lord Phenix he was ready then, 395 To take her up so hastily. "O lady sweet, stand thou on thy feet, Tom Pots alive this day may be; I'le send for thy father, Lord Arundel, 400 And he and I the wedding will see. "I'le send for thy father, Lord Arundel, And he and I the wedding will see; If he will not maintain you well, Both lands and livings you'st have of me." "I'le see this wedding," Lord Arundel said, 405 "Of my daughters luck that is so fair; Seeing the matter will be no better, Of all my lands Tom Pots shall be the heir." With that the lady began for to smile, For a glad woman, God wot, was she; 410 "Now all my maids," the lady said, "Example you may take by me. "But all the ladies of Scotland fair, And lasses of England that well would prove, Neither marry for gold nor goods, 415 Nor marry for nothing but only love. "For I had a lover true of my own, A serving-man of low degree; Now from Tom Pots I'le change his name, For the young Lord Arundel he shall be." 420 v. 270, me tell. 329, _i. e._ he made use of a charm for that purpose. THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER OF BRISTOW. From Collier's _Book of Roxburghe Ballads_, p. 104. "This narrative ballad, which is full of graceful but unadorned simplicity, is mentioned in Fletcher's _Monsieur Thomas_, (Act iii. Sc. 3,) by the name of _Maudlin the Merchant's Daughter_. Two early editions of it are known: one without printer's name, (clearly much older than the other,) is that which we have used; we may conclude that it was written considerably before James I. came to the throne. It was last reprinted in 1738, but in that impression it was much modernized and corrupted." Behold the touchstone of true love, Maudlin the Merchant's Daughter of Bristow towne, Whose firme affection nothing could move; This favour beares the lovely browne. A gallant youth was dwelling by, 5 Which many yeares had borne this lady great good will; Shee loved him so faithfully, But all her friends withstood it still. The young man now, perceiving well He could not get nor win the favour of her friends, 10 The force of sorrow to expell To view strange countreys hee intends. And now, to take his last farewell Of his true love, his faire and constant Maudlen, With musicke sweete that did excell 15 Hee plaies under her window then. "Farewell," quoth he, "mine owne true love, Farewell, my deare, and chiefest treasure of my heart! Through fortune's spight, that false did prove, I am inforc'd from thee to part, 20 "Into the land of Italy: There wil I waile, and weary out my dayes in wo; Seeing my true love is kept from mee, I hold my life a mortal fo. "Faire Bristow towne, therefore, adieu, 25 For Padua shall bee my habitation now; Although my love doth lodge in thee, To whom alone my heart I vow." With trickling teares this hee did sing, With sighs and sobs descending from his heart full sore: Hee said, when he his hands did wring, 31 "Farewell, sweet love, for evermore!" Fair Maudlin, from a window high Beholding her true love with musicke where hee stood, But not a word she durst reply, 35 Fearing her parents angry mood. In teares she spent this dolefull night, Wishing (though naked) with her faithfull friend: She blames her friends, and fortune's spight, That wrought their loves such lucklesse end. 40 And in her heart shee made a vow Cleane to forsake her country and her kinsfolkes all, And for to follow her true love, To bide all chance that might befall. The night is gone, and the day is come, 45 And in the morning very early shee did rise: She gets her downe in a lower roome, Where sundrie seamen she espies. A gallant master amongst them all, (The master of a faire and goodlie ship was he) 50 Who there stood waiting in the hall, To speake with her father, if it might be. She kindly takes him by the hand: "Good sir," said shee, "would you speake with any heere?" Quoth he, "Faire maid, therefore I stand:" 55 "Then, gentle sir, I pray you draw neere." Into a pleasant parlour by, With hand in hand she brings the seaman all alone; Sighing to him most piteously, She thus to him did make her moane. 60 Shee falls upon her tender knee: "Good sir," she said, "now pittie you a woman's woe, And prove a faithfull friend to me, That I my griefe to you may shew." "Sith you repose your trust," he said, 65 "To me that am unknowne, and eke a stranger heere, Be you assur'd, most proper maid, Most faithfull still I will appeare." "I have a brother, then," quoth shee, "Whom as my life I love and favour tenderlie: 70 In Padua, alas! is he, Full sicke, God wot, and like to die. "And faine I would my brother see, But that my father will not yeeld to let me goe; Wherefore, good sir, be good to mee, 75 And unto me this favour shew. "Some ship-boye's garment bring to mee, That I disguis'd may goe away from hence unknowne; And unto sea Ile goe with thee, If thus much favour may be showne." 80 "Faire maid," quoth he, "take heere my hand: I will fulfill each thing that you desire, And set you safe in that same land, And in that place that you require." She gave him then a tender kisse, 85 And saith, "Your servant, gallant master, will I be, And prove your faithfull friend for this: Sweet master, then, forget not me." This done, as they had both decreed, Soone after (early) before the breake of day, 90 He brings her garments then with speed, Wherein she doth her selfe array: And ere her father did arise, Shee meets her master as he walkes in the hall: Shee did attend on him likewise, 95 Even till her father did him call. But ere the Merchant made an end Of all the matters to the master he could say, His wife came weeping in with speed, Saying, "Our daughter is gone away!" 100 The Merchant, thus amaz'd in mind, "Yonder vile wretch intic'd away my child," quoth he; "But, well I wot, I shall him find At Padua, in Italy." With that bespake the master brave: 105 "Worshipfull master, thither goes this pretty youth, And any thing that you would have, He will performe it, and write the truth." "Sweet youth," quoth hee, "if it be so, Beare me a letter to the English merchants there, 110 And gold on thee I will bestow: My daughter's welfare I do feare." Her mother takes her by the hand; "Faire youth," qd she, "if there thou dost my daughter see, Let me thereof soone understand, 115 And there is twenty crownes for thee." Thus, through the daughter's strange disguise, The mother knew not when shee spake unto her child; And after her master straightway shee hies, Taking her leave with countenance milde. 120 Thus to the sea faire Maudlin is gone With her gentle master; God send them a merry wind; Where wee a while must let them alone, Till you the second part doe find. THE SECOND PART. "Welcome, sweete Maudlin, from the sea, 125 Where bitter stormes and tempests doe arise: The plesant bankes of Italy Wee may behold with mortal eyes." "Thankes, gentle master," then quoth shee; "A faithfull friend in sorrow hast thou beene; 130 If fortune once doth smile on mee, My thankfull heart shall well bee seene. "Blest be the land that feedes my love! Blest be the place where as his person doth abide! No triall will I sticke to prove, 135 Whereby my true love may be tride. "Nowe will I walke with joyful heart, To viewe the towne where as my darlinge doth remaine, And seeke him out in every part, Untill I doe his sight attaine." 140 "And I," quoth he, "will not forsake Sweete Maudlin in her sorrow up and downe: In wealth and woe thy part Ile take, And bring thee safe to Padua towne." And after many wearie steps 145 In Padua they safely doe arrive at last: For very joy her heart it leapes; She thinkes not of her sorrowes past. Condemned to dye hee was, alas! Except he would from his religion turne; 150 But rather then hee would to masse, In fiery flames he vow'd to burne. Now doth Maudlin weepe and waile: Her joy is chang'd to weeping, sorrow, griefe and care; But nothing could her plaints prevaile, 155 For death alone must be his share. Shee walkes under the prison walls, Where her true love doth lye and languish in distresse; Most wofully for foode he calls, When hunger did his heart oppresse. 160 He sighs and sobs and makes great moane: "Farewell," hee said, "sweete England, now for evermore, And all my friends that have me knowne In Bristow towne with wealth and store. "But most of all farewell," quoth hee, 165 "My owne true love, sweet Maudlin, whom I left behind; For never more shall I see thee. Woe to thy father most unkind! "How well were I, if thou wert here, With thy faire hands to close these wretched eyes: 170 My torments easie would appeare; My soule with joy shall scale the skies." When Maudlin heard her lover's moane, Her eyes with teares, her heart with sorrow filled was: To speake with him no meanes is knowne, 175 Such grievous doome on him did passe. Then she cast off her lad's attire; A maiden's weede upon her back she seemely set; To the judge's house shee did enquire, And there shee did a service get. 180 Shee did her duty there so well, And eke so prudently she did her selfe behave, With her in love her master fell; His servant's favour hee doth crave. "Maudlin," quoth hee, "my heart's delight, 185 To whom my heart is in affection tied, Breed not my death through thy despight; A faithfull friend I will be tryed. "Grant me thy love, faire maid," quoth hee, "And at my hands require what thou canst devise, 190 And I will grant it unto thee, Whereby thy credit may arise." "I have a brother, sir," she said, "For his religion is now condemned to dye: In loathsome prison hee is layd, 195 Opprest with griefe and misery. "Grant me my brother's life," shee said, "And to you my love and liking I will give." "That may not be," quoth hee, "faire maid; Except he turne, he cannot live." 200 "An English Frier there is," shee said, "Of learning great and passing pure of life, Let him to my brother be sent, And he will finish soone the strife." Her master hearing this request, 205 The marriner in frier's weed she did array, And to her love, that lay distrest, Shee did a letter straight convey. When hee had read these gentle lines, His heart was ravished with sudden joy; 210 Where now shee was full well hee knew: The frier likewise was not coy; But did declare to him at large The enterprise for him his love had taken in hand. The young man did the frier charge, 215 His love should straight depart the land. "Here is no place for her," hee said, "But woefull death and danger of her harmlesse life: Professing truth I was betraid, And fearfull flames must end my strife. 220 "For, ere I will my faith deny, And sweare my selfe to follow damned Antichrist, Ile yeeld my body for to die, To live in heaven with the highest." "O sir!" the gentle frier said, 225 "For your sweet love recant, and save your wished life. A wofull match," quoth hee, "is made Where Christ is lost to win a wife." When she had wrought all meanes that might To save her friend, and that she saw it would not bee, Then of the judge shee claimed her right, 231 To die the death as well as hee. When no perswasion could prevaile, Nor change her mind in any thing that shee had said, She was with him condemned to die, 235 And for them both one fire was made. And arme in arme most joyfully These lovers twaine unto the fire they did goe: The marriner most faithfully Was likewise partner of their woe. 240 But when the judges understood The faithfull friendship did in them remaine, They saved their lives; and afterward To England sent them home againe. Now was their sorrow turned to joy, 245 And faithfull lovers had now their heart's desire: Their paines so well they did imploy, God granted that they did require. And when they were to England come, And in merry Bristow arrived at the last, 250 Great joy there was to all and some That heard the dangers they had past. Her gentle master shee desired To be her father, and at the church to give her then: It was fulfilled as shee required, 255 Unto the joy of all good men. GLOSSARY. [hand] Figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. a', _all_. abee, _be_. abeen, aboif, _above_. ae, _one_. aglets, _tags to laces_. airy, ery, _fearful_, _inspiring dread_. among, 144, _from time to time_. and, _if_. anew, _enough_. anewche, _enough_. angel, _a gold coin, varying in value from about six shillings and eight pence to ten shillings_.--Halliwell's _Dict._ apaid, _satisfied_. as who sayeth, _so to speak_. at, _that_. attour, _over_, _across_. auld son, _a relative term for a boy older than the youngest_. ava, _of all_. ayont, _beyond_. baill, _sorrow_. balow, _a word used in lulling children_. ban, _band_. banning, _cursing_. bed-stock, _the side of the bed further from the wall_. begoud, _began_. beked, 305, _made warm_? belinger, 283 ? bemean, 86, _disparage_. ben, _in_. benjed, 305, _received hospitably_, _made preparations for his comfort_? besyd, 247, _astray_. be that, _by that_. bewray, _discord_. bier, _cry_. bierdly, _stately_. bigged, biggit, _built_. Billy Blin, _a benignant household fairy, like the Lubber Fiend_. binna, _be not_. birk, _birch_. birling, _drinking_. blae, _blue_. blaewort, _blue bottle_, _witch bells_. blee, _complexion_. blin'd, _blinded_. bone, 247, _bane_. boon, _above_. borrow, _ransom_, _rescue_. bot dreid, 246, _without doubt_. boud, 297 ? bought, _a pen in the corner of a fold, into which the ewes are driven to be milked_. bower, _chamber_, _dwelling_. brae, _hill-side_. braken, _female fern_. braw, _brave_, _fine_, _handsome_. brawn, 93, _calf of the leg_. brayd attour the bent, 248, _strode across the grass or field_. brent, 308, _high_, _straight_. bride-ale, _a wedding festival so called from the brides selling ale on the wedding day, in return for which she received a large price by way of present_. bruik, _enjoy_. brynies, _cuirasses_. bug, _built_. burd, _lady_. burn, _brook_. busk, _dress_, _adorn_, _make ready_. but, _out_. but and, _but also_. bute [boot], _help_. ca', _called_. caddie, _errand-boy_. cairis, _cares_. camovine, _camomile_. can, _know_. chap, _rap_. certaine, in, _certainly_. close, _enclosure_, _an enclosed field_. coffer, _coif_, _a woman's head-dress_? coft, _bought_. cog, _milking-pail_. confound, _destroy_. corss, _cross_. cowt, _colt_. cowth, cowd, 248, _could_, _used as an auxiliary to form the preterit tense_. crack, _merry talk_. cramasie, _crimson_. cruds, _curds_. cute, _ancle_. cuvating, _coveting_. daurna, _dare not_. daut, _fondle_. dead, _death_. dearly, _dear_. dee, _die_. dee, _do_. deed, _death_. deill, 250, _deal_; 247, _dally_? deir, 246, _frighten_. dele, 144, _particle_, _bit_. departe, 147, _separate_; departing, 249, _dividing_. dern, _secret_. dey, _dairy woman_. dill, _assuage_, _soothe_. dings, _beats_. disparage, 157, _cause to match unequally_. distan, _distinguish_. distrayne, _distress_. d'on, _do on_, _don_. dought, _dread_. dre, _suffer_. dreder, _dread_. dreed, _suffered_. drest, 247, _placed_; in dule I am so drest, _I am so plunged in sorrow_. drie, _bear_, _endure_. dule, _sorrow_. dyke, _wall_. echeon, _each one_. een, _eyes_. een, _one_. enew, _enough_. eik, _increase_. fa', 300 ? fair, _go_. fa's [fa as], _I have my lot as_. fauld-dyke, _wall of the fold_. fawn, _fallen_. fee, _money_, _possessions_. feir, 246, _appearance_, _demeanor_. fie, _cattle of any kind_, _sheep_. firth, _an enclosed wood_, _a field within a wood_. fit, _foot_. forbears, _ancestors_. forbye, _on one side_. fou, _full_. fra, 247, _from the time that_. fre, free, _noble_. fy, 260, _haste_! gait, _way_. gaits, _goats_. gar, _cause_, _make_. gare, below her, _below the gore in the edge of her skirt? or below her dress merely?_ gaucy, 76, _burly_, _strong_. gear, _goods_. girse, _grass_. glamer, glamour, _a charm exercised on the eye_. God before, _God guide you_! haill, _healthy_; 247, _whole_. haik up, 83, _carry off by force_, Jamieson. (?) hald, _hold_, _heep_. hap, _covering_; happed, _covered_. hard, _heard_. hardely, _assuredly_. haud, _hold_; haud unthocht lang, _keep from growing weary_. her, _their_. heill, hele, _health_. hes, _hast_. het, _hot_. hich, _high_. hie, on, _aloud_. hinna, _have not_. hinny, _darling_. his alane, _alone by himself_. Hollans boats, 13. Qy. _holly-boats_? holland, _holly_. hooding o' grey, 66, _hodden-grey_, _cloth with the natural color of the wool_. holtis hair, 250, _uplands bleak_. howp, _hope_. huche, _crag_, _steep bank_. I dern with the bot gif I daill, 247; _unless I secretly dally with thee_? I'st, _I shall_. ilke, _each_; this ilka, _this same_. intill, 83, _upon_. intent, 248, _thought_, _mind_. in worth, 205, _gladly_, _contentedly_. janglour, _prater_. jimp, _slender_. kail-blade, _leaf of colewort_. kail-yardie, _kitchen garden_. kebbuck, _cheese_. keep, _heed_. keipand, _keeping_. kenna, _know not_. kep, _catch_. kilt, kilted, _tucked up_. kintra, _country_. knicking, 110, _wringing_, _so as to make snap_. knowe, _knoll_. kye, _cows_. laigh, _low_. lair, lore, _doctrine_. lake, 120, _reproach_. lauch, _laugh_. lave, _rest_. laverock, _lark_. lawe, 149, _custom_. lax, _relief_, _release_. lea', _leave_. leal, _true_. lear'd, _learned_. lee-lang, _live-long_. leed, _language_. leesome, _pleasant_, _amiable_. leif, 250, _live_. leir, _learn_. lend ye till, 26, _lean upon_. len, 308, _lie concealed_. leuch, _laughed_. leve, 147, _remain_. lewche, _laughed_. ley, _lea_. lichtit, _lighted_. lichtly, _undervalue_. lie, _lonely_, _sad_. liggit, _lain_. lighters, _blinders_. liltin, _singing_. lirk, _hollow_ (_of a hill_). lodomy, _laudanum_. long of, 211, _on account of_. looing, _loving_. loot, _let_. lore, 149, _doctrine_. loup, _leap_. lourd, _liefer_, _rather_. loutit, _bowed_. lown, _loon_, _worthless fellow_. lowse, _loose_. lue, _love_; lude, 246, _loved_. maining, _moaning_, _crying_. manchet, _the finest kind of white bread_. mane, _moan_. marrit, 246, _marred_, _disordered_. marys, _maids_. maugre, 247, _ill-will_, _blame_. maun, _must_. may, _maid_. meen, _moon_; meen-licht, _moon-light_. menji, 81, _many_; menyie, _company of followers_. min, _mother_. mot, _may_, _might_. mouls, _dust of the dead_. muckle, _big_, _much_. mude, _mood_, _mind_. murnit, _mourned_. nae, _not_. neirhand, _nearly_. niest, _next_. nocht, _nought_. och, ochanie, _interjections of grief_. odd, 281, _old_. oo, _one_. ower great, _too familiar_. pall, _rich cloth_. parand; heir and parand, _heir apparent_. pat, _put_. perde, _par dieu_. perfay, _par foi_. pine, _pain_, _grief_. pitten, _put_. plow, _as much land as can properly be tilled by one plough in a day_. prest, 204, _ready_. previe, _secret_. put down, 117, _hung_. pyne, _pain_. quhair, &c., _where, &c._; all quhair, _every where_. quhill, 249, _until_. raik on raw, 246, _range or extend themselves in a row_. ramp, _rude_, _wild_, _violent_. rantin', _boisterously gay_, _rollicking_. rattons, _rats_. recorde, _witness_. red, _advice_, _plan_. redding-comb, _comb for redding_, _or combing out, the hair_. rede, reid, _advise_. reivis, _deprivest of_. remeve, 155, _remove or trouble_. repreve, _reprove_. rescous, _rescue_. rew, _take pity_. rigs, _ridges_. roiss, _rest_. rove, _roof_. row, _roll_; row'd, _rolled_. royal bane, 12, _the same as_ ruel bone, _an unknown material often mentioned in romances_. rude, _rood_, _cross_. rue, _take pity_; ruthe, _pity_. sanna, _shall not_. sark, _shirt_. scant, _lessen_. scheel, _school_. schent, _shamed_, _disgraced_. see, _protect_. sen, _since_. sendall, _a rich thin silk_. sets, 105, _sits_, _fits_. shaw, _thicket_, _wood_. shealin, 66, _shed for sheep_. she'as, _sheaths_. sheave, _slice_. sheens, _shines_. she'st, _she shall_. shill, 59, _shrill_. shun, _soon_. sic, siccan, _such_. sicht, _sigh_; sichit, _sighed_. sickerly, _certainly_. silly, _simple_. sith, _since_. skill of their train, _understand their training_. slap, 96, _a breach in a wall or hedge_. speer'd, speir'd, _asked_. spell; drift can spell, 267, _tell my meaning or story_. splene, on the, 156? spring, 65, _youth_, _young_. sta', _stole_. states, 169, _people of high rank_. staw, _stole_. staws, _stalls_. steir, _stir_. stey, _steep_. stown, _stolen_. streek'd, _stroaked_. suspitious, "_significant_."--Ritson. swither, _waver_. syne, _then_. tane, _taken_. tapp'd, _topped_. tent, _heed_. Termagant, _an imaginary false god of the heathen_. thair, _there_. than, _then_. thinking long, see _thought lang_. thir, _these_. this, _thus_. thoo, _those_. thought, 147, _trouble_. thought lang, _felt the time hang heavily_, _felt ennui_. thoust, _thou wilt_. till, _to_, _for_; 245, _to_; till assail 248, _to assail_; till haif, 249, _to have_. tirled at the pin, _trilled_, or _rattled, at the door-pin, or latch, to obtain entrance_. tocher, _dowry_. tod, _fox_. tomorne, _to-morrow_. ton, _one_ (_after the_). tree, 3, 253, _stick_, _pole_, or perhaps, _whipple-tree_; 276, _staff_. trew, _trow_. trinkling, _trickling_. trow, _believe_. twalt, _twelfth_. twinn, _part_. tyne, _lose_. unco, _strange_, _foreign_. upricht, 253, _straightway_? wae, _sad_. waged, _staked_. wait, _wot_, _know_. waith, _wandering_. wald, _would_. wale, _choice_. wall-wight, 306, _picked_ (waled) _strong men_, or _warriors_. waly, _an interjection of lamentation_. wanrufe, 246, _disquietude_. wan up, _got up_. wat, _wot_, _know_. waur, _worse_. wee, 269, _short time_. weed, _clothes_. weel, _well_. weel-busket, _well trimmed_. weel-far'd, weel-faurd, _well-favored_. wend, 280, _weened_. werry, 248, _weary_, _sorrowful_. whae's aught, _who is it owns_. whingers, "_a short hanger, used as a knife at meals and as a sword in broils_." wight, _strong or nimble_. win, _get_, _go_; win to, _attain or get to_; win up, _get up_. win, _to make the harvest_. winna, _will not_. winsome, _pleasant_. wisna, _know not_. worldling, 230, _pet_? wow, _exclamation of admiration, or surprise_. wreuch, _wretched_. yede, _went_. yef, _if_. ye'se, _ye shall_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yett, _gate_. ying, _young_. your lane, _alone by yourself_. ze, _ye_. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Page 90, line 14: added missing apostrophe (In simmer, 'mid the flowers?) Page 93, line 34: added missing end quotation mark (And the cauld rain on your breist.") Page 177, line 26: added missing open quotation mark ("O come to your bed, my dearie; ...) Page 120, line 41: added missing open quotation mark ("But wha will bake my bridal bread, ...) Page 160, line 40: added missing (or uninked) comma ("She is dead, sir, long agoe.") Page 168, line 12: changed period to comma (Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.) Page 191, final paragraph: added closing quotation mark ( ... to no other shrine than that of Venus.[A]") Page 192, second paragraph: open quotation mark moved to start of paragraph ("_As I went to Walsingham_ is quoted in Nashe's _Have with you to Saffron-Walden_, ...) Note that the corrections to punctuation on pages 191 and 192 are consistent with interpreting the three paragraphs as attributed to "CHAPPELL". Page 224, line 206: added missing open quotation mark ("Upon thy wife and children,) Page 227, line 145: deleted erroneous opening quotation mark (So they hae gane before the king,) Page 278, line 178: added missing period ("To seal her tocher wi' thee.") Page 316, line 128: changed "be" to "he" (For the young Lord Arundel he shall be.") Page 332, line 110: changed "merehants" to "merchants" (Beare me a letter to the English merchants there,) 
39766	----	generously made available by the Digital & Multimedia Center, Michigan State University Libraries.) Transcriber's Notes Archaic, dialect and inconsistent spellings and hyphenation have been retained as in the original. Minor corrections to format and punctuation together with regularisation of poetry line numbering have been made without comment. Any other changes to the text have been listed at the end of the book. In this Plain Text version of the e-book, symbols from the ASCII and Latin-1 character sets only are used. Italic typeface is indicated by _underscores_. Small caps typeface is represented by UPPER CASE. A pointing hand symbol is represented as [hand]. Notes with reference to ballad line numbers are presented at the end of each ballad and the presence of a note is indicated at the end of line number ## by "[L##]". * * * * * ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH BALLADS. EDITED BY FRANCIS JAMES CHILD. VOLUME VI. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY. M.DCCC.LX. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. CONTENTS OF VOLUME SIXTH. BOOK VI. Page 1 a. The Lochmaben Harper [Johnson] 3 1 b. The Lochmaben Harper [Scott] 7 2 a. Johnie of Breadislee 11 2 b. Johnie of Cocklesmuir 16 3. The Sang of the Outlaw Murray 20 4 a. Johnie Armstrang 37 4 b. Johnie Armstrang [Ramsay] 45 5 a. Hughie Graham 51 5 b. Hughie the Græme 55 6. Kinmont Willie 58 7. Dick o' the Cow 67 8. Jock o' the Side 80 9 a. Archie of Ca'field 88 9 b. Billie Archie 94 10. Hobie Noble 97 11. Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead 105 12. The Fray of Suport 115 13. Rookhope Ryde 121 14. The Raid of the Reidswire 129 15. The Death of Parcy Reed 139 16 a. Captain Car 147 16 b. Edom o' Gordon 154 17. Willie Mackintosh 159 18. Lord Maxwell's Goodnight 162 19. The Lads of Wamphray 168 20. The Fire of Frendraught 173 21 a. The Bonnie House o' Airly [Finlay] 183 21 b. The Bonnie House of Airly [Sharpe] 186 22 a. The Baron of Brackley [Jamieson] 188 22 b. The Baron of Braikley [Buchan] 192 23. Gilderoy 196 24. Bob Roy 202 BOOK VII. 1 a. Queen Eleanor's Confession 209 1 b. Queen Eleanor's Confession [Kinloch] 213 2 Auld Maitland 217 3 a. Willie Wallace 231 3 b. Sir William Wallace 237 APPENDIX. Johnny Cock 243 The Life and Death of Sir Hugh of the Grime 247 Johnie Armstrang 251 Loudoun Castle 254 Rob Roy 257 Eppie Morrie 260 Macpherson's Rant 263 The Flemish Insurrection 269 The Execution of Sir Simon Fraser 274 GLOSSARY 285 BOOK VI. THE LOCHMABEN HARPER. This fine old ballad was first printed in the _Musical Museum_ (_O heard ye e'er of a silly blind Harper_, p. 598). Scott inserted a different copy, equally good, in the _Border Minstrelsy_, i. 422, and there is another, of very ordinary merits, in _Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads_ (_The Jolly Harper_), p. 37. In this the theft is done on a wager, and the booty duly restored. On account of the excellence of the ballad, we give two versions, though they differ but slightly. O heard ye of a silly Harper, Liv'd long in Lochmaben town, How he did gang to fair England, To steal King Henry's Wanton Brown? But first he gaed to his gude wife Wi' a' the speed that he coud thole: "This wark," quo' he, "will never work, Without a mare that has a foal." Quo' she, "Thou hast a gude grey mare, That'll rin o'er hills baith low and hie; 10 Gae tak' the grey mare in thy hand, And leave the foal at hame wi' me. "And tak a halter in thy hose, And o' thy purpose dinna fail; But wap it o'er the Wanton's nose; 15 And tie her to the grey mare's tail: "Syne ca' her out at yon back yeate, O'er moss and muir and ilka dale, For she'll ne'er let the Wanton bite, Till she come hame to her ain foal." 20 So he is up to England gane, Even as fast as he can hie, Till he came to King Henry's yeate; And wha' was there but King Henry? "Come in," quo' he, "thou silly blind Harper, 25 And of thy harping let me hear;" "O, by my sooth," quo' the silly blind Harper, "I'd rather hae stabling for my mare." The King looks o'er his left shoulder, And says unto his stable groom, 30 "Gae tak the silly poor Harper's mare, And tie her 'side my wanton brown." And ay he harpit, and ay he carpit, Till a' the lords gaed through the floor; They thought the music was sae sweet, 35 That they forgat the stable door. And ay he harpit, and ay he carpit, Till a' the nobles were sound asleep, Than quietly he took aff his shoon, And saftly down the stair did creep. 40 Syne to the stable door he hies, Wi' tread as light as light coud be, And whan he open'd and gaed in, There he fand thirty good steeds and three. He took the halter frae his hose, 45 And of his purpose did na' fail; He slipt it o'er the Wanton's nose, And tied it to his grey mare's tail. He ca'd her out at yon back yeate, O'er moss and muir and ilka dale, 50 And she loot ne'er the Wanton bite, But held her still gaun at her tail. The grey mare was right swift o' fit, And did na fail to find the way, For she was at Lochmaben yeate, 55 Fu' lang three hours ere it was day. When she came to the Harper's door, There she gae mony a nicher and snear; "Rise," quo' the wife, "thou lazy lass, Let in thy master and his mare." 60 Then up she raise, pat on her claes, And lookit out through the lock hole; "O, by my sooth," then quoth the lass, "Our mare has gotten a braw big foal." "Come haud thy peace, thou foolish lass, 65 The moon's but glancing in thy ee, I'll wad my haill fee 'gainst a groat, It's bigger than e'er our foal will be." The neighbours too that heard the noise Cried to the wife to put her in; 70 "By my sooth," then quoth the wife, "She's better than ever he rade on." But on the morn at fair day light, When they had ended a' their chear, King Henry's Wanton Brown was stawn, 75 And eke the poor old Harper's mare. "Alace! alace!" says the silly blind Harper, "Alace! alace! that I came here, In Scotland I've tint a braw cowte foal, In England they've stawn my guid grey mare." 80 "Come had thy tongue, thou silly blind Harper, And of thy alacing let me be, For thou shall get a better mare, And weel paid shall thy cowte foal be." LOCHMABEN HARPER. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, i. 422. O heard ye na o' the silly blind Harper, How long he lived in Lochmaben town? And how he wad gang to fair England, To steal the Lord Warden's Wanton Brown? But first he gaed to his gude wyfe, 5 Wi' a the haste that he could thole-- "This wark," quo' he, "will ne'er gae weel, Without a mare that has a foal." Quo' she--"Thou hast a gude gray mare, That can baith lance o'er laigh and hie; 10 Sae set thee on the gray mare's back, And leave the foal at hame wi' me." So he is up to England gane, And even as fast as he may drie; And when he cam to Carlisle gate, 15 O whae was there but the Warden hie? "Come into my hall, thou silly blind Harper, And of thy harping let me hear!" "O, by my sooth," quo' the silly blind Harper, "I wad rather hae stabling for my mare." 20 The Warden look'd ower his left shoulder, And said unto his stable groom-- "Gae take the silly blind Harper's mare, And tie her beside my Wanton Brown." Then aye he harped, and aye he carped, 25 Till a' the lordlings footed the floor; But an the music was sae sweet, The groom had nae mind o' the stable door. And aye he harped, and aye he carped, Till a' the nobles were fast asleep; 30 Then quickly he took aff his shoon, And saftly down the stair did creep. Syne to the stable door he hied, Wi' tread as light as light could be; And when he open'd and gaed in, 35 There he fand thirty steeds and three. He took a cowt halter frae his hose, And o' his purpose he didna fail; He slipt it ower the Wanton's nose, And tied it to his gray mare's tail. 40 He turn'd them loose at the castle gate, Ower muir and moss and ilka dale; And she ne'er let the Wanton bait, But kept him a-galloping hame to her foal. The mare she was right swift o' foot, 45 She didna fail to find the way; For she was at Lochmaben gate A lang three hours before the day. When she came to the Harper's door, There she gave mony a nicker and sneer-- 50 "Rise up," quo' the wife, "thou lazy lass; Let in thy master and his mare." Then up she rose, put on her clothes, And keekit through at the lock-hole-- "O, by my sooth," then cried the lass, 55 "Our mare has gotten a braw brown foal!" "Come haud thy tongue, thou silly wench! The morn's but glancing in your ee; I'll wad my hail fee against a groat, He's bigger than e'er our foal will be." 60 Now all this while in merry Carlisle The Harper harped to hie and law, And the fiend dought they do but listen him to, Until that the day began to daw. But on the morn at fair daylight, 65 When they had ended a' their cheer, Behold the Wanton Brown was gane, And eke the poor blind Harper's mare! "Allace! allace!" quo' the cunning auld Harper, "And ever allace that I cam here; 70 In Scotland I hae lost a braw cowt foal, In England they've stown my gude gray mare!" "Come, cease thy allacing, thou silly blind Harper, And again of thy harping let us hear; And weel payd sall thy cowt-foal be, 75 And thou sall have a far better mare." Then aye he harped, and aye he carped, Sae sweet were the harpings he let them hear! He was paid for the foal he had never lost, And three times ower for the gude GRAY MARE. 80 JOHNIE OF BREADISLEE. AN ANCIENT NITHSDALE BALLAD. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 114. "The hero of this ballad appears to have been an outlaw and deer-stealer--probably one of the broken men residing upon the Border. There are several different copies, in one of which the principal personage is called _Johnie of Cockielaw_. The stanzas of greatest merit have been selected from each copy. It is sometimes said, that this outlaw possessed the old Castle of Morton, in Dumfries-shire, now ruinous: "Near to this castle there was a park, built by Sir Thomas Randolph, on the face of a very great and high hill; so artificially, that, by the advantage of the hill, all wild beasts, such as deers, harts, and roes, and hares, did easily leap in, but could not get out again; and if any other cattle, such as cows, sheep, or goats, did voluntarily leap in, or were forced to do it, _it is doubted_ if their owners were permitted to get them out again." _Account of Presbytery of Penpont, apud Macfarlane's MSS._ Such a park would form a convenient domain to an outlaw's castle, and the mention of Durisdeer, a neighboring parish, adds weight to this tradition." Johnie of Breadislee was first printed in the _Border Minstrelsy_. Fragments of two other versions, in which the hero's name is Johny Cock, were given in Fry's _Pieces of Ancient Poetry_, Bristol, 1814, p. 55, and the editor did not fail to notice that he had probably lighted on the ballad of _Johny Cox_, which Ritson says the Rev. Mr. Boyd faintly recollected, (_Scottish Song_, I. p. xxxvi.) Motherwell, not aware of what Fry had done, printed a few stanzas belonging to the first of these versions, under the title of _Johnie of Braidisbank_ (_Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern_, p. 23), and Kinloch recovered a nearly complete story. Another copy of this last has been published from Buchan's manuscripts in _Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads_ (Percy Society, vol. xvii. p. 77). Chambers, in his _Scottish Ballads_, p. 181, has compounded Scott's, Kinloch's, and Motherwell's copies, interspersing a few additional stanzas of no value. Scott's and Kinloch's versions are given in this place, and Fry's fragments (which contain several beautiful stanzas) in the Appendix. Johnie rose up in a May morning, Call'd for water to wash his hands-- "Gar loose to me the gude graie dogs, That are bound wi' iron bands." When Johnie's mother gat word o' that, 5 Her hands for dule she wrang-- "O Johnie! for my benison, To the greenwood dinna gang! "Eneugh ye hae o' gude wheat bread, And eneugh o' the blood-red wine; 10 And, therefore, for nae venison, Johnie, I pray ye, stir frae hame." But Johnie's busk't up his gude bend bow, His arrows, ane by ane, And he has gane to Durrisdeer, 15 To hunt the dun deer down. As he came down by Merriemass, And in by the benty line, There has he espied a deer lying Aneath a bush of ling. 20 Johnie he shot, and the dun deer lap, And he wounded her on the side; But atween the water and the brae, His hounds they laid her pride. And Johnie has bryttled the deer sae weel, 25 That he's had out her liver and lungs; And wi' these he has feasted his bluidy hounds, As if they had been earl's sons. They eat sae much o' the venison, And drank sae much o' the blude, 30 That Johnie and a' his bluidy hounds Fell asleep as they had been dead. And by there came a silly auld carle, An ill death mote he die! For he's awa' to Hislinton, 35 Where the Seven Foresters did lie. "What news, what news, ye gray-headed carle, What news bring ye to me?" "I bring nae news," said the gray-headed carle, "Save what these eyes did see. 40 "As I came down by Merriemass, And down among the scroggs, The bonniest childe that ever I saw Lay sleeping amang his dogs. "The shirt that was upon his back 45 Was o' the Holland fine; The doublet which was over that Was o' the Lincome twine. "The buttons that were on his sleeve Were o' the goud sae gude: 50 The gude graie hounds he lay amang, Their mouths were dyed wi' blude." Then out and spak the First Forester, The heid man ower them a'-- "If this be Johnie o' Breadislee, 55 Nae nearer will we draw." But up and spak the Sixth Forester, (His sister's son was he,) "If this be Johnie o' Breadislee, We soon shall gar him die!" 60 The first flight of arrows the Foresters shot, They wounded him on the knee; And out and spak the Seventh Forester, "The next will gar him die." Johnie's set his back against an aik, 65 His fute against a stane; And he has slain the Seven Foresters, He has slain them a' but ane. He has broke three ribs in that ane's side, But and his collar bane; 70 He's laid him twa-fald ower his steed, Bade him carry the tidings hame. "O is there nae a bonnie bird Can sing as I can say, Could flee away to my mother's bower, 75 And tell to fetch Johnie away?" The starling flew to his mother's window stane, It whistled and it sang; And aye the ower word o' the tune Was--"Johnie tarries lang!" 80 They made a rod o' the hazel bush, Another o' the slae-thorn tree, And mony mony were the men At fetching o'er Johnie. Then out and spake his auld mother, 85 And fast her tears did fa'-- "Ye wad nae be warn'd, my son Johnie, Frae the hunting to bide awa'. "Aft hae I brought to Breadislee The less gear and the mair, 90 But I ne'er brought to Breadislee What grieved my heart sae sair. "But wae betyde that silly auld carle! An ill death shall he die! For the highest tree in Merriemas 95 Shall be his morning's fee." Now Johnie's gude bend bow is broke, And his gude graie dogs are slain; And his bodie lies dead in Durrisdeer, And his hunting it is done. 100 JOHNIE OF COCKLESMUIR. From Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 38. This version was procured in the North Country. The termination would seem to be wanting, for the story must have had a tragical conclusion. Buchan's copy ends very insipidly with the King's granting Johny a free license to hunt! Johnie rose up in a May morning, Call'd for water to wash his hands; And he has call'd for his gude gray hunds, That lay bund in iron bands, _bands_, _That lay bund in iron bands_. "Ye'll busk, ye'll busk my noble dogs, 5 Ye'll busk and mak them boun, For I'm going to the Broadspear-hill, To ding the dun deer doun, _doun_, &c. Whan Johnie's mither heard o' this, She til her son has gane-- 10 "Ye'll win your mither's benison, Gin ye wad stay at hame. "Your meat sall be of the very very best, And your drink o' the finest wine; And ye will win your mither's benison, 15 Gin ye wad stay at hame." His mither's counsel he wad na tak, Nor wad he stay at hame; But he's on to the Broadspear-hill, To ding the dun deer doun. 20 Johnie lookit east, and Johnie lookit west, And a little below the sun; And there he spied the dun deer sleeping, Aneath a buss o' brume. Johnie shot, and the dun deer lap, 25 And he's woundit him in the side; And atween the water and the wud He laid the dun deer's pride. They ate sae meikle o' the venison, And drank sae meikle o' the blude, 30 That Johnie and his twa gray hunds, Fell asleep in yonder wud. By there cam a silly auld man, And a silly auld man was he; And he's aff to the proud foresters, 35 To tell what he did see. "What news, what news, my silly auld man, What news? come tell to me;" "Na news, na news," said the silly auld man, "But what my een did see. 40 "As I cam in by yon greenwud, And doun amang the scrogs, The bonniest youth that e'er I saw, Lay sleeping atween twa dogs. "The sark that he had on his back, 45 Was o' the Holland sma'; And the coat that he had on his back, Was laced wi' gowd fu' braw." Up bespak the first forester, The first forester of a'-- 50 "And this be Johnie o' Cocklesmuir, It's time we were awa." Up bespak the niest forester, The niest forester of a'-- "And this be Johnie Cocklesmuir, 55 To him we winna draw." The first shot that they did shoot, They woundit him on the thie; Up bespak the uncle's son,-- "The niest will gar him die." 60 "Stand stout, stand stout, my noble dogs, Stand stout and dinna flee; Stand fast, stand fast, my gude gray hunds, And we will mak them die." He has killed six o' the proud foresters, 65 And wounded the seventh sair; He laid his leg out owre his steed, Says, "I will kill na mair." THE SANG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, i. 369. "This ballad appears to have been composed about the reign of James V. It commemorates a transaction supposed to have taken place betwixt a Scottish monarch and an ancestor of the ancient family of Murray of Philiphaugh, in Selkirkshire. The Editor is unable to ascertain the historical foundation of the tale; nor is it probable that any light can be thrown upon the subject, without an accurate examination of the family charter-chest.... "The merit of this beautiful old tale, it is thought, will be fully acknowledged. It has been, for ages, a popular song in Selkirkshire. The scene is by the common people supposed to have been the Castle of Newark upon Yarrow. This is highly improbable, because Newark was always a royal fortress. Indeed, the late excellent antiquarian, Mr. Plummer, Sheriff-depute of Selkirkshire, has assured the Editor that he remembered the _insignia_ of the unicorns, &c., so often mentioned in the ballad, in existence upon the old Tower of Hangingshaw, the seat of the Philiphaugh family; although, upon first perusing a copy of the ballad, he was inclined to subscribe to the popular opinion. The Tower of Hangingshaw has been demolished for many years. It stood in a romantic and solitary situation, on the classical banks of the Yarrow. When the mountains around Hangingshaw were covered with the wild copse which constituted a Scottish forest, a more secure stronghold for an outlawed baron can scarcely be imagined. "The tradition of Ettrick Forest bears, that the outlaw was a man of prodigious strength, possessing a baton or club, with which he laid _lee_ (_i. e._ waste) the country for many miles round; and that he was at length slain by Buccleuch, or some of his clan, at a little mount, covered with fir-trees, adjoining to Newark Castle, and said to have been a part of the garden. A varying tradition bears the place of his death to have been near to the house of the Duke of Buccleuch's gamekeeper, beneath the castle; and that the fatal arrow was shot by Scott of Haining, from the ruins of a cottage on the opposite side of Yarrow. There were extant, within these twenty years, some verses of a song on his death. The feud betwixt the Outlaw and the Scots, may serve to explain the asperity with which the chieftain of that clan is handled in the ballad. "In publishing the following ballad, the copy principally resorted to is one apparently of considerable antiquity, which was found among the papers of the late Mrs. Cockburn of Edinburgh, a lady whose memory will be long honoured by all who knew her. Another copy, much more imperfect, is to be found in Glenriddel's MSS. The names are in this last miserably mangled, as is always the case when ballads are taken down from the recitation of persons living at a distance from the scenes in which they are laid. Mr. Plummer also gave the editor a few additional verses, not contained in either copy, which are thrown into what seemed their proper place. There is yet another copy in Mr. Herd's MSS., which has been occasionally made use of. Two verses are restored in the present edition, from the recitation of Mr. Mungo Park, whose toils during his patient and intrepid travels in Africa have not eradicated from his recollection the legendary lore of his native country."--S. Since the above was printed, Mr. Aytoun has published still another copy of this piece, (_Ballads of Scotland_, ii. 129,) from a manuscript in the Philiphaugh charter-chest. I cannot assent to the praise bestowed by Scott on _The Outlaw Murray_. The story lacks point, and the style is affected--not that of the unconscious poet of the real _traditional_ ballad. Ettricke Foreste is a feir foreste, In it grows manie a semelie trie; There's hart and hynd, and dae and rae, And of a' wilde bestis grete plentie. There's a feir castelle, bigged wi' lyme and stane; O gin it stands not pleasauntlie! 6 In the fore front o' that castelle feir, Twa unicorns are bra' to see: There's the picture of a knight, and a ladye bright, And the grene hollin abune their brie: 10 There an Outlaw kepis five hundred men, He keepis a royalle cumpanie. His merryemen are a' in ae liverye clad, O' the Lincome grene sae gaye to see; He and his ladye in purple clad, 15 O gin they lived not royallie! Word is gane to our nobil King, In Edinburgh where that he lay, That there was an Outlaw in Ettricke Foreste, Counted him nought, nor a' his courtrie gay. 20 "I make a vowe," then the gude King said, "Unto the man that deir bought me, I'se either be King of Ettricke Foreste, Or King of Scotlande that Outlaw sall be!" Then spake the lord hight Hamilton, 25 And to the nobil King said he, "My sovereign prince, sum counsell take, First at your nobilis, syne at me. "I redd ye, send yon braw Outlaw till, And see gif your man cum will he: 30 Desyre him cum and be your man, And hald of you yon Foreste frie. "Gif he refuses to do that, We'll conquess baith his landis and he! Or else, we'll throw his castell down, 35 And make a widowe o' his gaye ladye." The King then call'd a gentleman, James Boyd (the Earle of Arran his brother was he);[L38] When James he cam before the King, He knelit befor him on his kné. 40 "Wellcum, James Boyd!" said our nobil King, "A message ye maun gang for me; Ye maun hye to Ettricke Foreste, To yon Outlaw, where bydeth he. "Ask him of whom he haldis his landis, 45 Or man, wha may his master be, And desyre him cum, and be my man, And hald of me yon Foreste frie. "To Edinburgh to cum and gang, His safe warrant I sall gie; 50 And gif he refuses to do that, We'll conquess baith his landis and he. "Thou mayst vow I'll cast his castell down, And mak a widowe o' his gaye ladye; I'll hang his merryemen, payr by payr, 55 In ony frith where I may them see." James Boyd tuik his leave o' the nobil King, To Ettricke Foreste feir cam he; Down Birkendale Brae when that he cam, He saw the feir Foreste wi' his ee.[L60] 60 Baith dae and rae, and harte and hinde, And of a' wilde bestis great plentie; He heard the bows that bauldly ring,[L63] And arrows whidderan' hym near bi. Of that feir castell he got a sight; 65 The like he neir saw wi' his ee! On the fore front o' that castell feir, Twa unicorns were gaye to see; The picture of a knight, and ladye bright, And the grene hollin abune their brie. 70 Thereat he spyed five hundred men, Shuting with bows on Newark Lee; They were a' in ae livery clad, O' the Lincome grene sae gaye to see. His men were a' clad in the grene, 75 The knight was armed capapie, With a bended bow, on a milk-white steed, And I wot they rank'd right bonnilie: Thereby Boyd kend he was master man, And served him in his ain degré. 80 "God mot thee save, brave Outlaw Murray! Thy ladye, and all thy chyvalrie!" "Marry, thou's wellcum, gentleman, Some king's messenger thou seemis to be." "The King of Scotlonde sent me here, 85 And, gude Outlaw, I am sent to thee; I wad wot of whom ye hald your landis, Or man, wha may thy master be?" "Thir landis are MINE!" the Outlaw said; "I ken nae king in Christentie; 90 Frae Soudron I this foreste wan, When the King nor his knightis were not to see." "He desyres you'l cum to Edinburgh, And hauld of him this foreste fre; And, gif ye refuse to do this, 95 He'll conquess baith thy landis and thee. He hath vow'd to cast thy castell down, And mak a widowe o' thy gaye ladye; "He'll hang thy merryemen, payr by payr, In ony frith where he may them finde." 100 "Ay, by my troth!" the Outlaw said, "Than wauld I thinke me far behinde. "Ere the King my feir countrie get, This land that's nativest to me, Mony o' his nobilis sall be cauld, 105 Their ladyes sall be right wearie." Then spak his ladye, feir of face, She seyd, "Without consent of me, That an Outlaw suld come befor a King; I am right rad of treasonrie. 110 Bid him be gude to his lordis at hame, For Edinburgh my lord sall nevir see." James Boyd tuik his leave o' the Outlaw kene, To Edinburgh boun is he; When James he cam before the King, 115 He knelit lowlie on his kné. "Welcum, James Boyd!" seyd our nobil King; "What foreste is Ettricke Foreste frie?" "Ettricke Foreste is the feirest foreste That evir man saw wi' his ee. 120 "There's the dae, the rae, the hart, the hynde, And of a' wild bestis grete plentie; There's a pretty castell of lyme and stane, O gif it standis not pleasauntlie! "There's in the fore front o' that castell, 125 Twa unicorns, sae bra' to see; There's the picture of a knight, and a ladye bright, Wi' the grene hollin abune their brie. "There the Outlaw keepis five hundred men, He keepis a royalle cumpanie; 130 His merryemen in ae livery clad, O' the Lincome grene sae gaye to see: He and his ladye in purple clad; O gin they live not royallie! "He says, yon foreste is his awin; 135 He wan it frae the Southronie; Sae as he wan it, sae will he keep it, Contrair all kingis in Christentie." "Gar warn me Perthshire, and Angus baith, Fife, up and downe, and Louthians three, 140 And graith my horse!" said our nobil King, "For to Ettricke Forest hie will I me." Then word is gane the Outlaw till, In Ettricke Forest, where dwelleth he, That the King was cuming to his cuntrie, 145 To conquess baith his landis and he. "I mak a vow," the Outlaw said, "I mak a vow, and that trulie, Were there but three men to tak my pairt, Yon King's cuming full deir suld be!" 150 Then messengers he called forth, And bade them hie them speedilye-- "Ane of ye gae to Halliday, The Laird of the Corehead is he.[L154] "He certain is my sister's son; 155 Bid him cum quick and succour me! The King cums on for Ettricke Foreste, And landless men we a' will be." "What news? What news?" said Halliday, "Man, frae thy master unto me?" 160 "Not as ye wad: seeking your aide; The King's his mortal enemie." "Ay, by my troth!" said Halliday, "Even for that it repenteth me; For gif he lose feir Ettricke Foreste, 165 He'll tak feir Moffatdale frae me. "I'll meet him wi' five hundred men, And surely mair, if mae may be; And before he gets the foreste feir, We a' will die on Newark Lee!" 170 The Outlaw call'd a messenger, And bid him hie him speedilye, To Andrew Murray of Cockpool,[L173] "That man's a deir cousin to me; Desyre him cum, and make me aide, 175 With a' the power that he may be." "It stands me hard," Andrew Murray said, "Judge gif it stand na hard wi' me; To enter against a king wi' crown, And set my landis in jeopardie! 180 Yet, if I cum not on the day, Surely at night he sall me see." To Sir James Murray of Traquair,[L183] A message came right speedilye-- "What news? What news?" James Murray said, 185 "Man, frae thy master unto me?" "What neids I tell? for weel ye ken The King's his mortal enemie; And now he is cuming to Ettricke Foreste, And landless men ye a' will be." 190 "And, by my trothe," James Murray said, "Wi' that Outlaw will I live and die; The King has gifted my landis lang syne-- It cannot be nae warse wi' me." The King was cuming thro' Caddon Ford,[L195] 195 And full five thousand men was he; They saw the derke Foreste them before, They thought it awsome for to see. Then spak the lord hight Hamilton, And to the nobil King said he, 200 "My sovereign liege, sum council tak, First at your nobilis, syne at me. "Desyre him mete thee at Permanscore, And bring four in his cumpanie; Five Erles sall gang yoursell befor, 205 Gude cause that you suld honour'd be. "And, gif he refuses to do that, We'll conquess baith his landis and he; There sall nevir a Murray, after him, Hald land in Ettricke Foreste free." 210 Then spak the kene Laird of Buckscleuth, A stalworthe man, and sterne was he-- "For a King to gang an Outlaw till, Is beneath his state and his dignitie. "The man that wons yon foreste intill, 215 He lives by reif and felonie! Wherefore, brayd on, my sovereign liege, Wi' fire and sword we'll follow thee; Or, gif your countrie lords fa' back, Our Borderers sall the onset gie." 220 Then out and spak the nobil King, And round him cast a wilie ee-- "Now, had thy tongue, Sir Walter Scott, Nor speak of reif nor felonie: For had every honest man his awin kye, 225 A right puir clan thy name wad be!" The King then call'd a gentleman, Royal banner-bearer there was he, James Hoppringle of Torsonse, by name; He cam and knelit upon his kné. 230 "Wellcum, James Pringle of Torsonse! A message ye maun gang for me: Ye maun gae to yon Outlaw Murray, Surely where bauldly bideth he. "Bid him mete me at Permanscore, 235 And bring four in his cumpanie; Five erles sall cum wi' mysell, Gude reason I suld honour'd be. "And gif he refuses to do that, Bid him luke for nae good o' me! 240 There sall nevir a Murray, after him, Have land in Ettricke Foreste free." James cam before the Outlaw kene, And served him in his ain degré-- "Welcum, James Pringle of Torsonse! 245 What message frae the King to me?" "He bids ye meet him at Permanscore,[L247] And bring four in your cumpany; Five erles sall gang himsell befor, Nae mair in number will he be. 250 "And gif you refuse to do that, (I freely here upgive wi' thee,) He'll cast yon bonny castle down, And make a widowe o' that gay ladye. "He'll loose yon bluidhound Borderers, 255 Wi' fire and sword to follow thee; There will nevir a Murray, after thysell, Have land in Ettrick Foreste free." "It stands me hard," the Outlaw said, "Judge gif it stands na hard wi' me, 260 Wha reck not losing of mysell, But a' my offspring after me. "My merryemen's lives, my widowe's teirs-- There lies the pang that pinches me; "When I am straught in bluidie eard, 265 Yon castell will be right dreirie. "Auld Halliday, young Halliday, Ye sall be twa to gang wi' me; Andrew Murray, and Sir James Murray, We'll be nae mae in cumpanie." 270 When that they cam before the King, They fell before him on their kné-- "Grant mercie, mercie, nobil King! E'en for his sake that dyed on tree." "Sicken like mercie sall ye have, 275 On gallows ye sall hangit be!" "Over God's forbode," quoth the Outlaw then, "I hope your grace will bettir be; Else, ere you come to Edinburgh port, I trow thin guarded sall ye be. 280 "Thir landis of Ettricke Foreste fair, I wan them from the enemie; Like as I wan them, sae will I keep them, Contrair a' kingis in Christentie." All the nobilis the King about, 285 Said pitie it were to see him dee-- "Yet grant me mercie, sovereign prince, Extend your favour unto me! "I'll give thee the keys of my castell, Wi' the blessing o' my gay ladye, 290 Gin thou'lt make me sheriffe of this Foreste, And a' my offspring after me." "Wilt thou give me the keys of thy castell, Wi' the blessing of thy gaye ladye? I'se make thee sheriffe of Ettricke Foreste. 295 Surely while upward grows the tree; If you be not traitour to the King, Forfaulted sall thou nevir be." "But, Prince, what sall cum o' my men? When I gae back, traitour they'll ca' me. 300 I had rather lose my life and land, Ere my merryemen rebuked me." "Will your merryemen amend their lives, And a' their pardons I grant thee? Now, name thy landis where'er they lie, 305 And here I RENDER them to thee."-- "Fair Philiphaugh is mine by right, And Lewinshope still mine shall be; Newark, Foulshiells, and Tinnies baith, My bow and arrow purchased me. 310 "And I have native steads to me, The Newark Lee and Hanginshaw;[L312] I have mony steads in the forest schaw, But them by name I dinna knaw." The keys of the castell he gave the King, 315 Wi' the blessing o' his feir ladye; He was made sheriffe of Ettricke Foreste, Surely while upward grows the tree; And if he was na traitour to the King, Forfaulted he suld never be. 320 Wha ever heard, in ony times, Sicken an outlaw in his degré, Sic favour get befor a King, As did the OUTLAW MURRAY of the Foreste free? 38. Thomas Boyd, Earl of Arran, was forfeited, with his father and uncle, in 1469, for an attempt on the person of James III. He had a son, James, who was restored, and in favor with James IV. about 1482. If this be the person here meant, we should read, "The Earl of Arran his _son_ was he." Glenriddel's copy reads, "a Highland laird I'm sure was he." Reciters sometimes call the messenger the Laird of Skene.--S. 60. Birkendale Brae, now commonly called _Birkendailly_, is steep descent on the south side of Minch-moor, which separates Tweeddale from Ettrick Forest; and from the top of which we have the first view of the woods of Hangingshaw, the Castle of Newark, and the romantic dale of Yarrow.--S. 63, Scott, _blows_: Aytoun, _bows_. 154. This is a place at the head of Moffat-water, possessed of old by the family of Halliday.--S. 173. This family were ancestors of the Murrays, Earls of Annandale; but the name of the representative, in the time of James IV., was William, not Andrew. Glenriddel's MS. reads, "the country-keeper."--S. 183. Before the Barony of Traquair became the property of the Stewarts, it belonged to a family of Murrays, afterwards Murrays of Black-barony, and ancestors of Lord Elibank. The old castle was situated on the Tweed. The lands of Traquair were forfeited by Willielmus de Moravia, previous to 1464; for, in that year, a charter, proceeding upon his forfeiture, was granted by the crown to "Willielmo Douglas de Cluny." Sir James was, perhaps, the heir of William Murray. It would farther seem, that the grant in 1464 was not made effectual by Douglas; for another charter from the crown, dated the 3d February, 1478, conveys the estate of Traquair to James Stewart, Earl of Buchan, son of the Black Knight of Lorne, and maternal uncle to James III., from whom is descended the present Earl of Traquair. The first royal grant not being followed by possession, it is very possible that the Murrays may have continued to occupy Traquair long after the date of that charter. Hence, Sir James might have reason to say, as in the ballad, "The King has gifted my lands lang syne."--S. 195, A ford on the Tweed, at the mouth of the Caddon Burn, near Yair.--S. 247. Permanscore is a very remarkable hollow on the top of a high ridge of hills, dividing the vales of Tweed and Yarrow, a little to the eastward of Minch-moor. It is the outermost point of the lands of Broadmeadows. The Glenriddel MS., which, in this instance, is extremely inaccurate as to names, calls the place of rendezvous, "_The Poor Man's House_," and hints that the Outlaw was surprised by the treachery of the King:-- "Then he was aware of the King's coming, With hundreds three in company, 'I wot the muckle deel * * * * * He learned Kingis to lie! For to fetch me here frae amang my men, Here, like a dog for to die.'" I believe the reader will think with me, that the catastrophe is better, as now printed from Mrs. Cockburn's copy. The deceit, supposed to be practised on the Outlaw, is unworthy of the military monarch, as he is painted in the ballad; especially if we admit him to be King James IV.--S. 312. In this and the following verse, the ceremony of feudal investiture is supposed to be gone through, by the Outlaw resigning his possessions into the hands of the king, and receiving them back, to be held of him as superior. The lands of Philiphaugh are still possessed by the Outlaw's representative. Hangingshaw and Lewinshope were sold of late years. Newark, Foulshiels, and Tinnies, have long belonged to the family of Buccleuch.--S. JOHNIE ARMSTRANG. "Johnie Armstrong, of Gilnockie, the hero of the following ballad, is a noted personage, both in history and tradition. He was, it would seem from the ballad, a brother of the Laird of Mangertoun, chief of the name. His place of residence (now a roofless tower) was at the Hollows, a few miles from Langholm, where its ruins still serve to adorn a scene, which, in natural beauty, has few equals in Scotland. At the head of a desperate band of freebooters, this Armstrong is said to have spread the terror of his name almost as far as Newcastle, and to have levied black-mail, or protection and forbearance money, for many miles round. James V., of whom it was long remembered by his grateful people that he made the "rush-bush keep the cow," about 1529, undertook an expedition through the Border counties, to suppress the turbulent spirit of the Marchmen. But before setting out upon his journey, he took the precaution of imprisoning the different Border chieftains, who were the chief protectors of the marauders. The Earl of Bothwell was forfeited, and confined in Edinburgh Castle. The Lords of Home and Maxwell, the Lairds of Buccleuch, Fairniherst, and Johnston, with many others, were also committed to ward. Cockburn of Henderland, and Adam Scott of Tushielaw, called the King of the Border, were publicly executed.--LESLEY, p. 430. The King then marched rapidly forward, at the head of a flying army of ten thousand men, through Ettrick Forest and Ewsdale. The evil genius of our Johnie Armstrong, or, as others say, the private advice of some courtiers, prompted him to present himself before James, at the head of thirty-six horse, arrayed in all the pomp of Border chivalry. Pitscottie uses nearly the words of the ballad, in describing the splendor of his equipment, and his high expectations of favor from the King. "But James, looking upon him sternly, said to his attendants, 'What wants that knave that a king should have?' and ordered him and his followers to instant execution."--"But John Armstrong," continues this minute historian, "made great offers to the King: That he should sustain himself, with forty gentlemen, ever ready at his service, on their own cost, without wronging any Scottishman: Secondly, that there was not a subject in England, duke, earl, or baron, but, within a certain day, he should bring him to his majesty, either quick or dead. At length, he seeing no hope of favor, said very proudly, 'It is folly to seek grace at a graceless face; but,' said he, 'had I known this, I should have lived upon the Borders in despite of King Harry and you both; for I know King Harry would _downweigh my best horse with gold_, to know that I were condemned to die this day."--PITSCOTTIE'S _History_, p. 145. Johnie and all his retinue were accordingly hanged upon growing trees, at a place called Carlenrig Chapel, about ten miles above Hawick, on the high road to Langholm. The country people believe, that, to manifest the injustice of the execution, the trees withered away. Armstrong and his followers were buried in a deserted churchyard, where their graves are still shown. "As this Border hero was a person of great note in his way, he is frequently alluded to by the writers of the time. Sir David Lindsay of the Mount, in the curious play published by Mr. Pinkerton, from the Bannatyne MS., introduces a pardoner, or knavish dealer in relics, who produces, among his holy rarities-- ----"The cordis, baith grit and lang, Quhilk hangit Johnnie Armstrang, Of gud hempt, soft and sound. Gud haly pepill, I stand ford, Quhavir beis hangit in this cord, Neidis nevir to be dround!" PINKERTON'S _Scottish Poems_, vol. ii. p. 69. "In _The Complaynt of Scotland_, John Armistrangis' dance, mentioned as a popular tune, has probably some reference to our hero." [See the _Musical Museum_, ed. 1853, vol. iv. p. 336.]--SCOTT'S _Minstrelsy_, i. 402. The ballad as here given is to be found in _A Collection of Old Ballads_, 1723, vol. i. p. 170. The whole title is: _Johnny Armstrang's Last Good-night, shewing how John Armstrong, with his eightscore men, fought a bloody battle with the Scotch King at Edenborough_. It had previously appeared in _Wit Restor'd_, 1658, p. 123, in very good shape, except the want of some stanzas towards the end. It is in this form, says Motherwell, that the story is preserved in the mouths of the people. Nevertheless, Allan Ramsay has inserted in his _Evergreen_ quite a different version, taken down from the mouth of a gentleman of the name of Armstrong, "the sixth generation from this John," which the reciter maintained to be the genuine ballad, "and the common one false." Ramsay's copy is subjoined, and the imperfect edition from _Wit Restor'd_ finds a place in the Appendix. The following verses, generally styled _Armstrong's Good-night_, are said to have been composed by one of that tribe who was executed in 1601 for the murder of Sir John Carmichael, Warden of the Middle Marches. They are from Johnson's _Museum_, p. 620, and are also found in Herd's _Scottish Songs_, ii. 182. In Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 127, there is a twaddling piece called _The Last Guid Night_, which is a sort of imitation of these stanzas. The night is my departing night, The morn's the day I maun awa, There's no a friend or fae of mine, But wishes that I were awa. What I hae done for lack o' wit I never never can reca'; I trust ye're a' my friends as yet, Gude night, and joy be wi' you a'. * * * * * Is there ever a man in all Scotland, From the highest estate to the lowest degree, That can shew himself now before our King? Scotland is so full of treachery. Yes, there is a man in Westmorland, 5 And Johnny Armstrong they do him call; He has no lands nor rents coming in, Yet he keeps eightscore men within his hall. He has horses and harness for them all, And goodly steeds that be milk-white, 10 With their goodly belts about their necks, With hats and feathers all alike. The King he writes a loving letter, And with his own hand so tenderly, And hath sent it unto Johnny Armstrong, 15 To come and speak with him speedily. When John he look'd this letter upon, He lok'd as blith as a bird in a tree; "I was never before a King in my life, My father, my grandfather, nor none of us three. 20 "But seeing we must go before the King, Lord, we will go most gallantly; Ye shall every one have a velvet coat, Laid down with golden laces three. "And every one shall have a scarlet cloak, 25 Laid down with silver laces five, With your golden belts about your necks, With hats and feathers all alike." But when Johnny went from Giltnock-Hall, The wind it blew hard, and full fast it did rain; "Now fare thee well, thou Giltnock-Hall, 30 I fear I shall never see thee again." Now Johnny he is to Edenborough gone, With his eightscore men so gallantly, And every one of them on a milk-white steed, 35 With their bucklers and swords hanging to their knee. But when John came the King before, With his eightscore men so gallant to see, The King he mov'd his bonnet to him, He thought he had been a king as well as he. 40 "O pardon, pardon, my sovereign liege, Pardon for my eightscore men and me; For my name, it is Johnny Armstrong, And subject of yours, my liege," said he. "Away with thee, thou false traytor, 45 No pardon will I grant to thee, But to-morrow morning by eight of the clock, I will hang up thy eightscore men and thee." Then Johnny look'd over his left shoulder, And to his merry men thus said he, 50 "I have asked grace of a graceless face, No pardon there is for you and me." Then John pull'd out his good broad sword, That was made of the mettle so free; Had not the King moved his foot as he did, 55 John had taken his head from his fair body. "Come, follow me, my merry men all, We will scorn one foot for to fly; It shall never be said we were hang'd like dogs; We will fight it out most manfully." 60 Then they fought on like champions bold, For their hearts were sturdy, stout, and free; 'Till they had kill'd all the King's good guard,-- There were none left alive but one, two, or three. But then rose up all Edenborough, 65 They rose up by thousands three; A cowardly Scot came John behind, And run him through the fair body. Said John, "Fight on, my merry men all, I am a little wounded, but am not slain; 70 I will lay me down to bleed a while, Then I'll rise and fight with you again." Then they fought on like mad men all, Till many a man lay dead on the plain, For they were resolved before they would yield, 75 That every man would there be slain. So there they fought couragiously, 'Till most of them lay dead there and slain, But little Musgrave, that was his foot-page, With his bonny Grissel got away unta'n. 80 But when he came to Giltnock-Hall, The Lady spy'd him presently; "What news, what news, thou little foot-page, What news from thy master, and his company?" "My news is bad, Lady," he said, 85 "Which I do bring, as you may see, My master Johnny Armstrong is slain, And all his gallant company. "Yet thou are welcome home, my bonny Grissel, Full oft thou hast been fed with corn and hay, 90 But now thou shalt be fed with bread and wine, And thy sides shall be spurr'd no more, I say." O then bespake his little son, As he sat on his nurse's knee, "If ever I live to be a man, 95 My father's death reveng'd shall be." JOHNIE ARMSTRANG. From Ramsay's _Evergreen_, ii. 190. Sum speiks of lords, sum speiks of lairds, And sicklike men of hie degrie; Of a gentleman I sing a sang, Sumtyme calld Laird of Gilnockie. The King he wrytes a luving letter, 5 With his ain hand sae tenderly, And he hath sent it to Johny Armstrang, To cum and speik with him speidily. The Elliots and Armstrangs did convene, They were a gallant company-- 10 "We'il ryde and meit our lawfull King, And bring him safe to Gilnockie. "Make kinnen and capon ready, then, And venison in great plenty; "We'il welcome hame our royal King; 15 I hope he'il dyne at Gilnockie!" They ran their horse on the Langholme howm,[L17] And brake their speirs with mekle main; The ladys lukit frae their loft windows-- "God bring our men weil back again!" 20 When Johny came before the King, With all his men so brave to see, The King he movit his bonnet to him; He wein'd he was a King as well as he. "May I find grace, my sovereign liege, 25 Grace for my loyal men and me? For my name it is Johny Armstrang, And subject of yours, my liege," said he. "Away, away, thou traytor strang! Out of my sicht sune mayst thou be![L30] 30 I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, And now I'll not begin with thee." "Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my King! And a bonny gift I will give to thee-- Full four-and-twenty milk-whyt steids, 35 Were a' foald in a yeir to me. "I'll gie thee all these milk-whyt steids, That prance and nicher at a speir; With as mekle gude Inglis gilt, As four of their braid backs dow beir." 40 "Away, away, thou traytor strang! Out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be! I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, And now I'll not begin with thee!" "Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my King! 45 And a bonny gift I'll gie to thee-- Gude four-and-twenty ganging mills, That gang throw a' the yeir to me. "These four-and-twenty mills complete Sall gang for thee throw all the yeir; 50 And as mekle of gude reid wheit, As all thair happers dow to bear." "Away, away, thou traytor strang! Out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be! I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, 55 And now I'll not begin with thee." "Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my King! And a great gift I'll gie to thee-- Bauld four-and-twenty sisters' sons, Sall for thee fecht, tho all sould flee!" 60 "Away, away, thou traytor strang! Out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be! I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, And now I'll not begin with thee." "Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my King! 65 And a brave gift I'll gie to thee-- All betwene heir and Newcastle town Sall pay their yeirly rent to thee." "Away, away, thou traytor strang! Out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be! 70 I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, And now I'll not begin with thee." "Ye lied, ye lied, now, King," he says, "Althocht a king and prince ye be! For I luid naithing in all my lyfe, 75 I dare well say it, but honesty-- "But a fat horse, and a fair woman, Twa bonny dogs to kill a deir; But Ingland suld haif found me meil and malt, Gif I had livd this hundred yeir! 80 "Scho suld haif found me meil and malt, And beif and mutton in all plentie; But neir a Scots wyfe could haif said, That eir I skaithd her a pure flie. "To seik het water beneth cauld yce, 85 Surely it is a great folie; I haif asked grace at a graceles face, But there is nane for my men and me! "But had I kend, or I came frae hame, How thou unkind wadst bene to me, 90 I wad haif kept the Border syde, In spyte of all thy force and thee. "Wist Englands King that I was tane, O gin a blyth man wald he be! For anes I slew his sisters son, 95 And on his breist-bane brak a tree." John wore a girdle about his midle, Imbroidred owre with burning gold, Bespangled wi' the same mettle Maist beautifull was to behold. 100 Ther hang nine targats at Johnys hat, And ilka an worth three hundred pound-- "What wants that knave that a King suld haif, But the sword of honour and the crown? "O whair gat thou these targats, Johnie, 105 That blink sae brawly abune thy brie?" "I gat them in the field fechting, Wher, cruel King, thou durst not be. "Had I my horse, and harness gude, And ryding as I wont to be, 110 It sould haif bene tald this hundred yeir, The meiting of my King and me! "God be withee, Kirsty, my brither, Lang live thou Laird of Mangertoun! Lang mayst thou live on the Border syde, 115 Or thou se thy brither ryde up and doun. "And God be withee, Kirsty, my son, Whair thou sits on thy nursees knee! But and thou live this hundred yeir, Thy fathers better thou'lt never be. 120 Farweil, my bonny Gilnock-Hall, Whair on Esk syde thou standest stout! Gif I had leived but seven yeirs mair, I wald haif gilt thee round about." John murdred was at Carlinrigg, 125 And all his galant companie; But Scotlands heart was never sae wae, To see sae mony brave men die. Because they savd their country deir Frae Englishmen: nane were sae bauld, 130 Whyle Johnie livd on the Border syde, Nane of them durst cum neir his hald. 17. Langum hown. 30. thou mayst sune. HUGHIE GRAHAM. Of the two editions of this ballad which follow, the first is taken from _The Scots Musical Museum_ (p. 312), to which it was contributed by Burns. Burns states that he obtained his copy from oral tradition in Ayrshire, but he had certainly retouched several stanzas (the ninth and tenth, says Cromek), and the third and eighth are entirely of his composition. The other copy is from the _Border Minstrelsy_, and consists of a version "long current in Selkirkshire" (procured for Scott by Mr. William Laidlaw), which also has been slightly improved by the pen of the editor. In the Appendix we have placed the story as it occurs in Durfey's _Pills to purge Melancholy_, and in Ritson's _Ancient Songs_. The seventeenth volume of the Percy Society Publications furnishes us with a Scottish version in which Sir Hugh is rescued and sent over the sea: _Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Ballads_, p. 73. These, we believe, are all the published forms of this ballad, unless we mention Mr. Allan Cunningham's _réchauffé_ of Burns, in his _Songs of Scotland_, i. 327. "According to _tradition_," says Mr. Stenhouse, "Robert Aldridge, Bishop of Carlisle, about the year 1560, seduced the wife of Hugh Graham, one of those bold and predatory chiefs who so long inhabited what was called the Debatable Land, on the English and Scottish border. Graham, being unable to bring so powerful a prelate to justice, in revenge made an excursion into Cumberland, and carried off _inter alia_, a fine mare belonging to the bishop (!) but being closely pursued by Sir John Scroope, warden of Carlisle, with a party on horseback, was apprehended near Solway Moss, and carried to Carlisle, where he was tried and convicted of felony. Great intercessions were made to save his life; but the bishop, it is said, being determined to remove the chief obstacle to his guilty passions, remained inexorable, and poor Graham fell a victim to his own indiscretion and his wife's infidelity. Anthony Wood observes that there were many changes in this prelate's time, both in church and state, but that he retained his offices and preferments during them all."--_Musical Museum_, iv. 297. Our lords are to the mountains gane, A hunting o' the fallow deer, And they hae gripet Hughie Graham, For stealing o' the Bishop's mare. And they hae tied him hand and foot, 5 And led him up thro' Stirling town; The lads and lasses met him there, Cried, "Hughie Graham, thou art a loun." "O lowse my right hand free," he says, "And put my braid sword in the same, 10 He's no in Stirling town this day, Daur tell the tale to Hughie Graham." Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord, As he sat by the bishop's knee, "Five hundred white stots I'll gie you, 15 If ye'll let Hughie Graham gae free." "O haud your tongue," the bishop says, "And wi' your pleading let me be; For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, Hughie Graham this day shall die." 20 Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord, As she sat by the bishop's knee; "Five hundred white pence I'll gie you, If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me." "O haud your tongue now, lady fair, 25 And wi' your pleading let it be; Altho' ten Grahams were in his coat, It's for my honour he maun die." They've taen him to the gallows knowe, He looked to the gallows tree, 30 Yet never colour left his cheek, Nor ever did he blin' his e'e. At length he looked round about, To see whatever he could spy, And there he saw his auld father, 35 And he was weeping bitterly. "O haud your tongue, my father dear. And wi' your weeping let it be; Thy weeping's sairer on my heart, 40 Than a' that they can do to me. "And ye may gie my brother John My sword that's bent in the middle clear, And let him come at twelve o'clock, And see me pay the bishop's mare. "And ye may gie my brother James 45 My sword that's bent in the middle brown, And bid him come at four o'clock, And see his brother Hugh cut down. "Remember me to Maggy, my wife, The niest time ye gang o'er the moor; 50 Tell her, she staw the bishop's mare, Tell her, she was the bishop's whore. "And ye may tell my kith and kin I never did disgrace their blood, And when they meet the bishop's cloak, 55 To mak it shorter by the hood." HUGHIE THE GRÆME. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, iii. 110. Gude Lord Scroope's to the hunting gane, He has ridden o'er moss and muir; And he has grippet Hughie the Græme, For stealing o' the Bishop's mare. "Now, good Lord Scroope, this may not be! 5 Here hangs a broadsword by my side; And if that thou canst conquer me, The matter it may soon be tryed." "I ne'er was afraid of a traitor thief; Although thy name be Hughie the Græme, 10 "I'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds, If God but grant me life and time." "Then do your worst now, good Lord Scroope, And deal your blows as hard as you can; It shall be tried within an hour, 15 Which of us two is the better man." But as they were dealing their blows so free, And both so bloody at the time, Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall, All for to take brave Hughie the Græme. 20 Then they hae grippit Hughie the Græme, And brought him up through Carlisle town; The lasses and lads stood on the walls, Crying, "Hughie the Græme, thou'se ne'er gae down!" Then they hae chosen a jury of men, 25 The best that were in Carlisle town; And twelve of them cried out at once, "Hughie the Græme, thou must gae down!" Then up bespak him gude Lord Hume, As he sat by the judge's knee, 30 "Twenty white owsen, my gude lord, If you'll grant Hughie the Græme to me." "O no, O no, my gude Lord Hume, Forsooth and sae it mauna be; For were there but three Græmes of the name, 35 They suld be hanged a' for me." 'Twas up and spake the gude Lady Hume, As she sat by the judge's knee, "A peck of white pennies, my good lord judge, If you'll grant Hughie the Græme to me." 40 "O no, O no, my gude Lady Hume, Forsooth and so it must na be; Were he but the one Græme of the name, He suld be hanged high for me." "If I be guilty," said Hughie the Græme, 45 "Of me my friends shall have small talk;" And he has louped fifteen feet and three, Though his hands they were tied behind his back. He looked over his left shoulder, And for to see what he might see; 50 There was he aware of his auld father, Came tearing his hair most piteouslie. "O hald your tongue, my father," he says, "And see that ye dinna weep for me! For they may ravish me o' my life, 55 But they canna banish me fro' Heaven hie. "Fair ye weel, fair Maggie, my wife! The last time we came ower the muir, 'Twas thou bereft me of my life, And wi' the Bishop thou play'd the whore. 60 "Here, Johnie Armstrang, take thou my sword, That is made o' the metal sae fine; And when thou comest to the English side, Remember the death of Hughie the Græme." KINMONT WILLIE. In the year 1596, Mr. Salkeld, the deputy of Lord Scroope, the English warden of the West Marches, and Robert Scott, the representative of the Laird of Buccleuch, then keeper of Liddesdale, held a meeting on the border line of the kingdoms, according to the custom of the times, for the purpose of arranging such differences, and redressing such grievances, as either party might have to allege. On these occasions a truce was always proclaimed, inviolable on pain of death, from the day of the meeting to the next day at sunrise. After the conference in question, as William Armstrong of Kinmonth, a notorious freebooter, whose ordinary style was Kinmont Willie, was returning to his home, accompanied by only three or four persons, he was pursued by a couple of hundred Englishmen, taken prisoner, and in contravention of the truce, lodged in the castle of Carlisle. The Laird of Buccleuch sought to obtain the enfranchisement of his client and retainer, through the mediation, first of the English warden, and then of the Scottish ambassador. Receiving no satisfaction, he took the matter into his own hands, raised a party of two hundred horse, surprised the castle of Carlisle, and carried off the prisoner by main force. This dashing achievement was performed on the 13th of April, 1596. According to a rhymester who celebrated the daring feat of Buccleuch about a hundred years later, Kinmont Willie was a descendant of Johnie Armstrong of Gilnockie. Interesting details of the surprise of the castle, and further notices of Kinmont Willie are given by Scott in the _Border Minstrelsy_ (ii. 32), where the ballad was first published. "This ballad is preserved," says Scott, "on the West Borders, but much mangled by reciters, so that some conjectural emendations have been absolutely necessary to render it intelligible." O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde? O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope? How they hae ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie, On Haribee to hang him up?[L4] Had Willie had but twenty men, 5 But twenty men as stout as he, Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en, Wi' eight score in his cumpanie. They band his legs beneath the steed, They tied his hands behind his back; 10 They guarded him, fivesome on each side, And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack. They led him thro' the Liddel-rack,[L13] And also thro' the Carlisle sands; They brought him to Carlisle castell, 15 To be at my Lord Scroope's commands. "My hands are tied, but my tongue is free, And whae will dare this deed avow? Or answer by the Border law? Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?" 20 "Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver! There's never a Scot shall set thee free: Before ye cross my castle yate, I trow ye shall take farewell o' me." "Fear na ye that, my lord," quo' Willie: 25 "By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroope," he said, "I never yet lodged in a hostelrie, But I paid my lawing before I gaed." Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper, In Branksome Ha' where that he lay, 30 That Lord Scroope has ta'en the Kinmont Willie, Between the hours of night and day. He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, He garr'd the red wine spring on hie-- "Now Christ's curse on my head," he said, 35 "But avenged of Lord Scroope I'll be! "O is my basnet a widow's curch? Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree? Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand, That an English lord should lightly me! 40 "And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Against the truce of Border tide, And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch Is keeper here on the Scottish side? "And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, 45 Withouten either dread or fear, And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch Can back a steed, or shake a spear? "O were there war between the lands, As well I wot that there is none, 50 I would slight Carlisle castell high, Though it were builded of marble stone. "I would set that castell in a low, And sloken it with English blood! There's never a man in Cumberland, 55 Should ken where Carlisle castell stood. "But since nae war's between the lands, And there is peace, and peace should be; I'll neither harm English lad or lass, And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!" 60 He has call'd him forty Marchmen bauld, I trow they were of his ain name, Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, call'd The Laird of Stobs, I mean the same. He has call'd him forty Marchmen bauld, 65 Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch; With spur on heel, and splent on spauld, And gleuves of green, and feathers blue. There were five and five before them a', Wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright: 70 And five and five came wi' Buccleuch, Like warden's men, array'd for fight. And five and five, like a mason gang, That carried the ladders lang and hie; And five and five, like broken men; 75 And so they reach'd the Woodhouselee.[L76] And as we cross'd the Bateable Land, When to the English side we held, The first o' men that we met wi', Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde? 80 "Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?" Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell to me!" "We go to hunt an English stag, Has trespass'd on the Scots countrie." "Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?" 85 Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell me true!" "We go to catch a rank reiver, Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch." "Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, Wi' a' your ladders lang and hie?" 90 "We gang to herry a corbie's nest, That wons not far frae Woodhouselee." "Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?" Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell to me!" Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band, 95 And the nevir a word of lear had he. "Why trespass ye on the English side? Row-footed outlaws, stand!" quo' he; The nevir a word had Dickie to say, Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie. 100 Then on we held for Carlisle toun, And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we cross'd;[L102] The water was great and meikle of spait, But the nevir a horse nor man we lost. And when we reach'd the Staneshaw-bank, 105 The wind was rising loud and hie; And there the Laird garr'd leave our steeds, For fear that they should stamp and nie. And when we left the Staneshaw-bank, The wind began full loud to blaw; 110 But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, When we came beneath the castle wa'. We crept on knees, and held our breath, Till we placed the ladders against the wa'; And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell 115 To mount the first before us a'. He has ta'en the watchman by the throat, He flung him down upon the lead-- "Had there not been peace between our lands, Upon the other side thou hadst gaed! 120 "Now sound out, trumpets!" quo' Buccleuch; "Let's waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!" Then loud the warden's trumpet blew-- _O wha dare meddle wi' me_?[L124] Then speedilie to wark we gaed, 125 And raised the slogan ane and a', And cut a hole through a sheet of lead, And so we wan to the castle ha'. They thought King James and a' his men Had won the house wi' bow and spear; 130 It was but twenty Scots and ten, That put a thousand in sic a stear! Wi' coulters, and wi' forehammers, We garr'd the bars bang merrilie, Until we came to the inner prison, 135 Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie. And when we cam to the lower prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie-- "O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie, Upon the morn that thou's to die?" 140 "O I sleep saft, and I wake aft, It's lang since sleeping was fley'd frae me; Gie my service back to my wife and bairns, And a' gude fellows that spier for me." Then Red Rowan has hente him up, 145 The starkest man in Teviotdale-- "Abide, abide now, Red Rowan, Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell. "Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope! My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!" he cried-- 150 "I'll pay you for my lodging maill, When first we meet on the Border side." Then shoulder high, with shout and cry, We bore him down the ladder lang; At every stride Red Rowan made, 155 I wot the Kinmont's airns play'd clang. "O mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie, "I have ridden horse baith wild and wood; But a rougher beast than Red Rowan I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode. 160 "And mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie, "I've prick'd a horse out oure the furs; But since the day I back'd a steed, I never wore sic cumbrous spurs." We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank, 165 When a' the Carlisle bells were rung, And a thousand men on horse and foot Cam wi' the keen Lord Scroope along. Buccleuch has turn'd to Eden Water, Even where it flow'd frae bank to brim, 170 And he has plunged in wi' a' his band, And safely swam them through the stream. He turn'd him on the other side, And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he-- "If ye like na my visit in merry England, 175 In fair Scotland come visit me!" All sore astonish'd stood Lord Scroope, He stood as still as rock of stane; He scarcely dared to trew his eyes, When through the water they had gane. 180 "He is either himsell a devil frae hell, Or else his mother a witch maun be; I wadna have ridden that wan water For a' the gowd in Christentie." 4. Haribee is the place of execution at Carlisle.--S. 13. The Liddel-rack is a ford on the Liddel.--S. 76. A house on the Border, belonging to Buccleuch.--S. 102. Eden has been substituted for Eske, the latter name being inconsistent with geography.--S. 124. The name of a Border tune.--S. DICK O' THE COW. From Caw's _Poetical Museum_, p. 22. The personage from whom this ballad is named was jester to Lord Scroop, who was warden of the West Marches of England from 1590 to 1603. The Laird's Jock, that is John, the son of the Laird of Mangerton, "appears as one of the _men of name_ in Liddesdale, in the list of the Border Clans, 1597." _Dick o' the Cow_ is closely connected with _Jock o' the Side_ and _Hobie Noble_, which follow shortly after. All three were first printed in Caw's _Museum_, and seem to have been contributed by a Mr. Elliot, a Liddesdale gentleman, to whom Sir W. Scott acknowledges many obligations. We are told that both _Dick o' the Cow_ and _Jock o' the Side_ were until lately so popular in Liddesdale with all classes of people, that they were invariably sung, from beginning to end, at every festive meeting. The ballad of _Dick o' the Cow_ was well known in England as early as 1596. "An allusion to it likewise occurs in PARROT'S _Laquei Ridiculosi_, or _Springes for Woodcocks_; London, 1613. "Owenus wondreth since he came to Wales, What the description of this isle should be, That nere had seen but mountains, hills, and dales, Yet would he boast, and stand on pedigree, From Rice ap Richard, sprung from _Dick a Cow_, Be cod, was right gud gentleman, look ye now!" _Epigr. 76._--SCOTT. Now Liddisdale has lyan lang in, There is nae riding there at a'; The horses are grown sae lidder fat, They downa stur out o' the sta'. Then Johnie Armstrong to Willie can say-- 5 "Billie, a riding then we'll gae; England and us has been lang at a feid; Ablins we'll hit on some bootie." Then they're com'd on to Hutton Ha', They rade the proper place about; 10 But the laird he was the wiser man, For he had left nae gear without. Then he had left nae gear to steal, Except sax sheep upon a lee: Quo' Johnie--"I'd rather in England die, 15 Ere thir sax sheep gae t' Liddisdale wi' me. "But how ca'd they the man we last met, Billie, as we cam o'er the know?" "That same he is an innocent fool, And some men ca' him Dick o' the Cow." 20 "That fool has three as good ky o' his ain, As there's in a' Cumberland, billie," quo' he: "Betide me life, betide me death, These three ky shall gae t' Liddisdale wi' me." Then they're com'd on to the poor fool's house, 25 And they hae broken his wa's sae wide; They have loos'd out Dick o' the Cow's three ky, And tane three co'erlets aff his wife's bed. Then on the morn, whan the day was light, The shouts and cries rose loud and hie: 30 "O had thy tongue, my wife," he says, "And o' thy crying let me be! "O had thy tongue, my wife," he says, "And of thy crying let me be; And aye that where thou wants a cow, 35 In good sooth I'll bring thee three." Then Dickie's com'd on for's lord and master, And I wat a dreirie fool was he; "Now had thy tongue, my fool," he says, "For I may not stand to jest wi' thee." 40 "Shame speed a' your jesting, my lord!" quo' Dickie, "For nae sic jesting grees wi' me; Liddisdale's been i' my house last night, And they hae tane my three ky frae me. "But I may nae langer in Cumberland dwell, 45 To be your poor fool and your leal, Unless ye gi' me leave, my lord, T' gae t' Liddisdale and steal." "I gi' thee leave, my fool," he says; "Thou speakest against my honour and me, 50 Unless thou gi' me thy trowth and thy hand, Thou'lt steal frae nane but wha sta' frae thee." "There is my trowth, and my right hand! My head shall hang on Hairibee,[L54] I'll near cross Carlisle sands again, 55 If I steal frae a man but wha sta' frae me." Dickie's tane leave at lord and master, And I wat a merry fool was he; He's bought a bridle and a pair o' new spurs, And pack'd them up in his breek thigh. 60 Then Dickie's come on for Pudding-burn,[L61] E'en as fast as he might drie; Now Dickie's come on for Pudding-burn, Where there were thirty Armstrongs and three. "O what's this com'd o' me now?" quo' Dickie; 65 "What meikle wae's this happen'd o' me? quo' he; Where here is but ae innocent fool, And there is thirty Armstrongs and three!" Yet he's com'd up to the ha' amang them a', Sae weil he's became his curtesie! 70 "Weil may ye be, my good Laird's Jock! But the de'il bless a' your companie. "I'm come to 'plain o' your man, fair Johnie Armstrong, And syne o' his billie Willie," quo' he; "How they hae been i' my house the last night, 75 And they hae tane my three ky frae me." Quo' Johnie Armstrong, "We will him hang;" "Na then," quo' Willie, "we'll him slae;" But up and bespake anither young man, "We'll gie 'im his batts, and let him gae." 80 Then up and bespake the good Laird's Jock, The best falla in a' the companie; "Sit thy ways down a little while, Dickie, And a piece o' thy ain cow's hough I'll gi' thee." But Dickie's heart it grew sae great, 85 That ne'er a bit o't he dought to eat; Then Dickie was ware o' an auld peat-house, Where a' the night he thought for to sleep. Then Dickie was ware o' an auld peat-house, Where a' the night he thought for to ly; 90 And a' the prayers the poor fool pray'd, "I wish I had amense for my ain three ky!" Then it was the use of Pudding-burn, And the house of Mangerton, all haill,[L94] These that cam na at the first ca', 95 They got nae mair meat t' the neist meal. The lads, that hungry and weary were, Aboon the door-head they hang the key; Dickie he took good notice to that, Says--"There's a bootie yonder for me." 100 Then Dickie into the stable is gane, Where there stood thirty horses and three; He has tied them a' wi' St. Mary's knot,[L103] A' these horses but barely three. He has tied them a' wi' St. Mary's knot, 105 A' these horses but barely three; He's loupen on ane, tane anither in hand, And out at the door and gane is Dickie. Then on the morn, whan the day grew light, The shouts and cries rose loud and hie-- 110 "O where's that thief?" quo' the good Laird's Jock, "Tell me the truth and the veritie!" "O where's that thief?" quo' the good Laird's Jock; "See unto me ye dinna lie!"-- "Dickie's been i' the stable last night, 115 And has my brother's horse and mine frae me." "Ye wad ne'er be tall'd," quo' the good Laird's Jock; "Have ye not found my tales fu' leel? Ye wad ne'er out o' England bide, Till crooked, and blind, and a' wad steal." 120 "But lend me thy bay," Johnie Armstrong can say; "There's nae horse loose in the stable but he; And I'll either bring Dick o' the Cow again, Or the day is come that he shall die." "To lend thee my bay!" the Laird's Jock can say, 125 "He's worth baith goud and good monie: Dick o' the Cow has away twa horse: I wish na thou may make him three." He's tane the laird's jack on his back, A twa-handed sword that hang by his thigh; 130 He's tane the steel cap on his head, And on is he gane to follow Dickie. Then Dickie was na a mile aff the town, I wat a mile but barely three, Till he's o'ertane by Johnie Armstrong, 135 Hand for hand, on Cannobie lee.[L136] "Abide, abide now, Dickie, than, The day is come that thou maun die;" Then Dickie look'd o'er his left shoulder, "Johnie, has thou any moe in companie? 140 "There is a preacher in our chapel, And a' the lee-lang day teaches he: Whan day is gane and night is come, There's ne'er ae word I mark but three. "The first and second is--Faith and Conscience; 145 The third--Ne'er let a traitour free: But, Johnie, what faith and conscience hadst thou, Whan thou took my three ky frae me? "And when thou had tane away my three ky, Thou thought in thy heart thou was no well sped, 150 But sent thy billie Willie o'er the know, And he took three co'erlets aff my wife's bed." Then Johnie let a spear fa' laigh by his thigh, Thought weil to hae slain the innocent, I trow; But the powers above were mair than he, 155 For he ran but the poor fool's jerkin through. Together they ran, or ever they blan, This was Dickie the fool and he; Dickie coud na win to him wi' the blade o' the sword, But feld 'im wi' the plumet under the eie. 160 Now Dickie has feld fair Johnie Armstrong, The prettiest man in the south countrie; "Gramercy!" then can Dickie say, "I had but twa horse, thou has made me three." He has tane the laird's jack aff his back, 165 The twa-handed sword that hang by his thigh; He has tane the steel cap aff his head-- "Johnie, I'll tell my master I met wi' thee." When Johnie wakened out o' his dream, I wat a drierie man was he: 170 "And is thou gane, now, Dickie, than? The shame gae in thy companie! "And is thou gane, now, Dickie, than? The shame gae in thy companie! For if I should live this hundred years, 175 I ne'er shall fight wi' a fool after thee." Then Dickie's come hame to lord and master, E'en as fast as he may drie; "Now, Dickie, I'll neither eat nor drink, Till hie hanged thou shalt be." 180 "The shame speed the liars, my lord!" quo' Dickie; "That was no the promise ye made to me! For I'd ne'er gane t' Liddisdale t' steal, Till I had got my leave at thee." "But what gard thou steal the Laird's Jock's horse? 185 And, limmer, what gard thou steal him?" quo' he; "For lang might thou in Cumberland dwelt, Ere the Laird's Jock had stawn frae thee."[L188] "Indeed I wat ye lied, my lord! And e'en sae loud as I hear ye lie! 190 I wan him frae his man, fair Johnie Armstrong, Hand for hand, on Cannobie lee. "There's the jack was on his back, This twa-handed sword that hang laigh by his thigh, And there's the steel cap was on his head; 195 I hae a' these takens to let thee see." "If that be true thou to me tells, (I trow thou dare na tell a lie,) I'll gi' thee twenty punds for the good horse, Weil tel'd in thy cloak lap shall be. 200 "And I'll gi' thee ane o' my best milk-ky, To maintain thy wife and children three; And that may be as good, I think, As ony twa o' thine might be." "The shame speed the liers, my lord!" quo' Dickie; 205 "Trow ye aye to make a fool o' me? I'll either hae thirty punds for the good horse, Or he's gae t' Mortan fair wi' me." He's gi'en him thirty punds for the good horse, All in goud and good monie; 210 He has gi'en him ane o' his best milk-ky, To maintain his wife and children three. Then Dickie's came down through Carlisle town, E'en as fast as he might drie: The first o' men that he met with, 215 Was my Lord's brother, Bayliff Glozenburrie. "Weil may ye be, my gude Ralph Scroope!"-- "Welcome, my brother's fool!" quo' he: "Where did thou get fair Johnie Armstrong's horse?" "Where did I get him, but steal him," quo' he. 220 "But wilt thou sell me fair Johnie Armstrong's horse? And, billie, wilt thou sell him to me?" quo' he: "Aye, and tell me the monie on my cloak lap: For there's no ae fardin I'll trust thee." "I'll gi' thee fifteen punds for the good horse, 225 Weil tel'd on thy cloak lap shall be; And I'll gi' thee ane o' my best milk-ky, To maintain thy wife and children three." "The shame speed the liers, my lord!" quo' Dickie; "Trow ye aye to make a fool o' me?" quo' he; 230 "I'll either hae thirty punds for the good horse, Or he's gae t' Mortan fair wi' me." He's gi'en him thirty punds for the gude horse, All in goud and good monie; He has gi'en him ane o' his best milk-ky, 235 To maintain his wife and children three. Then Dickie lap a loup fu' hie, And I wat a loud laugh laughed he-- "I wish the neck o' the third horse were broken, For I hae a better o' my ain, if better can be." 240 Then Dickie's com'd hame to his wife again, Judge ye how the poor fool sped; He has gi'en her three score English punds, For the three auld co'erlets was tane aff her bed. "Hae, tak thee these twa as good ky, 245 I trow, as a' thy three might be; And yet here is [a] white-footed nagie, I think he'll carry baith thee and me. "But I may nae langer in Cumberland bide; The Armstrongs they'll hang me hie:"-- 250 So Dickie's tane leave at lord and master, And [at] Burgh under Stanmuir there dwells he. 54. The place of execution at Carlisle.--P. M. 61. This was a house of strength held by the Armstrongs. The ruins at present form a sheep-fold on the farm of Reidsmoss, belonging to the Duke of Buccleuch.--S. 94. The Laird of Mangerton was chief of the clan Armstrong--S. 103. Hamstringing a horse is termed, in the Border dialect, _tying him with St. Mary's knot_. Dickie used this cruel expedient to prevent a pursuit. It appears from the narration, that the horses left unhurt, belonged to fair Johnie Armstrang, his brother Willie, and the Laird's Jock--of which Dickie carried off two, and left that of the Laird's Jock, probably out of gratitude for the protection he had afforded him on his arrival.--S. 136. A rising-ground on Cannobie, on the borders of Liddesdale.--P. M. 188. The commendation of the Laird's Jock's honesty seems but indifferently founded; for, in July, 1586, a bill was fouled against him, Dick of Dryup, and others, by the Deputy of Bewcastle, at a warden-meeting, for 400 head of cattle taken in open foray from the Drysike in Bewcastle: and in September, 1587, another complaint appears at the instance of one Andrew Rutlege of the Nook, against the Laird's Jock, and his accomplices, for 50 kine and oxen, besides furniture, to the amount of 100 merks sterling. See Bell's MSS., as quoted in the _History of Cumberland and Westmoreland_. In Sir Richard Maitland's poem against the thieves of Liddesdale, he thus commemorates the Laird's Jock:-- "They spuilye puir men of their pakis, They leif them nocht on bed nor bakis: Baith hen and cok, With reil and rok, The _Lairdis Jock_ All with him takis."--S. JOCK O' THE SIDE. From Caw's _Poetical Museum_, p. 145. The rescue of a prisoner from the hands of justice was a very favourite subject with ballad-makers, and, it is to be feared, no uncommon event in the actual experience of the police of former days. We have in the fifth volume seen how such an affair was conducted by Robin Hood and his associates; and in _Kinmont Willie_ have had an authenticated account of a remarkable exploit of this description at the close of the reign of Elizabeth. The two ballads which follow have this same theme; but only the authority of tradition. _Jock o' the Side_ has one circumstance in common with _Kinmont Willie_--the daring passage of the river: with _Archie of Ca'field_ it agrees throughout. Jock o' the Side would seem to have been nephew to the Laird of Mangertoun (the chief of the clan Armstrong), and consequently cousin to the Laird's Jock. Scott suggests that he was probably brother to Christie of the Syde, mentioned in the list of Border clans, 1597. Both of these worthies receive special notice in Maitland's complaint _Against the Thieves of Liddisdale_. "He is weil kend, Johne of the Syde; A greater thief did never ryde; He nevir tyris For to brek byris, Our muir and myris Ouir gude ane guide." Scott has pointed out that Jock o' the Side assisted the Earl of Westmoreland in his escape after his insurrection with the Earl of Northumberland, in the twelfth year of Elizabeth. "Now Liddisdale has ridden a raid, But I wat they had better staid at hame; For Mitchel o' Winfield he is dead, And my son Johnie is prisoner ta'en." For Mangerton-House Auld Downie is gane, 5 Her coats she has kilted up to her knee; And down the water wi' speed she rins, While tears in spaits fa' fast frae her eie. Then up and bespake the Lord Mangerton, "What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?" 10 "Bad news, bad news, my Lord Mangerton; Mitchel is kill'd, and tane they hae my son Johnie." "Ne'er fear, sister Downie," quo' Mangerton; "I hae yokes of oxen, four and twentie; My barns, my byres, and my faulds, a' weel fill'd, 15 And I'll part wi' them a', ere Johnie shall die. "Three men I'll take to set him free, Weel harness'd a' wi' best o' steel; The English rogues may hear, and drie The weight o' their braid-swords to feel. 20 "The Laird's Jock ane, the Laird's Wat twa, O Hobie Noble, thou ane maun be; Thy coat is blue, thou has been true, Since England banish'd thee, to me." Now Hobie was an English man, 25 In Bewcastle-dale was bred and born; But his misdeeds they were sae great, They banish'd him ne'er to return. Lord Mangerton them orders gave, "Your horses the wrang way maun a' be shod; 30 Like gentlemen ye must not seem, But look like corn-caugers gawn ae road. "Your armour gude ye maunna shaw, Nor ance appear like men o' weir; As country lads be all array'd, 35 Wi' branks and brecham on ilk mare." Sae now a' their horses are shod the wrang way, And Hobie has mounted his grey sae fine; Jock his lively bay, Wat's on his white horse behind, And on they rode for the water o' Tyne. 40 At the Cholerford they a' light down,[L41] And there, wi' the help o' the light o' the moon, A tree they cut, wi' fifteen naggs upo' ilk side, To climb up the wa' o' Newcastle town. But when they cam to Newcastle town, 45 And were alighted at the wa', They fand their tree three ells o'er laigh, They fand their stick baith short and sma'. Then up and spake the Laird's ain Jock, "There's naething for't, the gates we maun force;" 50 But when they cam the gates unto, A proud porter withstood baith men and horse. His neck in twa I wat they hae wrung, Wi' hand or foot he ne'er play'd paw; His life and his keys at anes they hae tane, 55 And cast his body ahind the wa'. Now soon they reach Newcastle jail, And to the pris'ner thus they call; "Sleips thou, wakes thou, Jock o' the Side, Or is thou wearied o' thy thrall?" 60 Jock answers thus, wi' dolefu' tone-- "Aft, aft I wake--I seldom sleip: But wha's this kens my name sae weel, And thus to hear my waes do[es] seek?" Then up and spake the good Laird's Jock, 65 "Ne'er fear ye now, my billie," quo' he; "For here's the Laird's Jock, the Laird's Wat, And Hobie Noble, come to set thee free." "O had thy tongue, and speak nae mair, And o' thy tawk now let me be; 70 For if a' Liddisdale were here the night, The morn's the day that I maun die. "Full fifteen stane o' Spanish iron, They hae laid a' right sair on me; Wi' locks and keys I am fast bound 75 Into this dungeon mirk and drearie." "Fear ye no that," quo' the Laird's Jock; "A faint heart ne'er wan a fair ladie; Work thou within, we'll work without, And I'll be bound we set thee free." 80 The first strong dore that they came at, They loosed it without a key; The next chain'd dore that they cam at, They gar'd it a' in flinders flee. The pris'ner now, upo' his back, 85 The Laird's Jock's gotten up fu' hie; And down the stair, him, irons and a', Wi' nae sma' speed and joy brings he. "Now, Jock, I wat," quo' Hobie Noble, "Part o' the weight ye may lay on me;" 90 "I wat weel no!" quo' the Laird's Jock, "I count him lighter than a flee." Sae out at the gates they a' are gane, The pris'ner's set on horseback hie; And now wi' speed they've tane the gate, 95 While ilk ane jokes fu' wantonlie. "O Jock, sae winsomely's ye ride, Wi' baith your feet upo' ae side! Sae weel's ye're harness'd, and sae trig, In troth ye sit like ony bride!" 100 The night, tho' wat, they didna mind, But hied them on fu' mirrilie, Until they cam to Cholerford brae, Where the water ran like mountains hie. But when they came to Cholerford, 105 There they met with an auld man; Says--"Honest man, will the water ride? Tell us in haste, if that ye can." "I wat weel no," quo' the good auld man; "Here I hae liv'd this threty yeirs and three, 110 And I ne'er yet saw the Tyne sae big, Nor rinning ance sae like a sea." Then up and spake the Laird's saft Wat, The greatest coward in the company-- "Now halt, now halt, we needna try't; 115 The day is com'd we a' maun die!" "Poor faint-hearted thief!" quo' the Laird's ain Jock, "There'll nae man die but he that's fie; I'll lead ye a' right safely through; Lift ye the pris'ner on ahint me." 120 Sae now the water they a' hae tane, By anes and twas they a' swam through; "Here are we a' safe," says the Laird's Jock, "And, poor faint Wat, what think ye now?" They scarce the ither side had won, 125 When twenty men they saw pursue; Frae Newcastle town they had been sent, A' English lads, right good and true. But when the land-sergeant the water saw,[L129] "It winna ride, my lads," quo' he; 130 Then out he cries--"Ye the pris'ner may take, But leave the irons, I pray, to me." "I wat weel no," cry'd the Laird's Jock, "I'll keep them a'; shoon to my mare they'll be: My good grey mare--for I am sure, 135 She's bought them a' fu' dear frae thee." Sae now they're away for Liddisdale, E'en as fast as they cou'd them hie; The pris'ner 's brought to his ain fire-side, And there o's aims they make him free. 140 "Now, Jock, my billie," quo' a' the three, "The day was com'd thou was to die; But thou's as weel at thy ain fire-side, Now sitting, I think, 'tween thee and me." They hae gard fill up ae punch-bowl, 145 And after it they maun hae anither, And thus the night they a' hae spent, Just as they had been brither and brither. 41. Cholerford is a ford on the Tyne, above Hexham.--S. 129. The land-sergeant (mentioned also in _Hobbie Noble_) was an officer under the warden, to whom was committed the apprehending of delinquents, and the care of the public peace.--S. ARCHIE OF CA'FIELD. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 116. This is substantially the same story as _Jock o' the Side_. Another version from Motherwell's collection, is subjoined. "Ca'field, or Calfield," says Scott, "is a place in Wauchopdale, belonging of old to the Armstrongs. In the account betwixt the English and Scottish Marches, Jock and Geordie of Ca'field, then called Calf-hill, are repeatedly marked as delinquents. _History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, vol. i. Introduction, p. 33." As I was a-walking mine alane, It was by the dawning of the day, I heard twa brithers make their mane, And I listen'd weel to what they did say. The youngest to the eldest said, 5 "Blythe and merrie how can we be? There were three brithren of us born, And ane of us is condemn'd to die." "And ye wad be merrie, and ye wad be sad, What the better wad billy Archie be? 10 Unless I had thirty men to mysell, And a' to ride in my cumpanie. "Ten to hald the horses' heads, And other ten the watch to be, And ten to break up the strong prison, 15 Where billy Archie he does lie." Then up and spak him mettled John Hall,[L17] (The luve of Teviotdale aye was he,) "An I had eleven men to mysell, It's aye the twalt man I wad be." 20 Then up bespak him coarse Ca'field, (I wot and little gude worth was he,) "Thirty men is few anew, And a' to ride in our companie." There was horsing, horsing in haste, 25 And there was marching on the lee, Until they cam to Murraywhate, And they lighted there right speedilie. "A smith! a smith!" Dickie he cries, "A smith, a smith, right speedilie, 30 To turn back the caukers of our horses' shoon; For it's unkensome we wad be." "There lives a smith on the water-side, Will shoe my little black mare for me; And I've a crown in my pocket, 35 And every groat of it I wad gie." "The night is mirk, and it's very mirk, And by candle-light I canna weel see; The night is mirk, and it's very pit mirk, And there will never a nail ca' right for me." 40 "Shame fa' you and your trade baith, Canna beet a good fellow by your mystery; But leeze me on thee, my little black mare, Thou's worth thy weight in gold to me." There was horsing, horsing in haste, 45 And there was marching upon the lee, Until they cam to Dumfries port, And they lighted there right speedilie. "There's five of us will hold the horse, And other five will watchmen be:" 50 "But wha's the man among ye a', Will gae to the Tolbooth door wi' me?" O up then spak him mettled John Hall, (Frae the Laigh Teviotdale was he,) "If it should cost my life this very night, 55 I'll gae to the Tolbooth door wi' thee." "Be of gude cheir, now, Archie, lad, Be of gude cheir, now, dear billie! Work thou within, and we without, And the morn thou'se dine at Ca'field wi' me." 60 O Jockie Hall stepp'd to the door, And he bended low back his knee, And he made the bolts, the door hang on, Loup frae the wa' right wantonlie. He took the prisoner on his back, 65 And down the Tolbooth stair cam he: The black mare stood ready at the door, I wot a foot ne'er stirred she. They laid the links out owre her neck, And that was her gold twist to be;[L70] 70 And they cam doun thro' Dumfries toun, And wow but they cam speedilie! The live-lang night these twelve men rade, And aye till they were right wearie, Until they cam to the Murraywhate, 75 And they lighted there right speedilie. "A smith! a smith!" then Dickie he cries, "A smith, a smith, right speedilie, To file the irons frae my dear brither, For forward, forward we wad be." 80 They hadna filed a shackle of iron, A shackle of iron but barely thrie, When out and spak young Simon brave, "O dinna you see what I do see? "Lo! yonder comes Lieutenant Gordon, 85 Wi' a hundred men in his companie; This night will be our lyke-wake night, The morn the day we a' maun die." O there was mounting, mounting in haste, And there was marching upon the lee; 90 Until they cam to Annan water, And it was flowing like the sea. "My mare is young and very skeigh, And in o' the weil she will drown me; But ye'll take mine, and I'll take thine, 95 And sune through the water we sall be." Then up and spak him, coarse Ca'field, (I wot and little gude worth was he,) "We had better lose ane than lose a' the lave; We'll lose the prisoner, we'll gae free." 100 "Shame fa' you and your lands baith! Wad ye e'en your lands to your born billy? But hey! bear up, my bonnie black mare, And yet thro' the water we sall be." Now they did swim that wan water, 105 And wow but they swam bonnilie! Until they cam to the other side, And they wrang their cloathes right drunkily. "Come thro', come thro', Lieutenant Gordon! Come thro' and drink some wine wi' me! 110 For there is an ale-house here hard by, And it shall not cost thee ae penny." "Throw me my irons," quo' Lieutenant Gordon; "I wot they cost me dear eneugh;" "The shame a ma," quo' mettled John Ha', 115 "They'll be gude shackles to my pleugh." "Come thro', come thro', Lieutenant Gordon! Come thro', and drink some wine wi' me! Yestreen I was your prisoner, But now this morning am I free." 120 17. Mettled John Hall, from the laigh Teviotdale, is perhaps John Hall of Newbigging, mentioned in the list of Border clans as one of the chief men of name residing on the Middle Marches in 1597.--S. 70. The _gold twist_ means the small gilded chains drawn across the chest of a war-horse, as a part of his caparison.--S. BILLIE ARCHIE. Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 335. A North-Country version of the preceding ballad. There is another copy in Buchan's larger collection, i. 111, _The Three Brothers_. "Seven years have I loved my love, And seven years my love's loved me, But now to-morrow is the day That Billie Archie, my love, must die." Out then spoke him Little Dickie, 5 And still the best fellow was he; "Had I but five men and mysell, Then we would borrow Billie Archie." Out it spoke him Caff o' Lin, And still the worst fellow was he; 10 "Ye shall have five men and yoursell, And I will bear you companie. "We will not go like to dragoons, Nor yet will we like grenadiers; But we will go like corn-dealers, 15 And lay our brechams on our meares. "And twa of us will watch the road, And other twa between will gang, And I will go to jail-house door, And hold the prisoner unthought lang." 20 "Wha is this at the jail-house door, Sa weel as they do ken the gin?" "It's I mysell," said him Little Dickie, "And O sae fain's I would be in!" "Awa, awa, now, Little Dickie, 25 Awa, let all your folly be; If the Lord Lieutenant come on you, Like unto dogs he'll cause you die." "Hold you, hold you, Billy Archie, And now let all your folly be; 30 Though I die without, you'll not die within, For borrowed shall your body be." "Awa, awa, now, Little Dickie, Awa, let all this folly be; An hundred pounds of Spanish irons 35 Is all bound on my fair bodie." Wi' plough coulters and gavelocks They made the jail-house door to flee; "And in God's name," said Little Dickie, "Cast you the prisoner behind me." 40 They had not rade a great way off, With all the haste that ever could be, Till they espied the Lord Lieutenant, With a hundred men in companie. But when they cam to wan water, 45 It now was rumbling like the sea; Then were they got into a strait, As great a strait as well could be. Then out did speak him Caff o' Lin, And aye the warst fellow was he: 50 "Now God be with my wife and bairns, For fatherless my babes will be. "My horse is young, he cannot swim; The water's deep, and will not wade; My children must be fatherless, 55 My wife a widow, whate'er betide." O then cried out him Little Dickie, And still the best fellow was he: "Take you my mare, I'll take your horse, And Devil drown my mare and thee!" 60 Now they have taken the wan water, Though it was roaring like the sea; And when they gat to the other side, I wat they bragged right crousilie. "Come thro', come thro', now, Lord Lieutenant, 65 O do come thro', I pray of thee; There is an alehouse not far off, We'll dine you and your companie." "Awa, awa, now, Little Dickie, O now let all your taunting be; 70 There's not a man in the king's army That would have tried what's done by thee. "Cast back, cast back my fetters again, Cast back my fetters, I say to thee; And get you gane the way you came, 75 I wish no prisoners like to thee." "I have a mare, she's called Meg, The best in all our low countrie; If she gang barefoot till they're done, An ill death may your Lordship die." 80 HOBIE NOBLE. From Caw's _Poetical Museum_, p. 193. "We have seen the hero of this ballad act a distinguished part in the deliverance of Jock o' the Side, and are now to learn the ungrateful return which the Armstrongs made him for his faithful services. Halbert, or Hobbie, Noble appears to have been one of those numerous English outlaws, who, being forced to fly their own country, had established themselves on the Scottish Borders. As Hobbie continued his depredations upon the English, they bribed some of his hosts, the Armstrongs, to decoy him into England under pretence of a predatory expedition. He was there delivered, by his treacherous companions, into the hands of the officers of justice, by whom he was conducted to Carlisle, and executed next morning. The Laird of Mangertoun, with whom Hobbie was in high favour, is said to have taken a severe revenge upon the traitors who betrayed him. The principal contriver of the scheme, called here Sim o' the Maynes, fled into England from the resentment of his chief; but experienced there the common fate of a traitor, being himself executed at Carlisle, about two months after Hobbie's death. Such is, at least, the tradition of Liddesdale. Sim o' the Maynes appears among the Armstrongs of Whitauch, in Liddesdale, in the list of Clans so often alluded to."--_Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 90. Foul fa' the breast first treason bred in! That Liddisdale may safely say; For in it there was baith meat and drink, And corn unto our geldings gay. We were stout-hearted men and true, 5 As England it did often say; But now we may turn our backs and fly, Since brave Noble is seld away. Now Hobie he was an English man, And born into Bewcastle dale; 10 But his misdeeds they were sae great, They banish'd him to Liddisdale. At Kershope foot the tryst was set,[L13] Kershope of the lily lee; And there was traitour Sim o' the Mains,[L15] 15 With him a private companie. Then Hobie has graith'd his body weel, I wat it was wi' baith good iron and steel; And he has pull'd out his fringed grey, And there, brave Noble, he rade him weel. 20 Then Hobie is down the water gane, E'en as fast as he may drie; Tho' they shoud a' brusten and broken their hearts, Frae that tryst Noble he would not be. "Weel may ye be, my feiries five! 25 And aye, what is your wills wi' me?" Then they cry'd a' wi' ae consent, "Thou'rt welcome here, brave Noble, to me. "Wilt thou with us in England ride, And thy safe warrand we will be? 30 If we get a horse worth a hundred punds, Upon his back that thou shalt be." "I dare not with you into England ride, The Land-sergeant has me at feid; I know not what evil may betide, 35 For Peter of Whitfield, his brother, is dead. "And Anton Shiel, he loves not me, For I gat twa drifts of his sheep;[L38] The great Earl of Whitfield loves me not,[L39] For nae gear frae me he e'er could keep. 40 "But will ye stay till the day gae down, Until the night come o'er the grund, And I'll be a guide worth ony twa That may in Liddisdale be fund. "Tho' dark the night as pick and tar, 45 I'll guide ye o'er yon hills fu' hie, And bring ye a' in safety back, If you'll be true and follow me." He's guided them o'er moss and muir, O'er hill and houp, and mony a down; 50 Til they came to the Foulbogshiel, And there, brave Noble, he lighted down. Then word is gane to the Land-sergeant, In Askirton where that he lay--[L54] "The deer that ye hae hunted lang 55 Is seen into the Waste this day." "Then Hobie Noble is that deer! I wat he carries the style fu' hie; Aft has he beat your slough-hounds back, And set yourselves at little lee. 60 "Gar warn the bows of Hartlie-burn, See they shaft their arrows on the wa'! Warn Willeva, and Spear Edom,[L63] And see the morn they meet me a'. "Gar meet me on the Rodrie-haugh, 65 And see it be by break o' day; And we will on to Conscowthart-Green, For there, I think, we'll get our prey." Then Hobie Noble has dream'd a dream, In the Foulbogsheil where that he lay; 70 He thought his horse was 'neath him shot, And he himself got hard away. The cocks could crow, and the day could dawn, And I wat so even down fell the rain; If Hobie had no waken'd at that time, 75 In the Foulbogshiel he had been tane or slain. "Get up, get up, my feiries five! For I wat here makes a fu' ill day; And the warst cloak of this companie,[L79] I hope shall cross the Waste this day." 80 Now Hobie thought the gates were clear; But, ever alas! it was not sae: They were beset wi' cruel men and keen, That away brave Noble could not gae. "Yet follow me, my feiries five, 85 And see of me ye keep good ray; And the worst cloak of this companie[L87] I hope shall cross the Waste this day." There was heaps of men now Hobie before, And other heaps was him behind, 90 That had he been as wight as Wallace was, Away brave Noble he could not win. Then Hobie he had but a laddies sword, But he did more than a laddies deed; In the midst of Conscouthart-Green, 95 He brake it o'er Jersawigham's head. Now they have tane brave Hobie Noble, Wi' his ain bowstring they band him sae; And I wat heart was ne'er sae sair, As when his ain five band him on the brae. 100 They have tane him for West Carlisle; They ask'd him if he knew the way; Whate'er he thought, yet little he said; He knew the way as well as they. They hae tane him up the Ricker-gate;[L105] 105 The wives they cast their windows wide, And ilka wife to anither can say, "That's the man loos'd Jock o' the Side!" "Fy on ye, women! why ca' ye me man? For it's nae man that I'm used like; 110 I'm but like a forfoughen hound, Has been fighting in a dirty syke." Then they hae tane him up thro' Carlisle town, And set him by the chimney fire; They gave brave Noble a wheat loaf to eat, 115 And that was little his desire. Then they gave him a wheat loaf to eat And after that a can o' beer; Then they cried a', wi' ae consent, "Eat, brave Noble, and make good cheer. 120 "Confess my lord's horse, Hobie," they say, "And the morn in Carlisle thou's no die;" "How shall I confess them?" Hobie says, "For I never saw them with mine eye." Then Hobie has sworn a fu' great aith-- 125 By the day that he was gotten or born, He never had onything o' my lord's, That either eat him grass or corn. "Now fare thee weel, sweet Mangerton![L129] For I think again I'll ne'er thee see: 130 I wad betray nae lad alive, For a' the goud in Christentie. "And fare thee weel, now Liddisdale, Baith the hie land and the law! Keep ye weel frae traitor Mains! 135 For goud and gear he'll sell ye a'. "I'd rather be ca'd Hobie Noble, In Carlisle, where he suffers for his faut, Before I were ca'd traitor Mains, That eats and drinks of meal and maut." 140 13. Kershope-burn, where Hobbie met his treacherous companions, falls into the Liddel, from the English side, at a place called Turnersholm, where, according to tradition, tourneys and games of chivalry were often solemnized.--S. 15. The Mains was anciently a Border-keep, near Castletown, on the north side of the Liddel, but is now totally demolished.--S. 38. For twa drifts of his sheep I gat.--P. M. 39. Whitfield is explained by Mr. Ellis of Otterbourne to be a large and rather wild manorial district in the extreme southwest part of Northumberland; the proprietor of which might be naturally called the Lord, though not _Earl_ of Whitfield. I suspect, however, that the reciters may have corrupted the _great_ Ralph Whitfield into Earl of Whitfield. Sir Matthew Whitfield of Whitfield, was Sheriff of Northumberland in 1433, and the estate continued in the family from the reign of Richard II. till about fifty years since.--S. 54. Askerton is an old castle, now ruinous, situated in the wilds of Cumberland, about seventeen miles north-east of Carlisle, amidst that mountainous and desolate tract of country bordering upon Liddesdale, emphatically termed the Waste of Bewcastle.--S. 63-67. Willeva and Speir Edom are small districts in Bewcastledale, through which also the Hartlie-burn takes its course. Conscouthart-Green, and Rodrie-haugh, and the Foulbogshiel, are the names of places in the same wilds, through which the Scottish plunderers generally made their raids upon England.--S. 79, 87. clock. 105. A street in Carlisle. 129. Of the Castle of Mangertoun, so often mentioned in these ballads, there are very few vestiges. It was situated on the banks of the Liddell, below Castletoun.--S. JAMIE TELFER OF THE FAIR DODHEAD. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 3. "There is another ballad, under the same title as the following, in which nearly the same incidents are narrated, with little difference, except that the honour of rescuing the cattle is attributed to the Liddesdale Elliots, headed by a chief, there called Martin Elliot of the Preakin Tower, whose son, Simon, is said to have fallen in the action. It is very possible, that both the Teviotdale Scotts, and the Elliots, were engaged in the affair, and that each claimed the honour of the victory. "The Editor presumes, that the Willie Scott, here mentioned, must have been a natural son of the Laird of Buccleuch."--S. It fell about the Martinmas tyde, When our Border steeds get corn and hay, The Captain of Bewcastle hath bound him to ryde, And he's ower to Tividale to drive a prey. The first ae guide that they met wi', 5 It was high up in Hardhaughswire;[L6] The second guide that they met wi', It was laigh down in Borthwick water. "What tidings, what tidings, my trusty guide?" "Nae tidings, nae tidings, I hae to thee; 10 But gin ye'll gae to the fair Dodhead,[L11] Mony a cow's cauf I'll let thee see." And when they cam to the fair Dodhead, Right hastily they clam the peel; They loosed the kye out, ane and a', 15 And ranshackled the house right weel. Now Jamie Telfer's heart was sair, The tear aye rowing in his ee; He pled wi' the Captain to hae his gear, Or else revenged he wad be. 20 The Captain turned him round and leugh; Said--"Man, there's naething in thy house, But ae auld sword without a sheath, That hardly now would fell a mouse." The sun wasna up, but the moon was down, 25 It was the gryming of a new-fa'n snaw, Jamie Telfer has run ten myles a-foot, Between the Dodhead and the Stobs's Ha'.[L28] And when he cam to the fair tower yate, He shouted loud, and cried weel hie, 30 Till out bespak auld Gibby Elliot-- "Whae's this that brings the fraye to me?" "It's I, Jamie Telfer, o' the fair Dodhead, And a harried man I think I be; There's naething left at the fair Dodhead, 35 But a waefu' wife and bairnies three." "Gae seek your succour at Branksome Ha',[L37] For succour ye'se get nane frae me; Gae seek your succour where ye paid black-mail, For, man, ye ne'er paid money to me." 40 Jamie has turned him round about, I wat the tear blinded his ee-- "I'll ne'er pay mail to Elliot again, And the fair Dodhead I'll never see! "My hounds may a' rin masterless,[L45] 45 My hawks may fly frae tree to tree, My lord may grip my vassal lands, For there again maun I never be!" He has turn'd him to the Tiviot side, E'en as fast as he could drie, 50 Till he cam to the Coultart Cleugh,[L51] And there he shouted baith loud and hie. Then up bespak him auld Jock Grieve-- "Whae's this that brings the fraye to me?" "It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead, 55 A harried man I trow I be. "There's naething left in the fair Dodhead, But a greeting wife and bairnies three, And sax poor ca's stand in the sta', 60 A' routing loud for their minnie." "Alack a wae!" quo' auld Jock Grieve, "Alack, my heart is sair for thee! For I was married on the elder sister, And you on the youngest of a' the three." Then he has ta'en out a bonny black, 65 Was right weel fed with corn and hay, And he's set Jamie Telfer on his back, To the Catslockhill to tak the fraye. And whan he cam to the Catslockhill, He shouted loud, and cried weel hie, 70 Till out and spak him William's Wat-- "O whae's this brings the fraye to me?" "It's I, Jamie Telfer of the fair Dodhead, A harried man I think I be; The Captain of Bewcastle has driven my gear; 75 For God's sake rise, and succour me!" "Alas for wae!" quoth William's Wat, "Alack, for thee my heart is sair! I never cam by the fair Dodhead, That ever I fand thy basket bare." 80 He's set his twa sons on coal-black steeds, Himsell upon a freckled gray, And they are on wi' Jamie Telfer, To Branksome Ha' to tak the fraye. And when they cam to Branksome Ha', 85 They shouted a' baith loud and hie, Till up and spak him auld Buccleuch, Said--"Whae's this brings the fraye to me?" "It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead, And a harried man I think I be; 90 There's nought left in the fair Dodhead, But a greeting wife and bairnies three." "Alack for wae!" quoth the gude auld lord, "And ever my heart is wae for thee! But fye, gar cry on Willie, my son, 95 And see that he come to me speedilie. "Gar warn the water, braid and wide,[L97] Gar warn it sune and hastilie; They that winna ride for Telfer's kye, Let them never look in the face o' me! 100 "Warn Wat o' Harden, and his sons,[L101] Wi' them will Borthwick Water ride; Warn Gaudilands, and Allanhaugh, And Gilmanscleugh, and Commonside. "Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire,[L105] 105 And warn the Currors o' the Lee; As ye cum down the Hermitage Slack, Warn doughty Willie o' Gorrinberry." The Scotts they rade, the Scotts they ran, Sae starkly and sae steadilie, 110 And aye the ower-word o' the thrang Was--"Rise for Branksome readilie!" The gear was driven the Frostylee up,[L113] Frae the Frostylee unto the plain, Whan Willie has look'd his men before, 115 And saw the kye right fast drivand. "Whae drives thir kye?" gan Willie say, "To make an outspeckle o' me?" "It's I, the Captain o' Bewcastle, Willie; I winna layne my name for thee." 120 "O will ye let Telfer's kye gae back? Or will ye do aught for regard o' me? Or, by the faith of my body," quo' Willie Scott, "I'se ware my dame's cauf skin on thee." "I winna let the kye gae back, 125 Neither for thy love, nor yet thy fear; But I will drive Jamie Telfer's kye, In spite of every Scott that's here." "Set on them, lads!" quo' Willie than; "Fye, lads, set on them cruellie! 130 For ere they win to the Ritterford, Mony a toom saddle there sall be!" Then til't they gaed, wi' heart and hand, The blows fell thick as bickering hail; And mony a horse ran masterless, 135 And mony a comely cheek was pale. But Willie was stricken ower the head, And thro' the knapscap the sword has gane; And Harden grat for very rage, Whan Willie on the grund lay slane. 140 But he's ta'en aff his gude steel cap, And thrice he's waved it in the air; The Dinlay snaw was ne'er mair white[L143] Nor the lyart locks of Harden's hair. "Revenge! revenge!" auld Wat 'gan cry; 145 "Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie! We'll ne'er see Tiviotside again, Or Willie's death revenged sall be." O mony a horse ran masterless, The splinter'd lances flew on hie; 150 But or they wan ta the Kershope ford, The Scotts had gotten the victory. John o' Brigham there was slane,[L153] And John o' Barlow, as I heard say; And thirty mae o' the Captain's men 155 Lay bleeding on the grund that day. The Captain was run through the thick of the thigh, And broken was his right leg bane; If he had lived this hundred years, He had never been loved by woman again. 160 "Hae back the kye!" the Captain said; "Dear kye, I trow, to some they be; For gin I suld live a hundred years, There will ne'er fair lady smile on me." Then word is gane to the Captain's bride, 165 Even in the bower where that she lay, That her lord was prisoner in enemy's land, Since into Tividale he had led the way. "I wad lourd have had a winding-sheet, And helped to put it ower his head, 170 Ere he had been disgraced by the Border Scot, Whan he ower Liddel his men did lead!" There was a wild gallant amang us a', His name was Watty wi' the Wudspurs, Cried--"On for his house in Stanegirthside,[L175] 175 If ony man will ride with us!" When they cam to the Stanegirthside, They dang wi' trees, and burst the door; They loosed out a' the Captain's kye, And set them forth our lads before. 180 There was an auld wyfe ayont the fire, A wee bit o' the Captain's kin-- "Whae dar loose out the Captain's kye, Or answer to him and his men?" "It's I, Watty Wudspurs, loose the kye, 185 I winna layne my name frae thee; And I will loose out the Captain's kye, In scorn of a' his men and he." Whan they cam to the fair Dodhead, They were a wellcum sight to see; 190 For instead of his ain ten milk kye, Jamie Telfer has gotten thirty and three. And he has paid the rescue shot, Baith wi' goud and white monie; And at the burial o' Willie Scott, 195 I wat was mony a weeping ee.[L196] 6-8. Hardhaughswire is the pass from Liddesdale to the head of Teviotdale. Borthwick water is a stream which falls into the Teviot three miles above Hawick.--S. 11. The Dodhead, in Selkirkshire, near Singlee, where there are still the vestiges of an old tower.--S. 28. Stobs Hall, upon Slitterick, the seat of Sir William, of that clan. Jamie Telfer made his first application here, because he _seems_ to have paid the proprietor of the castle _black-mail_, or protection money.--S. 37. The ancient family-seat of the Lairds of Buccleuch, near Hawick.--S. 45-48. See _Young Beichan_, vol. iv. p. 3. 51. The Coultart Cleugh is nearly opposite to Carlinrig, on the road between Hawick and Mosspaul.--S. 97. The _water_, in the mountainous districts of Scotland, is often used to express the banks of the river, which are the only inhabitable parts of the country. _To raise the water_, therefore, was to alarm those who lived along its side.--S. 101. The estates, mentioned in this verse, belonged to families of the name of Scott, residing upon the waters of Borthwick and Teviot, near the castle of their chief.--S. 105. The pursuers seem to have taken the road through the hills of Liddesdale, in order to collect forces, and intercept the forayers at the passage of the Liddel, on their return to Bewcastle. The Ritterford and Kershope-ford, after-mentioned, are noted fords on the river Liddel.--S. 113. The Frostylee is a brook, which joins the Teviot, near Mosspaul.--S. 143. The Dinlay is a mountain in Liddesdale.--S. 153. Perhaps one of the ancient family of Brougham, in Cumberland. The Editor has used some freedom with the original in the subsequent verse. The account of the Captain's disaster is rather too _naïve_ for literal publication.--S. 175. A house belonging to the Foresters, situated on the English side of the Liddel.--S. 196. An article in the list of attempts upon England, fouled by the Commissioners at Berwick, in the year 1587, may relate to the subject of the foregoing ballad. October, 1582. Thomas Musgrave, deputy { Walter Scott, Laird } 200 kine and of Bewcastle, and { of Buckluth, and his } oxen, 300 gait the tenants, against { complices; for } and sheep. _Introduction to the History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, p. 31.--S. THE FRAY OF SUPORT. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 124. "Of all the Border ditties which have fallen into the Editor's hands, this is by far the most uncouth and savage. It is usually chanted in a sort of wild recitative, except the burden, which swells into a long and varied howl, not unlike to a view hollo'. The words, and the very great irregularity of the stanza (if it deserves the name) sufficiently point out its intention and origin. An English woman, residing in Suport, near the foot of the Kers-hope, having been plundered in the night by a band of the Scottish moss-troopers, is supposed to convoke her servants and friends for the pursuit, or _Hot Trod_; upbraiding them, at the same time, in homely phrase, for their negligence and security. The _Hot Trod_ was followed by the persons who had lost goods, with blood-hounds and horns, to raise the country to help. They also used to carry a burning wisp of straw at a spear head, and to raise a cry, similar to the Indian war-whoop. It appears, from articles made by the Wardens of the English Marches, September 12th, in 6th of Edward VI., that all, on this cry being raised, were obliged to follow the fray, or chase, under pain of death. With these explanations, the general purport of the ballad may be easily discovered, though particular passages have become inexplicable, probably through corruptions introduced by reciters. The present text is collected from four copies, which differed widely from each other."--S. Sleep'ry Sim of the Lamb-hill, And snoring Jock of Suport-mill, Ye are baith right het and fou'; But my wae wakens na you. Last night I saw a sorry sight-- 5 Nought left me o' four-and-twenty gude ousen and ky, My weel-ridden gelding, and a white quey, But a toom byre and a wide, And the twelve nogs on ilka side. Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', 10 My gear's a' gane. Weel may ye ken, Last night I was right scarce o' men: But Toppet Hob o' the Mains had guesten'd in my house by chance; I set him to wear the fore-door wi' the speir, while I kept the back-door wi' the lance; 15 But they hae run him thro' the thick o' the thie, and broke his knee-pan, And the mergh o' his shin-bane has run down on his spur-leather whang: He's lame while he lives, and where'er he may gang. Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' gane. 20 But Peenye, my gude son, is out at the Hagbut-head, His een glittering for anger like a fiery gleed; Crying--"Mak sure the nooks Of Maky's-muir crooks; For the wily Scot takes by nooks, hooks, and crooks. 25 Gin we meet a' together in a head the morn, We'll be merry men." Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' gane. There's doughty Cuddy in the Heugh-head, 30 Thou was aye gude at a need; With thy brock-skin bag at thy belt,[L32] Aye ready to mak a puir man help. Thou maun awa' out to the Cauf-craigs, (Where anes ye lost your ain twa naigs,) 35 And there toom thy brock-skin bag. Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. Doughty Dan o' the Houlet Hirst, Thou was aye gude at a birst; 40 Gude wi' a bow, and better wi' a speir, The bauldest March-man that e'er follow'd gear: Come thou here. Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' gane. 45 Rise, ye carle coopers, frae making o' kirns and tubs, In the Nicol forest woods.[L47] Your craft hasna left the value of an oak rod, But if you had ony fear o' God, Last night ye hadna slept sae sound, 50 And let my gear be a' ta'en. Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. Ah! lads, we'll fang them a' in a net, For I hae a' the fords o' Liddel set; 55 The Dunkin and the Door-loup, The Willie-ford, and the Water-slack, The Black-rack and the Trout-dub of Liddel. There stands John Forster, wi' five men at his back, Wi bufft coat and cap of steil. 60 Boo! ca' at them e'en, Jock; That ford's sicker, I wat weil. Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. Hoo! hoo! gar raise the Reid Souter, and Ringan's Wat, 65 Wi' a broad elshin and a wicker; I wat weil they'll mak a ford sicker. Sae, whether they be Elliots or Armstrangs, Or rough-riding Scots, or rude Johnstones, Or whether they be frae the Tarras or Ewsdale, 70 They maun turn and fight, or try the deeps o' Liddel. Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. "Ah! but they will play ye anither jigg, For they will out at the big rig, 75 And thro' at Fargy Grame's gap."[L76] But I hae another wile for that: For I hae little Will, and Stalwart Wat, And lang Aicky, in the Souter Moor, Wi' his sleuth-dog sits in his watch right sure. 80 Shou'd the dog gie a bark, He'll be out in his sark, And die or won. Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. 85 Ha! boys!--I see a party appearing--wha's yon? Methinks it's the Captain of Bewcastle, and Jephtha's John,[L87] Coming down by the foul steps of Catlowdie's loan: They'll make a' sicker, come which way they will. Ha, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', 90 My gear's a' ta'en. Captain Musgrave, and a' his band,[L92] Are coming down by the Siller-strand, And the Muckle toun-bell o' Carlisle is rung: My gear was a' weel won, 95 And before it's carried o'er the Border, mony a man's gae down. Fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' gane. 32. The badger-skin pouch was used for carrying ammunition.--S. 47. A wood in Cumberland, in which Suport is situated.--S. 76. Fergus Grame of Sowport, as one of the chief men of that clan, became security to Lord Scroope for the good behaviour of his friends and dependents, 8th January, 1662.--_Introduction to History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, p. 111.--S. 87-8. According to the late Glenriddel's notes on this ballad, the office of Captain Bewcastle was held by the chief of the Nixons. Catlowdie is a small village in Cumberland, near the junction of the Esk and Liddel.--S. 92. This was probably the famous Captain Jack Musgrave, who had charge of the watch along the Cryssop, or Kershope, as appears from the order of the watches appointed by Lord Wharton, when Deputy-Warden-General, in the 6th Edward VI.--S. ROOKHOPE RYDE. "A Bishopric Border song, composed in 1569, taken down from the chanting of George Collingwood the elder, late of Boltsburn, in the neighbourhood of Ryhope, who was interred at Stanhope, the 16th December, 1785. "Rookhope is the name of a valley about five miles in length; at the termination of which, Rookhope burn empties itself into the river Wear, and is in the north part of the parish of Stanhope, in Weardale. Rookhope-head is the top of the vale."--RITSON. The date of the event, says Sir W. Scott, is precisely ascertained to be (not 1569 but) the 6th of December, 1572, when the Tynedale robbers were encouraged to make a foray into Weardale in consequence of the confusion occasioned by the rebellion of Westmoreland and Northumberland. From Ritson's _Bishopric Garland_ (p. 54), with one or two slight verbal improvements from the _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 101. Rookhope stands in a pleasant place, If the false thieves wad let it be, But away they steal our goods apace, And ever an ill death may they dee! And so is the men of Thirlwall and Willie-haver,[L5] 5 And all their companies thereabout, That is minded to do mischief, And at their stealing stands not out. But yet we will not slander them all, For there is of them good enow; 10 It is a sore consumed tree That on it bears not one fresh bough. Lord God! is not this a pitiful case, That men dare not drive their goods to the fell, But limmer thieves drives them away, 15 That fears neither heaven nor hell? Lord, send us peace into the realm, That every man may live on his own! I trust to God, if it be his will, That Weardale men may never be overthrown. 20 For great troubles they've had in hand, With borderers pricking hither and thither, But the greatest fray that e'er they had, Was with the men of Thirlwall and Willie-haver. They gather'd together so royally, 25 The stoutest men and the best in gear; And he that rade not on a horse, I wat he rade on a weel-fed mear. So in the morning, before they came out, So weel I wot they broke their fast; 30 In the [forenoon they came] unto a bye fell,[L31] Where some of them did eat their last. When they had eaten aye and done, They say'd some captains here needs must be: Then they choosed forth Harry Corbyl, 35 And 'Symon Fell,' and Martin Ridley. Then o'er the moss, where as they came, With many a brank and whew, One of them could to another say, "I think this day we are men enew. 40 "For Weardale-men is a journey ta'en; They are so far out o'er yon fell, That some of them's with the two earls,[L43] And others fast in Bernard castell. "There we shall get gear enough, 45 For there is nane but women at hame; The sorrowful fend that they can make, Is loudly cries as they were slain."[L48] Then in at Rookhope-head they came, And there they thought tul a had their prey, 50 But they were spy'd coming over the Dry-rig, Soon upon Saint Nicolas' day.[L52] Then in at Rookhope-head they came, They ran the forest but a mile; They gather'd together in four hours 55 Six hundred sheep within a while. And horses I trow they gat, But either ane or twa, And they gat them all but ane That belang'd to great Rowley. 60 That Rowley was the first man that did them spy, With that he raised a mighty cry; The cry it came down Rookhope burn, And spread through Weardale hasteyly. Then word came to the bailiff's house 65 At the East-gate, where he did dwell;[L66] He was walk'd out to the Smale-burns, Which stands above the Hanging-well.[L68] His wife was wae when she heard tell, So weel she wist her husband wanted gear; 70 She gar'd saddle him his horse in haste, And neither forgot sword, jack, nor spear. The bailiff got wit before his gear came, That such news was in the land, He was sore troubled in his heart, 75 That on no earth that he could stand. His brother was hurt three days before, With limmer thieves that did him prick; Nineteen bloody wounds lay him upon, What ferly was't that he lay sick? 80 But yet the bailiff shrinked nought, But fast after them he did hye, And so did all his neighbours near, That went to bear him company. But when the bailiff was gathered, 85 And all his company, They were numbered to never a man But forty under fifty. The thieves was numbered a hundred men, I wat they were not of the worst 90 That could be choosed out of Thirlwall and Willie-haver, [I trow they were the very first.][L92] But all that was in Rookhope-head, And all that was i' Nuketon-cleugh, Where Weardale-men o'ertook the thieves, 95 And there they gave them fighting eneugh. So sore they made them fain to flee, As many was 'a'' out of hand, And, for tul have been at home again, They would have been in iron bands. 100 And for the space of long seven years As sore they mighten a' had their lives, But there was never one of them That ever thought to have seen their 'wives.' About the time the fray began, 105 I trow it lasted but an hour, Till many a man lay weaponless, And was sore wounded in that stour. Also before that hour was done, Four of the thieves were slain, 110 Besides all those that wounded were, And eleven prisoners there was ta'en. George Carrick, and his brother Edie, Them two, I wot they were both slain; Harry Corbyl, and Lennie Carrick, 115 Bore them company in their pain. One of our Weardale-men was slain, Rowland Emerson his name hight; I trust to God his soul is well, Because he 'fought' unto the right. 120 But thus they say'd, "We'll not depart While we have one:--speed back again!" And when they came amongst the dead men, There they found George Carrick slain. And when they found George Carrick slain, 125 I wot it went well near their 'heart;' Lord, let them never make a better end, That comes to play them sicken a 'part.' I trust to God, no more they shall, Except it be one for a great chance; 130 For God will punish all those With a great heavy pestilence. Thir limmer thieves, they have good hearts, They nevir think to be o'erthrown; Three banners against Weardale-men they bare, 135 As if the world had been all their own. Thir Weardale-men, they have good hearts, They are as stiff as any tree; For, if they'd every one been slain, Never a foot back man would flee. 140 And such a storm amongst them fell As I think you never heard the like, For he that bears his head so high, He oft-times falls into the dyke. And now I do entreat you all, 145 As many as are present here. To pray for [the] singer of this song, For he sings to make blithe your cheer. 5. Thirlwall, or Thirlitwall, is said by Fordun, the Scottish historian, to be a name given to the Picts' or Roman wall, from its having been thirled, or perforated, in ancient times, by the Scots and Picts. Willie-haver, or Willeva, is a small district or township in the parish of Lanercost, near Bewcastledale, in Cumberland, mentioned in the ballad of _Hobie Noble_.--RITSON.] 31. This would be about eleven o'clock, the usual dinner-hour in that period.--RITSON.] 43. The two Earls were Thomas Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and Charles Nevil, Earl of Westmoreland, who, on the 15th of November, 1569, at the head of their tenantry and others, took arms for the purpose of liberating Mary, Queen of Scots, and restoring the old religion. They besieged Barnard castle, which was, for eleven days, stoutly defended by Sir George Bowes, who, afterward, being appointed the Queen's marshal, hanged the poor constables and peasantry by dozens in a day, to the amount of 800. The Earl of Northumberland, betrayed by the Scots, with whom he had taken refuge, was beheaded at York, on the 22d of August, 1572; and the Earl of Westmoreland, deprived of the ancient and noble patrimony of the Nevils, and reduced to beggary, escaped over sea, into Flanders, and died in misery and disgrace, being the last of his family.--RITSON. See _The Rising in the North_ and _Northumberland betrayed by Douglas_.] 48. This is still the phraseology of Westmoreland: a _poorly_ man, a _softly_ day, and the like.--RITSON.] 52. The 6th of December.] 66. Now a straggling village so called; originally, it would seem, the gate-house, or ranger's lodge, at the east entrance of Stanhope-park. At some distance from this place is Westgate, so called for a similar reason.--RITSON. The mention of the bailiff's house at the East-gate is (were such a proof wanting) strongly indicative of the authenticity of the ballad. The family of Emerson of East-gate, a fief, if I may so call it, held under the bishop, long exercised the office of bailiff of Wolsingham, the chief town and borough of Weardale, and of Forster, &c., under successive prelates.--SURTEES.] 68. A place in the neighbourhood of East-gate, known at present, as well as the Dry-rig, or Smale-burns.--RITSON.] 92. The reciter, from his advanced age, could not recollect the original line thus imperfectly supplied.--RITSON.] THE RAID OF THE REIDSWIRE. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 15. This ballad is preserved in the Bannatyne MS., and was first printed in Ramsay's _Evergreen_, ii. 224. Scott informs us that Ramsay took some liberties with the original text, and even interpolated the manuscript to favor his readings. A more accurate copy was given in the _Border Minstrelsy_. The text in Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 91, and Caw's _Museum_, p. 235, is that of the _Evergreen_. "The skirmish of the Reidswire happened upon the 7th of June, 1575, at one of the meetings held by the Wardens of the Marches, for arrangements necessary upon the Border. Sir John Carmichael was the Scottish Warden, and Sir John Forster held that office on the English Middle March. In the course of the day, which was employed as usual in redressing wrongs, a bill, or indictment, at the instance of a Scottish complainer, was fouled (_i. e._ found a true bill) against one Farnstein, a notorious English freebooter. Forster alleged that he had fled from justice. Carmichael, considering this as a pretext to avoid making compensation for the felony, bade him "play fair!" to which the haughty English warden retorted, by some injurious expressions respecting Carmichael's family, and gave other open signs of resentment. His retinue, chiefly men of Redesdale and Tynedale, the most ferocious of the English Borderers, glad of any pretext for a quarrel, discharged a flight of arrows among the Scots. A warm conflict ensued, in which, Carmichael being beat down and made prisoner, success seemed at first to incline to the English side, till the Tynedale men, throwing themselves too greedily upon the plunder, fell into disorder; and a body of Jedburgh citizens arriving at that instant, the skirmish terminated in a complete victory on the part of the Scots, who took prisoners, the English warden, James Ogle, Cuthbert Collingwood, Francis Russell, son to the Earl of Bedford, and son-in-law to Forster, some of the Fenwicks, and several other Border chiefs. They were sent to the Earl of Morton, then Regent, who detained them at Dalkeith for some days, till the heat of their resentment was abated; which prudent precaution prevented a war betwixt the two kingdoms. He then dismissed them with great expressions of regard; and, to satisfy Queen Elizabeth, sent Carmichael to York, whence he was soon after honourably dismissed. The field of battle, called the Reidswire, is a part of the Carter Mountain, about ten miles from Jedburgh."--SCOTT. The seventh of July, the suith to say, At the Reidswire the tryst was set;[L2] Our wardens they affixed the day, And, as they promised, so they met. Alas! that day I'll ne'er forgett! 5 Was sure sae feard, and then sae faine-- They came theare justice for to gett, Will never green to come again. Carmichael was our warden then, He caused the country to conveen; 10 And the Laird's Wat, that worthie man,[L11] Brought in that sirname weil beseen: The Armestranges, that aye hae been A hardy house, but not a hail,[L14] The Elliots' honours to maintaine, 15 Brought down the lave o' Liddesdale. Then Tividale came to wi' spied; The Sheriffe brought the Douglas down,[L18] Wi' Cranstane, Gladstain, good at need, Baith Rewle water, and Hawick town. 20 Beanjeddart bauldly made him boun, Wi' a' the Trumbills, stronge and stout; The Rutherfoords, with grit renown, Convoy'd the town of Jedbrugh out.[L24] Of other clans I cannot tell, 25 Because our warning was not wide-- Be this our folks hae ta'en the fell, And planted down palliones, there to bide, We looked down the other side, And saw come breasting ower the brae, 30 Wi' Sir John Forster for their guyde,[L31] Full fifteen hundred men and mae. It grieved him sair that day, I trow, Wi' Sir George Hearoune of Schipsydehouse;[L34] Because we were not men enow, 35 They counted us not worth a louse. Sir George was gentle, meek, and douse, But _he_ was hail and het as fire; And yet, for all his cracking crouse, He rewd the raid o' the Reidswire. 40 To deal with proud men is but pain; For either must ye fight or flee, Or else no answer make again, But play the beast, and let them be. It was na wonder he was hie, 45 Had Tindaill, Reedsdaill, at his hand,[L46] Wi' Cukdaill, Gladsdaill on the lee, And Hebsrime, and Northumberland.[L48] Yett was our meeting meek eneugh, Begun wi' merriment and mowes, 50 And at the brae, aboon the heugh, The clark sat down to call the rowes. And some for kyne, and some for ewes, Call'd in of Dandrie, Hob, and Jock-- We saw, come marching ower the knows, 55 Five hundred Fennicks in a flock,--[L56] With jack and speir, and bows all bent, And warlike weapons at their will: Although we were na weel content, Yet, by my troth, we fear'd no ill. 60 Some gaed to drink, and some stude still, And some to cards and dice them sped; Till on ane Farnstein they fyled a bill, And he was fugitive and fled. Carmichaell bade them speik out plainlie, 65 And cloke no cause for ill nor good; The other, answering him as vainlie, Began to reckon kin and blood: He raise, and raxed him where he stood, And bade him match him with his marrows; 70 Then Tindaill heard them reasun rude, And they loot off a flight of arrows. Then was there nought but bow and speir, And every man pull'd out a brand; "A Schafton and a Fenwick" thare: 75 Gude Symington was slain frae hand. The Scotsmen cried on other to stand, Frae time they saw John Robson slain-- What should they cry? the King's command Could cause no cowards turn again. 80 Up rose the laird to red the cumber, Which would not be for all his boast; What could we doe with sic a number-- Fyve thousand men into a host? Then Henry Purdie proved his cost, 85 And very narrowlie had mischief'd him, And there we had our warden lost, Wert not the grit God he relieved him. Another throw the breiks him bair, Whill flatlies to the ground he fell: 90 Than thought I weel we had lost him there, Into my stomack it struck a knell! Yet up he raise, the treuth to tell ye, And laid about him dints full dour; His horsemen they raid sturdily, 95 And stude about him in the stoure. Then raise the slogan with ane shout-- "Fy, Tindaill, to it! Jedburgh's here!"[L98] I trow he was not half sae stout, But anis his stomach was asteir. 100 With gun and genzie, bow and speir, Men might see mony a cracked crown! But up amang the merchant geir, They were as busy as we were down. The swallow taill frae tackles flew, 105 Five hundredth flain into a flight: But we had pestelets enew, And shot among them as we might. With help of God the game gaed right, Fra time the foremost of them fell; 110 Then ower the know, without goodnight, They ran with mony a shout and yell. But after they had turned backs, Yet Tindail men they turn'd again, And had not been the merchant packs,[L115] 115 There had been mae of Scotland slain. But, Jesu! if the folks were fain To put the bussing on their thies; And so they fled, wi' a' their main, Down ower the brae, like clogged bees. 120 Sir Francis Russell ta'en was there,[L121] And hurt, as we hear men rehearse; Proud Wallinton was wounded sair,[L123] Albeit he be a Fennick fierce. But if ye wald a souldier search, 125 Among them a' were ta'en that night, Was nane sae wordie to put in verse, As Collingwood, that courteous knight.[L128] Young Henry Schafton, he is hurt;[L129] A souldier shot him wi' a bow; 130 Scotland has cause to mak great sturt, For laiming of the Laird of Mow.[L132] The Laird's Wat did weel indeed; His friends stood stoutlie by himsell, With little Gladstain, gude in need, 135 For Gretein kend na gude be ill.[L136] The Sheriffe wanted not gude will, Howbeit he might not fight so fast; Beanjeddart, Hundlie, and Hunthill,[L139] Three, on they laid weel at the last. 140 Except the horsemen of the guard, If I could put men to availe, None stoutlier stood out for their laird, Nor did the lads of Liddisdail. But little harness had we there; 145 But auld Badreule had on a jack,[L146] And did right weel, I you declare, With all his Trumbills at his back. Gude Edderstane was not to lack,[L149] Nor Kirktoun, Newton, noble men![L150] 150 Thir's all the specials I of speake, By others that I could not ken. Who did invent that day of play, We need not fear to find him soon; For Sir John Forster, I dare well say, 155 Made us this noisome afternoon. Not that I speak preceislie out, That he supposed it would be perril; But pride, and breaking out of feuid, Garr'd Tindaill lads begin the quarrel. 160 2. _Swire_ signifies the descent of a hill, and the epithet _Red_ is derived from the color of the heath, or perhaps, from the Reid-water, which rises at no great distance.--S. 11. The Laird's Wat is perhaps the young Buccleuch, who, about twenty years after this _raid_, performed the great exploit of rescuing Kinmont Willie from Carlisle Castle.--S. 14. This clan are here mentioned as not being hail, or whole, because they were outlawed or broken men. Indeed, many of them had become Englishmen, as the phrase then went. There was an old alliance betwixt the Elliots and Armstrongs, here alluded to.--S. 18. Douglas of Cavers, hereditary Sheriff of Teviotdale, descended from Black Archibald, who carried the standard of his father, the Earl of Douglas, at the battle of Otterbourne.--See the ballad of that name.--S. 24. These were ancient and powerful clans, residing chiefly upon the river Jed. Hence, they naturally convoyed the town of Jedburgh out. The following fragment of an old ballad is quoted in a letter from an aged gentleman of this name, residing at New York, to a friend in Scotland:-- "Bauld Rutherfurd, he was fou stout, Wi' a' his nine sons him round about; He led the town o' Jedburgh out, All bravely fought that day."--S. 31. Sir John Forster, or, more properly, Forrester, of Balmbrough Abbey, Warden of the Middle Marches in 1561, was deputy-governor of Berwick, and governor of Balmborough Castle.--S. 34. George Heron Miles of Chipchase Castle, probably the same who was slain at the Reidswire, was Sheriff of Northumberland, 13th Elizabeth.--S. 46. These are districts, or dales, on the English Border. 48. Mr. George Ellis suggests, with great probability, that this is a mistake, not for Hebburne, as the Editor stated in an earlier edition, but for Hexham, which, with its territory, formed a county independent of Northumberland, with which it is here ranked.--S. 56. The Fenwicks; a powerful and numerous Northumberland clan.--S. 98. The gathering word peculiar to a certain name, or set of people, was termed _slogan_ or _slughorn_, and was always repeated at an onset, as well as on many other occasions. It was usually the name of the clan, or place of rendezvous, or leader. In 1335, the English, led by Thomas of Rosslyne, and William Moubray, assaulted Aberdeen. The former was mortally wounded in the onset; and, as his followers were pressing forward, shouting "_Rosslyne! Rosslyne!_" "Cry _Moubray_," said the expiring chieftain; "_Rosslyne_ is gone!"--S. 115. The ballad-maker here ascribes the victory to the real cause; for the English Borderers dispersing to plunder the merchandise, gave the opposite party time to recover from their surprise. It seems to have been usual for travelling merchants to attend Border meetings, although one would have thought the kind of company usually assembled there might have deterred them.--S. 121. This gentleman was son to the Earl of Bedford, and Warden of the East Marches. He was, at this time, chamberlain of Berwick.--S. 123. Fenwick of Wallington, a powerful Northumbrian chief.--S. 128. Sir Cuthbert Collingwood of Esslington, Sheriff of Northumberland, the 10th and 20th of Elizabeth.--S. 129. The Shaftoes are an ancient family settled at Bavington, in Northumberland, since the time of Edward I.--S. 132. An ancient family on the Borders. The Laird of Mowe here mentioned was the only gentleman of note killed in the skirmish on the Scottish side.--S. 136. Graden, a family of Kers.--S. 139. Douglas of Beanjeddart, an ancient branch of the house of Cavers, possessing property near the junction of the Jed and Teviot. _Hundlie._--Rutherford of Hundlie, or Hundalee, situated on the Jed above Jedburgh. _Hunthill._--The old tower of Hunthill was situated about a mile above Jedburgh. It was the patrimony of an ancient family of Rutherfords. I suppose the person, here meant, to be the same who is renowned in tradition by the name of the _Cock of Hunthill_.--S. 146. Sir Andrew Turnbull of Bedrule, upon Rule Water.--S. 149. An ancient family of Rutherfords; I believe, indeed, the most ancient now extant.--S. 150. The parish of Kirktoun belonged, I believe, about this time, to a branch of the Cavers family; but Kirkton of Stewartfield is mentioned in the list of Border clans in 1597. _Newton._--This is probably Grinyslaw of Little Newton, mentioned in the said roll of Border clans.--S. THE DEATH OF PARCY REED. Taken down from the recitation of an old woman, and first published (certainly not without what are called "improvements") in Richardson's _Borderer's Table Book_, vol. vii. p. 364, with an introduction by Mr. Robert White, which we here abridge. Percival or Parcy Reed, was proprietor of Troughend, a tract of land in Redesdale, Northumberland, a man of courage and devoted to the chase. Having been appointed warden of the district, he had the misfortune in the discharge of his duties, to offend a family of the name of Hall, who were owners of the farm of Girsonsfield, and also to incur the enmity of a band of moss-troopers, Crosier by name, some of whom had been brought to justice by his hands. The Halls concealed their resentment until they were able to contrive an opportunity for taking a safe revenge. In pursuance of this design, they requested Reed to join them on a hunting party. Their invitation was unsuspiciously accepted, and after a day of sport the company retired to a solitary hut in the lonely glen of Batinghope. Here Reed was attacked in the evening by the Crosiers, and as the Halls not only refused their assistance, but had treacherously deprived him of the means of defence by rendering his sword and gun unserviceable, he fell an easy victim to his savage foes. It is probable that we cannot assign to the event on which this piece is founded, a date later than the sixteenth century. The story of Parcy Reed is alluded to in _Rokeby_, canto first, XX.; Sir Walter Scott has also taken the death of his dog Keeldar as the subject of a poem contributed to Hood's annual, _The Gem_, for 1829. God send the land deliverance Frae every reaving, riding Scot; We'll sune hae neither cow nor ewe, We'll sune hae neither staig nor stot. The outlaws come frae Liddesdale, 5 They herry Redesdale far and near; The rich man's gelding it maun gang, They canna pass the puir man's mear. Sure it were weel, had ilka thief Around his neck a halter strang; 10 And curses heavy may they light On traitors vile oursels amang. Now Parcy Reed has Crosier ta'en, He has delivered him to the law; But Crosier says he'll do waur than that, 15 He'll make the tower o' Troughend fa'. And Crosier says he will do waur-- He will do waur if waur can be; He'll make the bairns a' fatherless; And then, the land it may lie lee. 20 "To the hunting, ho!" cried Parcy Reed, "The morning sun is on the dew; The cauler breeze frae off the fells Will lead the dogs to the quarry true. "To the hunting, ho!" cried Parcy Reed, 25 And to the hunting he has gane; And the three fause Ha's o' Girsonsfield Alang wi' him he has them ta'en. They hunted high, they hunted low, By heathery hill and birken shaw; 30 They raised a buck on Rooken Edge, And blew the mort at fair Ealylawe. They hunted high, they hunted low, They made the echoes ring amain; With music sweet o' horn and hound, 35 They merry made fair Redesdale glen. They hunted high, they hunted low, They hunted up, they hunted down, Until the day was past the prime, And it grew late in the afternoon. 40 They hunted high in Batinghope, When as the sun was sinking low, Says Parcy then, "Ca' off the dogs, We'll bait our steeds and homeward go." They lighted high in Batinghope, 45 Atween the brown and benty ground; They had but rested a little while, Till Parcy Reed was sleeping sound. There's nane may lean on a rotten staff, But him that risks to get a fa'; 50 There's nane may in a traitor trust, And traitors black were every Ha'. They've stown the bridle off his steed, And they've put water in his lang gun; They've fixed his sword within the sheath, 55 That out again it winna come. "Awaken ye, waken ye, Parcy Reed, Or by your enemies be ta'en; For yonder are the five Crosiers A-coming owre the Hingin-stane." 60 "If they be five, and we be four, Sae that ye stand alang wi' me, Then every man ye will take one, And only leave but two to me: We will them meet as brave men ought, 65 And make them either fight or flee." "We mayna stand, we canna stand, We daurna stand alang wi' thee; The Crosiers haud thee at a feud, And they wad kill baith thee and we." 70 "O, turn thee, turn thee, Johnie Ha', O, turn thee, man, and fight wi' me; When ye come to Troughend again, My gude black naig I will gie thee; He cost full twenty pound o' gowd, 75 Atween my brother John and me." "I mayna turn, I canna turn, I daurna turn and fight wi' thee; The Crosiers haud thee at a feud, And they wad kill baith thee and me." 80 "O, turn thee, turn thee, Willie Ha', O, turn thee, man, and fight wi' me; When ye come to Troughend again, A yoke o' owsen I'll gie thee." "I mayna turn, I canna turn, 85 I daurna turn and fight wi' thee; The Crosiers haud thee at a feud, And they wad kill baith thee and me." "O, turn thee, turn thee, Tommy Ha', O, turn now, man, and fight wi' me; 90 If ever we come to Troughend again, My daughter Jean I'll gie to thee." "I mayna turn, I canna turn, I daurna turn and fight wi' thee; The Crosiers haud thee at a feud, 95 And they wad kill baith thee and me." "O, shame upon ye, traitors a'! I wish your hames ye may never see; Ye've stown the bridle off my naig, And I can neither fight nor flee. 100 "Ye've stown the bridle off my naig, And ye've put water i' my lang gun; Ye've fixed my sword within the sheath, That out again it winna come." He had but time to cross himsel', 105 A prayer he hadna time to say, Till round him came the Crosiers keen, All riding graithed, and in array. "Weel met, weel met, now, Parcy Reed, Thou art the very man we sought; 110 Owre lang hae we been in your debt, Now will we pay you as we ought. "We'll pay thee at the nearest tree, Where we shall hang thee like a hound;" Brave Parcy rais'd his fankit sword, 115 And fell'd the foremost to the ground. Alake, and wae for Parcy Reed, Alake, he was an unarmed man; Four weapons pierced him all at once, As they assailed him there and than. 120 They fell upon him all at once, They mangled him most cruellie; The slightest wound might caused his deid, And they have gi'en him thirty-three. They hacket off his hands and feet, 125 And left him lying on the lee. "Now, Parcy Reed, we've paid our debt, Ye canna weel dispute the tale," The Crosiers said, and off they rade-- They rade the airt o' Liddesdale. 130 It was the hour o' gloamin' gray, When herds come in frae fauld and pen; A herd he saw a huntsman lie, Says he, "Can this be Laird Troughen'?" "There's some will ca' me Parcy Reed, 135 And some will ca' me Laird Troughen'; It's little matter what they ca' me, My faes hae made me ill to ken. "There's some will ca' me Parcy Reed, And speak my praise in tower and town; 140 It's little matter what they do now, My life-blood rudds the heather brown. "There's some will ca' me Parcy Reed, And a' my virtues say and sing; I would much rather have just now 145 A draught o' water frae the spring!" The herd flung aff his clouted shoon, And to the nearest fountain ran; He made his bonnet serve a cup, And wan the blessing o' the dying man. 150 "Now, honest herd, ye maun do mair,-- Ye maun do mair as I ye tell; Ye maun bear tidings to Troughend, And bear likewise my last farewell. "A farewell to my wedded wife, 155 A farewell to my brother John, Wha sits into the Troughend tower, Wi' heart as black as any stone. "A farewell to my daughter Jean, A farewell to my young sons five; 160 Had they been at their father's hand, I had this night been man alive. "A farewell to my followers a', And a' my neighbours gude at need; Bid them think how the treacherous Ha's 165 Betrayed the life o' Parcy Reed. "The laird o' Clennel bears my bow, The laird o' Brandon bears my brand; Whene'er they ride i' the border side, They'll mind the fate o' the laird Troughend." 170 CAPTAIN CAR, OR, EDOM O' GORDON. "This ballad is founded upon a real event, which took place in the north of Scotland in the year 1571, during the struggles between the party which held out for the imprisoned Queen Mary, and that which endeavoured to maintain the authority of her infant son, James VI. The person designated Edom o' Gordon was Adam Gordon of Auchindown, brother of the Marquis of Huntly, and his deputy as lieutenant of the north of Scotland for the Queen. This gentleman committed many acts of oppression on the clan Forbes, under colour of the Queen's authority, and in one collision with that family, killed Arthur, brother to Lord Forbes. He afterwards sent a party under one Captain Car, or Ker, to reduce the house of Towie, one of the chief seats of the name of Forbes. The proprietor of the mansion being from home, his lady, who was pregnant at the time, confiding too much in her sex and condition, not only refused to surrender, but gave Car some very opprobrious language over the walls, which irritated him so much that he set fire to the house, and burnt the whole inmates, amounting in all to thirty-seven persons. As Gordon never cashiered Car for this inhuman action, he was held by the public voice to be equally guilty, and accordingly [in one of the versions of the ballad] he is represented as the principal actor himself." (CHAMBERS's _Scottish Ballads_, p. 67.) It appears that the Forbeses afterwards attempted to assassinate Adam Gordon in the streets of Paris. See more of this Captain Ker under _The Battell of Balrinnes_, in the next volume. The ballad was first printed by the Foulises at Glasgow, 1755, under the title of _Edom of Gordon_, as taken down by Sir David Dalrymple from the recitation of a lady. It was inserted in the _Reliques_, (i. 122,) "improved and enlarged," (or, as Ritson more correctly expresses the fact, "interpolated and corrupted,") by several stanzas from a fragment in Percy's manuscript, called _Captain Adam Carre_. Ritson published the following genuine and ancient copy, (_Ancient Songs_, ii. 38,) from a collection in the Cotton Library. He states that his MS. had received numerous alterations or corrections, all or most of which, as being evidently for the better, he had adopted into the text. We have added a copy of _Edom o' Gordon_ given in Ritson's _Scottish Songs_, and in the Appendix an inferior version of the story, called _Loudoun Castle_. The names vary considerably in the different versions of this piece. The castle of Towie, or the house of Rothes, is here called the castle of Crecrynbroghe, in Percy's manuscript the castle of Brittonsborrow, and in the copy in the Appendix the locality is changed to Loudoun castle in Ayrshire. In like manner, Alexander Forbes is here turned into Lord Hamleton, and Captain Car is now called the lord of Easter-town and again the lord of Westerton-town. In the _Gentleman's Magazine_, vol. xci. Part 1, p. 451, will be found a modern ballad styled _Adam Gordon_, founded on the adventure of the freebooter of that name with Edward the First. Another on the same subject is given in Evans's _Old Ballads_, iv. 86. It befell at Martynmas When wether waxed colde, Captaine Care saide to his men, "We must go take a holde." "Haille, master, and wether you will, 5 And wether ye like it best." "To the castle of Crecrynbroghe; And there we will take our reste. "I knowe wher is a gay castle, Is build of lyme and stone, 10 Within 'there' is a gay ladie, Her lord is ryd from hom." The ladie lend on her castle-walle, She loked upp and downe; There was she ware of an host of men, 15 Come riding to the towne. "Come yow hether, my meri men all, And look what I do see; Yonder is ther an host of men, I musen who they bee." 20 She thought he had been her own wed lord, That had comd riding home; Then was it traitour Captaine Care, The lord of Ester-towne. They were no soner at supper sett, 25 Then after said the grace, Or captaine Care and all his men Wer lighte aboute the place. "Gyve over thi howsse, thou lady gay, And I will make the a bande; 30 To-nighte thoust ly wythin my arm, To-morrowe thou shall ere my lan[de]." Then bespacke the eldest sonne, That was both whitt and redde, "O mother dere, geve over your howsse, 35 Or elles we shal be deade." "I will not geve over my hous," she saithe, "Not for feare of my lyffe; It shal be talked throughout the land, The slaughter of a wyffe. 40 "Fetch me my pestilett, And charge me my gonne, That I may shott at the bloddy butcher, The lord of Easter-towne." She styfly stod on her castle-wall, 45 And lett the pellettes flee, She myst the blody bucher, And slew other three. "I will not geve over my hous," she saithe, "Netheir for lord nor lowne, 50 Nor yet for traitour Captaine Care, The lord of Easter-towne. "I desire of Captaine Care, And all his bloddye band, That he would save my eldest sonne, 55 The eare of all my lande." "Lap him in a shete," he sayth, "And let him downe to me, And I shall take him in my armes, His waran wyll I be." 60 The captayne sayd unto himselfe, Wyth sped before the rest; He cut his tonge out of his head, His hart out of his brest. He lapt them in a handerchef, 65 And knet it of knotes three, And cast them over the castell-wall At that gay ladye. "Fye upon thee, Captaine Care, And all thy bloddy band, 70 For thou hast slayne my eldest sonne, The ayre of all my land." Then bespake the yongest sonn, That sat on the nurses knee, Sayth, "Mother gay, geve ower your house, 75 [The smoke] it smoldereth me." "I wold geve my gold," she saith, "And so I wolde my fee, For a blaste of the wesleyn wind To dryve the smoke from thee. 80 "Fy upon thee, John Hamleton, That ever I paid thé hyre, For thou hast broken my castle-wall, And kyndled in [it] the fyre."[L84] The lady gate to her close parler, 85 The fire fell aboute her head; She toke up her children thre, Seth, "Babes, we are all dead." Then bespake the hye steward, That is of hye degree; 90 Saith, "Ladie gay, you are no 'bote,' Wethere ye fighte or flee." Lord Hamleton dremd in his dreame, In Carvall where he laye, His halle 'was' all of fyre, 95 His ladie slayne or daye. "Busk and bowne, my merry men all, Even and go ye with me, For I 'dremd' that my hall was on fyre My lady slayne or day." 100 He buskt him and bownd him, And like a worthi knighte, And when he saw his hall burning, His harte was no dele lighte. He sett a trumpett till his mouth, 105 He blew as it plesd his grace; Twenty score of Hambletons Was light aboute the place. "Had I knowne as much yesternighte As I do to-daye, 110 Captaine Care and all his men Should not have gone so quite [awaye.] "Fye upon thee, Captaine Care, And all thy blody 'bande;' Thou hast slayne my lady gaye, 115 More worth then all thy lande. "Yf thou had ought eny ill will," he saith, "Thou shoulde have taken my lyffe, And have saved my children thre, All and my lovesome wyffe." 120 84, thee. EDOM O' GORDON. From Ritson's _Scottish Songs_, ii. 17. We presume this is the ballad printed by the Foulises. It fell about the Martinmas, Quhen the wind blew schrile and cauld, Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, "We maun draw to a hauld. "And what an a hauld sall we draw to, 5 My merry men and me? We will gae to the house of the Rodes, To see that fair ladie." She had nae sooner busket hersell, Nor putten on her gown, 10 Till Edom o' Gordon and his men Were round about the town. They had nae sooner sitten down, Nor sooner said the grace, Till Edom o' Gordon and his men 15 Were closed about the place. The lady ran up to her tower head, As fast as she could drie, To see if by her fair speeches, She could with him agree. 20 As soon as he saw the lady fair, And hir yates all locked fast, He fell into a rage of wrath, And his heart was aghast.[L24] "Cum down to me, ze lady fair, 25 Cum down to me, let's see; This night ze's ly by my ain side, The morn my bride sall be." "I winnae cum down, ye fals Gordon, I winnae cum down to thee; 30 I winnae forsake my ane dear lord That is sae far frae me." "Gi up your house, ze fair lady, Gi up your house to me, Or I will burn zoursel therein, 35 Bot you and zour babies three." "I winna gie up, zou fals Gordon, To nae sik traitor as thee, Tho' zou should burn mysel therein, Bot and my babies three." 40 "Set fire to the house," quoth fals Gordon, "Sin better may nae bee; And I will burn hersel therein, Bot and her babies three." "And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man, 45 I paid ze weil zour fee; Why pow ze out my ground wa' stane, Lets in the reek to me? "And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man, For I paid zou weil zour hire; 50 Why pow ze out my ground wa' stane, To me lets in the fire?" "Ye paid me weil my hire, lady, Ye paid me weil my fee, But now I'm Edom of Gordon's man, 55 Maun either do or die." O then bespake her zoungest son, Sat on the nurses knee, "Dear mother, gie owre your house," he says, "For the reek it worries me." 60 "I winnae gie up my house, my dear, To nae sik traitor as he; Cum well, cum wae, my jewels fair, Ye maun tak share wi me." O then bespake her dochter dear, 65 She was baith jimp and sma, "O row me in a pair o' shiets, And tow me owre the wa." They rowd her in a pair of shiets, And towd her owre the wa, 70 But, on the point of Edom's speir, She gat a deadly fa'. O bonny, bonny, was hir mouth, And chirry were her cheiks, And clear, clear was hir zellow hair, 75 Whereon the reid bluid dreips. Then wi his speir he turn'd hir owr, O gin hir face was wan! He said, "Zou are the first that eer I wisht alive again." 80 He turn'd her owr and owr again; O gin hir skin was whyte! He said, "I might ha spard thy life, To been some mans delyte." "Busk and boon, my merry men all, 85 For ill dooms I do guess; I cannae luik in that bonny face, As it lyes on the grass." "Them luiks to freits, my master deir, Their freits will follow them;[L90] 90 Let it neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon Was daunted with a dame." O then he spied hir ain deir lord, As he came owr the lee; He saw his castle in a fire, 95 As far as he could see. "Put on, put on, my mighty men,[L97] As fast as ze can drie, For he that's hindmost of my men, Sall neir get guid o' me." 100 And some they raid, and some they ran, Fu fast out owr the plain, But lang, lang, eer he coud get up, They were a' deid and slain. But mony were the mudie men 105 Lay gasping on the grien; For o' fifty men that Edom brought out There were but five ged heme. And mony were the mudie men Lay gasping on the grien, 110 And mony were the fair ladys Lay lemanless at heme. And round and round the waes he went, Their ashes for to view; At last into the flames he flew, 115 And bad the world adieu. 24. heart, _pronounced_ hearrut. 90. Then. 97. _Qy._ wight yemen? WILLIE MACKINTOSH, OR, THE BURNING OF AUCHINDOWN. These fragments appear to relate to the burning of Auchindown, a castle belonging to the Gordons, in vengeance for the death of William Mackintosh of the clan Chattan, which is said to have occurred at the castle of the Earl of Huntly. The event is placed in the year 1592. After the Mackintoshes had executed their revenge, they were pursued by the Gordons, and overtaken in the Stapler, where "sixty of the clan Chattan were killed, and Willie Mackintosh, their leader, wounded." So says the not very trustworthy editor of the _Thistle of Scotland_. Another fragment of four stanzas (containing nothing additional), is given by Whitelaw, _Book of Scottish Ballads_, p. 248. I. From Finlay's _Scottish Ballads_, ii. 97. As I came in by Fiddich-side, In a May morning, I met Willie Mackintosh An hour before the dawning. "Turn again, turn again, 5 Turn again, I bid ye; If ye burn Auchindown, Huntly he will head ye." "Head me, hang me, That sall never fear me; 10 I'll burn Auchindown Before the life leaves me." As I came in by Auchindown, In a May morning, Auchindown was in a bleeze, 15 An hour before the dawning. * * * * * "Crawing, crawing, For my crowse crawing, I lost the best feather i' my wing, For my crowse crawing." 20 II. From _The Thistle of Scotland_, p. 106. "Turn, Willie Mackintosh, Turn, I bid you, Gin ye burn Auchindown, Huntly will head you." "Head me, or hang me, 5 That canna fley me, I'll burn Auchindown, Ere the life lea' me." Coming down Dee-side In a clear morning, 10 Auchindown was in a flame, Ere the cock crawing. But coming o'er Cairn Croom, And looking down, man, I saw Willie Mackintosh 15 Burn Auchindown, man. "Bonny Willie Mackintosh, Whare left ye your men?" "I left them in the Stapler, But they'll never come hame." 20 "Bonny Willie Mackintosh, Where now is your men?" "I left them in the Stapler, Sleeping in their sheen." LORD MAXWELL'S GOODNIGHT. _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 199. "A. D. 1585, John Lord Maxwell, or, as he styled himself, Earl of Morton, having quarrelled with the Earl of Arran, reigning favourite of James VI., and fallen, of course, under the displeasure of the court, was denounced rebel. A commission was also given to the Laird of Johnstone, then Warden of the West Marches, to pursue and apprehend the ancient rival and enemy of his house. Two bands of mercenaries, commanded by Captains Cranstoun and Lammie, who were sent from Edinburgh to support Johnstone, were attacked and cut to pieces at Crawford-muir, by Robert Maxwell, natural brother to the chieftain; who, following up his advantage, burned Johnstone's Castle of Lochwood, observing, with savage glee, that he would give Lady Johnstone light enough by which 'to set her hood.' In a subsequent conflict, Johnstone himself was defeated, and made prisoner, and is said to have died of grief at the disgrace which he sustained. "By one of the revolutions, common in those days, Maxwell was soon after restored to the King's favour in his turn, and obtained the wardenry of the West Marches. A bond of alliance was subscribed by him, and by Sir James Johnstone, and for some time the two clans lived in harmony. In the year 1593, however, the hereditary feud was revived on the following occasion. A band of marauders, of the clan Johnstone, drove a prey of cattle from the lands belonging to the Lairds of Crichton, Sanquhar, and Drumlanrig; and defeated, with slaughter, the pursuers, who attempted to rescue their property.--[See _The Lads of Wamphray_, post, p. 168.] The injured parties, being apprehensive that Maxwell would not cordially embrace their cause, on account of his late reconciliation with the Johnstones, endeavoured to overcome his reluctance, by offering to enter into bonds of manrent, and so to become his followers and liegemen; he, on the other hand, granting to them a bond of maintenance, or protection, by which he bound himself, in usual form, to maintain their quarrel against all mortals, saving his loyalty. Thus, the most powerful and respectable families in Dumfriesshire, became, for a time, the vassals of Lord Maxwell. This secret alliance was discovered to Sir James Johnstone by the Laird of Cummertrees, one of his own clan, though a retainer to Maxwell. Cummertrees even contrived to possess himself of the bonds of manrent, which he delivered to his chief. The petty warfare betwixt the rival barons was instantly renewed. Buccleuch, a near relation of Johnstone, came to his assistance with his clan, 'the most renowned freebooters, [says a historian,] the fiercest and bravest warriors among the Border tribes.' With Buccleuch also came the Elliots, Armstrongs, and Græmes. Thus reinforced, Johnstone surprised and cut to pieces a party of the Maxwells, stationed at Lochmaben. On the other hand, Lord Maxwell, armed with the royal authority, and numbering among his followers all the barons of Nithsdale, displayed his banner as the King's lieutenant, and invaded Annandale at the head of two thousand men. In those days, however, the royal auspices seem to have carried as little good fortune as effective strength with them. A desperate conflict, still renowned in tradition, took place at the Dryffe Sands, not far from Lockerby, in which Johnstone, although inferior in numbers, partly by his own conduct, partly by the valour of his allies, gained a decisive victory. Lord Maxwell, a tall man, and heavily armed, was struck from his horse in the flight, and cruelly slain, after the hand, which he stretched out for quarter, had been severed from his body. Many of his followers were slain in the battle, and many cruelly wounded, especially by slashes in the face, which wound was thence termed a 'Lockerby lick.' The Barons of Lag, Closeburn, and Drumlanrig, escaped by the fleetness of their horses; a circumstance alluded to in the following ballad. "John, Lord Maxwell, with whose 'Goodnight' the reader is here presented, was son to him who fell at the battle of Dryffe Sands, and is said to have early avowed the deepest revenge for his father's death. Such, indeed, was the fiery and untameable spirit of the man, that neither the threats nor entreaties of the King himself could make him lay aside his vindictive purpose; although Johnstone, the object of his resentment, had not only reconciled himself to the court, but even obtained the wardenry of the Middle Marches, in room of Sir John Carmichael, murdered by the Armstrongs. Lord Maxwell was therefore prohibited to approach the Border counties; and having, in contempt of that mandate, excited new disturbances, he was confined in the castle of Edinburgh. From this fortress, however, he contrived to make his escape; and, having repaired to Dumfriesshire, he sought an amicable interview with Johnstone, under a pretence of a wish to accommodate their differences. Sir Robert Maxwell, of Orchardstane, (mentioned in the ballad, verse 1,) who was married to a sister of Sir James Johnstone, persuaded his brother-in-law to accede to Maxwell's proposal." So far Sir Walter Scott. The meeting took place on the 6th of April, 1608, in the presence of Sir Robert Maxwell, each party being accompanied by a single follower. While the chieftains were conferring together, Charles Maxwell, the attendant of Lord John, maliciously began an altercation with the servant of Johnstone, and shot him with a pistol, and Sir James, looking round at the report, was himself shot by Lord Maxwell in the back with two poisoned bullets. The murderer escaped to France, but afterwards venturing to return to Scotland, was apprehended, brought to trial at Edinburgh, and beheaded on the 21st of May, 1613. We may naturally suppose that the _Goodnight_ was composed shortly after Lord Maxwell fled across the seas, certainly before 1613. This ballad was first printed in the _Border Minstrelsy_ "from a copy in Glenriddel's MSS., with some slight variations from tradition." "Adieu, madame, my mother dear, But and my sisters three! Adieu, fair Robert of Orchardstane! My heart is wae for thee. Adieu, the lily and the rose, 5 The primrose fair to see! Adieu, my ladye, and only joy! For I may not stay with thee. "Though I hae slain the Lord Johnstone, What care I for their feid? 10 My noble mind their wrath disdains,-- He was my father's deid. Both night and day I labour'd oft Of him avenged to be; But now I've got what lang I sought, 15 And I may not stay with thee. "Adieu, Drumlanrig! false wert aye-- And Closeburn in a band! The Laird of Lag, frae my father that fled, When the Johnston struck aff his hand! 20 They were three brethren in a band-- Joy may they never see! Their treacherous art, and cowardly heart, Has twined my love and me. "Adieu, Dumfries, my proper place, 25 But and Carlaverock fair! Adieu, my castle of the Thrieve, Wi' a' my buildings there! Adieu, Lochmaben's gate sae fair, The Langholm-holm, where birks there be! 30 Adieu, my ladye, and only joy! For, trust me, I may not stay wi' thee. "Adieu, fair Eskdale, up and down, Where my puir friends do dwell! The bangisters will ding them down, 35 And will them sair compell. But I'll avenge their feid mysell, When I come o'er the sea; Adieu, my ladye, and only joy! For I may not stay wi' thee." 40 "Lord of the land,"--that ladye said, "O wad ye go wi' me, Unto my brother's stately tower, Where safest ye may be! There Hamiltons, and Douglas baith, 45 Shall rise to succour thee." "Thanks for thy kindness, fair my dame, But I may not stay wi' thee." Then he tuik aff a gay gold ring, Thereat hang signets three; 50 "Hae, tak thee that, mine ain dear thing, And still hae mind o' me: But if thou take another lord, Ere I come ower the sea-- His life is but a three days' lease, 55 Though I may not stay wi' thee." The wind was fair, the ship was clear, That good lord went away; And most part of his friends were there, To give him a fair convey. 60 They drank the wine, they didna spair, Even in that gude lord's sight-- Sae now he's o'er the floods sae gray, And Lord Maxwell has ta'en his Goodnight. THE LADS OF WAMPHRAY _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, ii. 148. "The reader will find, prefixed to the foregoing ballad, an account of the noted feud betwixt the families of Maxwell and Johnstone. The following song celebrates the skirmish, in 1593, betwixt the Johnstones and Crichtons, which led to the revival of the ancient quarrel betwixt Johnstone and Maxwell, and finally to the battle of Dryffe Sands, in which the latter lost his life. Wamphray is the name of a parish in Annandale. Lethenhall was the abode of Johnstone of Wamphray, and continued to be so till of late years. William Johnstone of Wamphray, called the Galliard, was a noted freebooter. A place, near the head of Teviotdale, retains the name of the Galliard's Faulds, (folds,) being a valley, where he used to secrete and divide his spoil, with his Liddesdale and Eskdale associates. His _nom de guerre_ seems to have been derived from the dance called the Galliard. The word is still used in Scotland, to express an active, gay, dissipated character. Willie of the Kirkhill, nephew to the Galliard, and his avenger, was also a noted Border robber. Previous to the battle of Dryffe Sands, so often mentioned, tradition reports, that Maxwell had offered a ten-pound-land to any of his party, who should bring him the head or hand of the Laird of Johnstone. This being reported to his antagonist, he answered, he had not a ten-pound-land to offer, but would give a five-merk-land to the man who should that day cut off the head or hand of Lord Maxwell. Willie of the Kirkhill, mounted upon a young grey horse, rushed upon the enemy, and earned the reward, by striking down their unfortunate chieftain, and cutting off his right hand."--SCOTT. 'Twixt Girth-head and the Langwood end,[L1] Lived the Galliard, and the Galliard's men, But and the lads of Leverhay, That drove the Crichton's gear away. It is the lads of Lethenha', 5 The greatest rogues amang them a'; But and the lads of Stefenbiggin, They broke the house in at the rigging. The lads of Fingland, and Helbeck-hill, They were never for good, but aye for ill; 10 'Twixt the Staywood-bush and Langside-hill, They steal'd the broked cow and the branded bull. It is the lads of the Girth-head, The deil's in them for pride and greed; For the Galliard, and the gay Galliard's men, 15 They ne'er saw a horse but they made it their ain. The Galliard to Nithsdale is gane, To steal Sim Crichton's winsome dun; The Galliard is unto the stable gane, But instead of the dun, the blind he has ta'en. 20 "Now Simmy, Simmy of the Side, Come out and see a Johnstone ride! Here's the bonniest horse in a' Nithside, And a gentle Johnstone aboon his hide." Simmy Crichton's mounted then, 25 And Crichtons has raised mony a ane; The Galliard trow'd his horse had been wight, But the Crichtons beat him out o' sight. As soon as the Galliard the Crichton saw, Behind the saugh-bush he did draw; 30 And there the Crichtons the Galliard hae ta'en, And nane wi' him but Willie alane. "O Simmy, Simmy, now let me gang, And I'll never mair do a Crichton wrang! O Simmy, Simmy, now let me be, 35 And a peck o' gowd I'll give to thee! "O Simmy, Simmy, now let me gang, And my wife shall heap it with her hand!" But the Crichtons wadna let the Galliard be, But they hang'd him hie upon a tree. 40 O think then Willie he was right wae, When he saw his uncle guided sae; "But if ever I live Wamphray to see, My uncle's death avenged shall be!" Back to Wamphray he is gane, 45 And riders has raised mony a ane; Saying--"My lads, if ye'll be true, Ye shall a' be clad in the noble blue." Back to Nithsdale they have gane, And awa' the Crichtons' nowt hae ta'en; 50 But when they cam to the Wellpath-head,[L51] The Crichtons bade them light and lead. And when they cam to the Biddes-burn, The Crichtons bade them stand and turn; And when they cam to the Biddes-strand, 55 The Crichtons they were hard at hand. But when they cam to the Biddes-law, The Johnstones bade them stand and draw; "We've done nae ill, we'll thole nae wrang, But back to Wamphray we will gang." 60 And out spoke Willie of the Kirkhill, "Of fighting, lads, ye'se hae your fill;" And from his horse Willie he lap, And a burnish'd brand in his hand he gat. Out through the Crichtons Willie he ran, 65 And dang them down baith horse and man; O but the Johnstones were wondrous rude, When the Biddes-burn ran three days blood! "Now, sirs, we have done a noble deed,-- We have revenged the Galliard's bleid; 70 For every finger of the Galliard's hand, I vow this day I've kill'd a man." As they cam in at Evan-head, At Ricklaw-holm they spread abread;[L74] "Drive on, my lads! it will be late; 75 We'll hae a pint at Wamphray gate. "For where'er I gang, or e'er I ride, The lads of Wamphray are on my side; And of a' the lads that I do ken, A Wamphray lad's the king of men." 80 1-7. Leverhay, Stefenbiggin, Girth-head, &c., are all situated in the parish of Wamphray.--S. 51-53. The Wellpath is a pass by which the Johnstones were retreating to their fastnesses in Annandale. The Biddes-burn, where the skirmish took place betwixt the Johnstones and their pursuers, is a rivulet which takes its course among the mountains on the confines of Nithesdale and Annandale.--S. 74-76. Ricklaw-holm is a place upon the Evan-water, which falls into the Annan, below Moffat. Wamphray-gate was in those days an alehouse.--S. THE FIRE OF FRENDRAUGHT. From Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 161. "A mortal feud having arisen between the Laird of Frendraught [Sir James Chrichton] and the Laird of Rothiemay [William Gordon], both gentlemen of Banffshire, a rencontre took place, at which the retainers of both were present, on the 1st of January, 1630; when Rothiemay was killed, and several persons hurt on both sides. To stanch this bloody quarrel, the Marquis of Huntly, who was chief to both parties, and who had therefore a right to act as arbiter between them, ordered Frendraught to pay fifty thousand merks to Rothiemay's widow. In the ensuing September, Frendraught fell into another quarrel, in the course of which James Lesly, son to Lesly of Pitcaple, was shot through the arm. Soon after the last incident, Frendraught, having paid a visit to the Marquis of Huntly at the Bog of Gight, the Laird of Pitcaple came up with thirty armed men, to demand atonement for the wound of his son. Huntly acted in this case with great discretion. Without permitting the two lairds to come to a conference, he endeavored to persuade the complaining party that Frendraught was in reality innocent of his son's wound; and, as Pitcaple went away vowing vengeance, he sent Frendraught home under a strong escort, which was commanded by his son, the Viscount Aboyne, and by the young Laird of Rothiemay, son to him whom Frendraught had killed some months before. The party reached Frendraught Castle without being attacked by Pitcaple; when, Aboyne and Rothiemay offering to take leave of Frendraught and his lady, in order to return home, they were earnestly entreated by these individuals to remain a night, and postpone their return till to-morrow. Being with difficulty prevailed upon, the young Viscount and Rothiemay were well entertained, and after supper went cheerfully to bed. To continue the narrative in the words of Spalding--"The Viscount was laid in an bed in the Old Tower going off the hall, and standing upon a vault, wherein there was ane round hole, devised of old, just under Aboyne's bed. Robert Gordon, his servitor, and English Will, his page, were both laid in the same chamber. The Laird of Rothiemay, with some servants beside him, was laid in another chamber just above Aboyne's chamber; and in another room above that chamber, were laid George Chalmers of Noth, and George Gordon, another of the Viscount's servants; with them also was laid Captain Rolloch, then in Frendraught's own company. All being thus at rest, about midnight that dolorous tower took fire in so sudden and furious a manner, yea, and in ane clap, that the noble Viscount, the Laird of Rothiemay, English Will, Colonel Wat, another of Aboyne's servants, and other two, being six in number, were cruelly burnt and tormented to the death, without help or relief; the Laird of Frendraught, his lady, and haill household looking on, without moving or stirring to deliver them from the fury of this fearful fire, as was reported. Robert Gordon, called Sutherland Gordon, being in the Viscount's chamber, escaped this fire with the life. George Chalmers and Captain Rolloch, being in the third room, escaped this fire also, and, as was said, Aboyne might have saved himself also if he would have gone out of doors, which he would not do, but suddenly ran up stairs to Rothiemay's chamber, and wakened him to rise; and as he is awakening him, the timber passage and lofting of the chamber hastily takes fire, so that none of them could win down stairs again; so they turned to a window looking to the close, where they piteously cried many times, "Help! help! for God's cause!" The Laird and Lady, with their servants, all seeing and hearing the woeful crying, made no help or manner of helping; which they perceiving, cried oftentimes mercy at God's hands for their sins; syne clasped in each other's arms, and cheerfully suffered their martyrdom. Thus died this noble Viscount, of singular expectation, Rothiemay, a brave youth, and the rest, by this doleful fire, never enough to be deplored, to the great grief and sorrow of their kin, parents, and hail common people, especially to the noble Marquis, who for his good will got this reward. No man can express the dolour of him and his lady, nor yet the grief of the Viscount's own dear lady, when it came to her ears, which she kept to her dying day, disdaining after the company of men all her life-time, following the love of the turtle dove. 'It is reported that upon the morn after this woeful fire, the Lady Frendraught, daughter to the Earl of Sutherland, and near cousin to the Marquis, backed in a white plaid, and riding on a small nag, having a boy leading her horse, without any more in her company, in this pitiful manner she came weeping and mourning to the Bog, desiring entry to speak with my lord; but this was refused; so she returned back to her own house, the same gate she came, comfortless.'--SPALDING'S _History of the Troubles in Scotland_. "Suspicion formed two theories regarding the cause of the fire of Frendraught. The first was, that the Laird had wilfully set fire to the tower, for the purpose of destroying the young Laird of Rothiemay. The other was, that it originated in the revengeful feelings of the Laird of Pitcaple. In the first theory there is extremely little probability. First, it could not have been premeditated; because the circumstance of Frendraught being accompanied home that day by Aboyne and Rothiemay, was entirely accidental. In the second place, there was no reason for Frendraught being inclined to murder Rothiemay, except that he grudged the payment of the fifty thousand merks to his mother; while there was every reason for his being inclined rather to befriend a youth whom he had already injured by occasioning the death of his father. In the third place, all Frendraught's family papers, with much gold and silver, both in money and plate, were consumed in the fire. And, in the fourth place, it is extremely improbable that any man of his rank should commit so deliberate and so atrocious an act of villainy. On the other hand, it seems by no means improbable that Pitcaple should have caused fire to be set to his enemy's house; a mode of reprisal which had been practised in the same district of country, as we have already seen, by a gentleman of only the preceding age. Pitcaple's men, moreover, had been heard to declare an intention of attempting some such enterprise against Frendraught; as was proved on the trial of a gentleman of the name of Meldrum, who was apprehended, condemned, and executed, for his alleged accession to their conspiracy."--CHAMBERS'S _Scottish Ballads_, p. 85. This ballad was first printed in the _North Countrie Garland_, p. 4, and afterwards with a few slight corrections in Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, having in both cases been furnished by Mr. C. K. Sharpe. The tragic story was celebrated by one Arthur Johnston, a contemporary scholar, in two Latin poems, the one entitled, _Querela Sophiæ Hay, dominæ de Melgeine, de morte mariti_, and the other, _De Johanne Gordonio, Vicecomite de Melgeine, el Johanne Gordonio de Rothemay, in arce Frendriaca combustis_ (Finlay, i. 67). In Herd's Collection (i. 199) is a modern piece on the subject called _Frennet Hall_, in the detestable style of the last century. This very feeble production is also to be found in Ritson's _Scottish Songs_ (ii. 31), Johnson's _Museum_, and elsewhere. But Ritson gives these few stanzas of an excellent old ballad, as remembered by the Rev. Mr. Boyd, the translator of Dante: The reek it rose, and the flame it flew, And oh the fire augmented high, Until it came to Lord John's chamber-window, And to the bed where Lord John lay. "O help me, help me, Lady Frennet! I never ettled harm to thee; And if my father slew my lord, Forget the deed and rescue me." He looked east, he looked west, To see if any help was nigh; At length his little page he saw, Who to his lord aloud did cry. "Loup doun, loup doun, my master dear! What though the window's dreigh and hie? I'll catch you in my arms twa, And never a foot from you I'll flee." "How can I loup, you little page, How can I leave this window hie? Do you not see the blazing low, And my twa legs burnt to my knee?" * * * * * The eighteenth of October, A dismal tale to hear, How good Lord John and Rothiemay Was both burnt in the fire. When steeds was saddled and well bridled, 5 And ready for to ride, Then out it came her, false Frendraught, Inviting them to bide. Said,--"Stay this night untill we sup, The morn untill we dine; 10 'Twill be a token of good 'greement 'Twixt your good Lord and mine." "We'll turn again," said good Lord John;-- "But no," said Rothiemay,-- "My steed's trapan'd, my bridle's broken, 15 I fear the day I'm fey." When mass was sung, and bells was rung, And all men bound for bed, Then good Lord John and Rothiemay In one chamber was laid. 20 They had not long cast off their cloaths, And were but now asleep, When the weary smoke began to rise, Likewise the scorching heat. "O waken, waken, Rothiemay! 25 O waken, brother dear! And turn you to our Saviour; There is strong treason here." When they were dressed in their cloaths, And ready for to boun, 30 The doors and windows was all secur'd, The roof-tree burning down. He did him to the wire-window, As fast as he could gang; Says,--"Wae to the hands put in the stancheons, 35 For out we'll never win." When he stood at the wire-window, Most doleful to be seen, He did espy her, Lady Frendraught, Who stood upon the green. 40 Cried,--"Mercy, mercy, Lady Frendraught! Will ye not sink with sin? For first your husband killed my father, And now you burn his son." O then out spoke her, Lady Frendraught, 45 And loudly did she cry,-- "It were great pity for good Lord John, But none for Rothiemay. But the keys are casten in the deep draw well, Ye cannot get away." 50 While he stood in this dreadful plight, Most piteous to be seen, There called out his servant Gordon, As he had frantic been. "O loup, O loup, my dear master, 55 O loup and come to me! I'll catch you in my arms two; One foot I will not flee. "O loup, O loup, my dear master, O loup and come away! 60 I'll catch you in my arms two, But Rothiemay may lie." "The fish shall never swim in the flood, Nor corn grow through the clay, Nor the fiercest fire that ever was kindled 65 Twin me and Rothiemay. "But I cannot loup, I cannot come, I cannot win to thee; My head's fast in the wire-window, My feet burning from me. 70 "My eyes are seething in my head, My flesh roasting also, My bowels are boiling with my blood; Is not that a woeful woe? "Take here the rings from my white fingers 75 That are so long and small, And give them to my lady fair, Where she sits in her hall. "So I cannot loup, I cannot come, I cannot loup to thee; 80 My earthly part is all consumed, My spirit but speaks to thee." Wringing her hands, tearing her hair, His lady she was seen, And thus addressed his servant Gordon, 85 Where he stood on the green. "O wae be to you, George Gordon, An ill death may you die! So safe and sound as you stand there, And my lord bereaved from me." 90 "I bad him loup, I bad him come, I bad him loup to me; I'd catch him in my arms two, A foot I should not flee. &c. "He threw me the rings from his white fingers, 95 Which were so long and small, To give to you, his lady fair, Where you sat in your hall." &c. Sophia Hay, Sophia Hay, O bonny Sophia was her name,-- 100 Her waiting maid put on her cloaths, But I wot she tore them off again. And aft she cried, "Ohon! alas, alas! A sair heart's ill to win; I wan a sair heart when I married him, 105 And the day it's well return'd again." THE BONNIE HOUSE O' AIRLY. Finlay's _Scottish Ballads_, ii. 31. The Earl of Airly, a nobleman zealously attached to the cause of King Charles, withdrew from Scotland in order to avoid subscribing the Covenant, leaving his eldest son Lord Ogilvie at home. The Committee of Estates, hearing that Airly had fled the country, directed the Earls of Montrose and Kinghorn to take possession of his castle, but in this, owing to the exceeding strength of the place, they did not succeed. Subsequently the Earl of Argyle, a personal enemy of the Earl of Airly, was charged with the same commission, and raised an army of five thousand men to carry out his trust. Lord Ogilvie was unable to hold out against such a force, and abandoned his father's stronghold, which, as well as his own residence of Forthar, was plundered and utterly destroyed by Argyle. Lady Ogilvie is said to have been pregnant at the time of the burning of Forthar, and to have undergone considerable danger before she could find proper refuge. She never had, however, more than one son, though she is endowed with no fewer than ten by the ballads. According to one account, the event here celebrated took place in 1639; another assigns it to 1640. (Napier's _Montrose and the Covenanters_, i. 533.) The _Bonnie House of Airly_ was first printed in Finlay's _Scottish Ballads_. Other copies are given in Cromek's _Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song_, p. 225; Smith's _Scottish Minstrel_, ii. 2; Hogg's _Jacobite Relics_, ii. 152; Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 59; and Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 104. A modern attempt on the same theme may be seen in Hogg's _Jacobite Relics_, ii. 411. Allan Cunningham, misled by the Ogilvies' continuing to the Pretender the devotion they exhibited to the Royal Martyr and his son, has transferred the burning of Airly to the 18th century. See his _Young Airly_, in Cromek's _Remains_, p. 196, and, rewritten, in _The Songs of Scotland_, iii. 218. It fell on a day, and a bonnie summer day, When the corn grew green and yellow, That there fell out a great dispute Between Argyle and Airly. The Duke o' Montrose has written to Argyle 5 To come in the morning early, An' lead in his men, by the back o' Dunkeld, To plunder the bonnie house o' Airly. The lady look'd o'er her window sae hie, And O but she looked weary! 10 And there she espied the great Argyle Come to plunder the bonnie house o' Airly. "Come down, come down, Lady Margaret," he says, "Come down and kiss me fairly, Or before the morning clear daylight, 15 I'll no leave a standing stane in Airly." "I wadna kiss thee, great Argyle, I wadna kiss thee fairly, I wadna kiss thee, great Argyle, Gin you shoudna leave a standing stane in Airly." 20 He has ta'en her by the middle sae sma', Says, "Lady, where is your drury?" "It's up and down by the bonnie burn side, Amang the planting of Airly." They sought it up, they sought it down, 25 They sought it late and early, And found it in the bonnie balm-tree, That shines on the bowling-green o' Airly. He has ta'en her by the left shoulder, And O but she grat sairly, 30 And led her down to yon green bank, Till he plundered the bonnie house o' Airly. "O it's I hae seven braw sons," she says, "And the youngest ne'er saw his daddie, And altho' I had as mony mae, 35 I wad gie them a' to Charlie. "But gin my good lord had been at hame, As this night he is wi' Charlie, There durst na a Campbell in a' the west Hae plundered the bonnie house o' Airly." 40 THE BONNIE HOUSE OF AIRLY. From Sharpe's _Ballad Book_, p. 59. It fell on a day, and a bonny simmer day, When green grew aits and barley, That there fell out a greet dispute Between Argyll and Airlie. Argyll has raised an hunder men, 5 An hunder harness'd rarely, And he's awa' by the back of Dunkell, To plunder the castle of Airlie. Lady Ogilvie looks o'er her bower window, And O but she looks weary! 10 And there she spy'd the great Argyll, Come to plunder the bonny house of Airlie. "Come down, come down, my Lady Ogilvie, Come down, and kiss me fairly:" "O I winna kiss the fause Argyll, 15 If he shouldna leave a standing stane in Airlie." He hath taken her by the left shoulder, Says, "Dame where lies thy dowry?" "O it's east and west yon water side, And it's down by the banks of the Airlie." 20 They hae sought it up, they hae sought it down, They have sought it maist severely, Till they fand it in the fair plum-tree, That shines on the bowling-green of Airlie. He hath taken her by the middle sae small, 25 And O but she grat sairly! And laid her down by the bonny burn-side, Till they plundered the castle of Airlie. "Gif my gude lord war here this night, As he is with King Charlie, 30 Neither you, nor ony ither Scottish Lord, Durst awow to the plundering of Airlie. "Gif my gude Lord war now at hame, As he is with his king, Then durst nae a Campbell in a' Argyll 35 Set fit on Airlie green. "Ten bonny sons I have born unto him, The eleventh ne'er saw his daddy; But though I had an hundred mair, I'd gie them a' to King Charlie. 40 THE BARON OF BRACKLEY. First published as follows in Jamieson's _Popular Ballads_, i. 102. The copy used was derived from Mrs. Brown, and collated with a fragment taken down by Scott from the recitation of two of the descendants of Inverey. Buchan has given a different version in his _Gleanings_, which is annexed to the present. "This ballad," says Chambers, "records an unfortunate rencontre, which took place on the 16th of September, 1666, between John Gordon of Brackley, commonly called the Baron of Brackley, (in Aberdeenshire,) and Farquharson of Inverey, a noted freebooter, who dwelt on Dee-side. The former gentleman, who is yet remembered by tradition as a person of the most amiable and respectable character, had contrived to offend Farquharson, by pounding some horses belonging to his (Farquharson's) followers, which had either strayed into the Brackley grounds, or become forfeited on account of some petty delinquencies committed by their proprietors. Farquharson was a man of violent habits and passions; he is yet remembered by the epithet _Fuddie_, descriptive of his hurried, impatient gait; and it is said that, having been in league with the powers of darkness, he was buried on the north side of a hill, where the sun never shone. On account of the miraculous expedition with which he could sweep the cattle away from a fertile district, _Deil scoup wi'_ _Fuddie!_ is still a popular proverb, implying that the devil could alone keep his own part with him. This singular marauder, it appears, from authentic information, wished at first to argue the point at issue with the Baron of Brackley; but in the course of the altercation some expression from one of the parties occasioned a mutual discharge of fire-arms, by which Brackley and three of his followers fell. An attempt was made by the baron's friends to bring Fuddie to justice; but the case seems to have been justly considered one of chance medley, and the accused party was soon restored to society."--_The Scottish Ballads_, p. 147. Down Dee side came Inverey whistling and playing; He's lighted at Brackley yates at the day dawing. Says, "Baron o' Brackley, O are ye within? There's sharp swords at the yate will gar your blood spin." The lady raise up, to the window she went; 5 She heard her kye lowing o'er hill and o'er bent. "O rise up, ye baron, and turn back your kye; For the lads o' Drumwharran are driving them bye." "How can I rise, lady, or turn them again! Whare'er I have ae man, I wat they hae ten." 10 "Then rise up, my lasses, tak rocks in your hand, And turn back the kye;--I ha'e you at command. "Gin I had a husband, as I hae nane, He wadna lye in his bower, see his kye ta'en." Then up got the baron, and cried for his graith; 15 Says, "Lady, I'll gang, tho' to leave you I'm laith. "Come, kiss me, then, Peggy, and gie me my speir; I ay was for peace, tho' I never fear'd weir. "Come, kiss me, then, Peggy, nor think I'm to blame; I weel may gae out, but I'll never win in!" 20 When Brackley was busked, and rade o'er the closs, A gallanter baron ne'er lap to a horse. When Brackley was mounted, and rade o'er the green, He was as bald a baron as ever was seen. Tho' there cam' wi' Inverey thirty and three, 25 There was nane wi' bonny Brackley but his brother and he. Twa gallanter Gordons did never sword draw; But against four and thirty, wae's me, what is twa? Wi' swords and wi' daggers they did him surround; And they've pierced bonny Brackley wi' many a wound. 30 Frae the head o' the Dee to the banks o' the Spey, The Gordons may mourn him, and bann Inverey. "O came ye by Brackley yates, was ye in there? Or saw ye his Peggy dear riving her hair?" "O I came by Brackley yates, I was in there, 35 And I saw his Peggy a-making good cheer." That lady she feasted them, carried them ben; She laugh'd wi' the men that her baron had slain. "O fye on you, lady! how could you do sae? You open'd your yates to the fause Inverey." 40 She ate wi' him, drank wi' him, welcom'd him in; She welcom'd the villain that slew her baron! She kept him till morning, syne bade him be gane, And shaw'd him the road that he shou'dna be taen. "Thro' Birss and Aboyne," she says, "lyin in a tour, 45 O'er the hills o' Glentanar you'll skip in an hour." --There's grief in the kitchen, and mirth in the ha'; But the Baron o' Brackley is dead and awa. THE BARON OF BRAIKLEY. Buchan's _Gleanings_, p. 68, taken from _Scarce Ancient Ballads_, p. 9. Inverey came down Deeside whistlin an playin, He was at brave Braikley's yett ere it was dawin; He rappit fou loudly, an wi a great roar, Cried, "Cum down, cum down, Braikley, an open the door. "Are ye sleepin, Baronne, or are ye wakin? 5 Ther's sharp swords at your yett will gar your bluid spin: Open the yett, Braikley, an lat us within, Till we on the green turf gar your bluid rin." Out spak the brave Baronne owre the castell wa, "Are ye come to spulzie an plunder my ha? 10 But gin ye be gentlemen, licht an cum in, Gin ye drink o' my wine ye'll nae gar my bluid spin. "Gin ye be hir'd widdifus, ye may gang by, Ye may gang to the lawlands and steal their fat ky; Ther spulzie like revers o' wyld kettrin clan, 15 Wha plunder unsparing baith houses and lan'. "Gin ye be gentlemen, licht an cum in, Ther's meat an drink i' my ha' for every man: Gin ye be hir'd widdifus, ye may gang by, Gang down to the lawlans, an steal horse an ky." 20 Up spak his ladie, at his bak where she laid, "Get up, get up, Braikley, an be not afraid; They're but hir'd widdifus wi belted plaids. * * * * * "Cum kis me, my Peggy, I'le nae langer stay, For I will go out an meet Inverey; 25 But haud your tongue, Peggy, and mak nae sic din, For yon same hir'd widdifus will prove to be men." She called on her maries, they came to her han; Cries, "Bring your rocks, lassies, we will them coman; Get up, get up, Braikley, and turn bak your ky, 30 For me an my women will them defy. "Come forth than, my maidens, an show them some play; We'll ficht them, an shortly the cowards will fly. Gin I had a husband, wheras I hae nane, He wadna ly in his bed and see his ky taen. 35 "Ther's four-an-twenty milk whit calves, twal o' them ky, In the woods o' Glentanner it's ther they a' ly; Ther are goats in the Etnach, an sheep o' the brae, An a' will be plunderd by young Inverey." "Now haud your tongue, Peggy, an gie me a gun, 40 Ye'll see me gae furth, but Ile never return. Call my bruther William, my unkl also; My cusin James Gordon, we'll mount an' we'll go." Whan Braikley was ready an stood i the closs, He was the bravest baronne that e'er munted horse; 45 Whan a' war assembld on the castell green, Nae man like brave Braikley was ther to be seen. "Turn back, bruther William, ye are a bridegroom, * * * * * We bonnie Jean Gordon, the maid o the mill, O sichin and sobbin she'll seen get her fill." 50 "I'me nae coward, brither, it's kent I'me a man; Ile ficht i' your quarral as lang's I can stan. Ile ficht, my dear brither, wi heart an guid will, An so will yung Harry that lives at the mill. "But turn, my dear brither, and nae langer stay. 55 What'll cum o' your ladie, gin Braikley they slay? What'll cum o' your ladie an' bonny yung son, O what'll cum o' them when Braikley is gone?" "I never will turn: do ye think I will fly? No, here I will ficht, and here I will die." 60 "Strik dogs," cries Inverey, "an ficht till ye're slayn, For we are four hunder, ye are but four men: Strik, strik, ye proud boaster, your honor is gone, Your lans we will plunder, your castell we'll burn." At the head o' the Etnach the battel began, 65 At little Auchoilzie they killd the first man: First they killd ane, an syne they killd twa, They killd gallant Braikley, the flowr o' them a'. They killd William Gordon and James o' the Knox, An brave Alexander, the flowr o' Glenmuick: 70 What sichin an moaning war heard i the glen, For the Baronne o' Braikley, wha basely was slayn! "Came ye by the castell, an was ye in there? Saw ye pretty Peggy tearing her hair?" "Yes, I cam by Braikley, an I gaed in ther, 75 An ther saw his ladie braiding her hair. "She was rantin, an' dancin, an' singin for joy, An vowin that nicht she woud feest Inverey: She eat wi him, drank wi him, welcomd him in, Was kind to the man that had slayn her baronne." 80 Up spak the son on the nourices knee,[L81] "Gin I live to be a man revenged Ile be." Ther's dool i the kitchin, an mirth i the ha, The Baronne o Braikley is dead an awa. 81. See _Johnie Armstrang_, p. 45. GILDEROY. Gilderoy (properly Gilleroy) signifies in Gaelic "the red-haired lad." The person thus denoted was, according to tradition, one Patrick of the proscribed clan Gregor. The following account of him is taken from the _Scot's Musical Museum_, p. 71, vol. iv. ed. of 1853. "Gilderoy was a notorious freebooter in the highlands of Perthshire, who, with his gang, for a considerable time infested the country, committing the most barbarous outrages on the inhabitants. Some of these ruffians, however, were at length apprehended through the vigilance and activity of the Stewarts of Athol, and conducted to Edinburgh, where they were tried, condemned, and executed, in February, 1638. Gilderoy, seeing his accomplices taken and hanged, went up, and in revenge burned several houses belonging to the Stewarts in Athol. This new act of atrocity was the prelude to his ruin. A proclamation was issued offering £1,000 for his apprehension. The inhabitants rose _en masse_, and pursued him from place to place, till at length he, with five more of his associates, was overtaken and secured. They were next carried to Edinburgh, where after trial and conviction, they expiated their offences on the gallows, in the month of July, 1638." In the vulgar story-books, Gilderoy, besides committing various monstrous and unnatural crimes, enjoys the credit of having picked Cardinal Richelieu's pocket in the King's presence, robbed Oliver Cromwell, and hanged a judge. The ballad _is said_ to have been composed not long after the death of Gilderoy, "by a young woman of no mean talent, who unfortunately became attached to this daring robber, and had cohabited with him for some time before his being apprehended." A blackletter copy printed in England as early as 1650 has been preserved. Another, with "some slight variations," is contained "in Playford's _Wit and Mirth_, first edition of vol. iii., printed in 1703." The piece is next found in _Pills to purge Melancholy_, v. 39, and, with one different stanza, in _Old Ballads_, i. 271. In the second volume (p. 106) of Thomson's _Orpheus Caledonius_ (1733), it appears with considerable alterations. Lady Elizabeth Wardlaw (_née_ Halket) undertook a revision of the ballad, and by expunging two worthless stanzas and adding three (those enclosed in brackets), produced the version here given, which is taken from Ritson's _Scotish Songs_, ii. 24. Percy's copy (_Reliques_, i. 335) is the same, with the omission of the ninth stanza, and Herd and Pinkerton have followed Percy. Gilderoy was a bonny boy, Had roses tull his shoone; His stockings were of silken soy, Wi' garters hanging doune. It was, I weene, a comelie sight, 5 To see sae trim a boy; He was my jo and hearts delight, My handsome Gilderoy. O sik twa charming een he had, A breath as sweet as rose; 10 He never ware a Highland plaid, But costly silken clothes. He gain'd the luve of ladies gay, Nane eir tul him was coy: Ah, wae is me! I mourn the day, 15 For my dear Gilderoy. My Gilderoy and I were born Baith in one toun together; We scant were seven years, beforn We gan to luve each other; 20 Our dadies and our mammies, thay Were fill'd wi' mickle joy, To think upon the bridal day 'Twixt me and Gilderoy. For Gilderoy, that luve of mine, 25 Gude faith, I freely bought A wedding sark of holland fine, Wi' silken flowers wrought; And he gied me a wedding ring, Which I receiv'd wi' joy; 30 Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing, Like me and Gilderoy. Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime, Till we were baith sixteen, And aft we passed the langsome time, 35 Amang the leaves sae green; Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair, And sweetly kiss and toy; Wi' garlands gay wad deck my hair My handsome Gilderoy. 40 [O that he still had been content Wi' me to lead his life; But ah, his manfu' heart was bent To stir in feates of strife: And he in many a venturous deed 45 His courage bauld wad try, And now this gars mine heart to bleed For my dear Gilderoy. And whan of me his leave he tuik, The tears they wat mine ee; 50 I gave tull him a parting luik, "My benison gang wi' thee! God speid thee weil, mine ain dear heart, For gane is all my joy; My heart is rent sith we maun part, 55 My handsome Gilderoy."] My Gilderoy, baith far and near, Was fear'd in every toun, And bauldly bare away the gear Of many a lawland loun. 60 Nane eir durst meet him man to man, He was sae brave a boy; At length wi' numbers he was tane, My winsome Gilderoy. [The Queen of Scots possessed nought 65 That my love let me want, For cow and ew he 'to me brought,' And een whan they were skant. All these did honestly possess He never did annoy, 70 Who never fail'd to pay their cess To my love Gilderoy.] Wae worth the loun that made the laws, To hang a man for gear; To reave of live for ox or ass, 75 For sheep, or horse, or mare! Had not their laws been made sae strick, I neir had lost my joy, Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek For my dear Gilderoy. 80 Giff Gilderoy had done amisse, He mought hae banisht been; Ah! what sair cruelty is this, To hang sike handsome men! To hang the flower o' Scottish land, 85 Sae sweet and fair a boy! Nae lady had sae white a hand As thee, my Gilderoy. Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were, They bound him mickle strong; 90 Tull Edenburrow they led him thair, And on a gallows hung: They hung him high aboon the rest, He was sae trim a boy; Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best, 95 My handsome Gilderoy. Thus having yielded up his breath, I bare his corpse away; Wi' tears that trickled for his death I washt his comelye clay; 100 And siker in a grave sae deep, I laid the dear-loed boy, And now for evir maun I weep My winsome Gilderoy. ROB ROY. The subject of this piece is the abduction of a young Scottish lady by a son of the celebrated Rob Roy Macgregor. Sentence of outlawry had been pronounced against this person for not appearing to stand his trial for murder. While under this sentence, he conceived the desperate project of carrying off Jane Kay, heiress of Edinbelly, in Sterlingshire, and obtaining possession of her estate by a forced marriage. Engaging a party of the proscribed Macgregors to assist him in this enterprise, Rob Roy entered the young woman's house with his brother James, tied her, hand and foot, with ropes, and carried her thus on horseback to the abode of one of his clan in Argyleshire, where, after some mock ceremony, she was compelled to submit to his embraces. The place in which the unfortunate woman was detained, was discovered, and she was rescued by her family. Rob Roy and James Macgregor were tried for their lives. The latter escaped from prison, but the principal in this outrage suffered condign punishment in February, 1753. Fragments of the story were printed in _Select Scotish Songs_, by Robert Burns, edited by R. H. Cromek, ii. 199, and in Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, p. 44; a complete copy in the _Thistle of Scotland_, p. 93. Chambers has combined the fragments of Burns and Maidment with a third version furnished by Mr. Kinloch, and has produced a ballad which is on the whole the most eligible for this place. (_Scottish Ballads_, p. 175.) In the Appendix may be seen the editions above referred to, and also _Eppie Morrie_, a ballad founded on a similar incident. This sort of kidnapping seems to have been the commonest occurrence in the world in Scotland. Sharpe has collected not a few cases in his _Ballad Book_, p. 99, and he gives us two stanzas of another ballad. The Highlandmen hae a' cum down, They've a' come down almost, They've stowen away the bonny lass, The Lady of Arngosk. Behind her back they've tied her hands, An' then they set her on; "I winna gang wi' you," she said, "Nor ony Highland loon." * * * * * Rob Roy frae the Hielands cam Unto the Lawland Border, To steal awa a gay ladye, To haud his house in order. He cam ower the loch o' Lynn, 5 Twenty men his arms did carry; Himsell gaed in and fand her out, Protesting he would marry. When he cam he surrounded the house, No tidings there cam before him, 10 Or else the lady would have gone, For still she did abhor him. "O will ye gae wi' me?" he says, "O will ye be my honey? O will ye be my wedded wife? 15 For I loe ye best of ony." "I winna gae wi' you," she says, "I winna be your honey; I winna be your wedded wife, Ye loe me for my money." 20 * * * * * Wi' mournful cries and watery eyes, Fast hauding by her mother, Wi' mournful cries and watery eyes, They were parted frae each other. He gied her nae time to be dress'd, 25 As ladies do when they're brides, But he hastened and hurried her awa, And rowed her in his plaids. He mounted her upon a horse, Himsell lap on behind her, 30 And they're awa to the Hieland hills, Where her friends may never find her. As they gaed ower the Hieland hills, The lady aften fainted, Saying, "Wae be to my cursed gowd, 35 This road to me invented!" They rade till they came to Ballyshine, At Ballyshine they tarried; He brought to her a cotton gown, Yet ne'er wad she be married. 40 Two held her up before the priest, Four carried her to bed O; Maist mournfully she wept and cried, When she by him was laid O! [_The tune changes_.] "O be content, O be content, 45 O be content to stay, lady, For now ye are my wedded wife Until my dying day, lady. "Rob Roy was my father call'd, Macgregor was his name, lady; 50 He led a band o' heroes bauld, And I am here the same, lady. "He was a hedge unto his friends, A heckle to his foes, lady, And every one that did him wrang, 55 He took him by the nose, lady. "I am as bold, I am as bold As my father was afore, lady; He that daurs dispute my word Shall feel my gude claymore, lady. 60 "My father left me cows and yowes, And sheep, and goats, and a', lady, And you and twenty thousand merks Will mak me a man fu' braw, lady." BOOK VII. QUEEN ELEANOR'S CONFESSION. Eleanor of Aquitaine was divorced from her first husband, Louis VII. of France, on account of misbehavior at Antioch, during the Second Crusade. Her conduct after her second marriage, with Henry II. of England, is agreed to have been irreproachable on the score of chastity. It is rather hard, therefore, that her reputation should be assailed as it is here; but if we complain of this injustice, what shall we say when we find, further on, the same story, with others even more ridiculous, told of the virtuous Eleanor of Castile, wife of Edward I.? See Peele's _Chronicle History of Edward I._, Dyce's ed. i. 185, 188, _seq._, and the ballad in vol. vii., 291. Both of these ballads are indeed pretty specimens of the historical value of popular traditions. The idea of the unlucky shrift is borrowed from some old story-teller. It occurs in the _fabliau Du Chevalier qui fist sa Fame confesse_, Barbazan, ed. Méon, iii. 229, in Boccaccio G. vii. 5, Bandello, Malespini, &c.; also in La Fontaine's _Le Mari Confesseur_. The following ballad is from the _Collection_ of 1723, vol. i. p. 18. There are several other versions: Percy's _Reliques_, ii. 165 (with corrections); Buchan's _Gleanings_, p. 77; Motherwell's _Minstrelsy_, p. 1 (_Earl Marshal_, from recitation); Aytoun's _Ballads of Scotland_, new ed. i. 196; Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, p. 247. Queen Eleanor was a sick woman, And afraid that she should dye; Then she sent for two fryars of France, To speak with her speedily. The King call'd down his nobles all, 5 By one, by two, by three, And sent away for Earl Marshal, To speak with him speedily. When that he came before the King, He fell on his bended knee; 10 "A boon, a boon, our gracious king, That you sent so hastily." "I'll pawn my lands," the King then cry'd, "My sceptre and my crown, That whatsoe're Queen Eleanor says, 15 I will not write it down. "Do you put on a fryar's coat, And I'll put on another; And we will to Queen Eleanor go, Like fryar and his brother." 20 Thus both attired then they go: When they came to Whitehall, The bells did ring, and the choristers sing, And the torches did light them all. When that they came before the Queen, 25 They fell on their bended knee; "A boon, a boon, our gracious queen, That you sent so hastily." "Are you two fryars of France," she said, "As I suppose you be? 30 But if you are two English fryars, Then hanged you shall be." "We are two fryars of France," they said, "As you suppose we be; We have not been at any mass 35 Since we came from the sea." "The first vile thing that e're I did, I will to you unfold; Earl Marshal had my maidenhead, Beneath this cloth of gold." 40 "That's a vile sin," then said the King; "God may forgive it thee!" "Amen, amen!" quoth Earl Marshal; With a heavy heart spoke he. "The next vile thing that e're I did, 45 To you I'll not deny; I made a box of poyson strong, To poyson King Henry." "That's a vile sin," then said the King, "God may forgive it thee!" 50 "Amen, amen!" quoth Earl Marshal; "And I wish it so may be." "The next vile thing that e're I did, To you I will discover; I poysoned fair Rosamond, 55 All in fair Woodstock bow'r." "That's a vile sin," then said the King; "God may forgive it thee!" "Amen, amen!" quoth Earl Marshal; "And I wish it so may be." 60 "Do you see yonder's [a] little boy, A tossing of the ball? That is Earl Marshal's eldest son, I love him the best of all. "Do you see yonder's [a] little boy, 65 A catching of the ball? That is King Henry's son," she said; "I love him the worst of all. "His head is like unto a bull, His nose is like a boar,"-- 70 "No matter for that," King Henry cry'd, "I love him the better therefore." The king pull'd off his fryar's coat, And appeared all in red; She shriek'd, she cry'd, and wrung her hands, 75 And said she was betray'd. The King look'd over his left shoulder, And a grim look looked he; And said, "Earl Marshal, but for my oath, Or hanged shouldst thou be." 80 From Kinloch's _Ancient Scottish Ballads_, 247. The Queen fell sick, and very, very sick, She was sick, and like to dee, And she sent for a friar oure frae France, Her cónfessour to be. King Henry, when he heard o' that, 5 An angry man was he; And he sent to the Earl Marshall, Attendance for to gie. "The Queen is sick," King Henry cried, "And wants to be beshriven; 10 She has sent for a friar oure frae France; By the rude, he were better in heaven! "But tak you now a friar's guise, The voice and gesture feign, And when she has the pardon crav'd, 15 Respond to her, Amen! "And I will be a prelate old, And sit in a corner dark, To hear the adventures of my spouse, My spouse, and her holy spark." 20 "My liege, my liege, how can I betray My mistress and my queen! O swear by the rude, that no damage From this shall be gotten or gien!" "I swear by the rude," quoth King Henry, 25 "No damage shall be gotten or gien, Come, let us spare no cure nor care For the conscience o' the Queen." * * * * * "O fathers, O fathers, I'm very, very sick, I'm sick, and like to dee; 30 Some ghostly comfort to my poor soul O tell if ye can gie!" "Confess, confess," Earl Marshall cried, "And ye shall pardoned be:" "Confess, confess," the King replied, 35 "And we shall comfort gie." "O how shall I tell the sorry, sorry tale! How can the tale be told! I play'd the harlot wi' the Earl Marshall Beneath yon cloth of gold. 40 "O wasna that a sin, and a very great sin! But I hope it will pardoned be:" "Amen! Amen!" quoth the Earl Marshall, And a very fear't heart had he. "O down i' the forest, in a bower, 45 Beyond yon dark oak tree, I drew a penknife frae my pocket To kill King Henerie. "O wasna that a sin, and a very great sin! But I hope it will pardoned be:" 50 "Amen! Amen!" quoth the Earl Marshall, And a very fear't heart had he. "O do you see yon pretty little boy, That's playing at the ba'? He is the Earl Marshall's only son, 55 And I loved him best of a'. "O wasna that a sin, and a very great sin! But I hope it will pardoned be:" "Amen! Amen!" quoth the Earl Marshall, And a very fear't heart had he. 60 "And do you see yon pretty little girl, That's a' beclad in green? She's a friar's daughter, oure in France, And I hoped to see her a queen. "O wasna that a sin, and a very great sin! 65 But I hope it will pardoned be:" "Amen! Amen!" quoth the Earl Marshall, And a fear't heart still had he. "O do you see yon other little boy, That's playing at the ba'? 70 He is King Henry's only son, And I like him warst of a'. "He's headed like a buck," she said, "And backed like a bear,"-- "Amen!" quoth the King, in the King's ain voice, 75 "He shall be my only heir." The King look'd over his left shoulder, An angry man was he: "An it werna for the oath I sware, Earl Marshall, thou shouldst dee." 80 AULD MAITLAND. From _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, i. 306. "This ballad, notwithstanding its present appearance, has a claim to very high antiquity. It has been preserved by tradition; and is, perhaps, the most authentic instance of a long and very old poem, exclusively thus preserved. It is only known to a few old people upon the sequestered banks of the Ettrick, and is published, as written down from the recitation of the mother of Mr. James Hogg, who sings, or rather chants it, with great animation. She learned the ballad from a blind man, who died at the advanced age of ninety, and is said to have been possessed of much traditionary knowledge. Although the language of this poem is much modernized, yet many words, which the reciters have retained without understanding them, still preserve traces of its antiquity. Such are the words _springals_ (corruptedly pronounced _springwalls_), _sowies_, _portcullize_, and many other appropriate terms of war and chivalry, which could never have been introduced by a modern ballad-maker[?]. The incidents are striking and well managed; and they are in strict conformity with the manners of the age in which they are placed. "The date of the ballad cannot be ascertained with any degree of accuracy. Sir Richard Maitland, the hero of the poem, seems to have been in possession of his estate about 1250; so that, as he survived the commencement of the wars betwixt England and Scotland, in 1296, his prowess against the English, in defence of his castle of Lauder or Thirlestane, must have been exerted during his extreme old age. "The castle of Thirlestane is situated upon the Leader, near the town of Lauder. Whether the present building, which was erected by Chancellor Maitland, and improved by the duke of Lauderdale, occupies the site of the ancient castle, I do not know; but it still merits the epithet of a "_darksome house_." I find no notice of the siege in history; but there is nothing improbable in supposing, that the castle, during the stormy period of the Baliol wars, may have held out against the English. The creation of a nephew of Edward I., for the pleasure of slaying him by the hand of young Maitland, is a poetical license;[1] and may induce us to place the date of the composition about the reign of David II., or of his successor, when the real exploits of Maitland and his sons were in some degree obscured, as well as magnified, by the lapse of time. The inveterate hatred against the English, founded upon the usurpation of Edward I., glows in every line of the ballad. "Auld Maitland is placed, by Gawain Douglas, Bishop of Dunkeld, among the popular heroes of romance, in his allegorical Palice of Honour. "I saw Raf Coilyear with his thrawin brow, Crabit John the Reif, and auld Cowkilbeis Sow; And how the wran cam out of Ailesay, And Piers Plowman, that meid his workmen fow: Gret Gowmacmorne, and Fin Mac Cowl, and how They suld be goddis in Ireland, as they say. _Thair saw I Maitland upon auld beird gray_, Robin Hude, and Gilbert with the quhite hand, How Hay of Nauchton flew in Madin land." "It is a curious circumstance that this interesting tale, so often referred to by ancient authors, should be now recovered in so perfect a state; and many readers may be pleased to see the following sensible observations, made by a person born in Ettrick Forest, in the humble situation of a shepherd: 'I am surprised to hear that this song is suspected by some to be a modern forgery; the contrary will be best proved, by most of the old people, hereabouts, having a great part of it by heart. Many, indeed, are not aware of the manners of this country; till this present age, the poor illiterate people, in these glens, knew of no other entertainment, in the long winter nights, than repeating, and listening to, the feats of their ancestors, recorded in songs, which I believe to be handed down, from father to son, for many generations, although, no doubt, had a copy been taken, at the end of every fifty years, there must have been some difference, occasioned by the gradual change of language. I believe it is thus that many very ancient songs have been gradually modernized, to the common ear; while, to the connoisseur, they present marks of their genuine antiquity.'--_Letter to the Editor_, _from_ Mr. JAMES HOGG. [June 30, 1801.] To the observations of my ingenious correspondent I have nothing to add, but that, in this, and a thousand other instances, they accurately coincide with my personal knowledge."--SCOTT. Notwithstanding the authority of Scott and Leyden, I am inclined to agree with Mr. Aytoun, (_Ballads of Scotland_, ii. 1,) that this ballad is a modern imitation, or if not that, a comparatively recent composition. It is with reluctance that I make for it the room it requires. [1] Such liberties with the genealogy of monarchs were common to romancers. Henry the Minstrel makes Wallace slay more than one of King Edward's nephews; and Johnie Armstrong claims the merit of slaying a sister's son of Henry VIII.--S. (See p. 49.) There lived a king in southern land, King Edward hight his name; Unwordily he wore the crown, Till fifty years were gane. He had a sister's son o's ain, 5 Was large of blood and bane; And afterward, when he came up, Young Edward hight his name. One day he came before the king, And kneel'd low on his knee-- 10 "A boon, a boon, my good uncle, I crave to ask of thee! "At our lang wars, in fair Scotland, I fain hae wish'd to be; If fifteen hundred waled wight men 15 You'll grant to ride wi' me." "Thou sall hae thae, thou sall hae mae; I say it sickerlie; And I mysell, an auld gray man, Array'd your host sall see." 20 King Edward rade, King Edward ran-- I wish him dool and pyne! Till he had fifteen hundred men Assembled on the Tyne. And thrice as many at Berwicke[L25] 25 Were all for battle bound, [Who, marching forth with false Dunbar,[L27] A ready welcome found.] They lighted on the banks of Tweed, And blew their coals sae het, 30 And fired the Merse and Teviotdale, All in an evening late. As they fared up o'er Lammermore, They burn'd baith up and down, Until they came to a darksome house, 35 Some call it Leader-Town. "Wha hauds this house?" young Edward cry'd, "Or wha gies't ower to me?" A gray-hair'd knight set up his head, And crackit richt crousely: 40 "Of Scotland's king I haud my house; He pays me meat and fee; And I will keep my guid auld house, While my house will keep me." They laid their sowies to the wall, 45 Wi' mony a heavy peal; But he threw ower to them agen Baith pitch and tar barrel. With springalds, stanes, and gads of airn, Amang them fast he threw; 50 Till mony of the Englishmen About the wall he slew. Full fifteen days that braid host lay, Sieging Auld Maitland keen; Syne they hae left him, hail and feir, 55 Within his strength of stane. Then fifteen barks, all gaily good, Met them upon a day, Which they did lade with as much spoil As they could bear away. 60 "England's our ain by heritage; And what can us withstand, Now we hae conquer'd fair Scotland, With buckler, bow, and brand?" Then they are on to the land o' France, 65 Where auld King Edward lay, Burning baith castle, tower, and town, That he met in his way. Until he came unto that town, Which some call Billop-Grace;[L70] 70 There were Auld Maitland's sons, a' three, Learning at school, alas! The eldest to the youngest said, "O see ye what I see? Gin a' be trew yon standard says,[L75] 75 We're fatherless a' three. "For Scotland's conquer'd up and down; Landmen we'll never be: Now, will you go, my brethren two, And try some jeopardy?" 80 Then they hae saddled twa black horse, Twa black horse and a gray; And they are on to King Edward's host, Before the dawn of day. When they arrived before the host, 85 They hover'd on the lay-- "Wilt thou lend me our king's standard, To bear a little way?" "Where wast thou bred? where wast thou born? Where, or in what countrie?" 90 "In north of England I was born:" (It needed him to lie.) "A knight me gat, a lady bore, I am a squire of high renowne; I well may bear't to any king, 95 That ever yet wore crowne." "He ne'er came of an Englishman, Had sic an ee or bree; But thou art the likest Auld Maitland, That ever I did see. 100 "But sic a gloom on ae browhead, Grant I ne'er see again! For mony of our men he slew, And mony put to pain." When Maitland heard his father's name, 105 An angry man was he! Then, lifting up a gilt dagger, Hung low down by his knee, He stabb'd the knight the standard bore, He stabb'd him cruellie; 110 Then caught the standard by the neuk, And fast away rode he. "Now, is't na time, brothers," he cried, "Now, is't na time to flee?" "Ay, by my sooth!" they baith replied, 115 "We'll bear you company." The youngest turn'd him in a path, And drew a burnish'd brand, And fifteen of the foremost slew, Till back the lave did stand. 120 He spurr'd the gray into the path, Till baith his sides they bled-- "Gray! thou maun carry me away, Or my life lies in wad!" The captain lookit ower the wa', 125 About the break o' day; There he beheld the three Scots lads, Pursued along the way. "Pull up portcullize! down draw-brigg! My nephews are at hand; 130 And they sall lodge wi' me to-night, In spite of all England." Whene'er they came within the yate, They thrust their horse them frae, And took three lang spears in their hands, 135 Saying, "Here sall come nae mae!" And they shot out, and they shot in, Till it was fairly day; When mony of the Englishmen About the draw-brigg lay. 140 Then they hae yoked carts and wains, To ca' their dead away, And shot auld dykes abune the lave, In gutters where they lay. The king, at his pavilion door, 145 Was heard aloud to say, "Last night, three o' the lads o' France My standard stole away. "Wi' a fause tale, disguised, they came, And wi' a fauser trayne; 150 And to regain my gaye standard, These men were a' down slayne." "It ill befits," the youngest said, "A crowned king to lie; But, or that I taste meat and drink, 155 Reproved sall he be." He went before King Edward straight, And kneel'd low on his knee; "I wad hae leave, my lord," he said, "To speak a word wi' thee." 160 The king he turn'd him round about, And wistna what to say-- Quo' he, "Man, thou's hae leave to speak, Though thou should speak a' day." "Ye said that three young lads o' France 165 Your standard stole away, Wi' a fause tale, and a fauser trayne, And mony men did slay. "But we are nane the lads o' France, Nor e'er pretend to be; 170 We are three lads o' fair Scotland, Auld Maitland's sons are we; "Nor is there men, in a' your host, Daur fight us three to three." "Now, by my sooth," young Edward said, 175 "Weel fitted ye sall be! "Piercy sall with the eldest fight, And Ethert Lunn wi' thee: William of Lancaster the third, And bring your fourth to me!" 180 ["Remember, Piercy, aft the Scot[L181] Has cower'd beneath thy hand:] For every drap of Maitland blood, I'll gie a rig of land." He clanked Piercy ower the head, 185 A deep wound and a sair, Till the best blood o' his bodie Came rinning down his hair. "Now, I've slayne ane; slay ye the twa; And that's gude companye; 190 And if the twa suld slay ye baith, Ye'se get na help frae me." But Ethert Lunn, a baited bear, Had many battles seen; He set the youngest wonder sair, 195 Till the eldest he grew keen. "I am nae king, nor nae sic thing: My word it shanna stand! For Ethert sall a buffet bide, Come he beneath my brand." 200 He clankit Ethert ower the head, A deep wound and a sair, Till the best blood of his bodie Came rinning ower his hair. "Now I've slayne twa; slaye ye the ane; 205 Isna that gude companye? And tho' the ane suld slaye ye baith, Ye'se get nae help o' me." The twa-some they hae slayne the ane; They maul'd him cruellie; 210 Then hung them over the draw-brigg, That all the host might see. They rade their horse, they ran their horse, Then hover'd on the lee: "We be three lads o' fair Scotland, 215 That fain would fighting see." This boasting when young Edward heard, An angry man was he: "I'll tak yon lad, I'll bind yon lad, And bring him bound to thee!" 220 "Now God forbid," King Edward said, "That ever thou suld try! Three worthy leaders we hae lost, And thou the fourth wad lie. "If thou shouldst hang on yon draw-brigg, 225 Blythe wad I never be:" But, wi' the poll-axe in his hand, Upon the brigg sprang he. The first stroke that young Edward gae, He struck wi' might and mayn; 230 He clove the Maitland's helmet stout, And bit right nigh the brayn. When Maitland saw his ain blood fa', An angry man was he: He let his weapon frae him fa', 235 And at his throat did flee. And thrice about he did him swing, Till on the grund he light, Where he has halden young Edward, Tho' he was great in might. 240 "Now let him up," King Edward cried, "And let him come to me: And for the deed that thou hast done, Thou shalt hae erldomes three." "It's ne'er be said in France, nor e'er 245 In Scotland, when I'm hame, That Edward once lay under me,[L247] And e'er gat up again!" He pierced him through and through the heart, He maul'd him cruellie; 250 Then hung him ower the draw-brigg, Beside the other three. "Now take frae me that feather-bed, Make me a bed o' strae! I wish I hadna lived this day, 255 To mak my heart sae wae. "If I were ance at London Tower, Where I was wont to be, I never mair suld gang frae hame, Till borne on a bier-tree." 260 25. North-Berwick, according to some reciters.--S. 27, 28. These two lines have been inserted by Mr. Hogg, to complete the verse. Dunbar, the fortress of Patrick, Earl of March, was too often opened to the English, by the treachery of that baron, during the reign of Edward I.--S. 70. If this be a Flemish or Scottish corruption for Ville de Grace, in Normandy, that town was never besieged by Edward I., whose wars in France were confined to the province of Gascony. The rapid change of scene, from Scotland to France, excites a suspicion that some verses may have been lost in this place.--S. 75. Edward had quartered the arms of Scotland with his own.--S. 181, 182, supplied by Hogg. 247. Some reciters repeat it thus:-- "That _Englishman_ lay under me," which is in the true spirit of Blind Harry, who makes Wallace say, "I better like to see the Southeron die, Than gold or land, that they can gie to me."--S. WILLIE WALLACE. After the battle of Roslin, we are informed by Bower, the continuator of Fordun's _Scotichronicon_, Wallace took ship for France, and various songs, both in that kingdom and in Scotland, he goes on to say, bear witness to the courage with which he encountered the attacks of pirates on the ocean, and of the English on the continent. Whatever we may think of Wallace's expedition to France, there can be no doubt that the hero's exploits were at an early date celebrated in popular song. Still, the ballads which are preserved relate to only one of Wallace's adventures, and are of doubtful antiquity. Burns communicated to Johnson's _Museum_ (p. 498) a defective ballad called _Gude Wallace_. A better copy of this, from tradition, is here given. It is taken from Buchan's _Gleanings_ (p. 114), and was derived by the editor from a wandering gipsy tinker. Mr. Laing has inserted in the notes to the new edition of Johnson's _Museum_ (iv. 458*) what may perhaps be the original of both these recited ballads, though inferior to either. This copy appeared in a chap-book with some Jacobite ballads, about the year 1750. There are two other versions of this same story, in which Wallace's mistress is induced to betray him to the English, but repents in time to save her lover. The best of these is annexed to the present ballad. The other, which is but a fragment, is printed in Buchan's larger collection, ii. 226, _Wallace and his Leman_. The principal incidents of this story are to be found in the Fifth Book of Blind Harry's Metrical _Life of Wallace_. Jamieson, in _Popular Ballads_, ii. 166, and Cunningham, in _The Songs of Scotland_, i. 262, have taken the stanzas in Johnson's _Museum_ as the basis of ballads of their own. Wallace in the high highlans, Neither meat nor drink got he; Said, "Fa' me life, or fa' me death, Now to some town I maun be." He's put on his short claiding, 5 And on his short claiding put he; Says, "Fa' me life, or fa' me death, Now to Perth-town I maun be." He stepped o'er the river Tay, I wat he stepped on dry land; 10 He wasna aware of a well-fared maid Was washing there her lilie hands. "What news, what news, ye well-fared maid? What news hae ye this day to me?" "No news, no news, ye gentle knight, 15 No news hae I this day to thee, But fifteen lords in the hostage house Waiting Wallace for to see." "If I had but in my pocket The worth of one single pennie, 20 I would go to the hostage house, And there the gentlemen to see." She put her hand in her pocket, And she has pull'd out half-a-crown; Says, "Take ye that, ye belted knight, 25 'Twill pay your way till ye come down." As he went from the well-fared maid, A beggar bold I wat met he, Was cover'd wi' a clouted cloak, And in his hand a trusty tree. 30 "What news, what news, ye silly auld man? What news hae ye this day to gie?" "No news, no news, ye belted knight, No news hae I this day to thee, But fifteen lords in the hostage house 35 Waiting Wallace for to see." "Ye'll lend me your clouted cloak, That covers you frae head to shie, And I'll go to the hostage house, Asking there for some supplie." 40 Now he's gone to the West-muir wood, And there he's pull'd a trusty tree; And then he's on to the hostage gone, Asking there for charitie. Down the stair the captain comes, 45 Aye the poor man for to see: "If ye be a captain as good as ye look, Ye'll give a poor man some supplie; If ye be a captain as good as ye look, A guinea this day ye'll gie to me." 50 "Where were ye born, ye crooked carle? Where were ye born, in what countrie?" "In fair Scotland I was born, Crooked carle that I be." "I would give you fifty pounds, 55 Of gold and white monie, I would give you fifty pounds, If the traitor Wallace ye'd let me see." "Tell down your money," said Willie Wallace, "Tell down your money, if it be good; 60 I'm sure I have it in my power, And never had a better bode. "Tell down your money, if it be good, And let me see if it be fine; I'm sure I have it in my power 65 To bring the traitor Wallace in." The money was told on the table, Silver bright of pounds fiftie: "Now here I stand," said Willie Wallace, "And what hae ye to say to me?" 70 He slew the captain where he stood, The rest they did quack an' roar; He slew the rest around the room, And ask'd if there were any more. "Come, cover the table," said Willie Wallace, 75 "Come, cover the table now, make haste; For it will soon be three lang days Sin I a bit o' meat did taste." The table was not well covered, Nor yet was he set down to dine, 80 Till fifteen more of the English lords Surrounded the house where he was in. The guidwife she ran but the floor, And aye the guidman he ran ben; From eight o'clock till four at noon 85 He had kill'd full thirty men. He put the house in sic a swither That five o' them he sticket dead, Five o' them he drown'd in the river, And five hung in the West-muir wood. 90 Now he is on to the North-Inch gone,[L91] Where the maid was washing tenderlie; "Now by my sooth," said Willie Wallace, "It's been a sair day's wark to me." He's put his hand in his pocket, 95 And he has pull'd out twenty pounds; Says, "Take ye that, ye weel-fared maid For the gude luck of your half-crown." 91. A beautiful plain, or common, lying along the Tay near Perth.--CHAMBERS. SIR WILLIAM WALLACE. From _The Thistle of Scotland_, p. 100. The editor states that he took the ballad down from the recitation of an old gentlewoman in Aberdeenshire. Wou'd ye hear of William Wallace, An' sek him as he goes, Into the lan' of Lanark, Amang his mortel faes? There was fyften English sogers 5 Unto his ladie cam, Said "Gie us William Wallace, That we may have him slain. "Wou'd ye gie William Wallace, That we may have him slain, 10 And ye's be wedded to a lord, The best in Christendeem." "This verra nicht at seven, Brave Wallace will come in, And he'll come to my chamber door, 15 Without or dread or din." The fyften English sogers Around the house did wait, And four brave Southron foragers, Stood hie upon the gait. 20 That verra nicht at seven Brave Wallace he came in, And he came to his ladies bouir, Withouten dread or din. When she beheld him Wallace, 25 She star'd him in the face; "Ohon, alas!" said that ladie, "This is a woful case. "For I this nicht have sold you, This nicht you must be taen, 30 And I'm to be wedded to a lord, The best in Christendeem." "Do you repent," said Wallace, "The ill you've dane to me?" "Ay, that I do," said that ladie, 35 "And will do till I die. "Ay, that I do," said that ladie, "And will do ever still, And for the ill I've dane to you, Let me burn upon a hill." 40 "Now God forfend," says brave Wallace, "I shou'd be so unkind; Whatever I am to Scotland's faes, I'm aye a woman's friend. "Will ye gie me your gown, your gown, 45 Your gown but and your kirtle, Your petticoat of bonny brown, And belt about my middle? "I'll take a pitcher in ilka hand, And do me to the well, 50 They'll think I'm one of your maidens, Or think it is your sell." She has gien him her gown, her gown, Her petticoat and kirtle, Her broadest belt wi' silver clasp, 55 To bind about his middle. He's taen a pitcher in ilka hand, And dane him to the well, They thought him one of her maidens, They ken'd it was nae hersell. 60 Said one of the Southron foragers, "See ye yon lusty dame? I wou'd nae gie muckle to thee, neebor, To bring her back agen." Then all the Southrons follow'd him, 65 And sure they were but four; But he has drawn his trusty brand, And slew them pair by pair. He threw the pitchers frae his hands, And to the hills fled he, 70 Until he cam to a fair may, Was washin' on yon lea. "What news, what news, ye weel far'd may? What news hae ye to gie?" "Ill news, ill news," the fair may said, 75 "Ill news I hae to thee. "There is fyften English sogers Into that thatched inn, Seeking Sir William Wallace; I fear that he is slain." 80 "Have ye any money in your pocket? Pray lend it unto me, And when I come this way again, Repaid ye weel shall be." She['s] put her hand in her pocket, 85 And taen out shillings three; He turn'd him right and round about, And thank'd the weel far'd may. He had not gone a long rig length, A rig length and a span, 90 Until he met a bold beggar, As sturdy as cou'd gang. "What news, what news, ye bold beggar? What news hae ye to gie?" "O heavy news," the beggar said, 95 "I hae to tell to thee. "There is fyften English sogers, I heard them in yon inn, Vowing to kill him Wallace; I fear the chief is slain." 100 "Will ye change apparell wi' me, auld man? Change your apparell for mine? And when I come this way again, Ye'll be my ain poor man." When he got on the beggar's coat, 105 The pike staff in his hand, He's dane him down to yon tavern, Where they were drinking wine. "What news, what news, ye staff beggar? What news hae ye to gie?" 110 "I hae nae news, I heard nae news, As few I'll hae frae thee." "I think your coat is ragged, auld man, But wou'd you wages win, And tell where William Wallace is, 115 We'll lay gold in your hand." "Tell down, tell down your good red gold, Upon the table head, And ye sall William Wallace see, Wi' the down-come of Robin Hood." 120 They had nae tauld the money down, And laid it on his knee, When candles, lamps, and candlesticks, He on the floor gar'd flee. And he has drawn his trusty brand, 125 And slew them one by one, Then sat down at the table head, And callèd for some wine. The goodwife she ran but, ran but, The goodman he ran ben, 130 The verra bairns about the fire Were a' like to gang brain. "Now if there be a Scotsman here, He'll come and drink wi' me; And if there be an English loun, 135 It is his time to flee." The goodman was an Englishman, And to the hills he ran, The goodwife was a Scots woman, And she came to his hand. 140 APPENDIX. JOHNNY COCK. (See p. 11.) From Fry's _Pieces of Ancient Poetry, from unpublished Manuscripts and scarce Books_ (p. 51). Bristol, 1814. "This ballad is taken from a modern quarto manuscript purchased at Glasgow of Messrs. Smith and Son in the year 1810, and containing several others, but written so corruptly as to be of little or no authority; appearing to be the text-book of some illiterate drummer, from its comprising the music of several regimental marches." Fry did not observe that he was printing fragments of two different versions as one ballad. They are here separated. I. Johnny Cock, in a May morning, Sought water to wash his hands; And he is awa to louse his dogs, That's tied wi iron bans, _That's tied wi iron bans_. His coat it is of the light Lincum green, 5 And his breiks are of the same; His shoes are of the American leather, Silver buckles tying them. _Silver buckles, &c._ 'He' hunted up, and so did 'he' down, Till 'he' came to yon bush of scrogs, 10 And then to yon wan water, Where he slept among his dogs. * * * * * Johnny Cock out-shot a' the foresters, And out-shot a' the three; Out shot a' the foresters, 15 Wounded Johnny aboun the bree. "Woe be to you, foresters, And an ill death may you die![L18] For there would not a wolf in a' the wood, Have done the like to me. 20 "For ''twould ha' put its foot in the coll water, And ha strinkled it on my bree; And gin [it] that would not have done, Would have gane and lett me be. "I often took to my mother 25 The dandoo and the roe; But now I'l take to my mother Much sorrow and much woe. "I often took to my mother The dandoo and the hare; 30 But now I'l take to my mother Much sorrow and much care." 18-24. Finlay furnishes one beautiful stanza which belongs to this portion of the story, and, as that editor remarks, describes expressively the languor of approaching death. There's no a bird in a' this foreste Will do as meikle for me, As dip its wing in the wan water An straik it on my ee-bree. _Scottish Ballads_, I. xxxi. II. Fifteen foresters in the braid alow, And they are wondrous fell; To get a drop of Johnny's heart bluid, They would sink a' their souls to hell. Johnny Cock has gotten word of this, 5 And he is wondrous keen; He['s] custan aff the red scarlet, And on 'wi' the Linkum green. And he is ridden oer muir and muss, And over mountains high, 10 Till he came to yon wan water; And there Johnny Cock did lie. He's taen out a horn from his side, And he blew both loud and shrill, Till a' the fifteen foresters 15 Heard Johnny Cock blaw his horn. They have sworn a bluidy oath, And they swore all in one, That there was not a man among them a', Would blaw such a blast as yon. 20 And they have ridden oer muir and muss, And over mountains high, Till they came to yon wan water, Where Johnny Cock did lie. They have shotten little Johnny Cock, 25 A little above the ee; * * * * * For doing the like to me. "There's not a wolf in a' the wood[L29] Woud 'ha' done the like to me: 30 'She'd ha' dipped her foot in coll water, And strinkled above my ee, And if I would have waked for that, 'She'd ha' gane and let me be. "But fingers five, come here, [come here,] 35 And faint heart fail me nought![L36] And silver strings, value me sma' things, Till I get all this vengeance rowght!" He ha[s] shot a' the fifteen foresters, Left never a one but one; 40 And he broke the ribs a that anes side, And let him take tiding home. They have ridden oer muir and muss, And over mountains high, Till they met wi 'an' old palmer, 45 Was walking along the way. "What news, what news, old palmer, What news have you to me?" "Yonder is one of the proudest wed sons That ever my eyes did see. 50 * * * * * "* * a bird in a' the wood Could sing as I could say; It would go in to my mothers bower,[L53] And bid her kiss me, and take me away." 29. word. 36. faint hearted. 53. bows. THE LIFE AND DEATH OF SIR HUGH OF THE GRIME. (See p. 51.) From Durfey's _Pills to purge Melancholy_, vi. 289. The same is printed in Ritson's _Ancient Songs_ (ed. 1790), p. 192, from a collation of two blackletter copies, one in the collection of the Duke of Roxburgh, and "another in the hands of John Baynes, Esq." Several stanzas are corrupted, and the names are greatly disfigured. Ritson mentions in a note a somewhat different ballad on the same subject, beginning:-- "Good Lord John is a hunting gone." * * * * * As it befel upon one time, About mid-summer of the year, Every man was taxt of his crime, For stealing the good Lord Bishop's mare. The good Lord Screw sadled a horse, 5 And rid after the same serime; Before he did get over the moss, There was he aware of Sir Hugh of the Grime. "Turn, O turn, thou false traytor, Turn, and yield thyself unto me: 10 Thou hast stol'n the Lord Bishop's mare, And now thinkest away to flee." "No, soft, Lord Screw, that may not be; Here is a broad sword by my side, And if that thou canst conquer me, 15 The victory will soon be try'd." "I ne'er was afraid of a traytor bold, Altho' thy name be Hugh in the Grime; I'll make thee repent thy speeches foul, If day and life but give me time." 20 "Then do thy worst, good Lord Screw, And deal your blows as fast as you can; It will be try'd between me and you Which of us two shall be the best man." Thus as they dealt their blows so free, 25 And both so bloody at that time, Over the moss ten yeomen they see, Come for to take Sir Hugh in the Grime. Sir Hugh set his back again[st] a tree, And then the men compast him round; 30 His mickle sword from his hand did flee, And then they brought Sir Hugh to the ground. Sir Hugh of the Grime now taken is And brought back to Garland town; Then cry'd the good wives all in Garland town, 35 "Sir Hugh in the Grime, thou'st ne'er gang down." The good Lord Bishop is come to town, And on the bench is set so high; And every man was tax'd to his crime, At length he called Sir Hugh in the Grime. 40 "Here am I, thou false Bishop, Thy humours all to fulfil; I do not think my fact so great But thou mayst put [it] into thy own will." The quest of jury-men was call'd, 45 The best that was in Garland town; Eleven of them spoke all in a breast, "Sir Hugh in the Grime, thou'st ne'er gang down." Then other questry-men was call'd, The best that was in Rumary; 50 Twelve of them spoke all in a breast, "Sir Hugh in the Grime, thou'st now guilty." Then came down my good Lord Boles, Falling down upon his knee; "Five hundred pieces of gold will I give, 55 To grant Sir Hugh in the Grime to me." "Peace, peace, my good Lord Boles, And of your speeches set them by; If there be eleven Grimes all of a name, Then by my own honour they all should dye." 60 Then came down my good Lady Ward, Falling low upon her knee; "Five hundred measures of gold I'll give, To grant Sir Hugh of the Grime to me." "Peace, peace, my good Lady Ward, 65 None of your proffers shall him buy; For if there be twelve Grimes all of a name, By my own honour [they] all should dye." Sir Hugh of the Grime's condemn'd to dye, And of his friends he had no lack; 70 Fourteen foot he leapt in his ward, His hands bound fast upon his back. Then he look'd over his left shoulder, To see whom he could see or 'spye; Then was he aware of his father dear, 75 Came tearing his hair most pitifully. "Peace, peace, my father dear, And of your speeches set them by; Tho' they have bereav'd me of my life, They cannot bereave me of heaven so high." 80 He look'd over his right shoulder, To see whom he could see or 'spye; There was he aware of his mother dear, Came tearing her hair most pitifully. "Pray have me remember'd to Peggy my wife, 85 As she and I walk'd over the moor, She was the cause of the loss of my life, And with the old bishop she play'd the whore. "Here, Johnny Armstrong, take thou my sword, That is made of the metal so fine, 90 And when thou com'st to the Border side, Remember the death of Sir Hugh of the Grime." [JOHNIE ARMSTRANG, OR,] A NORTHERN BALLET. From _Wit Restor'd_, p. 132. There dwelt a man in faire Westmerland, Jonne Armestrong men did him call, He had nither lands nor rents coming in, Yet he kept eight score men in his hall. He had horse and harness for them all, 5 Goodly steeds were all milke white, O the golden bands an about their necks, And their weapons they were all alike. Newes then was brought unto the king, That there was sicke a won as hee, 10 That lived lyke a bold out-law,[L11] And robbed all the north country. The king he writt an a letter then A letter which was large and long, He signed it with his owne hand, 15 And he promised to doe him no wrong. When this letter came Jonne untill, His heart it was as blythe as birds on the tree; "Never was I sent for before any king, My father, my grandfather, nor none but mee. 20 "And if wee goe the king before, I would we went most orderly; Every man of you shall have his scarlet cloak, Laced with silver laces three. "Every won of you shall have his velvett coat, 25 Laced with sillver lace so white; O the golden bands an about your necks, Black hatts, white feathers, all alyke." By the morrow morninge at ten of the clock, Towards Edenburough gon was hee, 30 And with him all his eight score men, Good lord, it was a goodly sight for to see! When Jonne came befower the king, He fell downe on his knee; "O pardon my soveraine leige," he said, 35 "O pardon my eight score men and mee!" "Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor strong, For thy eight score men nor thee; For to-morrow morning by ten of the clock, Both thou and them shall hang on the gallow tree." 40 But Jonne looked over his left shoulder, Good Lord, what a grevious look looked hee! Saying, "Asking grace of a graceles face-- Why there is none for you nor me." But Jonne had a bright sword by his side, 45 And it was made of the mettle so free, That had not the king stept his foot aside, He had smitten his head from his fair boddé. Saying, "Fight on, my merry men all, And see that none of you be taine; 50 For rather then men shall say we were hanged, Let them report how we were slaine." Then, God wott, faire Eddenburrough rose, And so besett poore Jonne [a] rounde, That fowerscore and tenn of Jonnes best men, 55 Lay gasping all upon the ground. Then like a mad man Jonne laide about, And like a mad man then fought hee, Untill a falce Scot came Jonne behinde, And runn him through the faire boddee. 60 Saying, "Fight on, my merry men all, And see that none of you be taine; For I will stand by and bleed but a while, And then will I come and fight againe." Newes then was brought to young Jonne Armestrong, 65 As he stood by his nurses knee, Who vowed if er'e he lived for to be a man, O th' the treacherous Scots reveng'd hee'd be. 11. syke. LOUDOUN CASTLE. (See p. 149.) From _The Ballads and Songs of Ayrshire_, First Series, p. 74, where it is taken from a _Statistical Account of the Parish of Loudoun_. The writer of the _Statistical Account_ states that the old castle of Loudoun is supposed to have been destroyed by fire about 350 years ago. "The current tradition," he adds, "ascribes that event to the Clan Kennedy, and the remains of an old tower at Auchruglen, on the Galston side of the valley, is still pointed out as having been their residence." It fell about the Martinmas time, When the wind blew snell and cauld, That Adam o' Gordon said to his men, "When will we get a hold? "See [ye] not where yonder fair castle 5 Stands on yon lily lee? The laird and I hae a deadly feud, The lady fain would I see." As she was up on the househead, Behold, on looking down, 10 She saw Adam o' Gordon and his men, Coming riding to the town. The dinner was not well set down, Nor the grace was scarcely said, Till Adam o' Gordon and his men 15 About the walls were laid. "It's fause now fa' thee, Jock my man, Thou might a let me be; Yon man has lifted the pavement stone, An' let in the loun to me." 20 "Seven years I served thee, fair ladie, You gave me meat and fee; But now I am Adam o' Gordon's man, An' maun either do it or die." "Come down, come down, my Lady Loudoun, 25 Come thou down unto me;[L26] I'll wrap thee on a feather bed, Thy warrand I shall be." "I'll no come down, I'll no come down, For neither laird nor loun, 30 Nor yet for any bloody butcher That lives in Altringham town. "I would give the black," she says, "And so would I the brown, If that Thomas, my only son, 35 Could charge to me a gun." Out then spake the Lady Margaret, As she stood on the stair,-- The fire was at her goud garters, The lowe was at her hair. 40 "I would give the black," she says, "And so would I the brown, For a drink of yon water, That rins by Galston Town." Out then spake fair Anne, 45 She was baith jimp and sma', "O row me in a pair o' sheets, And tow me down the wa'." "O hold thy tongue, thou fair Anne, And let thy talkin' be, 50 For thou must stay in this fair castle, And bear thy death with me." "O mother," spoke the Lord Thomas, As he sat on the nurse's knee, "O mother, give up this fair castle, 55 Or the reek will worrie me." "I would rather be burnt to ashes sma', And be cast on yon sea foam, Before I'd give up this fair castle, And my lord so far from home. 60 "My good lord has an army strong, He's now gone o'er the sea; He bade me keep this gay castle, As long as it would keep me. "I've four-and-twenty brave milk kye 65 Gangs on yon lily lee, I'd give them a' for a blast of wind, To blaw the reek from me." O pitie on yon fair castle, That's built with stone and lime, 70 But far mair pitie on Lady Loudoun, And all her children nine. 26. down thou. ROB ROY. (See p. 203.) From _Select Scottish Songs, Ancient and Modern_, by Robert Burns, edited by Cromek, ii. 199. Rob Roy from the Highlands cam, Unto the Lawlan' border, To steal awa a gay ladie To haud his house in order. He cam owre the lock o' Lynn, 5 Twenty men his arms did carry; Himsel gaed in, an' fand her out, Protesting he would marry. "O will ye gae wi' me," he says, "Or will ye be my honey? 10 Or will ye be my wedded wife? For I love you best of any." "I winna gae wi' you," she says, "Nor will I be your honey, Nor will I be your wedded wife; 15 You love me for my money." * * * * * But he set her on a coal-black steed, Himsel lap on behind her, An' he's awa to the Highland hills, Whare her frien's they canna find her. 20 * * * * * "Rob Roy was my father ca'd, Macgregor was his name, ladie; He led a band o' heroes bauld, An' I am here the same, ladie. Be content, be content, 25 Be content to stay, ladie, For thou art my wedded wife Until thy dying day, ladie. "He was a hedge unto his frien's, A heckle to his foes, ladie, 30 Every one that durst him wrang, He took him by the nose, ladie. I'm as bold, I'm as bold, I'm as bold, an more, ladie; He that daurs dispute my word, 35 Shall feel my guid claymore, ladie." II. From Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, p. 44. Rob Roy from the Highlands cam, Unto our Scottish border, And he has stow'n a lady fair, To haud his house in order. And when he cam, he surrounded the house, 5 Twenty men their arms did carry, And he has stow'n this lady fair, On purpose her to marry. And when he cam, he surrounded the house; No tidings there cam before him, 10 Or else the lady would have been gone, For still she did abhor him. Wi' murnfu' cries, and wat'ry eyes, Fast hauding by her mother, Wi' murnfu' cries, and wat'ry eyes, 15 They are parted frae each other. Nae time he gied her to be dress'd, As ladies do when they're bride O, But he hastened and hurried her awa', And he row'd her in his plaid O. 20 They rade till they cam to Ballyshine, At Ballyshine they tarried; He bought to her a cotton gown, Yet ne'er would she be married. Three held her up before the priest, 25 Four carried her to bed O, Wi' wat'ry eyes, and murnfu' sighs, When she behind was laid O. * * * * * "O be content, be content, Be content to stay, lady, 30 For ye are my wedded wife Unto my dying day, lady. CHORUS. _Be content, be content, Be content to stay, lady, For ye are my wedded wife Unto my dying day, lady._ "My father is Rob Roy called, M'Gregor is his name, lady, In all the country where he dwells, 35 He does succeed the fame, lady. "My father he has cows and ewes, And goats he has eneuch, lady, And you, and twenty thousand merks, Will make me a man complete, lady." 40 EPPIE MORRIE. From Maidment's _North Countrie Garland_, p. 40. "This ballad is probably much more than a century old, though the circumstances which have given rise to it were fortunately too common to preclude the possibility of its being of a later date. Although evidently founded on fact, the editor has not hitherto discovered the particular circumstances out of which it has originated." Four and twenty Highland men Came a' from Carrie side, To steal awa' Eppie Morrie, 'Cause she would not be a bride. Out it's cam her mother, 5 It was a moonlight night, She could not see her daughter. The sands they shin'd so bright. "Haud far awa' frae me, mother, Haud far awa' frae me; 10 There's not a man in a' Strathdon Shall wedded be with me." They have taken Eppie Morrie, And horseback bound her on, And then awa' to the minister, 15 As fast as horse could gang. He's taken out a pistol, And set it to the minister's breast; "Marry me, marry me, minister, Or else I'll be your priest." 20 "Haud far awa' frae me, good sir, Haud far awa' frae me; For there's not a man in a' Strathdon That shall married be with me." "Haud far awa' frae me, Willie, 25 Haud far awa' frae me; For I darna avow to marry you, Except she's as willing as ye." They have taken Eppie Morrie, Since better could nae be, 30 And they're awa' to Carrie side, As fast as horse could flee. Then mass was sung, and bells were rung, And all were bound for bed, Then Willie an' Eppie Morrie 35 In one bed they were laid. "Haud far awa' frae me, Willie, Haud far awa' frae me; Before I'll lose my maidenhead, I'll try my strength with thee." 40 She took the cap from off her head, And threw it to the way; Said, "Ere I lose my maidenhead, I'll fight with you till day." Then early in the morning, 45 Before her clothes were on, In came the maiden of Scalletter, Gown and shirt alone. "Get up, get up, young woman, And drink the wine wi' me;" 50 "You might have called me maiden, I'm sure as leal as thee." "Wally fa' you, Willie, That ye could nae prove a man, And taen the lassie's maidenhead; 55 She would have hired your han'." "Haud far awa' frae me, lady, Haud far awa' frae me; There's not a man in a' Strathdon, The day shall wed wi' me." 60 Soon in there came Belbordlane, With a pistol on every side; "Come awa' hame, Eppie Morrie, And there you'll be my bride." "Go get to me a horse, Willie, 65 And get it like a man, And send me back to my mother, A maiden as I cam. "The sun shines o'er the westlin hills, By the light lamp of the moon, 70 Just saddle your horse, young John Forsyth, And whistle, and I'll come soon." MACPHERSON'S RANT. This ballad, worthy of a hangman's pen, was first printed in Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 161. It is found, mutilated and altered, with the title of _Macpherson's Lament_, in the _Thistle of Scotland_, p. 52. The story of Macpherson is given as follows by a writer in the _New Monthly Magazine_, vol. i. p. 142, cited by Chambers, _Scottish Songs_, i. 84. "James Macpherson was born of a beautiful gipsy, who, at a great wedding, attracted the notice of a half-intoxicated Highland gentleman. He acknowledged the child, and had him reared in his house, until he lost his life in bravely pursuing a hostile clan, to recover a spreach of cattle taken from Badenoch. The gipsy woman, hearing of this disaster, in her rambles the following summer, came and took away her boy; but she often returned with him, to wait upon his relations and clansmen, who never failed to clothe him well, besides giving money to his mother. He grew up to beauty, strength, and stature, rarely equalled. His sword is still preserved at Duff House, a residence of the Earl of Fife, and few men of our day could carry, far less wield it, as a weapon of war; and if it must be owned that his prowess was debased by the exploits of a free-booter, it is certain, no act of cruelty, no robbery of the widow, the fatherless, or distressed, and no murder, were ever perpetrated under his command. He often gave the spoils of the rich to relieve the poor; and all his tribe were restrained from many atrocities of rapine by the awe of his mighty arm. Indeed, it is said that a dispute with an aspiring and savage man of his tribe, who wished to rob a gentleman's house while his wife and two children lay on the bier for interment, was the cause of his being betrayed to the vengeance of the law. The magistrates of Aberdeen were exasperated at Macpherson's escape, and bribed a girl in that city to allure and deliver him into their hands. There is a platform before the jail, at the top of a stair, and a door below. When Macpherson's capture was made known to his comrades by the frantic girl, who had been so credulous as to believe the magistrates only wanted to hear the wonderful performer on the violin, his cousin, Donald Macpherson, a gentleman of Herculean powers, did not disdain to come from Badenoch, and to join a gipsy, Peter Brown, in liberating the prisoner. On a market-day they brought several assistants; and swift horses were stationed at a convenient distance. Donald Macpherson and Peter Brown forced the jail; and while Peter Brown went to help the heavily-fettered James Macpherson in moving away, Donald Macpherson guarded the jail-door with a drawn sword. Many persons assembled at the market had experienced James Macpherson's humanity, or had shared his bounty; and they crowded round the jail as in mere curiosity, but, in fact, to obstruct the civil authorities in their attempts to prevent a rescue. A butcher, however, was resolved to detain Macpherson, expecting a large recompense from the magistrates; he sprung up the stairs, and leaped from the platform upon Donald Macpherson, whom he dashed to the ground by the force and weight of his body. Donald Macpherson soon recovered, to make a desperate resistance; and the combatants tore off each other's clothes. The butcher got a glimpse of his dog upon the platform, and called him to his aid; but Macpherson, with admirable presence of mind, snatched up his own plaid, which lay near, and threw it over the butcher, thus misleading the instinct of his canine adversary. The dog darted with fury upon the plaid, and terribly lacerated his master's thigh. In the mean time, James Macpherson had been carried out by Peter Brown, and was soon joined by Donald Macpherson, who was quickly covered by some friendly spectator with a hat and great coat. The magistrates ordered webs from the shops to be drawn across the Gallowgate; but Donald Macpherson cut them asunder with his sword, and James, the late prisoner, got off on horseback. He was, some time after, betrayed by a man of his own tribe: and was the last person executed at Banff, previous to the abolition of hereditable jurisdiction. He was an admirable performer on the violin; and his talent for composition is still evidenced by Macpherson's Rant, and Macpherson's Pibroch. He performed these tunes at the foot of the fatal tree; and then asked if he had any friend in the crowd to whom a last gift of his instrument would be acceptable. No man had hardihood to claim friendship with a delinquent, in whose crimes the acknowledgment might implicate an avowed acquaintance. As no friend came forward, Macpherson said, the companion of so many gloomy hours should perish with him; and, breaking the violin over his knees, he threw away the fragments. Donald Macpherson picked up the neck of the violin, which to this day is preserved, as a valuable memento, by the family of Cluny, chieftain of the Macphersons." Burns's magnificent death-song, _McPherson's Farewell_, is too well known to require more than an allusion. I've spent my time in rioting, Debauch'd my health and strength; I've pillag'd, plunder'd, murdered, But now, alas! at length, I'm brought to punishment direct, 5 Pale death draws near to me; This end I never did project, To hang upon a tree. To hang upon a tree! a tree! That curs'd unhappy death! 10 Like to a wolf to worried be, And choaked in the breath. My very heart would surely break, When this I think upon, Did not my courage singular 15 Bid pensive thoughts begone. No man on earth that draweth breath, More courage had than I; I dar'd my foes unto their face, And would not from them fly. 20 This grandeur stout, I did keep out, Like Hector, manfullie: Then wonder one like me, so stout, Should hang upon a tree! Th' Egyptian band I did command, 25 With courage more by far, Than ever did a general His soldiers in the war. Being fear'd by all, both great and small, I liv'd most joyfullie: 30 O! curse upon this fate of mine, To hang upon a tree! As for my life, I do not care, If justice would take place, And bring my fellow plunderers 35 Unto this same disgrace. For Peter Brown, that notour loon, Escap'd and was made free; O! curse upon this fate of mine, To hang upon a tree! 40 Both law and justice buried are, And fraud and guile succeed; The guilty pass unpunished, If money intercede. The Laird of Grant, that Highland saint, 45 His mighty majestie, He pleads the cause of Peter Brown, And lets Macpherson die. The destiny of my life, contriv'd By those whom I oblig'd, 50 Rewarded me much ill for good, And left me no refuge. For Braco Duff, in rage enough, He first laid hands on me; And if that death would not prevent, 55 Avenged would I be. As for my life, it is but short, When I shall be no more; To part with life I am content, As any heretofore. 60 Therefore, good people all, take heed, This warning take by me, According to the lives you lead, Rewarded you shall be. BOOK VIII. THE FLEMISH INSURRECTION. The Flemings, having abandoned their legitimate sovereign and attached themselves to Philip the Fair, found at last cause to repent. In 1301, two citizens of Bruges, Peter de Koning, a draper, and John Breydel, a butcher, stirred up their townsmen to revolt, and drove out the French garrison. The next year, the Count d'Artois, with a superb army, was defeated by the insurgents at the battle of Courtrai. This ballad is found in MS. Harl. No. 2253, "of the reign of Edw. II." and has been printed in Ritson's _Ancient Songs_ (i. 51), and in Wright's _Political Songs_, p. 187. We have adopted the text of the latter. Lustneth, lordinges, bothe yonge ant olde, Of the Freynsshe men that were so proude ant bolde, Hou the Flemmysshe men bohten hem ant solde, Upon a Wednesday. Betere hem were at home in huere londe, 5 Then for te seche Flemmysshe by the see stronde, Whare thourh moni Frenshe wyf wryngeth hire honde, Ant singeth weylaway. The Kyng of Fraunce made statuz newe, In the lond of Flaundres among false ant trewe, 10 That the commun of Bruges ful sore con arewe, Ant seiden amonges hem, "Gedere we us togedere hardilyche at ene, Take we the bailifs bi tuenty ant by tene, Clappe we of the hevedes anonen o the grene,[L15] 15 Ant caste we y the fen." The webbes ant the fullaris assembleden hem alle, Ant makeden huere consail in huere commune halle; Token Peter Conyng huere kyng to calle, Ant beo huere cheventeyn. 20 Hue nomen huere rouncyns out of the stalle, Ant closeden the toun withinne the walle; Sixti baylies ant ten hue maden adoun falle, Ant moni an other sweyn. Tho wolde the baylies that were come from Fraunce, 25 Dryve the Flemisshe that made the destaunce; Hue turnden hem ayeynes with suerd ant with launce, Stronge men ant lyht. Y telle ou for sothe, for al huere bobaunce, Ne for the avowerie of the Kyng of Fraunce, 30 Tuenti score ant fyve haden ther meschaunce, By day ant eke by nyht. Sire Jakes de Seint Poul, yherde hou hit was; Sixtene hundred of horsemen asemblede o the gras; He wende toward Bruges _pas pur pas_, 35 With swithe gret mounde The Flemmysshe yherden telle the cas, Agynneth to clynken huere basyns of bras, Ant al hem to-dryven ase ston doth the glas, Ant fellen hem to grounde. 40 Sixtene hundred of horsmen hede ther here fyn; Hue leyyen y the stretes ystyked ase swyn, Ther hue loren huere stedes ant mony rouncyn, Thourh huere oune prude. Sire Jakes ascapede, by a coynte gyn, 45 Out at one posterne ther me solde wyn, Out of the fyhte hom to ys yn, In wel muchele drede. Tho the Kyng of Fraunce yherde this, anon, Assemblede he is doussé-pers everuchon, 50 The proude eorl of Artoys ant other mony on, To come to Paris. The barouns of Fraunce thider conne gon, Into the paleis that paved is with ston, To jugge the Flemmisshe to bernen ant to slon, 55 Thourh the flour de lis. Thenne seide the Kyng Philip, "Lustneth nou to me; Myn eorles ant my barouns, gentil ant fre: Goth, faccheth me the traytours ybounde to my kne; Hastifliche ant blyve." 60 Tho suor the Eorl of Seint Poul, "_Par la goule dé_, We shule facche the rybaus wher thi wille be, Ant drawen hem [with] wilde hors out of the countrè, By thousendes fyve." "Sire Rauf Devel," sayth the Eorl of Boloyne, 65 "_Nus ne lerrum en vie chanoun ne moyne_; Wende we forth anon ritht withoute eny assoygne, Ne no lyves man. We shule flo the Conyng, ant make roste is loyne; The word shal springen of him into Coloyne, 70 So hit shal to Acres ant into Sesoyne, Ant maken him ful wan." Sevene eorls ant fourti barouns y-tolde, Fiftene hundred knyhtes, proude ant swythe bolde, Sixti thousent swyers amonge yunge ant olde, 75 Flemmisshe to take. The Flemmisshe hardeliche hem come to-yeynes; This proude Freinsshe eorles, huere knyhtes ant huere sweynes, Aquelleden ant slowen, by hulles ant by pleynes, Al for huere kynges sake. 80 This Frenshe come to Flaundres so liht so the hare; Er hit were mydnyht hit fel hem to care; Hue were laht by the net so bryd is in snare, With rouncin ant with stede. The Flemmisshe hem dabbeth o the het bare; 85 Hue nolden take for huem raunsoun ne ware; Hue doddeth of huere hevedes, fare so hit fare, Ant thareto haveth hue nede. Thenne seyth the Eorl of Artois, "Y yelde me to the, Peter Conyng, by thi nome, yef thou art hende ant fre, 90 That y ne have no shame ne no vylté, That y ne be noud ded." Thenne swor a bocher, "By my leauté, Shalt thou ner more the kyng of Fraunce se, Ne in the toun of Bruges in prisone be; 95 Thou woldest spene bred." Ther hy were knulled y the putfalle, This eorles ant barouns ant huere knyhtes alle; Huere ledies huem mowe abide in boure ant in halle Wel longe. 100 For hem mot huere kyng other knyhtes calle, Other stedes taken out of huere stalle: Ther hi habbeth dronke bittrere then the galle, Upon the drue londe. When the Kyng of Fraunce yherde this tydynge, 105 He smot doun is heved, is honden gon he wrynge: Thourhout al Fraunce the word bygon to sprynge, Wo wes huem tho! Muche wes the sorewe ant the wepinge That wes in al Fraunce among olde ant yynge; 110 The mest part of the lond bygon for te synge "Alas ant weylawo!" Awey, thou yunge pope! whet shal the to rede? Thou hast lore thin cardinals at thi meste nede; 114 Ne keverest thou hem nevere for nones kunnes mede, For sothe y the telle. Do the forth to Rome, to amende thi misdede; Bide gode halewen, hue lete the betere spede; Bote thou worche wysloker, thou losest lont ant lede, The coroune wel the felle. 120 Alas, thou seli Fraunce! for the may thunche shome, That ane fewe fullaris maketh ou so tome; Sixti thousent on a day hue maden fot-lome, With eorl ant knyht. Herof habbeth the Flemysshe suithe god game, 125 Ant suereth by Seint Omer ant eke bi Seint Jame, Yef hy ther more cometh, hit falleth huem to shame, With huem for te fyht. I telle ou for sothe, the bataille thus bigon Bituene Fraunce ant Flaundres, hou hue weren fon; 130 Vor Vrenshe the Eorl of Flaundres in prison heden ydon, With tresoun untrewe. Ye[f] the Prince of Walis his lyf habbé mote, Hit falleth the Kyng of Fraunce bittrore then the sote; Bote he the rathere therof welle do bote, 135 Wel sore hit shal hym rewe. 15. anonen. R. an oven. W. THE EXECUTION OF SIR SIMON FRASER. On the 27th of March, 1306, Robert Bruce was crowned king at Scone. Immediately thereupon, King Edward the First sent the Earl of Pembroke, Aymer de Valence, to Scotland, to suppress what he called the rebellion in that kingdom. Pembroke attacked Bruce in his cantonments at Methven (or Kirkenclif) near Perth, and dispersed his small army, taking several prisoners of great consequence. Among them was Sir Simon Fraser, or Frisel, whose cruel fate is narrated in the following ballad. This piece has been printed in Ritson's _Ancient Songs_ (i. 28), and in Wright's _Political Songs_, p. 212, and is extracted from the same MS. as the preceding ballad. Lystneth, lordynges, a newe song ichulle bigynne, Of the traytours of Scotlond, that take beth wyth gynne; Mon that loveth falsnesse, and nule never blynne, Sore may him drede the lyf that he is ynne, Ich understonde: 5 Selde wes he glad That never nes a-sad Of nythe ant of onde. That y sugge by this Scottes that bueth nou to-drawe, The hevedes o Londone-brugge, whosé con y-knawe; 10 He wenden han buen kynges, ant seiden so in sawe; Betere hem were han y-be barouns, ant libbe in Godes lawe Wyth love. Whosé hateth soth ant ryht, Lutel he douteth Godes myht, 15 The heye kyng above. To warny alle the gentilmen that bueth in Scotlonde, The Waleis wes to-drawe, seththe he wes an-honge, Al quic biheveded, ys bowels ybrend, The heved to Londone-brugge wes send, 20 To abyde. After Simond Frysel, That wes traytour ant fykell, Ant y-cud ful wyde. Sire Edward oure kyng, that ful ys of pieté, 25 The Waleis quarters sende to is oune contré, On four-half to honge, huere myrour to be, Theropon to thenche, that monie myhten se, Ant drede. Why nolden he be war 30 Of the bataile of Donbar, Hou evele hem con spede? Bysshopes ant barouns come to the kynges pes, Ase men that weren fals, fykel, ant les, Othes hue him sworen in stude ther he wes, 35 To buen him hold ant trewe for alles cunnes res, Thrye, That hue ne shulden ayeyn him go, So hue were temed tho; Weht halt hit to lye? 40 To the kyng Edward hii fasten huere fay; Fals wes here foreward so forst is in May, That sonne from the southward wypeth away; Moni proud Scot therof mene may To yere. 45 Nes never Scotlond With dunt of monnes hond Allinge aboht so duere. The bisshop of Glascou y chot he wes ylaht, The bisshop of Seint-Andrè, bothe he beth ycaht, 50 The abbot of Scon with the kyng nis nout saht, Al here purpos ycome hit ys to naht, Thurh ryhte: Hii were unwis When hii thohte pris 55 Ayeyn huere kyng to fyhte. Thourh consail of thes bisshopes ynemned byfore, Sire Robert the Bruytz furst kyng wes ycore; He mai everuche day ys fon him se byfore, Yef hee mowen him hente, i chot he bith forlore, 60 Sauntz fayle. Soht for te sugge, Duere he shal abugge That he bigon batayle. Hii that him crounede proude were ant bolde, 65 Hii maden kyng of somer, so hii ner ne sholde,[L66] Hii setten on ys heved a croune of rede golde, Ant token him a kyneyerde, so me kyng sholde, To deme. Tho he wes set in see, 70 Lutel god couthe he Kyneriche to yeme. Nou kyng Hobbe in the mures yongeth, For te come to toune nout him ne longeth; The barouns of Engelond, myhte hue him grype, 75 He him wolde techen on Englysshe to pype, Thourh streynthe: Ne be he ner so stout, Yet he bith ysoht out O brede ant o leynthe. 80 Sire Edward of Carnarvan, (Jhesu him save ant see!) Sire Emer de Valence, gentil knyht ant free, Habbeth ysuore huere oht that, _par la grace dée_, Hee wolleth ous delyvren of that false contree, Yef hii conne. 85 Muche hath Scotlond forlore, Whet alast, whet bifore, Ant lutel pris wonne. Nou i chulle fonge ther ich er let, Ant tellen ou of Frisel, ase ich ou byhet. 90 In the batayle of Kyrkenclyf Frysel wes ytake; Ys continaunce abatede eny bost to make Biside Strivelyn; Knyhtes ant sweynes, Fremen ant theynes, 95 Monye with hym. So hii weren byset on everuche halve, Somme slaye were, ant somme dreynte hemselve; Sire Johan of Lyndeseye nolde nout abyde, He wod into the water, his feren him bysyde, 100 To adrenche. Whi nolden hii be war? Ther nis non ayeyn star:-- Why nolden hy hem bythenche? This wes byfore seint Bartholomeus masse, 105 That Frysel wes ytake, were hit more other lasse; To sire Thomas of Multon, gentil baron ant fre, Ant to sire Johan Jose, bytake tho wes he To honde: He wes yfetered weel, 110 Bothe with yrn ant wyth steel, To bringen of Scotlonde. Sone therafter the tydynge to the kyng com; He him sende to Londone, with mony armed grom; He com yn at Newegate, y telle yt ou aplyht, 115 A gerland of leves on ys hed ydyht, Of grene; For he shulde ben yknowe, Bothe of heye ant of lowe, For treytour, y wene. 120 Yfetered were ys legges under his horse wombe, Bothe with yrn ant with stel mankled were ys honde, A gerland of peruenke set on his heved; Muche wes the poer that him wes byreved In londe: 125 So god me amende, Lutel he wende So be broht in honde. Sire Herbert of Norham, feyr knyht ant bold,[L129] For the love of Frysel ys lyf wes ysold; 130 A wajour he made, so hit wes ytold, Ys heved of to smhyte, yef me him brohte in hold, Wat so bytyde: Sory wes he thenne Tho he myhte him kenne 135 Thourh the toun ryde. Thenne seide ys scwyer a word anon ryht, "Sire, we beth dede, ne helpeth hit no wyht," (Thomas de Boys the scwyer wes to nome,) "Nou, y chot, our wajour turneth us to grome, 140 So ybate." Y do ou to wyte, Here heved wes of-smyte, Byfore the Tour-gate. This wes on oure Levedy even, for sothe ych understonde;[L145] 145 The justices seten for the knyhtes of Scotlonde, Sire Thomas of Multone, an hendy knyht ant wys,[L147] Ant sire Rauf of Sondwyche, that muchel is hold in prys,[L148] Ant sire Johan Abel; Mo y mihte telle by tale, 150 Bothe of grete ant of smale, Ye knowen suythe wel. Thenne saide the justice, that gentil is ant fre, "Sire Simond Frysel, the kynges traytour hast thou be, In water ant in londe, that monie myhten se. 155 What sayst thou thareto, hou wolt thou quite the? Do say." So foul he him wiste, Nede waron truste For to segge nay. 160 Ther he wes ydemed, so hit wes londes lawe; For that he wes lordswyk, furst he wes to-drawe; Upon a retheres hude forth he wes ytuht: Sum while in ys time he wes a modi knyht, In huerte. 165 Wickednesse ant sunne, Hit is lutel wunne That maketh the body smerte. For al is grete poer, yet he wes ylaht; Falsnesse ant swykedom, al hit geth to naht; 170 Tho he wes in Scotlond, lutel wes ys thoht Of the harde jugement that him wes bysoht In stounde. He wes foursithe forswore To the kyng ther bifore,[L175] 175 Ant that him brohte to grounde. With feteres ant with gyves i chot he wes to-drowe, From the Tour of Londone, that monie myhte knowe, In a curtel of burel, a selkethe wyse, Ant a gerland on ys heved of the newe guyse, 180 Thurh Cheepe; Moni mon of Engelond For to se Symond Thideward con lepe. Tho he com to galewes, furst he wes anhonge, 185 Al quic byheveded, thah him thohte longe; Seththe he wes y-opened, is boweles ybrend, The heved to Londone-brugge wes send, To shonde: So ich ever mote the, 190 Sumwhile wende he Ther lutel to stonde. He rideth thourh the sité, as y telle may, With gomen ant wyth solas, that wes here play; To Londone-brugge hee nome the way, 195 Moni wes the wyves chil that theron laketh a day, Ant seide, Alas, That he wes ibore, Ant so villiche forlore, So feir mon ase he was! 200 Nou stont the heved above the tu-brugge, Faste bi Waleis, soth for te sugge; After socour of Scotlond longe he mowe prye, Ant after help of Fraunce, (wet halt hit to lye?) Ich wene. 205 Betere him were in Scotlond, With is ax in ys hond, To pleyen o the grene. Ant the body hongeth at the galewes faste, With yrnene claspes longe to laste; 210 For te wyte wel the body, ant Scottysh to garste, Foure ant twenti ther beoth to sothe ate laste, By nyhte: Yef eny were so hardi The body to remuy, 215 Al so to dyhte. Were sire Robert the Bruytz ycome to this londe, Ant the erl of Asseles, that harde is an honde,[L218] Alle the other pouraille, forsothe ich understonde, Mihten be ful blythe ant thonke godes sonde, 220 Wyth ryhte; Thenne myhte uch mon Bothe riden ant gon In pes withoute vyhte. The traytours of Scotland token hem to rede 225 The barouns of Engelond to brynge to dede: Charles of Fraunce, so moni mon tolde, With myht ant with streynthe hem helpe wolde, His thonkes. Tprot, Scot, for thi strif! 230 Hang up thyn hachet ant thi knyf, Whil him lasteth the lyf With the longe shonkes. 66. Bruce's wife, it is said, replied to her husband, when he was boasting of his royal rank, "You are indeed a summer king, but you will scarce be a winter one," alluding to the ephemeral sovereignty of the Lord of the May. 129. He was one of the Scottish prisoners in the Tower; and is said to have been so confident of the safety or success of Sir Simon Fraser, that he had offered to lay his own head on the block, if that warrior suffered himself to be taken; and (however involuntarily) it seems he kept his word. Vide M. West. 460.--RITSON. MS. Morham. 145. 7th September. 147. Sir Thomas Multon was one of the justices of the King's Bench in 1289. Sir Ralph Sandwich was made Baron of the Exchequer in 1312.--RITSON. 148. MS. told. 175. Sir Simon was one of those whom King Edward brought out of Scotland in 1296, when that kingdom was first subdued. He remained a close prisoner about eight months, and was then freed, on entering into the usual engagement with the conqueror, to which, however, it is certain he did not think proper to adhere; esteeming it, perhaps, more sinful to keep such a forced obligation than to take it. Abercrombie, i. 552.--RITSON. 218. The Earl of Athol, John de Strathbogie. Attempting to escape by sea, he was driven back by a storm, taken, and conveyed to London, where he was tried, condemned, and, with circumstances of great barbarity, put to death, 7th, &c. November, 1306. (M. West. 461.) Which proves the present ballad to have been composed between that time and the 7th of September preceding.--RITSON. GLOSSARY. [right pointing hand] Figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. ablins, _perhaps_. aboon, abune, _above_. abugge, _aby_, _pay for_. adrenche, _drown_. ae, _one_; first ae, _first_. agynneth, _begin_. ahint, _behind_. airns, _irons_. airt, _quarter of the compass_, _direction_. alacing, _saying alas_. alane, mine, _alone by myself_. alast, _latterly_. alles, _all_. allinge, _altogether_. alow, 245, _below_. al so, _at once_. amense, _amends_. American leather, 244? anew, _enough_. an honde, 283, _in hand_. anis, _once_. aplyht, 273, a particle of confirmation, _indeed_, _on my word_, &c. aquelleden, _killed_. arewe, 269, _rue_, _feel aggrieved by_. assoygne, 271, _delay_: (lines 66, 67, should probably be transposed.) asteir, _astir_, _moved_, (his anger.) avow, 261, _consent_, _undertake_. avowerie, _protection_, _support_. awin, _own_. awsome, _frightful_. ayeyn, _against_: 278, v. 103, a word seems to have dropped out. The sense is, _there is no resisting the stars_. Wright reads _stare_. ayont, _beyond_, _on one side of_. bangisters, _violent and lawless people_, _those that have the upper hand_, _victors_. basnet, _helmet_. batts, _beating_. beet, 90, _help_. ben, _in_. bent, _coarse grass_; _open country_, covered with the same. benty, _covered with the coarse grass called bent_; benty-line, 13? beseen, weil, 132, _well appointed_. bide, 273, _pray to_. bigged, _built_. biheveded, _beheaded_. billie, _comrade_. birk, _birch_. birst, (_burst_) _fray_. blan, _stopped_. blink, 49, _glanced_. blive, _quickly_. bobaunce, _vanity_, _presumption_. bode, _bid_. borrow, _rescue_. bot and, _and also_. bote, 274, _amends_; bote, no, _not better off_. boun, _ready_, _gone_. brae, _hill-side_. braid, 245, qy. corrupt? brain, gang, _go mad_. brank, 124, _prance_, _caper_. branks, _a rude sort of bridle of rope and wood_, used by country people. braw, bra', _brave_, _fine_. brayd on, 32, _move on_ (rapidly). breast, 249, _voice_. breasting, _springing forward_. brecham, _collar of a working horse_. brede, o, ant o leynthe, _in breadth and in length_, _far and wide_. breek, _breeches_; 70, breek-thigh, _the side pocket of the breeches_. brie, _brow_. broked cow, _a cow that has black spots mixed with white in her face_. broken men, _outlawed men_. browhead, _forehead_. brugge, _bridge_. brusten, _burst_. bryd, _bird_. bryttled, _cut up_. bueth, _be_. bufft coat, _leather coat_. bund, _bound_. burel, _sackcloth_. burn, _brook_. busk, _make ready_. buss, _bush_. bussing, 137, _covering_ (stolen from the packs). but, _out_; 236, but the floor, _across the floor out of the room_, or _to the outer part of the house_. by (sometimes) _besides_. byhet, _promised_. byres, byris, _barns_, _cowhouses_. bysoht, _prepared for_. bytake, _committed_. bythenche, _bethink_. ca', _call_. ca', 90, _drive_. carle, _churl_, _fellow_. carpit, _talked_, _told stories_. ca's, _calves_. cauler, _cool_. cess, _tax_, _black-mail_. cheventeyn, _chieftain_. chot, _wot_, _know_, chulle, _shall_. claes, _clothes_. clanked, _gave a smart stroke_. cleugh, _a rugged ascent_. closs, 191, _area before the house_, (_close_.) coll, _cool_. coman, _command_. con, 269, _began_. conquess, _conquer_. continaunce, _countenance_. corbie, _crow_. corn-caugers, _corn-carriers_, or _dealers_. cost, 135, _loss_, _risk_. could, 102, _began_. coune, _began_. courtrie, _band of courtiers_. couthe, _knew_. cowte, _colt_. coynte, _quaint_, _cunning_. crabit, _crabbed_. cracking, _boasting_. crooks, _the windings of a river_, _the space of ground closed in on one side by these windings_. crouse, _brisk_, _bold_. cumber, to red the, _quell the tumult_. cunnes, _kinds_. curch, _kerchief_, _coif_. cure, 214, _care_, _pains_. curtel, 281, _shirt_, _gown_. custan, cast. dae, _doe_. dandoo, 245, apparently should be _dun doe_. dane, _done_, _taken_. dang, _beat_. daw, _dawn_. de, (Fr.) _God_. dede, _dealt_. dee, _die_. deid, _death_. deme, _adjudge_. destaunce, _disturbance_. ding down, _beat down_. dints, _blows_. doddeth, 272, _lop_. dool, _grief_. dought, _could_, _was able_. dour, _hard_. douse, _quiet_, _mild_. doussé-pers, (Fr. douze pairs) _gallant knights_. douteth, _feareth_. dow, _can_, _are able_; downa, _cannot_. down-come of Robin Hood, 242, _as quick as R. H. would knock one down?_ or _pay down?_ dreigh, (_tedious_, _long_) _high_. dreynte, drowned. drie, _bear_, _endure_. drifts, 100, _droves_. drivand, _driving_. drue, _dry_. drunkily, _merrily_. drury, _treasure_. dub, _pool_, _pond_. duere, _dear_. dule, _sorrow_. dunt, _dint_, _stroke_. dyhte, 282, _dispose of_. e'en, 93, _even_, _put in comparison_. een, _eyes_. elshin, _shoemaker's awl_. ene, 270, _even_. enew, _enough_. er, _before_. ettled, _designed_. everuche, _every_; everuchon, _every one_. falla, _fellow_. fand, _found_. fang, _catch_. fankit, _entangled_, _obstructed_; here, _so fixed that it could not be drawn_. fared, _went_. fasten, 276, _plight_. fay, _faith_. fear't, _frightened_. fecht, _fight_. fee, _income_, _property_, _wages_. feid, _feud_. feir, 222, _sound_, _unhurt_. feiries, _comrades_. fell, _high pasture land_. fend, _defence_. feren, _comrades_. ferly, _wonder_. fet, _foot_. fie, _predestined_. fiend, 9, i. e. _the devil a thing_. fit, _foot_. flain, _arrows_. flatlies, _flat_. fley, _fright_. flinders, _fragments_. flo, _flay_. fon, 274, _foes_. fonge, _take up_. forbode, over God's, (_on God's prohibition_), _God forbid_. forehammer, _the large hammer which strikes before the small one_, _sledge-hammer_. foreward, _covenant_. forfaulted, _forfeited_. forfend, _forbid_. forfoughen (i. e. forfoughten) _tired out_. forst, _frost_. fot-lome, _foot-lame_. fou, _full_ (_of drink_). four-half, on, _in quarters_. foursithe, _four times_. fow, 219, _full?_ frae hand, _forthwith_. freits, _omens_. frith, _wood_. furs, _furrows_. fyn, _end_. gar, _make_, _let_. garste, 282, (should probably be gast) _frighten away_. gaun, _going_. gavelocks, (_javelins_) _iron crows_. gear, _goods_, _property_; 16, _spoil_. ged, _went_. geir, same as gear. genzie, _engine of war_. gifted, 31, _given away_. gilt, _gold_. gin, _if_. gin, _trick_. gleed, _red-hot coal_, _a glowing bar of iron_. gloamin', _twilight_. gomen, 282, _game_, _mockery_. goud, _gold_. goule, (Fr.) _throat_. graith, _armor_. graith, _make ready_; graithed, _armed_. grat, _wept_. green, _yearn_, _long_. greeting, _weeping_. gripet, _seized_. grom, _groom_, _man_. grome, 279, _sorrow_. gryming, _sprinkling_. guided, 172, _treated_. gynne, _trap_. had, haud, _hold_. haif, _have_. hail, 133, (_vigorous_, and so) _boisterous?_ halewen, _saints_. halt, 276, 282, _profits?_ halve, _side_. haly, _holy_. happers, _hoppers_. hardilyche, _boldly_. harpit, _harped_. harried, _plundered_. hastifliche, _hastily_. haud, _hold_, _keep_. he, 282, _they_. head, 117, _assemblage_. heckle, _a hatchel_, _flax-comb_. hem, _them_. hende, hendy, _gentle_. hente, _caught_. herry, _harry_, _spoil_. he's, _he shall_. het, _head_. het, _hot_. heugh, _a ragged steep_, sometimes, _a glen with steep overhanging sides_. heved, _head_. hi, _they_. hie, _high_. hirst, _a barren hill_. hold, 276, _faithful_. hope, houp, _a sloping hollow between two hills_. hostage house, 233, _inn_. how, _pull_. howm, _a plain on a river side_. hue, _they_; huem, _them_; huere, _their_. hulles, _hills_. ibore, _born_. ich, _I_. ichulle, _I shall_. ilka, _every_. intill, _in_. is, _his_. I'se, _I will_. jack, _a short coat plated with small pieces of iron_. jeopardy, 223, _adventure_. jimp, _slender_. jugge, 271, _condemn_. keekit, _peeped_. kend, _known_. kettrin, _cateran_, _thieving_. keverest, 273, _recoverest_. kilted, _tucked_. kinnen, _rabbits_. kirns, _churns_. Kirsty, _Christy_. knapscap, _head-piece_. know, _knoll_. knulled, 272, _pushed_, _beaten_ (_with the knuckles_). kunnes, _kinds_. kyne-yerde, _king's wand_ or _sceptre_. kyneriche, _kingdom_. laht, _caught_. laigh, _low_. langsome, _tedious_. lap, _wrap up_. lave, _rest_. law, _low_. lawing, _scot_, _reckoning_. lay, _lea_. layne, _conceal_. leal, leel, _loyal_, _true_, _chaste_. lear, _lore_. leauté, _loyalty_. lede, _people_. lee, _waste_, _lonely_. lee-lang, _live-long_. lee, shelter, peace; set at little lee, 101, _left little peace?_ "_left scarcely any means of shelter_." JAMIESON. leeze me on, 90, _I take pleasure or comfort in_. lerrum, (Fr.) _leave_. les, _lying_. let, 278, _ceased_. leugh, _laughed_. levedy, _lady_. libbe, _live_. lidder, _lazy_. lidder fat, _fat from laziness_; (qu. same as leeper fat?) lightly, _make light of_, _treat with contempt_. limmer, _rascal_, _scoundrelly_. Lincome, _Lincoln_; Lincum twine, _Lincoln manufacture_. ling, _heath_. loan, _a piece of ground near a farm house where the cows are milked_. loot, _let_. lordswyk, _traitor to his lord_. lore, loren, _lost_. loup, _leap_, _waterfall_. louped, loupen, _leapt_. lourd, _liefer_, _rather_. low, _flame_. lowne, _loon_. luid, _loved_. lyan, _lain_. lyart, _hoary_. lyke-wake, _watching of a dead body_. lyves man, 271, _living man_. ma, shame a, 93, _devil a bit_. mae, _more_. maill, _rent_. mane, _moan_. maries, _maids_. marrows, _equals_. maun, _must_. may, _maid_. me, _they_ (Fr. _on_). mear, _mare_. mene, _moan_. mergh, _marrow_. mest, _most_. minnie, _mother_. mirk, _dark_. modi, _bold_. mot, _may_. mounde, 270, _might?_ mowe, _may_. mowes, _jests_. mudie, _bold_. muss, _moss_. naggs, _notches_. nede, 280, _he had not_. neist, _next_. nes, _was not_. neuk, 224, _corner?_ nicher, nicker, _neigh_. nie, _neigh_. niest, _next_. nogs, _stakes_. noisome, 139, _annoying_, _vexatious_. nolden, _would not_. nome, _name_. nome, nomen, _took_. nones, _no_. notour, 267, _notorious_. noud, nout, _nought_, _not_. nowt, _cattle_. nule, _will not_. nythe, 275, _wickedness_. oht, _oath_. onde, 275, _malice_, _envy_. other, _or_. ou, _you_. ouir, _our_. our, oure, _over_. outspeckle, _laughing-stock_. ower-word, _burden_. owsen, _oxen_. palliones, _tents_. paw, neer play'd, 84, _did not stir hand or foot_. peel, 106, _the stronghold, where the cattle were kept_. pellettes, _balls_. peruenke, _periwinkle_. pestelets, _pistols_, _fire-arms_. pleugh, _plough_. plumet, 75, _pommel_. poer, _power_. pouraille, _common people_. pris, 276, _praise_. prude, _pride_. prye, _pray_. pure, _poor_. putfalle, _pitfall_. pyne, _pain_. questry, _jury_. quey, _young cow_. quhavir, _whoever_. quhilk, _which_. rack, _a shallow ford, extending to a considerable breadth before it narrows into a full stream_. JAMIESON. rad, 27, _afraid_. rae, _roe_. raid, _foray_, _predatory incursion_, _fight_. rank'd, 25, i. e. _looked finely_, _formed in ranks_. ranshackled, _ransacked_. rantin', _gay_, _jovial_. rathere, 274, _sooner_, _beforehand_. raxed, _stretched_. ray, 102, _path_ or _track_. reaving, _robbing_. redd, rede, _advise_, _advice_. reek, _smoke_. reif, _bailiff_. reif, _robbery_; reiver, _robber_. reil, _reel_. remuy, _remove_. res, 276, (Ang. Sax. _raes_,) _incursions_, _exploits_? retheres hude, _bullock's hide_. rig, 119, _ridge_. rigging, _ridge_, _top_. rin, _run_. rok, _distaff_. roof-tree, _the beam which forms the angle of the roof_. rouncyn, _horse_. routing, _bellowing_. row, _roll_. row-footed, 63, _rough-footed?_ rudds, _reddens_. rude, _rood_. Rumary, 249? rybaus, _ribalds_, _villains_. saft, 65, _light_. saht, 276, _at one_, _reconciled_. sark, _shirt_, _shift_. saugh, _willow_. sawe, _speech_. schaw, _wood_. scroggs, _stunted trees_. see, _protect_. see, 277, _seat_, _throne_. seen, _soon_. seld, _sold_. selkethe, _strange_. serime, 248, corrupt: qy. _betime_? seth the, _after_. served, 25, _behaved to_. shame a ma, 93, _devil a bit_. sheen, _shoes_. sheil, _shepherd's hut_. shome, _shame_. shonde, _disgrace_. shonkes, _shanks_. sic, sicken, _such_. skaithd, _injured_. skeigh, _sky_. slack, _a shallow dell_, _morass_. slae, 119, _sloe_. sleuth-dog, _blood-hound_. slogan, _the gathering word peculiar to a family or clan_, _a war-cry_. sloken, _slake_. slough-hounds, _blood-hounds_. slowen, _slew_. smoldereth, _smothereth_. snear, _snort_. so, _as_. solas, _amusement_. sonde, godes, _God's sending_. sote, _soot_. soth, soht, _truth_. Soudron, _Southerner_, _English_. sould, suld, _should_. sowie, _sow_ (Lat. _vinea_, _pluteus_), _a shed or pent-house under cover of which the walls of a besieged town were assailed_. soy, _silk_. spaits, _floods_, _torrents_. spauld, _shoulder_. spene, 272, _cost_. spier, _ask_. spin, _run_. splent, _armor_. springald, _a military engine for discharging heavy missiles at the walls of a beleaguered town_. spuilye, spulzie, _despoil_. star, see _ayeyn_. starkest, _strongest_. staun, _stolen_. steads, _places_. stear, _stir_. stont, _stands_. stots, _bullocks_. stounde, _time_. stour, _turmoil_, _affray_. straught, _stretched_. streynthe, _strength_. strick, _strict_. strinkled, _sprinkled_. Strivelyn, _Sterling_. stude, _place_. sturt, 138, _trouble_, _disturbance_. suereth, _swear_. sugge, _say_. suithe, _very_. sunne, _sin_. sweynes, 272, _swains_, _men in general below the rank of knights_. swithe, _very_. swither, _doubt_, _consternation_. swyers, _squires_. swykedom, _treachery_. swythe, _very_. syke, _ditch_. syne, _then_. tackles, _arrows_. tald, _told_. targats, 49, _tassels_. te, _to_. temed, 276, _tamed_. thae, _these_. thah, _though_. the, _thrive_. then, _than_. thenche, _think_. theynes, _thanes_. thir, _these_; thir's, _these are_. this, _these_. tho, _then_. thole, _bear_, _endure_. thonkes, his, 283, _willingly_, _gladly_, _by his good will_. thrawin, 219, _distorted_, _wrinkled_. thunche, 273, _seem_. til, _to_; til't, _to it_. tint, _lost_. to-drawe, to-drowe, _drawn_. to-dryven, 270, _break to pieces_. token, 277, _gave to_. tome, _tame_. toom, _empty_. tour, 192, _course or road_. tow, 158, _throw_. tprot, _interjection of contempt_. trayne, _stratagem_. tree, _staff_. trepan'd, 180, _foully dealt with_. trew, _trust_. tryst, _meeting_. tu-brugge, _draw-bridge_. tul, _to_. twa-fald, 15, _two-fold_, i. e. _with his body hanging down both sides_. twa-some, _couple_. twined, _parted_. uch, _each_. unkensome, _not to be recognized_. unthought lang, hold, _keep from growing weary_. upgive, 34, _acknowledge_. villiche, _vilely_. vor, _for_. Vrenshe, _French_. vyhte, _fighting_. vylté, _disgrace_. wad, _would_. wad, 225, _wager_, _forfeit_. Waleis, _Wallace_. wally fa', 262, _ill luck befall_. wan, _pale_, _dark_, _black_. wan, _reached_. wap, _tie round_. waran, _guaranty_. ware, 111, _lay out_, _use_. ware, 272, (Ang. S. were, _capitis æstimatio_) _ransom_, _life-money_. wark, _work_. warrand, _protection_. wat, _know_. wat, _wet_. waur, _worse_. way, to the, 262, _away?_ wear, _guard_. webbes, _weavers_. wed, 247, qy. corrupt? weht, _what_. weel-fared, _well-favored_. weil, 92, _eddy_. weir, _war_. wel the felle, 273, _will fall from thy head?_ wende, _weened_. wes, _was_. wesleyn, _western_. wether, _whither_. weylaway, _well-a-day!_ whang, _thong_. whidderan, _whizzing_. whet, _what_. whew, _whistle_. whosé, _any one whatever_. wicker, 119, _switch_. widdifu, _one who deserves to fill a widdie or halter_, _gallows bird_, _ruffian_. wight, _strong_, _quick_; wightmen (Ang. Sax. wigman) _fighting men_, _brave fellows_; waled wightmen, 220, _picked warriors_. win, _get_. winna, _will not_. winsomely, _handsomely_. wit, _knowledge_. wod, _waded_. wombe, _belly_. won, 120, misprint for win? wons, _dwells_. wood, _mad_. worries, _strangles_. Wudspurs, _Madspur_, _Hotspur_. wyht, _wight_. wysloker, _more wisely_. wyte, _know_. wyte, 282, _wait_, _watch_ (?) y, _in_. yate, _gate_. ybate, 280? y-be, _been_. y-brend, _burnt_. y-caht, _caught_. y-core, _chosen_. y-cud, _known_. y-demed, _judged_. y-dyht, 278, _arranged_. yeate, _gate_. yef, _if_. yeme, _govern_. yere, to, 276, _this year_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yett, _gate_. y-herde, _heard_. y-knawe, _recognize_. y-laht, _caught_, _taken_. y-nemned, _named_. yongeth, _goeth_. y-suore, _sworn_. y-tuht, _drawn_. yynge, _young_. zour, &c., _your_, &c. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Page 87 and note on page 88: changed "169" to "129" (129. The land-sergeant (mentioned also in _Hobbie Noble_) ...) Page 93 (note to line 70): changed "ross" to "across" ( ... chains drawn across the chest of a war-horse ...) Page 129 (note to line 66): changed "East-gath" to "East-gate" (The family of Emerson of East-gate, a fief, ...) Page 139 (note to line 24): added missing closing quotation mark (All bravely fought that day."--S.) Page 148: changed "opprobious" to "opprobrious" ( ... gave Car some very opprobrious language ...) Page 189: added missing closing quotation mark ( ... the accused party was soon restored to society.") Page 214 (line 34): added missing closing quotation mark ("And ye shall pardoned be:") Page 253 (line 54): changed "Jonne[a] rounde" to "Jonne [a]rounde" (And so besett poore Jonne [a]rounde,) Page 260 (first line of chorus): changed "Re" to "Be" (_Be content, be content,_) Page 260 suspected typo "fortunately" should perhaps be read "unfortunately" ( ... the circumstances which have given rise to it were fortunately too common ...) 
28424	----	Black's Boys' and Girls' Library TALES FROM SCOTTISH BALLADS IN THE SAME SERIES TALES OF KING ARTHUR by DOROTHY SENIOR MIKE (A Public School Story) by P. G. WODEHOUSE THE CAVEMEN, A TALE OF THE TIME OF by STANLEY WATERLOO WONDER TALES OF THE ANCIENT WORLD by JAMES BAIKIE, D.D., F.R.A.S. THE STORY OF ROBIN HOOD by JOHN FINNEMORE ROBINSON CRUSOE by DANIEL DEFOE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON Edited by G. E. MITTON MOTHER GOOSE'S NURSERY RHYMES Edited by L. E. WALTER, M.B.E., B.Sc. TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS by THOMAS HUGHES IN THE YEAR OF WATERLOO } FACE TO FACE WITH NAPOLEON } by O. V. CAINE WITCH'S HOLLOW by A. W. BROOK MUCKLE JOHN by FREDERICK WATSON ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES ÆSOP'S FABLES THE ARABIAN NIGHTS GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES GRANNY'S WONDERFUL CHAIR by FRANCES BROWNE BRITISH FAIRY AND FOLK TALES by W. J. GLOVER THE ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE by MIGUEL DE CERVANTES COOK'S VOYAGES OF DISCOVERY MR. MIDSHIPMAN EASY TALES FROM HAKLUYT Selected by FRANK ELIAS GREEK WONDER TALES } OTTOMAN WONDER TALES } by LUCY M. GARNETT GULLIVER'S TRAVELS THE HEROES } THE WATER BABIES } by CHARLES KINGSLEY BOOK OF CELTIC STORIES by ELIZ. W. GRIERSON _FOR GIRLS_ A GIRL'S ADVENTURES IN KOREA by AGNES HERBERT _SIMILAR TO THE ABOVE_ CRANFORD. By Mrs. ELIZABETH GASKELL. With 8 Illustrations in Colour A. & C. BLACK, LTD., 4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W. 1 AGENTS _New York_ THE MACMILLAN COMPANY _Melbourne_ THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS _Toronto_ THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA _Bombay Calcutta Madras_ MACMILLAN AND COMPANY, LTD. [Illustration: "THIS VERY NIGHT WE WILL RIDE OVER INTO ETTRICK, AND LIFT A WHEEN O' THEM." (P. 106)] TALES FROM SCOTTISH BALLADS BY ELIZABETH W. GRIERSON AUTHOR OF "THE BOOK OF CELTIC STORIES" "THE BOOK OF EDINBURGH" ETC. WITH FOUR FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR FROM DRAWINGS BY ALLAN STEWART A. & C. BLACK, LTD. 4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W. 1 _Printed in Great Britain_ _First Edition ("Children's Tales from Scottish Ballads") published in 1906._ _New Edition published in 1916._ _Reprinted and included in Boys' and Girls' Library in 1925._ _Reprinted in 1930._ To MY TWO FIRESIDE CRITICS A. S. G. AND J. B. G. CONTENTS THE LOCHMABEN HARPER 1 THE LAIRD O' LOGIE 11 KINMONT WILLIE 32 THE GUDE WALLACE 63 THE WARLOCK O' OAKWOOD 81 MUCKLE-MOU'ED MEG 101 DICK O' THE COW 125 THE HEIR OF LINNE 143 BLACK AGNACE OF DUNBAR 161 THOMAS THE RHYMER 195 LORD SOULIS 214 THE BROWNIE OF BLEDNOCK 234 SIR PATRICK SPENS 244 YOUNG BEKIE 259 THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER 274 HYNDE HORN 291 THE GAY GOS-HAWK 310 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR FROM DRAWINGS BY ALLAN STEWART "This very night we will ride over into Ettrick, and lift a wheen o' them" _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE "My father eyed them keenly, his face growing grave as he did so" 36 "''Tis a God's-penny,' cried the guests in amazement" 158 "When she approached he pulled off his bonnet and louted low" 198 THE LOCHMABEN HARPER "Oh, heard ye of a silly harper, Wha lang lived in Lochmaben town, How he did gang to fair England, To steal King Henry's wanton brown?" Once upon a time, there was an old man in Lochmaben, who made his livelihood by going round the country playing on his harp. He was very old, and very blind, and there was such a simple air about him, that people were inclined to think that he had not all his wits, and they always called him "The silly Lochmaben Harper." Now Lochmaben is in Dumfriesshire, not very far from the English border, and the old man sometimes took his harp and made long journeys into England, playing at all the houses that he passed on the road. Once when he returned from one of these journeys, he told everyone how he had seen the English King, King Henry, who happened to be living at that time at a castle in the north of England, and although he thought the King a very fine-looking man indeed, he thought far more of a frisky brown horse which his Majesty had been riding, and he had made up his mind that some day it should be his. All the people laughed loudly when they heard this, and looked at one another and tapped their foreheads, and said, "Poor old man, his brain is a little touched; he grows sillier, and sillier;" but the Harper only smiled to himself, and went home to his cottage, where his wife was busy making porridge for his supper. "Wife," he said, setting down his harp in the corner of the room, "I am going to steal the King of England's brown horse." "Are you?" said his wife, and then she went on stirring the porridge. She knew her husband better than the neighbours did, and she knew that when he said a thing, he generally managed to do it. The old man sat looking into the fire for a long time, and at last he said, "I will need a horse with a foal, to help me: if I can find that, I can do it." "Tush!" said his wife, as she lifted the pan from the fire and poured the boiling porridge carefully into two bowls; "if that is all that thou needest, the brown horse is thine. Hast forgotten the old gray mare thou left at home in the stable? Whilst thou wert gone, she bore a fine gray foal." "Ah!" said the old Harper, his eyes kindling. "Is she fond of her foal?" "Fond of it, say you? I warrant bolts and bars would not keep her from it. Ride thou away on the old mare, and I will keep the foal at home; and I promise thee she will bring home the brown horse as straight as a die, without thy aid, if thou desire it." "Thou art a clever woman, Janet: thou thinkest of everything," said her husband proudly, as she handed him his bowlful of porridge, and then sat down to sup her own at the other side of the fire, chuckling to herself, partly at her husband's words of praise, and partly at the simplicity of the neighbours, who called him a silly old harper. Next morning the old man went into the stable, and, taking a halter from the wall, he hid it in his stocking; then he led out his old gray mare, who neighed and whinnied in distress at having to leave her little foal behind her. Indeed he had some difficulty in getting her to start, for when he had mounted her, and turned her head along the Carlisle road, she backed, and reared, and sidled, and made such a fuss, that quite a crowd collected round her, crying, "Come and see the silly Harper of Lochmaben start to bring home the King of England's brown horse." At last the Harper got the mare to start, and he rode, and he rode, playing on his harp all the time, until he came to the castle where the King of England was. And, as luck would have it, who should come to the gate, just as he arrived, but King Henry himself. Now his Majesty loved music, and the old man really played very well, so he asked him to come into the great hall of the castle, and let all the company hear him play. At this invitation the Harper jumped joyously down from his horse, as if to make haste to go in, and then he hesitated. "Nay, but if it please your Majesty," he said humbly, "my old nag is footsore and weary: mayhap there is a stall in your Majesty's stable where she might rest the night." Now the King loved all animals, and it pleased him that the old man should be so mindful of his beast; and seeing one of the stablemen in the distance, he turned his head and cried carelessly, "Here, sirrah! Take this old man's nag, and put it in a stall in the stable where my own brown horse stands, and see to it that it has a good supper of oats and a comfortable litter of hay." Then he led the Harper into the hall where all his nobles were, and I need not tell you that the old man played his very best. He struck up such a merry tune that before long everybody began to dance, and the very servants came creeping to the door to listen. The cooks left their pans, and the chambermaids their dusters, the butlers their pantries; and, best of all, the stablemen came from the stables without remembering to lock the doors. After a time, when they had all grown weary of dancing, the clever old man began to play such soft, soothing, quiet music, that everyone began to nod, and at last fell fast asleep. He played on for a time, till he was certain that no one was left awake, then he laid down his harp, and slipped off his shoes, and stole silently down the broad staircase, smiling to himself as he did so. With noiseless footsteps he crept to the stable door, which, as he expected, he found unlocked, and entered, and for one moment he stood looking about him in wonder, for it was the most splendid stable he had ever seen, with thirty horses standing side by side, in one long row. They were all beautiful horses, but the finest of all, was King Henry's favourite brown horse, which he always rode himself. The old Harper knew it at once, and, quick as thought, he loosed it, and, drawing the halter which he had brought with him out of his stocking, he slipped it over its head. Then he loosed his own old gray mare, and tied the end of the halter to her tail, so that, wherever she went, the brown horse was bound to follow. He chuckled to himself as he led the two animals out of the stable and across the courtyard, to the great wrought-iron gate, and when he had opened this, he let the gray mare go, giving her a good smack on the ribs as he did so. And the old gray mare, remembering her little foal shut up in the stable at home, took off at the gallop, straight across country, over hedges, and ditches, and walls, and fences, pulling the King's brown horse after her at such a rate that he had never even a chance to bite her tail, as he had thought of doing at first, when he was angry at being tied to it. Although the mare was old, she was very fleet of foot, and before the day broke she was standing with her companion before her master's cottage at Lochmaben. Her stable door was locked, so she began to neigh with all her might, and at last the noise awoke the Harper's wife. Now the old couple had a little servant girl who slept in the attic, and the old woman called to her sharply, "Get up at once, thou lazy wench! dost thou not hear thy master and his mare at the door?" The girl did as she was bid, and, dressing herself hastily, went to the door and looked through the keyhole to see if it were really her master. She saw no one there save the gray mare and a strange brown horse. "Oh mistress, mistress, get up," she cried in astonishment, running into the kitchen. "What do you think has happened? The gray mare has gotten a brown foal." "Hold thy clavers!" retorted the old woman; "methinks thou art blinded by the moonlight, if thou knowest not the difference between a full-grown horse and a two-months'-old foal. Go and look out again and bring me word if 'tis not a brown horse which the mare has brought with her." The girl ran to the door, and presently came back to say that she had been mistaken, and that it was a brown horse, and that all the neighbours were peeping out of their windows to see what the noise was about. The old woman laughed as she rose and dressed herself, and went out with the girl to help her to tie up the two horses. "'Tis the silly old Harper of Lochmaben they call him," she said to herself, "but I wonder how many of them would have had the wit to gain a new horse so easily?" Meanwhile at the English castle the Harper had stolen silently back to the hall after he had let the horses loose, and, taking up his harp again, he harped softly until the morning broke, and the sleeping men round him began to awake. The King and his nobles called loudly for breakfast, and the servants crept hastily away, afraid lest it might come to be known that they had left their work the evening before to listen to the stranger's music. The cooks went back to their pans, and the chambermaids to their dusters, and the stablemen and grooms trooped out of doors to look after the horses; but presently they all came rushing back again, helter-skelter, with pale faces, for the stable door had been left open, and the King's favourite brown horse had been stolen, as well as the Harper's old gray mare. For a long time no one dare tell the King, but at last the head stableman ventured upstairs and broke the news to the Master-of-the-Horse, and the Master-of-the-Horse told the Lord Chamberlain, and the Lord Chamberlain told the King. At first his Majesty was very angry, and threatened to dismiss all the grooms, but his attention was soon diverted by the cunning old Harper, who threw down his harp, and pretended to be in great distress. "I am ruined, I am ruined!" he exclaimed, "for I lost the gray mare's foal just before I left Scotland, and I looked to the price of it for the rent, and now the old gray mare herself is gone, and how am I to travel about and earn my daily bread without her?" Now the King was very kind-hearted, and he was sorry for the poor old man, for he believed every word of his story, so he clapped him on the back, and bade him play some more of his wonderful music, and promised to make up to him for his losses. Then the wicked old Harper rejoiced, for he knew that his trick had succeeded, and he picked up his harp again, and played so beautifully that the King forgot all about the loss of his favourite horse. All that day the Harper played to him, and on the morrow, when he would set out for home, in spite of all his entreaties that he would stay longer, he made his treasurer give him three times the value of his old gray mare, in solid gold, because he said that, if his servants had locked the stable door, the mare would not have been stolen, and, besides that, he gave him the price of the foal, which the wicked old man had said that he had lost. "For," said the King, "'tis a pity that such a marvellous harper should lack the money to pay his rent." Then the cunning old Harper went home in triumph to Lochmaben, and the good King never knew till the end of his life how terribly he had been cheated. THE LAIRD O' LOGIE "I will sing if ye will hearken, If ye will hearken unto me; The king has ta'en a poor prisoner, The wanton laird o' young Logie." It was Twelfth-night, and in the royal Palace of Holyrood a great masked ball was being held, for the King, James VI., and his young wife, Anne of Denmark, had been keeping Christmas there, and the old walls rang with gaiety such as had not been since the ill-fated days of Mary Stuart. It was a merry scene; everyone was in fancy dress, and wore a mask, so that even their dearest friends could not know them, and great was the merriment caused by the efforts which some of the dancers made to guess the names of their partners. One couple in the throng, however, appeared to know and recognise each other, for, as a tall slim maiden dressed as a nun, who had been dancing with a stout old monk, passed a young man in the splendid dress of a French noble, she dropped her handkerchief, and, as the young Frenchman picked it up and gave it to her, she managed to exchange a whisper with him, unnoticed by her elderly partner. Ten minutes later she might have been seen, stealing cautiously down a dark, narrow flight of stairs, that led to a little postern, which she opened with a key which she drew from her girdle, and, closing it behind her, stepped out on the stretch of short green turf, which ran along one side of the quaint chapel. It was bright moonlight, but she stole behind one of the buttresses that cast heavy shadows on the grass, and waited. Nearly a quarter of an hour passed before another figure issued from the same little postern and joined her. This time it was the young French noble, his finery hidden by a guard's long cloak. "Pardon me, sweetheart," he said, throwing aside his disguise and putting his hand caressingly on her shoulder, "but 'tis not my fault that thou art here before me. I had to dance a minuet with her Majesty the Queen; she was anxious to show the court dames how 'tis done in Denmark, and, as thou knowest, I have learned the Danish steps passably well dancing it so often with thee. So I was called on, and Arthur Seaton, and a mention was made of thee, but Gertrud Van Hollbell volunteered to fill thy place." "Gertrud is a good-natured wench, and I will tell her so; but did her Majesty not notice my absence?" "Nay, verily, she was so busy talking with me, and I gave her no time to miss thee," said the young man, laughing, but his companion's face was troubled. They had taken off their masks, and a stranger looking at them would have taken them for what they seemed to be, a dark-haired, black-eyed Frenchman, and a fair English nun. But Hugh Weymes of Logie was a simple Scottish gentleman, in spite of his dress, and looks; and the maiden, Mistress Margaret Twynlace, was a Dane, who had come over, along with one or two others, as maid-in-waiting to the young Queen, who had insisted on having some of her own countrywomen about her. Mistress Margaret's fair hair, and fairer skin, so different from that of the young Scotch ladies, had quite captivated young Weymes, and the two had been openly betrothed. They had plenty of chances of speaking to each other in the palace, where Weymes was stationed in his capacity of gentleman of the King's household, and the young man was somewhat at a loss to understand why Margaret should have arranged a secret meeting which might bring them both into trouble were it known, for Queen Anne was very strict, and would have no lightsome maids about her, and were it to reach her ears that Margaret had met a man in the dark, even although it was the man she intended to marry, she would think nothing of packing her off to Denmark at a day's notice. Now, as this was the very last thing that Hugh wanted to happen, his voice had a touch of reproach in it, as he began to point out the trouble that might ensue if any prying servant should chance to see them, or if Margaret's absence were noticed by the Queen. But the girl hardly listened to him. "What doth it matter whether I am sent home or not?" she said passionately. "Thou canst join me there and Denmark is as fair as Scotland; but it boots not to joke and laugh, for I have heavy news to tell thee. Thou must fly for thy life. 'Tis known that thou hast had dealings with my Lord of Bothwell, that traitor to the King, and thy life is in danger." The young man looked at her in surprise. "Nay, sweet Meg," he said, "but methinks the Christmas junketing hath turned thy brain, for no man can bring a word against me, and I stand high in his Majesty's favour. Someone hath been filling thy ears with old wives' tales." "But I know thou art in danger," she persisted, wringing her hands in despair when she saw how lightly he took the news. "I do not understand all the court quarrels, for this land is not my land, but I know that my Lord Bothwell hates the King, and that the King distrusts my Lord Bothwell, and, knowing this, can I not see that there is danger in thy having been seen talking to the Earl in a house in the Cowgate? and, moreover, it is said that he gave thee a packet which thou art supposed to have carried hither. Would that I could persuade thee to fly, to take ship at Leith, and cross over to Denmark; my parents would harbour thee till the storm blew past." Margaret was in deadly earnest, but her lover only laughed again, and assured her that she had been listening to idle tales. To him it seemed incredible that he could get into any trouble because he had lately held some intercourse with his father's old friend, the Earl of Bothwell, and had, at his request, carried back a sealed packet to give to one of the officials at the palace, on his return from a trip to France. It was true that Lord Bothwell was in disfavour with the King, who suspected him of plotting against his person, but Hugh believed that his royal master was mistaken, and, as he had only been about the court a couple of months or so, he had not yet learned how dangerous it was to hold intercourse with men who were counted the King's enemies. So he soothed Margaret's fears with playful words, promising to be more discreet in the future, and keep aloof from the Earl, and in a short time they were back in the ballroom, and he, at least, was dancing as merrily as if there was no such word as treason. For two or three weeks after the Twelfth-night ball, life at Holyrood went on so quietly that Margaret Twynlace was inclined to think that her lover had been right, and that she had put more meaning into the rumours which she had heard than they were intended to convey, and, as she saw him going quietly about his duties, apparently in as high favour as before with the King, she shook off her load of anxiety, and tried to forget that she had ever heard the Earl of Bothwell's name. But without warning the blow fell. One morning, as she was seated in the Queen's ante-chamber, busily engaged, along with the other maids, in sewing a piece of tapestry which was to be hung, when finished, in the Queen's bedroom, Lady Hamilton entered the room in haste, bearing dire tidings. It had become known at the palace the evening before, that a plot had been discovered, planned by the Earl of Bothwell, to seize the King and keep him a prisoner, while the Earl was declared regent. As it was known that young Hugh Weymes, one of the King's gentlemen, had been seen in conversation with him some weeks before, he had been seized and his boxes searched, and in them had been found a sealed packet, containing letters to one of the King's councillors, who was now in France, asking his assistance, and signed by Bothwell himself. The gentleman had not returned--probably word had been sent to him of his danger--but young Weymes had been promptly arrested, although he disclaimed all knowledge of the contents of the packet, and had been placed under the care of Sir John Carmichael, keeper of the King's guard, until he could be tried. "And there will only be one sentence for him," said the old lady grimly; "it's beheaded he will be. 'Tis a pity, for he was a well-favoured youth; but what else could he expect, meddling with such matters?" and then she left the room, eager to find some fresh listeners to whom she could tell her tale. As the door closed behind her a sudden stillness fell over the little room. No one spoke, although some of the girls glanced pityingly at Margaret, who sat, as if turned to stone, with a still, white face, and staring eyes. Gertrud Van Hollbell, her countrywoman and bosom friend, rose at last, and went and put her arms round her. "He is a favourite with the Queen, Margaret, and so art thou," she whispered, "and after all it was not he who wrote the letter. If I were in thy place, I would beg her Majesty, and she will beg the King, and he will be pardoned." But Margaret shook her head with a wan smile. She knew too well the terrible danger in which her lover stood, and she rightly guessed that the Queen would have no power to avert it. At that moment the door opened, and the Queen herself entered, and all the maidens stood up to receive her. She looked grave and sad, and her eyes filled with tears as they fell on Margaret, who had been her playmate when they were both children in far-away Denmark, and who was her favourite maid-of-honour. Seeing this, kind-hearted Gertrud gave her friend a little push. "See," she whispered, "she is sorry for thee; if thou go now and beg of her she will grant thy request." Slowly, as if in a dream, the girl stepped forward, and knelt at her royal Mistress's feet, but the Queen laid her hand gently on her shoulder. "'Tis useless asking me, Margaret," she said. "God knows I would have granted his pardon willingly. I do not believe that he meant treason to his Grace, only he should not have carried the packet; but I have besought the King already on his behalf and he will not hear me. Or his lords will not," she added in an undertone. Then the girl found her voice. "Oh Madam, I will go to the King myself," she cried, "if you think there is any chance. Perhaps if I found him alone he might hear me. I shall tell him what I know is true, that Hugh never dreamt that there was treason in the packet which he carried." "Thou canst try it, my child," said the Queen, "though I fear me 'twill be but little use. At the same time, the King is fond of thee, and thy betrothal to young Weymes pleased him well." So, with a faint hope rising in her heart, Margaret withdrew to her little turret chamber, and there, with the help of the kind-hearted Gertrud, she dressed herself as carefully as she could. She remembered how the King had praised a dull green dress which she had once worn, saying that in it she looked like a lily, so she put it on, and Gertrud curled her long yellow hair, and fastened it in two thick plaits behind, and sent her away on her errand with strong encouraging words; then she sat down and waited, wondering what the outcome of it all would be. Alas! in little more than a quarter of an hour she heard steps coming heavily up the stairs, and when Margaret entered, it needed no look at her quivering face to know that she had failed. "It is no use, Gertrud," she moaned, "no use, I tell thee. His Majesty might have let him off--I saw by his face that he was sorry--but who should come into the hall but my Lords Hamilton and Lennox, and then I knew all hope was gone. They are cruel, cruel men, and they would not hear of a pardon." Gertrud did not speak; she knew that words of comfort would fall on deaf ears, even if she could find any words of comfort to say, so she only held out her arms, and gathered the poor heart-broken maiden into them, and in silence they sat, until the light faded, and the stars came out over Arthur's Seat. At last came a sound which made them both start. It was the grating noise of a key being turned in a lock, and the clang of bolts and bars, and then came the sound of marching feet, which passed right under their little window. Gertrud rose and looked out, but Margaret only shuddered. "They are taking him before the King," she said. "They will question him, and he will speak the truth, and he will lose his head for it." She was right. The prisoner was being conducted to the presence of the King and the Lords of Council, to be questioned, and, as he openly acknowledged having spoken to the Earl of Bothwell, and did not deny having carried the packet, although he swore that he had no idea of its contents, his guilt was considered proved, and he was taken back to prison, there to await sentence, which everyone knew would be death. From the little window Gertrud watched the soldiers of the King's guard lock and bar the great door, and give the key to Sir John Carmichael, their captain, who crossed the square swinging it on his finger. "Would that I had that key for half an hour," she muttered to herself. "I would let the bird out of his cage, and old Karl Sevgen would do the rest." Margaret started up from the floor where she had been crouching in her misery. "Old Karl Sevgen," she cried; "is he here?" The old man was the captain of a little schooner which plied between Denmark and Leith, who often carried messages backwards and forwards between the Queen's maids and their friends. "Ay," said Gertrud, glad to have succeeded in rousing her friend, and feeling somehow that there was hope in the sound of the old man's familiar name. "He sent up a message this evening--'twas when thou wert with the King--and if we have anything to send with him it must be at Leith by the darkening to-morrow. I could get leave to go, if thou hadst any message," she added doubtfully, for she saw by Margaret's face that an idea had suddenly come to her, for she sat up and gazed into the twilight with bright eyes and flushed cheeks. "Gertrud," she said at last, "I see a way, a dangerous one, 'tis true, but still it is a way. I dare not tell it thee. If it fails, the blame must fall on me, and me alone; but if thou canst get leave to go down to Leith and speak with old Karl alone, couldst thou tell him to look out for two passengers in the small hours of Wednesday morning? And say that when they are aboard the sooner he sails the better; and, Gertrud, tell him from me, for the love of Heaven, to be silent on the matter." Gertrud nodded. "I'll do as thou sayest, dear heart," she said, "and pray God that whatever plan thou hast in thy wise little head may be successful; but now must thou go to the Queen. It is thy turn to-night to sleep in the ante-room." "I know it," answered the girl, with a strange smile, and without saying any more she kissed her friend, and, bidding her good-night, left the room. Outside the Queen's bed-chamber was a little ante-chamber, opening into a tiny passage, on the other side of which was a room occupied by the members of the King's bodyguard, who happened to be on duty for the week. It was the Queen's custom to have one of her maids sleeping in the ante-room in case she needed her attendance through the night, and this week the duty fell to Margaret. After her royal mistress had retired, the girl lay tossing on her narrow bed, thinking how best she could rescue the man she loved, and by the morning her plans were made. "Gertrud," she said next day, when the two were bending over their needlework, somewhat apart from the other maids, "dost think that Karl could get thee a length of rope? It must be strong, but not too thick, so that I could conceal it about my person when I go to the Queen's closet to-night. Thou couldst carry it home in a parcel, and the serving man who goes with thee will think that it is something from Denmark." "That can I," said Gertrud emphatically; "and if I have not a chance to see thee, I will leave it in the coffer in thy chamber." "Leave what?" asked the inquisitive old dowager who was supposed to superintend the maids and their embroidery, who at that moment crossed the room for another bundle of tapestry thread, and overheard the last remark. "A packet for Mistress Margaret, which she expects by the Danish boat," answered Gertrud promptly. "I have permission from her Majesty to go this evening on my palfrey to Leith, to deliver some mails to Captain Karl Sevgen, and to receive our packets in return." "Ah," said the old dame kindly, "'tis a treat for thee doubtless to see one of thine own countrymen, even although he is but a common sailor," and she shuffled back placidly to her seat. Margaret went on with her work in silence, blessing her friend in her heart for her ready wit, but she dare not look her thanks, in case some curious eye might note it. Gertrud was as good as her word. When Margaret went up to her little room late in the evening, to get one or two things which she wanted before repairing to the Queen's private apartments, she found a packet, which would have disarmed all suspicions, lying on her coffer. For it looked exactly like the bundles which found their way every month or two to the Danish maids at Holyrood. It was sewn up in sailcloth, and was addressed to herself in rude Danish characters; but she knew what was in it, and in case the Queen might ask questions and laughingly desire to see her latest present from home, she slit off the sailcloth, which she hid in the coffer, and, unfolding the coil of rope, she wound it round and round her body, under her satin petticoat. Luckily she was tall, and very slender, and no one, unless they examined her very closely, would notice the difference in her figure. Then, taking up a great duffle cloak which she used when riding out in dirty weather, she made her way to her post. It seemed long that night before Queen Anne dismissed her. The King lingered in the supper chamber, and the gentle Queen, full of sympathy for her favourite, sat in the little ante-room and talked to her of Denmark, and the happy days they had spent there. At last she departed, just as the clock on the tower of St Giles struck twelve, and Margaret was at liberty to unwind the coil of rope, and hide it among the bedclothes, and then, wrapping the warm cloak round her, she lay down and tried to wait quietly until it was safe to do what she intended to do. There were voices for awhile in the next room--the King and Queen were talking--then they ceased entirely; but still she waited, until one o'clock rang out, and she heard the guards pass on their rounds. Then she rose, and, taking off her shoes, crept gently across the tiny room and stealthily opened the door of the Queen's bedroom, and listened. All was quiet except for the regular breathing of the sleepers. A little coloured lamp which hung from the ceiling was burning softly, and by its light she could see the different objects in the room. Stealing to the dressing-table, she looked about for any trinkets that would answer her purpose. The King's comb lay there, carefully cut from black ivory, with gold stars let in along the rim; and there, among other dainty trifles, was the mother-of-pearl and silver knife, set with emeralds, which his Majesty had given the Queen as a keepsake, about the time of their marriage. Margaret picked up both of these, and then, retracing her steps, she closed the door behind her, and flung herself on her bed to listen in breathless silence in case anyone had heard her movements, and should come to ask what was wrong. But all was quiet; not a soul had heard. * * * * * "The prisoner to be taken to the King now! Surely, fellow, thou art dreaming." Sir John Carmichael, captain of the King's guard, sat up in bed, and stared in astonishment at the soldier who had brought the order. "Nay," said the man stolidly. "But 'twas one of the Queen's wenches who came to the guard-room, and told us, and as a token that it is true, and no joke, she brought these from his Majesty," and he held out the gilded comb and the little jewelled knife. Sir John took them and turned them over in silence. He knew them well enough, and, moreover, it was no uncommon thing for the King, when he sent a messenger, as he often did, at an unaccustomed hour, to send also some trinket which lay beside him at the moment, as a token; therefore the honest gentleman suspected nothing, although he was loth to get out of bed. There was no help for it, however; the message had come from the King, and King's messages must be obeyed, even though they seemed ill-timed and ridiculous. "What in the world has ta'en his Majesty now?" he grumbled, as he got up reluctantly and began to hustle on his clothes. "Even though he wants to question the lad alone, could he not have waited till the morning? 'Tis the Queen's work, I warrant; she has a soft heart, and she will want his Majesty to hear the young man's defence when none of the Lords of the Council are by." So saying, he took down the great key which hung on a nail at the head of his bed, and went off with the soldiers to arouse young Weymes, who seemed quite as surprised as Sir John at the sudden summons. At the door of the Queen's ante-chamber they were met by the same maid-of-honour who had taken the tokens to the guard, and she, modestly shielding her face with a fold of her cloak, asked Sir John if he would remain in the guard-room with the soldiers until she called for him again, as the King wanted to question the prisoner alone in his chamber. At the sound of her voice Hugh Logie started, although Sir John did not seem to recognise it, else his suspicions might have been aroused. He only waited until his prisoner followed the girl into the little room, then he locked the door behind them as a precaution, and withdrew with the soldiers into the guard-room, where he knew a bright fire and a tankard of ale were always to be found. Once in the ante-room, the young man spoke. "What means this, Sweetheart?" he said. "What can the King want with me at this hour of night?" "Hush!" answered the girl, laying a trembling finger on her lips, while her eyes danced in spite of the danger. "'Tis I who would speak with thee, but on board Karl Sevgen's boat at Leith, and not here. See," and she drew the rope from its hiding-place, "tie this round thy waist, and I will let thee down from the window; by God's mercy it looks out on a deserted part of the garden, where the guards but rarely come, and thou canst steal over the ditch, and down the garden, and round the Calton Hill, and so down to the sea at Leith. Karl's boat is there; he will be watching for thee. Thou wilt know her by her long black hull, and by a red light he will burn in the stern. Nay, Hugh," for he would have taken her in his arms. "The danger is not over yet, and we will have time to talk when we are at sea, for I am coming too; I dare not stay here to face the King alone. Only I can steal out by that little door in the tapestry"--luckily Sir John did not know that there was another way out--"and meet thee in the garden." The window was not very high, and the night was dark, and no one chanced to pass that way as a figure slung itself down, and dropped lightly into the ditch; and, when a guard did come round, Hugh lay flat among the mud and nettles until he had passed, and by that time Margaret had stolen out by the little postern, and was waiting for him at the foot of the garden, and hand in hand they made their way over the rough uneven fields which lay between them and Leith. Meanwhile, Sir John Carmichael drank ale, and talked with the guards, and waited;--and waited, and talked with the guards, and drank ale, until his patience was well-nigh gone. At last, just when the day was breaking, he went to the door of the ante-room to listen, and hearing nothing, he knocked, and receiving no answer, he unlocked the door and peeped in, not wishing to disturb the maid-of-honour, but merely to satisfy himself that all was right. The moment he saw the open window and the rope, he shouted to the guards, and rushed across the floor, and thundered at the door of the King's apartment, hoping against hope that the prisoner was still there. But the King had been sleeping peacefully, and when he heard the story, he was very angry at first, and talked of arresting Sir John, and sent off horsemen, who rode furiously to Leith, in the hope of catching the Danish boat. But they came back with the news that she had sailed with the tide at three o'clock in the morning, after having taken two passengers on board; and, after all, he could say little to Carmichael, for had he not received the comb and the knife as tokens? "Thou shouldst not have lingered so long at supper," said the Queen slyly, only too pleased at the turn events had taken. "Then hadst thou slept lighter, and would have awaked when the wench stole in to take the things." King James burst into a great laugh. "By my troth, thou art right," he said, slapping his thigh. "The wench has been too clever for all of us, for the Lords of the Council, and Carmichael, and me, and she deserves her success. They must stay where they are for a time, for appearances' sake, but, heark 'ee, Anne, when thou art writing to Denmark, thou canst say that thou thinkest that my wrath will not last for ever." Nor did it, and before many months had passed Hugh Weymes of Logie came home in triumph, bringing with him his young wife, who had dared so much and acted so boldly for his sake. KINMONT WILLIE "Oh, have ye na heard of the fause Sakelde? Oh, have ye na heard of the keen Lord Scroope? How they ha'e ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie, On Haribee to hang him up?" I well remember the dull April morning, in the year 1596, when my father, William Armstrong of Kinmont, "Kinmont Willie," as he was called by all the countryside, set out with me for a ride into Cumberland. As a rule, when he set his face that way, he rode armed, and with all his men behind him, for these were the old reiving days, when we folk who dwelt on the Scottish side of the Border thought we had a right to go and steal what we could, sheep, or oxen, or even hay, from the English loons, who, in their turn, would come slipping over from their side to take like liberties with us, and mayhap burn down a house or two in the by-going. My father was aye in the thick and throng of these raids, for he was such a big powerful man that he was more than a match for three Englishmen, did he chance to meet them. Men called him an outlaw, but we thought little of that; most of the brave men on our side had been outlawed at one time or another, and it did them little ill: indeed, it was aye thought to be rather a feather in their cap. Well, as I say, my father was not riding on business, as it were, this morning, for just then there was a truce for a day or two between the countries, the two Wardens of the Marches, Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch, and My Lord Scroope, having sent their deputies to meet and settle some affairs at the Dayholme of Kershope, where a burn divides England from Scotland. My father and I had attended the Truce Muster, and were riding homeward with but a handful of men, when I took a sudden notion into my head, that I would like to cross the Border, and ride a few miles on English ground. My birthday had fallen the week before (I was just eleven years old), and my father, aye kind to his motherless bairns, had given me a new pony, a little shaggy beast from Galloway, and, as I was keen to see how it would run beside a big man's horse, I had pled hard for permission to accompany him on it to the Muster. As a rule I never rode with him. "I was too young for the work," he would say; but that day he gave his consent, only making the bargain that there should be no crying out or grumbling if I were tired or hungry long ere we got home again. I had laughed at the idea as I saddled my shaggy little nag, and, to make matters sure, I had gone to Janet, the kitchen wench, and begged her for a satchel of oatcakes and cheese, which I fastened to my saddle strap, little dreaming what need I would have of them before the day was out. The Truce Muster had broken up sooner than he expected, so my father saw no reason why he should not grant my request, and let me have a canter on English soil, for on a day of truce we could cross the Border if we chose without the risk of being taken prisoners by Lord Scroope's men, and marched off to Carlisle Castle, while the English had a like privilege, and could ride down Liddesdale in open daylight, if they were so minded. Scarce had we crossed the little burn, however, which runs between low-growing hazel bushes, and separates us from England, when two of the men rode right into a bog, and when, after some half-hour's work, we got the horses out again, we found that both of them wanted a shoe, and my father said at once that we must go straight home, in case they went lame. At this I drew a long face. I had never been into England, and it was a sore disappointment to be turned back just when we had reached it. "Well, well," said my father, laughing, ever soft-hearted where I was concerned, "I suppose I must e'en take thee a ride into Bewcastle, lad, since we have got this length. The men can go back with the horses; 'tis safe enough to go alone to-day." So the men turned back, nothing loth, for Bewcastle Waste was no unknown land to them, and my father and I rode on for eight miles or so, over that most desolate country. Its bareness and loneliness disappointed me. Somehow I had expected that England would be quite different from Scotland, even although they were all one piece of land, with only a burn running between. "Hast had enough?" said my father at last, noticing my downcast face, and drawing rein. "Didst expect all the trees to be made of silver, and all the houses to be built of gold? Never mind, lad, every place looks much the same in the month of April, I trow, especially when it has been a backward season; but if summer were once and here, I'll let thee ride with the troop, and mayhap thou wilt get a glimpse of 'Merrie Carlisle,' as they call it. It lies over there, twelve miles or more from where we stand." As he pointed out the direction with his whip, we both became aware of a large body of men, riding rapidly over the moor as if to meet us. My father eyed them keenly, his face growing grave as he did so. "Who are they, father?" I asked with a sinking heart. I had lived long enough at Kinmont to know that men did not generally ride together in such numbers unless they were bent on mischief. "It's Sakelde, the English Warden's deputy, and no friend o' mine," he answered with a frown, "and on any other day I would not have met him alone like this for a hundred merks; but the truce holds for three days yet, so we are quite safe; all the same, lad, we had better turn our horses round, and slip in behind that little hill; they may not have noticed us, and in that case 'tis no use rousing their curiosity." Alas! we had no sooner set our horses to the trot, than it became apparent that not only were we observed, but that for some reason or other the leader of the band of horsemen was desirous of barring our way. He gave an order,--we could see him pointing with his hand,--and at once his men spurred on their horses and began to spread out so as to surround us. Then my father swore a big oath, and plunged his spurs into his horse's sides. "Come on, Jock," he shouted, "sit tight and be a man; if we can only get over the hill edge at Kershope, they'll pay for this yet." [Illustration: "MY FATHER EYED THEM KEENLY, HIS FACE GROWING GRAVE AS HE DID SO."] I will remember that race to my dying day. It appeared to last for hours, but it could not have lasted many minutes, ten at the most, during which time all the blood in my body seemed to be pounding and surging in my head, and the green grass and the sky to be flying past me, all mixed up together, and behind, and on all sides, came the pit-pat of horses' feet, and then someone seized my pony's rein, and brought him up with a jerk, and my father and I were sitting in the midst of two hundred armed riders, whose leader, a tall man, with a thin cunning face, regarded us with a triumphant smile. "Neatly caught, thou thieving rogue," he said; "by my troth, neatly caught. Who would have thought that Kinmont Willie would have been such a fool as to venture so far from home without an escort? But I can supply the want, and thou shalt ride to Carlisle right well attended, and shall never now lack a guard till thou partest with thy life at Haribee." As the last word fell on my ear, I had much ado to keep my seat, for I turned sick and faint, and all the crowd of men and horses seemed to whirl round and round. Haribee! Right well I knew that fateful name, for it was the place at Carlisle where they hanged prisoners. They could not hang my father--they dare not--for although he had been declared an outlaw, and might perhaps merit little love from the English, was not this a day of truce, when all men could ride where they would in safety? "'Tis a day of truce," I gasped with dry lips; but the men around me only laughed, and I could hear that my father's fierce remonstrance met with no better answer. "Thou art well named, thou false Sakelde," I heard him say, and his voice shook with fury, "for no man of honour would break the King's truce in this way." But Sakelde only gave orders to his men to bind their prisoner, saying, as he did so, "I warrant Lord Scroope will be too glad to see thee to think much about the truce, and if thou art so scrupulous, thou needest not be hanged for a couple of days; the walls of Carlisle Castle are thick enough to guard thee till then. Be quick, my lads," he went on, turning to his men; "we have a good fourteen miles to ride yet, and I have no mind to be benighted ere we reach firmer ground." So they tied my father's feet together under his horse, and his hands behind his back, and fastened his bridle rein to that of a trooper, and the word was given for the men to form up, and they began to move forward as sharply as the boggy nature of the ground would allow. I followed in the rear with a heavy heart. I could easily have escaped had I wanted to do so, for no one paid any attention to me; but I felt that, as long as I could, I must stay near my father, whose massive head and proud set face I could see towering above the surrounding soldiers, for he was many inches taller than any of them. The spring evening was fast drawing to a close as we came to the banks of the Liddle, and splashed down a stony track to a place where there was a ford. As we paused for a moment or two to give the horses a drink, my father's voice rang out above the careless jesting of the troopers. "Let me say good-bye to my eldest son, Sakelde, and send him home; or do the English war with bairns?" I saw the blood rise to the English leader's thin sallow face at the taunt, but he answered quietly enough, "Let the boy speak to him and then go back," and a way was opened up for me to where my father sat, a bound and helpless prisoner, on his huge white horse. One trooper, kinder than the rest, took my pony's rein as I slid off its back and ran to him. Many a time when I was little, had I had a ride on White Charlie, and I needed no help to scramble up to my old place on the big horse's neck. My father could not move, but he looked down at me with all the anger and defiance gone out of his face, and a look on it which I had only seen there once before, and that was when he lifted me up on his knee after my mother died and told me that I must do my best to help him, and try to look after the little ones. That look upset me altogether, and, forgetting the many eyes that watched us, and the fact that I was eleven years old, and almost a man, I threw my arms round his neck and kissed him again and again, sobbing and greeting as any bairn might have done, all the time. "Ride home, laddie, and God be with ye. Remember if I fall that thou art the head of the house, and see that thou do honour to the name," he said aloud. Then he signed to me to go, and, just as I was clambering down, resting a toe in his stirrup, he made a tremendous effort and bent down over me. "If thou could'st but get word to the Lord of Buccleuch, laddie, 'tis my only chance. They dare not touch me for two days yet. Tell him I was ta'en by treachery at the time o' truce." The whisper was so low I could hardly hear it, and yet in a moment I understood all it was meant to convey, and my heart beat until I thought that the whole of Sakelde's troopers must read my secret in my face as I passed through them to where my pony stood. With a word of thanks I took the rein from the kindly man who had held it, and then stood watching the body of riders as they splashed through the ford, and disappeared in the twilight, leaving me alone. But I felt there was work for me to do, and a ray of hope stole into my heart. True, it was more than twenty miles, as the crow flies, to Branksome Tower in Teviotdale, where my Lord of Buccleuch lived, and I did not know the road, which lay over some of the wildest hills of the Border country, but I knew that he was a great man, holding King James' commission as Warden of the Scottish Marches, and at his bidding the whole countryside would rise to a man. 'Twas well known that he bore no love to the English, and when he knew that my father had been taken in time of truce...! The fierce anger rose in my heart at the thought, and, burying my face in my pony's rough coat, I vowed a vow, boy as I was, to be at Branksome by the morning, or die in the attempt. I knew that it was no use going home to Kinmont for a man to ride with me, for it was out of my way, and would only be a waste of time. It was almost dark now, but I knew that the moon would rise in three or four hours, and then there would be light enough for me to try to thread my way over the hills that lay between the valleys of the Teviot and Liddle. In the meantime, there was no special need to hurry, so I loosened my pony's rein, and let him nibble away at the short sweet grass which was just beginning to spring, while I unbuckled the bag of cakes which I had put up so gaily in the morning, and, taking one out, along with a bit of cheese, did my best to make a hearty meal. But I was not very successful, for when the heart is heavy, food goes down but slowly, and Janet's oatcake and the good ewe cheese, which at other times I found so toothsome, seemed fairly to stick in my throat, so at last I gave it up, and, taking the pony by the head, I began to lead him up the valley. Although I had been down the Liddle as far as the ford once or twice before, it had always been in daylight, and my father had been with me; but I knew that as long as I kept close to the river I was all right for the first few miles, until the valley narrowed in, and then I must strike off among the high hills on my left. It was slow work, for it was too dark to ride, and I dare not leave the water in case I lost my way, and by the time we had gone mayhap four or five miles, I had almost lost heart, for I was both tired and cold, and it seemed to me that half the night at least must be gone, and at this rate we would never reach Branksome at all. At last, just when the tears were getting very near my eyes--for I was but a little chap to be set on such a desperate errand--I struck on a narrow road which led up a brae to my left, and going along it for a hundred yards or so, I saw a light which seemed to come from a cottage window. I stopped and looked at it, wondering if I dare go boldly up and knock. In those lawless days one had to be cautious about going up to strange houses, for one never knew whether one would find a friend or an enemy within, so I determined to tie my pony to a tree, and steal noiselessly up to the building, and see what sort of place it was. I did so, and found that the light came from a tiny thatched cottage standing by itself, sheltered by some fir trees. There appeared to be no dogs about, so I crept quite close to the little window, and peered in through a hole in the shutter. I could see the inside of the room quite plainly; it was poorly furnished, but beautifully clean. In a corner opposite the window stood a rough settle, while on a three-legged stool by the peat fire sat an old woman knitting busily, a collie dog at her feet. There could be nothing to fear from her, so I knocked boldly at the door. The collie flew to the back of it barking furiously, but I heard the old woman calling him back, and presently she peeped out, asking who was there. "'Tis I, Jock Armstrong of Kinmont," I said, "and I fain would be guided as to the quickest road to Branksome Tower." The old woman peered over my head into the darkness, evidently expecting to see someone standing behind me. "I ken Willie o' Kinmont; but he's a grown man," she said suspiciously, making as though she would shut the door. "He's my father," I cried, vainly endeavouring to keep my voice steady, "and--and--I have a message to carry from him to the Lord of Buccleuch at Branksome." I would fain have told the whole story, but I knew it was better to be cautious. I was still no distance from the English Border, and it would take away the last chance of saving my father's life, were Sakelde to get to know that word of his doings were like to reach the Scottish Warden's ears. "Loshsake, laddie!" exclaimed the old dame in astonishment, setting the door wide open so that the light might fall full on me, "'tis full twenty miles tae Branksome, an' it's a bad road ower the hills." "But I have a pony," I said. "'Tis tied up down the roadway there, and the moon will rise." "That it will in an hour or two, but all the same I misdoubt me that you'll lose your road. What's the matter wi' Kinmont Willie, that he has tae send a bairn like you his messages? Ye needna' be feared to speak out," she added as I hesitated; "Kinmont Willie is a friend of mine--at least, he did my goodman and me a good turn once--and I would like to pay it back again if I could." I needed no second bidding; it was such a relief to have someone to share the burden, and I felt better as soon as I had told her, even although the telling brought the tears to my eyes. The old woman listened attentively, and then shook her fist in the direction which the English had taken. "He's a fause loon that Sakelde," she said, "and I'd walk to Carlisle any day to see him hanged. 'Twas he who stole our sheep, two years past at Martinmas, and 'twas your father brought them back again. But keep up your heart, my man; if you can get to the Bold Buccleuch he'll put things right, I'll warrant, and I'll do all I can for you. Go inbye, and sit down by the fire, and I'll go down the road and fetch the nag. You'll both be the better for a rest, and a bite o' something to eat, and when the moon is risen I'll take you up the hill, and show you the track. My goodman is away at Hawick market, or he would ha'e ridden a bit of the road wi' ye." When I was a little fellow, before my mother died, she used to read me lessons out of her great Bible with the silver clasps, and of all the stories she read to me, I liked the lesson of the Good Samaritan best, and, looking back, now that I am a grown man, it seems to me that I met the Good Samaritan that night, only he was a woman. After Allison Elliot, for that was her name, had brought my pony into her cow-house, and seen that he was supplied with both hay and water, she returned to the cottage, and with her own hands took off my coarse woollen hose and heavy shoon, and spread them on the hearth to dry, then she made me lie down on the settle, and, covering me up with a plaid, she bade me go to sleep, promising to wake me the moment the moon rose. It was nearly eleven o'clock when she shook me gently, bidding me get up and put on my shoon, as it was time to be going, and, sitting up, I found a supper of wheaten bread and hot milk on the table, which she told me to eat, while she wrapped herself in a plaid and went out for the nag. What with the sleep, and the dry clothes, and the warm food, I promise you I felt twice the man I had done a few hours earlier, and I chattered quite gaily to her as she led my pony up a steep hillside behind the cottage, for the moon was only beginning to rise, and there was still but little light. After we had gone some two miles, we struck a bridle track, well trodden by horses' hoofs, which wound upwards between two high hills. Here Allison paused and looked keenly at the ground. "This is the path," she said; "you can hardly lose it, for there have been riders over it yesterday or the day before. Scott o' Haining and his men, most likely, going home from their meeting at the Kershope Burn. This will lead you over by Priesthaugh Swire, and down the Allan into Teviotdale. Beware of a bog which you will pass some two miles on this side of Priesthaugh. 'Tis the mire Queen Mary stuck in when she rode to visit her lover when he lay sick at Hermitage. May the Lord be good to you, laddie, and grant you a safe convoy, for ye carry a brave heart in that little body o' yours!" I thanked her with all my might, promising to go back and see her if my errand were successful; then I turned my pony's head to the hills, and spurred him into a brisk canter. He was a willing little beast, and mightily refreshed by Allison Elliot's hay, and, as the moon was now shining clearly, we made steady progress; but it was a long lonely ride for a boy of my age, and once or twice my courage nearly failed me: once when my pony put his foot into a sheep drain, and stumbled, throwing me clean over his head, and again when I missed the track, and rode straight into the bog Allison had warned me about, and in which the little beast was near sticking altogether, and I lost a good hour getting him to firm land and finding the track again. The bright morning sun was showing above the Eastern horizon before I left the weary hills behind me, but it was easy work to ride down the sloping banks of the Allan, and soon I came to the wooded valley of the Teviot. Urging on my tired pony, I cantered down the level haughs which lay by the river side, and it was not long before Branksome came in sight, a high square house, with many rows of windows, flanked by a massive square tower at each corner. I rode up to the great doorway through an avenue of beeches and knocked timidly on the wrought-iron knocker, for I had never been to such a big house in my life before, and I felt that I made but a sorry figure, splashed as I was with mud from head to foot. The old seneschal who came to the door seemed to think so too, for he looked me up and down with a broad grin on his face before he asked who I was, and on what business I had come. "To see my Lord of Buccleuch, and carry a message to him from William Armstrong of Kinmont," I replied, with as much dignity as I could muster, for the fellow's smile angered me, and I feared that he might not think it worth his while to tell the Warden of my arrival. "Then thou shalt see Sir Walter at once, young sir, if thou wilt walk this way," said the man, mimicking my voice good-naturedly, and, hitching my pony's bridle to an iron ring in the door-post, he led me along a stone passage, straight into a great vaulted hall, in the centre of which stood a long wooden table, with a smaller one standing crossways on a dais at its head. A crowd of squires and men-at-arms stood round the lower table, laughing and jesting as they helped themselves with their hunting knives to slices from the huge joints, or quaffed great tankards of ale, while up at the top sat my Lord of Buccleuch himself, surrounded by his knights, and waited on by smart pages in livery, boys about my own age. As the old seneschal appeared in the doorway there was a sudden silence, while he announced in a loud voice that a messenger had arrived from William Armstrong of Kinmont; but when he stepped aside, and everyone saw that the messenger was only a little eleven-years-old lad, a loud laugh went round the hall, and the smart pages whispered together and pointed to my muddy clothes. When the old seneschal saw this, he gave me a kindly nudge. "Yonder is my Lord of Buccleuch at the top of the table," he whispered; "go right up to him, and speak out thy message boldly." I did as I was bid, though I felt my cheeks burn as I walked up the great hall, among staring men and whispering pages, and when I reached the dais where the Warden sat, I knelt at his feet, cap in hand, as my father had taught me to do before my betters. Sir Walter Scott, Lord of Buccleuch, of whom I had heard so much, was a young, stern-looking man, with curly brown hair and keen blue eyes. His word was law on the Borders, and people said that even the King, in far-off Edinburgh, stood in awe of him; but he leant forward and spoke kindly enough to me. "So thou comest from Armstrong of Kinmont, boy; and had Kinmont Willie no better messenger at hand, that he had to fall back on a smatchet like thee?" "There were plenty of men at Kinmont, an' it please your lordship," I answered, "had I had time to seek them; but a man called Sakelde hath ta'en my father prisoner, and carried him to Carlisle, and I have ridden all night to tell thee of it, for he is like to be hanged the day after to-morrow, if thou canst not save him." Here my voice gave way, and I could only cling to the great man's knee, for my quivering lips refused to say any more. Buccleuch put his arm round me, and spoke slowly, as one would speak to a bairn. "And who is thy father, little man?" "Kinmont Willie," I gasped, "and he was ta'en last night, in truce time." I felt the arm that was round me stiffen, and there was silence for a moment, then my lord swore a great oath, and let his clenched fist fall so heavily on the table, that the red French wine which stood before him splashed right out of the beaker, a foot or two in the air. "My Lord of Scroope shall answer for this," he cried. "Hath he forgotten that men name me the Bold Buccleuch, and that I am Keeper o' the Scottish Marches, to see that justice is done to high and low, gentle and simple?" Then he gave some quick, sharp orders, and ten or twelve men left the room, and a minute later I saw them, through a casement, throw themselves astride their horses, and gallop out of the courtyard. At the sight my heart lightened, for I knew that whatever could be done for my father would be done, for these men had gone to "warn the waters," or, in other words, to carry the tidings far and wide, and bid all the men of the Western Border be ready to meet their chief at some given trysting-place, and ride with him to the rescue. Meanwhile the Warden lifted me on his knee, and began asking me questions, while the pages gathered round, no longer jeering, but with wide-open eyes. "Thou art a brave lad," he said at last, after I had told him the whole story, "and, with thy father's permission, I would fain have thee for one of my pages. We must tell him how well thou hast carried the message, and ask him if he can spare thee for a year or two." At any other time my heart would have leapt at this unheard-of good fortune, for to be a page in the Warden's household was the ambition of every well-born lad on the Border; but at that moment I felt as if Buccleuch hardly realised my father's danger. "But he is lodged in Carlisle Castle, and men say the walls are thick," I said anxiously, "and it is garrisoned by my Lord Scroope's soldiers." The Warden laughed. "We will teach my Lord Scroope that there is no bird's nest that the Bold Buccleuch dare not harry," he said, and, seeing the look on his face, I was content. Then, noticing how weary I was, he called one of the older pages, and bade him see that I had food and rest, and the boy, who had been one of the first to laugh before, but who now treated me with great respect, took me away to a little turret room which he shared with some of his fellows, and brought me a piece of venison pie, and then left me to go to sleep on his low pallet, promising to wake me when there were signs of the Warden and his men setting out. I must have slept the whole day, for the little room was almost dark again, and the rain was beating wildly on the casement, when the boy came back. "My lord hath given orders for the horses to be saddled," he said, "and the trysting-place is Woodhouselee. I heard one squire tell another in the hall, for as a rule we pages know nothing, and are only expected to do as we are bid. I know not if my lord means thee to ride with him, but I was sent up to fetch thee." It did not take me long to spring up and fasten my doublet, and follow my guide down to the great hall. Here all was bustle and confusion; men were standing about ready armed, making a hasty meal at the long table, which never seemed to be empty of its load of food, while outside in the courtyard some fifty or sixty horses were standing, ready saddled, with bags of fodder thrown over their necks. Every few minutes a handful of men would ride up in the dusk, and, leaving their rough mountain ponies outside, would stride into the hall, and begin to eat as hard as they could, exchanging greetings between the mouthfuls. These were men from the neighbourhood, my friend informed me, mostly kinsmen of Buccleuch, and lairds in their own right, who had ridden to Branksome with their men to start with their chief. There was Scott of Harden, and Scott of Goldilands, Scott of Commonside, and Scott of Allanhaugh, and many more whom I do not now remember, and they drank their ale, and laughed and joked, as if they were riding to a wedding, instead of on an errand which might cost them their lives. Buccleuch himself was in the midst of them, booted and spurred, and presently his eye fell on me. "Ha! my young cocksparrow," he cried. "Wilt ride with us to greet thy father, or are thy bones too weary? Small shame 'twould be to thee if they were." "Oh, if it please thee, sire, let me ride," I said; "I am not too weary, if my pony is not," at which reply everyone laughed. "I hear thy pony can scarce hirple on three legs," answered my lord, clapping me on my shoulder, "but I like a lad of spirit, and go thou shalt. Here, Red Rowan, take him up in front of thee, and see that a horse be led for Kinmont to ride home on." I was about to protest that I was not a bairn to ride in front of any man, but Buccleuch turned away as if the matter were settled, and the big trooper who came up and took me in charge persuaded me to do as I was bid. "'Tis a dark night, laddie, and we ride fast," he said, "and my lord would be angered didst thou lose thy way, or fall behind," and although my pride was nettled at first, I was soon fain to confess that he was right, for the horses swung out into the wind and rain, and took to the hills at a steady trot, keeping together in the darkness in a way that astonished me. Red Rowan had a plaid on his shoulders which he twisted round me, and which sheltered me a little from the driving rain, and I think I must have dozed at intervals, for it seemed no time until we were over the hills, and down at Woodhouselee in Canonbie, where a great band of men were waiting for us, who had gathered from Liddesdale and Hermitage Water. With scarcely a word they joined our ranks, and we rode silently and swiftly on, across the Esk, and the Graeme's country, until we reached the banks of the Eden. Here we came to a standstill, for the river was so swollen with the recent rains that it seemed madness for any man to venture into the rushing torrent; but men who had ridden so far, and on such an errand, were not to be easily daunted. "This way, lads, and keep your horses' heads to the stream," shouted a voice, and with a scramble we were down the bank, and the nags were swimming for dear life. I confess now, that at that moment I thought my last hour had come, for the swirling water was within an inch of my toes, and I clung to Red Rowan's coat with all the strength I had, and shut my eyes, and tried to think of my prayers. But it was soon over, and on the other side we waited a minute to see if any man were missing. Everyone was safe, however, and on we went till we were close on Carlisle, and could see the lights of the Castle rising up above the city wall. Then Buccleuch called a halt, and everyone dismounted, and some forty men, throwing their bridle reins to their comrades, stepped to the front. Red Rowan was one of them, and I kept close to his side. Everything must have been arranged beforehand, for not a word was spoken, but by the light of a single torch the little band arranged themselves in order, while I watched with wide-open eyes. They were not all armed, but they all had their hands full. In the very front were ten men carrying hunting-horns and bugles; then came ten carrying three or four long ladders, which must have been brought with us on ponies' backs. Then came other ten, armed with great iron bars and forehammers; and only the last ten, among whom was the Warden himself and Red Rowan, were prepared as if for fighting. At the word of command they set out, with long steady strides, and as no one noticed me, I went too, running all the time in order to keep up with them. The Castle stood to the north side of the little city, close to the city wall, and the courtyard lay just below it. We stole up like cats in the darkness, fearful lest someone might hear us and give the alarm. Everyone seemed to be asleep, however, or else the roaring of the wind deadened the noise of our footsteps. In any case we reached the wall in safety, and as we stood at the bottom of it waiting till the men tied the ladders together, we could hear the sentries in the courtyard challenge as they went their rounds. At last the ladders were ready, and Buccleuch gave his whispered orders before they were raised. No man was to be killed, he said, if it could possibly be helped, as the two countries were at peace with each other, and he had no mind to stir up strife. All he wanted was the rescue of my father. Then the ladders were raised, and bitter was the disappointment when it was found that they were too short. For a moment it seemed as if we had come all the weary way for nothing. "It matters not, lads," said the Warden cheerily; "there be more ways of robbing a corbie's nest than one. Bide you here by the little postern, and Wat Scott and Red Rowan and I will prowl round, and see what we can see." Along with these two stalwart men he vanished, while we crouched at the foot of the wall and waited; nor had we long to wait. In ten minutes we could hear the bolts and bars being withdrawn, and the little door was opened by Buccleuch himself, who wore a triumphant smile. He had found a loophole at the back of the Castle left entirely unguarded, and without much difficulty he and his two companions had forced out a stone or two, until the hole was large enough for them to squeeze through, and had caught and bound the unsuspecting sentries as they came round, stuffing their mouths full of old clouts to hinder them from crying out and giving the alarm. Once we were inside the courtyard he ordered the men with the iron bars and forehammers to be ready to beat open the doors, and then he gave the word to the men with the bugles and hunting horns. Then began such a din as I had never heard before, and have never heard since. The bugles screeched, and the iron bars rang, and above all sounded the wild Border slogan, "Wha dare meddle wi' me?" which the men shouted with all their might. One would have thought that the whole men in Scotland were about the walls, instead of but forty. And in good faith the people of the Castle, cowards that they were, and even my Lord Scroope himself, thought that they were beset by a whole army, and after one or two frightened peeps from out of windows, and behind doors, they shut themselves up as best they might in their own quarters, and left us to work our will, and beat down door after door until we came to the very innermost prison itself, where my father was chained hand and foot to the wall like any dog. Just as the door was being burst open, my lord caught sight of me as I squeezed along the passage, anxious to see all that could be seen. He laid his hand on the men's shoulders and held them back. "Let the bairn go first," he said; "it is his right, for he has saved him." Then I darted across the cell, and stood at my father's side. What he said to me I never knew, only I saw that strange look once more on his face, and his eyes were very bright. Had he been a bairn or a woman I should have said he was like to weep. It was past in a moment, for there was little time to lose. At any instant the garrison might find out how few in numbers we were, and sally out to cut us off, so no time was wasted in trying to strike his chains off him. With an iron bar Red Rowan wrenched the ring to which he was fastened, out of the wall, and, raising him on his back, carried him bodily down the narrow staircase, and out through the courtyard. As we passed under my Lord Scroope's casement, my father, putting all his strength into his voice, called out a lusty "good night" to his lordship, which was echoed by the men with peals of laughter. Then we hurried on to where the main body of troopers were waiting with the horses, and I warrant the shout that they raised when they saw us coming with my father in the midst of us, riding on Red Rowan's shoulder, might almost have been heard at Branksome itself. When it died away we heard another sound which warned us that the laggards at the Castle had gathered their feeble courage, and were calling on the burghers of Carlisle to come to their aid, for every bell in the city was ringing, and we could see the flash of torches here and there. Scarcely had the smiths struck the last fetter from my father's limbs than we heard the thunder of horses' hoofs behind us. "To horse, lads," cried Buccleuch, and in another moment we were galloping towards the Eden, I in front of Red Rowan as before, and close to my father's side. The English knew the lie of the land better than we did, for they were at the river before us, well-nigh a thousand of them, with Lord Scroope himself at their head. Apparently they never dreamed that we would attempt to swim the torrent, and thought we would have to show fight, for they were drawn up as if for a battle; but we dashed past them with a yell of defiance, and plunged into the flooded river, and once more we came safe to the other side. Once there we faced round, but the English made no attempt to follow; they sat on their horses, glowering at us in the dim light of the breaking day, but they said never a word. Then my Lord of Buccleuch raised himself in his stirrups, and, plucking off his right glove, he flung it with all his might across the river, and, the wind catching it, it was blown right into their leader's face. "Take that, my Lord of Scroope," he cried; "mayhap 'twill cure thee of thy treachery, for if Sakelde took him, 'twas thou who harboured him, and if thou likest not my mode of visiting at thy Castle of Carlisle, thou canst call and lodge thy complaint at Branksome at thy leisure." Then, with a laugh, he turned his horse's head and led us homewards, as the sun was rising and the world was waking up to another day. THE GUDE WALLACE "Would ye hear of William Wallace, An' sek him as he goes, Into the lan' of Lanark, Amang his mortal foes? There were fyfteen English sojers, Unto his ladye came, Said, 'Gie us William Wallace, That we may have him slain.'" I will tell you a tale of the Good Wallace, that brave and noble patriot who rose to deliver his country from the yoke of the English, and who spent his strength, and at last laid down his life, for that one end. As all the world knows, the English King, Edward I., had defeated John Baliol at Dunbar, and he had laid claim to the kingdom of Scotland, and had poured his soldiers into that land. Some of these soldiers, hearing of the strength, and wisdom, and prowess of the young champion who had arisen, like Gideon of old, for the succour of his people, determined to try to take him by stealth, before venturing to meet him in the open field. 'Twas known that Wallace was in the habit of visiting a lady, a friend of his, in the town of Lanark, so a band of these soldiers went to her house, and surrounded it, while the captain knocked at the door. When the lady opened it, and saw him, and saw also that her house was surrounded by his men, she was very much alarmed, which perhaps was not to be wondered at, for everyone was afraid of the English at that time. The officer spoke to her in quite a friendly manner, however, and began to tell her about his own country, and how much richer and finer everything was there than in Scotland, and at last, when she was thoroughly interested, he hinted that it was in her power to marry an English lord if she cared to do so, and go and live in England altogether. Now I am afraid that the lady was both silly and discontented, and it seemed to her that it would be a very fine thing indeed to be an English nobleman's wife, so she blushed and bridled, and looked up and down, and at last she asked how the thing could be managed. "Well," said the officer cautiously, "there is only one condition, and that doth not seem to me to be a very hard one. It hath been told me that there is a rough and turbulent fellow who visits this house. His name is William Wallace, and because he is likely to stir up riots among the common people, it seems good to His Majesty, King Edward, that he should be taken prisoner. Would it be possible," and here his voice became very soft and persuasive, "for thee to let us know what night he intends to visit thee?" At first the lady started back, and was very indignant with him for daring to suggest that she should do such a dishonourable thing. "I am no traitor," she said proudly, "nor am I like Jael of old, who murdered the man who took shelter in her tent." But the captain's voice was low and sweet, and the lady's nature was vain and fickle, and the prospect of marrying an English lord was very enticing, and so it came about that at last she yielded, and she told him how she was expecting young Wallace that very night at seven o'clock, and she promised to put a light in the window when he arrived. Then the false woman went into her house and shut the door, and the soldiers set themselves to watch for the coming of their enemy. How it happened I know not, but Wallace came, and walked boldly into the house without one of them seeing him, and he ran upstairs and knocked at the door of his friend's room. When she opened it, he stood still, and stared at her in astonishment, for her face was pale and wild, and she looked at him with terror in her eyes. I warrant she had been wrestling with her conscience ever since she had spoken with the soldiers, and she had seen what an awful thing it is to be guilty of the blood of an innocent man. "What ails thee?" cried Wallace, in his bluff, hearty way. "Thou lookest all distraught, as if thou hadst seen a ghost." Then he held out his hand as if to greet her, but she stretched forth hers and pushed him away. "Touch me not. I am like Judas,--Judas," she moaned, "who betrayed the innocent blood, and whose fate is written in the Holy Book for a warning to all poor recreants like to me." Sir William Wallace thought that she had gone mad. "Vex not thyself," he said kindly. "Methinks thou hast been reading, and thinking, till thou hast fevered thy poor brain. Thou art no Judas, but mine own true friend, in whose house I find safe shelter when I need to visit Lanark." "Safe shelter!" she cried, with a bitter laugh, and she dragged him to the window, and pointed out in the dusk the figures of four soldiers who were leaning against the garden gate. "Safe shelter, say ye, when I have betrayed thee to the English; for this house is watched by fifteen soldiers; and I have but to put a lamp in the window, as a signal that thou art within, and they will come and slay thee." "And what is thy reward for this deed of treachery?" asked Wallace, a look of contempt coming over his open face. "What pay did the English loons promise thee?" "They promised me an English lord for a husband," sobbed the wretched woman, who now would have done anything in her power to undo the wrong that she had done. "But oh, sir, I fear me I have wrought sore dule to thee this day, and sore dule to Scotland. If thou canst get free from this house, which I fear me thou wilt never do, thou canst denounce me as a traitor. I care not if I die the death." "Now Heaven forfend!" said Wallace, whose kindly heart was touched by her distress, although he despised her for her false deed; "it shall never be said that William Wallace avenged himself on a woman, no matter what her crime might be. I trusted thee, and thou hast proved false, and so from henceforth we must go our different ways; but if thou art truly sorry, thou mayest yet help me, and, as for me, if once I get clear away from these Southron knaves outside. I will think no more of the matter." "But canst thou get clear away?" questioned the lady anxiously. "I fear me, now that it is past seven o'clock, they will keep stricter watch than they did when thou camest in. 'Twill be impossible for thee to pass out in safety, and if thou remainest here, they will search the house when they tire of waiting for my signal." Wallace laughed. "Impossible is not a word that I am well acquaint with, madam," he said, "and if, for the sake of the friendship that was between us in the days that are gone, thou wilt lend me some of thine attire, a gown and kirtle maybe, and a decent petticoat of homespun, and a cap such as wenches wear to shield their faces from the sun, I hope I may make good my escape under the very noses of these fellows." Wondering to herself, the lady did as he asked her. She brought him a dark-coloured gown and kirtle, and a stout winsey petticoat, such as serving-maids wear, and after long search she found at the bottom of a drawer a milk-maid's cap. Wallace proceeded to dress himself in these, and, when he had put them all on, and had clasped a leather belt round his waist, and wound an apron about his head, as lassies do to protect themselves from the rain or sun, and put the milk-maid's bonnet on top of all, I warrant even his own mother would not have known him. "Now fetch me a milk-can," he said, "for I am no longer a soldier, but a modest maiden going to the well to draw water." When she had brought it he bent low over her hand and gave it one kiss for the sake of old times; then he said farewell to her for ever, and opened the door, and walked boldly down the garden. The four soldiers at the gate looked at one another in surprise when a tall damsel with a milk-can stood still at the foot of the garden path, and waited for them to open it. They had not known that the lady had a serving-maid. "If it please thee, good sirs, to let me bye," broke in the maiden's voice in the gloom. "My mistress hath a sharp temper, and this water ought to have been fetched an hour ago." She spoke with a lisp, and her accent was so outlandish that the men scarce understood what she said; but this they saw, that she wanted to go and draw water from the well, and they opened the gate to let her pass. "If I dare leave my post, I would fain come and draw for thee," said one; "shame is it that such a pretty wench be left to go to the well alone." The maiden paid no heed to the fellow's words, but tossed her head, and went quickly down the path to the well, taking such gigantic strides that the men gazed after her in wonder. "Marry, but she covers the ground," said one. "Certs, but I would rather walk one mile with her than two," said another. "Methinks that we had better go after her and bring her back," cried a third. "I have heard say that this William Wallace, whom we are in search of, hath mighty long legs." Horrified at the thought that they might have let the very man they were looking for escape, they hurried down the path after the serving-maid, and when they overtook her they found out in good sooth that she was William Wallace, for she drew a sword from under her kirtle, and killed all four of them, before they could lay hands on her. When the four men lay dead before him, Wallace wasted no time over their burial, but drawing their bodies under a bush, where they were somewhat hidden from the passers-by, he hung the milk-can on a branch of a tree, and walked quietly away in the gathering darkness. No one who met a simple country girl walking out into the country ever dreamt of asking her who she was, or where she was going, and ere morning came, I promise you, her garments had been cast, and buried in a hole in the ground, and Wallace was making his way northward as fast as ever he could. He had to be very careful which way he travelled, for there were soldiers quartered in many of the towns, who knew that there was a price set on his head, and who were only too anxious to catch him. So he dare not venture into the towns, or into the districts where there were many houses, and it came to pass that, as he was nearing Perth, he was like to famish for want of food. He had eaten almost nothing for three days, nor had he money wherewith to buy it. Now, near to Perth there is a beautiful haugh or common, called the North Inch, which stretches along the river Tay, and as he was crossing that, he saw a pretty, rosy country girl washing clothes under a tree, and spreading them out to bleach in the sun. She looked so kind and so good-tempered that he thought he would speak to her, and mayhap, if he found that she lived near, he would ask her to give him something to eat. So he went up to her, and greeted her pleasantly, and asked her what news there was in that part of the world. "News," said she, looking up at him with a roguish smile, for it was not often that she had the opportunity of talking with such a gallant knight. "Nay, by my troth, I have no news, for I am but a poor working maiden, who toils hard for her living; but one thing I can tell thee, an' if thou be a true Scot at heart, thou wilt do all in thy power to shield him." "To shield whom?" asked Wallace in surprise. "I know not of whom thou speakest." "Why! Sir William Wallace," answered the girl, "that gallant man who will deliver this poor country of ours. 'Tis known that he is in these parts; he hath been traced from Lanark, and 'tis thought that he is making for the hills, where his followers are; and this very day a body of these cursed English have marched into the town, in order to search the country and take him. Look, seest thou that little hostelry yonder? There hath a band of them gone in there not half an hour ago. Certs, had I been a man, I would e'en have gone myself, and measured my strength against theirs. I tell thee this, because thou seemest a gallant fellow, and perchance thou canst do something to save the knight." Wallace smiled. "Had I but a penny in my pocket," he said, "I would betake me to that little inn, just to see these English loons." The maiden hesitated. She was poor, as she had said, and had to work hard for her living, but it chanced that that day she had half a crown in her pocket, which she had intended to spend in the town on her way home. But her kind heart was stirred with pity at the thought of such a goodly young man having no money in his pocket, and at last she took out the half-crown and gave it to him. "Take this," she said, "and go and buy meat and drink with it, and if thou knowest where Wallace is, for the love of Heaven, betray him not to these English knaves." "I will serve Wallace e'en as I serve myself," he said, "and more can no man promise," and, thanking her heartily for the piece of silver, he strode off in the direction of the little hostler-house, leaving her wondering what he meant by his strange answer. Wallace had not gone very far on his way before he met a beggar man, coming limping along, clad in an old patched cloak. This was the very thing the knight wanted. "Hullo, old man," he said; "how goes the world with thee, and what news is there abroad in Perth?" "News, master?" said the beggar. "No news that I know of, save that 'tis said that Sir William Wallace is somewhere hereabouts, and a party of English soldiers have come to hunt for him. As I craved a bite of bread at the door of that hostler-house down yonder, I saw fifteen of them within, eating and drinking." "Say ye so, old man?" said Wallace. "That is right good news to me, for I have long had a desire to see an English soldier close at hand. See," and he drew the bright silver half-crown, which he had just received from the maiden, from his pocket, "here is a piece of white money for thee, if thou wilt sell me that old cloak of thine, and thy wallet. Faith, there be as many holes as patches in the cloak; it can scarce serve thee for a covering, and 'twill answer my purpose right well." Joyfully the beggar agreed to the bargain, and Wallace was left with the cloak, which he threw over his shoulders, and which covered him from head to foot. Pulling his cap well over his eyes, and choosing a trusty thorn cudgel from a neighbouring thicket, he went limping up to the door of the little inn, and knocked. The captain who was with the English soldiers opened it. He looked the lame beggar up and down. "What dost thou want, thou cruikit carle?" he asked haughtily. "An alms, master," answered the beggar humbly. "I am a poor lame man, and unable to work, and I travel the country from end to end, begging my daily bread." "Ah," thought the captain to himself, "this man must hear all the country gossip. Likely enough he knows where Wallace is, or the direction in which 'tis thought he will travel." He took a handful of gold from his pouch, and held it before the beggar's eyes. "Did you ever hear of a man called William Wallace?" he asked slowly; "the country folk hereabouts talk a great deal of him. They call him 'hero,' and such-like names. But he is a traitor to our rightful King, King Edward, and I am here to take him, alive or dead. Hast ever heard of the fellow?" "Ay," said the beggar, "I have both heard of him and seen him. Moreover," and he looked at the gold, "I know where he is to be found." An eager look came into the English knight's face. "I will pay thee fifty pounds down," he said, "fifty pounds of good red money, if thou wilt lead me to Sir William Wallace." "Tell down the money on this bench," cried the beggar, "for it is in my power to grant thy request, and verily, I will never have a better offer, no, not if I wait till King Edward comes himself." The English captain counted down the money on the old worm-eaten wooden bench that stood beside the door of the inn, and the beggar counted it after him, and picked it up, and put it carefully away in his wallet. Then he faced the Englishman with a strange gleam in his eyes. "Thou wouldst fain see William Wallace," he said. "Then see him thou shalt, and feel the might of his arm too, which is more, belike, than thou bargainedst for," and, before the astonished captain could grasp his sword, he had let the beggar's cloak fall to the ground, and, lifting his stout cudgel, he had given him such a clout over the head, that his skull cracked like a nut, and he fell dead at his feet. Without waiting to take breath, Wallace drew his sword, and, running lightly upstairs, he burst into the room where the soldiers were just finishing their meal, and before they could rise from the table and grasp their weapons, he had stabbed every one of them to the heart. The innkeeper's wife, who had just come from the kitchen, and was serving the men rather unwillingly, for she had no love for the English, stood still and stared in amazement. "God save us!" she said at last, as Wallace stopped and wiped his sword. "But are ye a man, or do you come from the Evil One himself?" "I am William Wallace," said the stranger, "and I wish that all English soldiers who are in Scotland were even as these men are." "Amen to that," said the old woman heartily, and then she dropped down on her knees before the embarrassed knight. "Hech, sirs," she said fervently, "to think that my eyes are looking on the Gude Wallace!" "The Hungry Wallace, ye mean," said the knight with a laugh. "If ye love me, woman, get up from thy knees, and set on meat and drink, for I have scarce tasted food these three days, and my strength is well-nigh gone." "That will I, right speedily," she cried, and, jumping up, she ran to her husband and told him who the stranger was. With great goodwill they began to prepare a meal, but hardly had it been dished up, and placed upon the table, before another band of soldiers marched up and surrounded the house. The beggar man had gone into Perth, and told people about the mysterious knight who had bought his old cloak in order that he might go and see the English soldiers, and when the rest of the soldiers in the town got to hear of it, they had suspected at once who he really was, and had come to the help of their companions. Their suspicions proved true when they caught sight of Wallace through one of the windows. "Come out, come out, thou false knight," they cried exultingly, "and think not that thou canst escape out of our hands. The tod[1] is taken in his hole this time, and right speedily shall he die." [Footnote 1: Fox.] With that they entered the house, and rushed upstairs, thinking that it would be an easy matter to capture the Scottish leader, for they knew that he had no follower with him. But the weak things of this world are able sometimes to confound the mighty, and they had not reckoned that the two old people to whom the inn belonged were prepared to shed the last drop of their blood, rather than that Wallace should come to harm in their house. So the old man had taken down his broad claymore from the wall, and the old woman had seized a lance, and they stood one on each side of their guest, grasping their weapons with fevered zeal. Then began a fierce and deadly onslaught in that little room, and many a time it seemed as if the three brave defenders must go down; but Wallace's arm had the strength of ten, and the old man laid on right bravely, and the old woman gave many a deadly thrust with her lance from behind, where she saw it was needed, and so it came to pass that at last every Englishman was slain, and Wallace and his bold helpers were left triumphant. "Now, surely, I can eat in peace," said he, sitting down to his sorely needed meal, "and then must I begone. For, with thy help, I have done a work here this day that will raise all the English 'twixt Perth and Edinburgh. Mayhap, goodman, thou canst get help to throw these bodies into the river. 'Twill be better for thee that the English find them not in thy house, for I must up and away." "That can I," said the old man, "for the good folk of Perth think much of thee, and very little of the English, therefore will they give me a hand."[2] [Footnote 2: Help me.] So once more Wallace took the road to the North, and as he retraced his steps across the North Inch, he passed the rosy-cheeked maiden again, busy at her work. She was laying the clothes out to bleach now, and she gave him a friendly nod as he approached. "I hope, fair sir, that thou hast seen the English," she said, "and that thou hast come by food at the same time?" "That have I," said Wallace; "thanks to thy gentle charity, I have eaten and drunk to my heart's content. I have seen the English soldiers too, and, by my troth, the English soldiers have also seen me. The day that I visited that little hostler-house is not likely to be forgotten by the English army." Then he put his hand in his pocket, and drew out twenty pounds in good red gold. "Take that," he said to the astonished damsel, pressing the money into her hand as he spoke. "Thy half-crown brought me luck, and this is but thy rightful share of it." So saying, he took his way quickly towards the hills, leaving the girl so bewildered, that, had it not been for the money in her hand, she would have been inclined to think that it was all a dream. As it was, she never quite believed that it was a human being who had taken away her silver half-crown, and brought her back twenty gold pieces, but talked of ghosts, and visions; and some people, when they heard of the thirty English soldiers who lay dead in the little hostler-house, were inclined to be of her opinion. THE WARLOCK O' OAKWOOD "Ae gloamin' as the sinking sun Gaed owre the wastlin' braes, And shed on Oakwood's haunted towers His bright but fading rays, Auld Michael sat his leafu' lane Down by the streamlet's side, Beneath a spreading hazel bush, And watched the passing tide." The bright rays of the setting sun were shining over the valley of Ettrick, and lighting up the stone turrets on the old tower of Oakwood. For many a long year the old tower had stood empty, while its owner, Sir Michael Scott, one of the most learned men who ever lived, wandered in distant lands, far across the sea. He had been a mere boy when he left it, to study at Durham and Oxford: then the love of learning had carried him first of all to Paris, where he had been famed for his skill in mathematics; then to Italy, and finally to Spain, where he had studied alchemy under the Moors, and had learned from them, so 'twas said, much of the magic of the East, so that he had power over spirits, and could command them to come and go at his bidding, and could read the stars, and cure the sick, and do many other wonderful things, which made all men regard him as a wizard. And now that he had come back to his old home once more, the country folk avoided him, and gazed with awe at the great square tower where, they said, he spent most of his time, practising his magic art, and holding converse with the powers of darkness. The King, on the other hand, thought much of this most learned knight, and would fain have seen more of him at his court in Edinburgh, but Sir Michael loved the country best, and spent most of his time there, writing, or reading, or making experiments. This evening, however, he was not in his tower, but was sitting by the side of the Ettrick, studying with deepest interest all the sights and sounds of nature which were going on around him. For he loved nature, this studious, quiet, middle-aged man, and the sight of the little minnows darting about in the water, and the trouts hiding under the stones, and the partridges coming whirring across the cornfields, gave him as much pleasure as all the wonderful sights which he had seen in far-off lands. Suddenly he raised his head and listened. Far away in the distance he seemed to hear the sound of trumpets, and the "thud," "thud" of horses' hoofs, as if a body of men were riding quickly towards him. "Some strangers are approaching," he said to himself, "and if I am not mistaken they are soldiers. I will hasten home and learn their errand. Mayhap it is a message from his Majesty the King." He rose to his feet slowly, for his limbs were somewhat cramped with sitting, and walked with stately dignity to the tower. The riders had just arrived, and, as he expected, they bore a message from the King. As he approached, a knight clad in full armour rode forward, preceded by a man-at-arms, and, bending low over his horse's neck, presented to him a parchment packet, sealed with the Royal Seal. "The King of Scotland, whom God preserve, sends greetings to his loyal cousin Sir Michael Scott," he said, "and whereas various French sailors have committed acts of piracy on the high seas, and have attacked and robbed divers Scottish vessels, he lays on him his Royal commands that he will betake himself to France with all speed, and deliver this packet into the hands of the French King. And, further, that he will demand that an answer to the writing contained therein be given him at once, and that he hasten back with all dispatch, and draw not rein, nor tarry, till he deliver the answer to the King in Edinburgh." Sir Michael took the packet from the messenger's hand and bowed gravely. He was accustomed to receive such orders, and everyone wondered at the marvellously quick way in which he obeyed them. "Carry my humblest greetings to his Majesty," he answered, "and assure him that I will lose no time, but will at once set about making my preparations. By dawn of day I will be gone, mounted on the swiftest steed that ever the eye of mortal man gazed upon." "Is it swifter than the horse which his Majesty keeps for his own use at Dunfermline?" asked the soldier curiously. "For if it is, it must indeed be a noble animal, and 'twould fetch a good price among the barons of the court. Ever since his Majesty has turned his mind so much to horses, his courtiers have vied with each other to see which of them could become the possessor of the swiftest animal." "My horse is not for sale," said Sir Michael shortly, "not though men offered me his weight in gold." The young officer bowed again. There was something in Sir Michael's tone which forbade him asking to see the horse, much as he should have liked to do so; so, giving a signal to his men, he turned his horse's head in the direction of Edinburgh, and rode off, leaving Sir Michael standing on the doorstep gazing after them, a strange smile on his face. "A good price," he repeated; "by my troth, 'twould need to be a very good price which would buy my good Diabolus from me. But I must go and summon him." Muttering strangely to himself, he turned and entered the tower. He went up the narrow, winding, stone stairs until he reached a little iron-studded door. This door was locked, but he opened it with a key which hung from his girdle, and, entering the low-roofed attic-room to which it led, he locked it again carefully behind him. The attic was at the top of the tower, and through the narrow windows which pierced three of its walls, a glorious view was to be had over the surrounding country. But Sir Michael had not come up there to admire the view; he had other work to do--work which seemed to need mysterious preparations. First of all, he proceeded to dress himself in a curiously shaped black cloak, and a hunting cap made of hair, which he took down from a nail in the wall. The cloak was very long, and completely enveloped his figure, and, when he had pulled the hairy cap well down over his eyes, no one would have taken him, I warrant, for the quiet, middle-aged, master of Oakwood. When he was dressed he took down a leaden platter from a shelf by the door, and, opening a cupboard, he took out a little glass bottle full of a clear amber-coloured liquid, which glowed like melted fire. Setting down the platter on a little round table in the middle of the room, he dropped one or two drops of this liquid on it, and in an instant they broke into tongues of flame which curled up high above his head. It was a strange and weird fire, enough to frighten any man, but the still, dark-robed figure standing beside it never moved, not even when a number of tiny little imps appeared, clad in scarlet, and green, and blue, and purple, and danced round and round it on the table, tossing their tiny arms, and twisting their queer little faces, as if they had gone mad. He waited patiently until the little creatures had finished their dance and disappeared, then he seized the platter, and, going to one of the narrow windows, he flung it open, and, pushing the platter through it, he threw it, with its burning load, far out into the gathering twilight. He watched the fire as it fell, in glowing fragments, among the oak trees which surrounded the tower, then he opened a small, black, leathern-bound book, which lay chained to a monk's desk which stood in a corner. Opening it he read a few words in an unknown tongue, then he turned to the window again and waved a little silver wand over his head three times. "Come, Diabolus. Come, Diabolus," he muttered, and then he knelt on the floor and waited eagerly, his eyes fixed on the Western horizon. The sun had sunk, but the sky was clear, and one or two stars had appeared, and were shining out peacefully, like little candles set in a golden haze. Presently, however, big black clouds began to appear, and pile up, one against another, till the little stars were blotted out, and the whole sky became as black as night. In a little time the dull muttering of thunder could be heard far away over the woods. It came nearer and nearer--crash upon crash, and roar upon roar--while the lightning flashed, and a perfect tempest of wind arose and lashed the branches of the tall trees into fury. Truly it was an awful storm. The wizard felt the solid masonry of the tower rock beneath him, but he was as calm as if only a little gust of wind had been passing on a summer's day. Still he knelt on, peering eagerly into the darkness. At last his eyes grew bright and keen, for he saw a shadowy form come floating through the air, driven by the wind. He knew now that his charm had worked, and that this was his familiar spirit--the spirit over whom he had most control--who had come in the form of a great black horse, with flaming eyes, and flowing mane, to carry him over the sea to France. With one bound he flew through the window, and alighted on its back. "Now woe betide thee, Diabolus," he said, "if thou fliest not swiftly. For I must be in Paris by daylight to-morrow." The huge black horse shook its mane, and snorted fiercely, as if it understood, and without more ado it flew on its way, its uncanny black-cloaked rider seated on its back. As soon as they had disappeared, the storm died away, and the moon rose, and the little stars shone out over Oakwood Tower as clearly and quietly as if there had never been a cloud in the sky. Meanwhile Sir Michael Scott and his huge black charger were flying over hills, and valleys, and rivers, in the darkness. They even flew over the sea itself, and never halted until the day broke, and there, far below, lay the city of Paris, dimly seen in the gray morning light. In the King's Palace the lackeys were hardly awake. They gazed at one another in astonishment when the heavy iron knocker on the great gate fell with a knock that echoed through the courtyard. "Who dares to knock so loudly at this early hour?" asked the fat old porter in great indignation. "Whoever it be, I trow he may e'en wait outside till I have broken my fast." But before he had done speaking the knocker fell once more, and there was something so commanding in the sound that the little man hurried off, grumbling to himself, to get the key. "Beshrew me if it doth not sound like a messenger from some great king," said a man-at-arms who was standing by, and the porter's heart misgave him at the thought that perhaps by his tardiness he had got himself into trouble. But when he opened the great door, instead of the company of armed men whom he dreaded to see, there was only a solitary rider, muffled in a great black cloak, and wearing a hairy cap drawn down over his face, seated on an enormous black horse. The stranger's dress was so outlandish, and his horse so big, that the porter crossed himself. "Surely 'tis the Evil One himself," he muttered; and when the lackeys heard his words, they crowded round the doorway. They, too, were puzzled at Sir Michael's appearance, and began to laugh and jeer at him. "He is like a hooded crow," cried one. "Nay, 'tis an old wife in her husband's clothes," shouted another. "Surely the cloak belonged to Noah," cried a third. But they started back in dismay when the muffled figure pushed up his cap, and demanded an audience of the King. "I come from the King of Scotland," he said haughtily, "and his business brooks no delay." A shout of laughter greeted his demand. "Thou a messenger from the King of Scotland!" they cried. "A likely story, forsooth! The King of Scotland sends not beggars, in old rusty suits, as his ambassadors. No, no, my good fellow, thou askest us to believe too much. Whatever thou art, thou art not a king's messenger." "What!" cried Sir Michael. "Ye refuse to do my bidding! and all because I am not decked out in crimson and gold, and ridest alone without a retinue. Well, ye shall see that it is not always wise to judge of a man by his outward appearance. Make way there." And without wasting any more words, he leaped from his horse, and, throwing its bridle over a pillar, he strode right through the middle of them, and made his way to the King's private apartment, without even waiting to be announced. Now the King of France was accustomed to be treated with great ceremony, and when this dark-robed man strode into his bed-chamber, and held out the parchment packet to him, demanding an instant answer, he was very indignant, and refused to open it. "Thou sayest that thou comest from the King of Scots," he said. "Well, I believe thee not. If thou wert Sir Michael Scott, as thou sayest thou art, thou wouldst have come with an armed escort, as befitted thy rank and station. Therefore begone, Sirrah, and count thyself happy that I have not had thee thrown into one of the palace dungeons, as a punishment for thy insolence." "By my troth," cried Sir Michael angrily, "if this is the way thou wouldst answer my master's demands, I trow I can soon bring thee to a better frame of mind." Without waiting for an answer, he flung down the parchment packet on the floor, and strode out of the room in the same way that he had entered, leaving the angry King gazing after him in astonishment. "The fellow is mad," he cried to the nobles who stood round. "See to it that he is shut up until he comes to his senses." But Sir Michael had already reached the courtyard, and passed through the great door to where his horse was waiting outside. He lowered his voice and spoke gently to the mighty beast. "Stamp, my steed, and show the varlets that we are better than we seem to be," he said. And at his bidding the gigantic creature lifted one of its forefeet, and brought it down with all its might on the pavement. In an instant it was as though an earthquake were passing over the city. The great towers of the Palace which frowned overhead rocked and swayed, and all the bells on a hundred church steeples chimed and jangled, until the air was thick with the sound of them. The King and his courtiers were very much alarmed at these strange events, but they did not like to own that it was the mysterious stranger who was the cause of them. All the same, the King called a hurried council, and when the nobles were assembled, and seated in their places in the great hall, he opened the parchment packet, and took out the papers which it contained. When he had read them his face flushed with anger. The King of Scotland's demands were very urgent, and moreover they were stated in no uncertain language, and as he considered that he was a much more powerful monarch than King Alexander, he did not like to be dictated to. "Ah," he said, "so my Lord of Scotland lays down his own terms with a high hand. Methinks he must learn that this is not the way to obtain favours from France." "Ay, so in good sooth he must learn," repeated the nobles in one breath. "And in order that the lesson be made plain, we advise that his messenger be cast into prison, and that no notice be taken of his requests." "Your advice pleases me well," said the King. "Command that the officers seize the fellow at once. Certs, he may think himself lucky that We permit his head to remain on his shoulders." The command was given, but Sir Michael had been growing more and more impatient that no more notice seemed to be taken of his errand, and when the officers of the guard appeared, and, instead of handing him the French King's answer, as he had expected, laid their hands on him to drag him off to prison, his anger knew no bounds. "What," he cried, "doth the King still refuse to listen? By my troth, he shall rue the delay," and once more he whispered in the black horse's ear, and once more the mighty creature lifted its great forefoot and brought it down with a crash on the pavement. The effect was even more terrible than it had been before. In an instant great thunder clouds rolled up from the horizon, and a fearful storm broke over the city. The thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, and strange and weird figures were seen floating in the air. The great bells which hung in the steeple of the great Cathedral of Notre Dame gave one awful crash, and then burst in two, while the towers and pinnacles of the splendid church came tumbling down in the darkness. The very foundations of the Palace were shaken, and rocked to and fro, till everyone within it was thrown to the ground. The King himself was hurled from his throne of state, and was so badly hurt that he cried aloud with pain and fear. As for the courtiers, they lay about the floor in all directions, paralysed with terror, crossing themselves, and calling on the Saints to help them. They were so terrified that not one of them thought of going to their Royal Master's aid. The King was the first to recover himself. "Alack! alack!" he groaned, rising to his feet. "Woe betide the day that brought this fellow to our land! Warlock or wizard, I know not which, but one of them he must be, for no mere mortal man could have had the power to work this harm to our city." While he was speaking a loud trampling of feet was heard outside the great hall, and all the lackeys came tumbling in, pell-mell, without waiting to do their reverence, just as if the King had been any common man. "O Sire," they cried, "grant the fellow anything and everything he asks, and let him be gone. He threatens that he will cause this awful beast to stamp yet once again, and, if he does, the whole land of France will be ruined. If your Majesty but knew what harm hath been wrought in the city already!" "Yes, let him begone," wailed the courtiers, slowly beginning to pick themselves up from the floor, and feeling their bones to see if any of them were broken. And, indeed, the King was nothing loth to grant their request, for he felt that if the mysterious stranger were allowed to stand at the door much longer his whole kingdom would be tumbling to pieces about his ears. Better far that the King of Scotland should be satisfied, even although it was sorely against his inclinations. With trembling fingers he picked up the papers and once more read them. Then he wrote an answer promising to fulfil all the Scotch King's demands and he sealed up the packet, and flung it to the nearest lackey. "Give it to him and bid him begone," he cried, and a sigh of relief went round the hall, as a minute later the man returned with the tidings that the great black horse and its outlandish rider had vanished. "Heaven grant that when next my Cousin of Scotland sends an ambassador, he choose another man," said the King, and there was not a soul in all the palace who did not breathe a fervent "Amen." Meanwhile, Sir Michael and his wonderful steed were speeding along on their homeward way. They had crossed the north of France, and were flying over the Straits of Dover, when the creature began to think that it might work a little mischief on its own account. It had taken a sudden fancy to remain in France for a while, and it thought how nice it would be if it could pitch its master, whom it rather feared than loved, over its head into the water, and so be rid of him for ever. It knew that as long as it was under his spell, it had to do his bidding, but it knew also that there were certain words which could break the spell even of a wizard, and it began to wonder if it would be possible to make Sir Michael pronounce one of these. "Master," it said at last slyly, for when it wanted it had the power of speech, "I know little about Scottish ways, but I have oft-times been told that the old wives and children there mutter some words to themselves ere they go to bed. 'Tis some spell, I warrant, and I would fain know it. Canst tell me the words?" Now the wily animal knew perfectly well what words the children of Scotland were taught to repeat as they knelt at night at their mother's knee, but it hoped that its master would answer without thinking. But Sir Michael had not studied magic for long years for nothing, and he knew that if he answered that the women and children in Scotland bowed their knees and said their Pater Noster ere they went to bed, the holy words would break the spell, and he would be at the mercy of the fiend, who, when he needed him, was obliged to take the form of a horse, or serve him in any other way which he required. So he shook the creature's bridle and answered sharply, "What is that to thee, Diabolus? Attend to the business thou hast in hand, and vex not thy soul with silly questions. If thou truly desirest to know what the bairns are taught to say at bed-time, then I would advise thee, when thou art in Scotland, and hast time to spare from thy wicked devices, to go and stand by a cottage window, and learn for thyself. Mayhap the knowledge will do thee good. In the meantime think no more of the matter, unless thou wouldst feel the weight of my wand on thy flanks." Now, if there was one thing which the great horse feared, it was the wizard's magic wand, so he put his mind to his work, and flew with all the swiftness he possessed northwards over England, and across the Cheviots, until at last they came in sight of Edinburgh, and the Royal Palace of Holyrood. Here Sir Michael slid from his back, and dismissed him with a little wave of his wand. "Avaunt, Diabolus," he said, and at the words the magic horse vanished into thin air, and, strange to say, the black cloak and hairy cap which the wizard had worn on the journey seemed to fall from him and vanish also, and he was left standing, a middle-aged, dignified gentleman, clad in a suit of sober brown. He hurried down to the Palace, and sought an instant audience of the King. The lackeys bowed low, and the doors flew open before him, as he was led into his Majesty's presence, for at the Court of Holyrood Sir Michael Scott was a very great person indeed. But for once a frown gathered on King Alexander's face when he saw him. Kings expect to be obeyed, and he was not prepared to see the man appear whom he had ordered off to France with all speed the day before. "What ho! Sir Michael," he said coldly. "Is this the way that thou carriest out our royal orders. In good sooth I wish I had chosen a more zealous messenger." Sir Michael smiled gravely. "Wilt please my Sovereign Lord to receive this packet from the hand of the King of France?" he said with a stately bow. "Methinks that he will find that in it all his demands are granted, and that I have obeyed his behests to the best of my power." The King was utterly taken aback. He wondered if Sir Michael were playing some trick on him, for it was absolutely impossible that he could have gone and come from France in twenty-four hours. When he opened the packet, however, he saw that it was no trick. In utter amazement he called for his courtiers, and they crowded round him to examine the papers. They were all in order, and all the requests had been granted without more ado. Reparation was to be made for the damage that had been done to the Scottish ships, and in future all acts of piracy would be severely punished. It was evident that the papers had been taken to Paris, for there was the French King's own seal, and there was his name signed in his own handwriting, though how they had been carried thither so quickly, nobody ventured to say. "'Tis safer not to ask, your Majesty," whispered one old knight, making the sign of the Cross as he spoke, "for there are strange tales afloat, which say that the Lord of Oakwood keeps a familiar spirit in that ancient tower of his, who is ready to do his bidding at all times; and, by my soul, this goes far to prove it." The King looked round uneasily, in case Sir Michael had heard this last sentence. He felt that if this were true, and he were a wizard, as men hinted, it was best not to incur his displeasure; but he need not have been afraid. The Lord of Oakwood loved not courts, and now that he had done his errand, and the papers were safe in the King's hand, he had taken advantage of the astonishment of the courtiers to slip unobserved through the crowd, and, having borrowed a horse from the royal stables, he was now riding leisurely out of the city, on his way home to his old tower on the banks of the Ettrick. MUCKLE-MOU'ED MEG "O wha hasna heard o' the bauld Juden Murray, The Lord o' the Elibank Castle sae high? An' wha hasna heard o' that notable foray, Whan Willie o' Harden was catched wi' the kye?" Of all the towers and castles which belonged to the old Border reivers, there was none which was better suited to its purpose than the ancient house of Harden. It stood, as the house which succeeded it stands to this day, at the head of a deep and narrow glen, looking down on the Borthwick Water, not far from where it joins the Teviot. It belonged to Walter Scott, "Wat o' Harden," as he was called, a near kinsman and faithful ally of the "Bold Buccleuch," who lived just over the hill, at Branksome. Wat was a noted freebooter. Never was raid or foray but he was well to the front, and when, as generally happened, the raid or foray resulted in a drove of English cattle finding their way over the Liddesdale hills, and down into Teviotdale, the Master of Harden had no difficulty in guarding his share of the spoil. The entrance to his glen was so narrow, and its sides so steep and rocky, that he had only to drive the tired beasts into it, and set a strong guard at the lower end, and then he and his retainers could take things easily for a time, and live in plenty, till some fine day the beef would be done, and his wife, Dame Mary, whom folk named the "Flower of Yarrow" in her youth, would serve him up a pair of spurs underneath the great silver cover, as a hint that the larder was empty, and that it was full time that he should mount and ride for more. 'Twas little wonder that his five sons grew up to love this free roving life, to which they had always been accustomed, and that they took ill with the change when, in 1603, at the Union of the Crowns, Scotland and England became one country, and King James determined to put down raiding and reiving with a high hand. It was difficult at first, but gradually a change came about. Courts of justice were established in the Border towns, where law-breakers were tried, and promptly punished, and the heads of the most powerful clans banded themselves together to put down bloodshed and robbery, and a time of quietness bade fair to settle down on the distressed district. To the old folk, tired of incessant fighting, this change was welcome; but the younger men found their occupation gone, while as yet they had no thought of turning to some more peaceable pursuit. The young Scotts of Harden were no exceptions to this rule, and William, the eldest, found matters, after a time, quite unbearable. Moreover, his father's retainers were growing discontented with their quiet life, and scanty fare, for beef was not so plentiful at Harden now that Border law forbade its being stolen from England; so, without telling either his father or his brothers of his intention, he took a band of chosen men, and rode over, in the gray light of an early spring morning, to the house of William Hogg of Fauldshope, one of the chief retainers of the family. William was a man of great bravery, and so fierce and strong that he had earned for himself the name of the "Wild Boar of Fauldshope." He was still in bed when the party from Harden arrived, but rose hastily when they knocked. Great was his astonishment when he saw his young master with a band of armed men behind him. "What cheer, Master?" he said, "and what doest thou out at this time of day? Faith, it minds me of the good old times, when some rider would come in haste to my door, to tell me that Auld Buccleuch had given orders to warn the water."[3] [Footnote 3: To call the countrymen to arms.] "Heaven send that those times come back again," said young Harden piously, "else shall we soon be turned into a pack of old wives. The changes that have come to Harden be more than I can stand, Willie. Not so many years past we were aye as busy as a swarm of bees. When we had a mind, and had nought else to do, we leaped on our horses and headed towards Cumberland. There were ever some kine to be driven, or a house or two to be burned, or some poor widow to be avenged, or some prisoner to be released. So things went right merrily, and the larder was always full. But now that this cursed peace hath come, and King Jamie reigns in London--plague on the man for leaving this bonnie land!--the place is as quiet as the grave, and the horses grow fat, and our men grow lean, and they quarrel and fight among themselves all day, an' all because they have nought else to do. Moreover, the pastures round Harden grow rough for want of eating. We need a drove of cattle to keep them down. So I have e'en come over to take counsel with thee, Will, for thou art a man after mine own heart, and I have brought a few of the knaves at my back. What think ye, man, is there no one we could rob? Fain would I ride over the Border to harry the men of Cumberland, but thou knowest how it is. My kinsman of Buccleuch is Warden of the Marches, and responsible for keeping the peace, and sore dule and woe would come to my father's house were I to stir up strife now that we are supposed to be all one land." "Ay, by my troth," said Will of Fauldshope, "the fat would be in the fire if we were to ride into Cumberland nowadays; but, Master, the Warden hath no right to interfere with lawful quarrels. There is the Laird o' Elibank, for instance, old Sir Juden. Deil take me if anyone could blame us if we paid him a visit. For all the world knows how often some cows, or a calf or two, have vanished on a dark night from the hillsides at Harden, and though a Murray hath never yet been ta'en red-handed, it is easy to know where the larders o' Elibank get their plenishing. Turn about is fair play, say I, and now that the pastures at Harden are empty, 'tis time that we thought of taking our revenge. Sir Juden was a wily man in his youth, and sly as a pole-cat, but men say that nowadays he hath grown doited,[4] and does nought but sit with his wife and his three ugly daughters from morning till night. All the same, he hath managed to feather his nest right well. 'Twas told me at Candlemas that he hath no less than three hundred fat cattle grazing in the meadows that lie around Elibank." [Footnote 4: In his dotage.] Willie o' Harden slapped his thigh. "That settles the matter," he cried, with a ring in his voice at the thought of the adventure that lay before him. "Three hundred kye are far too many for one old man to herd. Let him turn his mind to his three ill-faured[5] daughters, whom no man will wed because of their looks. This very night we will ride over into Ettrick, and lift a wheen[6] o' them. My father's Tower of Oakwood lies not far from Elibank, and when once we have driven the beasts into the Oakwood byres, 'twill take old Sir Juden all his time to prove that they ever belonged to him." [Footnote 5: Plain-looking.] [Footnote 6: Few.] Late that afternoon Sir Juden Murray was having a daunder[7] in the low-lying haughs which lay along the banks of the Tweed, close to his old tower. His hands were clasped behind his back, under his coat tails, and his head was sunk low on his breast. He appeared to be deep in meditation, and so indeed he was. There was a matter which had been pressing heavily on his mind for some time, and it troubled him more every day. [Footnote 7: Gentle walk.] The fact was, that it was a sore anxiety to him how he was going to provide for his three daughters, for Providence had endowed them with such very plain features that it seemed extremely unlikely that any gay wooer would ever stop before the door of Elibank. Meg, the eldest, was especially plain-looking. She was pale and thin, with colourless eyes, and a long pointed nose, and, to make matters worse, she had such a very wide mouth that she was known throughout the length and breadth of four counties as "Muckle-Mou'ed Meg o' Elibank." No wonder her father sighed as he thought of her, for, in spite of his greed and his slyness, Sir Juden was an affectionate father, as fathers went in those days, and the lot of unmarried ladies of the upper class, at that time, was a hard one. He was roused from his thoughts by someone shouting to him from the top of the neighbouring hill. It was one of his men-at-arms, and the old man stood for a moment with his hand at his ear, to listen to the fellow's words. They came faintly down the wind. "I fear evil betakes us, Sir Juden, for far in the distance I hear bugles sounding at Oakwood Tower. I would have said that the Scotts of Harden were riding, were it not for Buccleuch and his new laws." Sir Juden shook his grizzled head. "Little cares Auld Wat o' Harden, or any o' his kind, either for Warden or laws, notwithstanding that the Warden is his own kith and kin. As like as not they have heard tell o' my bonnie drove of cattle, and would fain have some of them. Run, sirrah, and warn our friends; no one can find fault with us if we fight in self-defence." No sooner had the first man disappeared to do his master's bidding, than another approached, running down the hillside as fast as he could. He was quite out of breath when he came up to the Laird, and no wonder, for he had run all the way from Philip-Cairn, one of the highest hills in the neighbourhood. "Oh, Sir Juden," he gasped, "lose no time, but arm well, and warn well, if thou wouldst keep thine own. From the top of the hill I saw armed men in the distance, and it was not long ere I knew the knaves. 'Tis a band of reivers led by the young Knight of Harden, and, besides his own men, he hath with him the Wild Boar of Fauldshope, and all the Hoggs and the Brydons." "By my troth, but thou bringest serious tidings," said Sir Juden, thoroughly alarmed, for he knew what deadly fighters Willie o' Harden and the Boar of Fauldshope were, and, without wasting words, he hurried away to his tower to make the best preparations he could for the coming fray. He knew that even with all the friends who would muster round him, the men of Plora, and Traquair, and Ashiestiel, and Hollowlee, Harden's force would far outnumber his, and his only hope lay in outwitting the enemy, who were better known for their bravery than for their guile. So when all his friends were assembled, instead of stationing them near the castle, he led them out to a steep hill-side, some miles away, where he knew the Scotts must pass with the cattle, on their way to Oakwood. As the night was dark, he bade each of them fasten a white feather in his cap, so that, when they were fighting, they would know who were their friends and who their foes, and he would not allow them to stand about on the hill-side, but made them lie down hidden in the heather until he gave them the signal to rise. He knew well what he was doing, for he was as cunning as a fox, and neither the Knight of Harden nor the Wild Boar of Fauldshope, brave though they were, were a match for him. They, on their part, thought things were going splendidly, for when they rode up in the darkness of midnight to the Elibank haughs, all was quiet; not so much as a dog barked. It was not difficult to collect a goodly drove of fat cattle, and, as long as the animals were driven along a familiar path, all went well. But all the world knows the saying about "a cow in an unca loaning,"[8] and it held good in this case. The moment the animals' heads were turned to the hills that lay between Elibank and Oakwood the trouble began. They broke in confusion, and ran hither and thither in the darkness, lowing and crying in great bewilderment. [Footnote 8: A cow in a strange lane or milking-place.] "Faith, but this will never do," exclaimed Will of Fauldshope; "if the beasts bellow at this rate, they will awaken old Sir Juden and his sons, and they will set on in pursuit. Not that that would matter much, but we may as well do the job with as little bloodshed as possible. See, I and my men will take a dozen or so, and push on over the hill. If once the way be trodden the rest will follow." So Will of Fauldshope and his men went their way cheerily up the hill, and over its crest, and down the other side, on their way to Oakwood, with a handful of cattle before them, little recking that Sir Juden and his sons, whom they thought to be sleeping peacefully at Elibank, were crouching among the heather with their friends and retainers, or that they had ridden over a few of them on their way, and that, as soon as they were past, and out of earshot, and young Harden came on with the main body of the stolen cattle, the Murrays would rise and set on him with sudden fierceness, and after a sharp and bloody conflict would take him prisoner, and kill many a brave man. Nor would Will have heard of the fight at all, until he had arrived at Oakwood, and his suspicions had been aroused by the fact that young Harden did not follow him, had it not been for a trusty fellow called Andrew o' Langhope, who was knocked down in the fight, and who thought that he could serve his master best by lying still. So he pretended to be dead, and lay motionless until the fray was over, and poor young Scott bound hand and foot, and carried off in triumph by the Murrays; then he sprang to his feet, and ran off in pursuit of Will of Fauldshope as fast as his legs could carry him. Now, if there was one man on earth whom the Wild Boar of Fauldshope and his men loved, it was the young Knight of Harden. He was so handsome, and brave, and debonair, a very leader among men, that I ween there was dire confusion among them when they heard Andrew o' Langhope's tale. A great oath fell from Will's lips as he threw off his jerkin and helmet, to ease his horse, and turned and galloped over the hill again, followed by all his company. But in spite of their haste they were too late. The dawn was breaking as they reined up on the green in front of Elibank, and the gray morning light showed them that the stout oak door was closed, and the great iron gates made fast. By now young Harden was safe in the lowest dungeon, and right well they knew that only once again would he breathe the fresh air of heaven, and that would be when he was led out to die under the great dule-tree on the green. Bitter tears of grief and rage filled the Boar of Fauldshope's eyes at the thought, but no more could be done, except to ride over to Harden, and tell old Sir Walter Scott of the fate that had befallen his eldest son. * * * * * "Juden, Juden." It was the Lady of Elibank's voice, and it woke her husband out of the only sound sleep he had had, for he had been terribly troubled with bad dreams all night: dreams not, as one would have imagined, of the fight which he had passed through, but of his eldest daughter Meg, and her sad lack of wooers. "What is it?" he asked drowsily, as he looked across the room to where his worthy spouse, Dame Margaret Murray, already up and dressed, stood looking out of the narrow casement. "I was just wondering," she said slowly, "what thou intendest to do with that poor young man?" "Do," cried Sir Juden, wide awake now, and starting up in astonishment at the question, for his wife was not wont to be so pitiful towards any of his prisoners. "By'r Lady, but there is only one thing that I shall do. Hang the rogue, of course, and that right speedily." "What," said the Lady of Elibank, and she turned and looked at her angry husband with an expression which seemed to say that at that moment he had taken leave of his senses; "hang the young Knight of Harden, when I have three ill-favoured daughters to marry off my hands! I wonder at ye, Juden! I aye thought ye had a modicum of common sense, and could look a long way in front of ye, but at this moment I am sorely inclined to doubt it. Mark my words, ye'll never again have such a chance as this. For, besides Harden, he is heir to some of the finest lands in Ettrick Forest.[9] There is Kirkhope, and Oakwood, and Bowhill. Think of our Meg; would ye not like to see the lassie mistress of these? And well I wot ye might, for the youth is a spritely young fellow, though given to adventure, as what brave young man is not? And I trow that he would put up with an ill-featured wife, rather than lose his life on our hanging-tree." [Footnote 9: These lands were sold to the Scotts of Buccleuch sometime afterwards, and the Duke of Buccleuch is the present owner.] Sir Juden looked at his wife for full three minutes in silence, and then he broke into a loud laugh. "By my soul, thou art right, Margaret," he said. "Thou wert born with the wisdom of Solomon, though men would scarce think it to look at thee." And he began to dress himself, without more ado. Less than two hours afterwards, the door of the dungeon where young Scott was confined was thrown open with a loud and grating noise, and three men-at-arms appeared, and requested the prisoner, all bound as he was, to follow them. Willie obeyed without a word. He had dared, and had been defeated, and now he must pay the penalty that the times required, and like a brave man he would pay it uncomplainingly, but I warrant that, as he followed the men up the steep stone steps, his heart was heavy within him, and his thoughts were dwelling on the bonnie braes that lay around Harden, where he had so often played when he was a bairn, with his mother, the gentle "Flower of Yarrow," watching over him, and which he knew he would never see again. But, to his astonishment, instead of being led straight out to the "dule-tree," as he had expected, he was taken into the great hall, and stationed close to one of the narrow windows. A strange sight met his eyes. The hall was full of armed men, who were looking about them with broad smiles of amusement, while, on a dais at the far end of the hall, were seated, in two large armchairs, his captor of the night before, Sir Juden Murray, and a severe-looking lady, in a wondrous head-dress, and a stiff silken gown, whom he took to be his wife. Between them, blushing and hanging her head as if the ordeal was too much for her, was the plainest-looking maiden he had ever seen in his life. She was thin and ill-thriven-looking, very different from the buxom lassies he was accustomed to see: her eyes were colourless; her nose was long and pointed, and the size of her mouth would alone have proclaimed her to be the worthy couple's eldest daughter, Muckle-Mou'ed Meg. Near the dais stood her two younger sisters. They were plain-looking girls also, but hardly so plain-looking as Meg, and they were laughing and whispering to one another, as if much amused by what was going on. Sir Juden cleared his throat and crossed one thin leg slowly over the other, while he looked keenly at his prisoner from under his bushy eyebrows. "Good morrow, young sir," he said at last; "so you and your friends thought that ye would like a score or two o' the Elibank kye. By whose warrant, may I ask, did ye ride, seeing that in those days peace is declared on the Border, and anyone who breaks it, breaks it at his own risk?" "I rode at my own peril," answered the young man haughtily, for he did not like to be questioned in this manner, "and it is on mine own head that the blame must fall. Thou knowest that right well, Sir Juden, so it seems to me but waste of words to parley here." "So thou knowest the fate that thy rash deed brings on thee," said Sir Juden hastily, his temper, never of the sweetest, rising rapidly at the young man's coolness. He would fain have hanged him without more ado, did prudence permit; and it was hard to sit still and bargain with him. "So thou knowest that I have the right to hang thee, without further words," he continued; "and, by my faith, many a man would do it, too, without delay. But thou art young, William, and young blood must aye be roving, that I would fain remember, and so I offer thee another chance." Here the Lord of Elibank paused and glanced at his wife, to see if he had said the right thing, for it was she who had arranged the scene beforehand, and had schooled her husband in the part he was to play. Meanwhile young Harden, happening to meet Meg Murray's eyes, and puzzled by the look, half wistful, half imploring, which he saw there, glanced hastily out of the little casement beside which he was standing, and received a rude shock, in spite of all his courage, when he saw a strong rope, with a noose at the end of it, dangling from a stout branch of the dule-tree on the green, while a man-at-arms stood kicking the ground idly beside it, apparently waiting till he should be called on to act as executioner. "So the old rascal is going to hang me after all," he said to himself; "then what, in Our Lady's name, means this strange mummery, and how comes that ill-favoured maiden to look at me as if her life depended on mine?" At that moment, old Sir Juden, reassured by a nod from Dame Margaret, went on with his speech. "I will therefore offer thee another chance, I say, and, moreover, I will throw a herd of the cattle which thou wert so anxious to steal into the bargain, if thou wilt promise, on thy part, to wed my daughter Meg within the space of four days." Here the wily old man stopped, and the Lady of Elibank nodded her head again, while, as for young Harden, for the moment he was too astonished to speak. So this was the meaning of it all. He was to be forced to marry the ugliest maiden in the south of Scotland in order to save his life. The vision of his mother's beauty rose before him, and the contrast between the Flower of Yarrow and Muckle-Mou'ed Meg o' Elibank struck him so sharply that he cried out in anger, "By my troth, but this thing shall never be. So do thy worst, Sir Juden." "Think well before ye choose," said that knight, more disappointed than he would have cared to own at his prisoner's words, "for there are better things in this world than beauty, young man. Many a beautiful woman hath been but a thorn in her husband's side, and forbye[10] that, hast thou not learned in the Good Book--if ever ye find time to read it, which I fear me will be but seldom--that a prudent wife is more to be sought after than a bonnie one? And though my Meg here is mayhap no' sae well-favoured as the lassies over in Borthwick Water, or Teviotdale, I warrant there is not one of them who hath proved such a good daughter, or whose nature is so kind and generous." [Footnote 10: Besides.] Still young Harden hesitated, and glanced from the lady, who, poor thing, had hidden her face in her hands, to the gallows, and from the gallows back again to the lady. Was ever mortal man in such a plight? Here he was, young, handsome, rich, and little more than four-and-twenty, and he must either lose his life on the green yonder, or marry a damsel whom everyone mocked at for her looks. "If only I could be alone with her for five minutes," he thought to himself, "to see what she looks like, when there is no one to peep and peer at her. The maiden hath not a chance in the midst of this mannerless crowd, and methought her eyes were open and honest, as they looked into mine a little while ago." At that moment Meg Murray lifted her head once more, and gazed round her like a stag at bay. Poor lassie, it had been bad enough to be jeered at by her father, and flouted and scolded by her mother, because of the unfortunately large mouth with which Providence had endowed her, without being put up for sale, as it were, in the presence of all her father's retainers, and find that the young man to whom she had been offered chose to suffer death rather than have her for a bride. It was the bitterest moment of all her life, and, had she known it, it was the moment that fixed her destiny. For young Willie of Harden saw that look, and something in it stirred his pity. Besides, he noticed that her pale face was sweet and innerly,[11] and her gray eyes clear and true. [Footnote 11: Confiding.] "Hold," he cried, just as Sir Juden, whose patience was quite exhausted, gave a signal to his men-at-arms to seize the prisoner, and hurry him off to the gallows, "I have changed my mind, and I accept the conditions. But I call all men to witness that I accept not the hand of this noble maiden of necessity, or against my will. I am a Scott, and, had I been minded to, I could have faced death. But I crave the honour of her hand from her father with all humility, and here I vow, before ye all, to do my best to be to her a loyal and a true man." Loud cheers, and much jesting, followed this speech, and men would have crowded round the young Knight and made much of him, but he pushed his way in grim silence up the hall to where Meg o' Elibank stood trembling by her delighted parents. She greeted him with a look which set him thinking of a bird which sees its cage flung open, and I wot that, though he did not know it, at that moment he began to love her. Be that as it may, his words to Sir Juden were short and gruff. "Sir," he asked, "hast thou a priest in thy company? For, if so, let him come hither and finish what we have begun. I would fain spend this night in my own Tower of Oakwood." Sir Juden and his lady were not a little taken aback at this sudden demand, for, now that the matter was settled to their satisfaction, they would have liked to have married their eldest daughter with more state and ceremony. "There's no need of such haste," began Dame Margaret, with a look at her lord, "if your word is given, and the Laird satisfied. The morn, or even the next day might do. The lassie's providing[12] must be gathered together, for I would not like it said that a bride went out of Elibank with nothing but the clothes she stood in." [Footnote 12: Trousseau.] But young Harden interrupted her with small courtesy. "Let her be married now, or not at all," he said, and as the heir of Harden as a prospective son-in-law was very different from the heir of Harden as a prisoner, she feared to say him nay, lest he went back on his word. So a priest was sent for, and in great haste William Scott of Harden was wedded to Margaret Murray of Elibank, and then they two set off alone, over the hills to the old Tower of Oakwood--he, with high thoughts of anger and revenge in his heart for the trick that had been played him;--she, poor thing, wondering wistfully what the future held in store for her. The day was cold and wet, and halfway over the Hangingshaw Height he heard a stifled sob behind him, and, looking over his shoulder, he saw his little woebegone bride trying in vain with her numbed fingers to guide her palfrey, which was floundering in a moss-hole, to firmer footing. The sight would have touched a harder heart than Willie of Harden's, for he was a true son of his mother, and the Flower of Yarrow was aye kind-hearted; and suddenly all his anger vanished. "God save us, lassie, but there's nothing to greet[13] about," he said, turning his horse and taking her reins from her poor stiff fingers, and, though the words were rough, his voice was strangely gentle. "'Tis not thy fault that things have fallen out thus, and if I be a trifle angered, in good faith it is not with thee. Come," and, as he spoke, he stooped down and lifted her bodily from her saddle, and swung her up in front of him on his great black horse. "Leave that stupid beast of thine alone; 'twill find its way back to Elibank soon enough, I warrant. We will go over the hill quicker in this fashion, and thou wilt have more shelter from the rain. There is many a good nag on the hills at Harden, and, when she hears of our wedding, I doubt not but that my mother will have one trained for thee." [Footnote 13: Cry.] Poor Meg caught her breath. She did not feel so much afraid of her husband now that she was close to him, and his arm was round her; besides, the shelter from the rain was very pleasant; but still her heart misgave her. "Thy Lady Mother, she is very beautiful," she faltered, "and doubtless she looked for beauty in her sons' wives." Then, for ever and a day, all resentment went out of Willie of Harden's heart, and pure love and pity entered into it. "If her sons' wives are but good women, my mother will be well content," he said, and with that he kissed her. And I trow that that kiss marked the beginning of Meg Scott's happiness. For happy she always was. She was aye plain-looking--nothing on earth could alter her features--but with great happiness comes a look of marvellous contentment, which can beautify the most homely face, and she was such a clever housekeeper (no one could salt beef as she could), and so modest and gentle, that her handsome husband grew to love her more and more, and I wot that her face became to him the bonniest and the sweetest face in the whole world. Sons and daughters were born to them, strapping lads and fair-faced lassies, and, in after years, when old Wat o' Harden died, and Sir William reigned in his stead, in the old house at the head of the glen, he was wont to declare that for prudence, and virtue, and honour, there was no woman on earth to be compared with his own good wife Meg. DICK O' THE COW "Now Liddesdale has layen lang in, There is na ryding there at a'; The horses are a' grown sae lither fat, They downa stir out o' the sta'. Fair Johnie Armstrong to Willie did say-- 'Billy, a riding we will gae; England and us have lang been at feid; Ablins we'll light on some bootie.'" It was somewhere about the year 1592, and Thomas, Lord Scroope, sat at ease in his own apartment in Carlisle Castle. He had finished supper, and was now resting in a great oak chair before a roaring fire. A tankard of ale stood on a stool by his side (for my Lord of Scroope loved good cheer above all things), and his favourite hound lay stretched on the floor at his feet. To judge by the look on his face, he was thinking pleasant thoughts just then. He held the office of Warden of the English Marches, as well as that of Governor of Carlisle Castle, and in those lawless days the post was not an easy one. There was generally some raid or foray which had to be investigated, some turbulent Scot pursued, or mayhap some noted freebooter hung; but just at present the country-side was at peace, and the Scotts, and Elliots, and Armstrongs, seemed to be content to stay quietly at home on their own side of the Border. So that very day he had sent off a good report to his royal mistress, Queen Elizabeth, then holding her court in far-off London, and now he was dreaming of paying a long deferred visit to his Castle of Bolton in Lancashire. A sharp knock at the door came as a sudden interruption to these dreams. "Enter," he cried hastily, wondering to himself what message could have arrived at the castle at that hour of night. It was his own poor fool who entered, for in Carlisle Castle high state was kept, and Lord Scroope had his jester, like any king. The man was known to everyone as "Dick o' the Cow," the reason probably being that his wife helped to eke out his scanty wages by keeping three cows, and selling their milk to the honest burghers of Carlisle. He was a harmless, light-hearted fellow, whom some men called half-witted, but who was much cleverer than he appeared at first sight to be. As a rule he was always laughing and making jokes, but to-night his face was long and doleful. "What ails thee, man?" cried Lord Scroope impatiently. "Methinks thou hast forgot thine office, else why comest thou here with a face that would make a merry man sad?" "Alack, Master," answered the fool, "up till now I have been an honest man, but at last I must turn my hand to thieving, and for that reason I would crave thy leave to go over the Border into Liddesdale." "Tush!" said the Warden impatiently, "I love not such jesting. I hear enough about thieving and reiving, and such-like business, without my very fool dinning it into my ears. Leave such matters for my Lord of Buccleuch and me to settle, Sirrah, and bethink thee of thy duty. 'Tis easier to crack jokes and sing songs in the safe shelter of Carlisle Castle than to ride out armed against these Scottish knaves." But Dick knelt at his master's feet. "This is no jest, my lord," he said. "For once in his life this poor fool is in earnest. For I am like to be ruined if I cannot have revenge. Thou knowest how my wife and I live in a little cottage just outside the city walls, and how, with my small earnings, I bought three milch cows. My wife is a steady woman and industrious, and she sells the milk which these three cows give, to the people in the city, and so she earns an honest penny." "In good sooth, a very honest penny," repeated Lord Scroope, laughing, for 'twas well known in Carlisle that the milk which was sold by Dick o' the Cow's wife was thinner and dearer than any other milk sold in the town. "Last night," went on the fool, "these Scottish thieves, the Armstrongs of Liddesdale, rode past the house, and, of course, they must needs drive these cows off, and, not content with that, they broke open the door, and stole the very coverlets off my bed. My wife bought these coverlets at the Michaelmas fair, and, I trow, what with the loss of them, and the loss of the cows, she is like to lose her reason. So, to comfort her, I have promised to bring them back. Therefore, my lord, I crave leave of thee to go over into Liddesdale, and see what I can lay my hands on there." The blood rose to the Warden's face. "By my troth, but thou art not frightened to speak, Sirrah," he cried. "Am I not set here to preserve law and order, and thou wouldst have me give thee permission to steal?" "Nay, not to steal," said the fool slyly; "I only crave leave to get back my own, or, at least, the money's worth for what was my own." Lord Scroope pondered the request for a minute or two. "After all," he thought to himself, "what can this one poor man do against such a powerful clan as the Armstrongs? He will be killed, most likely, and that will be the end of it. So there can be no great harm in letting him go." "If I give thee leave, wilt thou swear that thou wilt steal from no one but those who stole from thee?" he asked at last. "That I will," said Dick readily. "I give thee my troth, and there is my right hand upon it. Thou canst hang me for a thief myself, if I take as much as a bannock of bread from the house of any man who hath done me no harm." So my Lord of Scroope let him go. A blithe man was Dick o' the Cow as he went down the streets of Carlisle next morning, for he had money in his pocket, and a big scheme floating in his brain. It mattered little to him that men smiled to each other as they passed him, and whispered, "There goes my Lord of Scroope's poor jester." "He laughs the longest who laughs the last," he thought to himself, "and mayhap all men will envy me before long." First of all, he went and bought a pair of spurs, and a new bridle, which he carefully hid in his breeches pocket, then he turned his back on Carlisle and set out to walk over Bewcastle Waste into Liddesdale. It was a long walk, but he footed it bravely, and at last he arrived at Pudding-burn House, a strongly fortified place, held by John Armstrong, "The Laird's Jock," as he was called, son of the Laird of Mangerton, and a man of importance in the clan. He was known to be both just and generous, and the poor fool thought that he would go to him, and tell him his story, in the hope that he would force the rest of the Armstrongs to give him back his three cows. But when he came near the Pudding-burn House, he found to his dismay that the two Armstrongs who had stolen his cows, Johnie and Willie, had stopped there, on their way home, with all their men-at-arms, and, from the sounds of feasting and mirth which he heard as he approached, he suspected that one, at least, of his three cows had been killed to provide the supper. "Ah well," thought he to himself, "I am but a poor fool, and there are three-and-thirty armed men against me. To fight is impossible, so I must e'en set my wits to work against their strength of arms." So he walked boldly up to the house, and demanded to see the Laird's Jock. There was much laughter among the men-at-arms as he was led into the great hall, for everyone had heard of my Lord of Scroope's jester, and, when they knew that it was he, they all crowded round to see what he was like. He knew his manners, and bowed right low before the master of the house. "God save thee, my good Laird's Jock," he said, "although I fear me I cannot wish so well to all thy company. For I come here to bring a complaint against two of these men--against Johnie and Willie Armstrong, who, with their followers, broke into my house near Carlisle these two nights past, and drove away my three good milk cows, forbye stealing three coverlets from my bed. And I crave that I get my own again, and that justice may be meted out to the dishonest varlets." These words were greeted by a shout of laughter, for these were rough and lawless times, when might was right, and the strong tyrannised over the weak, and it seemed ridiculous to see this poor fool standing in the middle of all these armed moss-troopers, and expecting to be heard. "He deserves to be hanged for his insolence," said Johnie Armstrong, who had been the leader of the company. "Run him through with a sword," said Willie, laughing; "'tis less trouble, and 'twill serve the same end." "No," cried another. "'Tis not worth while to kill him. He is but a fool at the best. Let us give him a good beating, and then let him go." But the Laird's Jock heard them, and his voice rang out high above the rest. "Why harm the poor man?" he said. "After all, he hath but come to seek his own, and he must be both hungry and footsore." Then, turning to the fool, he added kindly, "Sit thyself down, my man, and rest thee a little. I am sorry that we cannot exactly give thee thy cattle back again, but at least we can give thee a slice from the leg of one of them. Beshrew me if I have tasted finer beef for many a long day." Amid roars of laughter a slice of beef was cut from the enormous leg which lay roasted on the great table, and placed before Dick. But he could not eat it, he could only think what a fine cow it had been when it was alive. At last he slipped away unobserved out of the house, and, looking about for somewhere to sleep, he found an old tumble-down house filled with peats. He crept into it, and lay there, wondering and scheming how he could avenge himself. Now it had always been the custom at Mangerton Hall, where the Laird's Jock had been brought up, that whoever was not in time for one meal had to wait till the next, and he made the same rule hold good at Pudding-burn House. As the poor fool lay among the peats, he could see what was going on through a crack in the door, and he noticed that, as the Armstrongs' men were both tired and hungry, they did not take time to put the key away safely after attending to their horses and locking the stable door, but flung it hastily up on the roof, where it could easily be found if it were wanted, and hurried off in case they were late for their supper. "Here is my chance," he thought to himself, and, as soon as they were all gone into the house, he crept out, and took down the key, and entered the stable. Then he did a very cruel thing. He cut every horse, except three, on one of its hind legs, "tied it with St Mary's knot," as it was called; so that he made them all lame. Then he hastily drew the spurs and the new bridle out of his breeches pocket. He buckled on the spurs, and began to examine the three horses which he had not lamed. He knew to whom they belonged. Two of them, which were standing together, belonged to Johnie and Willie Armstrong, and were the very horses they had ridden when they stole the cows. The third, a splendid animal, which had a stall to itself, plainly belonged to the Laird's Jock. "I will leave the Laird's Jock's," thought Dick to himself, "for I cannot take three, and he is a kind man; but Johnie's and Willie's must go. 'Twill perhaps teach them what comes of dishonest ways." So saying, he slipped the bridle over the head of one horse, and tied a rope round the neck of the other, and, opening the stable door, he led them out quietly, and then, mounting one of them, he galloped away as fast as he could. The next morning, when the men went to the stable to see after their horses, there were shouts of anger and consternation. And no wonder. For it was easy to be seen that thirty of the horses would never put foot to the ground again; other two were stolen; and there was only one, the beautiful bay mare which belonged to the Laird's Jock, which was of any use at all. "Now who hath done this cruel thing?" cried the master of the house in great anger. "Let me know his name, and by my soul, he shall be punished." "'Twas the varlet whom we all took to be such a fool," cried Johnie; "the rascal who came here last night whining for his precious cows. A thousand pities but we had done as I said, and hanged him on the nearest tree." "Hold thy tongue and take blame to thyself," said the Laird's Jock sharply. "Did I not tell thee, ere thou rode to Carlisle, thou and Willie and thy thieving band, that the two countries were at peace, and if thou began this work once more, 'twas hard to say where it would end? Truly the tables are indeed turned. For this poor fool, as thou callest him, hath befooled us all, for the men's horses are maimed and useless, thine own and thy brother's are stolen, and there but remains this good bay mare of mine. Beshrew me, but it seems as if the fellow had some gratitude left that he did not touch her, for I love her as I never loved a horse before." "Give her to me," cried Johnie Armstrong quickly, stung by this well-earned reproof, "and I will bring the two horses back, and the cunning fool with them, either alive or dead. 'Tis a far cry from here to Carlisle, and I trow he could ride but slowly in the darkness." "A likely story," said the Laird's Jock. "The fool, as thou callest him, hath already stolen two good horses, and to send another after him would but be sending good siller after bad." "An' dost thou think that he could take the horse from me?" asked Johnie indignantly, and he pleaded so hard to be allowed to pursue Dick, that at last the Laird's Jock gave him leave. He wasted no time in seeking his armour, but, snatching up hastily his kinsman's doublet, sword, and helmet, he leaped on the bay mare and galloped away. He rode so furiously that by midday he overtook Dick on Canonbie Lee, not far from Longtown. The poor fool had had to ride slowly, for he was not very much accustomed to horses, and it was not easy for him to manage two. He looked round in alarm when he heard the thunder of hoofs behind him, but his face cleared when he saw that Johnie Armstrong was alone. "I have outwitted a whole household," he thought to himself; "beshrew me if I cannot tackle one man, even although it be Johnie Armstrong." All the same he put his horses to the gallop, and went on as fast as he could. "Now hold, thou traitor thief, and stand for thy life," shouted Johnie in a passion. Dick glanced hastily over his shoulder, and then he pulled his horses round suddenly. He could fight better than most men thought, when he was put to it. "Art thou alone, Johnie?" he said tauntingly. "Then must I tell thee a little story. I am an unlettered man, being but a poor fool, as thou knowest, but I try to do my duty, and every Sunday I go to church in Carlisle city with my betters. And at our church we have a right good preacher, though his sermons run through my poor brain as if it were a sieve; but there are three words which I aye remember. The first two of these are 'faith' and 'conscience,' and it seems to me that ye lacked both of them when ye came stealing in the dark to my humble cottage, knowing full well that I could not defend myself, and stole my cows, and took my wife's coverlets. What the third word is, I cannot at this moment remember, but it means that when a man lacks faith and conscience he deserves to be punished, and therefore have I punished thee." Johnie Armstrong felt that he was being laughed at, and, blind with fury, he took his lance and flung it at the fool, thinking to kill him. But he missed his aim, and it only glanced against Dick's doublet, and fell harmless to the ground. Dick saw his advantage, and rode his horse straight at his enemy, and, taking his cudgel by the wrong end, he struck Johnie such a blow on the head that he fell senseless to the ground. Then was the fool a proud man. "Lord Scroope shall hear of this, Johnie," he said to himself, with a chuckle of delight, as he dismounted, and stripped the unconscious man of his coat-of-mail, his steel helmet, and his two-handed sword. He knew that if he went home empty-handed, and told his master that he had fought with Johnie Armstrong and defeated him, Lord Scroope would laugh him to scorn, for Johnie was known to be one of the best fighters on the Borders; but these would serve as proofs that his story was true. Then, taking the bay mare by the bridle, he mounted his horse once more, and rode on to Carlisle in triumph. When Johnie Armstrong came to his senses, he cursed the English and all belonging to them with right goodwill. "Now verily," he said to himself, as he turned his face ruefully towards Liddesdale, "'twill be a hundred years and more ere anyone finds me fighting with a man who is called a fool again." When Dick o' the Cow rode into the courtyard of Carlisle Castle with his three horses, the first man he met was My Lord of Scroope. Now the Warden knew the Laird's Jock's bay mare at once, and at the sight of her he flew into a violent passion. For he knew well enough that if Dick had stolen three horses from the Armstrongs, that powerful clan would soon ride over into Cumberland to avenge themselves, and had he not written to Queen Elizabeth, not three days before, of the peace which prevailed on the Borders? "By my troth, fellow," he said in deep vexation, "I'll have thee hanged for this." Poor Dick was much taken aback at this unlooked-for welcome. He had expected to be greeted as a hero, instead of being threatened with death. "'Twas thyself gave me leave to go, my Lord," he said sullenly. "Ay, I gave thee leave to go and steal from those who stole from thee, an thou couldst," said Lord Scroope in reply; "but beshrew me if I ever gave thee leave to steal from the good Laird's Jock. He is a peaceful man, and a true, and meddles not the Border folk. 'Twas not he who stole thy cows." Then Dick held up the coat-of-mail, and the helmet, and the two-handed sword. "On my honour, I won them all in fair and open fight," he cried. "Johnie Armstrong stole my cows, and 'twas he who followed me on the Laird's Jock's mare, and clad in the Laird's Jock's armour. He would fain have slain me with his lance, but by God's grace it glanced from my doublet, and I felled him to the ground with my cudgel." "Well done!" cried the Warden, slapping his thigh in his delight. "By my soul, but it was well done. My poor fool is more of a man than I thought he was. If the horse be the fair spoil of war, then will I buy her of thee. See, I will give thee fifteen pounds for her, and throw a milk cow into the bargain. 'Twill please thy wife to have milk again." But Dick was not satisfied with this offer. "May the mother of all the witches fly away with me," he said, "if the horse is not worth more than fifteen pounds. No, no, my Lord, twenty pounds is her price, an if thou wilt not pay that for her, she goes with me to-morrow to be sold at Morton Fair." Now Lord Scroope happened to know the worth of the mare, so he paid the money down without more ado, and he kept his word about the milk cow. As Dick pocketed the money, and took possession of the cow, he thought what a very clever fellow he was, and he held his head high as he rode out of the courtyard, and down the streets of Carlisle, still leading one horse, and driving the cow in front of him. He had not gone very far before he met Lord Scroope's brother. "Well met, fool," he cried, laying his hand on Dick's bridle rein. "Where in all the world didst get Johnie Armstrong's horse? I know 'tis his by the white feet and white forelock. Has my brother been having a fray with Scotland?" "No," said the fool proudly, "but I have. The horse is mine by right of arms." "Wilt sell him me?" asked the Warden's brother, who loved a good horse if only he could get him cheaply. "I will give thee ten pounds for him, and a milk cow into the bargain." "Say twenty pounds," said Dick contemptuously, "and keep thy word about the milk cow, else the horse goes with me to Morton Fair." Now the Warden's brother needed the horse, and, besides, it was not dear even at twenty pounds, so he paid down the money, and told the fool where to go for the milk cow. An hour later Dick appeared at his own cottage door, and shouted for his wife. She rubbed her eyes and blinked with astonishment when she saw her husband mounted on a good black horse, and driving two fat milk cows before him. Like everyone else, she had always counted him a fool, and had never looked for much help from him. So the loss of the three cows had been a serious matter to her, for the money which their milk brought had done much towards keeping up the house, and clothing the children. "Here, woman," he cried joyously, leaping from his horse, and emptying the gold out of his pockets into her apron. "Thou madest a great to-do over thy coverlets, but I trow that forty pounds of good red money will pay for them fully, and the three cows which we lost were but thin, starved creatures, compared with these two that I have brought back, and here is a good horse into the bargain." It all seemed too good to be true, and Dick's wife rubbed her eyes once more. "Take care that they be not taken from thee," she said. "Methinks the Armstrongs will demand vengeance." "They will not get it from My Lord of Scroope," answered Dick, "for 'twas he who gave me leave to go and steal from them. But mayhap we live too near the Borders for our own comfort, now that we are so rich. When a man hath made his fortune by his wits, as I have, he deserves a little peace in his old age. What wouldst thou think of going further South into Westmoreland, and taking up house near thy mother's kinsfolk?" "I would think 'twas the wisest plan that ever entered that silly pate of thine," answered his wife, who had never liked to live in such an unsettled region. So they packed up their belongings, and, getting leave from Lord Scroope, they went to live at Burghunder-Stanmuir, where they passed for quite rich and clever people. THE HEIR OF LINNE "Lithe and listen, gentlemen, To sing a song I will beginne; It is of a lord of faire Scotland, Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne." There was trouble in the ancient Castle of Linne. Upstairs in his low-roofed, oak-panelled chamber the old lord lay dying, and the servants whispered to one another, that, when all was over, and he was gone, there would be many changes at the old place. For he had been a good master, kind and thoughtful to his servants, and generous to the poor. But his only son was a different kind of man, who thought only of his own enjoyment; and John o' the Scales, the steward on the estate, was a hard task-master, and was sure to oppress the poor and helpless when the old lord was no longer there to keep an eye on him. By the sick man's bedside sat an old nurse, the tears running down her wrinkled face. She had come to the castle long years before, with the fair young mistress who had died when her boy was born. She had taken the child from his dying mother's arms, and had brought him up as if he had been her own, and many a time since he became a man she had mourned, along with his father, over his reckless and sinful ways. Now she saw nothing before him but ruin, and she shook her head sadly, and muttered to herself as she sat in the darkened room. "Janet," said the old lord suddenly, "go and tell the lad to speak to me. He loves not to be chided, and of late years I have said but little to him. It did no good, and only angered him. But there are things which must be said, and something warns me that I must make haste to say them." Noiselessly the old woman left the room, and went to do his bidding, and presently slow, unwilling footsteps sounded on the staircase, and the Lord of Linne's only son entered. His father's eye rested on him with a fondness which nothing could conceal. For, as is the way with fathers, he loved him still, in spite of all the trouble and sorrow and heartache which he had caused him. He was a fine-looking young fellow, tall and strong, and debonair, but his face was already beginning to show traces of the wild and reckless life which he was leading. "I am dying, my son," said his father, "and I have sent for thee to ask thee to make me one promise." A shadow came over the young man's careless face. He feared that his father might ask him to give up some of his boon companions, or never to touch cards or wine again, and he knew that his will was so weak, that, even if he made the promise, he would break it within a month. But his father knew this as well as he did, and it was none of these things that he was about to ask, for he knew that to ask them would be useless. "'Tis but a little promise, lad," he went on, "and one that thou wilt find easy to keep. I am leaving thee a large estate, and plenty of gold, but I know too well that in the days to come thou wilt spend the gold and sell the land. Thou canst not do otherwise, if thou continuest to lead the life thou art leading now. But think not that I sent for thee to chide thee, lad; the day is past for that. Promise only, that when the time I speak of hath come, and thou must needs sell the land, that thou wilt refuse to part with one corner of it. 'Tis the little lodge which stands in the narrow glen far up on the moor. 'Tis a tumble-down old place, and no man would think it worth his while to pay thee a price for it. It would go for an old song wert thou to sell it. Therefore I pray thee to give me thy solemn promise that when thou partest with all the rest, thou wilt still remain master of that. For remember this, lad," and in his eagerness the old man raised himself in his bed, "when all else is lost, and the friends whom thou hast trusted turn their backs and frown on thee, then go to that old lodge, for in it, though thou mayest not think so now, there will always be a trusty friend waiting for thee. Say, wilt thou promise?" "Of course I will, father," said the young man, much moved; "but I never mean to sell any of the land. I am not so bad as all that. But if it makes thee happier, I swear now in thy presence that I will never part with the old lodge." With a sigh of satisfaction the old lord fell back on his pillow, and before his son could call for help he was dead. For the first few weeks after his father's death, the Heir of Linne seemed sobered, and as if he intended to lead a better life; but after a little while he forgot all about it, and began to riot and drink and gamble as hard as ever. He filled the old house with his friends, and wild revelry went on in it from morning till night. He had always been wild and reckless; he was worse than ever now. His father's friends shook their heads when they heard of his wild doings. "It cannot go on," they said. "He is doing no work, and he is throwing away his money right and left. Had he all the gold of the Indies, it would soon come to an end at this rate." And they were right. It could not go on. One day the young man found that not one penny remained of all the money which his father had left him, and there seemed nothing for it but to sell some of his land. Money must be got somehow, for he was deeply in debt. Besides, he had to live, and he had never been taught to work, and, even if he had, he was too lazy and idle to do it. So away he went, and told his dilemma to his father's steward, John o' the Scales, who, as I have said, was a hard man, and a rogue into the bargain. He knew far more about money matters than his master's son, and when he heard the story which he had to tell him, his wicked heart gave a throb of joy. Here, at last, was the very opportunity which he had been looking for: for, while the heir had been wasting his time, and spending his money, instead of looking after his estates, the dishonest steward had been filling his own pockets; and now he would fain turn a country gentleman. So, with many fair words, and a great show of sympathy, he offered to buy the land for himself. "Young men would be young men," he said, "and 'twas no wonder that a dashing young fellow, like the Heir of Linne, should wish to see the world, rather than stay quietly at home and look after his land. That was only fit for old men when they were past their prime. So, if he desired to part with the land, he would give him a fair price for it, and then there would be no need for him to trouble any more about money matters." The foolish young man was quite ready to agree to this. All that he cared about was how to get money to pay his debts, and to enable him to go on gambling and drinking with his companions. So when John o' the Scales named a price for the land, and drew up an agreement, he signed it readily, never dreaming that the cunning steward was cheating him, and that the land was worth at least three times as much as he was paying for it. There was only one corner of the estate which he refused to sell, and that was the narrow glen, far out on the hillside, where the old tumble-down lodge stood. For the Heir of Linne was not wholly bad, and he had enough manliness left in him to remember the promise which he had made to his dying father. So John o' the Scales became Lord of Linne, and a mighty big man he thought himself. He went to live, with his wife Joan, in the old castle, and he turned his back on his former friends, and tried to make everyone forget that up till now he had only been a steward. Meanwhile the Heir of Linne, as people still called him--though, like Esau, he had sold his birthright--went away quite happily now that his pockets were once more filled with gold, and went on in his old ways, drinking, and gambling, and rioting, with his boon companions, as if he thought that this money would last for ever. But of course it did not, and one fine day, nearly a year after he had sold his land, he found that his purse was quite empty again, except for a few small coins. He had no more land to sell, and for the first time in his life he grew thoughtful, and began to wonder what he should do. But he never took the trouble to worry about anything, and he trusted that in the end it would all come right. "I have no lack of friends," he thought to himself, "and in the past I have entertained them right royally; surely now it is their turn to entertain me, and by and by I shall look for work." So with a light heart he travelled to Edinburgh, where most of his fine friends lived, never thinking but that they would be ready to receive him with open arms. Alas! he had yet to learn that the people who are most eager to share our prosperity are not always those who are readiest to share our adversity. With all his faults he had ever been open-handed and generous, and had lent his money freely, and he went boldly to their doors, intending to ask them to lend him money in return, now that he was in need of it. But, to his surprise, instead of being glad to see him, one and all gave him the cold shoulder. At the first house the servant came to the door with the message that his master was not at home, though the heir could have sworn that a moment before he had seen him peeping through the window. The master of the next house was at home, but he began to make excuses, and to say how sorry he was, but he had just paid all his bills, and he had no more money by him; while at the third house his friend spoke to him quite sharply, just as if he had been a stranger, and told him that he ought to be ashamed of the way he had wasted his father's money, and sold his land, and that certainly he could not think of lending gold to him, as he would never expect to see it back again. The poor young man went out into the street, feeling quite dazed with surprise. "Ah, lack-a-day!" he said to himself bitterly. "So these are the men who called themselves my friends. As long as I was Heir of Linne, and master of my father's lands, they seemed to love me right well. Many a meal have they eaten at my table, and many a pound of mine hath gone into their pockets; and this is how they repay me." After this things went from bad to worse. He tried to get work, but no one would hire him, and it was not very long before the Heir of Linne, who had been so proud and reckless in his brighter days, was going about in ragged clothes, begging his bread from door to door. No one who saw him now would have known him to be the bright-faced, handsome lad of whom the old lord had been so proud a few years before. At last, one day when his courage was almost gone, the words which his father had spoken on his death-bed, and which he had forgotten up till now, flashed into his mind. "He said that I would find a faithful friend in the little lodge up in the glen, when all my other friends had forsaken me," he said to himself. "I cannot think what he meant, but surely now is the time to test his words, for surely no man could be more forsaken than I am." So he turned his face from the city, and wended his way over hill and dale, moor and river, till he came to the little lodge, standing in the lonely glen, high up on the moors near the Castle of Linne. He had hardly seen the tumble-down old place since he was a boy, and somehow, from his father's words, he expected to find someone living in it--his good old nurse, perhaps. He was so worn out and miserable that the tears came into his eyes at the mere thought of seeing her kindly face. But the old building was quite deserted, and, when he forced open the rusty lock, and entered, he found nothing but a low, dark, comfortless room. The walls were bare and damp, and the little window was so overgrown with ivy that scarcely any light could get in. There was not even a chair or a table in it, nothing but a long rope with a noose at the end of it, which hung dangling down from the ceiling. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he noticed that on the rafter above the rope there was written in large letters-- "_Ah, graceless wretch, I knew that thou wouldst soon spoil all, and bring thyself to poverty. So, to hide thy shame, and bring thy sorrows to an end, I left this rope, which will prove thy best friend._" "So my father knew the straits which my foolishness would bring me to, and he thought of this way of ending my life," said the poor young man to himself, and he felt so heart-broken, and so hopeless, that he put his head in the noose and tried to hang himself. But this was not the end of which his father had been thinking when he wrote the words; he had only meant to give his son a lesson, which he hoped would be a warning to him. So, when he put his head in the noose, and took hold of the rope, the beam that it was fastened to gave way, and the whole ceiling came tumbling down on top of him. For a long time he lay stunned on the floor, and when at last he came to himself, he could hardly remember what had happened. At last his eye fell on a packet, which had fallen down with the wood and the mortar, and was lying quite close to him. He picked it up and opened it. Inside there was a golden key, and a letter, which told him, that, if he would climb up through the hole in the ceiling, he would find a hidden room under the roof, and there, built into the wall, he would see three great chests standing together. Wondering greatly to himself, he climbed up among the broken rafters, and he found that what the letter said was true. Sure enough there was a little dark room hidden under the roof, which no one had known of before, and there, standing side by side in the wall, were three iron-bound chests. There was something written above them, as there had been something written above the rope, but this time the words filled him with hope. They ran thus:-- "_Once more, my son, I set thee free; Amend thy Life and follies past: For if thou dost not amend thy life, This rope will be thy end at last._" With trembling hands the Heir of Linne fitted the golden key into the lock of one of the chests. It opened it easily, and when he raised the lid, what was his joy to find that the chest was full of bags of good red gold. There was enough of it to buy back his father's land, and when he saw it he hid his face in his hands, and sobbed for very thankfulness. The key opened the other two chests as well, and he found that one of them was also full of gold, while the other was full of silver. It was plain that his father had known how recklessly he would spend his money, and had stored up these chests for him here in this hidden place, where no one was likely to find them, so that when he was penniless, and had learned how wicked and stupid he had been, he might get another chance if he liked to take it. He had indeed learned a lesson. With outstretched hands he vowed a vow that he would follow his father's advice and mend his ways, and that from henceforth he would try to be a better man, and lead a worthier life, and use this money in a better way. Then he lifted out three bags of gold, and hid them in his ragged cloak, and locked up the chests again, and took his way down the hill to his father's castle. When he arrived, he peeped in at one of the windows, and there he saw John o' the Scales, fat and prosperous-looking, sitting with his wife Joan at the head of the table, and beside them three gentlemen who lived in the neighbourhood. They were laughing, and feasting, and pledging each other in glasses of wine, and, as he looked at them, he wondered how he had ever allowed the sleek, cunning-looking steward to become Lord of Linne in his father's place. With something of his old pride he knocked at the door, and demanded haughtily to speak with the master of the castle. He was taken straight to the dining-hall, and when John o' the Scales saw him standing in his rags he broke into a rude laugh. "Well, Spendthrift," he cried, "and what may thine errand be?" The heir wondered if this man, who, in the old days had flattered and fawned upon him, had any pity left, and he determined to try him. "Good John o' the Scales," he said, "I have come hither to crave thy help. I pray thee to lend me forty pence." It was not a large sum. John o' the Scales had often had twice as much from him, but the churlish fellow started up in a rage. "Begone, thou thriftless loon," he cried; "thou needst not come hither to beg. I swear that not one penny wilt thou get from me. I know too well how thou squandered thy father's gold." Then the heir turned to John o' the Scales' wife Joan. She was a woman; perhaps she would be more merciful. "Sweet madam," he said, "for the sake of blessed charity, bestow some alms on a poor wayfarer." But Joan o' the Scales was a hard woman, and she had never loved her master's son, so she answered rudely, "Nay, by my troth, but thou shalt get no alms from me. Thou art little better than a vagabond; if we had a law to punish such, right gladly would I see thee get thy deserts." Now one of the guests who sat at the board with this rich and prosperous couple was a knight called Sir Ned Agnew. He was not rich, but he was a gentleman, and he had been a friend of the old lord, and had known the Heir when he was a boy, and now, when he saw him standing, ragged and hungry, in the hall that had once been his own, he could not bear that he should be driven away with hard and cruel words. Besides, he felt very indignant with John o' the Scales, for he knew that he had bought the land far too cheaply. He had not much money to lend, but he could always spare a little. "Come back, come back," he cried hastily, as he saw the Heir turn as if to leave the house. "Whatever thou art now, thou wert once a right good fellow, and thou wert always ready to part with thy money to anyone who needed it. I am a poor man myself, but I can lend thee forty pence at least; in fact I think that I could lend thee eighty, if thou art in sore want." Then, turning to his host, he added, "The Heir of Linne is a friend of mine, and I will count it a favour if thou wilt let him have a seat at thy table. I think it is as little as thou canst do, seeing that thou hadst the best of the bargain about his land." John o' the Scales was very angry, but he dare not say much, for he knew in his heart that what the knight said was true, and, moreover, he did not want to quarrel with him, for he liked to be able to go to market, where people were apt to think of him still as the castle steward, and boast about "my friend, Sir Ned." "Nay, thou knowest 'tis false," he blustered, "and I'll take my vow that, far from making a good bargain, I lost money over that matter, and, to prove what I say, I am willing to offer this young man, in the presence of you all, his lands back again, for a hundred merks less than I gave for them." "'Tis done," cried the Heir of Linne, and before the astonished John o' the Scales could speak, he had thrown down a piece of money on the table before him. "'Tis a God's-penny," cried the guests in amazement, for when anyone threw down a piece of money in that way, it meant that they had accepted the bargain, and that the other man could not draw back. [Illustration: "'TIS A GOD'S-PENNY,' CRIED THE GUESTS IN AMAZEMENT."] Then the Heir pulled out the three bags of gold from under his cloak, and threw them down on the table before John o' the Scales, who began to look very grave. He had never dreamt, when he offered to let the young man buy back the land, that he would ever be able to do it. He had meant it as a joke, and the joke was very much like turning into a reality. His face grew longer and longer as the Heir emptied out the good red gold in a heap. "Count it," he cried triumphantly. "It is all there, and honest money. It is thine, and the land is mine, and once more I am the Lord of Linne." Both John o' the Scales and his wife were very much taken aback; but there was nothing to be done but to count the money and to gather it up. John would fain have asked to be taken back as steward again, but the young lord knew now how dishonest he had been, and would not hear of such a thing. "No, no," he said, "it is honest men whom I want now, and men who will be my friends when I am poor, as well as when I am rich. I think I have found such a man here," and he turned to Sir Ned Agnew. "If thou wilt accept the post, I shall be glad to have thee for my steward, and for the keeper of my forests, and my deer, as well. And for everyone of the pence which thou wert willing to lend me, I will pay thee a full pound." So once more the rightful lord reigned in the Castle of Linne, and to everyone's surprise he settled down, and grew so like his father, that strangers who came to the neighbourhood would not believe the stories which people told them of the wild things which he had done in his youth. BLACK AGNACE OF DUNBAR "Some sing o' lords, and some o' knichts, An' some o' michty men o' war, But I sing o' a leddy bricht, The Black Agnace o' Dunnebar." It was in the year 1338, when Bruce's son was but a bairn, and Scotland was guided by a Regent, that we were left, a household of women, as it were, to guard my lord's strong Castle of Dunbar. My lord himself, Cospatrick, Earl of Dunbar and March, had ridden off to join the Regent, Sir Andrew Moray, and help him to drive the English out of the land. For the English King, Edward III., thought it no shame to war with bairns, and since he had been joined by that false loon, Edward Baliol, he had succeeded in taking many of our Scottish fortresses, including Edinburgh Castle, and in planting an English army in our midst. Now the Castle of Dunbar, as all folk know, is a strong Castle, standing as it doth well out to sea, on a mass of solid rock, and connected with the mainland only by one narrow strip of land, which is defended by a drawbridge and portcullis, and walls of solid masonry. Its other sides need no defence, for the wild waters of the Northern Sea beat about them with such fury that it is only at certain times of the tide that even peaceful boatmen can find a safe landing. Indeed, 'tis one of the strongest fortresses in the country, and because of its position, lying not so far from the East Border, and being guard as it were to the Lothians, and Edinburgh, it is often called "The Key of Scotland." My lord deemed it impregnable, as long as it was well supplied with food, so he had little scruple in leaving his young wife and her two little daughters alone there, with a handful of men-at-arms, too old, most of them, to be of any further service in the field, to guard them. She, on her part, was very well content to stay, for was she not a daughter of the famous Randolph, and did she not claim kinship with Bruce himself? So fear to her was a thing unknown. I, who was a woman of fifty then, and am well-nigh ninety now, can truly say that in all the course of a long life, I never saw courage like to hers. I remember, as though it were yesterday, that cold January morning when my lord set off to the Burgh Muir, where he was to meet with the Regent. When all was ready, and his men were mounted and drawn up, waiting for their master, my lady stepped forth joyously, in the sight of them all, and buckled on her husband's armour. "Ride forth and do battle for thy country and thine infant King, poor babe," she said, "and vex not thy heart for us who are left behind. We deserve not the name we bear, if we cannot hold the Castle till thy return, even though it were against King Edward himself. Thinkest thou not so, Marian?" and she turned round to where I was standing, a few paces back, with little Mistress Marjory clinging to my skirts, and little Mistress Jean in my arms. For though I was but her bower-woman, I was of the same clan as my lady, and had served in her family all my life. I had carried her in my arms as I now carried her little daughter, and, at her marriage, I had come with her to her husband's home. "Indeed, Madam, I trow we can, God and the Saints helping us," I answered, and at her brave words the soldiers raised a great cheer, and my lord, who was usually a stern man, and slow to show his feelings, put his arm round her and kissed her on the lips. "Spoken like my own true wife," he said. "But in good troth, Sweetheart, methinks there is nothing to fear. For very shame neither King Edward nor his Captains will war against a woman, and, e'en if they do, if thou but keep the gates locked, and the portcullis down, I defy any one of them to gain admittance. And, look ye, the well in the courtyard will never run dry--'tis sunk in the solid rock--and besides the beeves that were salted down at Martinmas, and the meal that was laid in at the end of harvest, there are bags of grain hidden down in the dungeons, enough to feed a score of men for three months at least." So saying, he leaped into his saddle, and rode out of the gateway, a gallant figure at the head of his troop of armed men, while we climbed to the top of the tower, and stood beside old Andrew, the watchman, and gazed after them until the last glint of their armour disappeared behind a rising hill. After their departure all went well for a time. Indeed, it was as though the years had flown back, and my lady was once more a girl, so light-hearted and joyous was she, pleased with the novelty of being left governor of that great Castle. It seemed but a bit of play when, after ordering the house and setting the maidens to their tasks, she went round the walls with Walter Brand, a lame archer, who was gently born, and whom she had put in charge of our little fighting force, to see that all the men were at their posts. And mere play it seemed to her still, when, some two weeks after my lord's departure, as she was sitting sewing in her little chamber, whose windows looked straight out over the sea, and I was rocking Mistress Jean's cradle, and humming a lullaby, little Mistress Marjory, who was five years old, and stirring for her age, came running down from the watch-tower, where she had been with old Andrew, and cried out that a great host of men on horseback were coming, and that old Andrew said that it was the English. We were laughing at the bairn's story, and wondering who the strangers could be, when old Andrew himself appeared, a look of concern on his usually jocund face. "Oh, my lady," he cried, "there be a body of armed men moving towards the Castle, led by a knight in splendid armour. A squire rides in front of him, carrying his banner; but the device is unknown to me, and I fear me it was never wrought by Scottish hands." "Ah ha," laughed the Countess, rising and throwing away her tapestry. "Thou scentest an Englishman, dost thou, Andrew? Mayhap thy thoughts have run on them so much of late, that the habit hath dimmed thine eyes." "Nay, nay, my lady," stammered old Andrew, half hurt by her gentle raillery, "mine een are keen enough as yet, although my limbs be old." "'Tis but my sport, Andrew," she answered kindly. "I have always loved a jest, and I have no wish to grow old and grave before my time, even if I have the care of a whole Castle on my shoulders. But hark, there be the stranger's trumpets sounding before the gate. See to it that Walter Brand listens to his message, and answers it as befits the dignity of our house: and thou, do thou mount to thy watch-tower, and keep a good lookout on all that passes." We waited in silence for some little space; we could hear the sound of voices, but no distinct words reached us. At last Walter Brand came halting to the door and knocked. Like old Andrew, he wore an anxious look. He was devoted to the Countess, and was aye wont to be timorous where she was concerned. "'Tis the English Earl of Salisbury," he said, "who desires to speak with your Grace. I asked him to entrust his message to me, and I would deliver it, but he gave answer haughtily, that he would speak with no one but the Countess." "Then speak with me he shall," said my lady, with a flash of her eye, "but he must e'en bring himself to catch my words as they drop like pearls from the top of the tower. Summon the archers, Walter, and let them stand behind me for a bodyguard: no man need know how old and frail they be, if they are high enough up, and keep somewhat in the background. And thou, Marian, attend me, for 'tis not fitting that the Countess of Dunbar and March should speak with a strange knight in her husband's absence, without a bower-woman standing by." Casting her wimple round her, she ascended the steep stone stairs, and, as we followed, Walter Brand put his head close to mine. "I like it not," he said in his sober way, "for this Earl of Salisbury is a bold, brazen-faced fellow, and to my ears his voice rings not true. I fear me, he wishes no good to our lady. They say, moreover, that he is one of the best Captains that the King of England hath, and he hath at least two hundred men with him." "Trust my lady to look after her own, and her husband's honour," I said sharply, for, good man though he was, Walter Brand aye angered me; he seemed ever over-anxious, a character I love not in a man. All the same my heart sank, as we stepped out on the flat roof of the tower, and glanced down over the battlements. I saw at once that Walter had spoken truly. Montague, Earl of Salisbury, had a bold, bad face, and his words, though honeyed and low, had a false ring in them. "My humblest greetings, fair lady," he cried; "my life is at thy service, for I heard but yesterday that thy lord, caitiff that he be, hath left thee alone among rough men, in this lonely wind-swept Castle. Methinks thou art accustomed to kinder treatment and therefore am I come to beg thee to open thy gates, and allow me to enter. By my soul, if thou wilt, I shall be thy servant to the death. Such beauty as thine was never meant to be wasted in the desert. Let me enter, and be thy friend, and I will deck thee with such jewels,--with gold and with pearls, that thou shalt be envied of all the ladies in Christendom." My lady drew herself up proudly; but even yet she thought it was some sport, albeit not the sport that should have been offered to a noble dame in her husband's absence. "Little care I for gold, or yet for pearls, my Lord of Salisbury," she said in grave displeasure. "I have jewels enough and to spare, and need not that a stranger should give them to me. As for the gates, I am a loyal wife, and I open them to no one until my good lord return." Now, had my Lord of Salisbury been a true knight, or even a plain, honest, leal soldier, this answer of my lady's would have sufficed, and he would have parleyed no more, but would have departed, taking his men with him. But, villain that he was, his honeyed words rose up once more in answer. "Oh, lady bright, oh, lady fair," he cried, "I pray thee have mercy on thy humble servant, and open thy gates and speak with him. Thou art far too beautiful to live in these cold Northern climes, among rough and brutal men. Come with me, and I will dress thee in cloth-of-gold, and take thee along with me to London. King Edward will welcome thee, for thy beauty will add lustre to his court, and we shall be married with all speed. I warrant the Countess of Salisbury will be a person of importance at the English court, and thou shalt have a retinue such as in this barren country ye little dream of. Thou shalt have both lords and knights to ride in thy train, and twenty little page boys to serve thee on bended knee; and hawks, and hounds, and horses galore, so thou wouldst join in the chase. Think of it, lady, and consider not thy rough and unkind lord. If he had loved thee in the least, would he have left thee in my power?" Now the English lord's words were sweet, and he spoke in the soft Southern tongue, such as might wile a bird from the lift,[14] if the bird chanced to have little sense, and when he ceased I glanced at my lady in alarm, lest for a moment she were tempted. [Footnote 14: Sky.] Heaven forgive me for the thought. She had drawn herself up to her full height, and her face of righteous anger might have frightened the Evil One himself; and, by my Faith, I am not so very sure that it was not the Evil One who spoke by the mouth of my Lord of Salisbury. The Countess was very stately, and of wondrous beauty. "Black Agnace," the common folk were wont to call her, because of her raven hair and jet black eyes. Verily at that moment these eyes of hers burned like stars of fire. "Now shame upon thee, Montague, Earl of Salisbury," she cried, and because of her indignation her voice rang out clear as a trumpet. "Open my gates to _thee_, forsooth! go to London with _thee_, and be married to _thee_ there, and bear thy name, and ride in the chase with thy horses and hounds, as if I were thy lawful Countess. Shame on thee, I say. I trow thou callest thyself a belted Earl, and a Christian Knight, and thou comest to me, the wife of a belted Earl--who, thank God, is also a Christian Knight, and a good man and true, moreover, which is more than thou art--with words like these. Yea," and she drew a dainty little glove from her girdle, and threw it down at the Earl's feet, "I cry thrice shame on thee, and here I fling defiance in thy face. Keep thy cloth-of-gold for thine own knights' backs; and as for thy squires and pages, if thou hast so many of them, give them each a sword, and set them on a horse, and bring them here to swell thy company. Bring them here, I say, and let them try to batter down these walls, for in no other way wilt thou ever set foot in Dunbar Castle." A subdued murmur, as if of applause, ran through the ranks of the armed men, who stood drawn up in a body behind the English Earl. For men love bravery wherever they chance to meet it, and I trow we must have seemed to them but a feeble company to take upon us the defence of the Castle, and to throw defiance in the teeth of their lord. But the bravery of the Countess did not seem to strike their leader; possibly he was not accustomed to receive such answers from the lips of women. His face flushed an angry red as his squire picked up my lady's little white glove and handed it to him. "Now, by my soul, Madam," he cried, "thou shalt find that it is no light matter to jeer at armed men. I have come to thee with all courtesy, asking thee to open thy Castle gates, and thou hast flouted me to my face. Well, so be it. When next I come, 'twill be with other words, and other weapons. Mayhap thou wilt be more eager to treat with me then." "Bring what thou wilt, and come when thou wilt," answered my lady passionately, "thou shalt ever find the same answer waiting thee. These gates of mine open to no one save my own true lord." With a low mocking bow the Earl turned his horse's head to the South, and galloped away, followed by his men. We stood on the top of the tower and watched them, I, with a heart full of anxious thoughts for the time that was coming, my lady with her head held high, and her eyes flaming, while the men stood apart and whispered among themselves. For we all knew that, although the English had taken themselves off, it was only for a time, and that they would return without fail. When the last horseman had disappeared among the belt of trees which lay between us and the Lammermuirs, my lady turned round, her bonnie face all soft and quivering. "Will ye stand by me, my men?" she asked. "That will we, till the death, my lady," answered they, and one after another they knelt at her feet and kissed her hand, while, as for me, I could but take her in my arms, as I had done oft-times when she was a little child, and pray God to strengthen her noble heart. Her emotion passed as quickly as it had come, however, and in a moment she was herself again, laughing and merry as if it had all been a game of play. "Come down, Walter; come down, my men," she cried; "we must e'en hold a council of war, and lay our plans; while old Andrew will keep watch for us, and tell us when the black-faced knave is like to return." And when we went downstairs into the great hall, and found that the silly wenches had heard all that had passed, and were bemoaning themselves for lost, and frightening little Mistress Marjory and Mistress Jean well-nigh out of their senses, I warrant she did not spare them, but called them a pack of chicken-hearted, thin-blooded baggages, and threatened that if they did not hold their tongues, and turn to their duties at once, she would send them packing, and then they would be at the mercy of the English in good earnest. After that we set to work and made such preparations as we could. We set the wenches to draw water from the well, and to bake a good store of bannocks to be ready in time of need, for the men must not be hungry when they fought. Walter Brand and two of the strongest men-at-arms set to work to strengthen the gates, by laying ponderous billets of wood against them, and clasping these in their places by strong iron bars; while the rest, led by old Andrew, went round the Castle, looking to the loopholes, and the battlements, and examining the cross-bows and other weapons. Upstairs and downstairs went my lady, overlooking everything, thinking of everything, as became a daughter of the great Randolph, while I sat and kept the bairns, who, poor little lassies, were puzzled to know what all the stir and din was about. And indeed it was none too soon to look to all these things, for although the country seemed quiet enough through the hours of that short afternoon, when night fell, and I was putting the bairns to bed, my lady helping me--for, when one bears a troubled heart (and her heart must have been troubled, in spite of her cheerful face), it aye seems lighter when the hands are full--a little page came running in to tell us that there were lights flickering to Southward among the trees. "Now hold thy silly tongue, laddie," said I, for I was anxious that we should at least get one good night's rest before the storm and stress of war came upon us. My lady looked up with a smile from where she was kneeling beside Mistress Jean's cradle. "Let him be, Marian," she said; "the lad meant it well, and 'tis good to know how the danger threatens. Come, we will go up and watch with old Andrew." So, as soon as the bairns were asleep, we threw plaids over our heads, and crept up the narrow stairs to where old Andrew was watching in his own little tower, which stood out from the great tower like a corbie's[15] nest, and, crouching down behind the battlements to gain some shelter from the cruel wind, we watched the flickering lights coming nearer and nearer from the Southward, and listened to the shouting of men, and the tramp of horses' hoofs, which we could hear at times coming faintly through the storm. [Footnote 15: Crow's.] For two long hours we waited, and then, as we could only guess what was taking place, it being far too dark to see, we crept down the narrow stairs again, stiff and chilled, and threw ourselves, all dressed as we were, on our beds. The gray winter dawn of next morning showed us that the English Earl meant to do his best to reduce our fortress in good earnest, for a small army of men had been brought up in the night, from Berwick most likely, and they were encamped on a strip of greensward facing the Castle. They must have spent a busy night, for already the tents had been pitched, and fires lit, and the men were now engaged in cooking their breakfast, and attending to their horses. At the sight my heart grew heavier and heavier; but my lady's spirits seemed to rise. "'Tis a brave sight, is it not, Marian?" she said. "In good troth, my Lord of Salisbury does us too much honour, in setting a camp down at our gates, to amuse us in our loneliness. Methinks that is his own tent, there on the right, with the pennon floating in front of it; and there are the mangonells behind," and she pointed to a row of strange-looking machines, which were drawn up on a hill a little way to the rear. "Well, 'tis a stony coast; his lordship will have no trouble in finding stones to load them with." "What be they, madam?" I asked, for in all my life I had never seen such things before. My lady laughed as she turned her head to greet Walter Brand, who came up the stairs at that moment. "Welcome, Walter," she said merrily. "We are just taking the measure of our foes, and here is Marian, who has never seen mangonells before, wondering what they are. They are engines for shooting stones with, Marian; for well the knaves know that arrows are but poor weapons with which to batter stone walls. But see, the fray begins, for yonder are the archers approaching, and yonder go the men down to the sea-shore to gather stones for the mangonells. Thou and I must e'en go down and leave the men to brave the storm. See to it, Walter, that they do not expose themselves unduly; we could ill afford to lose one of them." Then began the weary onslaught which lasted for so many weeks. In good faith it seems to me that, had we known, when that first rush of arrows sounded through the air, how long it would be ere we were quiet again, we scarce would have had the courage to go on. And when those infernal engines were set off, and their volleys of stones and jagged pieces of iron sounded round our ears, the poor silly wenches lost their heads, and screamed aloud, while the bairns clung to my skirts, and hid their chubby faces in the folds. But even then my lady was not daunted. Snatching up a napkin, she ran lightly up the stairs, and before anyone could stop her, she stepped forward to the battlements, and there, all unheeding of the danger in which she stood from the arrows of the enemy, she wiped the fragments of stone, and bits of loose mortar daintily from the walls, as if to show my Lord of Salisbury how little our Castle could be harmed by all the stones he liked to hurl against it. It was bravely done, and again a murmur of admiration went through the English ranks; and--for I was peeping through a loophole--I trow that even the haughty Earl's face softened at the sight of her. The story of that first day is but the story of many more days that followed. Showers of arrows flew from the cross-bows, volleys of stones fell from the mangonells, until we got so used to the sound of them, that by the third week the veriest coward among the maidens would go boldly up and wipe the dust away where a stone had been chipped, or another displaced, as calmly as our lady herself had done on that first terrible morning. Their archers did little harm, for our men were so few, and our places of shelter so many, that they ran small risk of being hurt, and although one or two poor fellows were killed, and half a dozen more had wounds, it was nothing to be compared with the loss which the English suffered, for our archers had the whole army to take aim at, and I wot their shafts flew sure. In vain they brought battering-rams and tried to batter down the doors. Our portcullis had resisted many an onslaught, and the gates behind it were made of oak a foot thick, and studded all over with iron nails, and they might as well have thought to batter down the Bass Rock itself. So, in spite of all, as the weeks went by, we began to feel fairly safe and comfortable, although my lady never relaxed her vigilance, and went her round of the walls, early and late. At Walter's request she began to wear a morion on her head, and a breast-plate of fine steel, to protect her against any stray arrow, and in them, to my mind, she looked bonnier than ever. In good sooth, I think the very English soldiers loved her, not to speak of our own men; for whenever she appeared they would raise their caps as if in homage, and hum a couplet which ran in some wise thus-- "Come I early, come I late, I find Annot at the gate," as if they would praise her for her tireless watchfulness. One day, Earl Montague himself, moved to admiration by the manner in which Walter Brand had sent his shaft through the heart of an English knight, cried out in the hearing of all his army, "There comes one of my lady's tire-pins; Agnace's love-shafts go straight to the heart." At which words all our men broke into a mighty shout, and cheered, and cheered again, till the walls rang, and the echoes floated back from far out over the sea. In spite of their admiration at our lady's bravery, however, the English were determined to conquer the Castle, and after a time, when they saw that their battering-rams and mangonells availed little, they bethought them of a more dangerous weapon of warfare. It was somewhere towards the end of February, when one fine day a mighty sound of hammering arose from the midst of their camp. "What are they doing now, think ye, Walter?" asked my lady lightly. "Is it possible that they look for so long a siege that they are beginning to build houses for themselves? Truly they are wise, for if my Lord of Salisbury means to stay there until I open my gates to him, he will grow weary of braving these harsh East winds in no better shelter than a tent." But for once Walter Brand had no answering smile to give her. "I fear me 'tis a sow that they are making," he said, "and if that be so we had need to look to our arms." "A sow," repeated the Countess in graver tones. "I have oft heard of such machines, but I never saw one. Thy words hint of danger, Walter. Is a sow then so deadly that our walls cannot resist its onslaught?" "It is deadly because it brings the enemy nearer us, my lady," answered Walter. "Hitherto our walls have been our shelter; without them we could not stand a moment, for we are outnumbered by the English a score of times over. These sows, as men name them, are great wooden buildings, which can hold at least forty men inside, and with a platform above where other thirty can stand. They be mounted on two great wheels, and can be run close up to the walls, and as they are oft as high as a house, 'twill be an easy matter for the men who stand on the platform to set up ladders and scale our walls, and after that what chance will there be for our poor handful of men? 'Tis not for myself I fear," he went on, "nor yet for the men. We are soldiers and we can face death; but if thou wouldst not fall into the hands of this English Earl, my lady, I would advise that thou, and Marian, and little Mistress Marjory and Mistress Jean, should set out in the boat the first dark night, when it is calm. 'Tis but ten miles to the Bass, and thou couldst aye find shelter there." Thus spake honest Walter, who was, as I have said, ever timorous where my lady was concerned; but at his words she shook her head. "And leave the Castle, Walter?" she said. "That will I never do till I open its doors to my own true lord. As for this English Earl and his sows--tush! I care not for them. If they have wood we have rock, my lad, and I warrant 'twill be a right strong sow that will stand upright after a lump of Dunbar rock comes crashing down on its back; so keep up thy courage, and get out the picks and crowbars. If they build sows by day, we can quarry stones by night." So saying, my lady shook her little white fist, by way of defiance, in the direction of the tents which studded the greensward opposite, while Walter went off to do her bidding, muttering to himself that the famous Randolph himself was not better than she, for she had been born with the courage of Bruce, and the wisdom of Solomon. So it came about, that, while the English gave over wasting arrows for a time, and turned their attention to the building of two great clumsy wooden structures, we would steal down in a body on dark nights to the little postern that opened on the shore, when the waves were dashing against the rocks, and making enough noise to deaden the sound of the picks, and while we women held a lanthorn or two, the men worked with might and main, hewing at the solid rock which stretched out to seaward for a few yards at the foot of the Castle wall. Then, when some huge block was loosened, ropes would be lowered, and with much ado, for our numbers were small, the unwieldy mass would be hoisted up, and placed in position on the top of the Castle, hidden, it is true, behind the battlements, but with the stones in front of it displaced, so that it could be rolled over with ease at a given signal. We all took a turn at the ropes, and our hands were often raw and frayed with the work. 'Twas my lady who suffered most, for her skin was fine, and up till now she had never known what such labour meant. At last the day came when the English mounted their great white sows on wheels, and filled them with armed men, and loaded the roofs of them with broad-shouldered, strapping fellows, who carried ladders and irons with which to scale our walls. When all was ready the mighty machines began to move forward, pushed by scores of willing arms, while we watched them in silence. My lady and I were hidden in old Andrew's tower, for no word that Walter Brand could say could persuade her to go down beside Mistress Marjory, and Mistress Jean, and the serving wenches. Instead of shooting, our archers stood motionless, stationed in groups behind the great boulders of rock, ready for Walter's signal. On came the sows, until we could look down and see the men they carried, with upturned faces, and hands busy with the ladders they were raising to place against the walls. They were trundled over the narrow strip of land which connected us with the mainland, and stood still at last, close to our very gates. "Now, lads," shouted Walter, and before a single ladder could be placed, our great blocks of rock went crashing down on them, hurling the top men in all directions, and driving in the wooden roofs on those who were inside. Woe's me! Although they were our enemies, our hearts melted at the sight. The timbers of the sows cracked and fell in, and we could see nought but a mass of mangled, bleeding wretches. Had it not been that my lady feared treachery, and that she had sworn not to open the gates except to her husband, I ween she would fain have taken us all out to succour them. As it was, we could only watch and pity, and keep the bairns in the chambers that looked on the sea, so that their young eyes should not gaze on so ghastly a scene. And when night fell, and there was no light to guide our archers to shoot, though I trust that, in any case, mercy would have kept them from it, the English stole across the causeway, and pulled away the broken beams, and carried off the dead and wounded, and burned what remained of the sows. After that day we had no more trouble from any attempts to storm the Castle. But what force cannot do, hunger may. So my Lord of Salisbury, still sitting in front of our gates with his army, in order to prevent help reaching us from the land, set about starving us into submission. As yet we had had no need to trouble about food, for, as I have said, we had a store of grain, enough to last for some weeks yet, in the dungeon, and, long ere it was done, we looked for help reaching us by the sea, if it could not reach us by land. It was soon made plain to us, however, that not only my Lord of Salisbury, but his royal master, King Edward, was determined that the "Key of Scotland" should fall into his hand, for one fine March morning a great fleet of ships came sailing round St Abb's Head, and took up their station betwixt us and the Bass Rock, and then we were left, without hope of succour, until our stock of provisions should be eaten up, and starvation forced us to give in. Ah me! but it was weary work, living through the ever-lengthening days of that cold bleak springtime, waiting for the help which never came, which never could come, so it seemed to us, with that army watching us from the land, and that fleet of ships girding us in on the sea. And all the time our store of food sank lower and lower, and the wenches' faces grew white, and the men pulled their belts tighter round their middles, and poor little Mistress Jean would turn wearily away from the water gruel which was all we had to give her, and moan and cry for the white bread and the milk to which she was accustomed. Mistress Marjory, on the other hand, being five years old, and wise for her years, never complained, though oft-times she would let the spoon fall into her porringer at supper-time, and, laying her head against my sleeve, would say in a wistful little voice that went to my very heart, "I cannot eat it, Marian; I am not hungry to-night." As for my lady, she went about in those days in silence, with a stern, set face. It must have seemed to her that when the meal was all gone she must needs give in, for she could not see her children die before her eyes. But Providence is aye ready to help those who help themselves, and, late one evening, towards the latter end of May, when we had held the castle for five long months, I chanced to be sitting alone in my chamber, when the Countess entered, looking very pale and wan. "Wrap a plaid round thee, and come to the top of the tower, Marian," she said. "I cannot sleep, and I long for a breath of fresh air. It doth me no good to go up there by day, for I can see nothing but these English soldiers in front, and these English ships behind. But by night it is different. It is dark then, and I forget for a time how closely beset we are, and how few handfuls of meal there are in the girnels.[16] I will tell thee, Marian," and here her voice sank to a whisper, "what as yet only myself and Walter Brand know, that if help doth not come within a week, we must either open our gates, or starve like rats in a hole." [Footnote 16: Meal-barrels.] "But a week is aye a week," I said soothingly, for I was frightened at the wildness of her look, "and help may come before it passes." All the same my heart was heavy within me as I threw a wrap round my head, and followed her up the narrow stone stairs, and out on to the flat roof of the tower. The footing was bad in the darkness, for although the battlements had been built up again since the day that we destroyed the sows, there were stones and pieces of rock lying about in all directions, and not being so young and light of foot as I once had been, I stumbled and fell. "Do not stir till I get a light," cried my lady; "it is dangerous up here in the dark, and a twisted ankle would not mend matters." She felt her way over to Andrew's watch-tower, and the old man lighted his lanthorn for her, and she came quickly back again, holding it low in case the enemy should see it, and send a few arrows in our direction. By its light I raised myself, and we went across to the northern turret, which looked straight over to the Bass Rock, and stood there, resting our arms on the wall. Suddenly a speck of light shone out far ahead in the darkness. It flickered for a second and then disappeared. In a moment or two it appeared again, and then disappeared in the same way. I drew my lady's attention to it. "'Tis a light from the Bass," she said in an excited whisper. "Someone is signalling. It can hardly be to the English, for the Rock is held by friends. Is it possible they can have seen our lanthorn? Let us try again. The English loons are likely to be asleep by now; they have had little to disturb their rest for some weeks back, and may well have grown lazy." Cautiously she raised the lanthorn, and flashed its rays, once, twice, thrice over the waves. It was only for a second, but it was enough. The spark of light appeared three times in answer, and then all was dark again. "Run and tell Walter," whispered my lady, and her very voice had changed. It was once more full of life and hope. The Bass Rock was but ten miles off, and if there were friends there watching us, and doubtless making plans to help us, was not that enough? When Walter came we tried our test for the fourth time, and the answer came back as before. "We must watch the sea, my lady," he said, when we were safely down in the great hall again. "Help will only come that way, and it will come in the dark. Heaven send that the English sailors have not seen what we have, and keep a double watch in consequence." After that, we hardly slept. Night after night, we strained our eyes through the darkness in the direction of the Bass, and for five nights our watching was in vain. But on the sixth, a Sunday, just on the stroke of twelve, the silence which had lasted so long was broken by the sound of shouting, and lights sprang up all round us, first on the ships and then on the land. With anxious hearts we crowded round the loopholes, for we knew that somewhere, out among the lights, brave men were making a dash for our rescue, and we women, who could do nothing else, lifted up our hearts, and prayed that Heaven and the Holy St Michael would aid their efforts. Meanwhile, the men manned the walls, ready to shoot if the English ships came within bow-shot, which they were scarce likely to do, as the coast was wild and rocky, and fraught with danger to those who were unacquainted with it. Presently Walter called for wood to make a fire outside the little postern which opened on the rocks, and we ceased our prayers, and fell to work with a will, with the kitchen-wenches' choppers, on the empty barrels which were piled up in a corner of a cellar. We even drained our last flagon of oil to pour over them, and soon a fire was blazing on the rudely-cut-out landing-stage, and throwing its beams far out over the sea. And there, dim and shadowy at first, but aye coming nearer and nearer, guided by its light, we saw a boat, not cut in any foreign fashion, but built and rigged near St Margaret's Hope. It was full of men; we could hear them cheering and shouting in our own good Scots tongue, which fell kindly on our ears after the soft mincing English which had been thrown at our heads for so many months. They were safe now, for, as I have said, the ships through which they had slipped dare not follow them too near the coast, in case they ran upon the rocks, and the Castle sheltered them from any arrows which might be sent from the land. It sheltered us too, and we crowded down to the little landing-stage, and watched with breathless interest the boat which was bringing safety and succour to us. "Bring down the bairns, Marian," said my lady. "Marjory at least is of an age to remember this." I hastened to do her bidding, and, calling one of the wenches, we ran up and roused the sleeping lambs, telling them stories of the wonderful boat which was coming over the sea, bringing them nice things to eat once more; for, poor babes, the lack of dainty fare had been the hardest part of all the siege for them. We had hardly got downstairs again, when the boat ran close up to our roughly constructed landing-stage, which was little more than a ledge of rock, and willing hands seized the ropes which were flung out to them. Then amidst such cheering as I shall never forget, her crew jumped out. Forty men of them there were, strong, stalwart, strapping fellows, looking very different from our own poor lads, who were pinched and thin from long watching, and meagre fare. Their leader was Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie, one of the bravest of Scottish knights, and most chivalrous of men, who had risked his life, and the lives of his men, in order to bring us help. "Now Heaven and all the Saints be thanked, we are in time," he cried, as his eyes rested on my lady, who was standing at the head of the steps which led up to the little postern, with one babe in her arms, and the other clinging to her gown, "for dire tales have reached us of pestilence and starvation which were working their will within these walls." Then he doffed his helmet, and ran up to where she was standing, and I wot there was not a dry eye in the crowd as he knelt and kissed her hand. "Here greet I one of the bravest ladies in Christendom," he said, "for, by my troth, as long as the Scots tongue lasts, the story of how thou kept thy lord's castle in his absence will be handed down from father to son." "Nay, noble sir," she answered, and there was a little catch in her voice as she spoke, "it hath not been so very hard after all. My men have been brave and leal, my walls are thick, and although the wolf hath come very near the door, he hath not as yet entered." "Nor shall he," said Sir Alexander cheerily, as he picked up Mistress Marjory and kissed her, "for we have brought enough provisions with us to victual your Castle twice over." And in good sooth they had. It took more than half an hour to unload the boat, and to carry its contents into the great hall. There had been kind hands and thoughtful hearts at the loading of it. There was milk for the bairns, and capons, and eggs. There was meat and ale for the men, and red French wine and white bread for my lady, and bags of grain and meal, and many other things which I scarce remember, but which were right toothsome, I can tell you, after the scanty fare on which we had been living. And so ended the famous siege of Dunbar Castle, for on the morrow, the English, knowing that now it was hopeless to think of taking it, struck their camp, and by nightfall they were marching southwards, worsted by a woman. And ere another day had passed, another band of armed men came riding through the woods that lie thickly o'er the valley in which lies the Lamp of Lothian;[17] but this time we knew right well the device which was emblazoned on the banners, and the horses neighed, as horses are wont to do when they scent their own stables, and the riders tossed their caps in the air at the sight of us. [Footnote 17: The Abbey of Haddington (an old name for it).] And I trow that if my lady had wished for reward for all the weary months of anxiety which she had passed through, she had it in full measure when at long last she opened the Castle gates, and saw the look on her husband's face, as he took her in his arms, and kissed her, not once, but many times, there, in the courtyard, in the sight of us all. THOMAS THE RHYMER "True Thomas lay on Huntly bank; A ferlie he spied with his e'e; And there he saw a ladye bright, Came riding down by the Eildon tree." More than six hundred years ago, there lived in the south of Scotland a very wonderful man named Thomas of Ercildoune, or Thomas the Rhymer. He lived in an old tower which stood on the banks of a little river called the Leader, which runs into the Tweed, and he had the marvellous gift, not only of writing beautiful verses, but of forecasting the future:--that is, he could tell of events long before they happened. People also gave him the name of True Thomas, for they said that he was not able to tell a lie, no matter how much he wished to do so, and this gift he had received, along with his gift of prophecy, from the Queen of the Fairies, who stole him away when he was young, and kept him in fairyland for seven years and then let him come back to this world for a time, and at last took him away to live with her in fairyland altogether. I do not say that this is true; I can only say again that Thomas the Rhymer was a very wonderful man; and this is the story which the old country folk in Scotland tell about him. One St Andrew's Day, as he was lying on a bank by a stream called the Huntly Burn, he heard the tinkling of little bells, just like fairy music, and he turned his head quickly to see where it was coming from. A short distance away, riding over the moor, was the most beautiful lady he had ever seen. She was mounted on a dapple-gray palfrey, and there was a halo of light shining all around her. Her saddle was made of pure ivory, set with precious stones, and padded with crimson satin. Her saddle girths were of silk, and on each buckle was a beryl stone. Her stirrups were cut out of clear crystal, and they were all set with pearls. Her crupper was made of fine embroidery, and for a bridle she used a gold chain. She wore a riding-skirt of grass-green silk, and a mantle of green velvet, and from each little tress of hair in her horse's mane hung nine and fifty tiny silver bells. No wonder that, as the spirited animal tossed its dainty head, and fretted against its golden rein, the music of these bells sounded far and near. She appeared to be riding to the chase, for she led seven greyhounds in a leash, and seven otter hounds ran along the path beside her, while round her neck was slung a hunting-horn, and from her girdle hung a sheaf of arrows. As she rode along she sang snatches of songs to herself, or blew her horn gaily to call her dogs together. "By my faith," thought Thomas to himself, "it is not every day that I have the chance of meeting such a beauteous being. Methinks she must be the Virgin Mother herself, for she is too fair to belong to this poor earth of ours. Now will I hasten over the hill, and meet her under the Eildon Tree; perchance she may give me her blessing." So Thomas hasted, and ran, and came to the Eildon Tree, which grew on the slope of the Eildon Hills, under which, 'tis said, King Arthur and his Knights lie sleeping, and there he waited for the lovely lady. When she approached he pulled off his bonnet and louted[18] low, so that his face well-nigh touched the ground, for, as I have said, he thought she was the Blessed Virgin, and he hoped to hear some words of benison. [Footnote 18: Bowed.] But the lady quickly undeceived him. "Do not do homage to me," she said, "for I am not she whom thou takest me for, and cannot claim such reverence. I am but the Queen of Fairyland, and I ride to the chase with my horn and my hounds." Then Thomas, fascinated by her loveliness, and loth to lose sight of her, began to make love to her; but she warned him that, if he did so, her beauty would vanish in a moment, and, worse still, she would have the power to throw a spell over him, and to carry him away to her own country. But I wot that her spell had fallen on Thomas already, for it seemed to him that there was nothing on earth to be compared to her favour. "Here pledge I my troth with thee," he cried recklessly, "and little care I where I am carried, so long as thou art beside me," and as he said this, he gave her a kiss. What was his horror, as soon as he had done so, to see an awful change come over the lady. Her beautiful clothes crumbled away, and she was left standing in a long ash-coloured gown. All the brightness round her vanished; her face grew pale and colourless; her eyes turned dim, and sank in her head; and, most terrible of all, one-half of her beautiful black hair went gray before his eyes, so that she looked worn and old. [Illustration: "WHEN SHE APPROACHED, HE PULLED OFF HIS BONNET, AND LOUTED LOW."] A cruel smile came on her haggard face as she cried triumphantly, "Ah, Thomas, now thou must go with me, and thou must serve me, come weal, come woe, for seven long years." Then she signed to him to get up behind her on her gray palfrey, and poor Thomas had no power to refuse. He glanced round in despair, taking a last look at the pleasant country-side he loved so well, and the next moment it vanished from his eyes, for the Eildon Hills opened beneath them, and they sank in gloomy caverns, leaving no trace behind. For three days Thomas and the lady travelled on, in the dreadful gloom. It was like riding through the darkness of the darkest midnight. He could feel the palfrey moving beneath him; he could hear, close at hand, the roaring of the sea; and, ever as they rode, it seemed to him that they crossed many rivers, for, as the palfrey struggled through them, he could feel the cold rushing water creeping up to his knees, but never a ray of light came to cheer him. He grew sick and faint with hunger and terror, and at last he could bear it no longer. "Woe is me," he cried feebly, "for methinks I die for lack of food." As he spoke these words, the lady turned her horse's head in the darkness, and, little by little, it began to grow lighter, until at last they emerged in open daylight, and found themselves in a beautiful garden. It was full of fruit trees, and Thomas feasted his eyes on their cool green leaves and luscious burden; for, after the terrible darkness he had passed through, this garden seemed to him like the Garden of Paradise. There were pear trees in it, covered with pears, and apple trees laden with great juicy apples; there were dates, and damsons, and figs, and grapes. Brightly coloured parrots were flitting about among the branches, and everywhere the thrushes were singing. The lady drew rein under an apple tree, and, reaching up her hand, she plucked an apple, and handed it to him. "Take this for thine arles,"[19] she said; "it will confer a great gift on thee, for it will give thee a tongue that cannot lie, and from henceforth men shall call thee 'True Thomas.'" [Footnote 19: Money paid at the engagement of a servant.] Now, I am sorry to say that Thomas was not very particular about always being truthful, and this did not seem to him to be a very enviable gift. He wondered to himself what he would do if ever he got back to earth, and was always obliged to tell the truth, whether it were convenient or not. "A bonnie gift, forsooth!" he said scornfully. "My tongue is my own, and I would prefer that no one meddled with it. If I am obliged always to tell the truth, how shall I fare when I once more go back to the wicked world? When I take a cow to market, have I always to point out the horn it hath lost, or the piece of skin that is torn? And when I talk to my betters, and would crave a boon of them, must I always tell them my real thoughts, instead of giving them the flattery which, let me tell you, Madam, goes a long way in obtaining a favour?" "Now hold thy peace," said the lady sharply, "and think thyself favoured to see food at all. Many miles of our journey lie yet before us, and already thou criest out for hunger. Certs, if thou wilt not eat when thou canst, thou shalt have no more opportunity." Poor Thomas was so hungry, and the apple looked so tempting, that at last he took it and ate it, and the Grace of Truth settled down on his lips for ever: that is why men called him "True Thomas," when in after years he returned to earth. Then the lady shook her bridle rein, and the palfrey darted forward so quickly that it appeared to be almost flying. On and on they flew, until they came to the World's End, and a great desert stretched before them. Here the lady bade Thomas dismount and lean his head against her knee. "I have three wonders to show thee, Thomas," she said, "and it is thus that thou canst see them best." Thomas did as he was bid, and when he laid his head against the Fairy Queen's knee, he saw three roads stretching away before him through the sand. One of them was a rough and narrow road, with thick hedges of thorn on either side, and branches of tangled briar hanging down from them, and lying across the path. Any traveller who travelled by that road would find it beset with many difficulties. The next road was smooth and broad, and it ran straight and level across the plain. It looked so easy a way that Thomas wondered that anyone ever wanted to go along the narrow path at all. The third road wound along a hillside, and the banks above it and below it were covered with beautiful brackens, and their delicate fronds rose high on either side, so high, indeed, that they would shelter the wayfarer from the burning heat of the noonday sun. "That is the best road of all," thought Thomas to himself; "it looks so fresh and cool, I should like to travel along it." Then the lady's voice sounded in his ears. "Seest thou that narrow path," she asked, "all set about with thorns and briars? That is the Path of Righteousness, and there be but few, oh, so few! who ever ask where it leads to, or who try to travel by it. And seest thou that broad, broad road, that runs so smoothly across the desert? That is the Path of Wickedness, and I trow it is a pleasant way, and easy to travel by. Men think it so, at least, and, poor fools, they do not trouble to ask where it leads to. Some would fain persuade themselves that it leads to Heaven, but Heaven was never reached by an easy road. 'Tis the narrow road through the briars and thorns that leads us thither, and wise are the men who follow it. And seest thou that bonnie, bonnie road, that winds up round the ferny brae? That is the way to Fairyland, and that is the road which lies before us." Here Thomas was about to speak, and to remonstrate with her for carrying him away, but she interrupted him. "Hush," she said, "thou must be silent now, Thomas; the time for speech is past. Thou art on the borders of Elfland, and if ever mortal man speak a word in Elfland, he can nevermore go back to his own country." So Thomas held his peace, and climbed sadly on the palfrey's back, and once more they started on their awful journey. On and on they went. The beautiful road through the ferns was soon left behind, and great mountains had to be crossed, and steep, narrow valleys, until at last, far away in the distance, a splendid castle appeared, standing on the top of a high hill. It was built of pure white marble, with massive towers, and lovely gardens stretched in front of it. "That castle is mine," said the lady proudly. "It belongs to me, and to my husband, who is the King of this country. He is a jealous man, and one greatly to be feared, and, if he knew how friendly thou and I have been, he would kill thee in his rage. Remember, therefore, what I told thee about keeping silence. Thou canst talk to me, an thou wilt, if an opportunity offers, but see to it that thou answerest no one else. There are knights and squires in abundance at my husband's court, and doubtless they would fain question thee about the country from whence thou art come, but thou must pay no heed to them, and I shall pretend that thou talkest in an unknown tongue, and that I learned to understand it in thine own country." While she was speaking, Thomas was amazed to see that a great change had passed over her again. Her face grew bright, and her gray gown vanished, and the green mantle took its place, and once more she became the beauteous being who had charmed his eyes at the Huntly Burn. And he was still more amazed when, on looking down, he found that his own raiment was changed too, and that he was now dressed in a suit of soft, fine cloth, and that on his feet he wore velvet shoon. The lady lifted the golden horn which hung from a cord round her neck, and blew a loud blast. At the sound of it all the squires, and knights, and great court ladies came hurrying out to meet their Queen, and Thomas slid from the palfrey's back, and walked humbly at her elbow. As she had foretold, the pages and squires crowded round him, and would fain have learned his name, and the name of the country to which he belonged, but he pretended not to understand what they said, and so they all came into the great hall of the castle. At the end of this hall there was a dais, and on it were two thrones. The King of Fairyland was sitting on one, and when he saw the Queen, he rose, and stretched out his hand, and led her to the other, and then a rich banquet was served by thirty knights, who offered the dishes on their bended knees. After that all the court ladies went up and did homage to their Royal Mistress, while Thomas stood, and gazed, and wondered at all the strange things which he saw. At one side of the hall there was a group of minstrels, playing on all manner of strange instruments. There were harps, and fiddles, and gitterns, and psalteries, and lutes and rebecks, and many more that he could not name. And when these minstrels played, the knights and the gay court ladies danced or played games, or made merry jokes amongst themselves; while at the other side of the hall a very different scene went on. There were thirty dead harts lying on the stone floor, and stable varlets carried in dead deer until there were thirty of them stretched beside the harts, and the dogs lay and licked their blood, and the cooks came in with their long knives and cut up the animals, in the sight of all the court. It was all so weird and horrible that Thomas wondered what manner of folk he had come to dwell among, and if he would ever get back to his own country. For three days things went on in the same manner, and still he looked and wondered, and still he spoke to no one, not even to the Queen. At last she spoke to him. "Dress thee, and get thee gone, Thomas," she said, "for thou mayest not linger here any longer. Myself will convey thee on thy journey, and take thee back safe and sound to thine own country again." Thomas looked at her in amazement. "I have only been here three days," he said, "and methought thou spakest of seven years." The lady smiled. "Time passes quickly in this country, Thomas," she replied. "It may not appear so long to thee, but it is seven long years and more, since thou camest into Fairyland. I would fain have kept thee longer; but it may not be, and I will show to thee the reason. Every seven years an evil spirit comes, and chooses someone out of our court, and carries him away to unknown regions, and, as thou art a stranger, and a goodly fellow withal, I fear me his choice would fall on thee; and although I brought thee here, and have kept thee here for seven years, 'twill never be said that I betrayed thee to an evil spirit. Therefore this very night we must be gone." So once more the gray palfrey was brought, and Thomas and the lady mounted it, and they went back by the road by which they had come, and once more they came to the Eildon Tree. The sun was shining when they arrived, and the birds singing, and the Huntly Burn tinkling just as it had always done, and it seemed to Thomas more impossible than ever that he had been away from it all for more than seven years. He felt strangely sorry to say farewell to the beautiful lady, and he asked her to give him some token that would prove to people that he had really been in Fairyland. "Thou hast already the Gift of Truth," she replied, "and I will add to that the Gift of Prophecy, and of writing wondrous verses; and here is a harp that was fashioned in Fairyland. With its music, set to thine own words, no minstrel on earth shall be to thee a rival. So shall all the world know for certain that thou learnedst the art from no earthly teacher; and some day, perchance, I will return." Then the lady vanished, and Thomas was left all alone. After this, he lived at his Castle of Ercildoune for many a long year, and well he deserved the names of Thomas the Rhymer, and True Thomas, which the country people gave him; for the verses which he wrote were the sweetest that they had ever heard, while all the things which he prophesied came most surely to pass. It is remembered still how he met Cospatrick, Earl of March, one sunny day, and foretold that, ere the next noon passed, a terrible tempest would devastate Scotland. The stout Earl laughed, but his laughter was short, for by next day at noon the tidings came that Alexander III., that much loved King, was lying stiff and stark on the sands of Kinghorn. He also foretold the battles of Flodden and Pinkie, and the dule and woe which would follow the defeat of the Scottish arms; but he also foretold Bannockburn, where "The burn of breid Shall run fow reid," and the English be repulsed with great loss. He spoke of the Union of the Crowns of England and Scotland, under a prince who was the son of a French Queen, and who yet had the blood of Bruce in his veins. Which thing came true in 1603, when King James, son of the ill-fated Mary, who had been Queen of France as well as Queen of Scots, began to rule over both countries. In view of these things, it was no wonder that the fame of Thomas of Ercildoune spread through the length and breadth of Scotland, or that men came from far and near to listen to his wonderful words. * * * * * Twice seven years came and went, and Scotland was plunged in war. The English King, Edward I., after defeating John Baliol at Dunbar, had taken possession of the country, and the doughty William Wallace had arisen to try to wrest it from his hand. The tide of war ebbed and flowed, now on this side of the Border, now on that, and it chanced that one day the Scottish army rested not far from the Tower of Ercildoune. Beacons blazed red on Ruberslaw, tents were pitched at Coldingknowe, and the Tweed, as it rolled down to the sea, carried with it the echoes of the neighing of steeds, and of trumpet calls. Then True Thomas determined to give a feast to the gallant squires and knights who were camped in the neighbourhood--such a feast as had never been held before in the old Tower of Ercildoune. It was spread in the great hall, and nobles were there in their coats of mail, and high-born ladies in robes of shimmering silk. There was wine in abundance, and wooden cups filled with homebrewed ale. There were musicians who played sweet music, and wonderful stories of war and adventure went round. And, best of all, when the feast was over, True Thomas, the host, called for the magic harp which he had received from the hands of the Elfin Queen. When it was brought to him a great silence fell on all the company, and everyone sat listening breathlessly while he sang to them song after song of long ago. He sang of King Arthur and his Table, and his Knights, and told how they lay sleeping under the Eildon Hills, waiting to be awakened at the Crack of Doom. He sang of Gawaine, and Merlin, Tristrem and Isolde; and those who listened to the wondrous story felt somehow that they would never hear such minstrelsy again. Nor did they. For that very night, when all the guests had departed, and the evening mists had settled down over the river, a soldier, in the camp on the hillside, was awakened by a strange pattering of little feet on the dry bent[20] of the moorland. [Footnote 20: Withered grass.] Looking out of his tent, he saw a strange sight. There, in the bright August moonlight, a snow-white hart and hind were pacing along side by side. They moved in slow and stately measure, paying little heed to the ever-increasing crowd who gathered round their path. "Let us send for Thomas of Ercildoune," said someone at last; "mayhap he can tell us what this strange sight bodes." "Yea, verily, let us send for True Thomas," cried everyone at once, and a little page was hastily despatched to the old tower. Its master started from his bed when he heard the message, and dressed himself in haste. His face was pale, and his hands shook. "This sign concerns me," he said to the wondering lad. "It shows me that I have spun my thread of life, and finished my race here." So saying, he slung his magic harp on his shoulder, and went forth in the moonlight. The men who were waiting for him saw him at a distance, and 'twas noted how often he turned and looked back at his old tower, whose gray stones were touched by the soft autumn moonbeams, as though he were bidding it a long farewell. He walked along the moor until he met the snow-white hart and hind; then, to everyone's terror and amazement, he turned with them, and all three went down the steep bank, which at that place borders the Leader, and plunged into the river, which was running at high flood. "He is bewitched! To the rescue! To the rescue, ere it be too late!" cried the crowd with one voice. But although a knight leaped on his horse in haste, and spurred him at once through the raging torrent, he could see nothing of the Rhymer or his strange companions. They had vanished, leaving neither sign nor trace behind them; and to this day it is believed that the hart and the hind were messengers from the Queen of the Fairies, and that True Thomas went back with them to dwell in her country for ever. LORD SOULIS "Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage Castle, And beside him Old Redcap sly;-- 'Now, tell me, thou sprite, who art meikle of might, The death that I must die.' They roll'd him in a sheet of lead, A sheet of lead for a funeral pall; They plunged him in the cauldron red, And melted him, lead, and bones, and all." And so thou hast seen the great cauldron at Skelf-hill, little Annie, standing high up on the hillside, and thou wouldst fain hear its story. 'Tis a weird tale, Sweetheart, and one to make the blood run cold, for 'tis the story of a cruel and a wicked man, and how he came by a violent and a fearsome death. But Grannie will tell it thee, and when thou thinkest of it, thou must always try to remember how true it is what the Good Book says, that "all they that take the sword, shall perish with the sword," which means, I take it, that they who show no mercy need expect none at the hands of others. 'Tis a tale of spirits and of witchcraft, child, things that in our days we do not believe in; but I had it from my grandfather, who had heard it when he was a laddie from the old shepherds out on the hills, and they believed it all and feared to pass that way in the dark. But to come to the story itself. Long, long ago, in far bygone days, William de Soulis, Lord of Liddesdale, kept high state in his Castle of Hermitage. The royal blood of Scotland flowed in his veins, for he was sixth in descent from Alexander II., and could an ancestress of his have proved her right, he might have sat on the throne of Scotland. Besides owning Liddesdale, he had lands in Dumfriesshire, and in the Lothians, and he might have been like the "Bold Buccleuch," a succourer of widows, and a defender of the oppressed and the destitute. But instead of this he worked all manner of wickedness, till his very name was dreaded far and near. He oppressed his vassals; he troubled his neighbours; he was even at enmity with the King himself. And because he feared that his Majesty might come against him with an army, he had fortified his castle with much care. In order to do this thoroughly, he forced his vassals to work like beasts of burden, putting bores[21] on their shoulders, and yoking them to sledges, on which they drew all kinds of building material to the castle. [Footnote 21: Yokes.] No wonder, then, that he was hated by rich and poor alike, and no wonder that his heart would quail at times, reckless and hardened though he was, for it is an ill thing not to have a friend in this world. Servants may be hired for money, but 'tis love, and love only, that can buy true friendship. Aye remember that, little Annie, aye remember that. I say that he had no friends, but I am mistaken. 'Twas said he had one, and mayhap he would have been as well without him. For men would have it that Hermitage Castle was haunted by a familiar spirit. As a rule he dwelt in a wooden chest, bound with rusty bars of iron; but occasionally, when Lord Soulis was alone, he would come out and talk with him. "Old Redcap," the country folk used to call him, and they said that he was a wee, wee man, with a red pirnie[22] and twisted legs; but whether that be true or no, 'tis not for me to say. [Footnote 22: Nightcap.] 'Twas also said that, one day, when Soulis and his uncanny friend were alone, Soulis asked him what his end would be; if he would die at home in his bed, or out on the hillside in fair fight with his foes? And Redcap made answer that he would throw his spell over him, and that that spell would keep him from all common dangers, from all weapons of war, and from all devices of peace; from arrows, and lances, and knives; from chains, and even from hempen ropes. He would be safe from all these, but there was one thing, and one thing alone, which the charm could not do, and that was to save him if ever men could take him and bind him with ropes of sifted sand. Methinks I can hear Lord Soulis' laugh as Redcap told him this. "Ropes of sand, forsooth!" he would say. "Did ever man hear of ropes of sand?" But he had forgotten that the Wizard of the North, Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie--the same who studied the wisdom of the East under the Moors at Toledo, in Spain, who could read the stars, and command familiar spirits to come and go at his bidding--had found out the way to forge ropes out of sand, and that, though Michael was dead, his Spae-book yet remained, in which he had written down all his magic. "Moreover," added Redcap, "if ever danger threatens thee, knock thrice on this old chest, and the lid will rise, and I will speak; but beware lest thou lookest into it. When the lid begins to rise, turn thine eyes away, or the spell will be broken." Now it chanced soon after this, that one morning, just as the day was breaking, Lord Soulis, as was his wont, sent one of his little pages up to the top of the tower, to look out over the country far and near, to see if there were any travellers who took the road to Hermitage. At first the boy saw nothing, but, as it grew lighter, the figure of a horseman, clad in the royal livery, appeared, riding down the hillside. "Now what may thine errand be?" cried the page. "I carry a message to Soulis of Hermitage from the King of Scotland," replied the stranger; "and he bids me tell that cruel Knight, that the report of his ill deeds has come to his Majesty's ears at Holyrood House, and that if ever again such stories reach him, he will send his soldiers to burn the castle, and put its lord to death." Then the page hasted, and ran, and delivered this message to his master, whose face grew white with rage when he heard it. For he was an awful man, little Annie, an awful man, who in general feared neither God nor the King, and who could not brook to be reproved. Under the castle there was a deep dungeon, cut out of the solid rock, and the entrance to it was by a hole in the courtyard, which was covered by a great flat stone. The stone rested on beams of oak, and Lord Soulis gave orders that the guards were to keep the King's messenger waiting outside the gate, and pretend to be very kind to him, giving him a tankard of ale, and a hunch of bread, until some of the men inside the castle had cut away those great oak beams. Then they opened the gate, and told the poor man that Lord Soulis would speak with him if he would ride into the courtyard; and he rode in, and as soon as his horse stepped on the big flat stone that covered the mouth of the dungeon, it gave way beneath its weight, and both man and horse fell down, and were crushed to pieces on the hard stone floor, full thirty feet below. The King was right wroth when he heard how his messenger had been treated, but before he could set off for Liddesdale to punish Lord Soulis, the punishment came from nearer home. It chanced that the young Lord of Buccleuch wooed a lovely lady called May o' Gorranberry. 'Twas said that she was the bonniest lass in all Teviotdale, and in all Liddesdale, and the wedding day was fixed. But the wicked Lord Soulis, puffed up with pride at the way in which he had got rid of the King's messenger, and relying, doubtless, on Redcap's charm to protect him from danger, took it into his sinful head that he would like May o' Gorranberry for his wife. And he sent, and took her, as she was walking on the hillside above her father's house, and brought her to his grim old Castle of Hermitage. The poor lassie was almost mad with terror, and tore her hair, and cried continually for her lover, until the cruel man threatened that if she did not hold her tongue he would send men to burn down Branksome Tower, and kill all its inmates. And next morning, because she would not stop weeping, he called his chief man-at-arms, a brave, fearless fellow called Red Ringan, and told him to gather a band of spearmen, and ride over the hills to Teviotdale, and attack the old castle which was the home of the Lords of Buccleuch. Now it chanced that that very morning, young Buccleuch set out alone to hunt the roe-buck and the dun deer which roamed in the woods that surrounded his castle. He had fine sport, and he went on, and on, and never noticed how far up among the hills he was getting, or how fast the day was passing, until it began to get dark. Suddenly he looked up, and, to his astonishment, he saw, riding down the glen to meet him, a company of spearmen. He thought they were his own retainers, and walked boldly up to them, and never knew his mistake until he was seized, and bound hand and foot. They were really Lord Soulis' men, with Red Ringan at their head, and Red Ringan had thrown a glamour over his eyes, so that he could not distinguish between friends and foes. Of course Red Ringan was delighted at this piece of good luck, and he set the poor young man on a horse, and sent him over the hills to Hermitage, guarded by a handful of spearmen, while he rode on with the rest of his troop to Branksome, to see what mischief he could work there. Thou canst think with what triumph my Lord Soulis would greet his prisoner, and with what bitter tears May o' Gorranberry would see him brought in, for she would know about the dungeon, and shudder to think what his fate would be. 'Twas said that the cruel lord mocked at young Buccleuch as he rode under the archway, and cried out to him, as if in jest-- "Thrice welcome, Buccleuch, thrice welcome to my castle. Nathless 'tis as a wedding guest thou comest. Certs, my bonnie May well deserves such a gallant groomsman." Next morning the sun rose blood red, and just as its rays touched the gray stones of the grim old keep, the page came running to say that Red Ringan was riding down the hillside all alone. Methinks the wicked lord's heart gave a throb of fear, as he hurried out to the gate to meet his henchman. "Where have ye stabled my gallant steeds?" he cried, "and wherefore do thy comrades tarry, whilst thou ridest home all alone?" Red Ringan shook his head mournfully. "I bring thee heavy tidings, Master," he said. "The steeds are stabled, sure enough, but 'tis in a stable where they will rest till the Crack of Doom, and their riders lie beside them. Thou knowest Tarras Moss, and how fair and pleasant it lies, and how deep and cruel it is? My men mistook the path in the dark, and rode right into it, and, had it not been for my good brown mare, not one of us had been left to tell the tale. She struggled to firm footing right nobly, and brought me out alive on her back; but when I looked around me, I was all alone, Master, I was all alone." Lord Soulis made no reply. With heavy steps he sought the low dark room where the great chest stood, with its iron bands, and its three rusty locks. He shut the door behind him, and then, with clenched fist, he knocked thrice on the heavy lid. The first time he knocked, and the second time, such a groan came from the chest that his very blood ran cold; but at the third knock the locks opened, and the lid began to rise. Lord Soulis turned away his head as Redcap had told him to do, and stood listening with all his might. A strange sullen muttering came from the chest, of which he could only distinguish these mysterious words, "Beware of a coming tree," and then the lid shut as slowly as it had opened, and the locks were locked with a jerk, as if by unseen hands. Meanwhile, over the hills in Teviotdale there had been confusion and dismay when the young Lord of Buccleuch failed to return, and when news came by the country folk that he had been seen, bound hand and foot, being taken to Hermitage by Lord Soulis' men, the anger of the whole clan knew no bounds. For, as it is to-day, little Annie, so it was then. The Scotts of Buccleuch were strong and powerful, and held in honour far and near. The young lord had one brother, Bold Walter by name. He was a mighty fighter and a right strong man, who carried a bow that no other man could bend, and who loved nothing better than to ride on a foray with all his father's moss-troopers at his back. Methinks Lord Soulis had forgotten Bold Walter when he meddled with his brother and his bride. It did not take this brave knight long, when he heard the news, to send his riders out to North, and South, and East, and West, to call on his friends and clansmen to ride with him to the fray. And because he had heard of Old Redcap, and knew that Lord Soulis would be protected by his charms, he sent all the way to the Tower of Ercildoune for True Thomas, that wondrous Rhymer, who had been for seven years in Fairyland, and who, on his return to earth, had gone to the Abbey Church of St Mary, at Melrose, and had taken Sir Michael Scott's Spae-book from its dread hiding-place, for its writer had been buried with it in his arms. So, before the next sun had set, Bold Walter had raised as fair an army as that which the King in Edinburgh had thought to send to Hermitage. The news of this army spread like wildfire over the country, ay, and over the hills to Hermitage, and I ween Lord Soulis' heart sank still lower when he heard of it, and once more he went for counsel to the magic chest. Again he knocked, and again the hollow groan rang out; but as the lid lifted, he forgot in his haste to turn his eyes away, and in a moment the charm was broken. The spirit spoke indeed, but it spoke sullenly and angrily. "Alas," it said, "thou art undone. Thou hast forgotten my warning, and, instead of turning away thy head, thou hast raised thine eyes to look on me. Therefore thou must lock the door of this chamber, and give the key into my keeping, and for seven long years thou must not return, and I must remain silent." The wicked may flourish like the green bay tree, little Annie, but vengeance will always overtake them at last; and I trow that Lord Soulis felt that vengeance was close on his heels, as he left that mysterious chamber, and locked the door, and drew the key from the lock, where it had always rested, in his life-time at least, and threw it over his left shoulder, which is, men say, the right way to give things to wizards and witches, and such-like beings. The key sank in the ground, and there it remains for aught I know, and 'tis said that even to this day, at the end of every seven years, if anyone cares to listen, they may hear strange and awful sounds coming from that long-locked chamber.[23] [Footnote 23: "Somewhere about the autumn of 1806, the Earl of Dalkeith, being encamped near the Hermitage Castle, for the amusement of shooting, directed some workmen to clear away the rubbish from the door of the dungeon in order to ascertain its ancient dimensions and architecture. To the great astonishment of the labourers, a rusty iron key of considerable size was found among the ruins a little way from the dungeon door. The well-known tradition passed from one to another, and it was generally agreed that the malevolent demon who had so long retained possession of the key of the castle dungeon now found himself obliged to resign it to the heir-apparent of the domain."--Note on "Lord Soulis" in _Leyden's Life and Works_.] Yet Lord Soulis' heart was not humbled, and he made up his mind, that, come what might, young Buccleuch should die. And in the wickedness and cruelty of his heart he determined that he himself should choose the manner of it. So he had him brought before him. "What wouldst thou do, young Scott, if thou hadst me as I have thee?" he asked, in his cruel mocking voice. "I would take thee to the good greenwood," answered Buccleuch haughtily, "and I would hang thee there, and I would make thine own hand wale[24] the tree." [Footnote 24: Choose.] "Good," answered Lord Soulis; "then thou shalt do as thou hast said, and if bonnie May refuse to marry me, then she shall hang on a bush beside thee." So they led him out to a wood full of tall trees, far up on whose upper branches sat hooded crows, looking down on them in solemn silence. The first tree that Lord Soulis made his men halt under was a fir. "Say, wilt thou hang on a fir tree, and let the hooded crows pick thy bones?" he asked roughly. Young Buccleuch shook his head. "Nay, not so, my Lord of Soulis," he answered in mock humility, "for on windy nights at Branksome, the fir trees rock by the old towers, and the fir cones come pattering to the ground like rain. I heard them when I was a bairn, as I lay awake at night in my cot. Thou surely wouldst not have the heart to hang me on a tree which I have loved all my life." Then Soulis told his men to pass on, and as they went through the wood their prisoner kept peeping and peering from side to side, and muttering to himself, as if he were looking for something. The men-at-arms could not hear what he was saying, and methinks they would have been much astonished if they had. For he knew the spirit that his brother was of, and he knew that he would not let him hang without an attempt at rescue, and he was saying over and over again to himself, "This death is no' for me, this death is no' for me." At last they halted again under an aspen tree, whose leaves were quivering mournfully in the wind. Lord Soulis was growing impatient. "Choose, and choose quickly," he cried, "or methinks I must choose for thee." But again Buccleuch shook his head. "Not on an aspen tree, my lord, not on an aspen tree. I love its gray leaves better than any other, for it was under their shade that May o' Gorranberry and I first plighted our troth." So on they went, and still the young man peered and looked, first in this direction, then in that, until at last he saw what seemed to be a bank of hazel branches pressing through the trees towards them. Then he gave a great shout, and leaped high in the air. "Methinks I spy a coming tree," he cried, and at the words Lord Soulis' face grew pale, for they recalled to him Redcap's warning, and he feared that his hour had come. Everyone soon saw what the strange thing was which was coming towards them. It was Bold Walter of Buccleuch and his men, and each of them had stuck a branch of witch's hazel in his basnet, for 'tis said that a twig of hazel protects its wearer from the arts of magic, and they had no mind to be bewitched by the Lord of Hermitage. So this was the coming tree that Redcap had warned Lord Soulis to beware of, and it had come in right earnest. But Soulis remembered the charmed life that he bore, and he tried to shake fear from his heart. "Ay, many may come, but few shall go back," he cried defiantly; "besides, ye come on a bootless errand. There is not a man in broad Scotland who hath the power to wound me." "By my troth," replied Bold Walter, "but we shall soon prove that," and, drawing his bow, he sent an arrow straight in Lord Soulis' face. Sure enough it fell harmless to the ground, and there was not even a scratch on the wicked lord's skin, and for a moment Buccleuch was baffled. But Thomas of Ercildoune stepped forward. "He is bewitched, Sire," he said, "and protected by the charms of Redcap. No steel can break that charm, but mayhap if thy men bore him down with their lances, he might be taken." In vain the spearmen crowded round, and struck him to the earth. The lances glanced harmlessly off his body, and never left so much as a mark on him. Then they bound him hand and foot with hempen ropes, but, to their amazement, he burst them as if they had been threads of wool. Then someone brought chains of forged steel, and they bound those round his limbs, thinking that now they surely had him in their power; but he burst them as easily as if they had been made of tow. At this everyone was daunted, and would have let him go, but Thomas of Ercildoune cried cheerily, "We'll bind him yet, lads, whatever betide." As he spoke, he drew out from his bosom a little black leather-covered book, and at the sight of it all the spearmen fell back in awe. For it was Sir Michael Scott's "Book of Might," and, as I have said, Sir Michael was a wizard himself, and knew all about warlocks and witches, with their charms and spells, and he could undo everyone of them, and he had written all this knowledge down in his black Spae-book. When he died, the book had been buried deep in his grave in the Abbey at Melrose, and True Thomas had gone there, and recovered it, and he had brought it with him to aid Bold Walter of Buccleuch in rescuing his brother. He turned over the leaves, and at last he found the place where Sir Michael had told how it was possible to bind a charmed man. "Ye cannot bind a wizard with ropes," he read, "unless they be ropes of sifted sand." "Where can we get some sifted sand?" he asked, and everyone looked round in dismay, for there was no sand there, under the trees. "Come to the Nine-stane Rig," cried a man; "there is a burn[25] runs past the bottom of it, and we will find plenty of sand there." [Footnote 25: Stream.] Thou knowest the Nine-stane Rig, little Annie, the hill that slopes down to Hermitage Water, with the circle of great stones standing on it, which, 'tis said, were placed there by wild and heathen men, hundreds of years ago. Well, they carried Lord Soulis there, and hurried him down to the burn, and they shaped ropes out of the sand that lies smooth and clean by the water-side. But, shape the ropes as they might, they would neither twist nor twine; the dry sand just ran through their fingers, and once again they were baffled. Once more True Thomas turned to the spae-book, and this time he found that the sand would twist more easily if it were mixed with barley chaff, and the men of Teviotdale ran down the valley until they came to a field of growing barley. They pulled the ripe grain and beat it in their hands, and it was not long ere they returned with a napkin full of chaff. They mixed nine handfuls of it with the sand, for it was thus the "Book of Might" directed, and once more they tried to twist the ropes, but once more they failed. "This is some of the wee man's work," muttered the country folk, who were standing looking on; and they were right. Old Redcap had not deserted his master, although the spell which caused the magic chest to open was broken, and he was at hand, doing his utmost to save him, though unseen by mortal eyes. Again True Thomas turned over the leaves of Sir Michael's book, in the hope of finding something which would break even the most powerful spell, and at last he came to a page where it told how, if all else failed, the wizard must be boiled in lead. Ay, thou mayst well shudder, little Annie, and hide thy face in my gown. 'Twas a terrible thing to do, but they did it. They kindled a fire on the Nine-stane Rig, in the middle of the old Druid stones, and there they placed the great brass cauldron. They heated it red hot, and some of them hasted to Hermitage Castle, and stripped a sheet of lead from the roof, and they wrapped the wicked lord in it, and plunged him in, and stood round in solemn silence till the contents of that awful pot melted--lead, and bones, and all--and nought remained but a seething sea of molten metal. So came the sinful man by his end, and to this day the cauldron remains, as thou knowest, child. It was brought over to the Skelf-hill, and there it stands, a fearful warning to evil-doers, while, on the spot where it was boiled, within the circle of stones on the Nine-stane Rig, the ground lies bare and fallow, for the very grass refuses to grow where such a terrible deed was done. THE BROWNIE OF BLEDNOCK "There came a strange wight to our town en', An' the fient a body did him ken; He twirled na' lang, but he glided ben, Wi' a weary, dreary hum. His face did glow like the glow o' the West, When the drumly cloud had it half o'ercast; Or the struggling moon when she's sair distrest. O, Sirs! it was Aiken-Drum." Did you ever hear how a Brownie came to our village of Blednock, and was frightened away again by a silly young wife, who thought she was cleverer than anyone else, but who did us the worst turn that she ever did anybody in her life, when she made the queer, funny, useful little man disappear? Well, it was one November evening, in the gloaming, just when the milking was done, and before the bairns were put to bed, and everyone was standing on their doorsteps, having a crack about the bad harvest, and the turnips, and what chances there were of good prices for the stirks[26] at the Martinmas Fair, when the queerest humming noise started down by the river. [Footnote 26: Bullocks.] It came nearer and nearer, and everyone stopped their clavers[27] and began to look down the road. And, 'deed, it was no wonder that they stared, for there, coming up the middle of the highway, was the strangest, most frightsome-looking creature that human eyes had ever seen. [Footnote 27: Idle talk.] He looked like a little wee, wee man, and yet he looked almost like a beast, for he was covered with hair from head to foot, and he wore no clothing except a little kilt of green rashes which hung round his waist. His hair was matted, and his head hung forward on his breast, and he had a long blue beard, which almost touched the ground. His legs were twisted, and knocked together as he walked, and his arms were so long that his hands trailed in the mud. He seemed to be humming something over and over again, and, as he came near us we could just make out the words, "Hae ye wark for Aiken-Drum?" Eh, but I can tell you the folk were scared. If it had been the Evil One himself who had come to our quiet little village, I doubt if he would have caused more stir.[28] The bairns screamed, and hid their faces in their mothers' gown-tails; while the lassies, idle huzzies that they were, threw down the pails of milk, which should have been in the milkhouse long ago, if they had not been so busy gossiping; and the very dogs crept in behind their masters, whining, and hiding their tails between their legs. The grown men, who should have known better, and who were not frightened to look the wee man in the face, laughed and hooted at him. [Footnote 28: Excitement.] "Did ye ever see such eyes?" cried one. "His mouth is so big, he could swallow the moon," said another. "Hech, sirs, but did ye ever see such a creature?" cried a third. And still the poor little man went slowly up the street, crying wistfully, "Hae ye wark for Aiken-Drum? Any wark for Aiken-Drum?" Some of us tried to speak to him, but our tongues seemed to be tied, and the words died away on our lips, and we could only stand and watch him with frightened glances, as if we were bewitched. Old Grannie Duncan, the oldest, and the kindest woman in the village, was the first to come to her senses. "He may be a ghost, or a bogle, or a wraith," she said; "or he may only be a harmless Brownie. It is beyond me to say; but this I know, that if he be an evil spirit, he will not dare to look on the Holy Book." And with that she ran into her cottage, and brought out the great leather-bound Bible which aye lay on her little table by the window. She stood on the road, and held it out, right in front of the creature, but he took no more heed of it than if it had been an old song-book, and went slowly on, with his weary cry for work. "He's just a Brownie," cried Grannie Duncan in triumph, "a simple, kindly Brownie. I've heard tell of such folk before, and many a long day's work will they do for the people who treat them well." Gathering courage from her words, we all crowded round the wee man, and now that we were close to him, we saw that his hairy face was kind and gentle, and his tiny eyes had a merry twinkle in them. "Save us, and help us, creature!" said an old man reprovingly, "but can ye no speak, and tell us what ye want, and where ye come from?" For answer the Brownie looked all round him, and gave such a groan, that we scattered and ran in all directions, and it was full five minutes before we could pluck up our courage and go close to him again. But Grannie Duncan stood her ground, like a brave old woman that she was, and it was to her that the creature spoke. "I cannot tell thee from whence I come," he said. "'Tis a nameless land, and 'tis very different from this land of thine. For there we all learn to serve, while here everyone wishes to be served. And when there is no work for us to do at home, then we sometimes set out to visit thy land, to see if there is any work which we may do there. I must seem strange to human eyes, that I know; but if thou wilt, I will stay in this place awhile. I need not that any should wait on me, for I seek neither wages, nor clothes, nor bedding. All I ask for is the corner of a barn to sleep in, and a cogful of brose set down on the floor at bedtime; and if no one meddles with me, I will be ready to help anyone who needs me. I'll gather your sheep betimes on the hill; I'll take in your harvest by moonlight. I'll sing the bairns to sleep in their cradles, and, though I doubt you'll not believe it, you'll find that the babes will love me. I'll kirn your kirns[29] for you, goodwives, and I'll bake your bread on a busy day; while, as for the men folk, they may find me useful when there is corn to thrash, or untamed colts in the stables, or when the waters are out in flood." [Footnote 29: A churn.] No one quite knew what to say in answer to the creature's strange request. It was an unheard-of thing for anyone to come and offer their services for nothing, and the men began to whisper among themselves, and to say that it was not canny, and 'twere better to have nothing to do with him. But up spoke old Grannie Duncan again. "'Tis but a Brownie, I tell you," she repeated, "a poor, harmless Brownie, and many a story have I heard in my young days about the work that a Brownie can do, if he be well treated and let alone. Have we not been complaining all summer about bad times, and scant wages, and a lack of workmen to work the work? And now, when a workman comes ready to your hand, ye will have none of him, just because he is not bonnie to look on." Still the men hesitated, and the silly young wenches screwed their faces, and pulled their mouths. "But, Grannie," cried they, "that is all very well, but if we keep such a creature in our village, no one will come near it, and then what shall we do for sweethearts?" "Shame on ye," cried Grannie impatiently, "and on all you men for encouraging the silly things in their whimsies. It's time that ye were thinking o' other things than bonnie faces and sweethearts. 'Handsome is that handsome does,' is a good old saying; and what about the corn that stands rotting in the fields, an' it past Hallowe'en already? I've heard that a Brownie can stack a whole ten-acre field in a single night." That settled the matter. The miller offered the creature the corner of his barn to sleep in, and Grannie promised to boil the cogful of brose, and send her grandchild, wee Jeannie, down with it every evening, and then we all said good-night, and went into our houses, looking over our shoulders as we did so, for fear that the strange little man was following us. But if we were afraid of him that night, we had a very different song to sing before a week was over. Whatever he was, or wherever he came from, he was the most wonderful worker that men had ever known. And the strange thing was that he did most of it at night. He had the corn safe into the stackyards, and the stacks thatched, in the clap of a hand, as the old folk say. The village became the talk of the countryside, and folk came from all parts to see if they could catch a glimpse of our queer, hairy little visitor; but they were always unsuccessful, for he was never to be seen when one looked for him. One might go into the miller's barn twenty times a day, and twenty times a day find nothing but a heap of straw; and although the cog of brose was aye empty in the morning, no one knew when he came home, or when he supped it. But wherever there was work to be done, whether it was a sickly bairn to be sung to, or a house to be tidied up; a kirn that would not kirn, or a batch of bread that would not rise; a flock of sheep to be gathered together on a stormy night, or a bundle to be carried home by some weary labourer; Aiken-Drum, as we learned to call him, always got to know of it, and appeared in the nick of time. It looked as if we had all got wishing-caps, for we had just to wish, and the work was done. Many a time, some poor mother, who had been up with a crying babe all night, would sit down with it in her lap, in front of the fire, in the morning, and fall fast asleep, and when she awoke, she would find that Aiken-Drum had paid her a visit, for the floor would be washed, and the dishes too, and the fire made up, and the kettle put on to boil; but the little man would have slipped away, as if he were frightened of being thanked. The bairns were the only ones who ever saw him idle, and oh, how they loved him! In the gloaming, or when the school was out, one could see them away down in some corner by the burn[30]-side, crowding round the little dark brown figure, with its kilt of rushes, and one would hear the sound of wondrous low sweet singing, for he knew all the songs that the little ones loved. [Footnote 30: Stream.] So by and by the name of Aiken-Drum came to be a household word amongst us, and although we so seldom saw him near at hand, we loved him like one of our ain folk. And he might have been here still, had it not been for a silly, senseless young wife who thought she knew better than everyone else, and who took some idle notion into her empty head that it was not right to make the little man work, and give him no wage. She dinned[31] this into our heads, morning, noon, and night, and she would not believe us when we told her that Aiken-Drum worked for love, and love only. [Footnote 31: Impressed this upon us.] Poor thing, she could not understand anyone doing that, so she made up her mind that she, at least, would do what was right, and set us all an example. "She did not mean any harm," she said afterwards, when the miller took her to task for it; but although she might not mean to do any harm, she did plenty, as senseless folk are apt to do when they cannot bear to take other people's advice, for she took a pair of her husband's old, mouldy, worn-out breeches, and laid them down one night beside the cogful of brose. By my faith, if the village folk had not remembered so well what Aiken-Drum had said about wanting no wages, they would have found something better to give him than a pair of worn-out breeks. Be that as it may, the long and the short of it was, that the dear wee man's feelings were hurt because we would not take his services for nothing, and he vanished in the night, as Brownies are apt to do, so Grannie Duncan says, if anyone tries to pay them, and we have never seen him from that day to this, although the bairns declare that they sometimes hear him singing down by the mill, as they pass it in the gloaming, on their way home from school. SIR PATRICK SPENS "The king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine; 'O whare will I get a skeely skipper, To sail this new ship o' mine?' * * * * * Half owre, half owre to Aberdour, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet." Now hearken to me, all ye who love old stories, and I will tell you how one of the bravest and most gallant of Scottish seamen came by his death. 'Tis the story of an event which brought mourning and dule to many a fair lady's heart, in the far-off days of long ago. Now all the world knows that his Majesty, King Alexander the Third, who afterwards came by his death on the rocks at Kinghorn, had one only daughter, named Margaret, after her ancestress, the wife of Malcolm Canmore, whose life was so holy, and her example so blessed, that, to this day, men call her Saint Margaret of Scotland. King Alexander had had much trouble in his life, for he had already buried his wife, and his youngest son David, and 'twas no wonder that, as he sat in the great hall of his Palace at Dunfermline, close to the Abbey Church, where he loved best to hold his Court, that his heart was sore at the thought of parting with his motherless daughter. She had lately been betrothed to Eric, the young King of Norway, and it was now full time that she went to her new home. So a stately ship had been prepared to convey her across the sea; the amount of her dowry had been settled; her attendants chosen; and it only remained to appoint a captain to the charge of the vessel. But here King Alexander was at a loss. It was now past midsummer, and in autumn the Northern Sea was wont to be wild and stormy, and on the skilful steering of the Royal bark many precious lives depended. He thought first of one man skilled in the art of seamanship, and then he thought of another, and at last he turned in his perplexity to his nobles who were sitting around him. "Canst tell me," he said, fingering a glass of red French wine as he spoke, "of a man well skilled in the knowledge of winds and tides, yet of gentle birth withal, who can be trusted to pilot this goodly ship of mine, with her precious burden, safely over the sea to Norway?" The nobles looked at one another in silence for a moment, and then one of them, an old gray-haired baron, rose from his seat by Alexander's side. "Scotland lacks not seamen, both gentle and simple, my Liege," he said, "who could be trusted with this precious charge. But there is one man of my acquaintance, who, above all others, is worthy of such a trust. I speak of young Sir Patrick Spens, who lives not far from here. Not so many years have passed over his head, but from a boy he has loved the sea, and already he knows more about it, and its moods, than white-haired men who have sailed on it all their lives. 'Tis his bride, he says, an' I trow he speaks the truth, for, although he is as fair a gallant as ever the eye of lady rested on, and although many tender hearts, both within the Court, and without, beat a quicker measure when his name is spoken, he is as yet free of love fancies, and aye bides true to this changeful mistress of his. Truly he may well count it an honour to have the keeping of so fair a flower entrusted to him." "Now bring me paper and pen," cried the King, "and I will write to him this instant with mine own hand." Slowly and laboriously King Alexander penned the lines, for in these days kings were readier with the sword than with the pen; then, folding the letter and sealing it with the great signet ring which he wore on the third finger of his right hand, he gave it to the old baron, and commanded him to seek Sir Patrick Spens without loss of time. Now Sir Patrick dwelt near the sea, and when the baron arrived he found him pacing up and down on the hard white sand by the sea-shore, watching the waves, and studying the course of the tides. He was quite a young man, and 'twas little wonder if the story which the old baron had told was true, and if all the ladies' hearts in Fife ached for love of him, for I trow never did goodlier youth walk the earth, and men said of him that he was as gentle and courteous as he was handsome. At first when he began to read the King's letter, his face flushed with pride, for who would not have felt proud to be chosen before all others in Scotland, to be the captain of the King's Royal bark? But the smile passed away almost as soon as it appeared, and a look of great sadness took its place. In silence he gazed out over the sea. Did something warn him at that moment that this would prove his last voyage;--that never again would he set foot in his beloved land? It may be so; who can tell? Certain it is--the old baron recalled it to his mind in the sad days that were to come--that, when the young sailor handed back the King's letter to him, his eyes were full of tears. "'Tis certainly a great honour," he said, "and I thank his Majesty for granting it to me, but methinks it was no one who loved my life, or the lives of those who sail with me, who suggested our setting out for Norway at this time of year." Then, anxious lest the baron thought that he said this out of fear, or cowardice, he changed his tone, and hurried him up to his house to partake of some refreshment after his ride, while he gave orders to his seamen to get everything ready. "Make haste, my men," he shouted in a cheerful, lusty voice, "for a great honour hath fallen to our lot. His Majesty hath deigned to entrust to us his much loved daughter, the Princess Margaret, that we may convey her, in the stately ship which he hath prepared, to her husband's court in Norway. Wherefore, let every man look to himself, and let him meet me at Aberdour, where the ship lies, on Sunday by nightfall, for we sail next day with the tide." So on the Monday morning early, ere it struck eight of the clock, a great procession wound down from the King's Palace at Dunfermline to the little landing-stage at Aberdour, where the stately ship was lying, with her white sails set, like a gigantic swan. Between the King and his son, the Prince of Scotland, rode the Princess Margaret, her eyes red with weeping, for in those days it was no light thing to set out for another land, and she felt that the parting might be for ever. And so, in good sooth, it proved to be, in this world at least, for before many years had passed all three were in their graves; but that belongs not to my tale. Next rode the high and mighty persons who were to accompany the Princess to her husband's land, and be witnesses of the fulfilment of the marriage contract. These were their Graces the Earl and Countess of Menteith, his Reverence the Abbot of Balmerino, the good Lord Bernard of Monte-Alto, and many others, including a crowd of young nobles, five and fifty in all, who had been asked to swell the Princess's retinue, and who were only too glad to have a chance of getting a glimpse of other lands. Next came a long train of sumpter mules, with the Princess's baggage, and that of her attendants. And last of all, guarded well by men-at-arms, came the huge iron-bound chests which contained her dowry: seven thousand merks in good white money; and there were other seven thousand merks laid out for her in land in Scotland. Sir Patrick Spens was waiting to receive the Princess on board the ship. Right courteously, I ween, he handed her to her cabin, and saw that my Lady of Menteith, in whose special care she was, was well lodged also, as befitted her rank and station. But I trow that his lip curled with scorn when he saw that the five and fifty young nobles had provided themselves with five and fifty feather beds to sleep on. He himself was a hardy man, as a sailor ought to be, and he loved not to see men so careful of their comfort. At last the baggage, and the dowry, and even the feather beds were stowed away; and the last farewells having been said, the great ship weighed anchor, and sailed slowly out of the Firth of Forth. Ah me, how many eyes there were, which watched it sail away, with husband, or brother, or sweetheart on board, which would wait in vain for many a long day for its return! Sir Patrick made a good voyage. The sea was calm, the wind was in his favour, and by the evening of the third day he brought his ship with her precious burden safe to the shores of Norway. "Now the Saints be praised," he said to himself as he cast anchor, "for the Princess is safe, let happen what may on our return voyage." In great state, and with much magnificence, Margaret of Scotland was wedded to Eric of Norway, and great feasting and merry-making marked the event. For a whole month the rejoicing went on. The Norwegian nobles vied with each other who could pay most attention to the Scottish strangers. From morning to night their halls rang with music, and gaiety, and dancing. No wonder that the young nobles;--nay, no wonder that even Sir Patrick Spens himself, careful seaman though he was, forgot to think of the homeward journey, or to remember how soon the storms of winter would be upon them. In good sooth they might have remained where they were till the spring, and then this tale need never have been told, had not a thoughtless taunt touched their Scottish pride to the quick. The people of Norway are a frugal race, and to the older nobles all this feasting and junketing seemed like wild, needless extravagance. "Our young men have gone mad," they said to each other; "if this goes on, the country will be ruined. 'Tis those strangers who have done it. It would be a good day for Norway if they would bethink themselves, and sail for home." That very night there was a great banquet, an' I warrant that there was dire confusion in the hall when a fierce old noble of Royal blood, an uncle of the King, spoke aloud to Sir Patrick Spens in the hearing of all the company. "Now little good will the young Queen's dowry do either to our King or to our country," he said, "if it has all to be eaten up, feasting a crowd of idle youngsters who ought to be at home attending to their own business." Sir Patrick turned red, and then he turned white. What the old man said was very untrue; and he knew it. For, besides the young Queen's dowry, a large sum of money had been taken over in the ship, to pay for the expenses of her attendants, and of the nobles in her train. "'Tis false. Ye lie," he said bluntly; "for I wot I brought as much white money with me as would more than pay for all that hath been spent on our behalf. If these be the ways of Norway, then beshrew me, but I like them not." With these words he turned and left the hall followed by all the Scottish nobles. Without speaking a word to any of them, he strode down to the harbour, where his ship was lying, and ordered the sailors to begin to make ready at once, for he would sail for home in the morning. The night was cold and dreary; there was plainly a storm brewing. It was safe and snug in the harbour, and the sailors were loth to face the dangers of the voyage. But their captain looked so pale and stern, that everyone feared to speak. "Master," said an old man at last--he was the oldest man on board, and had seen nigh seventy years--"I have never refused to do thy bidding, and I will not begin to-night. We will go, if go we must; but, if it be so, then may God's mercy rest on us. For late yestreen I saw the old moon in the sky, and she was nursing the new moon in her arms. It needs not me to tell thee, for thou art as weather-wise as I am, what that sign bodes." "Say ye so?" said Sir Patrick, startled in spite of his anger; "then, by my troth, we may prepare for a storm. But tide what may, come snow or sleet, come cold or wet, we head for Scotland in the morning." So the stately ship set her sails once more, and for a time all went well. But when they had sailed for nigh three days, and were thinking that they must be near Scotland, the sky grew black and the wind arose, and all signs pointed to a coming storm. Sir Patrick took the helm himself, and did his best to steer the ship through the tempest which soon broke over them, and which grew worse and worse every moment. The sailors worked with a will at the ropes, and even the foolish young nobles, awed by the danger which threatened them, offered their assistance. But they were of little use, and certs, one would have laughed to have seen them, had the peril not been so great, with their fine satin cloaks wrapped round them, and carrying their feathered hats under their arms, trying to step daintily across the deck, between the rushes of the water, in order that they might not wet their tiny, cork-heeled, pointed-toed shoes. Alack, alack, neither feathered hats, nor pointed shoon, availed to save them! Darker and darker grew the sea, and every moment the huge waves threatened to engulf the goodly vessel. Sir Patrick Spens had sailed on many a stormy sea, but never in his life had he faced a tempest like this. He knew that he and all his gallant company were doomed men unless the land were near. That was their only hope, to find some harbour and run into it for shelter. Soon the huge waves were breaking over the deck, and the bulwarks began to give way. Truly their case was desperate, and even the gay young nobles grew grave, and many hearts were turned towards the homes which they would never see again. "Send me a man to take the helm," shouted Sir Patrick hoarsely, "while I climb to the top of the mast, and try if I can see land." Instantly the old sailor who had warned him of the coming storm, the night before, was at his side. "I will guide the ship, captain," he said, "if thou art bent on going aloft; but I fear me thou wilt see no land. Sailors who are out on their last voyage need not look for port." Now Sir Patrick was a brave man, and he meant to fight for life; so he climbed up to the mast head, and clung on there, despite the driving spray and roaring wind, which were like to drive him from his foothold. In vain he peered through the darkness, looking to the right hand and to the left; there was no land to be seen, nothing but the great green waves, crested with foam, which came springing up like angry wolves, eager to swallow the gallant ship and her luckless crew. Suddenly his cheek grew pale, and his eyes dark with fear. "We are dead men now," he muttered; for, not many feet below him, seated on the crest of a massive wave, he saw the form of a beautiful woman, with a cruel face and long fair hair, which floated like a veil on the top of the water. 'Twas a mermaid, and he knew what the sight portended. She held up a silver bowl to him, with a little mocking laugh on her lips. "Sail on, sail on, my guid Scots lords," she cried, and her sweet, false voice rose clear and shrill above the tumult of the waves, "for I warrant ye'll soon touch dry land." "We may touch the land, but 'twill be the land that lies fathoms deep below the sea," replied Sir Patrick grimly, and then the weird creature laughed again, and floated away in the darkness. When she had passed Sir Patrick glanced down at the deck, and the sight that met him there only deepened his gloom. Worn with the beating of the waves, a bolt had sprung in the good ship's side, and a plank had given way, and the cruel green water was pouring in through the hole. Verily, they were facing death itself now; yet the strong man's heart did not quail. He had quailed at the sight of the mermaid's mocking eyes, but he looked on the face of death calmly, as befitted a brave and a good man. Perhaps the thought came to him, as it came to another famous seaman long years afterwards, that heaven is as near by sea as by land, and in the thought there was great comfort. There was but one more thing to be done; after that they were helpless. "Now, my good Scots lords," he cried, and I trow a look of amusement played round his lips even at that solemn hour, "now is the time for those featherbeds of thine. There are five and fifty of them; odds take it, if they be not enough to stop up one little hole." At the words the poor young nobles set to work right manfully, forgetting in their fear, that their white hands were bruised and bleeding, and their dainty clothes all wet with sea-water. Alack! alack! ere half the work was done, the good ship shivered from bow to stern, and went slowly down under the waves; and Sir Patrick Spens and his whole company met death, as, in their turn, all men must meet him, and passed to where he had no more power over them. So there, under the waters of the gray Northern Sea he rested, lying in state, as it were, with the Scottish lords and his own faithful sailors round him; while there was dule and woe throughout the length and breadth of Scotland, and fair women wept as they looked in vain for the husbands, and the brothers, and the lovers who would return to them no more. And, while the long centuries come and go, he is resting there still, with the Scots lords and his faithful sailors by him, waiting for a Day, whose coming may be long, but whose coming will be sure, when the sea shall give up its dead. YOUNG BEKIE "Young Bekie was as brave a knight As ever sailed the sea; And he's done him to the Court of France To serve for meat and fee. He hadna been in the Court of France A twelvemonth, nor sae lang, Till he fell in love with the King's daughter, And was thrown in prison strang." It was the Court of France: the gayest, and the brightest, and the merriest court in the whole world. For there the sun seemed always to be shining, and the nobles, and the fair Court ladies did not know what care meant. In all the palace there was only one maiden who wore a sad and troubled look, and that was Burd Isbel, the King's only daughter. A year before she had been the lightest-hearted maiden in France. Her face had been like sunshine, and her voice like rippling music; but now all was changed. She crept about in silence, with pale cheeks, and clouded eyes, and the King, her father, was in deep distress. He summoned all the great doctors, and offered them all manner of rewards if only they would give him back, once more, his light-hearted little daughter. But they shook their heads gravely; for although doctors can do many things, they have not yet found out the way to make heavy hearts light again. All the same these doctors knew what ailed the Princess, but they dare not say so. That would have been to mention a subject which nearly threw the King into a fit whenever he thought of it. For just a year before, a brave young Scottish Knight had come over to France to take service at the King's Court. His name was Young Bekie, and he was so strong and so noble that at first the King had loved him like a son. But before long the young man had fallen in love with Burd Isbel, and of course Burd Isbel had fallen in love with him, and he had gone straight to the King, and asked him if he might marry her;--and then the fat was in the fire. For although the stranger seemed to be brave, and noble, and good, and far superior to any Frenchman, he was not of royal birth, and the King declared that it was a piece of gross impertinence on his part ever to think of marrying a king's daughter. It was in vain that the older nobles, who had known Burd Isbel since she was a child, begged for pity for the young man, and pointed out his good qualities; the King would not listen to them, but stamped, and stormed, and raged with anger. He gave orders that the poor young Knight should be shut up in prison at once, and threatened to take his life; and he told his daughter sharply that she was to think no more about him. But Burd Isbel could not do that, and she used to creep to the back of the prison door, when no one was near, and listen wistfully, in the hope that she might hear her lover's voice. For a long time she was unsuccessful, but one day she heard him bemoaning his hard fate--to be kept a prisoner in a foreign land, with no chance of sending a message to Scotland of the straits that he was in. "Oh," he murmured piteously to himself, "if only I could send word home to Scotland to my father, he would not leave me long in this vile prison. He is rich, and he would spare nothing for my ransom. He would send a trusty servant with a bag of good red gold, and another of bonnie white silver, to soften the cruel heart of the King of France." Then she heard him laugh bitterly to himself. "There is little chance that I will escape," he muttered, "for who is likely to carry a message to Scotland for me? No, no, my bones will rot here; that is clear enough. And yet how willingly I would be a slave, if I could escape. If only some great lady needed a servant, I would gladly run at her horse's bridle if she could gain me my liberty. If only a widow needed a man to help her, I would promise to be a son to her, if she could obtain my freedom. Nay, if only some poor maiden would promise to wed me, and crave my pardon at the King's hand, I would in return carry her to Scotland, and dower her with all my wealth; and that is not little, for am I not master of the forests, and the lands, and the Castle of Linnhe?" Many a maiden would have been angry had she heard her lover speak these words; but Burd Isbel loved him too much to be offended at anything which he said, so she crept away to her chamber with a determined look on her girlish face. "'Tis not for thy lands or thy Castle," she whispered, "but for pure love of thee. Love hath made maidens brave ere now, and it will make them brave again." That night, when all the palace was quiet, Burd Isbel wrapped herself in a long gray cloak, and crept noiselessly from her room. She might have been taken for a dark shadow, had it not been for her long plait of lint-white hair and her little bare feet, which peeped out and in beneath the folds of her cloak, as she stole down the great polished staircase. Silently she crept across the hall, and peeped into the guard-room. All the guards were asleep, and, on the wall above their heads hung the keys of the palace, and beside them a great iron key. That was the key of the prison. She stole across the floor on tip-toe, making no more noise than a mouse, and, stretching up her hand, she took down the heavy key, and hid it under her cloak. Then she sped quickly out of the guard-room, and through a turret door, into a dark courtyard where the prison was. She fitted the key in the lock. It took all her strength to turn it, but she managed it at last, and, shutting the door behind her, she went into the little cell where Young Bekie was imprisoned. A candle flickered in its socket on the wall, and by its light she saw him lying asleep on the cold stone floor. She could not help giving a little scream when she saw him, for there were three mice and two great rats sitting on the straw at his head, and they had nibbled away nearly all his long yellow hair, which she had admired so much when first he came to Court. His beard had grown long and rough too, for he had had no razors to shave with, and altogether he looked so strange that she hardly knew him. At the sound of her voice he woke and started up, and the mice and the rats scampered away to their holes. He knew her at once, and in a moment he forgot his dreams of slaves, and widows, and poor maidens. He sprang across the floor, and knelt at her feet, and kissed her little white hands. "Ah," he said, "now would I stay here for ever, if I might always have thee for a companion." But Burd Isbel was a sensible maiden, and she knew that if her lover meant to escape, he must make haste, and not waste time in making pretty speeches. She knew also that if he went out of prison looking like a beggar or a vagabond, he would soon be taken captive again, so she hurried back to the palace, and went hither and thither noiselessly with her little bare feet, and presently she returned with her hands full of parcels. She had brought a comb to comb the hair which the rats had left on his head, and a razor for him to shave himself with, and she had brought five hundred pounds of good red money, so that he might travel like a real Knight. Then, while he was making his toilet, she went into her father's stable, and led out a splendid horse, strong of limb, and fleet of foot, and on it she put a saddle and a bridle which had been made for the King's own charger. Finally, she went to the kennels, and, stooping down, she called softly, "Hector, Hector." A magnificent black hound answered her call and came and crouched at her feet, fawning on them and licking them. After him came three companions, all the same size, and all of them big enough to kill a man. These dogs belonged to Burd Isbel, and they were her special pets. A tear rolled down her face as she stooped and kissed their heads. "I am giving you to a new master, darlings," she said. "See and guard him well." Then she led them to where the horse was standing, saddled and bridled; and there, beside him, stood Young Bekie. Now that his beard was trimmed, and his hair arranged, he looked as gallant, and brave, and noble as ever. When Burd Isbel told him that the money, and the hounds, and the horse with its harness, were all his, he caught her in his arms, and swore that there had never been such a brave and generous maiden born before, and that he would serve her in life and death. Then, as time was pressing, and the dawn was beginning to break, they had to say farewell; but before they did so, they vowed a solemn vow that they would be married to each other within three years. After this Burd Isbel opened the great gate, and her lover rode away, with money in his pocket, and hounds by his side, like the well-born Knight that he was; and nobody who met him ever imagined that he was an escaped prisoner, set free by the courage of the King's daughter. * * * * * Alas, alas, for the faithfulness of men! Young Bekie was brave, and gentle, and courteous, but his will was not very strong, and he liked to be comfortable. And it came about that, after he had been back in Scotland for a year, the Scotch King had a daughter for whom he wanted to find a husband, and he made up his mind that Young Bekie would be the very man for her. So he proposed that he should marry her, and was quite surprised and angry when the young man declined. "It is an insult to my daughter," he said, and he determined to force Bekie to do as he wanted, by using threats. So he told the Knight, that, if he agreed to marry his daughter, he would grow richer and richer, but, if he refused, he would lose all his lands, and the Castle of Linnhe. Poor Young Bekie! I am afraid he was not a hero, for he chose to marry the Princess and keep his lands, and he tried to put the thought of Burd Isbel and what she had done for him, and the solemn vow that he had made to her, out of his head. Meanwhile Burd Isbel lived on at her father's court, and because her heart was full of faith and love, it grew light and merry again, and she began to dance and to sing as gaily as ever. But early one morning she woke up with a start, and there, at the foot of her bed, stood the queerest little manikin that she had ever seen. He was only about a foot high, and he was dressed all in russet brown, and his face was just like a wrinkled apple. "Who art thou?" she cried, starting up, "and what dost thou want?" "My name is Billy Blin," said the funny old man. "I am a Brownie, and I come from Scotland. My family all live there, and we are all very kind-hearted, and we like to help people. But it is no time to be talking of my affairs, for I have come to help thee. I have just been wondering how thou couldst lie there and sleep so peacefully when this is Young Bekie's wedding day. He is to be married at noon." "Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?" cried poor Burd Isbel in deep distress. "It is a long way from France to Scotland, and I can never be there in time." Billie Blin waved his little hand. "I will manage it for thee," he said, "if thou wilt only do what I tell thee. Go into thy mother's chamber as fast as thou canst, and get two of thy mother's maids-of-honour. And, remember, thou must be careful to see that they are both called Mary. Then thou must dress thyself in thy most beautiful dress. Thou hast a scarlet dress, I know, which becomes thee well, for I have seen thee wear it. Nay, be not surprised; we Brownies can see people when they do not see us. Put that dress on, and let thy Maries be dressed all in green. And in thy father's treasury there are three jewelled belts, each of them worth an earl's ransom. These thou must get, and clasp them round thy waists, and steal down to the sea-shore, and there, on the water, thou wilt see a beautiful Dutch boat. It will come to the shore for thee, and thou must step in, and greet the crew with a Mystic Greeting. Then thy part is done. I will do the rest." The Brownie vanished, and Burd Isbel made haste to do exactly what he had told her to do. She ran to her mother's room, and called to two maids called Mary to come and help her to dress. Then she put on her lovely scarlet robe, and bade them attire themselves in green, and she took the jewelled girdles out of the treasury, and gave one to each of them to put on; and when they were dressed they all went down to the sea-shore. There, on the sea, as the Brownie had promised, was a beautiful Dutch boat, with its sails spread. It came dancing over the water to them, and when Burd Isbel stepped on board, and greeted the sailors with a Mystic Greeting, they turned its prow towards Scotland, and Billy Blin appeared himself, and took the helm. Away, away, sailed the ship, until it reached the Firth of Tay, and there, high up among the hills, stood the Castle of Linnhe. When Burd Isbel and her maidens went to the gate they heard beautiful music coming from within, and their hearts sank. They rang the bell, and the old porter appeared. "What news, what news, old man?" cried Burd Isbel. "We have heard rumours of a wedding here, and would fain know if they be true or no?" "Certs, Madam, they are true," he answered; "for this very day, at noon, the Master of this place, Young Bekie, will be married to the King of Scotland's daughter." Then Burd Isbel felt in her jewelled pouch, and drew out three merks. "Take these, old man," she said, "and bid thy master speak to me at once." The porter did as he was bid, and went upstairs to the great hall, where all the wedding guests were assembled. He bent low before the King, and before the Queen, and then he knelt before his young lord. "I have served thee these thirty and three years, Sire," he said, "but never have I seen ladies come to the gate so richly attired as the three who wait without at this moment. There is one of them clad in scarlet, such scarlet as I have never seen, and two are clad in green, and they have girdles round their waists which might well pay an earl's ransom." When the Scottish Princess heard these words, she tossed her head haughtily. She was tall and buxom, and she was dressed entirely in cloth of gold. "Lack-a-day," she said, "what a to-do about three strangers! This old fool may think them finely dressed, but I warrant some of us here are every whit as fine as they." But Young Bekie sprang to his feet. He knew who it was, and the thought of his ingratitude brought the tears to his eyes. "I'll wager my life 'tis Burd Isbel," he cried, "who has come over the sea to seek me." Then he ran downstairs, and sure enough it was Burd Isbel. He clasped her in his arms, and kissed her, and now that he had her beside him, it seemed to him as if he had never loved anyone else. But the wedding guests came trooping out, and when they heard the story they shook their heads. "A likely tale," they cried. "Who is to believe it? If she be really the King of France's daughter, how came she here alone, save for those two maidens?" But some of them looked at the jewelled girdles, and held their peace. Then Burd Isbel spoke out clearly and simply. "I rescued my love out of prison," she said, "and gave him horse and hounds. And if the hounds know me not, then am I proved false." So saying she raised her voice. "Hector, Hector," she cried, and lo! the great black hound came bounding out of its kennel, followed by its companions, and lay down fawning at her feet, and licked them. Then the wedding guests knew that she had told the truth, and they turned their eyes on Young Bekie, to see what he would do. He, on his part, was determined that he would marry Burd Isbel, let happen what might. "Take home your daughter again," he cried impatiently to the King, "and my blessing go with her; for she sought me ere I sought her. This is my own true love; I can wed no other." "Nay," answered the King, in angry astonishment, "but this thing cannot be. Whoever heard of a maiden being sent home unwed, when the very wedding guests were assembled? I tell thee it cannot be." In despair Young Bekie turned to the lady herself. "Good lack, Madam," he cried, "is there no one else whom thou canst marry? There is many a better and manlier man than I, who goes seeking a wife. There, for instance, stands my cousin John. He is taller and stronger than I, a better fighter, and a right good man. Couldst thou not accept him for a husband? If thou couldst, I would pay him down five hundred pounds of good red gold on his wedding day." A murmur of displeasure ran through the crowd of wedding guests at this bold proposal, and the King grasped his sword in a rage. But, to everyone's amazement, the Princess seemed neither displeased nor daunted. She blushed rosy red, and smiled softly. "Keep thy money to thyself, Bekie," she answered. "Thy cousin John and I have no need of it. Neither doth he require a bribe to make him willing to take me for his wife. To speak truth, we loved each other long ere I set eyes on thee, and 'twas but the King, my father, who would have none of him. Perchance by now he hath changed his mind." So there were two weddings in the Castle of Linnhe instead of one. Young Bekie married Burd Isbel, and his cousin John married the King's daughter, and they "lived happy, happy, ever after." THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER "It was intil a pleasant time, Upon a simmer's day, The noble Earl of Mar's daughter Went forth to sport and play." Long, long ago, in a country far away over the sea, there lived a Queen who had an only son. She was very rich, and very great, and the only thing that troubled her was that her son did not want to get married in the very least. In vain his mother gave grand receptions and court balls, to which she asked all the young countesses and baronesses, in the hope that the Prince would take a fancy to one of them. He would talk to them, and dance with them, and be very polite, but, when his mother hinted that it was time that he looked for a wife, he only shrugged his shoulders and said that there was not a pretty girl amongst them. And perhaps there was some truth in his answer, for the maidens of that country were all fat, and little, and squat, and everyone of them waddled like a duck when she walked. "If thou canst not find a wife to thy liking at home," the Queen would say, "go to other countries and see the maidens there; surely somewhere thou wouldst find one whom thou couldst love." But Prince Florentine, for that was his name, only shook his head and laughed. "And marry a shrew," he would say mockingly; "for when the maidens heard my name, and knew for what purpose I had come, they would straightway smile their sweetest, and look their loveliest, and I would have no chance of knowing what manner of maidens they really were." Now the Queen had a very wonderful gift. She could change a man's shape, so that he would appear to be a hare, or a cat, or a bird; and at last she proposed to the Prince that she should turn him into a dove, and then he could fly away to foreign countries, and go up and down until he saw some maiden whom he thought he could really love, and then he could go back to his real shape, and get to know her in the usual way. This proposal pleased Prince Florentine very much. "He would take good care not to fall in love with anyone," he told himself; but, as he hated the stiffness and ceremony of court life, it seemed to him that it would be good fun to be free to go about as he liked and to see a great many different countries. So he agreed to his mother's wishes; and one day she waved a little golden wand over his head, and gave him a very nasty draught to drink, made from black beetles' wings, and wormwood, and snails' ears, and hedgehogs' spikes, and before he knew where he was, he was changed into a beautiful gray dove, with a white ring round its neck. At first when he saw himself in this changed guise he was frightened; but his mother quickly tied a tiny charm round his neck, and hid it under his soft gray feathers, and taught him how to press it against his heart until a fragrant odour came from it, and as soon as he did this, he became once more a handsome young man. Then he was very pleased, and kissed her, and said farewell, promising to return some day with a beautiful young bride; and after that he spread his wings, and flew away in search of adventure. For a year and a day he wandered about, now visiting this country, now that, and he was so amused and interested in all the strange and wonderful things that he saw, that he never once wanted to turn himself into a man, and he completely forgot that his mother expected that he was looking out for a wife. At last, one lovely summer's day, he found himself flying over broad Scotland, and, as the sun was very hot, he looked round for somewhere to shelter from its rays. Just below him was a stately castle, surrounded by magnificent trees. "This is just what I want," he said to himself; "I will rest here until the sun goes down." So he folded his wings, and sank gently down into the very heart of a wide-spreading oak tree, near which, as good fortune would have it, there was a field of ripening grain, which provided him with a hearty supper. Here, for many days, the Prince took up his abode, partly because he was getting rather tired of flying about continually, and partly because he began to feel interested in a lovely young girl who came out of the castle every day at noon, and amused herself with playing at ball under the spreading branches of the great tree. Generally she was quite alone, but once or twice an old lady, evidently her governess, came with her, and sat on a root, which formed a comfortable seat, and worked at some fine embroidery, while her pupil amused herself with her ball. Prince Florentine soon found out that the maiden's name was Grizel, and that she was the only child of the Earl of Mar, a nobleman of great riches and renown. She was very beautiful, so beautiful, indeed, that the Prince sat and feasted his eyes upon her all the time that she was at play, and then, when she had gone home, he could not sleep, but, sat with wide-open eyes, staring into the warm twilight, and wondering how he could get to know her. He could not quite make up his mind whether he should use his mother's charm, and take his natural shape, and walk boldly up to the castle and crave her father's permission to woo her, or fly away home, and send an ambassador with a train of nobles, and all the pomp that belonged to his rank, to ask for her hand. The question was settled for him one day, however, and everything happened quite differently from what he expected. On a very hot afternoon, Lady Grizel came out, accompanied by her governess, and, as usual, the old lady sat down to her embroidery, and the girl began to toss her ball. But the sun was so very hot that by and by the governess laid down her needle and fell fast asleep, while her pupil grew tired of running backwards and forwards, and, sitting down, began to toss her ball right up among the branches. All at once it caught in a leafy bough, and when she was gazing up, trying to see where it was, she caught sight of a beautiful gray dove, sitting watching her. Now, as I have said, Lady Grizel was an only child, and she had had few playmates, and all her life she had been passionately fond of animals, and when she saw the bird, she stood up and called gently, "Oh Coo-me-doo, come down to me, come down." Then she whistled so softly and sweetly, and stretched out her white hands above her head so entreatingly, that Prince Florentine left his branch, and flew down and alighted gently on her shoulder. The delight of the maiden knew no bounds. She kissed and fondled her new pet, which perched quite familiarly on her arm, and promised him a latticed silver cage, with bars of solid gold. The bird allowed the girl to carry him home, and soon the beautiful cage was made, and hung up on the wall of her chamber, just inside the window, and Coo-me-doo, as the dove was named, placed inside. He seemed perfectly happy, and grew so tame that soon he went with his mistress wherever she went, and all the people who lived near the castle grew quite accustomed to seeing the Earl's daughter driving or riding with her tame dove on her shoulder. When she went out to play at ball, Coo-me-doo would go with her, and perch up in his old place, and watch her with his bright dark eyes. One day when she was tossing the ball among the branches it rolled away, and for a long time she could not find it, and at last a voice behind her said, "Here it is," and, turning round, she saw to her astonishment a handsome young man dressed all in dove-gray satin, who handed her the ball with a stately bow. Lady Grizel was frightened, for no strangers were allowed inside her father's park, and she could not think where he had come from; but just as she was about to call out for help, the young man smiled and said, "Lady, dost thou not know thine own Coo-me-doo?" Then she glanced up into the branches, but the bird was gone, and as she hesitated (for the stranger spoke so kindly and courteously she did not feel very much alarmed), he took her hand in his. "'Tis true, my own love," he said; "but if thou canst not recognise thy favourite when his gray plumage is changed into gray samite, mayhap thou wilt know him when the gray samite is once more changed into softest feathers; and, pressing a tiny gold locket which he wore, to his heart, he vanished, and in his stead was her own gray dove, hovering down to his resting-place on her shoulder. "Oh, I cannot understand it, I cannot understand it," she cried, putting up her hand to stroke her pet; but the feathers seemed to slip from between her fingers, and once more the gallant stranger stood before her. "Sit thee down and rest, Sweetheart," he said, leading her to the root where her governess was wont to sit, while he stretched himself on the turf at her feet, "and I will explain the mystery to thee." Then he told her all. How his mother was a great Queen away in a far country, and how he was her only son. Lady Grizel's fears were all gone now, and she laughed merrily as he described the girls who lived in his own country, and told her how little and fat they were, and how they waddled when they walked; but when he told her how his mother had used her magic and turned him into a dove, in order that he might bring home a wife, her face grew grave and pale. "My father hath sworn a great oath," she said, "that I shall never wed with anyone who lives out of Scotland; so I fear we must part, and thou must go elsewhere in search of a bride." But Prince Florentine shook his head. "Nay," he said, "but rather than part from thee, I will live all my life as a dove in a cage, if I may only be near thee, and talk to thee when we are alone." "But what if my father should want me to wed with some Scottish lord?" asked the maiden anxiously; "couldst thou bear to sit in thy cage and sing my wedding song?" "That could I not," answered Prince Florentine, drawing her closer to him; "and in order to prevent such a terrible thing happening, Sweetheart, we must find ways and means to be married at once, and then, come what may, no one can take thee from me. This very evening I must go and speak to thy father." Now the Earl of Mar was a violent man, and his fear lay on all the country-side--even his only child was afraid of him--and when her lover made this suggestion she clung to him and begged him with tears in her eyes not to do this. She told him what a fiery temper the Earl had, and how she feared that when he heard his story he would simply order him to be hanged on the nearest tree, or thrown into the dungeon to starve to death. So for a long time they sat and talked, now thinking of one plan, now of another, but none of them seemed of any use, and it seemed as though Prince Florentine must either remain in the shape of her pet dove, or go away altogether. All at once Lady Grizel clapped her hands. "I have it, I have it," she cried; "why cannot we be married secretly? Old Father John out at the chapel on the moor could marry us; he is so old and so blind, he would never recognise me if I went bare-headed and bare-footed like a gipsy girl; and thou must go dressed as a woodman, with muddy shoes, and an axe over thine arm. Then we can dwell together as we are doing now, and no one will suspect that the Earl of Mar's daughter is married to her tame pet dove, which sits on her shoulder, and goes with her wherever she goes. And if the worst comes to the worst, and some gallant Scotch wooer appears, why, then we must confess what we have done, and bear the consequences together." A few days later, in the early morning, when old Father John, the priest who served the little chapel which stood on the heather-covered moor, was preparing to say Mass, he saw a gipsy girl, bare-headed and bare-footed, steal into the chapel, followed by a stalwart young woodman, clad all in sober gray, with a bright wood-axe gleaming on his shoulder. In a few words they told him the purpose for which they had come, and after he had said Mass the kindly old priest married them, and gave them his blessing, never doubting but that they were a couple of simple country lovers who would go home to some tiny cottage in the woods near by. Little did he think that only half a mile away a page boy, wearing the livery of the Earl of Mar, was patiently waiting with a white palfrey until his young mistress should return, accompanied by her gray dove, from visiting an old nurse, "who," she told her governess, "was teaching her how to spin." And little did her father, or her governess, or any of the servants at the castle, think that Lady Grizel was leading a double life, and that the gray dove which was always with her, and which she seemed to love more than any other of her pets, was a gray dove only when anyone else was by, but turned into a gallant young Prince, who ate, and laughed, and talked with her the moment they were alone. Strange to say, their secret was never found out for seven long years, even although every year a little son was born to them, and carried away under the gray dove's wing to the country far over the sea. At these times Lady Grizel used to cry and be very sad, for she dare not keep her babies beside her, but had to kiss them, and let them go, to be brought up by their Grandmother whom she had never seen. Every time Prince Florentine carried home a new baby, he brought back tidings to his wife how tall, and strong, and brave her other sons were growing, and tender messages from the Queen, his mother, telling her how she hoped that one day she would be able to come home with her husband, and then they would be all together. But year after year went by, and still the fierce old Earl lived on, and there seemed little hope that poor Lady Grizel would ever be able to go and live in her husband's land, and she grew pale and thin. And year after year her father grew more and more angry with her, because he wanted her to marry one of the many wooers who came to crave her hand; but she would not. "I love to dwell alone with my sweet Coo-me-doo," she used to say, and the old Earl would stamp his foot, and go out of her chamber muttering angry words in his vexation. At last, one day, a very great and powerful nobleman arrived with his train to ask the Earl's daughter to marry him. He was very rich, and owned four beautiful castles, and the Earl said, "Now, surely, my daughter will consent." But she only gave her old answer, "I love best to live alone with my sweet Coo-me-doo." Then her father slammed the door in a rage, and went into the great hall, where all his men-at-arms were, and swore a mighty oath, that on the morrow, before he broke his fast, he would wring the neck of the wretched bird, which seemed to have bewitched his daughter. Now just above his head, in the gallery, hung Coo-me-doo's cage with the golden bars, and he happened to be sitting in it, and when he heard this threat he flew away in haste to his wife's room and told her. "I must fly home and crave help of my mother," he said; "mayhap she may be able to aid us, for I shall certainly be no help to thee here, if my neck be wrung to-morrow. Do thou fall in with thy father's wishes, and promise to marry this nobleman; only see to it that the wedding doth not take place until three clear days be past." Then Lady Grizel opened the window, and he flew away, leaving her to act her part as best she might. Now it chanced that next evening, in the far distant land over the sea, the Queen was walking up and down in front of her palace, watching her grandsons playing at tennis, and thinking sadly of her only son and his beautiful wife whom she had never seen. She was so deep in thought, that she never noticed that a gray dove had come sailing over the trees, and perched itself on a turret of the palace, until it fluttered down, and her son, Prince Florentine, stood beside her. She threw herself into his arms joyfully, and kissed him again and again; then she would have called for a feast to be set, and for her minstrels to play, as she always did on the rare occasions when he came home, but he held up his hand to stop her. "I need neither feasting nor music, Mother," he said, "but I need thy help sorely. If thy magic cannot help me, then my wife and I are undone, and in two days she will be forced to marry a man whom she hates," and he told the whole story. "And what wouldst thou that I should do?" asked the Queen in great distress. "Give me a score of men-at-arms to fly over the sea with me," answered the Prince, "and my sons to help me in the fray." But the Queen shook her head sadly. "'Tis beyond my power," she said; "but mayhap Astora, the old dame who lives by the sea-shore, might help me, for in good sooth thy need is great. She hath more skill in magic than I have." So she hurried away to a little hut near the sea-shore where the wise old woman lived, while her son waited anxiously for her return. At last she appeared again, and her face was radiant. "Dame Astora hath given me a charm," she said, "which will turn four-and-twenty of my stout men-at-arms into storks, and thy seven sons into white swans, and thou thyself into a gay gos-hawk, the proudest of all birds." Now the Earl of Mar, full of joy at the disappearance of the gray dove, which seemed to have bewitched his daughter, had bade all the nobles throughout the length and breadth of fair Scotland to come and witness her wedding with the lover whom he had chosen for her, and there was feasting, and dancing, and great revelry at the castle. There had not been such doings since the marriage of the Earl's great-grandfather a hundred years before. There were huge tables, covered with rich food, standing constantly in the hall, and even the common people went in and out as they pleased, while outside on the green there was music, and dancing, and games. Suddenly, when the revelry was at its height, a flock of strange birds appeared on the horizon, and everyone stopped to look at them. On they came, flying all together in regular order, first a gay gos-hawk, then behind him seven snow-white swans, and behind the swans four-and-twenty large gray storks. When they drew near, they settled down among the trees which surrounded the castle green, and sat there, each on his own branch, like sentinels, watching the sport. At first some of the people were frightened, and wondered what this strange sight might mean, but the Earl of Mar only laughed. "They come to do honour to my daughter," he said; "'tis well that there is not a gray dove among them, else had he found an arrow in his heart, and that right speedily," and he ordered the musicians to strike up a measure. The Lady Grizel was amongst the throng, dressed in her bridal gown, but no one noticed how anxiously she glanced at the great birds which sat so still on the branches. Then a strange thing happened. No sooner had the musicians begun to play, and the dancers begun to dance, than the twenty-four gray storks flew down, and each of them seized a nobleman, and tore him from his partner, and whirled him round and round as fast as he could, holding him so tightly with his great gray wings that he could neither draw his sword nor struggle. Then the seven white swans flew down and seized the bridegroom, and tied him fast to a great oak tree. Then they flew to where the gay gos-hawk was hovering over Lady Grizel, and they pressed their bodies so closely to his that they formed a soft feathery couch, on which the lady sat down, and in a moment the birds soared into the air, bearing their precious burden on their backs, while the storks, letting the nobles go, circled round them to form an escort; and so the strange army of birds flew slowly out of sight, leaving the wedding guests staring at one another in astonishment, while the Earl of Mar swore so terribly that no one dare go near him. * * * * * And although the story of this strange wedding is told in Scotland to this day, no one has ever been able to guess where the birds came from, or to what land they carried the beautiful Lady Grizel. HYNDE HORN "'Oh, it's Hynde Horn fair, and it's Hynde Horn free; Oh, where were you born, and in what countrie?' 'In a far distant countrie I was born; But of home and friends I am quite forlorn.'" Once upon a time there was a King of Scotland, called King Aylmer, who had one little daughter, whose name was Jean. She was his only daughter, and, as her mother was dead, he adored her. He gave her whatever she liked to ask for, and her nursery was so full of toys and games of all kinds, that it was a wonder that any little girl, even although she was a Princess, could possibly find time to play with them all. She had a beautiful white palfrey to ride on, and two piebald ponies to draw her little carriage when she wanted to drive; but she had no one of her own age to play with, and often she felt very lonely, and she was always asking her father to bring her someone to play with. "By my troth," he would reply, "but that were no easy matter, for thou art a royal Princess, and it befits not that such as thou shouldst play with children of less noble blood." Then little Princess Jean would go back to her splendid nurseries with the tears rolling down her cheeks, wishing with all her heart that she had been born just an ordinary little girl. King Aylmer had gone away on a hunting expedition one day, and Princess Jean was playing alone as usual, in her nursery, when she heard the sound of her father's horn outside the castle walls, and the old porter hurried across the courtyard to open the gate. A moment later the King's voice rang through the hall, calling loudly for old Elspeth, the nurse. The old dame hurried down the broad staircase, followed by the little Princess, who was surprised that her father had returned so early from his hunting, and what was her astonishment to see him standing, with all his nobles round him, holding a fair-haired boy in his arms. The boy's face was very white, and his eyes were shut, and the little Princess thought that he was dead, and ran up to a gray-haired baron, whose name was Athelbras, and hid her face against his rough hunting coat. But old Elspeth ran forward and took the boy's hand in hers, and laid her ear against his heart, and then she asked that he might be carried up into her own chamber, and that the housekeeper might be sent after them with plenty of blankets, and hot water, and red wine. When all this had been done, King Aylmer noticed his little daughter, and when he saw how pale her cheeks were, he patted her head and said, "Cheer up, child, the young cock-sparrow is not dead; 'tis but a swoon caused by the cold and wet, and methinks when old Elspeth hath put a little life into him, thou wilt mayhap have found a playfellow." Then he called for his horse and rode away to hunt again, and Princess Jean was once more left alone. But this time she did not feel lonely. Her father's wonderful words, "Thou wilt mayhap have found a playfellow," rang in her ears, and she was so busy thinking about them, sitting by herself in the dark by the nursery fire, that she started when old Elspeth opened the door of her room and called out, "Come, Princess, the young gentleman hath had a sweet sleep, and would fain talk with thee." The little Princess went into the room on tip-toe, and there, lying on the great oak settle by the fire, was the boy whom she had seen in her father's arms. He seemed about four years older than she was, and he was very handsome, with long yellow hair, which hung in curls round his shoulders, and merry blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. He smiled at her as she stood shyly in the doorway, and held out his hand. "I am thy humble servant, Princess," he said. "If it had not been for thy father's kindness, and for this old dame's skill, I would have been dead ere now." Princess Jean did not know what to say; she had often wished for someone who was young enough to play with her, but now that she had found a real playmate, she felt as if someone had tied her tongue. "What is thy name, and where dost thou come from?" she asked at last. The boy laughed, and pointed to a little stool which stood beside the settle. "Sit down there," he said, "and I will tell thee. I have often wished to have a little sister of my own, and now I will pretend that thou art my little sister." Princess Jean did as she was bid, and went and sat down on the stool, and the stranger began his tale. "My name is Hynde Horn," he said, "and I am a King's son." "And I am a King's daughter," said the little Princess, and then they both laughed. Then the boy's face grew grave again. "They called my father King Allof," he said, "and my mother's name was Queen Godyet, and they reigned over a beautiful country far away in the East. I was their only son, and we were all as happy as the day was long, until a wicked king, called Mury, came with his soldiers, and fought against my father, and killed him, and took his kingdom. My mother and I tried to escape, but the fright killed my mother--she died in a hut in the forest where we had hidden ourselves, and some soldiers found me weeping beside her body, and took me prisoner, and carried me to the wicked King. "He was too cruel to kill me outright--he wanted me to die a harder death--so he bade his men tie my hands and my feet, and carry me down to the sea-shore, and put me in a boat, and push it out into the sea; and there they left me to die of hunger and thirst. "At first the sun beat down on my face, and burned my skin, but by and by it grew dark, and a great storm arose, and the boat drifted on and on, and I grew so hungry, and then so thirsty--oh! I thought I would die of thirst--and at last I became unconscious, for I remember nothing more until I woke up to find yonder kind old dame bending over me." "The boat was washed up on our shore, just as his Highness the King rode past," explained old Elspeth, who was stirring some posset over the fire, and listening to the story. "And what did you say your name was?" demanded the little Princess, who had listened with eager attention to the story. "Hynde Horn," repeated the boy, whose eyes were wet with tears at the thought of all that he had gone through. "Prince Hynde Horn," corrected Princess Jean, who liked always to have her title given to her, and expected that other people liked the same. "Well, I suppose I ought to be King Horn now, were it not for that wicked King who hath taken my Kingdom, as well as my father's life; but the people in my own land always called me Hynde Horn, and I like the old name best." "But what doth it mean?" persisted the little Princess. The boy blushed and looked down modestly. "It is an old word which in our language means 'kind' or 'courteous,' but I am afraid that they flattered me, for I did not always deserve it." The little Princess clapped her hands. "We will call thee by it," she said, "until thou provest thyself unworthy of it." After this a new life opened up for the little girl. King Aylmer, finding that the young Prince who had been so unexpectedly thrown on his protection was both modest and manly, determined to befriend him, and to give him a home at his Court until he was old enough to go and try to recover his kingdom, and avenge his parents' death, so he gave orders that a suite of rooms in the castle should be given to him, and arranged that Baron Athelbras, his steward, should train him in all knightly accomplishments, such as hawking and tilting at the ring. He soon found out too that Hynde Horn had a glorious voice, and sang like a bird, so he gave orders that old Thamile, the minstrel, should teach him to play the harp; and soon he could play it so well, that the whole Court would sit round him in the long winter evenings, and listen to his music. He was so sweet-tempered, and lovable, that everyone liked him, and would say to one another that the people in his own land had done well to name him Hynde Horn. To the little Princess he was the most delightful companion, for he was never too busy or too tired to play with her. He taught her to ride as she had never ridden before, not merely to jog along the road on her fat palfrey, but to gallop alongside of him under the trees in the forest, and they used to be out all day, hunting and hawking, for he trained two dear little white falcons and gave them to her, and taught her to carry them on her wrist; and she grew so fat and rosy that everyone said it was a joyful day when Hynde Horn was washed up on the sea-shore in the boat. But alas! people do not remain children for ever, and, as years went on, Hynde Horn grew into as goodly a young man as anyone need wish to see, and of course he fell in love with Princess Jean, and of course she fell in love with him. Everyone was quite delighted, and said, "What is to hinder them from being married at once, and then when Princess Jean comes to be Queen, we will be quite content to have Hynde Horn for our King?" But wise King Aylmer would not agree to this. He knew that it is not good for any man to have no difficulties to overcome, and to get everything that he wants without any trouble. "Nay," he said, "but the lad hath to win his spurs first, and to show us of what stuff he is made. Besides, his father's Kingdom lies desolate, ruled over by an alien. He shall be betrothed to my daughter, and we will have a great feast to celebrate the event, and then I will give him a ship, manned by thirty sailors, and he shall go away to his own land in search of adventure, and when he hath done great deeds of daring, and avenged his father's death, he shall come again, and my daughter will be waiting for him." So there was a splendid feast held at the castle, and all the great lords and barons came to it, and Princess Jean and Hynde Horn were betrothed amidst great rejoicing, for everyone was glad to think that their Princess would wed someone whom they knew, and not a stranger. But the hearts of the two lovers were heavy, and when the feast was over, and all the guests had gone away, they went out on a little balcony in front of the castle, which overlooked the sea. It was a lovely evening, the moon was full, and by its light they could see the white sails of the ship lying ready in the little bay, waiting to carry Hynde Horn far away to other lands. The roses were nodding their heads over the balcony railings and the honeysuckle was falling in clusters from the castle walls, but it might have been December for all that poor Princess Jean cared, and the tears rolled fast down her face as she thought of the parting. "Alack, alack, Hynde Horn," she said, "could I but go with thee! How shall I live all these years, with no one to talk to, or to ride with?" Then he tried to comfort her with promises of how brave he would be, and how soon he would conquer his father's enemies and come back to her; but they both knew in their hearts that this was the last time that they would be together for long years to come. At last Hynde Horn drew a long case from his pocket, out of which he took a beautifully wrought silver wand, with three little silver laverocks[32] sitting on the end of it. "This," he said, "dear love, is for thee; the sceptre is a token that thou rulest in my heart, as well as over broad Scotland, and the three singing laverocks are to remind thee of me, for thou hast oft-times told me that my poor singing reminds thee of a lark." [Footnote 32: Larks.] Then Princess Jean drew from her finger a gold ring, set with three priceless diamonds. It was so small it would only go on the little finger of her lover's left hand. "This is a token of my love," she said gravely, "therefore guard it well. When the diamonds are bright and shining, thou shalt know that my love for thee will be burning clear and true; but if ever they lose their lustre and grow pale and dim, then know thou that some evil hath befallen me. Either I am dead, or else someone tempts me to be untrue." Next morning the fair white ship spread her sails, and carried Hynde Horn far away over the sea. Princess Jean stood on the little balcony until the tallest mast had disappeared below the horizon, and then she threw herself on her bed, and wept as though her heart would break. After this, for many a long day, there was nothing heard of Hynde Horn, not even a message came from him, and people began to say that he must be dead, and that it was high time that their Princess forgot him, and listened to the suit of one of the many noble princes who came to pay court to her from over the sea. She would not listen to them, however, and year after year went by. Now it happened, that, when seven years had passed, a poor beggar went up one day to the castle in the hope that one of the servants would see him, and give him some of the broken bread and meat that was always left from the hall table. The porter knew him by sight and let him pass into the courtyard, but although he loitered about for a whole hour, no one appeared to have time to speak to him. It seemed as if something unusual were going on, for there were horses standing about in the courtyard, held by grooms in strange liveries, and servants were hurrying along, as if they were so busy they hardly knew what to do first. The old beggar man spoke to one or two of them as they passed, but they did not pay any attention to him, so at last he thought it was no use waiting any longer, and was about to turn away, when a little scullery-maid came out of the kitchen, and began to wash some pots under a running tap. He went up to her, and asked if she could spare him any broken victuals. She looked at him crossly. "A pretty day to come for broken victuals," she cried, "when we all have so much to do that we would need twenty fingers on every hand, and four pairs of hands at the very least. Knowst thou not that an embassage has come from over the sea, seeking the hand of our Princess Jean for the young Prince of Eastnesse, he that is so rich that he could dine off diamonds every day, an' it suited him, and they are all in the great hall now, talking it over with King Aylmer? Only 'tis said that the Princess doth not favour the thought; she is all for an old lover called Hynde Horn, whom everyone else holds to be dead this many a year. Be it as it may, I have no time to talk to the like of thee, for we have a banquet to cook for fifty guests, not counting the King and all his nobles. The like of it hath not been seen since the day when Princess Jean and that Hynde Horn plighted their troth these seven years ago. But hark'ee, old man, it might be well worth thy while to come back to-morrow; there will be plenty of picking then." And, flapping her dish-clout in the wind, she ran into the kitchen again. The old beggar went away, intending to take her advice and return on the morrow; but as he was walking along the sands to a little cottage where he sometimes got a night's lodging, he met a gallant Knight on horseback, who was very finely dressed, and wore a lovely scarlet cloak. The beggar thought that he must be one of the King's guests, who had come out for a gallop on the smooth yellow sands, and he stood aside and pulled off his cap; but the Knight drew rein, and spoke to him. "God shield thee, old man," he said, "and what may the news be in this country? I used to live here, but I have been in far-off lands these seven years, and I know not how things go on." "Sire," answered the beggar, "things have gone on much as usual for these few years back, but it seems as if changes were in the air. I was but this moment at the castle, and 'twas told me that the young Prince Eitel, heir to the great Kingdom of Eastnesse, hath sent to crave the hand of our Princess; and although the young lady favours not his suit (she being true to an old love, one Hynde Horn, who is thought to be dead), the King her father is like to urge her to it, for the King of Eastnesse is a valuable ally, and fabulously rich." Then a strange light came into the stranger's eyes, and, to the beggar's astonishment, he sprang from his horse, and held out the rein to him. "Wilt do me a favour, friend?" he said. "Wilt give me thy beggar's wallet, and staff, and cloak, if I give thee my horse, and this cloak of crimson sarsenet? I have a mind to turn beggar." The beggar scratched his head, and looked at him in surprise. "He hath been in the East, methinks," he muttered, "and the sun hath touched his brain, but anyhow 'tis a fair exchange; that crimson cloak will sell for ten merks any day, and for the horse I can get twenty pounds," and presently he cantered off, well pleased with the bargain, while the other,--the beggar's wallet in his hand, his hat drawn down over his eyes, and leaning on his staff,--began to ascend the steep hill leading to the castle. When he reached the great gate, he knocked boldly on the iron knocker, and the knock was so imperious that the porter hastened to open it at once. He expected to see some lordly knight waiting there, and when he saw no one but a weary-looking beggar man, he uttered an angry exclamation, and was about to shut the great gate in his face, but the beggar's voice was wondrously sweet and low, and he could not help listening to it. "Good porter, for the sake of St Peter and St Paul, and for the sake of Him who died on the Holy Rood, give a cup of wine, and a little piece of bread, to a poor wayfarer." As the porter hesitated between pity and impatience, the pleading voice went on, "And one more boon would I crave, kind man. Carry a message from me to the fair bride who is to be betrothed this day, and ask her if she will herself hand the bite and the sup to one who hath come from far?" "Ask the Bride! ask the Princess Jean to come and feed thee with her own hands!" cried the man in astonishment. "Nay, thou art mad. Away with thee; we want no madmen here," and he would have thrust the beggar aside; but the stranger laid his hand on his shoulder, and said calmly, as if he were giving an order to a servant, "Go, tell her it is for the sake of Hynde Horn." And the old porter turned and went without a word. Meanwhile all the guests in the castle were gathered at the banquet in the great banqueting hall. On a raised dais at the end of the room sat King Aylmer and the great Ambassador who had come from Prince Eitel of Eastnesse, and between them sat Princess Jean, dressed in a lovely white satin dress, with a little circlet of gold on her head. The King and the Ambassador were in high spirits, for they had persuaded the Princess to marry Prince Eitel in a month and a day from that time; but poor Princess Jean looked pale and sad. As all the lords and nobles who were feasting in the hall below stood up and filled their glasses, and drank to the health of Prince Eitel of Eastnesse and his fair bride, she had much ado to keep the tears from falling, as she thought of the old days when Hynde Horn and she went out hunting and hawking together. Just at that moment the door opened, and the porter entered, and, without looking to the right hand or to the left, marched straight up the hall and along the dais, until he came to where Princess Jean sat; then he stooped down and whispered something to her. In a moment the Princess' pale face was like a damask rose, and, taking a glass full of ruby-red wine in one hand, and a farl of cake in the other, she rose, and walked straight out of the hall. "By my faith," said King Aylmer, who was startled by the look on his daughter's face, "something hath fallen out, I ween, which may change the whole course of events," and he rose and followed her, accompanied by the Ambassador and all the great nobles. At the head of the staircase they stopped and watched the Princess as she went down the stairs and across the courtyard, her long white robe trailing behind her, with the cup of ruby-red wine in one hand, and the farl of cake in the other. When she came to the gateway, there was no one there but a poor old beggar man, and all the foreign noblemen looked at each other and shook their heads, and said, "Certs, but it misdoubts us if this bride will please our young Prince, if she is wont to disturb a court banquet because she must needs serve beggars with her own hands." But Princess Jean heard none of this. With trembling hands she held out the food to the beggar. He raised the wine to his lips, and pledged the fair bride before he drank it, and when he handed the glass back to her, lo! in the bottom of it lay the gold ring which she had given to her lover Hynde Horn, seven long years before. "Oh," she cried breathlessly, snatching it out of the glass, "tell me quickly, I pray thee, where thou didst find this? Was't on the sea, or in a far-off land, and was the hand that it was taken from alive or dead?" "Nay, noble lady," answered the beggar, and at the sound of his voice Princess Jean grew pale again, "I did not get it on the sea, or in a far-off land, but in this country, and from the hand of a fair lady. It was a pledge of love, noble Princess, which I had given to me seven long years ago, and the diamonds were to be tokens of the brightness and constancy of that love. For seven long years they have gleamed and sparkled clearly, but now they are dim, and losing their brightness, so I fear me that my lady's love is waning and growing cold." Then Princess Jean knew all, and she tore the circlet of gold from her head and knelt on the cold stones at his feet, and cried, "Hynde Horn, my own Hynde Horn, my love is not cold, neither is it dim; but thou wert so long in coming, and they said it was my duty to marry someone else. But now, even if thou art a beggar, I will be a beggar's wife, and follow thee from place to place, and we can harp and sing for our bread." Hynde Horn laughed a laugh that was pleasant to hear, and he threw off the beggar's cloak, and, behold, he was dressed as gaily as any gallant in the throng. "There is no need of that, Sweetheart," he said. "I did it but to try thee. I have not been idle these seven years; I have killed the wicked King, and come into my own again, and I have fought and conquered the Saracens in the East, and I have gold enough and to spare." Then he drew her arm within his, and they crossed the courtyard together and began to ascend the stairs. Suddenly old Athelbras, the steward, raised his cap and shouted, "It is Hynde Horn, our own Hynde Horn," and then there was such a tumult of shouting and cheering that everyone was nearly deafened. Even the Ambassador from Eastnesse and all his train joined in it, although they knew that now Princess Jean would never marry their Prince; but they could not help shouting, for everyone looked so happy. And the next day there was another great banquet prepared, and riders were sent all over the country to tell the people everywhere to rejoice, for their Princess was being married, not to any stranger, but to her old lover, Hynde Horn, who had come back in time after all. THE GAY GOS-HAWK "'Oh weel is me, my gay gos-hawk, If your feathering be sheen!' 'Oh waly, waly, my master dear, But ye look pale and lean!'" It was the beautiful month of June, and among the bevy of fair maidens who acted as maids-of-honour to Queen Margaret at Windsor, there was none so fair as the Lady Katherine, the youngest of them all. As she joined in a game of bowls in one of the long alleys under the elm trees, or rode out, hawk on wrist, in the great park near the castle, her merry face, with its rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, was a pleasure to see. She had gay words for everyone, even for the sharp-tongued, grave-faced old Baroness who acted as governess to the Queen's maids, and kept a sharp lookout lest any of the young ladies under her charge should steal too shy glances at the pages and gentlemen-at-arms who waited on the King. The old lady loved her in return, and pretended to be blind when she noticed, what every maid-of-honour had noticed for a fortnight, that there was one Knight in particular who was always at hand to pick up Lady Katherine's balls for her, or to hold her palfrey's rein if she wanted to alight, when she was riding in the forest. This gallant Knight was not one of the King's gentlemen, but the son of a Scottish earl, who had been sent to Windsor with a message from the King of Scotland. Lord William, for that was his name, was so tall, and strong, and brave, and manly, it was no wonder that little Lady Katherine fell in love with him, and preferred him to all the young English lords who were longing to lay their hearts at her feet. So things went merrily on, in the pleasant June weather, until one sunny afternoon, when Lady Katherine was riding slowly through the park, under the shady beech trees, with Lord William, as usual, by her side. He was telling her how much he loved her, a story which he had told her very often before, and describing the old ivy-covered gray castle, far away in the North, where he would take her to live some day, when a little page, clad all in Lincoln green, ran across the park and bowed as he stopped at the palfrey's side. "Pardon, my lady," he said breathlessly, "but the Baroness Anne sent me to carry tidings to thee that thy Duchess mother hath arrived, and would speak with thee at once." Then the bright red roses faded from the poor little lady's cheeks, for she knew well that the Duchess, who was not her real mother, but only her step-mother, wished her no good. Sorrowfully she rode up to the castle, Lord William at her side, and it seemed to both of them as if the little birds had stopped singing, and the sun had suddenly grown dim. And it was indeed terrible tidings that the little maiden heard when she reached the room where her stern-faced step-mother awaited her. An old Marquis, a friend of her father's, who was quite old enough to be her grandfather, had announced his wish to marry her, and, as she had five sisters at home, all waiting to get a chance to become maids-of-honour, and see a little of the world, her step-mother thought it was too good an opportunity to let slip, and she had come to fetch her home. In vain poor Lady Katherine threw herself at the Duchess's feet, and besought her to let her marry the gallant Scottish knight. Her ladyship only curled her lip and laughed. "Marry a beggarly Scot!" she said. "Not as long as I have any power in thy father's house. No, no, wench, thou knowest not what is for thy good. Where is thy waiting-maid? Let her pack up thy things at once; thou hast tarried here long enough, I trow." So Lady Katherine was carted off, bag and baggage, to the great turreted mansion on the borders of Wales, where her five sisters and her grandfatherly old lover were waiting for her, without ever having a chance of bidding Lord William farewell. As for that noble youth, he mounted his horse, and called his men-at-arms together, and straightway rode away to Scotland, and never halted till he reached the old gray castle, three days' ride over the Border. When he arrived there he shut himself up in the great square tower where his own apartments were, and frightened his family by growing so pale and thin that they declared he must have caught some fever in England, and had come home to die. In vain the Earl, his father, tried to persuade him to ride out with him to the chase; he cared for nothing but to be left alone to sit in the dim light of his own room, and dream of his lost love. Now Lord William was fond of all living things, horses, and dogs, and birds; but one pet he had, which he loved above all the others, and that was a gay gos-hawk which he had found caught in a snare, one day, and had set free, and tamed, and which always sat on a perch by his window. One evening, when he was sitting dreaming sadly of the days at Windsor, stroking his favourite's plumage meanwhile, he was startled to hear the bird begin to speak. "What mischance hath befallen thee, my master?" it said, "that thou lookest so pale and unhappy. Hast been defeated in a tourney by some Southron loon, or dost still mourn for that fair maiden, the lovely Lady Katherine? Can I not help thee?" Then a strange light shone in Lord William's eye, and he looked at the bird thoughtfully as it nestled closer to his heart. "Thou shalt help me, my gay gos-hawk," he whispered, "for, for this reason, methinks, thou hast received the gift of speech. Thy wings are strong, and thou canst go where I cannot, and bring no harm to my love. Thou shalt carry a letter to my dear one, and bring back an answer," and in delight at the thought, the young man rose and walked up and down the room, the gos-hawk preening its wings on his shoulder, and crooning softly to itself. "But how shall I know thy love?" it said at last. "Ah, that is easy," answered Lord William. "Thou must fly up and down merrie England, especially where any great mansion is, and thou canst not mistake her. She is the fairest flower of all the fair flowers that that fair land contains. Her skin is white as milk, and the roses on her cheeks are red as blood. And, outside her chamber, by a little postern, there grows a nodding birch tree, the leaves of which dance in the slightest breeze, and thou must perch thereon, and sing thy sweetest, when she goes with her sisters and maids to hear Mass in the little chapel." That night, when all the country folk were asleep, a gay gos-hawk flew out from a window in the square tower, and sped swiftly through the quiet air, on and on, above lonely houses, and sleeping towns, and when the sun rose it was still flying, hovering now and then over some great castle, or lordly manor house, but never resting long, never satisfied. Day and night it travelled, up and down the country, till at last it came one evening to a great mansion on the borders of Wales, in one side of which was a tiny postern, with a high latticed window near it, and by the door grew a birch tree, whose branches nodded up and down against the panes. "Ah," said the gos-hawk to itself, "I will rest here." And it perched on a branch, and put its head under its wing, and slept till morning, for it was very tired. As soon as the sun rose, however, it was awake, with its bright eyes ready to see whatever was to be seen. Nor had it long to wait. Presently the bell at the tiny chapel down by the lake began to ring, and immediately the postern opened, and a bevy of fair maidens came laughing out, books in hand, on their way to the morning Mass. They were all beautiful, but the gay gos-hawk had no difficulty in telling which was his master's love, for the Lady Katherine was the fairest of them all, and, as soon as he saw her, he began to sing as though his little throat would burst, and all the maidens stood still for a moment and listened to his song. When they returned from the little chapel he was still singing, and when Lady Katherine went up into her chamber the song sounded more beautiful than ever. It was a strange song too, quite unlike the song of any other bird, for first there came a long soft note, and then a clear distinct one, and then some other notes which were always the same, "Your love cannot come here; your love cannot come here." So they sounded over and over again, in Lady Katherine's ears, until the roses on her cheeks disappeared, and she was white and trembling. "To the dining-hall, maidens; tarry not for me," she said suddenly. "I would fain be alone to enjoy this lovely song." And, as the fresh morning air had made them all hungry, they obeyed her without a moment's thought. As soon as she was alone she ran to the window and opened it, and there, just outside, sat a gay gos-hawk, with the most beautiful plumage that she had ever seen. "Oh," she cried faintly, "I cannot understand it; but something in my heart tells me that you have seen my own dear love." Then the gay gos-hawk put his head on one side, and whistled a merry tune; then he looked straight into her eyes and sang a low sweet one; then he pecked and pecked at one of his wings until the tender-hearted little lady took hold of him gently to see if he were hurt, and who can describe her delight and astonishment when she found a tiny letter from Lord William tied in a little roll under his wing. The letter was very sad, and the tears came into her eyes as she read it. It told her how he had already sent her three letters which had never reached her, and how he felt as if he must soon die, he was so sick with longing for her. When she had read it she sat for a long time thinking, with her face buried in her hands, while the gay gos-hawk preened his feathers, and crooned to himself on the window sill. At last she sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing and her mouth set determinedly. Taking a beautiful ring from her hand, she tied it with trembling fingers under the bird's wing where the letter had been. "Tell him that with the ring I send him my heart," she whispered passionately, and the gay gos-hawk just gave one little nod with his head, and then sat quite still to hear the rest of her message. "Tell him to set his bakers and his brewers to work," she went on firmly, "to bake rich bridal cake, and brew the wedding ale, and while they are yet fresh I will meet him at the Kirk o' St Mary, the Kirk he hath so often told me of." At these words the gay gos-hawk opened his eyes a shade wider. "Beshrew me, lady," he said to himself, "but thou talkest as if thou hadst wings"; but he knew his duty was to act and not to talk, so with one merry whistle he spread his wings, and flew away to the North. That night, when all the people in the great house were asleep, the little postern opened very gently, and a gray-cloaked figure crept softly out. It went slowly in the shadow of the trees until it came to the little chapel by the lake; then it ran softly and lightly through the long grass until it reached a tiny little cottage under a spreading oak tree. It tapped three times on the window, and presently a quavering old voice asked who was there. "'Tis I, Dame Ursula; 'tis thy nursling Katherine. Open to me, I pray thee; I am in sore need of thy help." A moment later the door was opened by a little old woman, with a white cap, and a rosy face like a wrinkled apple. "And what need drives my little lady to me at this time of night?" she asked. Then the maiden told her story, and made her request. The old woman listened, shaking her head, and laughing to herself meanwhile. "I can do it, I can do it," she cried, "and 'twere worth a year's wages to see thy proud stepdame's face when thy brothers return to tell the tale." Then she drew Lady Katherine into her tiny room, and set her down on a three-legged stool by the smouldering fire, while she pottered about, and made up a draught, taking a few drops of liquid from one bottle, and a few drops from another; for this curious old woman seemed to keep quite a number of bottles, as well as various bunches of herbs, on a high shelf at one end of her kitchen. At last she was finished, and, turning to the maiden, she handed her a little phial containing a deep red-coloured mixture. "Swallow it all at once," she chuckled, "when thou requirest the spell to work. 'Twill last three days, and then thou wilt wake up as fresh as a lark." Next morning the Duke and his seven sons were going a-hunting, and the courtyard rang with merry laughter as one after another came out to mount the horses which the pages held ready for them. The ladies were on the terrace waiting to wave them good-bye, when, just as the Duke was about to mount his horse, his eldest daughter, whom he loved dearly, ran into the courtyard and knelt at his feet. "A boon, a boon, dear father," she cried, and she looked so lovely with her golden hair waving in the wind, and her bright eyes looking up into his, that he felt that he could not refuse her anything. "Ask what thou wilt, my daughter," he said kindly, laying his hand on her head, "and I will grant it thee. Except permission to marry that Scottish squire," he added, laughing. "That will I never ask, Sire," she said submissively; "but though thou forbiddest me to think of him, my heart yearns for Scotland, the country that he told me of, and if 'tis thy will that I marry and live in England, I would fain be buried in the North. And as I have always had due reverence for Holy Church, I pray thee that when that day comes, as come it must some day, that thou wilt cause a Mass to be sung at the first Scotch kirk we come to, and that the bells may toll for me at the second kirk, and that at the third, at the Kirk o' St Mary, thou wilt deal out gold, and cause my body to rest there." Then the Duke raised her to her feet. "Talk not so, my little Katherine," he said kindly. "My Lord Marquis is a goodly man, albeit not too young, and thou wilt be a happy wife and mother yet; but if 'twill ease thy heart, child, I will remember thy fancy." Then the kind old man rode away, and Katherine went back to her sisters. "What wert thou asking, girl?" asked her jealous step-mother with a frown as she passed. "That I may be buried in Scotland when my time comes to die," said Katherine, bowing low, with downcast eyes, for in those days maidens had to order themselves lowly to their elders, even although they were Duke's daughters. "And did he grant thy strange request?" went on the Duchess, looking suspiciously at the girl's burning cheeks. "Yes, an' it please thee, Madam," answered her step-daughter meekly, and then with another low curtsey she hurried off to her own room, not waiting to hear the lady's angry words: "I wish, proud maiden, that I had had the giving of the answer, for, by my troth, I would have turned a deaf ear to thy request. Buried in Scotland, forsooth! Thou hast a lover in Scotland, and it is he thou art hankering after, and not a grave." Two hours afterwards, when the Duke and his sons came back from hunting, they found the castle in an uproar. All the servants were running about, wringing their hands, and crying; and indeed it was little wonder, for had not Lady Katherine's waiting-woman, when she went into her young lady's room at noon, found her lying cold and white on her couch, and no one had been able to rouse her? When the poor old Duke heard this, he rushed up to her chamber, followed by all his seven sons; and when he saw her lying there, so white, and still, he covered his face with his hands, and cried out that his little Katherine, his dearly loved daughter, was dead. But the cruel step-mother shook her head and said nothing. Somehow she did not believe that Lady Katherine was really dead, and she determined to do a very cruel thing to find out the truth. When everyone had left the room she ordered her waiting-maid, a woman who was as wicked as herself, to melt some lead, and bring it to her in an iron spoon, and when it was brought she dropped a drop on the young girl's breast; but she neither started nor screamed, so the cruel Duchess had at last to pretend to be satisfied that she was really dead, and she gave orders that she should be buried at once in the little chapel by the lake. But the old Duke remembered his promise, and vowed that it should be performed. So Lady Katherine's seven brothers went into the great park, and cut down a giant oak tree, and out of the trunk of it they hewed a bier, and they overlaid it with silver; while her sisters sat in the turret room and sewed a beautiful gown of white satin, which they put on Lady Katherine, and laid her on the silver bier; and then eight of her father's men-at-arms took it on their shoulders, and her seven brothers followed behind, and so the procession set out for Scotland. And it all fell out as the old Duke had promised. At the first Scotch kirk which the procession came to, the priests sang a solemn Mass, and at the second, they caused the bells to toll mournfully, and at the third kirk, the Kirk o' St Mary, they thought to lay the maiden to rest. But, as they came slowly up to it, what was their astonishment to find that it was surrounded by a row of spearmen, whose captain, a tall, handsome young man, stepped up to them as they were about to enter the kirk, and requested them to lay down the bier. At first Lady Katherine's seven brothers objected to this being done. "What business of the stranger's was it?" they asked, and they haughtily ordered the men-at-arms to proceed. But the young soldier gave a sign to his men, and in an instant they had crossed their spears across the doorway, and the rest surrounded the men who carried the bier, and compelled them to do as they were bid. Then the young captain stepped forward to where Lady Katherine was lying in her satin gown, and knelt down and took hold of her hand. Immediately the rosy colour began to come back to her cheeks, and she opened her eyes; and when they fell on Lord William--for it was he who had come to meet her at the Kirk o' St Mary, as she had bidden him--she smiled faintly and said, "I pray thee, my lord, give me one morsel of bread and a mouthful of thy good red wine, for I have fasted for three days, ever since the draught which my old nurse Ursula gave me, began to do its work." When she had drunk the wine her strength came back, and she sprang up lightly, and a murmur of delight went round among Lord William's spearmen when they saw how lovely she was in the white satin gown which her sisters had made, and which would do beautifully for her wedding. But her seven brothers were very angry at the trick which had been played on them, and if they had dared, they would have carried her back to England by force; but they dare not, because of all the spearmen who stood round. "Thou wilt rue this yet, proud girl," said her eldest brother; "thou mightest have been a Marchioness in England, with land, and castles, and gold enough and to spare, instead of coming to this beggarly land, and breaking thy father's, and thy mother's heart." Then the little lady put her hand in that of her lover, and answered quietly, "Nay, but I had no mind to wed with one who was already in his dotage; little good the lands, and castles, and gold would have done me, had I been obliged to spend my time in nursing an old man; and, as for my father, I know he will secretly rejoice when he hears, that, after all, I shall wed my own true love, who, I would have him know, is an Earl's son, although he may not be so rich as is my lord the Marquis; and, as for my cruel step-mother, 'tis no matter what she thinks." Her brother stamped his foot in useless anger. "Then," said he, pointing to the silver bier lying forgotten on the grass, "I swear that that bier on which thou camest hither shall be the only wedding portion that thy husband will ever see of thine; mayhap poverty will bring thee to thy senses." But his sister only laughed as she pressed closer to her bridegroom and said bravely, "Happiness is more than gold, brother, and the contented heart better than the restless one which is ever seeking riches." So the seven brothers went back to England in a rage, while Lord William married his brave little bride in the old Kirk o' St Mary; and then they rode home to the gray ivy-covered castle, where the gay gos-hawk was waiting on the square tower to sing his very sweetest song to greet them. THE END PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY NEILL AND CO., LTD., EDINBURGH. OTHER VOLUMES BY ELIZABETH GRIERSON TALES OF ~SCOTTISH KEEPS & CASTLES~ FOR YOUNG PEOPLE _With eight full-page illustrations in colour by_ ALLAN STEWART _Small sq. demy 8vo._ PRICE 6/-NET (_By post 6/6_) "... 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45778	----	MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER: CONSISTING OF HISTORICAL AND ROMANTIC BALLADS, COLLECTED IN THE SOUTHERN COUNTIES OF SCOTLAND; WITH A FEW OF MODERN DATE, FOUNDED UPON LOCAL TRADITION. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. * * * * * The songs, to savage virtue dear, That won of yore the public ear, Ere Polity, sedate and sage, Had quench'd the fires of feudal rage.--WARTON. * * * * * THIRD EDITION. EDINBURGH: =Printed by James Ballantyne and Co.= FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES AND ORME, PATERNOSTER-ROW, LONDON; AND A. CONSTABLE AND CO. EDINBURGH. 1806. CONTENTS TO THE THIRD VOLUME. * * * * * PAGE. Fause Foodrage 4 Kempion 15 Lord Thomas and Fair Annie 36 The Wife of Usher's Well 45 Cospatrick 51 Prince Robert 58 King Henrie 63 Annan Water 72 The Cruel Sister 78 The Queen's Marie 86 The Bonny Hynd 98 O gin my Love were yon Red Rose 104 O tell me how to woo thee 106 The Souters of Selkirk 108 The Flowers of the Forest, Part I. 125 Part II. 130 The Laird of Muirhead 134 Ode on visiting Flodden 136 PART THIRD. _IMITATIONS OF THE ANCIENT BALLAD._ Christie's Will 147 Thomas the Rhymer, Part I. 166 Part II. 186 Part III. 213 The Eve of St John 229 Lord Soulis 245 The Cout of Keeldar 284 Glenfinlas, or Lord Ronald's Coronach 303 The Mermaid 323 The Lord Herries his Complaint 348 The Murder of Caerlaveroc 355 Sir Agilthorn 368 Rich Auld Willie's Farewell 380 Water Kelpie 383 Ellandonan Castle 399 Cadyow Castle 410 The Gray Brother 432 War Song of the Royal Edinburgh Light Dragoons 446 The Feast of Spurs 452 On a Visit paid to the Ruins of Melrose Abbey by the Countess of Dalkeith, and her Son, Lord Scott. 457 Archie Armstrong's Aith 460 MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. PART SECOND--CONTINUED. * * * * * _ROMANTIC BALLADS._ FAUSE FOODRAGE. * * * * * King Easter has courted her for her lands, King Wester for her fee; King Honour for her comely face, And for her fair bodie. They had not been four months married, As I have heard them tell, Until the nobles of the land Against them did rebel. And they cast kevils[1] them amang, And kevils them between; And they cast kevils them amang, Wha suld gae kill the king. O some said yea, and some said nay, Their words did not agree; Till up and got him, Fause Foodrage, And swore it suld be he. When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a' men bound to bed, King Honour and his gaye ladye In a hie chamber were laid. Then up and raise him, Fause Foodrage, When a' were fast asleep, And slew the porter in his lodge, That watch and ward did keep. O four and twenty silver keys Hang hie upon a pin; And aye, as ae door he did unlock, He has fastened it him behind. Then up and raise him, King Honour, Says--"What means a' this din? "Or what's the matter, Fause Foodrage, "Or wha has loot you in?" "O ye my errand weel sall learn, "Before that I depart." Then drew a knife, baith lang and sharp, And pierced him to the heart. Then up and got the queen hersell, And fell low down on her knee: "O spare my life, now, Fause Foodrage! "For I never injured thee. "O spare my life, now, Fause Foodrage, "Until I lighter be! "And see gin it be lad or lass, "King Honour has left me wi'." "O gin it be a lass," he says, "Weel nursed it sall be; "But gin it be a lad bairn, "He sall be hanged hie. "I winna spare for his tender age, "Nor yet for his hie hie kin; "But soon as e'er he born is, "He sall mount the gallows pin." O four and twenty valiant knights Were set the queen to guard; And four stood aye at her bour door, To keep both watch and ward. But when the time drew near an end, That she suld lighter be, She cast about to find a wile, To set her body free. O she has birled these merry young men With the ale but and the wine, Until they were as deadly drunk As any wild wood swine. "O narrow, narrow, is this window, "And big, big, am I grown!" Yet, through the might of Our Ladye, Out at it she has gone. She wandered up, she wandered down, She wandered out and in; And, at last, into the very swine's stythe, The queen brought forth a son. Then they cast kevils them amang, Which suld gae seek the queen; And the kevil fell upon Wise William, And he sent his wife for him. O when she saw Wise William's wife, The queen fell on her knee; "Win up, win up, madame!" she says: "What needs this courtesie?" "O out o' this I winna rise, "Till a boon ye grant to me; "To change your lass for this lad bairn, "King Honour left me wi'. "And ye maun learn my gay goss hawk "Right weel to breast a steed; "And I sall learn your turtle dow[2] "As weel to write and read. "And ye maun learn my gay goss hawk "To wield baith bow and brand; "And I sall learn your turtle dow "To lay gowd[3] wi' her hand. "At kirk and market when we meet, "We'll dare make nae avowe, "But--'Dame, how does my gay goss hawk?' "Madame, how does my dow?" When days were gane, and years came on, Wise William he thought lang; And he has ta'en King Honour's son A hunting for to gang. It sae fell out, at this hunting, Upon a simmer's day, That they came by a fair castell, Stood on a sunny brae. "O dinna ye see that bonny castell, "Wi' halls and towers sae fair? "Gin ilka man had back his ain, "Of it ye suld be heir." "How I suld be heir of that castell, "In sooth I canna see; "For it belangs to Fause Foodrage, "And he is na kin to me." "O gin ye suld kill him, Fause Foodrage, "You would do but what was right; "For I wot he kill'd your father dear, "Or ever ye saw the light. "And gin ye suld kill him, Fause Foodrage, "There is no man durst you blame; "For he keeps your mother a prisoner, "And she darna take ye hame." The boy stared wild like a gray goss hawk: Says--"What may a' this mean?" "My boy, ye are King Honour's son, "And your mother's our lawful queen." "O gin I be king Honour's son, "By Our Ladye I swear, "This night I will that traitor slay, "And relieve my mother dear!" He has set his bent bow to his breast, And leaped the castell wa'; And soon he has seized on Fause Foodrage, Wha loud for help 'gan ca'. "O haud your tongue, now, Fause Foodrage! "Frae me ye shanna flee." Syne pierc'd him thro' the fause fause heart, And set his mother free. And he has rewarded Wise William Wi' the best half of his land; And sae has he the turtle dow, Wi' the truth o' his right hand. NOTES ON FAUSE FOODRAGE. * * * * * _King Easter has courted her for her lands,_ _King Wester for her fee;_ _King Honour, &c._--P. 4. v. 1. King Easter and King Wester were probably the petty princes of Northumberland and Westmoreland. In the _Complaynt of Scotland_, an ancient romance is mentioned, under the title, "_How the king of Estmureland married the king's daughter of Westmureland_," which may possibly be the original of the beautiful legend of _King Estmere_, in the _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, Vol. I. p. 62 4th edit. From this it may be conjectured, with some degree of plausibility, that the independent kingdoms of the east and west coast were, at an early period, thus denominated, according to the Saxon mode of naming districts, from their relative positions; as Essex, Wessex, Sussex. But the geography of the metrical romances sets all system at defiance; and in some of these, as _Clariodus_ and _Meliades_, Estmureland undoubtedly signifies the land of the Easterlings, or the Flemish provinces at which vessels arrived in three days from England, and to which they are represented as exporting wool.--_Vide Notes on the Tale of Kempion._ On this subject I have, since publication of the first edition, been favoured with the following remarks by Mr Ritson, in opposition to the opinion above expressed:-- "Estmureland and Westmureland have no sort of relation to Northumberland and Westmoreland. The former was never called Eastmoreland, nor were there ever any kings of Westmoreland; unless we admit the authority of an old rhyme, cited by Usher:-- "Here the king Westmer "Slow the king Rothinger." "There is, likewise, a 'king Estmere, of Spain,' in one of Percy's ballads. "In the old metrical romance of _Kyng Horn_, or _Horn Child_, we find both Westnesse and Estnesse; and it is somewhat singular, that two places, so called, actually exist in Yorkshire at this day. But _ness_, in that quarter, is the name given to an inlet from a river. There is, however, great confusion in this poem, as _Horn_ is called king sometimes of one country, and sometimes of the other. In the French original, Westir is said to have been the old name of Hirland, or Ireland; which, occasionally at least, is called Westnesse, in the translation, in which Britain is named Sudene; but here, again, it is inconsistent and confused. "It is, at any rate, highly probable, that the story, cited in the _Complaynt of Scotland_, was a romance of _King Horn_, whether prose or verse; and, consequently, that Estmureland and Westmureland should there mean England and Ireland; though it is possible that no other instance can be found of those two names occurring with the same sense." _And they cast kevils them amang._--P. 4. v. 3. _Kevils_--Lots. Both words originally meant only a portion, or share, of any thing.--_Leges Burgorum_, cap. 59, _de lot, cut, or kavil_. _Statuta Gildæ_, cap. 20. _Nullus emat lanam, &c. nisi fuerit confrater Gildæ, &c._ _Neque_ lot _neque_ cavil _habeat cum aliquo confratre nostro._ In both these laws, _lot_ and _cavil_ signify a share in trade. _Dame, how does my gay goss hawk?_--P. 9. v. 1. This metaphorical language was customary among the northern nations. In 925, king Adelstein sent an embassy to Harald Harfagar, king of Norway, the chief of which presented that prince with an elegant sword, ornamented with precious stones. As it was presented by the point, the Norwegian chief, in receiving it, unwarily laid hold of the hilt. The English ambassador declared, in the name of his master, that he accepted the act as a deed of homage; for, touching the hilt of a warrior's sword was regarded as an acknowledgement of subjection. The Norwegian prince, resolving to circumvent his rival by a similar artifice, suppressed his resentment, and sent, next summer, an embassy to Adelstein, the chief of which presented Haco, the son of Harald, to the English prince; and, placing him on his knees, made the following declaration:--"_Haraldus, Normannorum rex, amice te salutat;_ albamque _hunc avem, bene institutam mittit, utque melius deinceps erudias, postulat._" The king received young Haco on his knees; which the Norwegian ambassador immediately accepted, in the name of his master, as a declaration of inferiority; according to the proverb, "_Is minor semper habetur, qui alterius filium educat._"--Pontoppidani Vestigia Danor. Vol. II. p. 67. FOOTNOTES: [1] _Kevils_--Lots. [2] _Dow_--Dove. [3] _Lay gowd_--To embroider in gold. KEMPION. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED * * * * * The tale of _Kempion_ seems, from the names of the personages, and the nature of the adventure, to have been an old metrical romance, degraded into a ballad, by the lapse of time, and the corruption of reciters. The change in the structure of the last verses, from the common ballad stanza, to that which is proper to the metrical romance, adds force to this conjecture. Such transformations, as the song narrates, are common in the annals of chivalry. In the 25th and 26th cantos of the second book of the _Orlando Inamorato_, the paladin, _Brandimarte_, after surmounting many obstacles, penetrates into the recesses of an enchanted palace. Here he finds a fair damsel, seated upon a tomb, who announces to him, that, in order to achieve her deliverance, he must raise the lid of the sepulchre, and kiss whatever being should issue forth. The knight, having pledged his faith, proceeds to open the tomb, out of which a monstrous snake issues forth, with a tremendous hiss. _Brandimarte_, with much reluctance, fulfils the _bizarre_ conditions of the adventure; and the monster is instantly changed into a beautiful Fairy, who loads her deliverer with benefits. For the satisfaction of those, who may wish to compare the tale of the Italian poet with that of _Kempion_, a part of the original of Boiardo is given below.[4] There is a ballad, somewhat resembling _Kempion_, called the _Laidley Worm of Spindleston-heuch_, which is very popular upon the borders; but, having been often published, it was thought unnecessary to insert it in this collection. The most common version was either entirely composed, or re-written, by the Reverend Mr Lamb, of Norham. A similar tradition is, by Heywood and Delrio, said to have existed at Basil. A tailor, in an adventurous mood, chose to descend into an obscure cavern, in the vicinity of the city. After many windings, he came to an iron door, through which he passed into a splendid chamber. Here he found, seated upon a stately throne, a lady, whose countenance was surprisingly beautiful, but whose shape terminated in a dragon's train, which wrapped around the chair on which she was placed. Before her stood a brazen chest, trebly barred and bolted; at each end of which lay couched a huge black ban-dog, who rose up, as if to tear the intruder in pieces. But the lady appeased them; and, opening the chest, displayed an immense treasure, out of which she bestowed upon the visitor some small pieces of money, informing him, that she was enchanted by her step-dame, but should recover her natural shape, on being kissed thrice by a mortal. The tailor assayed to fulfil the conditions of the adventure; but her face assumed such an altered, wild, and grim expression, that his courage failed, and he was fain to fly from the place. A kinsman of his, some years after, penetrated into the cavern, with the purpose of repairing a desperate fortune. But, finding nothing but dead men's bones, he ran mad, and died. Sir John Mandeville tells a similar story of a Grecian island. There are numerous traditions, upon the borders, concerning huge and destructive snakes, and also of a poisonous reptile called a _man-keeper_; although the common adder, and blind worm, are the only reptiles of that _genus_ now known to haunt our wilds. Whether it be possible, that, at an early period, before the country was drained, and cleared of wood, serpents of a larger size may have existed, is a question which the editor leaves to the naturalist. But, not to mention the fabulous dragon, slain in Northumberland by _Sir Bevis_, the fame still survives of many a _preux chevalier_, supposed to have distinguished himself by similar atchievements. The manor of Sockburne, in the bishopric of Durham, anciently the seat of the family of Conyers, or Cogniers, is held of the bishop by the service of presenting, or showing to him, upon his first entrance into his diocese, an antique sword, or faulchion. The origin of this peculiar service is thus stated in Beckwith's edition of _Blount's Ancient Tenures_, p. 200. "Sir Edward Blackett (the proprietor of the manor) now represents the person of Sir John Conyers, who, as tradition says, in the fields of Sockburne, slew, with this faulchion, a monstrous creature, a dragon, a worm, or flying serpent, that devoured men, women, and children. The then owner of Sockburne, as a reward for his bravery, gave him the manor, with its appurtenances, to hold for ever, on condition that he meets the lord bishop of Durham, with this faulchion, on his first entrance into his diocese, after his election to that see. "And, in confirmation of this tradition, there is painted, in a window of Sockburne church, the faulchion we just now spoke of: and it is also cut in marble, upon the tomb of the great ancestor of the Conyers', together with a dog, and the monstrous worm, or serpent, lying at his feet, of his own killing, of which the history of the family gives the above account. "When the bishop first comes into his diocese, he crosses the river Tees, either at the ford at Nesham, or Croft-bridge, where the counties of York and Durham divide; at one of which places Sir Edward Blackett, either in person, or by his representative, if the bishop comes by Nesham, rides into the middle of the river Tees, with the ancient faulchion drawn in his hand, or upon the middle of Croft-bridge; and then presents the faulchion to the bishop, addressing him in the ancient form of words; upon which the bishop takes the faulchion into his hand, looks at it, and returns it back again, wishing the lord of the manor his health, and the enjoyment of his estate." The faulchion, above alluded to, has upon its hilt the arms of England, in the reign of King John, and an eagle, supposed to be the ensign of Morcar, earl of Northumberland.--GOUGH'S _Camden's Britannia_, Vol. III. p. 114. Mr Gough, with great appearance of probability, conjectures, the dragon, engraved on the tomb, to be an emblematical, or heraldric ornament. The property, called Pollard's Lands, near Bishop Auckland, is held by a similar tenure; and we are informed, in the work just quoted, that "Dr Johnson of Newcastle met the present bishop, Dr Egerton, in September, 1771, at his first arrival there, and presented a faulchion upon his knee, and addressed him in the old form of words, saying, "_My lord, in behalf of myself, as well as of the several other tenants of Pollard's Lands, I do humbly present your lordship with this faulchion, at your first coming here, wherewith, as the tradition goeth, Pollard slew of old a great and venomous serpent, which did much harm to man and beast: and, by the performance of this service, these lands are holden._"--Ancient Tenures, p. 201. Above the south entrance of the ancient parish church of Linton, in Roxburghshire, is a rude piece of sculpture, representing a knight, with a falcon on his arm, encountering with his lance, in full career, a sort of monster, which the common people call a _worm_, or snake. Tradition bears, that this animal inhabited a den, or hollow, at some distance from the church, whence it was wont to issue forth, and ravage the country, or, by the fascination of its eyes and breath, draw its prey into its jaws. Large rewards were in vain offered for the destruction of this monster, which had grown to so huge a bulk, that it used to twist itself, in spiral folds, round a green hillock of considerable height, still called Wormeston, and marked by a clump of trees. When sleeping in this place, with its mouth open, popular credulity affirms, that it was slain by the laird of Lariston, a man, brave even to madness, who, coming upon the snake at full gallop, thrust down its throat a _peat_ (a piece of turf dried for fuel), dipt in scalding pitch, and fixed to the point of his lance. The aromatic quality of the peat is said to have preserved the champion from the effects of the monster's poisonous breath, while, at the same time, it clogged its jaws. In dying, the serpent contracted his folds with so much violence, that their spiral impression is still discernible round the hillock where it lay. The noble family of Somerville are said to be descended from this adventurous knight, in memory of whose atchievement, they bear a dragon as their crest. The sculpture itself gives no countenance to this fine story; for the animal, whom the knight appears to be in the act of slaying, has no resemblance to a serpent, but rather to a wolf, or boar, with which the neighbouring Cheviot mountains must in early times have abounded;[6] and there remain vestiges of another monster, of the same species, attacking the horse of the champion. An inscription, which might have thrown light upon this exploit, is now totally defaced. The vulgar, adapting it to their own tradition, tell us that it ran thus: The wode laird of Lariestoun Slew the wode worm of Wormiestoune, And wan all Linton paroschine. It is most probable, that the animal, destroyed by the ancestor of Lord Somerville, was one of those beasts of prey, by which Caledonia was formerly infested; but which, now, Razed out of all her woods, as trophies hung, Grin high emblazon'd on her children's shields. Since publishing the first edition of this work, I have found the following account of Somerville's atchievement, in a MS. of some antiquity: "John Somerville (son to Roger de Somerville, baron of Whichenever, in Staffordshire) was made, by King William (the Lion), his principal falconer, and got from that king the lands and baronie of Linton, in Tiviotdale, for an extraordinarie and valiant action; which, according to the manuscript of the family of Drum, was thus: In the parochen of Lintoun, within the sheriffdom of Roxburgh, there happened to breed a monster, in form of a serpent, or worme; in length, three Scots yards, and somewhat bigger than an ordinarie man's leg, with a head more proportionable to its length than greatness. It had its den in a hollow piece of ground, a mile south-east from Lintoun church; it destroyed both men and beast that came in its way. Several attempts were made to destroy it, by shooting of arrows, and throwing of darts, none daring to approach so near as to make use of a sword or lance. John Somerville undertakes to kill it, and being well mounted, and attended with a stout servant, he cam, before the sun-rising, before the dragon's den, having prepared some long, small, and hard peats (bog-turf dried for fuel), be-dabbed with pitch, rosette, and brimstone, fixed with small wire upon a wheel, at the point of his lance: these, being touched with fire, would instantly break out into flames; and, there being a breath of air, that served to his purpose, about the sun-rising, the serpent, dragon, or worme, so called by tradition, appeared with her head, and some part of her body, without the den; whereupon his servant set fire to the peats upon the wheel, at the top of the lance, and John Somerville, advancing with a full gallop, thrust the same with the wheel, and a great part of the lance, directly into the serpent's mouthe, which wente down its throat, into the belly, and was left there, the lance breaking by the rebounding of the horse, and giving a deadly wound to the dragoun; for which action he was knighted by King William; and his effigies was cut in ston in the posture he performed this actione, and placed above the principal church door of Lintoun, where it is yet to be seen, with his name and sirname: and the place, where this monster was killed, is at this day called, by the common people, who have the foresaid story by tradition, the Wormes Glen. And further to perpetuate this actione, the barons of Lintoun, Cowthally, and Drum, did always carry for crest, a wheel, and thereon a dragoun." Extracted from a genealogical MS. in the Advocates' Library, written about 1680. The falcon on the champion's arm, in the monument, may be supposed to allude to his office of falconer to William of Scotland. The ballad of _Kempion_ is given chiefly from Mrs Brown's MS., with corrections from a recited fragment. KEMPION. * * * * * "Cum heir, cum heir, ye freely feed, "And lay your head low on my knee; "The heaviest weird I will you read, "That ever was read to gaye ladye. "O meikle dolour sall ye dree, "And aye the salt seas o'er ye'se swim; "And far mair dolour sall ye dree "On Estmere crags, when ye them climb. "I weird ye to a fiery beast, "And relieved sall ye never be, "Till Kempion, the kingis son, "Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss thee." O meikle dolour did she dree, And aye the salt seas o'er she swam; And far mair dolour did she dree On Estmere crags, e'er she them clamb. And aye she cried for Kempion, Gin he would but cum to her hand: Now word has gane to Kempion, That sicken a beast was in his land. "Now, by my sooth," said Kempion, "This fiery beast I'll gang and see." "And, by my sooth," said Segramour, "My ae brother, I'll gang wi' thee." Then bigged hae they a bonny boat, And they hae set her to the sea; But a mile before they reached the shore, Around them she gar'd the red fire flee. "O Segramour, keep the boat afloat, "And lat her na the land o'er near; "For this wicked beast will sure gae mad, "And set fire to a' the land and mair." Syne has he bent an arblast bow, And aim'd an arrow at her head; And swore if she didna quit the land, Wi' that same shaft to shoot her dead. "O out of my stythe I winna rise, "(And it is not for the awe o' thee) "Till Kempion, the kingis son, "Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me." He has louted him o'er the dizzy crag, And gien the monster kisses ane: Awa she gaed, and again she cam, The fieryest beast that ever was seen. "O out o' my stythe I winna rise, "(And not for a' thy bow nor thee) "Till Kempion, the kingis son, "Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me." He's louted him o'er the Estmere crags, And he has gien her kisses twa: Awa she gaed, and again she cam, The fieryest beast that ever you saw. "O out of my den I winna rise, "Nor flee it for the fear o' thee, "Till Kempion, that courteous knight, "Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me." He's louted him o'er the lofty crag, And he has gien her kisses three: Awa she gaed, and again she cam, The loveliest ladye e'er could be! "And by my sooth," says Kempion, "My ain true love (for this is she) "They surely had a heart o' stane, "Could put thee to such misery. "O was it warwolf in the wood? "Or was it mermaid in the sea? "Or was it man, or vile woman, "My ain true love, that mishaped thee?" "It was na warwolf in the wood, "Nor was it mermaid in the sea; "But it was my wicked step-mother, "And wae and weary may she be!" "O a heavier weird[7] shall light her on, "Than ever fell on vile woman; "Her hair shall grow rough, and her teeth grow lang, "And on her four feet shall she gang. "None shall take pity her upon; "In Wormeswood she aye shall won; "And relieved shall she never be, "Till St Mungo[8] come over the sea." And sighing said that weary wight, "I doubt that day I'll never see!" NOTES ON KEMPION. * * * * * _On Estmere crags, when ye them climb._--P. 26. v. 2. If by Estmere crags we are to understand the rocky cliffs of Northumberland, in opposition to Westmoreland, we may bring our scene of action near Bamborough, and thereby almost identify the tale of _Kempion_ with that of the _Laidley Worm of Spindleston_, to which it bears so strong a resemblance. _I weird ye to a fiery beast._--P. 26. v. 3. Our ideas of dragons and serpents are probably derived from the Scandinavians. The legends of _Regnar Lodbrog_, and of the huge snake in the Edda, by whose folds the world is encircled, are well known. Griffins and dragons were fabled, by the Danes, as watching over, and defending, hoards of gold.--_Bartholin. de caus. cont. mortis_, p. 490. _Saxo Grammaticus_, lib. 2. The Edda also mentions one Fafner, who, transformed into a serpent, brooded over his hidden treasures. From these authorities, and that of Herodotus, our Milton draws his simile-- As when a Gryphon, through the wilderness, With winged course, o'er hill or moory dale, Pursues the Arimaspian, who, by stealth, Had from his wakeful custody purloin'd The guarded gold. _O was it warwolf in the wood?_--P. 29. v. 4. Warwolf, or Lycanthropus, signifies a magician, possessing the power of transforming himself into a wolf, for the purpose of ravage and devastation. It is probable the word was first used symbolically, to distinguish those, who, by means of intoxicating herbs, could work their passions into a frantic state, and throw themselves upon their enemies with the fury and temerity of ravenous wolves. Such were the noted _Berserker_ of the Scandinavians, who, in their fits of voluntary frenzy, were wont to perform the most astonishing exploits of strength, and to perpetrate the most horrible excesses, although, in their natural state, they neither were capable of greater crimes nor exertions than ordinary men. This quality they ascribed to Odin. "_Odinus efficere valuit, ut hostes ipsius inter bellandum cæci vel surdi vel attoniti fierent, armaque illorum instar baculorum obtusa essent. Sui vero milites sine loricis incedebant, ac instar_ canum vel luporum furebant, _scuta sua arrodentes: et robusti ut ursi vel tauri, adversarios trucidabant: ipsis vero neque ignis neque ferrum nocuit. Ea qualitas vocatur furor Berserkicus."--Snorro Sturleson,_ quoted by _Bartholin. de causis contemptæ mortis_, p. 344. For a fuller account of these frantic champions, see the _Hervorar Saga_ published by Suhm; also the _Christni Saga_, and most of the ancient Norwegian histories and romances. Camden explains the tales of the Irish, concerning men transformed into wolves, upon nearly the same principle.--GOUGH'S _edition of Camden's Britannia_, Vol. III. p. 520. But, in process of time, the transformation into a wolf was believed to be real, and to affect the body as well as the mind; and to such transformations our faithful Gervase of Tilbury bears evidence, as an eye-witness. "_Vidimus frequenter in Anglia per lunationes homines in lupos mutari, quod hominum genus Gerulfos Galli vocunt, Angli vero_ WER-WLF _dicunt._ WER _enim Anglice virum sonat,_ WLF _lupum." Ot. Imp. De oculis apertis post peccatum._ The learned commentators, upon the art of sorcery, differ widely concerning the manner in which the arch fiend effects this change upon the persons of his vassals; whether by surrounding their bodies with a sort of pellice of condensed air, having the form of an wolf; or whether by some delusion, affecting the eyes of the spectators; or, finally, by an actual corporeal transformation. The curious reader may consult _Delrii Disquisitiones Magicæ_, p. 188; and (if he pleases) Evvichius _de natura Sagarum_.--Fincelius, _lib. 2. de Mirac._--Remigius. _lib. 2. de Dæmonolat._--Binsfeld. _de confession, maleficarum_. Not to mention Spondanus, Bodinus, Peucerus, Philippus Camerarius, Condronchus, Petrus Thyræus, Bartholomeus Spineus, Sir George Mackenzie, and King James I., with the sapient Monsieur Oufle of Bayle. The editor presumes, it is only since the extirpation of wolves, that our British sorceresses have adopted the disguise of hares, cats, and such more familiar animals. A wild story of a warwolf, or rather a war-bear, is told in Torfoeus' History of Hrolfe Kraka. As the original is a scarce book, little known in this country, some readers may be interested by a short analysis of the tale. Hringo, king of Upland, had an only son, called Biorno, the most beautiful and most gallant of the Norwegian youth. At an advanced period of life, the king became enamoured of a "_witch lady_," whom he chose for his second wife. A mutual and tender affection had, from infancy, subsisted betwixt Biorno, and Bera, the lovely daughter of an ancient warrior. But the new queen cast upon her step-son an eye of incestuous passion; to gratify which, she prevailed upon her husband, when he set out upon one of those piratical expeditions, which formed the summer campaign of a Scandinavian monarch, to leave the prince at home. In the absence of Hringo, she communicated to Biorno her impure affection, and was repulsed with disdain and violence. The rage of the weird step-mother was boundless. "Hence to the woods!" she exclaimed, striking the prince with a glove of wolf-skin; "Hence to the woods! subsist only on thy father's herds; live pursuing, and die pursued!" From this time the prince Biorno was no more seen, and the herdsmen of the king's cattle soon observed, that astonishing devastation was nightly made among their flocks, by a black bear, of immense size, and unusual ferocity. Every attempt to snare or destroy this animal was found vain; and much was the unavailing regret for the absence of Biorno, whose delight had been in extirpating beasts of prey. Bera, the faithful mistress of the young prince, added her tears to the sorrow of the people. As she was indulging her melancholy, apart from society, she was alarmed by the approach of the monstrous bear, which was the dread of the whole country. Unable to escape, she waited its approach, in expectation of instant death; when, to her astonishment, the animal fawned upon her, rolled himself at her feet, and regarded her with eyes, in which, spite of the horrible transformation, she still recognized the glances of her lost lover. Bera had the courage to follow the bear to his cavern, where, during certain hours, the spell permitted him to resume his human shape. Her love overcame her repugnance at so strange a mode of life, and she continued to inhabit the cavern of Biorno, enjoying his society during the periods of his freedom from enchantment. One day, looking sadly upon his wife, "Bera," said the prince, "the end of my life approaches. My flesh will soon serve for the repast of my father and his courtiers. But, do thou beware lest either the threats or entreaties of my diabolical step-mother induce thee to partake of the horrid banquet. So shalt thou safely bring forth three sons, who shall be the wonder of the North." The spell now operated, and the unfortunate prince sallied from his cavern to prowl among the herds. Bera followed him, weeping, and at a distance. The clamour of the chace was now heard. It was the old king, who, returned from his piratical excursion, had collected a strong force to destroy the devouring animal which ravaged his country. The poor bear defended himself gallantly, slaying many dogs, and some huntsmen. At length, wearied out, he sought protection at the feet of his father. But his supplicating gestures were in vain, and the eyes of paternal affection proved more dull than those of love. Biorno died by the lance of his father, and his flesh was prepared for the royal banquet. Bera was recognised, and hurried into the queen's presence. The sorceress, as Biorno had predicted, endeavoured to prevail upon Bera to eat of what was then esteemed a regal dainty. Entreaties and threats being in vain, force was, by the queen's command, employed for this purpose, and Bera was compelled to swallow one morsel of the bear's flesh. A second was put into her mouth, but she had an opportunity of putting it aside. She was then dismissed to her father's house. Here, in process of time, she was delivered of three sons, two of whom were affected variously, in person and disposition, by the share their mother had been compelled to take in the feast of the king. The eldest, from his middle downwards, resembled an elk, whence he derived the name of Elgfrod. He proved a man of uncommon strength, but of savage manners, and adopted the profession of a robber. Thorer, the second son of Bera, was handsome and well shaped, saving that he had the foot of a dog; from which he obtained the appellation of Houndsfoot. But Bodvar, the third son, was a model of perfection in mind and body. He revenged upon the necromantic queen the death of his father, and became the most celebrated champion of his age. _Historia Hrolfi Krakæ, Haffniæ, 1715._ FOOTNOTES: [4] Poich' ebbe il verso Brandimarte letto, La lapida pesante in aria alzava: Ecco fuor una serpe insin' al petto, La qual, forte stridendo, zufolava, Di spaventoso, e terribil' aspetto, A prendo il muso gran denti mostrava, De' quali il cavalier non si fidando, Si trasse a dietro, et mise mano al brando. Ma quella Donna gridava "non fate" Col viso smorto, e grido tremebondo, "Non far, che ci farai pericolare, E cadrem' tutti quanti nel profondo: A te convien quella serpe baciare, O far pensier di non esser' al Mondo, Accostar la tua bocca con la sua, O perduta tener la vita tua." "Come? non vedi, che i denti degrigna, Che pajon fatti a posta a spiccar' nasi, E fammi un certo viso de matrigna," Disse il Guerrier, "ch'io me spavento quassi." "Anzi t' invita con faccia benigna;" Disse la Donna, "e molti altri rimasi Per vilta sono a questa sepolture: Or la t' accosta, e non aver paura." Il cavalier s' accosta, ma di passo, Che troppo grato quel baciar non gli era, Verso la serpe chinandosi basso, Gli parvo tanto orrenda, e tanto fera, Che venne in viso freddo, com' un sasso; E disse "si fortuna vuol' ch'io pera, Fia tanto un altra volta, quanto addeso Ma cagion dar non me ne voglio io stesso." "Fuss' io certo d'andare in paradiso, Come son' certo, chinandomi un poco, Che quella bestia mi s'avvento al viso, E mi piglia nel naso, o altro loco: Egli e proprio cosi, com' io m'avviso, Ch' altri ch'io stato e colto a questo gioco, E che costei mi da questo conforto Per vindicarsi di colui, ch'ho morto."[5] Cosi dicendo, a rinculare attende, Deliberato piu non s'accostare: La Donna si dispera, e lo reprende, "Ah codardo," dicea, "che credi fare? Perche tanta vilta, l'alma t'offende, Che ti fara alla fin mal capitare? Infinita paura e poca fede, La salute gli mostro, e non mi crede." Punto il Guerrier de questi agre parole, Torna de nuovo ver la sepoltura, Tinsegli in rose il color de viole, In vergogna mutata la paura: Pur stando ancor' fra due, vuole, e non vuole, Un pensier lo spaventa, un l'assicura Al fin tra l'animoso, e'l disperato, A lei s'accosta, ed halle un bacio dato. Un ghiaccio proprio gli parse a toccare La bocca, che parea prima di foco: La serpe se commincia a tramutare E diventa donzella a poco a poco: Febosilla costei si fa chiamare, Un fata, che fece quel bel loco, E quel giardino, e quella sepoltura, Ove gran tempo e stato in pena dura, &c. [5] _Un cavalier occiso per Brandimarte nel entrare del palazzo incantato._ [6] An altar, dedicated to Sylvan Mars, was found in a glen in Weardale, in the bishopric of Durham. From the following votive inscription, it appears to have been erected by C. T. V. Micianus, a Roman general, upon taking an immense boar, which none of his predecessors could destroy: "_Silvano invicto sacrum. C. Tetius Veturius Micianus Præf. Alae Sebosinae ob aprum eximiæ formæ captum, quem multi antecessores ejus prædari non potuerunt, Votum solvens lubenter possuit._" LAMB'S Notes on Battle of Flodden, 1774, p. 67. [7] _Weird_--From the German auxiliary verb _werden_, "to become." [8] _St Mungo_--Saint Kentigern. LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNIE. NOW FIRST PUBLISHED IN A PERFECT STATE. * * * * * This ballad is now, for the first time, published in a perfect state. A fragment, comprehending the 2d, 4th, 5th, and 6th verses, as also the 17th, has appeared in several collections. The present copy is chiefly taken from the recitation of an old woman, residing near Kirkhill, in West Lothian; the same from whom were obtained the variations in the tale of _Tamlane_, and the fragment of the _Wife of Usher's Well_, which is the next in order. The tale is much the same with the Breton romance, called _Lay le Frain_, or the _Song of the Ash_. Indeed, the editor is convinced, that the farther our researches are extended, the more we shall see ground to believe, that the romantic ballads of later times are, for the most part, abridgments of the ancient metrical romances, narrated in a smoother stanza, and more modern language. A copy of the ancient romance, alluded to, is preserved in the invaluable collection (W. 4. 1.) of the Advocates' Library, and begins thus: We redeth oft and findeth ywrite And this clerkes wele it wite Layes that ben in harping Ben yfound of ferli thing Sum beth of wer and sum of wo Sum of joye and mirthe also And sum of trecherie and of gile Of old aventours that fel while And sum of bourdes and ribaudy And many ther beth of faery Of al thinges that men seth Maist o' love forsoth yai beth In Breteyne bi hold time This layes were wrought so seithe this rime When kinges might our y here Of ani mervailes that ther wer They token a harp in glee and game And maked a lay and gaf it name Now of this aventours that weren y falle Y can tel sum ac nought alle Ac herkeneth Lordinges sothe to sain I chil you tel _Lay le Frain_ Bifel a cas in Breteyne Whereof was made Lay le Frain In Ingliche for to tellen y wis Of ane asche forsothe it is On ane ensammple fair with alle That sum time was bi falle &c. LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNIE. * * * * * "Its narrow, narrow, make your bed, "And learn to lie your lane; "For I'm ga'n o'er the sea, Fair Annie, "A braw bride to bring hame. "Wi' her I will get gowd and gear; "Wi' you I ne'er got nane. "But wha will bake my bridal bread, "Or brew my bridal ale? "And wha will welcome my brisk bride, "That I bring o'er the dale?" "Its I will bake your bridal bread, "And brew your bridal ale; "And I will welcome your brisk bride, "That you bring o'er the dale." "But she that welcomes my brisk bride, "Maun gang like maiden fair; "She maun lace on her robe sae jimp, "And braid her yellow hair." "But how can I gang maiden-like, "When maiden I am nane? "Have I not borne seven sons to thee, "And am with child again?" She's ta'en her young son in her arms, Another in her hand; And she's up to the highest tower, To see him come to land. "Come up, come up, my eldest son, "And look o'er yon sea-strand, "And see your father's new-come bride, "Before she come to land." "Come down, come down, my mother dear! "Come frae the castle-wa'! "I fear, if langer ye stand there, "Ye'll let yoursell down fa'." And she gaed down, and farther down, Her love's ship for to see; And the top-mast and the main-mast Shone like the silver free. And she's gane down, and farther down, The bride's ship to behold; And the top-mast and the main-mast They shone just like the gold. She's ta'en her seven sons in her hand; I wot she didna fail! She met Lord Thomas and his bride, As they cam o'er the dale. "You're welcome to your house, Lord Thomas; "You're welcome to your land; "You're welcome, with your fair ladye, "That you lead by the hand. "You're welcome to your ha's, ladye; "You're welcome to your bowers; "You're welcome to your hame, ladye: "For a' that's here is yours." "I thank thee, Annie; I thank thee, Annie; "Sae dearly as I thank thee; "You're the likest to my sister, Annie, "That ever I did see. "There came a knight out o'er the sea, "And steal'd my sister away; "The shame scoup[9] in his company, "And land where'er he gae!" She hang ae napkin at the door, Another in the ha'; And a' to wipe the trickling tears, Sae fast as they did fa'. And aye she served the lang tables, With white bread and with wine; And aye she drank the wan water, To had her colour fine.[10] And aye she served the lang tables, With white bread and with brown; And aye she turned her round about, Sae fast the tears fall down. And he's ta'en down the silk napkin, Hung on a silver pin; And aye he wipes the tear trickling Adown her cheik and chin. And aye he turned him round about, And smil'd amang his men: Says--"Like ye best the old ladye, "Or her that's new come hame?" When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a' men bound to bed, Lord Thomas and his new-come bride, To their chamber they were gaed. Annie made her bed a little forebye, To hear what they might say; "And ever alas!" fair Annie cried, "That I should see this day! "Gin my seven sons were seven young rats, "Running on the castle-wa', "And I were a grey cat mysell! "I soon would worry them a'. "Gin my seven sons were seven young hares, "Running o'er yon lilly lee, "And I were a grew hound mysell! "Soon worried they a' should be." And wae and sad fair Annie sat, And drearie was her sang; And ever, as she sobb'd and grat, "Wae to the man that did the wrang!" "My gown is on," said the new-come bride, "My shoes are on my feet, "And I will to fair Annie's chamber, "And see what gars her greet. "What ails ye, what ails ye, Fair Annie, "That ye make sic a moan? "Has your wine barrels cast the girds, "Or is your white bread gone? "O wha was't was your father, Annie, "Or wha was't was your mother? "And had ye ony sister, Annie, "Or had ye ony brother?" "The Earl of Wemyss was my father, "The Countess of Wemyss my mother; "And a' the folk about the house, "To me were sister and brother." "If the Earl of Wemyss was your father, "I wot sae was he mine; "And it shall not be for lack o' gowd, "That ye your love sall tyne. "For I have seven ships o' mine ain, "A' loaded to the brim; "And I will gie them a' to thee, "Wi' four to thine eldest son. "But thanks to a' the powers in heaven, "That I gae maiden hame!" FOOTNOTES: [9] _Scoup_--Go, or rather fly. [10] To keep her from changing countenance. THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL. A FRAGMENT. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * There lived a wife at Usher's Well, And a wealthy wife was she; She had three stout and stalwart sons, And sent them o'er the sea. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely ane, Whan word came to the carline wife, That her three sons were gane. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely three, Whan word came to the carline wife, That her sons she'd never see. "I wish the wind may never cease, "Nor fishes in the flood, "Till my three sons come hame to me, "In earthly flesh and blood!" It fell about the Martinmass, Whan nights are lang and mirk, The carline wife's three sons came hame, And their hats were o' the birk. It neither grew in syke nor ditch, Nor yet in ony sheugh; But at the gates o' Paradise, That birk grew fair eneugh. * * * * * "Blow up the fire, my maidens! "Bring water from the well! "For a' my house shall feast this night, "Since my three sons are well." And she has made to them a bed, She's made it large and wide; And she's ta'en her mantle her about, Sat down at the bed-side. * * * * * Up then crew the red red cock, And up and crew the gray; The eldest to the youngest said, "'Tis time we were away." The cock he hadna craw'd but once, And clapp'd his wings at a', Whan the youngest to the eldest said, "Brother, we must awa. "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, "The channerin'[11] worm doth chide; "Gin we be mist out o' our place, "A sair pain we maun bide. "Fare ye weel, my mother dear! "Fareweel to barn and byre! "And fare ye weel, the bonny lass, "That kindles my mother's fire." * * * * * NOTES ON THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL. * * * * * _I wish the wind may never cease, &c._--P. 46. v. 2. The sense of this verse is obscure, owing, probably, to corruption by reciters. It would appear, that the mother had sinned in the same degree with the celebrated _Lenoré_. _And their hats were o' the birk._--P. 46. v. 3. The notion, that the souls of the blessed wear garlands, seems to be of Jewish origin. At least, in the _Maase-book_, there is a Rabbinical tradition, to the following effect:-- "It fell out, that a Jew, whose name was Ponim, an ancient man, whose business was altogether about the dead, coming to the door of the school, saw one standing there, who had a garland upon his head. Then was Rabbi Ponim afraid, imagining it was a spirit. Whereupon he, whom the Rabbi saw, called out to him, saying, 'Be not afraid, but pass forward. Dost thou not know me?' Then said Rabbi Ponim, 'Art not thou he whom I buried yesterday?' And he was answered, 'Yea, I am he.' Upon which Rabbi Ponim said, 'Why comest thou hither? How fareth it with thee in the other world?' And the apparition made answer, 'It goeth well with me, and I am in high esteem in paradise.' Then said the Rabbi, 'Thou wert but looked upon in the world as an insignificant Jew. What good work didst thou do, that thou art thus esteemed?' The apparition answered, 'I will tell thee: the reason of the esteem I am in, is, that I rose every morning early, and with fervency uttered my prayer, and offered the grace from the bottom of my heart: for which reason I now pronounce grace in paradise, and am well respected. If thou doubtest whether I am the person, I will show thee a token that shall convince thee of it. Yesterday, when thou didst clothe me in my funeral attire, thou didst tear my sleeve.' Then asked Rabbi Ponim, 'What is the meaning of that garland?' The apparition answered, 'I wear it, to the end the wind of the world may not have power over me; for it consists of excellent herbs of paradise.' Then did Rabbi Ponim mend the sleeve of the deceased: for the deceased had said, that if it was not mended, he should be ashamed to be seen amongst others, whose apparel was whole. And then the apparition vanished. Wherefore, let every one utter his prayer with fervency; for then it shall go well with him in the other world. And let care be taken that no rent, nor tearing, be left in the apparel in which the deceased are interred."--_Jewish Traditions, abridged from Buxtorf_, London, 1732, Vol. II. p. 19. _Gin we be mist out o' our place,_ _A sair pain we maun bide._--P. 48. v. 1. This will remind the German reader of the comic adieu of a heavenly apparition:-- Doch sieh! man schliesst die himmels thür Adieu! der himmlische Portier Ist streng und hält auf ordnung. _Blumauer._ FOOTNOTES: [11] _Channerin'_--Fretting. COSPATRICK. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * _A copy of this Ballad, materially different from that which follows, appeared in_ "Scottish Songs," _2 vols. Edinburgh, 1792, under the title of_ Lord Bothwell. _Some stanzas have been transferred from thence to the present copy, which is taken down from the recitation of a Lady, nearly related to the Editor. Some readings have been also adopted from a third copy, in Mrs_ BROWN'S _MS., under the title of_ Child Brenton. _Cospatrick_ (Comes Patricius) _was the designation of the Earl of Dunbar, in the days of_ WALLACE _and_ BRUCE. * * * * * Cospatrick has sent o'er the faem; Cospatrick brought his ladye hame; And fourscore ships have come her wi', The ladye by the grene-wood tree. There were twal' and twal' wi' baken bread, And twal' and twal' wi' gowd sae reid, And twal' and twal' wi' bouted flour, And twal' and twal' wi' the paramour. Sweet Willy was a widow's son, And at her stirrup he did run; And she was clad in the finest pall, But aye she let the tears down fall. "O is your saddle set awrye? "Or rides your steed for you owre high? "Or are you mourning, in your tide, "That you suld be Cospatrick's bride?" "I am not mourning, at this tide, "That I suld be Cospatrick's bride; "But I am sorrowing, in my mood, "That I suld leave my mother good. "But, gentle boy, come tell to me, "What is the custom of thy countrie?" "The custom thereof, my dame," he says, "Will ill a gentle ladye please. "Seven king's daughters has our lord wedded, "And seven king's daughters has our lord bedded; "But he's cutted their breasts frae their breast-bane, "And sent them mourning hame again. "Yet, gin you're sure that you're a maid, "Ye may gae safely to his bed; "But gif o' that ye be na sure, "Then hire some damsell o' your bour." The ladye's called her bour maiden, That waiting was into her train; "Five thousand merks I'll gie to thee, "To sleep this night with my lord for me." When bells were rung, and mass was sayne, And a' men unto bed were gane, Cospatrick and the bonny maid, Into ae chamber they were laid. "Now, speak to me, blankets, and speak to me, bed, "And speak, thou sheet, enchanted web; "And speak up, my bonny brown sword, that winna lie, "Is this a true maiden that lies by me?" "It is not a maid that you hae wedded, "But it is a maid that you hae bedded; "It is a leal maiden that lies by thee, "But not the maiden that it should be." O wrathful he left the bed, And wrathfully his claiths on did; And he has ta'en him through the ha', And on his mother he did ca'. "I am the most unhappy man, "That ever was in christen land! "I courted a maiden, meik and mild, "And I hae gotten naething but a woman wi' child." "O stay, my son, into this ha', "And sport ye wi' your merrymen a'; "And I will to the secret bour, "To see how it fares wi' your paramour." The carline she was stark and sture, She aff the hinges dang the dure; "O is your bairn to laird or loun, "Or is it to your father's groom?" "O! hear me, mother, on my knee, "Till my sad story I tell thee: "O we were sisters, sisters seven, "We were the fairest under heaven. "It fell on a summer's afternoon, "When a' our toilsome task was done, "We cast the kevils us amang, "To see which suld to the grene-wood gang. "O hon! alas, for I was youngest, "And aye my weird it was the hardest! "The kevil it on me did fa', "Whilk was the cause of a' my woe, "For to the grene-wood I maun gae, "To pu' the red rose and the slae; "To pu' the red rose and the thyme, "To deck my mother's bour and mine. "I hadna pu'd a flower but ane, "When by there came a gallant hende, "Wi' high coll'd hose and laigh coll'd shoon, "And he seemed to be sum king's son. "And be I maid, or be I nae, "He kept me there till the close o' day; "And be I maid, or be I nane, "He kept me there till the day was done. "He gae me a lock o' his yellow hair, "And bade me keep it ever mair; "He gae me a carknet[12] o' bonny beads, "And bade me keep it against my needs. "He gae to me a gay gold ring, "And bade me keep it abune a' thing." "What did ye wi' the tokens rare, "That ye gat frae that gallant there?" "O bring that coffer unto me, "And a' the tokens ye sall see." "Now stay, daughter, your bour within, "While I gae parley wi' my son." O she has ta'en her thro' the ha', And on her son began to ca'; "What did you wi' the bonny beads, "I bade ye keep against your needs? "What did you wi' the gay gold ring, "I bade ye keep abune a' thing?" "I gae them to a ladye gay, "I met in grene-wood on a day. "But I wad gie a' my halls and tours, "I had that ladye within my bours; "But I wad gie my very life, "I had that ladye to my wife." "Now keep, my son, your ha's and tours; "Ye have that bright burd in your bours: "And keep, my son, your very life; "Ye have that lady to your wife." Now, or a month was cum and gane, The ladye bore a bonny son; And 'twas weel written on his breast bane, "Cospatrick is my father's name." O row my ladye in satin and silk, And wash my son in the morning milk. FOOTNOTES: [12] _Carknet_--A necklace. Thus: "She threw away her rings and _carknet_ cleen."--Harrison's Translation of _Orlando Furioso--Notes on book 37th._ PRINCE ROBERT, NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. FROM THE RECITATION OF A LADY, NEARLY RELATED TO THE EDITOR. * * * * * Prince Robert has wedded a gay ladye, He has wedded her with a ring; Prince Robert has wedded a gay ladye, But he darna bring her hame. "Your blessing, your blessing, my mother dear! "Your blessing now grant to me!" "Instead of a blessing ye sall have my curse, "And you'll get nae blessing frae me." She has called upon her waiting maid, To fill a glass of wine; She has called upon her fause steward, To put rank poison in. She has put it to her roudes[13] lip, And to her roudes chin; She has put it to her fause fause mouth, But the never a drap gaed in. He has put it to his bonny mouth, And to his bonny chin, He's put it to his cherry lip, And sae fast the rank poison ran in. "O ye hae poisoned your ae son, mother, "Your ae son and your heir; O ye hae poisoned your ae son, mother, "And sons you'll never hae mair. "O where will I get a little boy, "That will win hose and shoon, To run sae fast to Darlinton, "And bid fair Eleanor come?" Then up and spake a little boy, That wad win hose and shoon,-- "O I'll away to Darlinton, "And bid fair Eleanor come." O he has run to Darlinton, And tirled at the pin; And wha was sae ready as Eleanor's sell To let the bonny boy in. "Your gude-mother has made ye a rare dinour, "She's made it baith gude and fine; "Your gude-mother has made ye a gay dinour, "And ye maun cum till her and dine." Its twenty lang miles to Sillertoun town, The langest that ever were gane; But the steed it was wight, and the ladye was light, And she cam linkin'[14] in. But when she cam to Sillertoun town, And into Sillertoun ha', The torches were burning, the ladies were mourning, And they were weeping a'. "O where is now my wedded lord, "And where now can he be? "O where is now my wedded lord? "For him I canna see." "Your wedded lord is dead," she says, "And just gane to be laid in the clay; "Your wedded lord is dead," she says, "And just gane to be buried the day. "Ye'se get nane o' his gowd, ye'se get nane o' his gear, "Ye'se get nae thing frae me; "Ye'se no get an inch o' his gude broad land, "Tho' your heart suld burst in three." "I want nane o' his gowd, I want nane o' his gear, "I want nae land frae thee; "But I'll hae the ring that's on his finger, "For them he did promise to me." "Ye'se no get the ring that's on his finger, "Ye'se no get them frae me; "Ye'se no get the ring that's on his finger, "An' your heart suld burst in three." She's turned her back unto the wa', And her face unto a rock; And there, before the mother's face, Her very heart it broke. The tane was buried in Mary's kirk, The tother in Marie's quair; And out o' the tane there sprang a birk, And out o' the tother a brier. And thae twa met, and thae twa plat, The birk but and the brier; And by that ye may very weel ken They were twa lovers dear.[15] FOOTNOTES: [13] _Roudes_--Haggard. [14] _Linkin'_--Riding briskly. [15] The last two verses are common to many ballads, and are probably derived from some old metrical romance, since we find the idea occur in the conclusion of the voluminous history of Sir Tristrem. "_Ores veitil que de la tumbe Tristan yssoit une belle ronce verte et feuilleue, qui alloit par la chapelle, et descendoit le bout de la ronce sur la tumbe d'Ysseult et entroit dedans._" This marvellous plant was three times cut down; but, continues Rusticien de Puise, "_Le lendemain estoit aussi belle comme elle avoit cy-devant ètè, et ce miracle ètoit sur Tristan et sur Ysseult a tout jamais advenir_." KING HENRIE. THE ANCIENT COPY. * * * * * This ballad is edited from the MS. of Mrs Brown, corrected by a recited fragment. A modernized copy has been published, under the title of "Courteous King Jamie."--_Tales of Wonder_, Vol. II. p. 451. The legend will remind the reader of the "Marriage of Sir Gawain," in the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, and of the "Wife of Bath's Tale," in Father Chaucer. But the original, as appears from the following quotation from Torfoeus, is to be found in an Icelandic Saga: "_Hellgius, Rex Daniæ, moerore ob amissam conjugem vexatus, solus agebat, et subducens se hominum commercio, segregem domum, omnis famulitii impatiens, incolebat. Accidit autem, ut nocte concubia, lamentabilis cujusdam ante fores ejulantis sonus auribus ejus obreperet. Expergefactus igitur, recluso ostio, informe quoddam mulieris simulacrum,_ "_habitu corporis foedum, veste squalore obsita, pallore, macie frigorisque tyrannide prope modum peremptum, deprehendit; quod precibus obsecratus, ut qui jam miserorum ærumnas ex propria calamitate pensare didicisset, in domum intromisit; ipse lectum petit. At mulier, ne hac quidem benignitate contenta, thori consortium obnixè flagitabat, addens id tanti referre, ut nisi impetraret, omnino sibi moriendum esset. Quod, ea lege, ne ipsum attingeret, concessum est. Ideo nec complexu eam dignatus rex, avertit sese. Cum autem prima luce forte oculos ultro citroque converteret, eximiæ formæ virginem lecto receptam animadvertit; quæ statim ipsi placere coepit: causam igitur tam repentinæ mutationis curiosius indaganti, respondit virgo, se unam e subterraneorum hominum genere diris novercalibus devotam, tam tetra et execrabili specie, quali primo comparuit, damnatam, quoad thori cujusdam principis socia fieret, multos reges hac de re sollicitasse. Jam actis pro præstito beneficio gratiis, discessum maturans, a rege formæ ejus illecebris capto comprimitur. Deinde petit, si prolem ex hoc congressu progigni contigerit, sequente hyeme, eodem anni tempore, ante fores positam in ædes reciperet, seque ejus patrem profiteri non gravaretur, secus non leve infortunium insecuturum prædixit: a quo præcepto cum rex postea exorbitasset, nec præ foribus jacentem infantem pro suo agnoscere voluisset, ad eum iterum, sed corrugata fronte, accessit, obque violatam fidem acrius objurgatum ab imminente periculo, præstiti olim beneficii gratia, exempturam pollicebatur, ita tamen ut tota ultionis rabies in filium ejus_ "_effusa graves aliquando levitatis illius pænas exigeret. Ex hac tam dissimilium naturarum commixtione, Skulda, versuti et versatilis animi mulier, nata fuisse memoratur; quæ utramque naturam participans prodigiosorum operum effectrix perhibetur._"--Hrolffi Krakii, Hist. p. 49, Hafn. 1715. KING HENRIE. ANCIENT COPY. * * * * * Let never a man a wooing wend, That lacketh thingis thrie: A rowth o' gold, an open heart, And fu' o' courtesey. And this was seen o' King Henrie, For he lay burd alane; And he has ta'en him to a haunted hunt's ha', Was seven miles frae a toun. He's chaced the dun deer thro' the wood, And the roe doun by the den, Till the fattest buck, in a' the herd, King Henrie he has slain. He's ta'en him to his hunting ha', For to make burly cheir; When loud the wind was heard to sound, And an earthquake rocked the floor. And darkness cover'd a' the hall, Where they sat at their meat: The gray dogs, youling, left their food, And crept to Henrie's feet. And louder houled the rising wind, And burst the fast'ned door; And in there came a griesly ghost, Stood stamping on the floor. Her head touched the roof-tree of the house; Her middle ye weel mot span: Each frighted huntsman fled the ha', And left the king alone. Her teeth were a' like tether stakes, Her nose like club or mell; And I ken naething she appeared to be, But the fiend that wons in hell. "Sum meat, sum meat, ye King Henrie! "Sum meat ye gie to me!" "And what meat's in this house, ladye, "That ye're na wellcum tee?"[16] "O ye'se gae kill your berry-brown steed, "And serve him up to me." O when he killed his berry-brown steed, Wow gin his heart was sair! She eat him a' up, skin and bane, Left naething but hide and hair. "Mair meat, mair meat, ye King Henrie! "Mair meat ye gie to me!" "And what meat's i' this house, ladye, "That ye're na wellcum tee?" "O ye do slay your gude gray houndes, "And bring them a' to me." O when he slew his gude gray houndes, Wow but his heart was sair! She's ate them a' up, ane by ane, Left naething but hide and hair. "Mair meat, mair meat, ye King Henrie! "Mair meat ye gie to me!" "And what meat's i' this house, ladye, "That I hae left to gie?" "O ye do fell your gay goss-hawks, "And bring them a' to me." O when he felled his gay goss-hawks, Wow but his heart was sair! She's ate them a' up, bane by bane, Left naething but feathers bare. "Some drink, some drink, ye King Henrie! "Sum drink ye gie to me!" "And what drink's in this house, ladye, "That ye're na wellcum tee?" "O ye sew up your horse's hide, "And bring in a drink to me." O he has sewed up the bluidy hide, And put in a pipe of wine; She drank it a' up at ae draught, Left na a drap therein. "A bed, a bed, ye King Henrie! "A bed ye mak to me!" "And what's the bed i' this house, ladye, "That ye're na wellcum tee?" "O ye maun pu' the green heather, "And mak a bed to me." O pu'd has he the heather green, And made to her a bed; And up he has ta'en his gay mantle, And o'er it he has spread. "Now swear, now swear, ye King Henrie, "To take me for your bride!" "O God forbid," King Henrie said, "That e'er the like betide! "That e'er the fiend, that wons in hell, "Should streak down by my side." * * * * * When day was come, and night was gane, And the sun shone through the ha', The fairest ladye, that e'er was seen, Lay atween him and the wa'. "O weel is me!" King Henrie said, "How lang will this last wi' me?" And out and spak that ladye fair, "E'en till the day ye die. "For I was witched to a ghastly shape, "All by my stepdame's skill, "Till I should meet wi' a courteous knight, "Wad gie me a' my will." FOOTNOTES: [16] _Tee_, for _to_, is the Buchanshire and Gallovidian pronunciation. ANNAN WATER. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * The following verses are the original words of the tune of "_Allan Water_," by which name the song is mentioned in Ramsay's _Tea Table Miscellany_. The ballad is given from tradition; and it is said, that a bridge, over the Annan, was built in consequence of the melancholy catastrophe which it narrates. Two verses are added in this edition, from another copy of the ballad, in which the conclusion proves fortunate. By the _Gatehope Slack_, is perhaps meant the _Gate Slack_, a pass in Annandale. The Annan, and the Frith of Solway, into which it falls, are the frequent scenes of tragical accidents. The editor trusts he will be pardoned for inserting the following awfully impressive account of such an event, contained in a letter from Dr Currie, of Liverpool, by whose correspondence, while in the course of preparing these volumes for the press, he has been alike honoured and instructed. After stating, that he had some recollection of the ballad which follows, the biographer of Burns proceeds thus: "I once in my early days heard (for it was night, and I could not see) a traveller drowning; not in the Annan itself, but in the Frith of Solway, close by the mouth of that river. The influx of the tide had unhorsed him, in the night, as he was passing the sands from Cumberland. The west wind blew a tempest, and, according to the common expression, brought in the water, _three foot a-breast_. The traveller got upon a standing net, a little way from the shore. There he lashed himself to the post, shouting for half an hour for assistance--till the tide rose over his head! In the darkness of night, and amid the pauses of the hurricane, his voice, heard at intervals, was exquisitely mournful. No one could go to his assistance--no one knew where he was--the sound seemed to proceed from the spirit of the waters. But morning rose--the tide had ebbed--and the poor traveller was found lashed to the pole of the net, and bleaching in the wind." ANNAN WATER. * * * * * "Annan water's wading deep, "And my love Annie's wondrous bonny; "And I am laith she suld weet her feet, "Because I love her best of ony. "Gar saddle me the bonny black; "Gar saddle sune, and make him ready: "For I will down the Gatehope-slack, "And all to see my bonny ladye." He has loupen on the bonny black, He stirr'd him wi' the spur right sairly; But, or he wan the Gatehope-slack, I think the steed was wae and weary. He has loupen on the bonny gray, He rade the right gate and the ready; I trow he would neither stint nor stay, For he was seeking his bonny ladye. O he has ridden ower field and fell, Through muir and moss, and mony a mire; His spurs o' steel were sair to bide, And frae her fore-feet flew the fire. "Now, bonny gray, now play your part! "Gin ye be the steed that wins my deary, "Wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye, "And never spur sall make you wearie." The gray was a mare, and a right good mare; But when she wan the Annan water, She could na hae ridden a furlong mair, Had a thousand merks been wadded[17] at her. "O boatman, boatman, put off your boat! "Put off your boat for gowden monie! "I cross the drumly stream the night, "Or never mair I see my honey." "O I was sworn sae late yestreen, "And not by ae aith, but by many; "And for a' the gowd in fair Scotland, "I dare na take ye through to Annie." The side was stey, and the bottom deep, Frae bank to brae the water pouring; And the bonny gray mare did sweat for fear, For she heard the water kelpy roaring. O he has pou'd aff his dapperpy[18] coat, The silver buttons glanced bonny; The waistcoat bursted aff his breast, He was sae full of melancholy. He has ta'en the ford at that stream tail; I wot he swam both strong and steady; But the stream was broad, and his strength did fail, And he never saw his bonny ladye. "O wae betide the frush[19] saugh wand! "And wae betide the bush of briar! "It brake into my true love's hand, "When his strength did fail, and his limbs did tire. "And wae betide ye, Annan water, "This night that ye are a drumlie river! "For over thee I'll build a bridge, "That ye never more true love may sever." FOOTNOTES: [17] _Wadded_--Wagered. [18] _Quære_--Cap-a-pee? [19] _Frush_--Brittle. THE CRUEL SISTER. * * * * * This ballad differs essentially from that which has been published in various collections, under the title of _Binnorie_. It is compiled from a copy in Mrs Brown's MSS., intermixed with a beautiful fragment, of fourteen verses, transmitted to the editor by J. C. Walker, Esq. the ingenious historian of the Irish bards. Mr Walker, at the same time, favoured the editor with the following note:--"I am indebted to my departed friend, Miss Brook, for the foregoing pathetic fragment. Her account of it was as follows: This song was transcribed, several years ago, from the memory of an old woman, who had no recollection of the concluding verses: probably the beginning may also be lost, as it seems to commence abruptly." The first verse and burden of the fragment run thus:-- O sister, sister, reach thy hand! Hey ho, my Nanny, O; And you shall be heir of all my land, While the swan swims bonny, O. The first part of this chorus seems to be corrupted from the common burden of _Hey, Nonny, Nonny_, alluded to in the song, beginning, "_Sigh no more, ladye_." The chorus, retained in this edition, is the most common and popular; but Mrs Brown's copy bears a yet different burden, beginning thus:-- There were twa sisters sat in a bour, Edinborough, Edinborough; There were twa sisters sat in a bour, Stirling for aye; There were twa sisters sat in a bour, There cam a knight to be their wooer, Bonny St Johnston stands upon Tay. THE CRUEL SISTER. * * * * * There were two sisters sat in a bour; Binnorie, O Binnorie; There came a knight to be their wooer; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He courted the eldest with glove and ring; Binnorie, O Binnorie; But he lo'ed the youngest aboon a' thing; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He courted the eldest with broach and knife; Binnorie, O Binnorie; But he lo'ed the youngest abune his life; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The eldest she was vexed sair; Binnorie, O Binnorie; And sore envied her sister fair; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The eldest said to the youngest ane, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "Will ye go and see our father's ships come in?" By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. She's ta'en her by the lilly hand, Binnorie, O Binnorie; And led her down to the river strand; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The youngest stude upon a stane, Binnorie, O Binnorie; The eldest came and pushed her in; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. She took her by the middle sma', Binnorie, O Binnorie; And dashed her bonny back to the jaw, By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "O sister, sister, reach your hand, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "And ye shall be heir of half my land." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "O sister, I'll not reach my hand, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "And I'll be heir of all your land; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "Shame fa' the hand that I should take, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "Its twin'd me, and my world's make." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "O sister, reach me but your glove, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "And sweet William shall be your love." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove! Binnorie, O Binnorie; "And sweet William shall better be my love." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "Your cherry cheeks and your yellow hair, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "Garr'd me gang maiden evermair." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. Sometimes she sunk, and sometimes she swam, Binnorie, O Binnorie; Until she cam to the miller's dam, By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "O father, father, draw your dam! Binnorie, O Binnorie; "There's either a mermaid, or a milk-white swan." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The miller hasted and drew his dam, Binnorie, O Binnorie; And there he found a drowned woman, By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. You could not see her yellow hair, Binnorie, O Binnorie; For gowd and pearls that were sae rare, By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. You could na see her middle sma', Binnorie, O Binnorie; Her gowden girdle was sae bra'; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. A famous harper passing by, Binnorie, O Binnorie; The sweet pale face he chanced to spy; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. And when he looked that lady on, Binnorie, O Binnorie; He sighed, and made a heavy moan; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He made a harp of her breast-bone, Binnorie, O Binnorie; Whose sounds would melt a heart of stone; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The strings he framed of her yellow hair, Binnorie, O Binnorie; Whose notes made sad the listening ear; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He brought it to her father's hall; Binnorie, O Binnorie; And there was the court assembled all; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He laid this harp upon a stone, Binnorie, O Binnorie; And straight it began to play alone; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "O yonder sits my father, the king, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "And yonder sits my mother, the queen; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "And yonder stands my brother Hugh, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "And by him my William sweet and true." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. But the last tune that the harp play'd then, Binnorie, O Binnorie; Was--"Woe to my sister, false Helen!" By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. THE QUEEN'S MARIE. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * "In the very time of the General Assembly, there comes to public knowledge a haynous murther, committed in the court; yea, not far from the queen's lap: for a French woman, that served in the queen's chamber, had played the whore with the queen's own apothecary.--The woman conceived and bare a childe, whom, with common consent, the father and mother murthered; yet were the cries of a new-borne childe hearde, searche was made, the childe and the mother were both apprehended, and so was the man and the woman condemned to be hanged in the publicke street of Edinburgh.--The punishment was suitable, because the crime was haynous. But yet was not the court purged of whores and whoredoms, which was the fountaine of such enormities; for it was well known that shame hasted marriage betwixt John Sempill, called the Dancer, and Mary Leringston[20], sirnamed the Lusty. What bruit the Maries, and the rest of the dancers of the court had, the ballads of that age do witnesse, which we, for modestie's sake, omit: but this was the common complaint of all godly and wise men, that, if they thought such a court could long continue, and if they looked for no better life to come, they would have wished their sonnes and daughters rather to have been brought up with fiddlers and dancers, and to have been exercised with flinging upon a floore, and in the rest that thereof followes, than to have been exercised in the company of the godly, and exercised in virtue, which, in that court was hated, and filthenesse not only maintained, but also rewarded; witnesse the abbey of Abercorne, the barony of Auchvermuchtie, and divers others, pertaining to the patrimony of the crown, given in heritage to skippers and dancers, and dalliers with dames. This was the beginning of the regiment of Mary, queen of Scots, and these were the fruits that she brought forth of France.--_Lord! look on our miseries! and deliver us from_ _the wickednesse of this corrupt court!_"--KNOX's _History of the Reformation_, p. 373-4. Such seems to be the subject of the following ballad, as narrated by the stern apostle of presbytery. It will readily strike the reader, that the tale has suffered great alterations, as handed down by tradition; the French waiting-woman being changed into Mary Hamilton,[21] and the queen's apothecary, into Henry Darnley. Yet this is less surprising, when we recollect, that one of the heaviest of the queen's complaints against her ill-fated husband, was his infidelity, and that even with her personal attendants. I have been enabled to publish the following complete edition of the ballad, by copies from various quarters; that principally used, was communicated to me, in the most polite manner, by Mr Kirkpatricke Sharpe, of Hoddom, to whom I am indebted for many similar favours. THE QUEEN'S MARIE. * * * * * Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane, Wi' ribbons on her hair; The king thought mair o' Marie Hamilton, Than ony that were there. Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane, Wi' ribbons on her breast; The king thought mair o' Marie Hamilton, Than he listen'd to the priest. Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane, Wi' gluves upon her hands; The king thought mair o' Marie Hamilton, Than the queen and a' her lands. She hadna been about the king's court A month, but barely one, Till she was beloved by a' the king's court, And the king the only man. She hadna been about the king's court A month, but barely three, Till frae the king's court Marie Hamilton, Marie Hamilton durst na be. The king is to the Abbey gane, To pu' the Abbey tree, To scale the babe frae Marie's heart; But the thing it wadna be. O she has row'd it in her apron, And set it on the sea,-- "Gae sink ye, or swim ye, bonny babe, "Ye'se get na mair o' me." Word is to the kitchen gane, And word is to the ha', And word is to the noble room, Amang the ladyes a', That Marie Hamilton's brought-to-bed, And the bonny babe's mist and awa. Scarcely had she lain down again, And scarcely fa'n asleep, When up then started our gude queen, Just at her bed-feet; Saying--"Marie Hamilton, where's your babe? "For I'm sure I heard it greet." "O no, O no, my noble queen! "Think no such thing to be; "'Twas but a stitch into my side, "And sair it troubles me." "Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton; "Get up, and follow me; "For I am going to Edinburgh town, "A rich wedding for to see." O slowly, slowly, raise she up, And slowly put she on; And slowly rode she out the way, Wi' mony a weary groan. The queen was clad in scarlet, Her merry maids all in green; And every town that they cam to, They took Marie for the queen. "Ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen, "Ride hooly now wi' me! "For never, I am sure, a wearier burd "Rade in your cumpanie." But little wist Marie Hamilton, When she rade on the brown, That she was ga'en to Edinburgh town, And a' to be put down. "Why weep ye so, ye burgess wives, "Why look ye so on me? "O, I am going to Edinburgh town, "A rich wedding for to see." When she gaed up the tolbooth stairs, The corks frae her heels did flee; And lang or e'er she cam down again, She was condemned to die. When she cam to the Netherbow port, She laughed loud laughters three; But when she cam to the gallows foot, The tears blinded her e'e. "Yestreen the queen had four Maries, "The night she'll hae but three; "There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaton, "And Marie Carmichael, and me. "O, often have I dress'd my queen, "And put gold upon her hair; "But now I've gotten for my reward, "The gallows to be my share; "Often have I dress'd my queen, "And often made her bed; "But now I've gotten for my reward "The gallows tree to tread. "I charge ye all, ye mariners, "When ye sail ower the faem, "Let neither my father nor mother get wit, "But that I'm coming hame. "I charge ye all, ye mariners, "That sail upon the sea, "Let neither my father nor mother get wit "This dog's death I'm to die. "For if my father and mother got wit, "And my bold brethren three, "O, mickle wad be the gude red blude, "This day wad be spilt for me! "O little did my mother ken, "The day she cradled me, "The lands I was to travel in, "Or the death I was to die!" NOTES ON THE QUEEN'S MARIE. * * * * * _When she cam to the Netherbow port._--P. 93, v. 1. The Netherbow port was the gate which divided the city of Edinburgh from the suburb, called the Canongate. It had towers and a spire, which formed a fine termination to the view from the Cross. The gate was pulled down, in one of those fits of rage for indiscriminate destruction, with which the magistrates of a corporation are sometimes visited. _Yestreen the queen had four Maries,_ _The night she'll hae but three, &c._--P. 93. v. 2. The queen's Maries were four young ladies of the highest families in Scotland, who were sent to France in her train, and returned with her to Scotland. They are mentioned by Knox, in the quotation introductory to this ballad. Keith gives us their names, p. 55. "The young queen, Mary, embarked at Dunbarton for France, ... and with her went ..., and four young virgins, all of the name of Mary, viz. Livingston, Fleming, Seaton, and Beatoun." The queen's Maries are mentioned again by the same author, p. 288, and 291, in the note. Neither Mary Livingston, nor Mary Fleming, are mentioned in the ballad; nor are the Mary Hamilton, and Mary Carmichael, of the ballad mentioned by Keith. But if this corps continued to consist of young virgins, as when originally raised, it could hardly have subsisted without occasional recruits; especially if we trust our old bard, and John Knox. The following additional notices of the queen's Maries occur, in MONTEITH's _Translation of Buchanan's Epigrams, &c._ Page 60. _Pomp of the Gods at the Marriage of Queen Mary, 29th July, 1565, a Dialogue._ DIANA. "Great father, Maries[22] five late served me, "Were of my quire the glorious dignitie: "With these dear five the heaven I'd regain, "The happiness of other gods to stain; "At my lot, Juno, Venus, were in ire, "And stole away one----" P. 61. APOLLO. "Fear not, Diana, I good tidings bring, "And unto you glad oracles I sing; "Juno commands your Maries to be married, "And, in all state, to marriage-bed be carried." P. 62. JUPITER. "Five Maries thine; "One Marie now remains of Delia's five, "And she at wedlock o'er shortly will arrive." P. 64. To Mary Fleming, the king's valentyn-- 65. To Mary Beton, queen by lot, the day before the coronation. _Sundry Verses._ The queen's Maries are mentioned in many ballads, and the name seems to have passed into a general denomination for female attendants: Now bear a hand, my Maries a', And busk me brave, and make me fine. _Old Ballad._ FOOTNOTES: [20] The name should be Livingston. "John Semple, son of Robert, Lord Semple, (by Elizabeth Carlisle, a daughter of the Lord Torthorald) was ancestor of the Semples of Beltrees. He was married to Mary, sister to William Livingston, and one of the maids of honour to Queen Mary; by whom he had Sir James Semple of Beltrees, his son and heir," &c.; afterwards ambassador to England, for King James VI. in 1599.--CRAWFORD's _History of Renfrew_, p. 101. [21] One copy bears, "_Mary Miles_." [22] The queen seems to be included in this number. THE BONNY HYND. * * * * * _From Mr_ HERD's _MS., where the following Note is prefixed to it_--"Copied from the mouth of a Milkmaid, 1771, by W. L." * * * * * It was originally the intention of the Editor to have omitted this ballad, on account of the disagreeable nature of the subject. Upon consideration, however, it seemed a fair sample of a certain class of songs and tales, turning upon incidents the most horrible and unnatural, with which the vulgar in Scotland are greatly delighted, and of which they have current amongst them an ample store. Such, indeed, are the subjects of composition in most nations, during the early period of society; when the feelings, rude and callous, can only be affected by the strongest stimuli, and where the mind does not, as in a more refined age, recoil, disgusted, from the means by which interest has been excited. Hence incest, parricide--crimes, in fine, the foulest and most enormous, were the early themes of the Grecian muse. Whether that delicacy, which precludes the modern bard from the choice of such impressive and dreadful themes, be favourable to the higher classes of poetic composition, may perhaps be questioned; but there can be little doubt, that the more important cause of virtue and morality is advanced by this exclusion. The knowledge, that enormities are not without precedent, may promote, and even suggest, them. Hence, the publication of the _Newgate Register_ has been prohibited by the wisdom of the legislature; having been found to encourage those very crimes, of which it recorded the punishment. Hence, too, the wise maxim of the Romans, _Facinora ostendi dum puniantur, flagitia autem abscondi debent_. The ballad has a high degree of poetical merit. THE BONNY HYND. COPIED FROM THE MOUTH OF A MILKMAID, IN 1771. * * * * * O May she comes, and May she goes, Down by yon gardens green; And there she spied a gallant squire, As squire had ever been. And May she comes, and May she goes, Down by yon hollin tree; And there she spied a brisk young squire, And a brisk young squire was he. "Give me your green manteel, fair maid; "Give me your maidenhead! "Gin ye winna give me your green manteel, "Give me your maidenhead!" * * * * * "Perhaps there may be bairns, kind sir; "Perhaps there may be nane; "But, if you be a courtier, "You'll tell me soon your name." "I am nae courtier, fair maid, "But new come frae the sea; "I am nae courtier, fair maid, "But when I court with thee. "They call me Jack, when I'm abroad; "Sometimes they call me John; "But, when I'm in my father's bower, "Jock Randal is my name." "Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny lad! "Sae loud's I hear you lee! "For I'm Lord Randal's ae daughter, "He has nae mair nor me." "Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny May! "Sae loud's I hear ye lee! "For I'm Lord Randal's ae ae son, "Just now come o'er the sea." She's putten her hand down by her gare, And out she's ta'en a knife; And she has put it in her heart's bleed, And ta'en away her life. And he has ta'en up his bonny sister, With the big tear in his e'en; And he has buried his bonny sister Amang the hollins green. And syne he's hyed him o'er the dale, His father dear to see-- "Sing, Oh! and Oh! for my bonny hind, "Beneath yon hollin tree!" "What needs you care for your bonny hind? "For it you needna care; "Take you the best, gi' me the warst, "Since plenty is to spare." "I carena for your hinds, my lord; "I carena for your fee; "But, Oh! and Oh! for my bonny hind, "Beneath the hollin tree!" "O were ye at your sister's bower, "Your sister fair to see, "You'll think nae mair o' your bonny hind, "Beneath the hollin tree." * * * * * O GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED ROSE. FROM MR HERD'S MS. * * * * * O gin my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysell a drap of dew, Down on that red rose I would fa'. O my love's bonny, bonny, bonny; My love's bonny and fair to see: Whene'er I look on her weel far'd face, She looks and smiles again to me. O gin my love were a pickle of wheat, And growing upon yon lily lee, And I mysell a bonny wee bird, Awa wi' that pickle o' wheat I wad flee. O my love's bonny, &c. O gin my love were a coffer o' gowd, And I the keeper of the key, I wad open the kist whene'er I list, And in that coffer I wad be. O my love's bonny, &c. O TELL ME HOW TO WOO THEE. * * * * * _The following verses are taken down from recitation, and are averred to be of the age of_ CHARLES I. _They have, indeed, much of the romantic expression of passion, common to the poets of that period, whose lays still reflected the setting beams of chivalry; but, since their publication in the first edition of this work, the Editor has been informed, that they were composed by the late Mr_ GRAHAM _of Gartmore._ * * * * * If doughty deeds my ladye please, Right soon I'll mount my steed; And strong his arm, and fast his seat, That bears frae me the meed. I'll wear thy colours in my cap, Thy picture in my heart; And he, that bends not to thine eye, Shall rue it to his smart. Then tell me how to woo thee, love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. If gay attire delight thine eye, I'll dight me in array; I'll tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day. If sweetest sounds can win thy ear, These sounds I'll strive to catch; Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, That voice that nane can match. Then tell me how to woo thee, love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo. O tell me how to woo thee, love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRK. * * * * * This little lyric piece, with those which immediately follow in the collection, relates to the fatal battle of Flodden, in which the flower of the Scottish nobility fell around their sovereign, James IV. The ancient and received tradition of the burgh of Selkirk affirms, that the citizens of that town distinguished themselves by their gallantry on that disastrous occasion. Eighty in number, and headed by their town-clerk, they joined their monarch on his entrance into England. James, pleased with the appearance of this gallant troop, knighted their leader, William Brydone, upon the field of battle, from which few of the men of Selkirk were destined to return. They distinguished themselves in the conflict, and were almost all slain. The few survivors, on their return home, found, by the side of Lady-Wood Edge, the corpse of a female, wife to one of their fallen comrades, with a child sucking at her breast. In memory of this latter event, continues the tradition, the present arms of the burgh bear, a female, holding a child in her arms, and seated on a sarcophagus, decorated with the Scottish lion; in the back-ground a wood. A learned antiquary, whose judgment and accuracy claim respect, has made some observations upon the probability of this tradition, which the editor shall take the liberty of quoting, as an introduction to what he has to offer upon the same subject. And, if he shall have the misfortune to differ from the learned gentleman, he will at least lay candidly before the public the grounds of his opinion. "That the souters of Selkirk should, in 1513, amount to fourscore fighting men, is a circumstance utterly incredible. It is scarcely to be supposed, that all the shoemakers in Scotland could have produced such an army, at a period when shoes must have been still less worn than they are at present. Dr Johnson, indeed, was told at Aberdeen, that the people learned the art of making shoes from Cromwell's soldiers.--'The numbers,' he adds, 'that go barefoot, are still sufficient to show that shoes may be spared: they are not yet considered as necessaries of life; for tall boys, not otherwise meanly dressed, run without them in the streets; and, in the islands, the sons of gentlemen pass several of their first years with naked feet.'--(_Journey to the Western Islands_, p. 55.) Away, then, with the fable of the souters of Selkirk. Mr Tytler, though he mentions it as the subject of a song, or ballad, 'does not remember ever to have seen the original genuine words,'--as he obligingly acknowledged in a letter to the editor. Mr Robertson, however, who gives the statistical account of the parish of Selkirk, seems to know something more of the matter--'Some,' says he, 'have _very falsely_ attributed to this event (the battle of Flowden), that song, 'Up wi' the souters of Selkirk, 'And down with the Earl of Hume.' "There was no Earl of Hume,' he adds, 'at that time, nor was this song composed till long after. It arose from a bet betwixt the Philiphaugh and Hume families; the souters (or shoemakers) of Selkirk, against the men of Hume, at a match of foot-ball, in which the souters of Selkirk completely gained, and afterwards perpetuated their victory in that song.'--This is decisive; and so much for Scottish tradition."--Note to _Historical Essay on Scotish Song_, prefixed to _Scotish Songs_ in 2 vols. 1794. It is proper to remark, that the passage of Mr Robertson's statistical account, above quoted, does not relate to the authenticity of the tradition, but to the origin of the song, which is obviously a separate and distinct question. The entire passage in the statistical account (of which a part only is quoted in the essay) runs thus: "Here, too, the inhabitants of the town of Selkirk, who breathed the manly spirit of real freedom, justly merit particular attention. Of one hundred citizens, who followed the fortunes of James IV. on the plains of Flowden, a few returned, loaded with the spoils taken from the enemy. Some of these trophies still survive the rust of time, and the effects of negligence. The desperate valour of the citizens of Selkirk, which, on that fatal day, was eminently conspicuous to both armies, produced very opposite effects. The implacable resentment of the English reduced their defenceless town to ashes; while their grateful sovereign (James V.) showed his sense of their valour, by a grant of an extensive portion of the forest, the trees for building their houses, and the property as the reward of their heroism."--A note is added by Mr Robertson.--"A standard, the appearance of which bespeaks its antiquity, is still carried annually (on the day of riding their common) by the corporation of weavers, by a member of which it was taken from the English in the field of Flowden. It may be added, that the sword of William Brydone, the town clerk, who led the citizens to the battle (and who is said to have been knighted for his valour), is still in the possession of John Brydon, a citizen of Selkirk, his lineal descendant."--An additional note contains the passage quoted in the _Essay on Scotish Song_. If the testimony of Mr Robertson is to be received as decisive of the question, the learned author of the essay will surely admit, upon re-perusal, that the passage in the statistical account contains the most positive and unequivocal declaration of his belief in the tradition. Neither does the story itself, upon close examination, contain any thing inconsistent with probability. The towns upon the border, and especially Selkirk and Jedburgh, were inhabited by a race of citizens, who, from the necessity of their situation, and from the nature of their possessions (held by burgage tenure), were inured to the use of arms. Selkirk was a county town, and a royal burgh; and when the array of the kingdom, amounting to no less than one hundred thousand warriors, was marshalled by the royal command, eighty men seems no unreasonable proportion from a place of consequence, lying so very near the scene of action. Neither is it necessary to suppose, literally, that the men of Selkirk were all _souters_. This appellation was obviously bestowed on them, because it was the trade most generally practised in the town, and therefore passed into a general epithet. Even the existence of such a craft, however, is accounted improbable by the learned essayist, who seems hardly to allow, that the Scottish nation was, at that period, acquainted with the art "of accommodating their feet with shoes." And here he attacks us with our own weapons, and wields the tradition of Aberdeen against that of Selkirk. We shall not stop to enquire, in what respect Cromwell's regiment of missionary cobblers deserves, in point of probability, to take precedence of the souters of Selkirk. But, allowing that all the shoemakers in England, with _Praise-the-Lord Barebones_ at their head, had generously combined to instruct the men of Aberdeen in the arts of psalmody and cobbling, it by no means bears upon the present question. If instruction was at all necessary, it must have been in teaching the natives how to make _shoes_, properly so called, in opposition to _brogues_: For there were cordiners in Aberdeen long before Cromwell's visit, and several fell in the battle of the bridge of Dee, as appears from Spalding's _History of the Troubles in Scotland_, Vol. II. p. 140. Now, the "single-soaled shoon," made by the souters of Selkirk, were a sort of brogues, with a single thin soal; the purchaser himself performing the further operation of sewing on another of thick leather. The rude and imperfect state of this manufacture sufficiently evinces the antiquity of the craft. Thus, the profession of the citizens of Selkirk, instead of invalidating, confirms the traditional account of their valour. The total devastation of this unfortunate burgh, after the fatal battle of Flodden, is ascertained by the charters under which the corporation hold their privileges. The first of these is granted by James V., and is dated 4th March, 1535-6. The narrative, or inductive clause of the deed, is in these words: "_Sciatis quia nos considerantes et intelligentes quod Carte Evidencie et litere veteris fundacionis et infeofamenti burgi nostri de Selkirk et libertatum ejusdem burgensibus et communitati ipsius per nobilissimos progenitores nostros quorum animabus propicietur Deus dat. et concess. per guerrarum assultus pestem combustionem et alias pro majore parte vastantur et distruuntur unde mercantiarum usus inter ipsos burgenses cessavit in eorum magnam lesionem ac reipublice et libertatis Burgi nostri antedict. destruccionem et prejudicium ac ingens nobis dampnum penes nostras Custumas et firmas burgales et eodem nobis debit. si subitumin eisdem remedium minime habitum fuerit NOS igitur pietati et justicia moti ac pro policia et edificiis infra regnum nostrum habend. de novo infeodamus_," &c. The charter proceeds, in common form, to erect anew the town of Selkirk into a royal burgh, with all the privileges annexed to such corporations. This mark of royal favour was confirmed by a second charter, executed by the same monarch, after he had attained the age of majority, and dated April 8, 1538. This deed of confirmation first narrates the charter, which has been already quoted, and then proceeds to mention other grants, which had been conferred upon the burgh, during the minority of James V., and which are thus expressed: "We for the gude trew and thankful service done and to be done to ws be owre lovittis the baillies burgesses and communite of our burgh of Selkirk and for certaine otheris reasonable causis and considerationis moving ws be the tennor hereof grantis and gevis license to thame and thair successors to ryfe out breke and teil yeirlie ane thousand[23] acres of thair common landis of our said burgh in what part thairof thea pleas for polecy strengthing and bigging of the samyn for the wele of ws and of liegis repairand thairto and defence againis owre auld innemyis of Ingland and other wayis and will and grantis that thai sall nocht be callit accusit nor incur ony danger or skaith thairthrow in thair personis landis nor gudis in ony wise in time cuming NOCHTWITHSTANDING ony owre actis or statutis maid or to be maid in the contrar in ony panys contenit tharein anent the quhilkis we dispens with thame be thir owre letters with power to them to occupy the saidis landis with thare awne gudis or to set theme to tenentis as thai sall think maist expedient for the wele of our said burgh with frei ische and entri and with all and sindry utheris commoditeis freedomes asiamentis and richtuis pertinentis whatsumever pertenyng or that rychtuisly may pertene thairto perpetually in tyme cuming frelie quietlie wele and in peace but ony revocatioun or agane calling whatsumever Gevin under owre signet and subscrivit with owre hand at Striveling the twenty day of Junii The yere of God ane thousand five hundreth and thretty six yeris and of our regne the twenti thre yere." Here follows another grant: "We UNDERSTANDING that owre burgh of Selkirk and inhabitants thairof CONTINUALIE SEN THE FIELD OF FLODOUNE hes been oppressiit heriit and owre runin be theves and traitors whairthrow the hant of merchandice has cessit amangis thame of langtyme bygane and thai heriit thairthrow and we defraudit of owre custumis and dewites THAIRFOR and for divers utheris resonable causis and considerationes moving us be the tenor heirof of our kinglie power fre motive and autorite ryall grantis and gevis to thame and thair successors ane fair day begynand at the feist of the Conception of owre Lady next to cum aftere the day of the date hereof and be the octavis of the sammyn perpetualy in time cuming To be usit and exercit be thame als frelie in time cuming as ony uther fair is usit or exercit be ony otheris owre burrowis within our realme payand yeirlie custumis and doweities aucht and wont as effeiris frelie quietlie wele and in pece but ony revocation obstakill impediment or agane calling whatsumever subscrivet with owre hand and gevin under owre Signet at KIRKCALDY the secund day of September The yere of God ane thousand five huudreth and threty sex yeris and of our regne the twenty three yeir." The charter of confirmation, in which all these deeds and letters of donation are engrossed, proceeds to ratify and confirm them in the most ample manner. The testing clause, as it is termed in law language, is in these words: "_In cujus rei Testimonium huic presente carte nostre confirmationis magnum sigillum nostrum apponi precepimus_ TESTIBUS _Reverendissimo reverendisque in Christo Patribus Gawino Archiepisco Glasguen. Cancellario nostro Georgio Episcopo Dunkelden. Henrico Episcopo Candide Case nostreque Capelle regie Strivilengen. dilectis nostris consanguineis Jacobo Moravie Comite &c. Archibaldo Comite de Ergile Domino Campbell et Lorne Magistro Hospicii nostri Hugone Comite de Eglinton Domino Montgomery Malcolmo Domino Flemyng magno Camerario nostro Venerabilibus in Christo Patribus Patricio Priore Ecclesie Metropolitane Sanctiandree Alexandro Abbate Monasterii nostri de Cambuskynneth dilectis familiaribus nostris Thoma Erskin de Brechin Secretario nostro Jocobo Colville de Estwemis compotorum nostrorum rotulatore et nostre cancellarie directore militibus et Magistro Jacobo Foulis de Colintoun nostrorum rotulorum Registri et Concilii clerico apud Edinburgh octavo die mensis Aprilis Anno Domini millesimo quingentesimo trigesimo octavo et regni nostri vicesimo quinto._" From these extracts, which are accurately copied from the original charters,[24] it may be safely concluded, 1st, that Selkirk was a place of importance before it was ruined by the English; and, 2d, "that the voice of merchants had ceased in her streets," in consequence of the fatal field of Flodden. But further, it seems reasonable to infer, that so many marks of royal favour, granted within so short a time of each other, evince the gratitude, as well as the compassion, of the monarch, and were intended to reward the valour, as well as to relieve the distress, of the men of Selkirk. Thus, every circumstance of the written evidence, as far as it goes, tallies with the oral tradition of the inhabitants; and, therefore, though the latter may be exaggerated, it surely cannot be dismissed as entirely void of foundation. That William Brydone actually enjoyed the honour of knighthood, is ascertained by many of the deeds, in which his name appears as a notary public. John Brydone, lineal descendant of the gallant town-clerk, is still alive, and possessed of the reliques mentioned by Mr Robertson. The old man, though in an inferior station of life, receives considerable attention from his fellow-citizens, and claims no small merit to himself on account of his brave ancestor. Thus far concerning the tradition of the exploits of the men of Selkirk, at Flodden field. Whether the following verses do, or do not, bear any allusion to that event, is a separate and less interesting question. The opinion of Mr Robertson, referring them to a different origin, has been already mentioned; but his authority, though highly respectable, is not absolutely decisive of the question. The late Mr Plummer, sheriff-depute of the county of Selkirk, a faithful and accurate antiquary, entertained a very opposite opinion. He has thus expressed himself, upon the subject, in the course of his literary correspondence with Mr Herd: "Of the Souters of Selkirk, I never heard any words but the following verse: 'Up with the Sutors of Selkirk, 'And down wi' the Earl of Home; 'And up wi' a' the bra' lads 'That sew the single-soled shoon.' "It is evident, that these words cannot be so ancient as to come near the time when the battle was fought; as Lord Home was not created an earl till near a century after that period. "Our clergyman, in the "Statistical Account," Vol. II. p. 48, note, says, that these words were composed upon a match at foot-ball, between the Philiphaugh and Home families. I was five years at school at Selkirk, have lived all my days within two miles of that town, and never once heard a tradition of this imaginary contest till I saw it in print. "Although the words are not very ancient, there is every reason to believe, that they allude to the battle of Flodden, and to the different behaviour of the souters, and Lord Home, upon that occasion. At election dinners, &c. when the Selkirk folks begin to get _fou'_, (merry) they always call for music, and for that tune in particular.[25] At such times I never heard a souter hint at the foot-ball, but many times speak of the battle of "Flodden."--_Letter from Mr Plummer to Mr Herd, 13th January, 1793._ The editor has taken every opportunity, which his situation[26] has afforded him, to obtain information on this point, and has been enabled to recover two additional verses of the song. The yellow and green, mentioned in the second verse, are the liveries of the house of Home. When the Lord Home came to attend the governor, Albany, his attendants were arrayed in Kendal-green.--GODSCROFT. THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRK. * * * * * Up wi' the Souters of Selkirk, And down wi' the Earl of Home; And up wi' a' the braw lads, That sew the single-soled shoon. Fye upon yellow and yellow, And fye upon yellow and green; But up with the true blue and scarlet, And up wi' the single-soled sheen. Up wi' the Souters of Selkirk, For they are baith trusty and leal; And up wi' the men of the Forest,[27] And down with the Merse[28] to the deil. NOTE ON THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRK. * * * * * It is unnecessary here to enter into a formal refutation of the popular calumny, which taxed Lord Home with being the murderer of his sovereign, and the cause of the defeat at Flodden. So far from exhibiting any marks of cowardice or disaffection, the division, headed by that unfortunate nobleman, was the only part of the Scottish army which was conducted with common prudence on that fatal day. This body formed the vanguard, and entirely routed the division of Sir Edmund Howard, to which they were opposed; but the reserve of the English cavalry rendered it impossible for Home, notwithstanding his success, to come to the aid of the king, who was irretrievably ruined by his own impetuosity of temper.--PINKERTON'S _History_, Vol II. p. 105. The escape of James from the field of battle, has been long deservedly ranked with that of King Sebastian, and similar _speciosa miracula_ with which the vulgar have been amused in all ages. Indeed, the Scottish nation were so very unwilling to admit any advantage on the English part, that they seem actually to have set up pretensions to the victory.[29] The same temper of mind led them eagerly to ascribe the loss of their monarch, and his army, to any cause, rather than to his own misconduct, and the superior military skill of the English. There can be no doubt, that James actually fell on the field of battle, the slaughter-place of his nobles.--_Pinkerton, ibid._ His dead body was interred in the monastery of Sheen, in Surrey; and Stowe mentions, with regard to it, the following degrading circumstances. "After the battle, the bodie of the said king, being found, was closed in lead, and conveyed from thence to London, and to the monasterie of Sheyne, in Surry, where it remained for a time, in what order I am not certaine; but, since the dissolution of that house, in the reigne of Edward VI., Henry Gray, Duke of Norfolke, being lodged, and keeping house there, I have been shewed the same bodie, so lapped in lead, close to the head and bodie, throwne into a waste room, amongst the old timber, lead, and other rubble. Since the which time, workmen there, for their foolish pleasure, hewed off his head; and Lancelot Young, master glazier to Queen Elizabeth, feeling a sweet savour to come from thence, and seeing the same dried from all moisture, and yet the form remaining, with haire of the head, and beard red, brought it to London, to his house in Wood-street, where, for a time, he kept it, for its sweetness, but, in the end, caused the sexton of that church (St Michael's, Wood-street) to bury it amongst other bones taken out of their charnell."--STOWE'S _Survey of London_, p. 539. FOOTNOTES: [23] It is probable that Mr Robertson had not seen this deed, when he wrote his statistical account of the parish of Selkirk; for it appears, that, instead of a grant of lands, the privilege granted to the community was a right of tilling one thousand acres of those which already belonged to the burgh. Hence it follows, that, previous to the field of Flodden, the town must have been possessed of a spacious domain, to which a thousand acres in tillage might bear a due proportion. This circumstance ascertains the antiquity and power of the burgh; for, had this large tract of land been granted during the minority of James V., the donation, to be effectual, must have been included in the charters of confirmation. [24] The charters are preserved in the records of the burgh. [25] A singular custom is observed at conferring the freedom of the burgh. Four or five bristles, such as are used by shoemakers, are attached to the seal of the burgess ticket. These the new-made burgess must dip in his wine, and pass through his mouth, in token of respect for the souters of Selkirk. This ceremony is on no account dispensed with. [26] That the editor succeeded Mr Plummer in his office of sheriff-depute, and has himself the honour to be a souter of Selkirk, may perhaps form the best apology for the length of this dissertation. [27] Selkirkshire, otherwise called Ettrick Forest. [28] Berwickshire, otherwise called the Merse. [29] "Against the proud Scottes' clattering, That never wyll leave their tratlying; Wan they the field and lost theyr kinge? They may well say, fie on that winning! Lo these fond sottes and tratlying Scottes, How they are blinde in theyr own minde, And will not know theyr overthrow. At Branxton moore they are so stowre, So frantike mad, they say they had, And wan the field with speare and shielde: That is as true as black is blue, &c. _Skelton Laureate against the Scottes._ THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. PART FIRST. * * * * * The following well known, and beautiful stanzas, were composed many years ago, by a lady of family, in Roxburghshire. The manner of the ancient minstrels is so happily imitated, that it required the most positive evidence to convince the editor that the song was of modern date. Such evidence, however, he has been able to procure; having been favoured, through the kind intervention of Dr Somerville (well known to the literary world, as the historian of King William, &c.), with the following authentic copy of the _Flowers of the Forest_. From the same respectable authority, the editor is enabled to state, that the tune of the ballad is ancient, as well as the two following lines of the first stanza: I've heard them lilting at the ewes milking, · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · The flowers of the forest are a' wede away. Some years after the song was composed, a lady, who is now dead, repeated to the author another imperfect line of the original ballad, which presents a simple and affecting image to the mind: "I ride single on my saddle, "For the flowers of the forest are a' wede away." The first of these trifling fragments, joined to the remembrance of the fatal battle of Flodden (in the calamities accompanying which, the inhabitants of Ettrick Forest suffered a distinguished share), and to the present solitary and desolate appearance of the country, excited, in the mind of the author, the ideas, which she has expressed in a strain of elegiac simplicity and tenderness, which has seldom been equalled. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. PART FIRST. * * * * * I've heard them lilting, at the ewe milking, Lasses a' lilting, before dawn of day; But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning; The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. At bughts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning; Lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae; Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing; Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her awae. In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jearing; Bandsters are runkled, and lyart or gray; At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching; The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 'Bout stacks, with the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her deary-- The flowers of the forest are weded awae. Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The flowers of the forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting, at the ewe milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae: Sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaning-- The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. The following explanation of provincial terms may be found useful. _Lilting_--Singing cheerfully. _Loaning_--A broad lane. _Wede awae_--Weeded out. _Scorning_--Rallying. _Dowie_--Dreary. _Daffing and gabbing_--Joking and chatting. _Leglin_--Milk-pail. _Har'st_--Harvest. _Shearing_--Reaping. _Bandsters_--Sheaf-binders. _Runkled_--Wrinkled. _Lyart_--Inclining to grey. _Fleeching_--Coaxing. _Gloaming_--Twilight. NOTE ON THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. * * * * * _At fair, or at preaching_, &c.--P. 127. v. 3. These lines have been said to contain an anachronism; the supposed date of the lamentation being about the period of the field of Flodden. The editor can see no ground for this charge. Fairs were held in Scotland from the most remote antiquity; and are, from their very nature, scenes of pleasure and gallantry. The preachings of the friars were, indeed, professedly, meetings for a graver purpose; but we have the authority of the _Wife of Bath_ (surely most unquestionable in such a point), that they were frequently perverted to places of rendezvous: I had the better leisur for to pleie, And for to see, and eke for to be seie Of lusty folk. What wist I where my grace Was shapen for to be, or in what place? Therefore I made my visitations To vigilies and to processions: _To preachings eke_, and to thise pilgrimages, To plays of miracles, and marriages, &c. _Canterbury Tales._ THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. PART SECOND. * * * * * The following verses, adapted to the ancient air of the _Flowers of the Forest_, are, like the elegy which precedes them, the production of a lady. The late Mrs Cockburn, daughter of Rutherford of Fairnalie, in Selkirkshire, and relict of Mr Cockburn of Ormiston (whose father was lord justice-clerk of Scotland), was the authoress. Mrs Cockburn has been dead but a few years. Even at an age, advanced beyond the usual bounds of humanity, she retained a play of imagination, and an activity of intellect, which must have been attractive and delightful in youth, but was almost preternatural at her period of life. Her active benevolence, keeping pace with her genius, rendered her equally an object of love and admiration. The editor, who knew her well, takes this opportunity of doing justice to his own feelings; and they are in unison with those of all who knew his regretted friend. The verses, which follow, were written at an early period of life, and without peculiar relation to any event, unless it were the depopulation of Ettrick Forest. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. PART SECOND. * * * * * I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling, I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay; Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, But soon it is fled--it is fled far away. I've seen the forest adorned of the foremost, With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay: Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air perfuming, But now they are wither'd, and a' wede awae. I've seen the morning, with gold the hills adorning, And the red storm roaring, before the parting day; I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the sunny beams, Turn drumly[30] and dark, as they rolled on their way. O fickle fortune! why this cruel sporting? Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day? Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me, Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. FOOTNOTES: [30] _Drumly_--Discoloured. THE LAIRD OF MUIRHEAD. * * * * * _This Ballad is a fragment from_ MR HERD'S _MS., communicated to him by_ J. GROSSETT MUIRHEAD, _at Breadesholm, near Glasgow; who stated, that he extracted it, as relating to his own Family, from the complete Song, in which the names of twenty or thirty gentlemen were mentioned, contained in a large Collection, belonging to_ MR ALEXANDER MONRO, _merchant in Lisbon, supposed now to be lost._ _It appears, from the Appendix to_ NESBIT'S _Heraldry,_ p. 264, _that_ MUIRHEAD _of Lachop and Bullis, the person here called the Laird of_ MUIRHEAD, _was a man of rank, being rentaller, or perhaps feuar, of many crown lands in Galloway; and was, in truth, slain_ "in Campo Belli de Northumberland sub vexillo Regis," _i.e. in the Field of Flodden._ * * * * * Afore the king in order stude The stout laird of Muirhead, Wi' that sam twa-hand muckle sword That Bartram felled stark deid. He sware he wadna lose his right To fight in ilka field; Nor budge him from his liege's sight, Till his last gasp should yield. Twa hunder mair, of his ain name, Frae Torwood and the Clyde, Sware they would never gang to hame, But a' die by his syde. And wond'rous weil they kept their troth; This sturdy royal band Rush'd down the brae, wi' sic a pith, That nane cou'd them withstand. Mony a bludey blow they delt, The like was never seen; And hadna that braw leader fallen, They ne'er had slain the king. ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN. BY J. LEYDEN. * * * * * Green Flodden! on thy blood-stained head Descend no rain nor vernal dew; But still, thou charnel of the dead, May whitening bones thy surface strew! Soon as I tread thy rush-clad vale, Wild fancy feels the clasping mail; The rancour of a thousand years Glows in my breast; again I burn To see the bannered pomp of war return, And mark, beneath the moon, the silver light of spears. Lo! bursting from their common tomb, The spirits of the ancient dead Dimly streak the parted gloom, With awful faces, ghastly red; As once, around their martial king, They closed the death-devoted ring, With dauntless hearts, unknown to yield; In slow procession round the pile Of heaving corses, moves each shadowy file, And chaunts, in solemn strain, the dirge of Flodden field. What youth, of graceful form and mien, Foremost leads the spectred brave, While o'er his mantle's folds of green His amber locks redundant wave? When slow returns the fated day, That viewed their chieftain's long array, Wild to the harp's deep, plaintive string, The virgins raise the funeral strain, From Ord's black mountain to the northern main, And mourn the emerald hue which paints the vest of spring. Alas! that Scottish maid should sing The combat where her lover fell! That Scottish bard should wake the string, The triumph of our foes to tell! Yet Teviot's sons, with high disdain, Have kindled at the thrilling strain That mourned their martial fathers' bier; And, at the sacred font, the priest, Through ages left the master-hand unblest, To urge, with keener aim, the blood-encrusted spear. Red Flodden! when thy plaintive strain, In early youth, rose soft and sweet, My life-blood, through each throbbing vein, With wild tumultuous passion beat. And oft, in fancied might, I trod The spear-strewn path to Fame's abode, Encircled with a sanguine flood; And thought I heard the mingling hum, When, croaking hoarse, the birds of carrion come Afar, on rustling wing, to feast on English blood. Rude border chiefs, of mighty name, And iron soul; who sternly tore The blossoms from the tree of fame, And purpled deep their tints with gore, Rush from brown ruins, scarred with age, That frown o'er haunted Hermitage; Where, long by spells mysterious bound, They pace their round, with lifeless smile, And shake, with restless foot, the guilty pile, Till sink the mouldering towers beneath the burdened ground. Shades of the dead! on Alfer's plain, Who scorned with backward step to move, But, struggling mid the hills of slain, Against the sacred standard strove; Amid the lanes of war I trace Each broad claymore and ponderous mace: Where'er the surge of arms is tost, Your glittering spears, in close array, Sweep, like the spider's filmy web, away The flower of Norman pride, and England's victor host. But distant fleets each warrior ghost, With surly sounds, that murmur far; Such sounds were heard when Syria's host Roll'd from the walls of proud Samàr Around my solitary head Gleam the blue lightnings of the dead, While murmur low the shadowy band-- "Lament no more the warrior's doom! Blood, blood alone, should dew the hero's tomb, Who falls, 'mid circling spears, to save his native land." NOTES ON THE ODE TO FLODDEN. * * * * * _And mourn the emerald hue which paints the vest of spring._ P. 137. v. 2. Under the vigorous administration of James IV. the young Earl of Caithness incurred the penalty of outlawry and forfeiture, for revenging an ancient feud. On the evening preceding the battle of Flodden, accompanied by 300 young warriors, arrayed in green, he presented himself before the king, and submitted to his mercy. This mark of attachment was so agreeable to that warlike prince, that he granted an immunity to the Earl and all his followers. The parchment, on which this immunity was inscribed, is said to be still preserved in the archives of the earls of Caithness, and is marked with the drum-strings, having been cut out of a drum-head, as no other parchment could be found in the army. The Earl, and his gallant band, perished to a man in the battle of Flodden; since which period, it has been reckoned unlucky in Caithness _to wear green_, or _cross the Ord on a Monday_, the day of the week on which the chieftain advanced into Sutherland. _Through ages left the master-hand unblest_, &c.--P. 138. v. 1. In the border counties of Scotland, it was formerly customary, when any rancorous enmity subsisted between two clans, to leave the right hand of male children unchristened, that it might deal the more deadly, or, according to the popular phrase, "unhallowed" blows, to their enemies. By this superstitious rite, they were devoted to bear the family feud, or enmity. The same practice subsisted in Ireland, as appears from the following passage in _Campion's History of Ireland_, published in 1633. "In some corners of the land they used a damnable superstition, leaving the right armes of their infants, males, unchristened (as they termed it), to the end it might give a more ungracious and deadly blow." P. 15. _Till sink the mouldering towers beneath the burdened ground._ P. 139. v. 1. Popular superstition in Scotland still retains so formidable an idea of the _guilt of blood_, that those ancient edifices, or castles, where enormous crimes have been committed, are supposed to sink gradually into the ground. With regard to the castle of Hermitage, in particular, the common people believe, that thirty feet of the walls sunk, thirty feet fell, and thirty feet remain standing. _Against the sacred standard strove_, &c.--P. 139. v. 2. The fatal battle of the standard was fought on Cowton Moor, near Northallerton (A.S. Ealfertun), in Yorkshire, 1138. David I. commanded the Scottish army. He was opposed by Thurston, archbishop of York, who, to animate his followers, had recourse to the impressions of religious enthusiasm. The mast of a ship was fitted into the perch of a four-wheeled carriage; on its top was placed a little casket, containing a consecrated host. It also contained the banner of St Cuthbert, round which were displayed those of St Peter of York, St John of Beverly, and St Wilfred of Rippon. This was the English standard, and was stationed in the centre of the army. Prince Henry, son of David, at the head of the men of arms, chiefly from Cumberland and Teviotdale, charged, broke, and completely dispersed, the centre; but unfortunately was not supported by the other divisions of the Scottish army. The expression of Aldred (p. 345), describing this encounter, is more spirited than the general tenor of monkish historians;--"_Ipsa globi australis parte, instar cassis araneæ dissipata_"--that division of the phalanx was dispersed like a cobweb. MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. PART THIRD. * * * * * _IMITATIONS_ OF THE ANCIENT BALLAD. CHRISTIE'S WILL. * * * * * In the reign of Charles I., when the moss-trooping practices were not entirely discontinued, the tower of Gilnockie, in the parish of Cannoby, was occupied by William Armstrong, called, for distinction's sake, _Christie's Will_, a lineal descendant of the famous John Armstrong, of Gilnockie, executed by James V.[31] The hereditary love of plunder had descended to this person with the family mansion; and, upon some marauding party, he was seized, and imprisoned in the tolbooth of Jedburgh. The Earl of Traquair, lord high treasurer, happening to visit Jedburgh, and knowing Christie's Will, enquired the cause of his confinement. Will replied, he was imprisoned for stealing two _tethers_ (halters); but, upon being more closely interrogated, acknowledged, there were two _delicate colts_ at the end of them. The joke, such as it was, amused the Earl, who exerted his interest, and succeeded in releasing Christie's Will from bondage. Some time afterwards, a law-suit, of importance to Lord Traquair, was to be decided in the Court of Session; and there was every reason to believe, that the judgment would turn upon the voice of the presiding judge, who has a casting vote, in case of an equal division among his brethren. The opinion of the president was unfavourable to Lord Traquair; and the point was, therefore, to keep him out of the way, when the question should be tried. In this dilemma, the Earl had recourse to Christie's Will; who, at once, offered his service, to kidnap the president. Upon due scrutiny, he found it was the judge's practice frequently to take the air, on horseback, on the sands of Leith, without an attendant. In one of these excursions, Christie's Will, who had long watched his opportunity, ventured to accost the president, and engage him in conversation. His address and language were so amusing, that he decoyed the president into an unfrequented and furzy common, called the Frigate Whins, where, riding suddenly up to him, he pulled him from his horse, muffled him in a large cloak, which he had provided, and rode off, with the luckless judge trussed up behind him. Will crossed the country with great expedition, by paths, only known to persons of his description, and deposited his weary and terrified burden in an old castle, in Annandale, called the Tower of Graham.[32] The judge's horse being found, it was concluded he had thrown his rider into the sea; his friends went into mourning, and a successor was appointed to his office. Meanwhile, the poor president spent a heavy time in the vault of the castle. He was imprisoned, and solitary; receiving his food through an aperture in the wall, and never hearing the sound of a human voice, save when a shepherd called his dog, by the name of _Batty_, and when a female domestic called upon _Maudge_, the cat. These, he concluded, were invocations of spirits; for he held himself to be in the dungeon of a sorcerer. At length, after three months had elapsed, the law-suit was decided in favour of Lord Traquair; and Will was directed to set the president at liberty. Accordingly, he entered the vault, at dead of night, seized the president, muffled him once more in the cloak, without speaking a single word, and, using the same mode of transportation, conveyed him to Leith sands, and set down the astonished judge on the very spot where he had taken him up. The joy of his friends, and the less agreeable surprise of his successor, may be easily conceived, when he appeared in court, to reclaim his office and honours. All embraced his own persuasion, that he had been spirited away by witchcraft; nor could he himself be convinced of the contrary, until, many years afterwards, happening to travel in Annandale, his ears were saluted, once more, with the sounds of _Maudge_ and _Batty_--the only notes which had solaced his long confinement. This led to a discovery of the whole story; but, in these disorderly times, it was only laughed at, as a fair _ruse de guerre_. Wild and strange as this tradition may seem, there is little doubt of its foundation in fact. The judge, upon whose person this extraordinary stratagem was practised, was Sir Alexander Gibson, Lord Durie, collector of the reports, well known in the Scottish law, under the title of _Durie's Decisions_. He was advanced to the station of an ordinary lord of session, 10th July, 1621, and died, at his own house of Durie, July 1646. Betwixt these periods his whimsical adventure must have happened; a date which corresponds with that of the tradition. "We may frame," says Forbes, "a rational conjecture of his great learning and parts, not only from his collection of the decisions of the session, from July 1621 till July 1642, but also from the following circumstances: 1. In a tract of more as twenty years, he was frequently chosen vice-president, and no other lord in that time. 2. 'Tis commonly reported, that some party, in a considerable action before the session, finding, that the Lord Durie could not be persuaded to think his plea good, fell upon a stratagem to prevent the influence and weight, which his lordship might have to his prejudice, by causing some strong masked men kidnap him, in the links of Leith, at his diversion on a Saturday afternoon, and transport him to some blind and obscure room in the country, where he was detained captive, without the benefit of day-light, a matter of three months (though otherways civilly and well entertained); during which time his lady and children went in mourning for him, as dead. But, after the cause aforesaid was decided, the Lord Durie was carried back by incognitos, and dropt in the same place where he had been taken up."--FORBES'S _Journal of the Session_, Edin. 1714. _Preface_, p. 28. Tradition ascribes to Christie's Will another memorable feat, which seems worthy of being recorded. It is well known, that, during the troubles of Charles I., the Earl of Traquair continued unalterably fixed in his attachment to his unfortunate master, in whose service he hazarded his person, and impoverished his estate. It was of consequence, it is said, to the king's service, that a certain packet, containing papers of importance, should be transmitted to him from Scotland. But the task was a difficult one, as the parliamentary leaders used their utmost endeavours to prevent any communication betwixt the king and his Scottish friends. Traquair, in this strait, again had recourse to the services of Christie's Will; who undertook the commission, conveyed the papers safely to his majesty, and received an answer, to be delivered to Lord Traquair. But, in the mean time, his embassy had taken air, and Cromwell had dispatched orders to intercept him at Carlisle. Christie's Will, unconscious of his danger, halted in the town to refresh his horse, and then pursued his journey. But, as soon as he began to pass the long, high, and narrow bridge, which crosses the Eden at Carlisle, either end of the pass was occupied by a party of parliamentary soldiers, who were lying in wait for him. The borderer disdained to resign his enterprise, even in these desperate circumstances; and at once forming his resolution, spurred his horse over the parapet. The river was in high flood. Will sunk--the soldiers shouted--he emerged again, and, guiding his horse to a steep bank, called the Stanners, or Stanhouse, endeavoured to land, but ineffectually, owing to his heavy horseman's cloak, now drenched in water. Will cut the loop, and the horse, feeling himself disembarrassed, made a desperate exertion, and succeeded in gaining the bank. Our hero set off, at full speed, pursued by the troopers, who had for a time stood motionless, in astonishment at his temerity. Will, however, was well mounted; and, having got the start, he kept it, menacing, with his pistols, any pursuer, who seemed likely to gain on him--an artifice which succeeded, although the arms were wet and useless. He was chaced to the river Eske, which he swam without hesitation; and, finding himself on Scottish ground, and in the neighbourhood of friends, he turned on the northern bank, and, in the true spirit of a border rider, invited his followers to come through, and drink with him. After this taunt, he proceeded on his journey, and faithfully accomplished his mission. Such were the exploits of the very last border freebooter of any note. The reader is not to regard the ballad as of genuine and unmixed antiquity, though some stanzas are current upon the border, in a corrupted state. They have been eked and joined together, in the rude and ludicrous manner of the original; but as it is to be considered as a modern ballad, it is transferred to this department of the work. CHRISTIE'S WILL. * * * * * Traquair has ridden up Chapelhope, And sae has he down by the Gray Mare's Tail;[33] He never stinted the light gallop, Untill he speer'd for Christie's Will. Now Christie's Will peep'd frae the tower, And out at the shot-hole keeked he; "And ever unlucky," quo' he, "is the hour, "That the warden comes to speer for me!" "Good Christie's Will, now, have na fear! "Nae harm, good Will, shall hap to thee: "I saved thy life at the Jeddart air, "At the Jeddart air frae the justice tree. "Bethink how ye sware, by the salt and the bread,[34] "By the lightning, the wind, and the rain, "That if ever of Christie's Will I had need, "He would pay me my service again." "Gramercy, my lord," quo' Christie's Will, "Gramercy, my lord, for your grace to me! "When I turn my cheek, and claw my neck, "I think of Traquair, and the Jeddart tree." And he has opened the fair tower yate, To Traquair and a' his companie; The spule o' the deer on the board he has set, The fattest that ran on the Hutton Lee. "Now, wherefore sit ye sad, my lord? "And wherefore sit ye mournfullie? "And why eat ye not of the venison I shot, "At the dead of night, on Hutton Lee?" "O weel may I stint of feast and sport, "And in my mind be vexed sair! "A vote of the canker'd Session Court, "Of land and living will make me bair. "But if auld Durie to heaven were flown, "Or if auld Durie to hell were gane, "Or ... if he could be but ten days stown.... "My bonny braid lands would still be my ain." "O mony a time, my lord," he said, "I've stown the horse frae the sleeping loun; "But for you I'll steal a beast as braid, "For I'll steal Lord Durie frae Edinburgh town. "O mony a time, my lord," he said, "I've stown a kiss frae a sleeping wench; "But for you I'll do as kittle a deed, "For I'll steal an auld lurdane aff the bench." And Christie's Will is to Edinburgh gane; At the Borough Muir then entered he; And as he pass'd the gallow-stane, He cross'd his brow, and he bent his knee. He lighted at Lord Durie's door, And there he knocked most manfullie; And up and spake Lord Durie, sae stoor, "What tidings, thou stalward groom, to me?" "The fairest lady in Teviotdale, "Has sent, maist reverent Sir, for thee; "She pleas at the session for her land, a' haill, "And fain she wad plead her cause to thee." "But how can I to that lady ride, "With saving of my dignitie?" "O a curch and mantle ye may wear, "And in my cloak ye sall muffled be." Wi' curch on head, and cloak ower face, He mounted the judge on a palfrey fyne; He rode away, a right round pace, And Christie's Will held the bridle reyn. The Lothian Edge they were not o'er, When they heard bugles bauldly ring, And, hunting over Middleton Moor, They met, I ween, our noble king. When Willie look'd upon our king, I wot a frightened man was he! But ever auld Durie was startled more, For tyning of his dignitie. The king he cross'd himself, I wis, When as the pair came riding bye-- "An uglier crone, and a sturdier lown, "I think, were never seen with eye!" Willie has hied to the tower of Græme, He took auld Durie on his back, He shot him down to the dungeon deep, Which garr'd his auld banes gie mony a crack. For nineteen days, and nineteen nights, Of sun, or moon, or midnight stern, Auld Durie never saw a blink, The lodging was sae dark and dern. He thought the warlocks o' the rosy cross Had fang'd him in their nets sae fast; Or that the gypsies' glamour'd gang, Had lair'd[35] his learning at the last. "Hey! Batty, lad! far yaud! far yaud!"[36] These were the morning sounds heard he; And "ever alack!" auld Durie cried, "The deil is hounding his tykes on me!" And whiles a voice on _Baudrons_ cried, With sound uncouth, and sharp, and hie; "I have tar-barrell'd mony a witch, "But now, I think, they'll clear scores wi' me!" The king has caused a bill be wrote, And he has set it on the Tron,-- "He that will bring Lord Durie back, "Shall have five hundred merks and one." Traquair has written a braid letter, And he has seal'd it wi' his seal,-- "Ye may let the auld brock[37] out o' the poke; "The land's my ain, and a's gane weel." O Will has mounted his bonny black, And to the tower of Græme did trudge, And once again, on his sturdy back, Has he hente up the weary judge. He brought him to the council stairs, And there full loudly shouted he, "Gie me my guerdon, my sovereign liege, "And take ye back your auld Durie!" NOTES ON CHRISTIE'S WILL. * * * * * _He thought the warlocks o' the rosy cross._--P. 158. v. 4. "As for the rencounter betwixt Mr Williamson, schoolmaster at Cowper (who has wrote a grammar), and the Rosicrucians, I never trusted it, till I heard it from his own son, who is present minister of Kirkaldy. He tells, that a stranger came to Cowper, and called for him: after they had drank a little, and the reckoning came to be paid, he whistled for spirits; one, in the shape of a boy, came, and gave him gold in abundance; no servant was seen riding with him to the town, nor enter with him into the inn. He caused his spirits, against next day, bring him noble Greek wine, from the Pope's cellar, and tell the freshest news then at Rome; then trysted Mr Williamson at London, who met the same man, in a coach, near to London bridge, and who called on him by his name; he marvelled to see any know him there; at last he found it was his Rosicrucian. He pointed to a tavern, and desired Mr Williamson to do him the favour to dine with him at that house; whither he came at twelve o'clock, and found him, and many others of good fashion there, and a most splendid and magnificent table, furnished with all the varieties of delicate meats, where they are all served by spirits. At dinner, they debated upon the excellency of being attended by spirits; and, after dinner, they proposed to him to assume him into their society, and make him participant of their happy life; but, among the other conditions and qualifications requisite, this was one, that they demanded his abstracting his spirit from all materiality, and renouncing his baptismal engagements. Being amazed at this proposal, he falls a praying; whereat they all disappear, and leave him alone. Then he began to forethink what would become of him, if he were left to pay that vast reckoning; not having as much on him as would defray it. He calls the boy, and asks, what was become of these gentlemen, and what was to pay? He answered, there was nothing to pay, for they had done it, and were gone about their affairs in the city."--FOUNTAINHALL's _Decisions_, Vol. I. p. 15. With great deference to the learned reporter, this story has all the appearance of a joke upon the poor schoolmaster, calculated at once to operate upon his credulity, and upon his fears of being left in pawn for the reckoning. _Or that the gypsies' glamour'd gang, &c._--P. 158. v. 4. Besides the prophetic powers, ascribed to the gypsies in most European countries, the Scottish peasants believe them possessed of the power of throwing upon by-standers a spell, to fascinate their eyes, and cause them to see the thing that is not. Thus, in the old ballad of Johnie Faa, the elopement of the countess of Cassillis, with a gypsey leader, is imputed to fascination: As sune as they saw her weel-far'd face, They cast the _glamour_ ower her. Saxo Grammaticus mentions a particular sect of _Mathematicians_, as he is pleased to call them, who "_per summam ludificandorum oculorum peritiam, proprios alienosque vultus, variis rerum imaginibus, adumbrare callebant; illicibusque formis veros obscurare conspectus_." Merlin, the son of Ambrose, was particularly skilled in this art, and displays it often in the old metrical romance of _Arthour and Merlin_: Tho' thai com the kinges neighe Merlin hef his heued on heighe And kest on hem enchauntement That he hem alle allmest blent That non other sen no might A gret while y you plight &c. The _jongleurs_ were also great professors of this mystery, which has in some degree descended, with their name, on the modern jugglers. But durst Breslaw, the Sieur Boaz, or Katterfelto himself, have encountered, in magical slight, the _tregetoures_ of father Chaucer, who ---- within a hall large Have made come in a water and a barge, And in the halle rowen up and down; Somtime hath semed come a grim leoun, And somtime flowres spring as in a mede; Somtime a vine and grapes white and rede, Somtime a castel al of lime and ston; And when hem liketh voideth it anon. Thus seemeth it to every mannes sight.-- _Frankeleene's Tale._ And, again, the prodigies exhibited by the clerk of Orleans to Aurelius:-- He shewd him or they went to soupere Forestes, parkes, ful of wilde dere; Ther saw he hartes with hir hornes hie, The gretest that were ever seen with eie: He saw of hem an hundred slain with houndes, And some with arwes blede of bitter woundes: He saw, when voided were the wilde dere, Thise fauconers upon a fair rivere, That with hir haukes han the heron slain: Tho saw he knightes justen on a plain; And after this he did him swiche plesance, That he him shewd his lady on a dance, On which himselven danced, as him thought: And whan this maister that this magike wrought, Saw it was time, he clapt his handes two, And farewell! all the revel is ago. And yet remued they never out of the house, While they saw all thise sights merveillous: But in his studie ther his bookes be, They saten still and no wight but this three. _Ibidem._ Our modern professors of the _magic natural_ would likewise have been sorely put down by the _Jogulours_ and _Enchantours_ of the _Grete Chan_; "for they maken to come in the air the sone and the mone, beseminge to every mannes sight; and aftre, they maken the nyght so dirke, that no man may se no thing; and aftre, they maken the day to come agen, fair and plesant, with bright sone to every mannes sight; and than, they bringin in daunces of the fairest damyselles of the world, and richest arrayed; and after, they maken to comen in other damyselles, bringing coupes of gold, fulle of mylke of diverse bestes; and geven drinke to lordes and to ladyes; and than they maken knyghtes to justen in arms fulle lustyly; and they rennen togidre a gret randoun, and they frusschen togidere full fiercely, and they broken her speres so rudely, that the trenchouns flen in sprotis and pieces alle aboute the halle; and than they make to come in hunting for the hert and for the boor, with houndes renning with open mouthe: and many other things they dow of her enchauntements, that it is marveyle for to se."--_Sir_ JOHN MANDEVILLE's _Travels_, p. 285. I question much, also, if the most artful _illuminatus_ of Germany could have matched the prodigies exhibited by Pacolet and Adramain. "_Adonc Adramain leva une cappe par dessus une pillier, et en telle sort, qu'il sembla a ceux qui furent presens, que parmi la place couroit, une riviere fort grande et terrible. Et en icelle riviere sembloit avoir poissons en grand abondance, grands et petits. Et quand ceux de palaís virent l'eau si grande, ils commencerent tous a lever leur robes et a crier fort, comme sils eussent eu peur d'estre noye; et Pacolet, qui l'enchantement regarda, commenca a chanter, et fit un sort si subtil en son chant qui sembla a tous ceux de lieu que parmy la riviere couroit un cerf grand et cornu, qui jettoit et abbatoit a terre tout ce que devant lui trouvoit, puis leur fut advis que voyoyent chasseurs et veneurs courir apris le Cerf, avec grande puissance de levriers et des chiens. Lors y eut plusieurs de la compagnie qui saillirent au devant pour le Cerf attraper et cuyder prendre; mais Pacolet fist tost le Cerf sailler. "Bien avez joué," dit Orson, "et bien scavez vostre art user."_--L'Histoire des Valentin et Orson, a Rouen, 1631. The receipt, to prevent the operation of these deceptions, was, to use a sprig of four-leaved clover. I remember to have heard (certainly very long ago, for, at the time, I believed the legend), that a gypsey exercised his _glamour_ over a number of people at Haddington, to whom he exhibited a common dung-hill cock, trailing, what appeared to the spectators, a massy oaken trunk. An old man passed with a cart of clover; he stopped, and picked out a four-leaved blade; the eyes of the spectators were opened, and the oaken trunk appeared to be a bulrush. _I have tar-barrell'd mony a witch._--P. 159. v. 1. Human nature shrinks from the brutal scenes, produced by the belief in witchcraft. Under the idea, that the devil imprinted upon the body of his miserable vassals a mark, which was insensible to pain, persons were employed to run needles into the bodies of the old women who were suspected of witchcraft. In the dawning of common sense upon this subject, a complaint was made before the Privy Council of Scotland, 11th September, 1678, by Catherine Liddell, a poor woman, against the baron-bailie of Preston-Grange, and David Cowan (a professed pricker), for having imprisoned, and most cruelly tortured her. They answered, 1st, She was searched by her own consent, _et volenti non fit injuria_; 2d, The pricker had learned his trade from Kincaid, a famed pricker; 3d, He never acted, but when called upon by magistrates or clergymen, so what he did was _auctore prætore_; 4th, His trade was lawful; 5th, Perkins, Delrio, and all divines and lawyers, who treat of witchcraft, assert the existence of the marks, or _stigmata sagarum_; and, 6thly, Were it otherwise, _Error communis facit jus_.--Answered, 1st, Denies consent; 2d, Nobody can validly consent to their own torture; for, _Nemo est dominus membrorum suorum_; 3d, The pricker was a common cheat. The last arguments prevailed; and it was found, that inferior judges "might not use any torture, by pricking, or by with-holding them from sleep;" the council reserving all that to themselves, the justices, and those acting by commission from them. But Lord Durie, a lord of session, could have no share in these inflictions. FOOTNOTES: [31] For his pedigree, the reader may consult the Appendix to the ballad of Johnie Armstrong, Vol. I. [32] It stands upon the water of Dryfe, not far from Moffat. [33] _Gray Mare's Tail_--A cataract above Moffat, so called. [34] "He took bread and salt by this light, that he would never open his lips." _The Honest Whore_, act 5, scene 12. [35] _Lair'd_--Bogged. [36] _Far yaud._ The signal made by a shepherd to his dog, when he is to drive away some sheep at a distance. From Yoden, to go. _Ang. Sax._ [37] _Brock_--Badger. THOMAS THE RHYMER. IN THREE PARTS. * * * * * PART FIRST.--ANCIENT. Few personages are so renowned in tradition as Thomas of Erceldoune, known by the appellation of _The Rhymer_. Uniting, or supposed to unite, in his person, the powers of poetical composition, and of vaticination, his memory, even after the lapse of five hundred years, is regarded with veneration by his countrymen. To give any thing like a certain history of this remarkable man, would be indeed difficult; but the curious may derive some satisfaction from the particulars here brought together. It is agreed, on all hands, that the residence, and probably the birth-place, of this ancient bard, was Erceldoune, a village situated upon the Leader, two miles above its junction with the Tweed. The ruins of an ancient tower are still pointed out as the Rhymer's castle. The uniform tradition bears, that his sirname was Lermont, or Learmont; and that the appellation of _The Rhymer_ was conferred on him in consequence of his poetical compositions. There remains, nevertheless, some doubt upon this subject. In a charter, which is subjoined at length,[38] the son of our poet designs himself "Thomas of Ercildoun, son and heir of Thomas Rymour of Ercildoun," which seems to imply, that the father did not bear the hereditary name of Learmont; or, at least, was better known and distinguished by the epithet, which he had acquired by his personal accomplishments. I must, however, remark, that, down to a very late period, the practice of distinguishing the parties, even in formal writings, by the epithets which had been bestowed on them from personal circumstances, instead of the proper sirnames of their families, was common, and indeed necessary, among the border clans. So early as the end of the thirteenth century, when sirnames were hardly introduced in Scotland, this custom must have been universal. There is, therefore, nothing inconsistent in supposing our poet's name to have been actually Learmont, although, in this charter, he is distinguished by the popular appellation of _The Rhymer_. We are better able to ascertain the period at which Thomas of Ercildoune lived, being the latter end of the thirteenth century. I am inclined to place his death a little farther back than Mr Pinkerton, who supposes that he was alive in 1300 (_List of Scottish Poets_); which is hardly, I think, consistent with the charter already quoted, by which his son, in 1299, for himself and his heirs, conveys to the convent of the Trinity of Soltre, the tenement which he possessed by inheritance (_hereditarie_) in Ercildoun, with all claim which he, or his predecessors, could pretend thereto. From this we may infer, that the Rhymer was now dead; since we find his son disposing of the family property. Still, however, the argument of the learned historian will remain unimpeached, as to the time of the poet's birth. For if, as we learn from Barbour, his prophecies were held in reputation[39] as early as 1306, when Bruce slew the Red Cummin, the sanctity, and (let me add to Mr Pinkerton's words) the uncertainty of antiquity, must have already involved his character and writings. In a charter of Peter de Haga de Bemersyde, which unfortunately wants a date, the Rhymer, a near neighbour, and, if we may trust tradition, a friend of the family, appears as a witness.--_Cartulary of Melrose._ It cannot be doubted, that Thomas of Ercildoun was a remarkable and important person in his own time, since, very shortly after his death, we find him celebrated as a prophet, and as a poet. Whether he himself made any pretensions to the first of these characters, or whether it was gratuitously conferred upon him by the credulity of posterity, it seems difficult to decide. If we may believe Mackenzie, Learmont only versified the prophecies delivered by Eliza, an inspired nun, of a convent at Haddington. But of this there seems not to be the most distant proof. On the contrary, all ancient authors, who quote the Rhymer's prophecies, uniformly suppose them to have been emitted by himself. Thus, in Wintown's _Chronicle_, Of this fycht quilum spak Thomas Of Ersyldoune, that sayd in Derne, Thare suld meit stalwartly, starke and sterne. He sayd it in his prophecy; But how he wist it was _ferly_. _Book_ VIII. _chap._ 32. There could have been no _ferly_ (marvel) in Wintown's eyes, at least, how Thomas came by his knowledge of future events, had he ever heard of the inspired nun of Haddington; which, it cannot be doubted, would have been a solution of the mystery, much to the taste of the prior of Lochleven.[40] Whatever doubts, however, the learned might have, as to the source of the Rhymer's prophetic skill, the vulgar had no hesitation to ascribe the whole to the intercourse between the bard and the queen of Faëry. The popular tale bears, that Thomas was carried off, at an early age, to the Fairy Land, where he acquired all the knowledge, which made him afterwards so famous. After seven years residence, he was permitted to return to the earth, to enlighten and astonish his countrymen by his prophetic powers; still, however, remaining bound to return to his royal mistress, when she should intimate her pleasure.[41] Accordingly, while Thomas was making merry with his friends, in the tower of Ercildoun, a person came running in, and told, with marks of fear and astonishment, that a hart and hind had left the neighbouring forest, and were, composedly and slowly, parading the street of the village.[42] The prophet instantly arose, left his habitation, and followed the wonderful animals to the forest, whence he was never seen to return. According to the popular belief, he still "drees his weird" in Fairy Land, and is one day expected to revisit earth. In the meanwhile, his memory is held in the most profound respect. The Eildon Tree, from beneath the shade of which he delivered his prophecies, now no longer exists; but the spot is marked by a large stone, called Eildon Tree Stone. A neighbouring rivulet takes the name of the Bogle Burn (Goblin Brook) from the Rhymer's supernatural visitants. The veneration paid to his dwelling place, even attached itself in some degree to a person, who, within the memory of man, chose to set up his residence in the ruins of Learmont's tower. The name of this man was Murray, a kind of herbalist; who, by dint of some knowledge in simples, the possession of a musical clock, an electrical machine, and a stuffed aligator, added to a supposed communication with Thomas the Rhymer, lived for many years in very good credit as a wizard. It seemed to the editor unpardonable to dismiss a person, so important in border tradition as the Rhymer, without some farther notice than a simple commentary upon the following ballad. It is given from a copy, obtained from a lady, residing not far from Ercildoun, corrected and enlarged by one in Mrs Brown's MSS. The former copy, however, as might be expected, is far more minute as to local description. To this old tale the editor has ventured to add a Second Part, consisting of a kind of Cento, from the printed prophecies vulgarly ascribed to the Rhymer; and a Third Part, entirely modern, founded upon the tradition of his having returned with the hart and hind, to the land of Faërie. To make his peace with the more severe antiquaries, the editor has prefixed to the second part some remarks on Learmont's prophecies. THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART FIRST. ANCIENT. * * * * * True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e; And there he saw a ladye bright, Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, Her mantle o' the velvet fyne; At ilka tett of her horse's mane, Hang fifty siller bells and nine. True Thomas, he pull'd aff his cap, And louted low down to his knee, "All hail, thou mighty queen of heav'n! "For thy peer on earth I never did see." "O no, O no, Thomas," she said; "That name does not belang to me; "I am but the queen of fair Elfland, "That am hither come to visit thee. "Harp and carp, Thomas," she said; "Harp and carp along wi' me; "And if ye dare to kiss my lips, "Sure of your bodie I will be." "Betide me weal, betide me woe, "That weird[43] shall never danton me." Syne he has kissed her rosy lips, All underneath the Eildon Tree. "Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said; "True Thomas ye maun go wi' me; "And ye maun serve me seven years, "Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be." She mounted on her milk-white steed; She's ta'en true Thomas up behind; And aye, whene'er her bridle rung, The steed flew swifter than the wind. O they rade on, and farther on; The steed gaed swifter than the wind; Until they reached a desart wide, And living land was left behind. "Light down, light down, now, true Thomas, "And lean your head upon my knee: "Abide and rest a little space, "And I will shew you ferlies three. "O see ye not yon narrow road, "So thick beset with thorns and briers? "That is the path of righteousness, "Though after it but few enquires. "And see not ye that braid braid road, "That lies across that lily leven? "That is the path of wickedness, "Though some call it the road to heaven. "And see not ye that bonny road, "That winds about the fernie brae? "That is the road to fair Elfland, "Where thou and I this night maun gae. "But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, "Whatever ye may hear or see; "For, if you speak word in Elflyn land, "Ye'll ne'er get back to your ain countrie." O they rade on, and farther on, And they waded through rivers aboon the knee, And they saw neither sun nor moon, But they heard the roaring of the sea. It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern light, And they waded through red blude to the knee; For a' the blude, that's shed on earth, Rins through the springs o' that countrie. Syne they came on to a garden green, And she pu'd an apple frae a tree-- "Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; "It will give thee the tongue that can never lie." "My tongue is mine ain," true Thomas said; "A gudely gift ye wad gie to me! "I neither dought to buy nor sell, "At fair or tryst where I may be. "I dought neither speak to prince or peer, "Nor ask of grace from fair ladye." "Now hold thy peace!" the lady said, "For, as I say, so must it be." He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, And a pair of shoes of velvet green; And, till seven years were gane and past, True Thomas on earth was never seen. NOTE AND APPENDIX TO THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART FIRST. * * * * * _She pu'd an apple frae a tree_, &c.--P. 176. v. 5. The traditional commentary upon this ballad informs us, that the apple was the produce of the fatal Tree of Knowledge, and that the garden was the terrestrial paradise. The repugnance of Thomas to be debarred the use of falsehood, when he might find it convenient, has a comic effect. * * * * * The reader is here presented, from an old, and unfortunately an imperfect MS., with the undoubted original of Thomas the Rhymer's intrigue with the queen of Faëry. It will afford great amusement to those who would study the nature of traditional poetry, and the changes effected by oral tradition, to compare this ancient romance with the foregoing ballad. The same incidents are narrated, even the expression is often the same; yet the poems are as different in appearance, as if the older tale had been regularly and systematically modernized by a poet of the present day. _Incipit Prophesia Thomæ de Erseldoun._ In a lande as I was lent, In the gryking of the day, Ay alone as I went, In Huntle bankys me for to play: I saw the throstyl, and the jay, Ye mawes movyde of her song, Ye wodwale sange notes gay, That al the wod about range. In that longyng as I lay, Undir nethe a dern tre, I was war of a lady gay, Come rydyng ouyr a fair le; Zogh I suld sitt to domysday, With my tong to wrabbe and wry, Certenly all hyr aray, It beth neuyr discryuyd for me. Hyr palfra was dappyll gray, Sycke on say neuer none, As the son in somers day, All abowte that lady shone; Hyr sadyl was of a rewel bone, A semly syght it was to se, Bryht with many a precyous stone, And compasyd all with crapste; Stones of oryens gret plente, Her hair about her hede it hang, She rode ouer the farnyle. A while she blew a while she sang, Her girths of nobil silke they were, Her boculs were of beryl stone, Sadyll and brydil war----: With sylk and sendel about bedone, Hyr patyrel was of a pall fyne, And hyr croper of the arase, Hyr brydil was of gold fyne, On euery syde forsothe hong bells thre, Hyr brydil reynes--- A semly syzt---- Crop and patyrel--- In every joynt---- She led thre grew houndes in a leash, And ratches cowpled by her ran; She bar an horn about her halse, And undir her gyrdil mene flene. Thomas lay and sa--- In the bankes of---- He sayd yonder is Mary of Might, That bar the child that died for me, Certes bot I may speke with that lady bright, Myd my hert will breke in three; I schal me hye with all my might, Hyr to mete at Eldyn Tree. Thomas rathly up he rase, And ran ouer mountayn hye, If it be sothe the story says, He met her euyn at Eldyn Tre. Thomas knelyd down on his kne Undir nethe the grenewood spray, And sayd, lovely lady thou rue on me, Queen of heaven as you well may be; But I am a lady of another countrie, If I be pareld most of prise, I ride after the wild fee, My ratches rinnen at my devys. If thou be pareld most of prise, And rides a lady in strang foly, Lovely lady as thou art wise, Giue you me leue to lige ye by. Do way Thomas, that wert foly, I pray ye Thomas late me be, That sin will forde all my bewtie: Lovely ladye rewe on me, And euer more I shall with ye dwell, Here my trowth I plyght to thee, Where you beleues in heuin or hell. Thomas, and you myght lyge me by, Undir nethe this grene wode spray, Thou would tell full hastely, That thou had layn by a lady gay. Lady I mote lyg by the, Under nethe the grene wode tre, For all the gold in chrystenty, Suld you neuer be wryede for me. Man on molde you will me marre, And yet bot you may haf you will, Trow you well Thomas, you cheuyst ye warre; For all my bewtie wilt you spill. Down lyghtyd that lady bryzt, Undir nethe the grene wode spray, And as ye story sayth full ryzt, Seuyn tymes by her he lay. She seyd, man you lyste thi play, What berde in bouyr may dele with thee, That maries me all this long day; I pray ye Thomas lat me be. Thomas stode up in the stede, And behelde the lady gay, Her heyre hang down about hyr hede, The tone was blak, the other gray. Her eyn semyt onte before was gray, Her gay clethyng was all away, That he before had sene in that stede; Hyr body as blow as ony bede. Thomas sighede, and sayd allas, Me thynke this a dullfull syght, That thou art fadyd in the face, Before you shone as son so bryzt. Tak thy leue Thomas, at son and mone, At gresse, and at euery tre. This twelmonth sall you with me gone, Medyl erth you sall not se. Alas he seyd, ful wo is me, I trow my dedes will werke me care, Jesu my sole tak to ye, Whedir so euyr my body sal fare. She rode furth with all her myzt, Undir nethe the derne lee, It was as derke as at mydnizt, And euyr in water unto the kne; Through the space of days thre, He herde but swowyng of a flode; Thomas sayd, ful wo is me, Nowe I spyll for fawte of fode; To a garden she lede him tyte, There was fruyte in grete plente, Peyres and appless ther were rype, The date and the damese, The figge and als fylbert tre; The nyghtyngale bredyng in her neste, The papigaye about gan fle, The throstylcok sang wold hafe no rest. He pressed to pulle fruyt with his hand As man for faute that was faynt; She seyd, Thomas lat al stand, Or els the deuyl wil the ataynt. Sche said, Thomas I the hyzt, To lay thi hede upon my kne, And thou shalt see fayrer syght, Than euyr sawe man in their kintre. Sees thou, Thomas, yon fayr way, That lyggs ouyr yone fayr playn? Yonder is the way to heuyn for ay, Whan synful sawles haf derayed their payne. Sees thou, Thomas, yon secund way, That lygges lawe undir the ryse? Streight is the way sothly to say, To the joyes of paradyce. Sees thou, Thomas, yon thyrd way, That ligges ouyr yone how? Wide is the way sothly to say, To the brynyng fyres of hell. Sees thou, Thomas, yone fayr castell, That standes ouyr yone fayr hill? Of town and tower it beereth the belle, In middell erth is non like theretill. Whan thou comyst in yone castell gaye, I pray thu curteis man to be; What so any man to you say, Soke thu answer non but me. My lord is servyd at yche messe, With xxx kniztes feir and fre; I sall say syttyng on the dese, I toke thy speche beyonde the le. Thomas stode as still as stone, And behelde that ladye gaye; Than was sche fayr and ryche anone, And also ryal on hir palfreye. The grewhoundes had fylde them on the dere, The raches coupled, by my fay, She blewe her horn Thomas to chere, To the castell she went her way. The ladye into the hall went, Thomas folowyd at her hand; Thar kept hyr mony a lady gent, With curtasy and lawe. Harp and fedyl both he fande, The getern and the sawtry, Lut and rybid ther gon gan, Thair was al maner of mynstralsy. The most fertly that Thomas thoght, When he com emyddes the flore, Fourty hertes to quarry were broght, That had ben befor both long and store. Lymors lay lappyng blode, And kokes standyng with dressyng knyfe, And dressyd dere as thai wer wode, And rewell was thair wonder Knyghtes dansyd by two and thre, All that leue long day. Ladyes that wer gret of gre, Sat and sang of rych aray. Thomas sawe much more in that place, Than I can descryve, Til on a day alas, alas, My lovelye ladye sayd to me, Busk ye Thomas you must agayn, Here you may no longer be: Hy then zerne that you were at hame, I sal ye bryng to Eldyn Tre. Thomas answerd with heuy cher, And sayd, lowely ladye lat me be, For I say ye certenly here Haf I be bot the space of dayes three. Sothely Thomas as I telle ye, You hath ben here thre yeres, And here you may no longer be; And I sal tele ye a skele, To-morowe of helle ye foule fende Amang our folke shall chuse his fee; For you art a larg man and an hende, Trowe you wele he will chuse thee. Fore all the golde that may be, Fro hens unto the worldes ende, Sall you not be betrayed for me, And thairfor sall you hens wend. She broght hym euyn to Eldon Tre, Undir nethe the grene wode spray, In Huntle bankes was fayr to be, Ther breddes syng both nyzt and day. Ferre ouyr yon montayns gray, Ther hathe my facon; Fare wele, Thomas, I wende my way. * * * * * [The elfin queen, after restoring Thomas to earth, pours forth a string of prophecies, in which we distinguish references to the events and personages of the Scottish wars of Edward III. The battles of Duplin and Halidon are mentioned, and also Black Agnes, Countess of Dunbar. There is a copy of this poem in the museum in the cathedral of Lincoln, another in the collection in Peterborough, but unfortunately they are all in an imperfect state. Mr Jamieson, in his curious Collection of Scottish Ballads and Songs, has an entire copy of this ancient poem, with all the collations, which is now in the press, and will be soon given to the public. The _lacunæ_ of the former edition have been supplied from his copy.] FOOTNOTES: [38] _From the Chartulary of the Trinity House of Soltra, Advocates' Library_, W. 4. 14. ERSYLTON. Omnibus has literas visuris vel audituris Thomas de Ercildoun filius et heres Thomæ Rymour de Ercildoun salutem in Domino.--Noveritis me per fustem et baculum in pleno judicio resignasse ac per presentes quietem clamasse pro me et heredibus meis Magistro domus Sanctæ Trinitatis de Soltre et fratribus ejusdem domus totam terram meam cum omnibus pertinentibus suis quam in tenemento de Ercildoun hereditarie tenui renunciando de toto pro me et heredibus meis omni jure et clameo que ego seu antecessores mei in eadem terra alioque tempore de perpetua habuimus sive de futuro habere possumus. In cujus rei testimonio presentibus his sigillum meum apposui data apud Ercildoun die Martis proximo post festum Sanctorum Apostolorum Symonis et Jude Anno Domini Millessimo cc. Nonagesimo Nono. [39] The lines alluded to are these:-- I hope that Tomas's prophesie, Of Erceldoun, shall truly be. In him, &c. [40] Henry the Minstrel, who introduces Thomas into the history of Wallace, expresses the same doubt as to the source of his prophetic knowledge: Thomas Rhymer into the faile was than With the minister, which was a worthy man. He used oft to that religious place; The people deemed of wit he meikle can, And so he told, though that they bless or ban, Which happened sooth in many divers case; I cannot say by wrong or righteousness. In rule of war whether they tint or wan: It may be deemed by division of grace, &c. _History of Wallace_, Book II. [41] See the Dissertation on Fairies, prefixed to _Tamlane_, Vol. II. p. 109. [42] There is a singular resemblance betwixt this tradition, and an incident occurring in the life of Merlin Caledonius, which, the reader will find a few pages onward. [43] _That weird_, &c.--That destiny shall never frighten me. THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART SECOND. * * * * * ALTERED FROM ANCIENT PROPHECIES. * * * * * The prophecies, ascribed to Thomas of Ercildoune, have been the principal means of securing to him remembrance "amongst the sons of his people." The author of _Sir Tristrem_ would long ago have joined, in the vale of oblivion, Clerk of Tranent, who wrote the adventure of "_Schir Gawain_," if, by good hap, the same current of ideas respecting antiquity, which causes Virgil to be regarded as a magician by the Lazaroni of Naples, had not exalted the bard of Ercildoune to the prophetic character. Perhaps, indeed, he himself affected it during his life. We know at least, for certain, that a belief in his supernatural knowledge was current soon after his death. His prophecies are alluded to by Barbour, by Wintoun, and by Henry the Minstrel, or _Blind Harry_, as he is usually termed. None of these authors, however, give the words of any of the Rhymer's vaticinations, but merely narrate, historically, his having predicted the events of which they speak. The earliest of the prophecies ascribed to him, which is now extant, is quoted by Mr Pinkerton from a MS. It is supposed to be a response from Thomas of Ercildoune, to a question from the heroic Countess of March, renowned for the defence of the castle of Dunbar against the English, and termed, in the familiar dialect of her time, _Black Agnes_ of Dunbar. This prophecy is remarkable, in so far as it bears very little resemblance to any verses published in the printed copy of the Rhymer's supposed prophecies. The verses are as follows: "_La Countesse de Donbar demande a Thomas de Essedoune quant la guerre d'Escoce prendreit fyn. E yl l'a repoundy et dyt,_ "When man is mad a kyng of a capped man; "When man is lever other mones thyng than is owen; "When londe thouys forest, ant forest is felde; "When hares kendles o' the her'ston; "When Wyt and Wille weres togedere: "When mon makes stables of kyrkes; and steles castels with styes; "When Rokesboroughe nys no burgh ant market is at Forwyleye: "When Bambourne is donged with dede men; "When men ledes men in ropes to buyen and to sellen; "When a quarter of whaty whete is chaunged for a colt of ten markes; "When prude (pride) prikes and pees is leyd in prisoun; "When a Scot ne me hym hude ase hare in forme that the English ne shall hym fynde; "When rycht ant wronge astente the togedere; "When laddes weddeth lovedies; "When Scottes flen so faste, that for faute of shep, hy drowneth hemselve; "When shall this be? "Nouther in thine tyme ne in mine; "Ah comen ant gone "Withinne twenty winter ant one." _Pinkerton's Poems, from Maitland's MSS. quoting from Harl. Lib. 2253. F. 127._ As I have never seen the MS. from which Mr Pinkerton makes this extract, and as the date of it is fixed by him (certainly one of the most able antiquaries of our age), to the reign of Edward I. or II., it is with great diffidence that I hazard a contrary opinion. There can, however, I believe, be little doubt, that these prophetic verses are a forgery, and not the production of our Thomas the Rhymer. But I am inclined to believe them of a later date than the reign of Edward I. or II. The gallant defence of the castle of Dunbar, by Black Agnes, took place in the year 1337. The Rhymer died previous to the year 1299 (see the charter, by his son, in the introduction to the foregoing ballad). It seems, therefore, very improbable, that the Countess of Dunbar could ever have an opportunity of consulting Thomas the Rhymer, since that would infer that she was married, or at least engaged in state matters, previous to 1299; whereas she is described as a young, or a middle-aged, woman, at the period of her being besieged in the fortress, which she so well defended. If the editor might indulge a conjecture, he would suppose, that the prophecy was contrived for the encouragement of the English invaders, during the Scottish wars; and that the names of the Countess of Dunbar, and of Thomas of Ercildoune, were used for the greater credit of the forgery. According to this hypothesis, it seems likely to have been composed after the siege of Dunbar, which had made the name of the Countess well known, and consequently in the reign of Edward III. The whole tendency of the prophecy is to aver, "that there shall be no end of the Scottish war (concerning which the question was proposed), till a final conquest of the country by England, attended by all the usual severities of war. When the cultivated country shall become forest--says the prophecy;--when the wild animals shall inhabit the abode of men;--when Scots shall not be able to escape the English, should they crouch as hares in their form--all these denunciations seem to refer to the time of Edward III., upon whose victories the prediction was probably founded." The mention of the exchange betwixt a colt worth ten markes, and a quarter of "whaty (indifferent) wheat," seems to allude to the dreadful famine, about the year 1388. The independence of Scotland was, however, as impregnable to the mines of superstition, as to the steel of our more powerful and more wealthy neighbours. The war of Scotland is, thank God, at an end; but it is ended without her people having either crouched, like hares, in their form, or being drowned in their flight "for faute of ships,"--thank God for that too. The prophecy, quoted in p. 179., is probably of the same date, and intended for the same purpose. A minute search of the records of the time would, probably, throw additional light upon the allusions contained in these ancient legends. Among various rhymes of prophetic import, which are at this day current amongst the people of Teviotdale, is one, supposed to be pronounced by Thomas the Rhymer, presaging the destruction of his habitation and family: The hare sall kittle (litter) on my hearth stane, And there will never be a laird Learmont again. The first of these lines is obviously borrowed from that in the MS, of the Harl. Library.--"When hares kendles o' the her'stane"--an emphatic image of desolation. It is also inaccurately quoted in the prophecy of Waldhave, published by Andro Hart, 1613: "This is a true talking that Thomas of tells, The hare shall hirple on the hard (hearth) stane." Spottiswoode, an honest, but credulous historian, seems to have been a firm believer in the authenticity of the prophetic wares, vended in the name of Thomas of Ercildoun. "The prophecies, yet extant in Scottish rhymes, whereupon he was commonly called _Thomas the Rhymer_, may justly be admired; having foretold, so many ages before, the union of England and Scotland in the ninth degree of the Bruce's blood, with the succession of Bruce himself to the crown, being yet a child, and other divers particulars, which the event hath ratified and made good. Boethius, in his story, relateth his prediction of King Alexander's death, and that he did foretell the same to the Earl of March, the day before it fell out; saying, 'That before the next day at noon, such a tempest should blow, as Scotland had not felt for many years before.' The next morning, the day being clear, and no change appearing in the air, the nobleman did challenge Thomas of his saying, calling him an impostor. He replied, that noon was not yet passed. About which time, a post came to advertise the earl, of the king his sudden death. 'Then,' said Thomas, 'this is the tempest I foretold; and so it shall prove to Scotland.' Whence, or how, he had this knowledge, can hardly be affirmed; but sure it is, that he did divine and answer truly of many things to come."--_Spottiswoode_, p. 47. Besides that notable voucher, master Hector Boece, the good archbishop might, had he been so minded, have referred to Fordun for the prophecy of King Alexander's death. That historian calls our bard "_ruralis ille vates_."--_Fordun_, lib. x. cap. 40. What Spottiswoode calls "the prophecies extant in "Scottish rhyme," are the metrical predictions ascribed to the prophet of Ercildoun, which, with many other compositions of the same nature, bearing the names of Bede, Merlin, Gildas, and other approved soothsayers, are contained in one small volume, published by Andro Hart, at Edinburgh, 1615. The late excellent Lord Hailes made these compositions the subject of a dissertation, published in his _Remarks on the History of Scotland_. His attention is chiefly directed to the celebrated prophecy of our bard, mentioned by Bishop Spottiswoode, bearing, that the crowns of England and Scotland should be united in the person of a king, son of a French queen, and related to Bruce in the ninth degree. Lord Hailes plainly proves, that this prophecy is perverted from its original purpose, in order to apply it to the succession of James VI. The ground-work of the forgery is to be found in the prophecies of Berlington, contained in the same collection, and runs thus: Of Bruce's left side shall spring out as a leafe, As neere as the ninth degree; And shall be fleemed of faire Scotland, In France farre beyond the sea. And then shall come againe ryding, With eyes that many men may see. At Aberladie he shall light, With hempen helteres and horse of tre. · · · · · · · · However it happen for to fall, The lyon shall be lord of all; The French quen shal bearre the sonne, Shal rule all Britainne to the sea; Ane from the Bruce's blood shal come also, As neere as the ninth degree. · · · · · · · · Yet shal there come a keene knight over the salt sea, A keene man of courage and bold man of armes; A duke's son dowbled (_i.e._ dubbed), a borne mon in France, That shall our mirths augment, and mend all our harmes; After the date of our Lord 1513, and thrice three thereafter; Which shall brooke all the broad isle to himself, Between 13 and thrice three the threip shal be ended, The Saxons sall never recover after. There cannot be any doubt, that this prophecy was intended to excite the confidence of the Scottish nation in the Duke of Albany, regent of Scotland, who arrived from France in 1515, two years after the death of James IV. in the fatal field of Flodden. The regent was descended of Bruce by the left, _i.e._ by the female side, within the ninth degree. His mother was daughter of the Earl of Boulogne, his father banished from his country--"fleemit of fair Scotland." His arrival must necessarily be by sea, and his landing was expected at Aberlady, in the Frith of Forth. He was a duke's son, dubbed knight; and nine years, from 1513, are allowed him, by the pretended prophet, for the accomplishment of the salvation of his country, and the exaltation of Scotland over her sister and rival. All this was a pious fraud, to excite the confidence and spirit of the country. The prophecy, put in the name of our Thomas the Rhymer, as it stands in Hart's book, refers to a later period. The narrator meets the Rhymer upon a land beside a lee, who shows him many emblematical visions, described in no mean strain of poetry. They chiefly relate to the fields of Flodden and Pinkie, to the national distress which followed these defeats, and to future halcyon days, which are promised to Scotland. One quotation or two will be sufficient to establish this fully: Our Scottish king sal come ful keene, The red lyon beareth he; A feddered arrow sharp, I weene, Shall make him winke and warre to see. Out of the field he shall be led, When he is bludie and woe for blood; Yet to his men shall he say, "For God's luve, turn you againe, "And give yon sutherne folk a frey! "Why should I lose the right is mine? "My date is not to die this day."-- Who can doubt, for a moment, that this refers to the battle of Flodden, and to the popular reports concerning the doubtful fate of James IV.? Allusion is immediately afterwards made to the death of George Douglas, heir apparent of Angus, who fought and fell with his sovereign: The sternes three that day shall die, That bears the harte in silver sheen. The well-known arms of the Douglas family are the heart and three stars. In another place, the battle of Pinkie is expressly mentioned by name: At Pinken Cluch there shall be spilt, Much gentle blood that day; There shall the bear lose the guilt, And the eagill bear it away. To the end of all this allegorical and mystical rhapsody, is interpolated, in the later edition by Andro Hart, a new edition of Berlington's verses, before quoted, altered and manufactured so as to bear reference to the accession of James VI., which had just then taken place. The insertion is made with a peculiar degree of awkwardness, betwixt a question, put by the narrator, concerning the name and abode of the person who shewed him these strange matters, and the answer of the prophet to that question: "Then to the Bairne could I say, "Where dwells thou, or in what countrie? "[Or who shall rule the isle of Britane, "From the north to the south sey? "A French queene shall beare the sonne, "Shall rule all Britaine to the sea; "Which of the Bruce's blood shall come, "As neere as the nint degree: "I frained fast what was his name, "Where that he came, from what country.] "In Erslingtoun I dwell at hame, "Thomas Rymour men cals me." There is surely no one, who will not conclude, with Lord Hailes, that the eight lines, inclosed in brackets, are a clumsy interpolation, borrowed from Berlington, with such alterations as might render the supposed prophecy applicable to the union of the crowns. While we are on this subject, it may be proper briefly to notice the scope of some of the other predictions, in Hart's Collection. As the prophecy of Berlington was intended to raise the spirits of the nation, during the regency of Albany, so those of Sybilla and Eltraine refer to that of the Earl of Arran, afterwards Duke of Chatelherault, during the minority of Mary, a period of similar calamity. This is obvious from the following verses: Take a thousand in calculation, And the longest of the lyon, Four crescents under one crowne, With Saint Andrew's croce thrise, Then threescore and thrise three: Take tent to Merling truely, Then shall the warres ended be, And never againe rise. In that yere there shall a king, A duke, and no crowned king; Becaus the prince shall be yong, And tender of yeares. The date, above hinted at, seems to be 1549, when the Scottish regent, by means of some succours derived from France, was endeavouring to repair the consequences of the fatal battle of Pinkie. Allusion is made to the supply given to the "Moldwarte" (England) by the fained "hart" (the Earl of Angus). The regent is described by his bearing the antelope; large supplies are promised from France, and complete conquest predicted to Scotland and her allies. Thus was the same hackneyed stratagem repeated, whenever the interest of the rulers appeared to stand in need of it. The regent was not, indeed, till after this period, created Duke of Chatelherault; but that honour was the object of his hopes and expectations. The name of our renowned soothsayer is liberally used as an authority, throughout all the prophecies published by Andro Hart. Besides those expressly put in his name, Gildas, another assumed personage, is supposed to derive his knowledge from him; for he concludes thus: "True Thomas me told in a troublesome time, "In a harvest morn at Eldoun hills." _The Prophecy of Gildas._ In the prophecy of Berlington, already quoted, we are told, "Marvellous Merlin, that many men of tells, "And Thomas's sayings comes all at once." While I am upon the subject of these prophecies, may I be permitted to call the attention of antiquaries to Merdwynn Wyllt, or _Merlin the Wild_, in whose name, and by no means in that of Ambrose Merlin, the friend of Arthur, the Scottish prophecies are issued. That this personage resided at Drummelziar, and roamed, like a second Nebuchadnezzar, the woods of Tweeddale, in remorse for the death of his nephew, we learn from Fordun. In the _Scotichronicon_, lib. 3, cap. 31, is an account of an interview betwixt St Kentigern and Merlin, then in this distracted and miserable state. He is said to have been called _Lailoken_, from his mode of life. On being commanded by the saint to give an account of himself, he says, that the penance, which he performs, was imposed on him by a voice from heaven, during a bloody contest betwixt Lidel and Carwanolow, of which battle he had been the cause. According to his own prediction, he perished at once by wood, earth, and water; for, being pursued with stones by the rustics, he fell from a rock into the river Tweed, and was transfixed by a sharp stake, fixed there for the purpose of extending a fishing-net: _Sude perfossus, lapide percussus et unda_ _Haec tria Merlinum fertur inire necem._ _Sicque ruit, mersusque fuit lignoque perpendi,_ _Et fecit vatem per terna pericula verum._ But, in a metrical history of Merlin of Caledonia, compiled by Geoffrey of Monmouth, from the traditions of the Welch bards, this mode of death is attributed to a page, whom Merlin's sister, desirous to convict the prophet of falsehood, because he had betrayed her intrigues, introduced to him, under three various disguises, enquiring each time in what manner the person should die. To the first demand Merlin answered, the party should perish by a fall from a rock; to the second, that he should die by a tree; and to the third, that he should be drowned. The youth perished, while hunting, in the mode imputed by Fordun to Merlin himself. Fordun, contrary to the Welch authorities, confounds this person with the Merlin of Arthur; but concludes by informing us, that many believed him to be a different person. The grave of Merlin is pointed out at Drummelziar, in Tweeddale, beneath an aged thorn-tree. On the east side of the church-yard, the brook, called Pausayl, falls into the Tweed; and the following prophecy is said to have been current concerning their union: When Tweed and Pausayl join at Merlin's grave, Scotland and England shall one monarch have. On the day of the coronation of James VI. the Tweed accordingly overflowed, and joined the Pausayl at the prophet's grave.--PENNYCUICK's _History of Tweeddale_, p. 26. These circumstances would seem to infer a communication betwixt the south-west of Scotland and Wales, of a nature peculiarly intimate; for I presume that Merlin would retain sense enough to chuse, for the scene of his wanderings, a country, having a language and manners similar to his own. Be this as it may, the memory of Merlin Sylvester, or the Wild, was fresh among the Scots during the reign of James V. Waldhave,[44] under whose name a set of prophecies was published, describes himself as lying upon Lomond Law; he hears a voice, which bids him stand to his defence; he looks around, and beholds a flock of hares and foxes[45] pursued over the mountain by a savage figure, to whom he can hardly give the name of man. At the sight of Waldhave, the apparition leaves the objects of his pursuit, and assaults him with a club. Waldhave defends himself with his sword, throws the savage to the earth, and refuses to let him arise till he swear, by the law and lead he lives upon, "to do him no harm." This done, he permits him to arise, and marvels at his strange appearance: "He was formed like a freike (man) all his four quarters; "And then his chin and his face haired so thick, "With haire growing so grime, fearful to see." He answers briefly to Waldhave's enquiry, concerning his name and nature, that he "drees his weird," _i.e._ does penance, in that wood; and, having hinted that questions as to his own state are offensive, he pours forth an obscure rhapsody concerning futurity, and concludes, "Go musing upon Merlin if thou wilt; "For I mean no more man at this time." This is exactly similar to the meeting betwixt Merlin and Kentigern in Fordun. These prophecies of Merlin seem to have been in request in the minority of James V.; for, among the amusements, with which Sir David Lindsay diverted that prince during his infancy, are, The prophecies of Rymer, Bede, and Merlin. _Sir David Lindsay's Epistle to the King._ And we find, in Waldhave, at least one allusion to the very ancient prophecy, addressed to the countess of Dunbar: This is a true token that Thomas of tells, When a ladde with a ladye shall go over the fields. The original stands thus: When laddes weddeth lovedies. Another prophecy of Merlin seems to have been current about the time of the regent Morton's execution.--When that nobleman was committed to the charge of his accuser, captain James Stewart, newly created Earl of Arran, to be conducted to his trial at Edinburgh, Spottiswoode says, that he asked, "Who was earl of Arran?" "and being answered that Captain James was the man, after a short pause he said, 'And is it so? I know then what I may look for!' meaning, as was thought, that the old prophecy of the 'Falling of the heart[46] by the mouth of Arran,' should then be fulfilled. Whether this was his mind or not, it is not known; but some spared not, at the time when the Hamiltons were banished, in which business he was held too earnest, to say, that he stood in fear of that prediction, and went that course only to disappoint it. But, if so it was, he did find himself now deluded; for he fell by the mouth of another Arran than he imagined."--_Spottiswoode_, 313. The fatal words, alluded to, seem to be these in the prophecy of Merlin: "In the mouth of Arrane a selcouth shall fall, "Two bloodie hearts shall be taken with a false traine, "And derfly dung down without any dome." To return from these desultory remarks, into which the editor has been led by the celebrated name of Merlin, the style of all these prophecies, published by Hart, is very much the same. The measure is alliterative, and somewhat similar to that of _Pierce Plowman's Visions_; a circumstance, which might entitle us to ascribe to some of them an earlier date than the reign of James V., did we not know that _Sir Galloran of Galloway_, and _Gawaine and Gologras_, two romances rendered almost unintelligible by the extremity of affected alliteration, are perhaps not prior to that period. Indeed, although we may allow, that, during much earlier times, prophecies, under the names of those celebrated soothsayers, have been current in Scotland, yet those published by Hart have obviously been so often vamped and re-vamped, to serve the political purposes of different periods, that it may be shrewdly suspected, that, as in the case of Sir John Cutler's transmigrated stockings, very little of the original materials now remains. I cannot refrain from indulging my readers with the publisher's title to the last prophecy; as it contains certain curious information concerning the queen of Sheba, who is identified with the Cumæan Sybil: "Here followeth a prophecie, pronounced by a noble queene and matron, called Sybilla, Regina Austri, that came to Solomon. Through the which she compiled four bookes, at the instance and request of the said king Sol. and others divers: and the fourth book was directed to a noble king, called Baldwine, king of the broad isle of Britain; in the which she maketh mention of two noble princes and emperours, the which is called Leones. How these two shall subdue, and overcome all earthlie princes to their diademe and crowne, and also be glorified and crowned in the heaven among saints. The first of these two is Constantinus Magnus; that was Leprosus, the son of Saint Helene, that found the croce. The second is the sixty king of the name of Steward of Scotland, the which is our most noble king." With such editors and commentators, what wonder that the text became unintelligible, even beyond the usual oracular obscurity of prediction? If there still remain, therefore, among these predictions, any verses having a claim to real antiquity, it seems now impossible to discover them from those which are comparatively modern. Nevertheless, as there are to be found, in these compositions, some uncommonly wild and masculine expressions, the editor has been induced to throw a few passages together, into the sort of ballad to which this disquisition is prefixed. It would, indeed, have been no difficult matter for him, by a judicious selection, to have excited, in favour of Thomas of Erceldoune, a share of the admiration, bestowed by sundry wise persons upon Mass Robert Fleming. For example: "But then the lilye shal be loused when they least think; Then clear king's blood shal quake for fear of death; For churls shal chop off heads of their chief beirns, And carfe of the crowns that Christ hath appointed. · · · · · · · · Thereafter, on every side, sorrow shal arise; The barges of clear barons down shal be sunken; Seculars shal sit in spiritual seats, Occupying offices anointed as they were." Taking the lilye for the emblem of France, can there be a more plain prophecy of the murder of her monarch, the destruction of her nobility, and the desolation of her hierarchy? But, without looking farther into the signs of the times, the editor, though the least of all the prophets, cannot help thinking, that every true Briton will approve of his application of the last prophecy quoted in the ballad. Hart's collection of prophecies was frequently reprinted during the last century, probably to favour the pretensions of the unfortunate family of Stewart. For the prophetic renown of Gildas and Bede, see _Fordun_, lib. 3. Before leaving the subject of Thomas's predictions, it may be noticed, that sundry rhymes, passing for his prophetic effusions, are still current among the vulgar. Thus, he is said to have prophecied of the very ancient family of Haig of Bemerside, Betide, betide, whate'er betide, Haig shall be Haig of Bemerside. The grandfather of the present proprietor of Bemerside had twelve daughters, before his lady brought him a male heir. The common people trembled for the credit of their favourite soothsayer. The late Mr Haig was at length born, and their belief in the prophecy confirmed beyond a shadow of doubt. Another memorable prophecy bore, that the Old Kirk at Kelso, constructed out of the ruins of the abbey, should fall when "at the fullest." At a very crowded sermon, about thirty years ago, a piece of lime fell from the roof of the church. The alarm, for the fulfilment of the words of the seer, became universal; and happy were they, who were nearest the door of the predestined edifice. The church was in consequence deserted, and has never since had an opportunity of tumbling upon a full congregation. I hope, for the sake of a beautiful specimen of Saxo-Gothick architecture, that the accomplishment of this prophecy is far distant. Another prediction, ascribed to the Rhymer, seems to have been founded on that sort of insight into futurity, possessed by most men of a sound and combining judgement. It runs thus: At Eildon Tree if you shall be, A brigg ower Tweed you there may see. The spot in question commands an extensive prospect of the course of the river; and it was easy to foresee, that, when the country should become in the least degree improved, a bridge would be somewhere thrown over the stream. In fact, you now see no less than three bridges from that elevated situation. Corspatrick (Comes Patrick), Earl of March, but more commonly taking his title from his castle of Dunbar, acted a noted part during the wars of Edward I. in Scotland. As Thomas of Erceldoune is said to have delivered to him his famous prophecy of King Alexander's death, the editor has chosen to introduce him into the following ballad. All the prophetic verses are selected from Hart's publication. THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART SECOND. * * * * * When seven years were come and gane, The sun blinked fair on pool and stream; And Thomas lay on Huntlie bank, Like one awakened from a dream. He heard the trampling of a steed, He saw the flash of armour flee, And he beheld a gallant knight, Come riding down by the Eildon-tree. He was a stalwart knight, and strong; Of giant make he 'peared to be: He stirr'd his horse, as he were wode, Wi' gilded spurs, of faushion free. Says--"Well met, well met, true Thomas! Some uncouth ferlies shew to me." Says--"Christ thee save, Corspatrick brave! Thrice welcome, good Dunbar, to me! "Light down, light down, Corspatrick brave, "And I will shew thee curses three, "Shall gar fair Scotland greet and grane, "And change the green to the black livery. "A storm shall roar, this very hour, "From Rosse's Hills to Solway sea. "Ye lied, ye lied, ye warlock hoar! "For the sun shines sweet on fauld and lea." He put his hand on the earlie's head; He shewed him a rock, beside the sea, Where a king lay stiff, beneath his steed,[47] And steel-dight nobles wiped their e'e. "The neist curse lights on Branxton hills: "By Flodden's high and heathery side, "Shall wave a banner, red as blude, "And chieftains throng wi' meikle pride. "A Scottish king shall come full keen; "The ruddy lion beareth he: "A feather'd arrow sharp, I ween, "Shall make him wink and warre to see. "When he is bloody, and all to bledde, "Thus to his men he still shall say-- 'For God's sake, turn ye back again, 'And give yon southern folk a fray! 'Why should I lose the right is mine? 'My doom is not to die this day.'[48] "Yet turn ye to the eastern hand, "And woe and wonder ye sall see; "How forty thousand spearmen stand, "Where yon rank river meets the sea. "There shall the lion lose the gylte, "And the libbards bear it clean away; "At Pinkyn Cleuch there shall be spilt "Much gentil blude that day." "Enough, enough, of curse and ban; "Some blessing shew thou now to me, "Or, by the faith o' my bodie," Corspatrick said, "Ye shall rue the day ye e'er saw me!" "The first of blessings I shall thee shew, "Is by a burn, that's call'd of bread;[49] "Where Saxon men shall tine the bow, "And find their arrows lack the head. "Beside that brigg, out ower that burn, "Where the water bickereth bright and sheen, "Shall many a falling courser spurn, "And knights shall die in battle keen. "Beside a headless cross of stone, "The libbards there shall lose the gree; "The raven shall come, the erne shall go, "And drink the Saxon blude sae free. "The cross of stone they shall not know, "So thick the corses there shall be." "But tell me now," said brave Dunbar, "True Thomas, tell now unto me, "What man shall rule the isle Britain, "Even from the north to the southern sea?" "A French queen shall bear the son, "Shall rule all Britain to the sea: "He of the Bruce's blude shall come, "As near as in the ninth degree. "The waters worship shall his race; "Likewise the waves of the farthest sea; "For they shall ride ower ocean wide, "With hempen bridles, and horse of tree." FOOTNOTES: [44] I do not know, whether the person here meant be Waldhave, an abbot of Melrose, who died in the odour of sanctity, about 1160. [45] The strange occupation, in which Waldhave beholds Merlin engaged, derives some illustration from a curious passage in Geoffrey of Monmouth's life of Merlin, above quoted. The poem, after narrating, that the prophet had fled to the forests in a state of distraction, proceeds to mention, that, looking upon the stars one clear evening, he discerned, from his astrological knowledge, that his wife, Guendolen, had resolved, upon the next morning, to take another husband. As he had presaged to her that this would happen, and had promised her a nuptial gift (cautioning her, however, to keep the bridegroom out of his sight), he now resolved to make good his word. Accordingly, he collected all the stags and lesser game in his neighbourhood; and, having seated himself upon a buck, drove the herd before him to the capital of Cumberland, where Guendolen resided. But her lover's curiosity leading him to inspect too nearly this extraordinary cavalcade, Merlin's rage was awakened, and he slew him with the stroke of an antler of the stag. The original runs thus: _Dixerat: et silvas et saltus circuit omnes,_ _Cervorumque greges agmen collegit in unum,_ _Et damas, capreasque simul, cervoque resedit;_ _Et veniente die, compellens agmina præ se,_ _Festinans vadit quo nubit Guendolna._ _Postquam venit eo, pacienter coegit_ _Cervos ante fores, proclamans, "Guendolna,_ _"Guendolna, veni, te talia munera spectant."_ _Ocius ergo venit subridens Guendolna_ _Gestarique virum cervo miratur, et illum_ _Sic parere viro, tantum quoque posse ferarum_ _Uniri numerum quas præ se solus agebat,_ _Sicut pastor oves, quas ducere suevit ad herbas._ _Stabat ab excelsa, sponsus spectando fenestra_ _In solio mirans equitem risumque movebat._ _Ast ubi vidit eum vates, animoque quis esset,_ _Calluit, extemplo divulsit cornua cervo_ _Quo gestabatur, vibrataque jecit in illum_ _Et caput illius penitus contrivit, eumque_ _Reddidit exanimem, vitamque fugavit in auras;_ _Ocius inde suum, talorum verbere, cervum_ _Diffugiens egit, silvasque redire paravit._ For a perusal of this curious poem, accurately copied from a MS. in the Cotton Library, nearly coeval with the author, I was indebted to my learned friend, the late Mr Ritson. There is an excellent paraphrase of it in the curious and entertaining _Specimens of Early English Romances_, lately published by Mr Ellis. [46] The heart was the cognizance of Morton. [47] King Alexander; killed by a fall from his horse, near Kinghorn. [48] The uncertainty which long prevailed in Scotland, concerning the fate of James IV., is well known. [49] One of Thomas's rhymes, preserved by tradition, runs thus: The burn of breid Shall run fow reid." Bannockburn is the brook here meant. The Scots give the name of _bannock_ to a thick round cake of unleavened bread. THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART THIRD--MODERN. BY THE EDITOR. * * * * * Thomas the Rhymer was renowned among his contemporaries, as the author of the celebrated romance of _Sir Tristrem_. Of this once admired poem only one copy is now known to exist, which is in the Advocates' Library. The editor, in 1804, published a small edition of this curious work; which, if it does not revive the reputation of the bard of Ercildoune, will be at least the earliest specimen of Scottish poetry, hitherto published. Some account of this romance has already been given to the world in MR ELLIS's _Specimens of Ancient Poetry_, Vol. I. p. 165, 3d. p. 410; a work, to which our predecessors and our posterity are alike obliged; the former, for the preservation of the best selected examples of their poetical taste; and the latter, for a history of the English language, which will only cease to be interesting with the existence of our mother-tongue, and all that genius and learning have recorded in it. It is sufficient here to mention, that, so great was the reputation of the romance of _Sir Tristrem_, that few were thought capable of reciting it after the manner of the author--a circumstance alluded to by Robert de Brunne, the annalist: I see in song, in sedgeyng tale, Of Erceldoun, and of Kendale. Now thame says as they thame wroght, And in thare saying it semes nocht. That thou may here in Sir Tristrem, Over gestes it has the steme, Over all that is or was; If men it said as made Thomas, &c. It appears, from a very curious MS. of the thirteenth century, _penes_ Mr Douce, of London, containing a French metrical romance of _Sir Tristrem_, that the work of our Thomas the Rhymer was known, and referred to, by the minstrels of Normandy and Bretagne. Having arrived at a part of the romance, where reciters were wont to differ in the mode of telling the story, the French bard expressly cites the authority of the poet of Erceldoune: _Plusurs de nos granter ne volent,_ _Co que del naim dire se solent,_ _Ki femme Kaherdin dut aimer,_ _Li naim redut Tristram narrer,_ _E entusché par grant engin,_ _Quant il afole Kaherdin;_ _Pur cest plaie e pur cest mal,_ _Enveiad Tristran Guvernal,_ _En Engleterre pur Ysolt_ THOMAS _ico granter ne volt,_ _Et si volt par raisun mostrer,_ _Qu' ico ne put pas esteer_, &c. The tale of _Sir Tristrem_, as narrated in the Edinburgh MS., is totally different from the voluminous romance in prose, originally compiled on the same subject by Rusticien de Puise, and analysed by M. de Tressan; but agrees in every essential particular with the metrical performance, just quoted, which is a work of much higher antiquity. The following attempt to commemorate the Rhymer's poetical fame, and the traditional account of his marvellous return to Fairy Land, being entirely modern, would have been placed with greater propriety among the class of Modern Ballads, had it not been for its immediate connection with the first and second parts of the same story. THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART THIRD. * * * * * When seven years more were come and gone, Was war through Scotland spread, And Ruberslaw shew'd high Dunyon, His beacon blazing red. Then all by bonny Coldingknow, Pitched palliouns took their room, And crested helms, and spears a rowe, Glanced gaily through the broom. The Leader, rolling to the Tweed, Resounds the ensenzie;[50] They roused the deer from Caddenhead, To distant Torwoodlee. The feast was spread in Ercildoune, In Learmont's high and ancient hall; And there were knights of great renown, And ladies, laced in pall. Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine, The music, nor the tale, Nor goblets of the blood-red wine, Nor mantling quaighs[51] of ale. True Thomas rose, with harp in hand, When as the feast was done; (In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land, The elfin harp he won.) Hush'd were the throng, both limb and tongue, And harpers for envy pale; And armed lords lean'd on their swords, And hearken'd to the tale. In numbers high, the witching tale The prophet pour'd along; No after bard might e'er avail[52] Those numbers to prolong. Yet fragments of the lofty strain Float down the tide of years, As, buoyant on the stormy main, A parted wreck appears. He sung King Arthur's table round: The warrior of the lake; How courteous Gawaine met the wound, And bled for ladies' sake. But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise, The notes melodious swell; Was none excelled, in Arthur's days, The knight of Lionelle. For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right, A venomed wound he bore; When fierce Morholde he slew in fight, Upon the Irish shore. No art the poison might withstand; No medicine could be found, Till lovely Isolde's lilye hand Had probed the rankling wound. With gentle hand and soothing tongue, She bore the leech's part; And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung, He paid her with his heart. O fatal was the gift, I ween! For, doom'd in evil tide, The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen, His cowardly uncle's bride. Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard In fairy tissue wove; Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright, In gay confusion strove. The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale, High rear'd its glittering head; And Avalon's enchanted vale In all its wonders spread. Brangwain was there, and Segramore, And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye; Of that fam'd wizard's mighty lore, O who could sing but he? Through many a maze the winning song In changeful passion led, Till bent at length the listening throng O'er Tristrem's dying bed. His ancient wounds their scars expand, With agony his heart is wrung: O where is Isolde's lilye hand, And where her soothing tongue? She comes! she comes!--like flash of flame Can lovers' footsteps fly: She comes! she comes!--she only came To see her Tristrem die. She saw him die: her latest sigh Joined in a kiss his parting breath: The gentlest pair, that Britain bare, United are in death. There paused the harp: its lingering sound Died slowly on the ear; The silent guests still bent around, For still they seem'd to hear. Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak; Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh; But, half ashamed, the rugged cheek Did many a gauntlet dry. On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower, The mists of evening close; In camp, in castle, or in bower, Each warrior sought repose. Lord Douglas, in his lofty tent, Dream'd o'er the woeful tale; When footsteps light, across the bent, The warrior's ears assail. He starts, he wakes:--"What, Richard, ho! "Arise, my page, arise! "What venturous wight, at dead of night, "Dare step where Douglas lies!" Then forth they rushed: by Leader's tide, A selcouth[53] sight they see-- A hart and hind pace side by side. As white as snow on Fairnalie. Beneath the moon, with gesture proud, They stately move and slow; Nor scare they at the gathering crowd, Who marvel as they go. To Learmont's tower a message sped, As fast as page might run; And Thomas started from his bed, And soon his cloaths did on. First he woxe pale, and then woxe red; Never a word he spake but three;-- "My sand is run; my thread is spun; "This sign regardeth me." The elfin harp his neck around, In minstrel guise, he hung; And on the wind, in doleful sound, Its dying accents rung. Then forth he went; yet turned him oft To view his ancient hall; On the grey tower, in lustre soft, The autumn moon-beams fall. And Leader's waves, like silver sheen, Danced shimmering in the ray: In deepening mass, at distance seen, Broad Soltra's mountains lay. "Farewell, my father's ancient tower! "A long farewell," said he: "The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power, "Thou never more shalt be. "To Learmont's name no foot of earth "Shall here again belong, "And, on thy hospitable hearth, "The hare shall leave her young. "Adieu! Adieu!" again he cried, All as he turned him roun'-- "Farewell to Leader's silver tide! "Farewell to Ercildoune!"-- The hart and hind approached the place, As lingering yet he stood; And there, before Lord Douglas' face, With them he cross'd the flood. Lord Douglas leaped on his berry-brown steed, And spurr'd him the Leader o'er; But, though he rode with lightning speed, He never saw them more. Some sayd to hill, and some to glen, Their wondrous course had been; But ne'er in haunts of living men Again was Thomas seen. NOTES ON THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART THIRD. * * * * * _And Ruberslaw shew'd high Dunyon._--P. 216. v. 1. Ruberslaw and Dunyon are two hills above Jedburgh. _Then all by bonny Coldingknow._--P. 216. v. 2. An ancient tower near Ercildoune, belonging to a family of the name of Home: One of Thomas's prophecies is said to have run thus: Vengeance! vengeance! when and where? On the house of Coldingknow, now and ever mair! The spot is rendered classical by its having given name to the beautiful melody, called the _Broom o' the Cowdenknows_. _They roused the deer from Caddenhead,_ _To distant Torwoodlee._--P. 216. v. 3. Torwoodlee and Caddenhead are places in Selkirkshire. _How courteous Gawaine met the wound._--P. 218. v. 2. See, in the _Fabliaux_ of Monsieur le Grand, elegantly translated by the late Gregory Way, Esq. the tale of the _Knight and the Sword_. _As white as snow on Fairnalie._--P. 221. v. 5. An ancient seat upon the Tweed, in Selkirkshire. In a popular edition of the first part of Thomas the Rhymer, the Fairy Queen thus addresses him: "Gin ye wad meet wi' me again, Gang to the bonny banks of Fairnalie." FOOTNOTES: [50] _Ensenzie_--War-cry, or gathering word. [51] _Quaighs_--Wooden cups, composed of staves hooped together. [52] See introduction to this ballad. [53] _Selcouth_--Wondrous. THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN. BY THE EDITOR. * * * * * Smaylho'me, or Smallholm Tower, the scene of the following ballad, is situated on the northern boundary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks, called Sandiknow-Crags, the property of Hugh Scott, Esq. of Harden. The tower is a high square building, surrounded by an outer wall, now ruinous. The circuit of the outer court, being defended, on three sides, by a precipice and morass, is accessible only from the west, by a steep and rocky path. The apartments, as is usual in a border-keep, or fortress, are placed one above another, and communicate by a narrow stair; on the roof are two bartizans, or platforms, for defence or pleasure. The inner door of the tower is wood, the outer an iron gate; the distance between them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the wall. From the elevated situation of Smaylho'me Tower, it is seen many miles in every direction. Among the crags, by which it is surrounded, one, more eminent, is called the _Watchfold_, and is said to have been the station of a beacon, in the times of war with England. Without the tower-court is a ruined chapel. Brotherstone is a heath, in the neighbourhood of Smaylho'me Tower. This ballad was first printed in Mr LEWIS's _Tales of Wonder_. It is here published, with some additional illustrations, particularly an account of the battle of Ancram Moor; which seemed proper in a work upon border antiquities. The catastrophe of the tale is founded upon a well-known Irish tradition.[54] This ancient fortress and its vicinity formed the scene of the editor's infancy, and seemed to claim from him this attempt to celebrate them in a Border Tale. THE EVE OF ST JOHN. * * * * * The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, He spurr'd his courser on, Without stop or stay, down the rocky way, That leads to Brotherstone. He went not with the bold Buccleuch, His banner broad to rear; He went not 'gainst the English yew, To lift the Scottish spear. Yet his plate-jack[55] was braced, and his helmet was laced, And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore; At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe, Full ten pound weight and more. The Baron return'd in three days space, And his looks were sad and sour; And weary was his courser's pace, As he reached his rocky tower. He came not from where Ancram Moor[56] Ran red with English blood; Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch, 'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd, His acton pierc'd and tore; His axe and his dagger with blood embrued, But it was not English gore. He lighted at the Chapellage, He held him close and still; And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page, His name was English Will. "Come thou hither, my little foot-page; "Come hither to my knee; "Though thou art young, and tender of age, "I think thou art true to me. "Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, "And look thou tell me true! "Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, "What did thy lady do?" "My lady, each night, sought the lonely light, "That burns on the wild Watchfold; "For, from height to height, the beacons bright "Of the English foemen told. "The bittern clamour'd from the moss, "The wind blew loud and shrill; "Yet the craggy pathway she did cross, "To the eiry Beacon Hill. "I watched her steps, and silent came "Where she sat her on a stone; "No watchman stood by the dreary flame; "It burned all alone. "The second night I kept her in sight, "Till to the fire she came, "And, by Mary's might! an armed Knight "Stood by the lonely flame. "And many a word that warlike lord "Did speak to my lady there; "But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast, "And I heard not what they were. "The third night there the sky was fair, "And the mountain-blast was still, "As again I watched the secret pair, "On the lonesome Beacon Hill. "And I heard her name the midnight hour, "And name this holy eve; "And say, 'Come this night to thy lady's bower; "Ask no bold Baron's leave. 'He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch; 'His lady is all alone; 'The door she'll undo, to her knight so true, 'On the eve of good St John.' 'I cannot come; I must not come; 'I dare not come to thee; 'On the eve of St John I must wander alone: 'In thy bower I may not be.' 'Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight! 'Thou should'st not say me nay; 'For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, 'Is worth the whole summer's day.' 'And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound, 'And rushes shall be strewed on the stair; "So, by the black rood-stone,[57] and by holy St John, 'I conjure thee, my love, to be there!' 'Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush beneath my foot, 'And the warder his bugle should not blow, 'Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east, 'And my foot-step he would know.' 'O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east! "For to Dryburgh[58] the way he has ta'en; 'And there to say mass, till three days do pass, "For the soul of a knight that is slayne.' "He turn'd him around, and grimly he frown'd; "Then he laughed right scornfully-- 'He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight, 'May as well say mass for me. 'At the lone midnight-hour, when bad spirits have power, 'In thy chamber will I be.' "With that he was gone, and my lady left alone, "And no more did I see."-- Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow, From the dark to the blood-red high; "Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen, "For, by Mary, he shall die!" "His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light; "His plume it was scarlet and blue; "On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound, "And his crest was a branch of the yew." "Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page, "Loud dost thou lie to me! "For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould, "All under the Eildon-tree."[59] "Yet hear but my word, my noble lord! "For I heard her name his name; "And that lady bright, she called the knight, "Sir Richard of Coldinghame." The bold Baron's brow then chang'd, I trow, From high blood-red to pale-- "The grave is deep and dark--and the corpse is stiff and stark-- "So I may not trust thy tale." "Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose, "And Eildon slopes to the plain, "Full three nights ago, by some secret foe, "That gay gallant was slain." "The varying light deceived thy sight, "And the wild winds drown'd the name; "For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing, "For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!" He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower grate, And he mounted the narrow stair, To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait, He found his lady fair. That lady sat in mournful mood; Look'd over hill and vale; Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's[60] wood, And all down Tiviotdale. "Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!" "Now hail, thou Baron true! "What news, what news, from Ancram fight? "What news from the bold Buccleuch?" "The Ancram Moor is red with gore, "For many a southern fell; "And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore, "To watch our beacons well." The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said; Nor added the Baron a word: Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair, And so did her moody lord. In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron toss'd and turn'd, And oft to himself he said-- "The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep..... It cannot give up the dead!" It was near the ringing of matin-bell, The night was well nigh done, When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell, On the eve of good St John. The lady looked through the chamber fair, By the light of a dying flame; And she was aware of a knight stood there-- Sir Richard of Coldinghame! "Alas! away, away!" she cried, "For the holy Virgin's sake!" "Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side; But, lady, he will not awake. "By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, "In bloody grave have I lain; "The mass and the death-prayer are said for me, "But, lady, they are said in vain. "By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, "Most foully slain I fell; "And my restless sprite on the beacon's height, "For a space is doom'd to dwell. "At our trysting-place,[61] for a certain space, "I must wander to and fro; "But I had not had power to come to thy bower, "Had'st thou not conjured me so." Love master'd fear--her brow she crossed; "How, Richard, hast thou sped? "And art thou saved, or art thou lost?" The Vision shook his head! "Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; "So bid thy lord believe: "That lawless love is guilt above, "This awful sign receive." He laid his left palm on an oaken beam; His right upon her hand: The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, For it scorch'd like a fiery brand. The sable score, of fingers four, Remains on that board impress'd; And for evermore that lady wore A covering on her wrist. There is a nun in Dryburgh bower, Ne'er looks upon the sun: There is a monk in Melrose tower, He speaketh word to none. That nun, who ne'er beholds the day, That monk, who speaks to none-- That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay, That monk the bold Baron. NOTES ON THE EVE OF ST JOHN. * * * * * _BATTLE OF ANCRUM MOOR._ Lord Evers, and Sir Brian Latoun, during the year 1544, committed the most dreadful ravages upon the Scottish frontiers, compelling most of the inhabitants, and especially the men of Liddesdale, to take assurance under the king of England. Upon the 17th November, in that year, the sum total of their depredations stood thus, in the bloody ledger of Lord Evers: Towns, towers, barnekynes, parish churches, bastille houses, burned and destroyed 192 Scots slain 403 Prisoners taken 816 Nolt (cattle) 10,386 Sheep 12,492 Nags and geldings 1,296 Gayt 200 Bolls of corn 850 Insight gear, &c. (furniture) an incalculable quantity. MURDIN's _State Papers_, Vol. I. p. 51. The king of England had promised to these two barons a feudal grant of the country, which they had thus reduced to a desert; upon hearing which, Archibald Douglas, the seventh Earl of Angus, is said to have sworn to write the deed of investiture upon their skins, with sharp pens and bloody ink, in resentment for their having defaced the tombs of his ancestors, at Melrose.--_Godscroft._ In 1545, Lord Evers and Latoun again entered Scotland, with an army consisting of 3000 mercenaries, 1500 English borderers, and 700 assured Scottish-men, chiefly Armstrongs, Turnbulls, and other broken clans. In this second incursion, the English generals even exceeded their former cruelty. Evers burned the tower of Broomhouse, with its lady (a noble and aged woman, says Lesley), and her whole family. The English penetrated as far as Melrose, which they had destroyed last year, and which they now again pillaged. As they returned towards Jedburgh, they were followed by Angus, at the head of 1000 horse, who was shortly after joined by the famous Norman Lesley, with a body of Fife-men. The English, being probably unwilling to cross the Teviot, while the Scots hung upon their rear, halted upon Ancram Moor, above the village of that name; and the Scottish general was deliberating whether to advance or retire, when Sir Walter Scott,[62] of Buccleuch, came up at full speed, with a small, but chosen body of his retainers, the rest of whom were near at hand. By the advice of this experienced warrior (to whose conduct Pitscottie and Buchanan ascribe the success of the engagement), Angus withdrew from the height which he occupied, and drew up his forces behind it, upon a piece of low flat ground, called Panier-heugh, or Peniel-heugh. The spare horses being sent to an eminence in their rear, appeared to the English to be the main body of the Scots, in the act of flight. Under this persuasion, Evers and Latoun hurried precipitately forwards, and, having ascended the hill, which their foes had abandoned, were no less dismayed than astonished, to find the phalanx of Scottish Spearmen drawn up, in firm array, upon the flat ground below. The Scots in their turn became the assailants. A heron, roused from the marshes by the tumult, soared away betwixt the encountering armies: "O!" exclaimed Angus, "that I had here my white goss-hawk, that we might all yoke at once!"--_Godscroft._ The English, breathless and fatigued, having the setting sun and wind full in their faces, were unable to withstand the resolute and desperate charge of the Scottish lances. No sooner had they begun to waver, than their own allies, the assured borderers, who had been waiting the event, threw aside their red crosses, and, joining their countrymen, made a most merciless slaughter among the English fugitives, the pursuers calling upon each other to "remember Broomhouse!"--_Lesley_, p. 478. In the battle fell Lord Evers, and his son, together with Sir Brian Latoun, and 800 Englishmen, many of whom were persons of rank. A thousand prisoners were taken. Among these was a patriotic alderman of London, Read by name, who, having contumaciously refused to pay his portion of a benevolence, demanded from the city by Henry VIII., was sent by royal authority to serve against the Scots. These, at settling his ransom, he found still more exorbitant in their exactions than the monarch.--REDPATH's _Border History_, p. 553. Evers was much regretted by King Henry, who swore to avenge his death upon Angus, against whom he conceived himself to have particular grounds of resentment, on account of favours received by the Earl at his hands. The answer of Angus was worthy of a Douglas: "Is our brother-in-law offended,"[63] said he, "that I, as a good Scotsman, have avenged my ravaged country, and the defaced tombs of my ancestors, upon Ralph Evers? They were better men than he, and I was bound to do no less--and will he take my life for that? Little knows King Henry the skirts of Kirnetable:[64] I can keep myself there against all his English host."--_Godscroft._ Such was the noted battle of Ancram Moor. The spot, on which it was fought, is called Lyliard's Edge, from an Amazonian Scottish woman of that name, who is reported, by tradition, to have distinguished herself in the same manner as squire Witherington. The old people point out her monument, now broken and defaced. The inscription is said to have been legible within this century, and to have run thus: Fair maiden Lylliard lies under this stane, Little was her stature, but great was her fame; Upon the English louns she laid mony thumps, And, when her legs were cutted off, she fought upon her stumps. _Vide Account of the Parish of Melrose._ It appears, from a passage in Stowe, that an ancestor of Lord Evers held also a grant of Scottish lands from an English monarch. "I have seen," says the historian, "under the broad-seale of the said King Edward I., a manor, called Ketnes, in the countie of Ferfare, in Scotland, and neere the furthest part of the same nation northward, given to John Eure and his heiress, ancestor to the Lord Eure, that now is, for his service done in these partes, with market, &c. dated at Lanercost, the 20th day of October, anno regis, 34."--STOWE's _Annals_, p. 210. This grant, like that of Henry, must have been dangerous to the receiver. _There is a nun in Dryburgh bower._--P. 239. v. 3. The circumstance of the nun, "who never saw the day," is not entirely imaginary. About fifty years ago, an unfortunate female-wanderer took up her residence in a dark vault, among the ruins of Dryburgh abbey, which, during the day, she never quitted. When night fell, she issued from this miserable habitation, and went to the house of Mr Halliburton of Newmains, the editor's great-grandfather, or to that of Mr Erskine of Sheilfield, two gentlemen of the neighbourhood. From their charity, she obtained such necessaries as she could be prevailed upon to accept. At twelve, each night, she lighted her candle, and returned to her vault; assuring her friendly neighbours, that, during her absence, her habitation was arranged by a spirit, to whom she gave the uncouth name of _Fatlips_; describing him as a little man, wearing heavy iron shoes, with which he trampled the clay floor of the vault, to dispel the damps. This circumstance caused her to be regarded, by the well-informed, with compassion, as deranged in her understanding; and by the vulgar, with some degree of terror. The cause of her adopting this extraordinary mode of life she would never explain. It was, however, believed to have been occasioned by a vow, that, during the absence of a man, to whom she was attached, she would never look upon the sun. Her lover never returned. He fell during the civil-war of 1745-6, and she never more would behold the light of day. The vault, or rather dungeon, in which this unfortunate woman lived and died, passes still by the name of the supernatural being, with which its gloom was tenanted by her disturbed imagination, and few of the neighbouring peasants dare enter it by night. FOOTNOTES: [54] The following passage, in DR HENRY MORE's _Appendix to the Antidote against Atheism_, relates to a similar phenomenon: "I confess, that the bodies of devils may not only be warm, but sindgingly hot, as it was in him that took one of Melanchthon's relations by the hand, and so scorched her, that she bare the mark of it to her dying day. But the examples of cold are more frequent; as in that famous story of Cuntius, when he touched the arm of a certain woman of Pentoch, as she lay in her bed, he felt as cold as ice; and so did the spirit's claw to Anne Styles."--_Ed._ 1662. p. 135. [55] The plate-jack is coat-armour; the vaunt-brace, or wam-brace, armour for the body; the sperthe, a battle-axe. [56] See an account of the battle of Ancram Moor, subjoined to the ballad. [57] The black-rood of Melrose was a crucifix of black marble, and of superior sanctity. [58] Dryburgh Abbey is beautifully situated on the banks of the Tweed. After its dissolution, it became the property of the Halliburtons of Newmains, and is now the seat of the Right Honourable the Earl of Buchan. It belonged to the order of Premonstratenses. [59] Eildon is a high hill, terminating in three conical summits, immediately above the town of Melrose, where are the admired ruins of a magnificent monastery. Eildon-tree is said to be the spot where Thomas the Rhymer uttered his prophecies. See p. 173. [60] Mertoun is the beautiful seat of Hugh Scott, Esq. of Harden. [61] _Trysting-place_--Place of rendezvous. [62] The editor has found in no instance upon record, of this family having taken assurance with England. Hence, they usually suffered dreadfully from the English forays. In August, 1544 (the year preceding the battle), the whole lands belonging to Buccleuch, in West Teviotdale, were harried by Evers; the outworks, or barmkin, of the tower of Branxholm, burned; eight Scotts slain, thirty made prisoners, and an immense prey of horses, cattle, and sheep, carried off. The lands upon Kale water, belonging to the same chieftain, were also plundered, and much spoil obtained; 30 Scotts slain, and the Moss Tower (a fortress near Eckford), _smoked very sore_. Thus Buccleuch had a long account to settle at Ancram Moor.--MURDIN's _State Papers_, pp. 45, 46. [63] Angus had married the widow of James IV., sister to King Henry VIII. [64] Kirnetable, now called Cairntable, is a mountainous tract at the head of Douglasdale. LORD SOULIS. BY J. LEYDEN. * * * * * The subject of the following ballad is a popular tale of the Scottish borders. It refers to transactions of a period so important, as to have left an indelible impression on the popular mind, and almost to have effaced the traditions of earlier times. The fame of Arthur, and the Knights of the Round Table, always more illustrious among the Scottish borderers, from their Welch origin, than Fin Maccoul, and Gow Macmorne, who seem not, however, to have been totally unknown, yielded gradually to the renown of Wallace, Bruce, Douglas, and the other patriots, who so nobly asserted the liberty of their country.--Beyond that period, numerous, but obscure and varying legends, refer to the marvellous Merlin, or Myrrdin _the Wild_, and Michael Scot, both magicians of notorious fame. In this instance the enchanters have triumphed over the _true man_. But the charge of magic was transferred from the ancient sorcerers to the objects of popular resentment of every age; and the partizans of the Baliols, the abettors of the English faction, and the enemies of the protestant, and of the presbyterian reformation, have been indiscriminately stigmatized as necromancers and _warlocks_. Thus, Lord Soulis, Archbishop Sharp, Grierson of Lagg, and Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, receive from tradition the same supernatural attributes. According to Dalrymple,[65] the family of Soulis seem to have been powerful during the contest between Bruce and Baliol; for adhering to the latter of whom they incurred forfeiture. Their power extended over the south and west marches; and near Deadrigs,[66] in the parish of Eccles, in the east marches, their family-bearings still appear on an obelisk. William de Soulis, Justiciarius Laodoniæ, in 1281, subscribed the famous obligation, by which the nobility of Scotland bound themselves to acknowledge the sovereignty of the Maid of Norway, and her descendants. RHYMER, Tom. II. pp. 266, 279; and, in 1291, Nicholas de Soulis appears as a competitor for the crown of Scotland, which he claimed as the heir of Margery, a bastard daughter of Alexander II., and wife of Allan Durward, or Chuissier.--CARTE, p. 177. DALRYMPLE'S _Annals_, Vol. I. p. 203. But their power was not confined to the marches; for the barony of Saltoun, in the shire of Haddington, derived its name from the family; being designed Soulistoun, in a charter to the predecessors of Nevoy of that ilk, seen by Dalrymple; and the same frequently appears among those of the benefactors and witnesses in the chartularies of abbeys, particularly in that of Newbottle. Ranulphus de Soulis occurs as a witness, in a charter, granted by King David, of the teindis of Stirling; and he, or one of his successors, had afterwards the appellation of _Pincerna Regis_. The following notices of the family and its decline, are extracted from Robertson's _Index of Lost Charters_.[67] Various repetitions occur, as the index is copied from different rolls, which appear to have never been accurately arranged. Charter to the Abbacie of Melross, of that part of the barony of Westerker, quhilk perteint to Lord Soulis--a Rob. I. in vicecom. Melrose. ---- To the abbey of Craigelton, quhilkis perteint to Lord Soulis--ab eodem--Candidæ Casæ. ---- To John Soullis, knight of the lands of Kirkanders and Brettalach--ab eodem--Dumfries. ---- To John Soullis, knight of the baronie of Torthorald, ab eodem--Dumfries. Charter To John Soullis, of the lands of Kirkanders--ab eodem--Dumfries. ---- To John Soullis, of the barony of Kirkanders--quæ fuit quondam Johannis de Wak, Militis--ab eodem. ---- To James Lord Douglas, the half-lands of the barony of Westerker, in valle de Esk, quilk William Soullis forisfecit--ab eodem. ---- To Robert Stewart, the son and heir of Walter Stewart, the barony of Nisbit, the barony of Longnewton, and Mertoun, and the barony of Cavirton, invicecomitatu de Roxburgh, quhilk William Soulis forisfecit. ---- To Murdoch Menteith, of the lands of Gilmerton, whilk was William Soullis, in vicecom. de Edinburgh--ab eodem. ---- To Robert Bruce, of the lands of Liddesdale, whilk William Soulis erga nos forisfecit--ab eodem. ---- To Robert Bruce, son to the king, the lands of Liddesdail, whilk William Soullis forisfecit erga nos, ab eodem--anno regni 16. ---- To Archibald Douglas, of the baronie of Kirkanders, quilk were John Soullis, in vicecom. de Dumfries. ---- To Murdoch Menteith, of the lands of Gilmerton, quilk Soullis forisfecit, in vicecom. de Edinburgh. ---- Waltero Senescallo Scotiæ of Nesbit (except and the valley of Liddell) the barony of Langnewton and Maxtoun, the barony of Cavertoun, in vicecom. de Roxburgh, quas Soullis forisfecit. Charter To James Lord Douglas, of the barony of Westerker, quam Willielmus de Soullis forisfecit. ---- To William Lord Douglas, of the lands of Lyddal, whilkis William Soullis forisfecit, a Davide secundo. The hero of tradition seems to be William, Lord Soullis, whose name occurs so frequently in the foregoing list of forfeitures; by which he appears to have possessed the whole district of Liddesdale, with Westerkirk and Kirkandrews, in Dumfries-shire, the lands of Gilmertoun, near Edinburgh, and the rich baronies of Nisbet, Longnewton, Caverton, Maxtoun, and Mertoun, in Roxburghshire. He was of royal descent, being the grandson of Nicholas de Soulis, who claimed the crown of Scotland, in right of his grandmother, daughter to Alexander II.; and who, could her legitimacy have been ascertained, must have excluded the other competitors. The elder brother of William, was John de Soulis, a gallant warrior, warmly attached to the interests of his country, who, with fifty borderers, defeated and made prisoner Sir Andrew Harclay, at the head of three hundred Englishmen; and was himself slain, fighting in the cause of Edward the Bruce, at the battle of Dundalk, in Ireland, 1318. He had been joint-warden of the kingdom with John Cummin, after the abdication of the immortal Wallace, in 1300; in which character he was recognised by John Baliol, who, in a charter granted after his dethronement, and dated at Rutherglen, in the ninth year of his reign (1302), styles him "_Custos regni "nostri_." The treason of William, his successor, occasioned the downfall of the family. This powerful baron entered into a conspiracy against Robert the Bruce, in which many persons of rank were engaged. The object, according to Barbour, was to elevate Lord Soulis to the Scottish throne. The plot was discovered by the Countess of Strathern. Lord Soulis was seized at Berwick, although he was attended, says Barbour, by three hundred and sixty squires, besides many gallant knights. Having confessed his guilt, in full parliament, his life was spared by the king; but his domains were forfeited, and he himself confined in the castle of Dumbarton, where he died. Many of his accomplices were executed; among others, the gallant David de Brechin, nephew to the king, whose sole crime was having concealed the treason, in which he disdained to participate.[68] The parliament, in which so much noble blood was shed, was long remembered by the name of the _Black Parliament_. It was held in the year 1320. From this period the family of Soulis makes no figure in our annals. Local tradition, however, more faithful to the popular sentiment than history, has recorded the character of their chief, and attributed to him many actions which seem to correspond with that character. His portrait is by no means flattering; uniting every quality which could render strength formidable, and cruelty detestable. Combining prodigious bodily strength with cruelty, avarice, dissimulation, and treachery, is it surprising that a people, who attributed every event of life, in a great measure, to the interference of good or evil spirits, should have added to such a character the mystical horrors of sorcery? Thus, he is represented as a cruel tyrant and sorcerer; constantly employed in oppressing his vassals, harassing his neighbours, and fortifying his castle of Hermitage against the king of Scotland; for which purpose he employed all means, human and infernal: invoking the fiends, by his incantations, and forcing his vassals to drag materials, like beasts of burden. Tradition proceeds to relate, that the Scottish king, irritated by reiterated complaints, peevishly exclaimed to the petitioners, "Boil him, if you please, but let me hear no more of him." Satisfied with this answer, they proceeded with the utmost haste to execute the commission; which they accomplished, by boiling him alive on the Nine-stane Rig, in a cauldron, said to have been long preserved at Skelf-hill, a hamlet betwixt Hawick and the Hermitage. Messengers, it is said, were immediately dispatched by the king, to prevent the effects of such a hasty declaration; but they only arrived in time to witness the conclusion of the ceremony. The castle of Hermitage, unable to support the load of iniquity, which had been long accumulating within its walls, is supposed to have partly sunk beneath the ground; and its ruins are still regarded by the peasants with peculiar aversion and terror. The door of the chamber, where Lord Soulis is said to have held his conferences with the evil spirits, is supposed to be opened once in seven years, by that dæmon, to which, when he left the castle, never to return, he committed the keys, by throwing them over his left shoulder, and desiring it to keep them till his return. Into this chamber, which is really the dungeon of the castle, the peasant is afraid to look; for such is the active malignity of its inmate, that a willow, inserted at the chinks of the door, is found peeled, or stripped of its bark, when drawn back. The Nine-stane Rig, where Lord Soulis was boiled, is a declivity, about one mile in breadth, and four in length, descending upon the water of Hermitage, from the range of hills which separate Liddesdale and Teviotdale. It derives its name from one of those circles of large stones, which are termed Druidical, nine of which remained to a late period. Five of these stones are still visible; and two are particularly pointed out, as those which supported the iron bar, upon which the fatal cauldron was suspended. The formation of ropes of sand, according to popular tradition, was a work of such difficulty, that it was assigned by Michael Scot to a number of spirits, for which it was necessary for him to find some interminable employment. Upon discovering the futility of their attempts to accomplish the work assigned, they petitioned their task-master to be allowed to mingle a few handfuls of barley-chaff with the sand. On his refusal, they were forced to leave untwisted the ropes which they had shaped. Such is the traditionary hypothesis of the vermicular ridges of the sand on the shore of the sea. _Redcap_ is a popular appellation of that class of spirits which haunt old castles. Every ruined tower in the south of Scotland is supposed to have an inhabitant of this species. LORD SOULIS. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage castle, And beside him Old Redcap sly;-- "Now, tell me, thou sprite, who art meikle of might, "The death that I must die?" "While thou shalt bear a charmed life, "And hold that life of me, "'Gainst lance and arrow, sword and knife, "I shall thy warrant be. "Nor forged steel, nor hempen band, "Shall e'er thy limbs confine, "Till threefold ropes, of sifted sand, "Around thy body twine. "If danger press fast, knock thrice on the chest, "With rusty padlocks bound; "Turn away your eyes, when the lid shall rise, "And listen to the sound." Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage castle, And Redcap was not by; And he called on a page, who was witty and sage, To go to the barmkin high. "And look thou east, and look thou west, "And quickly come tell to me, "What troopers haste along the waste, "And what may their livery be." He looked o'er fell, and he looked o'er flat, But nothing, I wist, he saw, Save a pyot on a turret that sat Beside a corby craw. The page he look'd at the skrieh[69] of day, But nothing, I wist, he saw, Till a horseman gray, in the royal array, Rode down the Hazel-shaw. "Say, why do you cross o'er moor and moss?" So loudly cried the page; "I tidings bring, from Scotland's king, "To Soulis of Hermitage. "He bids me tell that bloody warden, "Oppressor of low and high, "If ever again his lieges complain, "The cruel Soulis shall die." By traitorous slight they seized the knight, Before he rode or ran, And through the key-stone of the vault, They plunged him, horse and man. * * * * * O May she came, and May she gaed, By Goranberry green; And May she was the fairest maid, That ever yet was seen. O May she came, and May she gaed, By Goranberry tower; And who was it but cruel Lord Soulis, That carried her from her bower? He brought her to his castle gray, By Hermitage's side; Says--"Be content, my lovely May, "For thou shalt be my bride." With her yellow hair, that glittered fair, She dried the trickling tear; She sighed the name of Branxholm's heir, The youth that loved her dear. "Now, be content, my bonny May, "And take it for your hame; "Or ever and ay shall ye rue the day, "You heard young Branxholm's name. "O'er Branxholm tower, ere the morning hour, "When the lift[70] is like lead so blue; "The smoke shall roll white on the weary night, "And the flame shine dimly through." Syne he's ca'd on him Ringan Red, A sturdy kemp was he; From friend or foe, in border feid, Who never a foot would flee. Red Ringan sped, and the spearmen led, Up Goranberry slack; Aye, many a wight, unmatched in fight, Who never more came back. And bloody set the westering sun, And bloody rose he up; But little thought young Branxholm's heir, Where he that night should sup. He shot the roe-buck on the lee, The dun deer on the law; The glamour[71] sure was in his e'e, When Ringan nigh did draw. O'er heathy edge, through rustling sedge, He sped till day was set; And he thought it was his merrymen true, When he the spearmen met. Far from relief, they seized the chief; His men were far away; Through Hermitage slack, they sent him back, To Soulis' castle gray; Syne onward fure for Branxholm tower, Where all his merry men lay. "Now, welcome, noble Branxholm's heir! "Thrice welcome," quoth Soulis, "to me! "Say, dost thou repair to my castle fair, "My wedding guest to be? "And lovely May deserves, per fay, "A brideman such as thee!" And broad and bloody rose the sun, And on the barmkin shone; When the page was aware of Red Ringan there, Who came riding all alone. To the gate of the tower Lord Soulis he speeds, As he lighted at the wall, Says--"Where did ye stable my stalwart steeds, "And where do they tarry all?" "We stabled them sure, on the Tarras Muir; "We stabled them sure," quoth he: "Before we could cross that quaking moss, "They all were lost but me." He clenched his fist, and he knocked on the chest, And he heard a stifled groan; And at the third knock, each rusty lock Did open one by one. He turned away his eyes, as the lid did rise, And he listen'd silentlie; And he heard breathed slow, in murmurs low, "Beware of a coming tree!" In muttering sound the rest was drowned; No other word heard he; But slow as it rose the lid did close, With the rusty padlocks three. * * * * * Now rose with Branxholm's ae brother, The Teviot, high and low; Bauld Walter by name, of meikle fame, For none could bend his bow. O'er glen and glade, to Soulis there sped The fame of his array, And that Tiviotdale would soon assail His towers and castle gray. With clenched fist, he knocked on the chest, And again he heard a groan; And he raised his eyes as the lid did rise, But answer heard he none. The charm was broke, when the spirit spoke, And it murmur'd sullenlie,-- "Shut fast the door, and for evermore, "Commit to me the key. "Alas! that ever thou raised'st thine eyes, "Thine eyes to look on me! "Till seven years are o'er, return no more, "For here thou must not be." Think not but Soulis was wae to yield His warlock chamber o'er; He took the keys from the rusty lock, That never was ta'en before. He threw them o'er his left shoulder, With meikle care and pain; And he bade it keep them, fathoms deep, Till he returned again. And still, when seven years are o'er, Is heard the jarring sound; When slowly opes the charmed door Of the chamber under ground. And some within the chamber door Have cast a curious eye; But none dare tell, for the spirits in hell, The fearful sights they spy. * * * * * When Soulis thought on his merry men now, A woeful wight was he; Says--"Vengeance is mine, and I will not repine! "But Branxholm's heir shall die." Says--"What would ye do, young Branxholm, "Gin ye had me, as I have thee?" "I would take you to the good greenwood, "And gar your ain hand wale[72] the tree." "Now shall thine ain hand wale the tree, "For all thy mirth and meikle pride; "And May shall chuse, if my love she refuse, "A scrog bush thee beside." They carried him to the good greenwood, Where the green pines grew in a row; And they heard the cry, from the branches high, Of the hungry carrion crow. They carried him on from tree to tree, The spiry boughs below; "Say, shall it be thine, on the tapering pine, "To feed the hooded crow?" "The fir-tops fall by Branxholm wall, "When the night blast stirs the tree, "And it shall not be mine to die on the pine, "I loved in infancie." Young Branxholm turned him, and oft looked back, And aye he passed from tree to tree; Young Branxholm peeped, and puirly[73] spake, "O sic a death is no for me!" And next they passed the aspin gray; Its leaves were rustling mournfullie: "Now, chuse thee, chuse thee, Branxholm gay! "Say, wilt thou never chuse the tree?" "More dear to me is the aspin gray, "More dear than any other tree; "For beneath the shade, that its branches made, "Have past the vows of my love and me." Young Branxholm peeped, and puirly spake, Until he did his ain men see, With witches' hazel in each steel cap, In scorn of Soulis gramarye; Then shoulder height for glee he lap, "Methinks I spye a coming tree!" "Aye, many may come, but few return," Quo' Soulis, the lord of gramarye; "No warrior's hand in fair Scotland "Shall ever dint a wound on me!" "Now, by my sooth," quo' bauld Walter, "If that be true we soon shall see." His bent bow he drew, and the arrow was true, But never a wound or scar had he. Then up bespake him, true Thomas, He was the lord of Ersyltoun: "The wizard's spell no steel can quell, "Till once your lances bear him down." They bore him down with lances bright, But never a wound or scar had he; With hempen bands they bound him tight, Both hands and feet on the Nine-stane lee. That wizard accurst, the bands he burst; They mouldered at his magic spell; And neck and heel, in the forged steel, They bound him against the charms of hell. That wizard accurst, the bands he burst; No forged steel his charms could bide; Then up bespake him, true Thomas, "We'll bind him yet, whate'er betide." The black spae-book from his breast he took, Impressed with many a warlock spell: And the book it was wrote by Michael Scott, Who held in awe the fiends of hell. They buried it deep, where his bones they sleep, That mortal man might never it see: But Thomas did save it from the grave, When he returned from Faërie. The black spae-book from his breast he took, And turned the leaves with curious hand; No ropes, did he find, the wizard could bind, But threefold ropes of sifted sand. They sifted the sand from the Nine-stane burn, And shaped the ropes so curiouslie; But the ropes would neither twist nor twine, For Thomas true and his gramarye. The black spae-book from his breast he took, And again he turned it with his hand; And he bade each lad of Teviot add The barley chaff to the sifted sand. The barley chaff to the sifted sand They added still by handfulls nine; But Redcap sly unseen was by, And the ropes would neither twist nor twine. And still beside the Nine-stane burn, Ribbed like the sand at mark of sea, The ropes, that would not twist nor turn, Shaped of the sifted sand you see. The black spae-book true Thomas he took; Again its magic leaves he spread; And he found that to quell the powerful spell, The wizard must be boiled in lead. On a circle of stones they placed the pot, On a circle of stones but barely nine; They heated it red and fiery hot, Till the burnished brass did glimmer and shine. They rolled him up in a sheat of lead, A sheat of lead for a funeral pall; They plunged him in the cauldron red, And melted him, lead, and bones, and all. At the Skelf-hill, the cauldron still The men of Liddesdale can shew; And on the spot, where they boiled the pot, The spreat[74] and the deer-hair[75] ne'er shall grow. NOTES ON LORD SOULIS. BY THE EDITOR. * * * * * The tradition regarding the death of Lord Soulis, however singular, is not without a parallel in the real history of Scotland. The same extraordinary mode of cookery was actually practised (_horresco referens_) upon the body of a sheriff of the Mearns. This person, whose name was Melville of Glenbervie, bore his faculties so harshly, that he became detested by the barons of the country. Reiterated complaints of his conduct having been made to James I. (or, as others say, to the Duke of Albany), the monarch answered, in a moment of unguarded impatience, "Sorrow gin the sheriff were sodden, and supped in broo'!" The complainers retired, perfectly satisfied. Shortly after, the lairds of Arbuthnot, Mather, Laurestoun, and Pittaraw, decoyed Melville to the top of the hill of Garvock, above Lawrencekirk, under pretence of a grand hunting party. Upon this place (still called the _Sheriff's Pot_), the barons had prepared a fire and a boiling cauldron, into which they plunged the unlucky sheriff. After he was _sodden_ (as the king termed it), for a sufficient time, the savages, that they might literally observe the royal mandate, concluded the scene of abomination, by actually partaking of the hell-broth. The three lairds were outlawed for this offence; and Barclay, one of their number, to screen himself from justice, erected the kaim (_i.e._ the camp, or fortress) of Mathers, which stands upon a rocky, and almost inaccessible peninsula, overhanging the German ocean. The laird of Arbuthnot is said to have eluded the royal vengeance, by claiming the benefit of the law of clan Macduff, concerning which the curious reader will find some particulars subjoined. A pardon, or perhaps a deed of replegiation, founded upon that law, is said to be still extant among the records of the viscount of Arbuthnot. Pellow narrates a similar instance of atrocity, perpetrated after the death of Muley Ismael, emperor of Morocco, in 1727, when the inhabitants of Old Fez, throwing off all allegiance to his successor, slew "Alchyde Boel le Rosea, their old governor, boiling his flesh, and many, through spite, eating thereof, and throwing what they could not eat of it to the dogs."--See PELLOW'S _Travels in South Barbary_. And we may add, to such tales, the oriental tyranny of Zenghis Khan, who immersed seventy Tartar Khans in as many boiling cauldrons. The punishment of boiling seems to have been in use among the English at a very late period, as appears from the following passage in STOWE'S _Chronicle_:--"The 17th of March (1524), Margaret Davy, a maid, was boiled at Smithfield, for poisoning of three households that she had dwelled in." But unquestionably the usual practice of Smithfield cookery, about that period, was by a different application of fire. LAW OF CLAN MACDUFF. Though it is rather foreign to the proper subject of this work, many readers may not be displeased to have some account of the curious privilege enjoyed by the descendants of the famous Macduff, thane of Fife, and thence called the Law of the Clan, or family, bearing his name. When the revolution was accomplished, in which Macbeth was dethroned and slain, Malcolm, sensible of the high services of the thane of Fife, is said, by our historians, to have promised to grant the first three requests he should make. Macduff accordingly demanded, and obtained, first, that he and his successors, lords of Fife, should place the crown on the king's head at his coronation; secondly, that they should lead the vanguard of the army, whenever the royal banner was displayed; and, lastly, this privilege of clan Macduff, whereby any person, being related to Macduff within the ninth degree, and having committed homicide in _chaude melle_ (without premeditation), should, upon flying to Macduff's Cross, and paying a certain fine, obtain remission of their guilt. Such, at least, is the account given of the law by all our historians. Nevertheless, there seems ground to suspect, that the privilege did not amount to an actual and total remission of the crime, but only to a right of being exempted from all other courts of jurisdiction, except that of the lord of Fife. The reader is presented with an old document, in which the law of clan Macduff is pleaded on behalf of one of the ancestors of Moray of Abercairny; and it is remarkable that he does not claim any immunity, but solely a right of being re-pledged, because his cause had already been tried by Robert earl of Fife, the sole competent judge. But the privilege of being answerable only to the chief of their own clan, was, to the descendants of Macduff, almost equivalent to an absolute indemnity. Macduff's Cross was situated near Lindores, on the march dividing Fife from Strathern. The form of this venerable monument unfortunately offended the zeal of the reformer, Knox, and it was totally demolished by his followers. The pedestal, a solid block of stone, alone escaped the besom of destruction. It bore an inscription, which, according to the apocryphal account of Sir Robert Sibbald, was a mixture of Latin, Saxon, Danish, and old French. Skene has preserved two lines:-- Propter Makgridim et hoc oblatum, Accipe Smeleridem super lampade limpidæ labrum _Skene, de verb. sig. voce Clan Macduff._ The full inscription, real or pretended, may be found in Sir Robert Sibbald's _History of Fife_, and in James Cunninghame's _Essay upon Macduff's Cross_, together with what is called a translation, or rather paraphrase, of the piebald jargon which composes it. In Gough's edition of Camden's Britannia, a different and more intelligible version is given, on the authority of a Mr Douglas of Newburgh. The cross was dedicated to a St Macgider. Around the pedestal are tumuli, said to be the graves of those, who, having claimed the privilege of the law, failed in proving their consanguinity to the thane of Fife. Such persons were instantly executed. The people of Newburgh believe, that the spectres of these criminals still haunt the ruined cross, and claim that mercy for their souls, which they had failed to obtain for their mortal existence. The late Lord Hailes gives it as his opinion, that the indulgence was only to last till the tenth generation from Macduff. Fordun and Wintoun state, that the fine, to be paid by the person taking sanctuary, was twenty-four merks for a gentleman, and twelve merks for a yeoman. Skene affirms it to be nine cows, and a colpindach (_i.e._ a quey, or cow of one or two years old).--_Fordun_, lib. 5, cap. 9.; _Wintoun's Cronykel_, b. 6, ch. 19.; _Skene, ut supra._ The last cited author avers, that he has seen an old evident, bearing, that Spens of Wormestoun, being of Macduff's kin, enjoyed this privilege for the slaughter of one Kinnermonth. The following deed, of a like nature, is published from a copy, accurately transcribed from an original deed, in the hands of the late Mr Cuming, of the Herald-Office, Edinburgh, by Messrs Brown and Gibb, librarians to the Faculty of Advocates. The blanks are occasioned by some parts of the deed having been obliterated. "In nomine domini amen. Per presens publicum instrumentum, cunctis pateat evidenter quod anno ejusdem domini mo. cco. nonagesimo primo, indictione quinta decima Pontificatus sanctissimi in Christo Patris, ac domini nostri Clementis divina providentia Papæ septimi anno quarto decimo mensis Decembris die septimo. In mei notarii publici et testium subscriptorum presentia personaliter constitutus, nobilis et potens vir dominus Alexander de Moravia, miles, cum prolucutoribus suis, domino Bernardo de Howden, milite, et Johanne de Logie, vocatus per rotulos indictamentorum super interfectione Willielmi de Spalden coram Justiciariis; viz. Johanne de Drummond milite, Mauricio de Drummond. "Filium Willielmi in judicio sedentibus apud Foulis et potestatus erat, quod ex quo semel pro interfectione dicti hominis antea fuit per indictamentum judicio vocatus et replegiatus ad legem de clan Macduff, per dominum Robertum comitem de Fyfe non tenebatur coram quocunque alio de dicta interfectione judiciari, quosque dicta lex de clan Macduff suo intemerata privilegio de ipso ut prædicitur ad ipsam legem atto. Petens ipsum legaliter deliberari, et per ipsos vel eorum indictamentis sic indebite ulterius non vexari. Quiquidem judicis nolle dictum dominum Alexandrum deliberarie si ipsum bene vellent respectuare eousque quod dominus de Brochepen justiciarius capitalis dicta actione ordinaverunt quod sibi et suo concilio expedientius videretur, quiquidem dominus Alexander et sui prolucutores eorum petitione et prestatione et predictorum judicum responsione, petierunt a me notario publico infra scripto præsentium acta fuerunt hæc apud Foulis in itinere justiciario ibidem tento anno mense die et pontificatu prescriptis per nobilibus et discretis viris dominis Mauricio archidiacono Dumblan, Willielmo de Grame, Vinfrido de Cunyngham, David de Militibus, Moritio de Drummond, Waltero de Drummond, Walter de Moravia, Scutiferis testibus ad præmissa vocatis specialiter et rogatis. "Et ego Johannes Symonis Clericus Dunkeldensis publicus imperial notarius prædicti domini Alexandri comparitione ipsius petitione et protestatione desuper justiciariorum responsione omnibusque aliis et singulis dum sic ut priusquam et agerentur una cum prenominatis testibus presens interfui eaque sic fieri vidi et in hanc forman publicam, redegi manuque mea propria scripsi requisitus et roga om omnium premissorum signo meo consueto signavi." _Alas! that e'er thou raised'st thine eyes,_ _Thine eyes to look on me._--P. 261. v. 5. The idea of Lord Soulis' familiar seems to be derived from the curious story of the spirit Orthone and the lord of Corasse, which, I think, the reader will be pleased to see, in all its Gothic simplicity, as translated from Froissart, by the lord of Berners. "It is great marveyle to consyder one thynge, the whiche was shewed to me in the earl of Foix house at Ortayse, of hym that enfourmed me of the busynesse at Juberothe (Aljubarota, where the Spaniards, with their French allies, were defeated by the Portugueze, A.D. 1385). He showed me one thyng that I have oftentymes thought on sithe, and shall do as longe as I live. As thys squyer told me that of trouthe the next day after the battayl was thus fought, at Juberoth, the erle of Foiz knewe it, whereof I had gret marveyle; for the said Sonday, Monday, and Tuesday, the erle was very pensyf, and so sadde of chere, that no man could have a worde of hym. And all the same three days he wold nat issue out of his chambre, nor speke to any man, though they were never so nere about hym. And, on the Tuesday night, he called to him his brother Arnault Guyllyam, and sayd to hym, with a soft voice, 'Our men hath had to do, whereof I am sorrie; for it is come of them, by their voyage, as I sayd or they departed.' Arnault Guyllyam, who was a sage knight, and knewe right well his brother's condicions (_i.e._ temper), stode still and gave none answere. And than the erle, who thought to declare his mind more plainlye, for long he had borne the trouble thereof in his herte, spake agayn more higher than he dyd before, and sayd, 'By God, Sir Arnault, it is as I saye, and shortely ye shall here tidynges thereof; but the countrey of Byerne, this hundred yere, never lost such a losse, at no journey, as they have done now in Portugal.'--Dyvers knyghtes and squyers, that were there present, and herde hym say so, stode styll, and durst nat speke, but they remembered his wordes. And within a ten days after, they knewe the trouthe thereof, by such as had been at the busynesse, and there they shewed every thinge as it was fortuned at Juberoth. Than the erle renewed agayn his dolour, and all the countreye were in sorrowe, for they had lost their parentes, brethren, chyldren, and frendes. 'Saint Mary!' quod I to the squyer that shewed me thys tale, 'how is it, that the earl of Foiz could know, on one daye, what was done, within a day or two before, beyng so farre off?'--'By my faythe, Sir,' quod he, 'as it appeared well, he knewe it.'--Than he is a diviner,' quod I, 'or els he hath messangers, that flyethe with the wynde, or he must needs have some craft.' The squyer began to laugh, and sayd, "Surely he must know it, by some art of negromansye or otherwyse. To saye the trouthe, we cannot tell how it is, but by our ymaginacions.'--'Sir,' quod I, 'suche ymaginacions as ye have therein, if it please you to shew me, I wold be gladde therof; and if it be suche a thynge as ought to be secrete, I shall nat publysshe it, nor as long as I am in thys countrey I shall never speke worde thereof.'--'I praye you therof,' quod the squyer, 'for I wolde nat it shulde be knowen, that I shulde speke thereof. But I shall shewe you, as dyvers men speketh secretelye, whan they be togyder as frendes.' Than he drew me aparte into a corner of the chapell at Ortayse, and then began his tale, and sayd: "It is well a twenty yeares paste, that there was, in this countre, a barone, called Raymond, lorde of Corasse, whyche is a sevyn leagues from this towne of Ortayse. Thys lord of Corasse had that same tyme, a plee at Avygnon before the Pope, for the dysmes (_i.e._ tithes) of his churche, against a clerk, curate there; the whiche priest was of Catelogne. He was a grete clerk, and claymed to have ryghte of the dysmes, in the towne of Corasse, which was valued to a hundred florens by the yere, and the ryghte that he had, he shewed and proved it; and, by sentence diffynitive, Pope Urbane the fythe, in consistory generall, condempned the knighte, and gave judgement wyth the preest, and of this last judgment he had letters of the Pope, for his possession, and so rode tyll he came into Berne, and there shewed his letters and bulles of the Popes for his possession of his dysmes. The lord of Corasse had gret indignacion at this preest, and came to hym, and said, 'Maister Pers, or Maister Martin (as his name was) thinkest thou, that by reason of thy letters I will lose mine herytage--be nat so hardy, that thou take any thynge that is myne; if thou do, it shall cost thee thy life. Go thy waye into some other place to get thee a benefyce, for of myne herytage thou gettest no parte, and ones for alwayes, I defende thee.' The clerk douted the knight, for he was a cruell man, therefore he durst nat parceyver.--Than he thoughte to return to Avignon, as he dyde; but, whan he departed, he came to the knight, the lord of Corasse, and sayd, 'Sir, by force, and nat by ryght, ye take away from me the ryght of my churche, wherein you greatly hurt your conscience.--I am not so strong in this countrey as ye be; but, sir, knowe, for trouthe, that as soon as I maye, I shall sende to you suche a champyon, whom ye shall doubte more than me.' The knight, who doubted nothyng his thretynges, said, 'God be with thee; do what thou mayst; I doute no more dethe than lyfe; for all thy wordes, I wyll not lese mine herytage.' Thus, the clerk departed from the lord of Corasse, and went I cannot tell wheder to Avygnon or into Catalogne, and forgat nat the promise that he had made to the lord of Corasse or he departed. For whan the knight thoughte leest on hym, about a three monethes after, as the knyght laye on a nyght a-bedde in his castelle of Corasse, with the lady, there came to hym messangers invisible, and made a marvellous tempest and noise in the castell, that it seemed as thoughe the castell shulde have fallen downe, and strak gret strokes at his chambre dore, that the goode ladye, his wife, was soore afrayde. The knight herd alle, but he spoke no word thereof; bycause he wolde shewe no abasshed corage, for he was hardy to abyde all adventures. Thys noyse and tempest was in sundry places of the castell, and dured a long space, and, at length, cessed for that nyght. Than the nexte mornyng, all the servants of the house came to the lord, whan he was risen, and sayd, 'Sir, have you nat herde this night, that we have done?' The lord dissembled, and sayd, 'No! I herd nothyng--what have you herde?' Than they shewed him what noyse they hadde herde, and howe alle the vessel in the kechyn was overtowrned. Than the lord began to laugh, and sayd, 'Yea, sirs! ye dremed, it was nothynge but the wynde.'--'In the name of God!' quod the ladye, 'I herde it well.' The next nyght there was as great noyse and greatter, and suche strokes gyven at his chambre dore and windows, as alle shulde have broken in pieces. The knyghte starte up out of his bedde, and wolde not lette, to demaunde who was at his chambre dore that tyme of the nyght; and anone he was answered by a voyce that sayd, 'I am here.' Quod the knyght, 'Who sent thee hyder?'--'The clerk of Catelogne sent me hyder,' quod the voice, 'to whom thou dost gret wronge, for thou hast taken from hym the ryghtes of his benefyce; I will nat leave thee in rest tylle thou haste made hym a good accompte, so that he be pleased.' Quod the knight, 'What is thy name, that thou art so good a messangere?' Quod he, 'I am called Orthone.'--'Orthone!' quod the knight, 'the servyce of a clerke is lytell profyte for thee. He will putte thee to moche payne if thou beleve hym. I pray thee leave hym, and come and serve me; and I shall give thee goode thanke.' Orthone was redy to aunswere, for he was inamours with the knyghte, and sayde, 'Woldest thou fayne have my servyce?'--'Yea, truly,' quod the knyghte, 'so thou do no hurte to any persone in this house.'--'No more I will do,' quod Orthone, 'for I have no power to do any other yvell, but to awake thee out of thy slepe, or some other.'--'Well,' quod the knyght, 'do as I telle thee, and we shall soone agree, and leave the yvill clerke, for there is no good thyng in him, but to put thee to payne; therefore, come and serve me.'--'Well,' quod Orthone, 'and sythe thou wilt have me, we are agreed.' "So this spyrite Orthone loved so the knight, that oftentymes he wold come and vysyte hym, while he lay in his bedde aslepe, and outher pull him by the eare, or els stryke at his chambre dore or windowe. And, whan the knyght awoke, than he wolde saye, 'Orthone, lat me slepe.'--'Nay,' quod Orthone, 'that will I nat do, tyll I have shewed thee such tydinges as are fallen a-late.' The ladye, the knyghtes wyfe, wolde be sore afrayed, that her heer wald stand up, and hyde herself under the clothes. Than the knyght wolde saye, 'Why, what tidynges hast thou brought me?'--Quod Orthone, 'I am come out of England, or out of Hungry, or some other place, and yesterday I came hens, and such things are fallen, or such other.' So thus the lord of Corasse knewe, by Orthone, every thing that was done in any part of the worlde. And in this case he contynued a fyve yere, and could not kepe his own counsayle, but at last discovered it to the Erle of Foiz. I shall shewe you howe. "The firste yere, the lord of Corasse came on a day to Ortayse, to the Erle of Foiz, and sayd to him, 'Sir, such things are done in England, or in Scotland, or in Almagne, or in any other countrey.' And ever the Erle of Foiz found his sayeing true, and had great marveyle how he shulde knowe such things so shortly. And, on a tyme the Erle of Foiz examined him so straitly, that the lord of Corasse shewed hym alle toguyder howe he knewe it, and howe he came to hym firste. When the Erle of Foiz hard that, he was joyfull, and said, Sir of Corasse, kepe him well in your love; I wolde I hadd suche an messanger; he costeth you nothyng, and ye knowe by him every thynge that is done in the worlde.' The knyght answered, and sayd, 'Sir, that is true.' Thus, the lord of Corasse was served with Orthone a long season. I can nat saye if this Orthone hadde any more masters or nat; but every weke, twise or thrisse, he wolde come and vysite the lord of Corasse, and wolde shewe hym such tidyngs of any thing that was fallen fro whens he came. And ever the lord of Corasse, when he knewe any thynge, he wrote thereof to the Erle of Foiz, who had great joy thereof; for he was the lord, of all the worlde, that most desyred to here news out of straunge places. And, on a tyme, the lord of Corasse was wyth the Erle of Foiz, and the erle demaunded of hym, and sayd, 'Sir of Corasse, dyd ye ever as yet se your messengere?'--'Nay, surely, sir,' quod the knyghte, 'nor I never desyred it.'--'That is marveyle,' quod the erle; 'if I were as well acquainted with him as ye be, I wolde have desyred to have sene hym; wherefore, I pray you, desyre it of hym, and then telle me what form and facyon he is of. I have herd you say howe he speketh as good Gascon as outher you or I.'--'Truely, sir,' quod the knyght, 'so it is: he speketh as well, and as fayr, as any of us both do. And surely, sir, sithe ye counsayle me, I shall do my payne to see him as I can.' And so, on a night, as he lay in his bedde, with the ladye his wife, who was so inured to here Orthone, that she was no longer afrayd of him; than cam Orthone, and pulled the lord by the eare, who was fast asleep, and therewith he awoke, and asked who was there? 'I am here,' quod Orthone. Then he demaunded, 'From whens comest thou nowe?'--'I come,' quod Orthone, 'from Prague, in Eoesme.'--'How farre is that hens?' quod the knyght. 'A threescore days journey,' quod Orthone. 'And art thou come hens so soon?' quod the knyght. 'Yea truely,' quod Orthone, 'I come as fast as the wynde, or faster.'--'Hast thou than winges?' quod the knyght. 'Nay, truely,' quod he. 'How canst thou than flye so fast?' quod the knyght. 'Ye have nothing to do to knowe that,' quod Orthone. 'No?' quod the knyght, 'I wolde gladly se thee, to know what forme thou art of.'--'Well,' quod Orthone, 'ye have nothing to do to knowe: it sufficeth you to here me, and to shewe you tidynges.'--'In faythe,' quod the knyght, 'I wolde love the moche better an I myght se thee ones.'--'Well,' quod Orthone, 'sir, sithe ye have so gret desyre to se me, the first thynge that ye se to-morrowe, whan ye ryse out of your bedde, the same shall be I.'--'That is sufficient,' quod the lorde. 'Go thy way; I gyve thee leave to departe for this nyght.' And the next mornynge the lord rose, and the ladye his wyfe was so afrayd, that she durst not ryse, but fayned herself sicke, and sayd she wolde not ryse. Her husband wolde have had her to have rysen. 'Sir,' quod she, 'than shall I se Orthone, and I wolde not se him by my gode wille.'--'Well,' quod the knyght, 'I wolde gladly se hym.' And so he arose, fayre and easily, out of his bedde, and sat down on his bedde-syde, wenying to have sene Orthone in his owne proper form; but he sawe nothynge wherbye he myght saye, 'Lo, yonder is Orthone.' So that day past, and the next night came, and when the knyght was in his bedde, Orthone came, and began to speke, as he was accustomed. 'Go thy waye,' quod the knyght, 'thou arte but a lyer; thou promysest that I shuld have sene the, and it was not so.'--'No?' quod he, 'and I shewed myself to the.'--'That is not so,' quod the lord. 'Why,' quod Orthone, 'whan ye rose out of your bedde, sawe ye nothynge?' Than the lorde studyed a lytell, and advysed himself well. 'Yes, truely,' quod the knyght, 'now I remember me, as I sate on my bedde-syde, thynking on thee, I sawe two strawes upon the pavement, tumblynge one upon another.'--'That same was I,' quod Orthone, 'into that fourme I dyd putte myself as than.'--'That is not enough to me,' quod the lord; 'I pray thee putte thyselfe into same other fourme, that I may better se and knowe thee.'--'Well,' quod Orthone, 'ye will do so muche, that ye will lose me, and I to go fro you, for ye desyre to moch of me.'--'Nay,' quod the knyght, 'thou shalt not go fro me, let me se thee ones, and I will desyre no more.'--'Well,' quod Orthone, 'ye shall se me to-morrowe; take hede, the first thyng that ye se after ye be out of your chamber, it shall be I.'--'Well,' quod the knyght, 'I am then content. Go thy way, lette me slepe.' And so Orthone departed, and the next mornyng the lord arose, and yssued oute of his chambre, and wente to a windowe, and looked downe into the courte of the castell, and cast about his eyen. And the firste thyng he sawe was a sowe, the greattest that ever he sawe; and she seemed to be so leane and yvell-favoured, that there was nothyng on her but the skynne, and the bones, with long eares, and a long leane snout. The lord of Corasse had marveyle of that leane sowe, and was wery of the sighte of her, and comaunded his men to fetch his houndes, and sayd, 'Let the dogges hunt her to dethe, and devour her.' His servaunts opened the kenells, and lette oute his houndes, and dyd sette them on this sowe. And, at the last, the sowe made a great crye, and looked up to the lord of Corasse as he looked out at a windowe, and so sodaynely vanyshed awaye, no man wyste howe. Than the lord of Corasse entred into his chambre, right pensyve, and than he remembered hym of Orthone, his messangere, and sayd, 'I repent me that I set my houndes on him. It is an adventure, an I here any more of hym; for he sayd to me oftentymes, that if I displeased hym, I shulde lose hym.' The lord sayd trouthe, for never after he came into the castell of Corasse, and also the knyght dyed the same yere next followinge." "So, sir," said the squyer, "thus have I shewed you the lyfe of Orthone, and howe, for a season, he served the lord of Corasse with newe tidynges."--"It is true, sir," sayd I, "but nowe, as to your firste purpose. Is the Earl of Foiz served with suche an messangere?"--"Surely," quod the squyer, it is the ymaginacion of many, that he hath such messengers, for ther is nothynge done in any place, but and he sette his mynde thereto, he will knowe it, and whan men thynke leest thereof. And so dyd he, when the goode knightes and squyers of this country were slayne in Portugale at Juberothe. Some saythe, the knowledge of such thynges hath done hym moche profyte, for and there be but the value of a spone lost in his house, anone he will know where it is.' So, thus, then I toke leave of the squyer, and went to other company; but I bare well away his tale."--BOURCHIER'S _Translation of Froissart's Chronycle_, Vol. II. chap. 37. _He took the keys from the rusty lock,_ _That never was ta'en before._ _He threw them o'er his left shoulder,_ _With mickle care and pain;_ _And he bade it keep them, fathoms deep,_ _Till he returned again._--P. 262, v. 1. 2. The circumstance of Lord Soulis having thrown the key over his left shoulder, and bid the fiend keep it till his return, is noted in the introduction, as a part of his traditionary history. In the course of this autumn (1806), the Earl of Dalkeith being encamped near the Hermitage Castle, for the amusement of shooting, directed some workmen to clear away the rubbish from the door of the dungeon, in order to ascertain its ancient dimensions and architecture. To the great astonishment of the labourers, and of the country people who were watching their proceedings, a rusty iron key, of considerable size, was found among the ruins, a little way from the dungeon door. The well-known tradition instantly passed from one to another; and it was generally agreed, that the malevolent dæmon, who had so long retained possession of the key of the castle, now found himself obliged to resign it to the heir-apparent of the domain. In the course of their researches, a large iron ladle, somewhat resembling that used by plumbers, was also discovered; and both the reliques are now in Lord Dalkeith's possession. In the summer of 1805, another discovery was made in the haunted ruins of Hermitage. In a recess of the wall of the castle, intended apparently for receiving the end of a beam or joist, a boy, seeking for birds nests, found a very curious antique silver-ring, embossed with hearts, the well-known cognisance of the Douglas family, placed interchangeably with quatre-foils all round the circle. The workmanship has an uncommonly rude and ancient appearance, and warrants our believing that it may have belonged to one of the Earls of Angus, who carried the heart and quatre-foils[76] in their arms. They parted with the castle and lordship of Liddesdale, in exchange for that of Bothwell, in the beginning of the 16th century. This ring is now in the editor's possession, by the obliging gift of Mr John Ballantyne, of the house of Ballantyne and Company, so distinguished for typography. FOOTNOTES: [65] Dalrymple's Collections concerning the Scottish History, p. 395. [66] Transactions of the Antiquarian Society of Scotland, Vol. I, p. 269. [67] Index of many records of charters granted between 1309 and 1413, published by W. Robertson, Esq. [68] As the people thronged to the execution of the gallant youth, they were bitterly rebuked by Sir Ingram de Umfraville, an English or Norman knight, then a favourite follower of Robert Bruce. "Why press you," said he, "to see the dismal catastrophe of so generous a knight? I have seen ye throng as eagerly around him to share his bounty, as now to behold his death." With these words he turned from the scene of blood, and, repairing to the king, craved leave to sell his Scottish possessions, and to retire from the country. "My heart," said Umfraville, "will not, for the wealth of the world, permit me to dwell any longer, where I have seen such a knight die by the hands of the executioner." With the king's leave, he interred the body of David de Brechin, sold his lands, and left Scotland for ever. The story is beautifully told by Barbour, book 19th. [69] _Skrieh_--Peep. [70] _Lift_--Sky. [71] _Glamour_--Magical delusion. [72] _Wale_--Chuse. [73] _Puirly_--Softly. [74] _Spreat_--The spreat is a species of water-rush. [75] _Deer-hair_--The deer-hair is a coarse species of pointed grass, which, in May, bears a very minute, but beautiful yellow flower. [76] Some heralds say, that they carried cinque-foils, others trefoils; but all agree they bore some such distinction to mark their cadency from the elder branch of Douglas. THE COUT OF KEELDAR. BY J. LEYDEN. * * * * * The tradition on which the following ballad is founded, derives considerable illustration from the argument of the preceding. It is necessary to add, that the most redoubted adversary of Lord Soulis was the Chief of Keeldar, a Northumbrian district, adjacent to Cumberland, who perished in a sudden encounter on the banks of the Hermitage. Being arrayed in armour of proof, he sustained no hurt in the combat; but stumbling in retreating across the river, the hostile party held him down below water with their lances till he died; and the eddy, in which he perished, is still called the Cout of Keeldar's Pool. His grave, of gigantic size, is pointed out on the banks of the Hermitage, at the western corner of a wall, surrounding the burial-ground of a ruined chapel. As an enemy of Lord Soulis, his memory is revered; and the popular epithet of _Cout_, _i.e._ Colt, is expressive of his strength, stature, and activity. Tradition likewise relates, that the young chief of Mangerton, to whose protection Lord Soulis had, in some eminent jeopardy, been indebted for his life, was decoyed by that faithless tyrant into his castle of Hermitage, and insidiously murdered at a feast. The Keeldar Stone, by which the Northumbrian chief passed in his incursion, is still pointed out, as a boundary mark, on the confines of Jed forest, and Northumberland. It is a rough insulated mass, of considerable dimensions, and it is held unlucky to ride thrice _withershins_[77] around it. Keeldar Castle is now a hunting seat, belonging to the Duke of Northumberland. The _Brown Man of the Muirs_ is a Fairy of the most malignant order, the genuine _duergar_. Walsingham mentions a story of an unfortunate youth, whose brains were extracted from his skull, during his sleep, by this malicious being. Owing to this operation, he remained insane many years, till the virgin Mary courteously restored his brains to their station. THE COUT OF KEELDAR. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED--J. LEYDEN. * * * * * The eiry blood-hound howled by night, The streamers[78] flaunted red, Till broken streaks of flaky light O'er Keeldar's mountains spread. The lady sigh'd as Keeldar rose: "Come tell me, dear love mine, "Go you to hunt where Keeldar flows, "Or on the banks of Tyne?" "The heath-bell blows where Keeldar flows, "By Tyne the primrose pale; "But now we ride on the Scottish side, "To hunt in Liddesdale." "Gin you will ride on the Scottish side, "Sore must thy Margaret mourn; "For Soulis abhorred is Lyddall's lord, "And I fear you'll ne'er return. "The axe he bears, it hacks and tears; "'Tis formed of an earth-fast flint; "No armour of knight, tho' ever so wight, "Can bear its deadly dint. "No danger he fears, for a charm'd sword he wears; "Of adderstone the hilt; "No Tynedale knight had ever such might, "But his heart-blood was spilt." "In my plume is seen the holly green, "With the leaves of the rowan tree; "And my casque of sand, by a mermaid's hand, "Was formed beneath the sea. "Then, Margaret dear, have thou no fear! "That bodes no ill to me, "Though never a knight, by mortal might, "Could match his gramarye."-- Then forward bound both horse and hound, And rattle o'er the vale; As the wintry breeze, through leafless trees, Drives on the pattering hail. Behind their course the English fells In deepening blue retire; Till soon before them boldly swells The muir of dun Redswire. And when they reached the Redswire high, Soft beam'd the rising sun; But formless shadows seemed to fly Along the muir-land dun. And when he reached the Redswire high, His bugle Keeldar blew; And round did float, with clamorous note And scream, the hoarse curlew. The next blast that young Keeldar blew, The wind grew deadly still; But the sleek fern, with fingery leaves, Waved wildly o'er the hill. The third blast that young Keeldar blew, Still stood the limber fern; And a wee man, of swarthy hue, Up started by a cairn. His russet weeds were brown as heath, That clothes the upland fell; And the hair of his head was frizzly red, As the purple heather bell. An urchin,[79] clad in prickles red, Clung cowring to his arm; The hounds they howl'd, and backward fled, As struck by Fairy charm. "Why rises high the stag-hound's cry, "Where stag-hound ne'er should be? "Why wakes that horn the silent morn, "Without the leave of me?" "Brown dwarf, that o'er the muir-land strays, "Thy name to Keeldar tell!"-- "The Brown Man of the Muirs, who stays "Beneath the heather bell. "'Tis sweet, beneath the heather-bell, "To live in autumn brown; "And sweet to hear the lav'rocks swell "Far far from tower and town. "But woe betide the shrilling horn, "The chace's surly cheer! "And ever that hunter is forlorn, "Whom first at morn I hear." Says, "Weal nor woe, nor friend nor foe, "In thee we hope nor dread." But, ere the bugles green could blow, The Wee Brown Man had fled. And onward, onward, hound and horse, Young Keeldar's band have gone; And soon they wheel, in rapid course, Around the Keeldar Stone. Green vervain round its base did creep, A powerful seed that bore; And oft, of yore, its channels deep Were stained with human gore. And still, when blood-drops, clotted thin, Hang the grey moss upon, The spirit murmurs from within, And shakes the rocking stone. Around, around, young Keeldar wound, And called, in scornful tone, With him to pass the barrier ground, The Spirit of the Stone. The rude crag rocked; "I come for death! "I come to work thy woe!" And 'twas the Brown Man of the Heath, That murmured from below. But onward, onward, Keeldar past, Swift as the winter wind, When, hovering on the driving blast, The snow-flakes fall behind. They passed the muir of berries blae, The stone cross on the lee; They reached the green, the bonny brae, Beneath the birchen tree. This is the bonny brae, the green, Yet sacred to the brave, Where still, of ancient size, is seen Gigantic Keeldar's grave. The lonely shepherd loves to mark The daisy springing fair, Where weeps the birch of silver bark, With long dishevelled hair. The grave is green, and round is spread The curling lady-fern; That fatal day the mould was red, No moss was on the cairn. And next they passed the chapel there; The holy ground was by, Where many a stone is sculptured fair, To mark where warriors lie. And here, beside the mountain flood, A massy castle frown'd, Since first the Pictish race in blood The haunted pile did found. The restless stream its rocky base Assails with ceaseless din; And many a troubled spirit strays The dungeons dark within. Soon from the lofty tower there hied A knight across the vale; "I greet your master well," he cried, "From Soulis of Liddesdale. "He heard your bugle's echoing call, "In his green garden bower; "And bids you to his festive hall, "Within his ancient tower." Young Keeldar called his hunter train; "For doubtful cheer prepare! "And, as you open force disdain, "Of secret guile beware. "'Twas here for Mangerton's brave lord "A bloody feast was set; "Who, weetless, at the festal board, "The bull's broad frontlet met. "Then ever, at uncourteous feast, "Keep every man his brand; "And, as you mid his friends are placed, "Range on the better hand. "And, if the bull's ill-omened head "Appear to grace the feast, "Your whingers, with unerring speed, "Plunge in each neighbour's breast." In Hermitage they sat at dine, In pomp and proud array; And oft they filled the blood-red wine, While merry minstrels play. And many a hunting song they sung, And song of game and glee; Then tuned to plaintive strains their tongue, "Of Scotland's luve and lee." To wilder measures next they turn: "The Black Black Bull of Noroway!" Sudden the tapers cease to burn, The minstrels cease to play. Each hunter bold, of Keeldar's train, Sat an enchanted man; For cold as ice, through every vein, The freezing life-blood ran. Each rigid hand the whinger wrung, Each gazed with glaring eye; But Keeldar from the table sprung, Unharmed by gramarye. He burst the door; the roofs resound; With yells the castle rung; Before him, with a sudden bound, His favourite blood-hound sprung. Ere he could pass, the door was barr'd; And, grating harsh from under, With creaking, jarring noise, was heard A sound like distant thunder. The iron clash, the grinding sound, Announce the dire sword-mill; The piteous howlings of the hound The dreadful dungeon fill. With breath drawn in, the murderous crew Stood listening to the yell; And greater still their wonder grew, As on their ear it fell. They listen'd for a human shriek Amid the jarring sound; They only heard, in echoes weak, The murmurs of the hound. The death-bell rung, and wide were flung The castle gates amain; While hurry out the armed rout, And marshal on the plain. Ah! ne'er before in border feud Was seen so dire a fray! Through glittering lances Keeldar hewed A red corse-paven way. His helmet, formed of mermaid sand, No lethal brand could dint; No other arms could e'er withstand The axe of earth-fast flint. In Keeldar's plume the holly green, And rowan leaves, nod on, And vain Lord Soulis's sword was seen, Though the hilt was adderstone. Then up the Wee Brown Man he rose, By Soulis of Liddesdale; "In vain," he said, "a thousand blows "Assail the charmed mail. "In vain by land your arrows glide, "In vain your faulchions gleam-- "No spell can stay the living tide, "Or charm the rushing stream." And now, young Keeldar reached the stream, Above the foamy lin; The border lances round him gleam, And force the warrior in. The holly floated to the side, And the leaf of the rowan pale: Alas! no spell could charm the tide, Nor the lance of Liddesdale. Swift was the Cout o' Keeldar's course, Along the lily lee; But home came never hound nor horse, And never home came he. Where weeps the birch with branches green, Without the holy ground, Between two old gray stones is seen The warrior's ridgy mound. And the hunters bold, of Keeldar's train, Within yon castle's wall, In a deadly sleep must ay remain, Till the ruined towers down fall. Each in his hunter's garb array'd, Each holds his bugle horn; Their keen hounds at their feet are laid, That ne'er shall wake the morn. NOTES ON THE COUT OF KEELDAR. * * * * * _'Tis formed of an earth-fast flint._--P. 287. v. 2. An earth-fast stone, or an insulated stone, inclosed in a bed of earth, is supposed to possess peculiar properties. It is frequently applied to sprains and bruises, and used to dissipate swellings; but its blow is reckoned uncommonly severe. _Of adderstone the hilt._--P. 287. v. 3. The adderstone, among the Scottish peasantry, is held in almost as high veneration, as, among the Gauls, the _ovum anguinum_, described by Pliny.--_Natural History_, l. xxix. c. 3. The name is applied to celts, and other round perforated stones. The vulgar suppose them to be perforated by the stings of adders. _With the leaves of the rowan tree._--P. 287. v. 4. The rowan tree, or mountain ash, is still used by the peasantry, to avert the effects of charms and witchcraft. An inferior degree of the same influence is supposed to reside in many evergreens; as the holly, and the bay. With the leaves of the bay, the English and Welch peasants were lately accustomed to adorn their doors at midsummer.--Vide BRAND's _Vulgar Antiquities_. _And shakes the rocking stone._--P. 291. v. 1. The rocking stone, commonly reckoned a Druidical monument, has always been held in superstitious veneration by the people. The popular opinion, which supposes them to be inhabited by a spirit, coincides with that of the ancient Icelanders, who worshipped the dæmons, which they believed to inhabit great stones. It is related in the _Kristni Saga_, chap. 2, that the first Icelandic bishop, by chaunting a hymn over one of these sacred stones, immediately after his arrival in the island, split it, expelled the spirit, and converted its worshippers to Christianity. The herb vervain, revered by the Druids, was also reckoned a powerful charm by the common people; and the author recollects a popular rhyme, supposed to be addressed to a young woman by the devil, who attempted to seduce her in the shape of a handsome young man: Gin ye wish to be leman mine, Lay off the St John's wort, and the vervine. By his repugnance to these sacred plants, his mistress discovered the cloven foot. _Since first the Pictish race in blood._--P. 292. v. 5. Castles, remarkable for size, strength, and antiquity, are, by the common people, commonly attributed to the Picts, or Pechs, who are not supposed to have trusted solely to their skill in masonry, in constructing these edifices, but are believed to have bathed the foundation-stone with human blood, in order to propitiate the spirit of the soil. Similar to this is the Gaelic tradition, according to which St Columba is supposed to have been forced to bury St Oran alive, beneath the foundation of his monastery, in order to propitiate the spirits of the soil, who demolished by night what was built during the day. _And, if the bull's ill-omened head, &c._--P. 294. v. 2. To present a bull's head before a person at a feast, was, in the ancient turbulent times of Scotland, a common signal for his assassination. Thus, Lindsay of Pitscottie relates in his History, p. 17, that "efter the dinner was endit, once alle the delicate courses taken away, the chancellor (Sir William Crichton) presentit the bullis head befoir the Earle of Douglas, in signe and toaken of condemnation to the death." _Then tuned to plaintive strains their tongue,_ _"Of Scotland's luve and lee."_--P. 294. v. 4. The most ancient Scottish song known is that which is here alluded to, and is thus given by Wintoun, in his Chronykil, Vol. I. p. 401. Quhen Alysandyr our kyng wes dede, That Scotland led in luve and le, Away wes sons of ale and brede, Of wyne and wax, of gamyn and gle: Oure gold wes changyd into lede, Cryst, borne into virgynyte, Succour Scotland and remede, That stad is in perplexyte. That alluded to in the following verse, is a wild fanciful popular tale of enchantment, termed "_The Black Bull of Noroway_." The author is inclined to believe it the same story with the romance of the "_Three Futtit Dog of Noroway_," the title of which is mentioned in the _Complaynt of Scotland_. _The iron clash, the grinding sound,_ _Announce the dire sword-mill._--P. 295. v. 5. The author is unable to produce any authority, that the execrable machine, the sword-mill, so well known on the continent, was ever employed in Scotland; but he believes the vestiges of something very similar have been discovered in the ruins of old castles. _No spell can stay the living tide._--P. 297. v. 3. That no species of magic had any effect over a running stream, was a common opinion among the vulgar, and is alluded to in Burns's admirable tale of _Tam o' Shanter_. FOOTNOTES: [77] _Withershins._--German, _widdersins_. A direction contrary to the course of the sun; from left, namely, to right. [78] _Streamers_--Northern lights. [79] _Urchin_--Hedge-hog. GLENFINLAS, OR LORD RONALD'S CORONACH.[80] BY THE EDITOR. * * * * * The simple tradition, upon which the following stanzas are founded, runs thus: While two Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary _bathy_ (a hut, built for the purpose of hunting), and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish, that they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the syren, who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut: the other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain, consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and devoured by the fiend, into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called the Glen of the Green Women. Glenfinlas is a tract of forest-ground, lying in the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from Callender, in Menteith. It was formerly a royal forest, and now belongs to the Earl of Moray. This country, as well as the adjacent district of Balquidder, was, in times of yore, chiefly inhabited by the Macgregors. To the west of the forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch Katrine, and its romantic avenue, called the Troshachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoirlich, are mountains in the same district, and at no great distance from Glenfinlas. The river Teith passes Callender and the castle of Doune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The pass of Lenny is immediately above Callender, and is the principal access to the Highlands, from that town. Glenartney is a forest, near Benvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract of Alpine scenery. This ballad first appeared in the _Tales of Wonder_. GLENFINLAS, OR LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. * * * * * "For them the viewless forms of air obey, "Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair; "They know what spirit brews the stormful day, "And heartless oft, like moody madness, stare, "To see the phantom-train their secret work prepare."[81] * * * * * "O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'![82] "The pride of Albin's line is o'er, "And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree; "We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more! O, sprung from great Macgillianore, The chief that never feared a foe, How matchless was thy broad claymore, How deadly thine unerring bow! Well can the Saxon widows tell, How, on the Teith's resounding shore, The boldest Lowland warriors fell, As down from Lenny's pass you bore. But o'er his hills, on festal day, How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree; While youths and maids the light strathspey So nimbly danced with Highland glee. Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell, E'en age forgot his tresses hoar; But now the loud lament we swell, O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more! From distant isles a Chieftain came, The joys of Ronald's halls to find, And chase with him the dark-brown game, That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind. 'Twas Moy; whom in Columba's isle The seer's prophetic spirit found, As, with a minstrel's fire the while, He waked his harp's harmonious sound. Full many a spell to him was known, Which wandering spirits shrink to hear; And many a lay of potent tone, Was never meant for mortal ear. For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood, High converse with the dead they hold, And oft espy the fated shroud, That shall the future corpse enfold. O so it fell, that on a day, To rouse the red deer from their den, The chiefs have ta'en their distant way, And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas glen. No vassals wait their sports to aid, To watch their safety, deck their board? Their simple dress, the Highland plaid, Their trusty guard, the Highland sword. Three summer days, through brake and dell, Their whistling shafts successful flew; And still, when dewy evening fell, The quarry to their hut they drew. In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nook The solitary cabin stood, Fast by Moneira's sullen brook, Which murmurs through that lonely wood. Soft fell the night, the sky was calm, When three successive days had flown; And summer mist in dewy balm Steep'd heathy bank, and mossy stone. The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes, Afar her dubious radiance shed, Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes, And resting on Benledi's head. Now in their hut, in social guise, Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy; And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes, As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy. --"What lack we here to crown our bliss, "While thus the pulse of joy beats high? "What, but fair woman's yielding kiss, "Her panting breath, and melting eye? "To chase the deer of yonder shades, "This morning left their father's pile "The fairest of our mountain maids, "The daughters of the proud Glengyle. "Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart, "And dropp'd the tear, and heav'd the sigh; "But vain the lover's wily art, "Beneath a sister's watchful eye. "But thou may'st teach that guardian fair, "While far with Mary I am flown, "Of other hearts to cease her care, "And find it hard to guard her own. "Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see "The lovely Flora of Glengyle, "Unmindful of her charge and me, "Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile. "Or, if she chuse a melting tale, "All underneath the greenwood bough, "Will good St Oran's rule prevail, "Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?"-- --"Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death, "No more on me shall rapture rise, "Responsive to the panting breath, "Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. "E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe, "Where sunk my hopes of love and fame, "I bade my harp's wild wailings flow, "On me the Seer's sad spirit came. "The last dread curse of angry heaven, "With ghastly sights and sounds of woe, "To dash each glimpse of joy, was given-- "The gift, the future ill to know. "The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn, "So gaily part from Oban's bay, "My eye beheld her dash'd and torn, "Far on the rocky Colonsay. "Thy Fergus too--thy sister's son, "Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's power, "As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe, "He left the skirts of huge Benmore. "Thou only saw'st their tartans[83] wave, "As down Benvoirlich's side they wound, "Heard'st but the pibroch[84], answering brave "To many a target clanking round. "I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears, "I saw the wound his bosom bore, "When on the serried Saxon spears "He pour'd his clan's resistless roar. "And thou, who bidst me think of bliss, "And bidst my heart awake to glee, "And court, like thee, the wanton kiss-- "That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee! "I see the death damps chill thy brow; "I hear thy Warning Spirit cry; "The corpse-lights dance--they're gone, and now.... "No more is given to gifted eye!"---- ----"Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams, "Sad prophet of the evil hour! "Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams, "Because to-morrow's storm may lour? "Or false, or sooth, thy words of woe, "Clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear; "His blood shall bound at rapture's glow, "Though doom'd to stain the Saxon spear. "E'en now, to meet me in yon dell, "My Mary's buskins brush the dew;" He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell, But call'd his dogs, and gay withdrew. Within an hour return'd each hound; In rush'd the rouzers of the deer; They howl'd in melancholy sound, Then closely couch beside the seer. No Ronald yet; though midnight came, And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams, As, bending o'er the dying flame, He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams. Sudden the hounds erect their ears, And sudden cease their moaning howl; Close press'd to Moy, they mark their fears By shivering limbs, and stifled growl. Untouch'd, the harp began to ring, As softly, slowly, oped the door; And shook responsive every string, As light a footstep press'd the floor. And, by the watch-fire's glimmering light, Close by the minstrel's side was seen An huntress maid, in beauty bright, All dropping wet her robes of green. All dropping wet her garments seem; Chill'd was her cheek, her bosom bare, As, bending o'er the dying gleam, She wrung the moisture from her hair. With maiden blush she softly said, "O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen, "In deep Glenfinlas' moon-light glade, "A lovely maid in vest of green: "With her a chief in Highland pride; "His shoulders bear the hunter's bow, "The mountain dirk adorns his side, "Far on the wind his tartans flow?" "And who art thou? and who are they?" All ghastly gazing, Moy replied: "And why, beneath the moon's pale ray, "Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side?" "Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide, "Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle, "Our father's towers o'erhang her side, "The castle of the bold Glengyle. "To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer, "Our woodland course this morn we bore, "And haply met, while wandering here, "The son of great Macgillianore. "O aid me, then, to seek the pair, "Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost; "Alone, I dare not venture there, "Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost." "Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there; "Then, first, my own sad vow to keep, "Here will I pour my midnight prayer, "Which still must rise when mortals sleep." "O first, for pity's gentle sake, "Guide a lone wanderer on her way! "For I must cross the haunted brake, "And reach my father's towers ere day." "First, three times tell each Ave-bead, "And thrice a Pater-noster say; "Then kiss with me the holy reed; "So shall we safely wind our way." "O shame to knighthood, strange and foul! "Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow, "And shroud thee in the monkish cowl, "Which best befits thy sullen vow. "Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, "Thy heart was froze to love and joy, "When gaily rung thy raptured lyre, "To wanton Morna's melting eye." Wild stared the Minstrel's eyes of flame, And high his sable locks arose, And quick his colour went and came, As fear and rage alternate rose. "And thou! when by the blazing oak "I lay, to her and love resign'd, "Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke, "Or sailed ye on the midnight wind! "Not thine a race of mortal blood, "Nor old Glengyle's pretended line; "Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood, "Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine." He mutter'd thrice St Oran's rhyme, And thrice St Fillan's powerful prayer; Then turn'd him to the eastern clime, And sternly shook his coal-black hair. And, bending o'er his harp, he flung His wildest witch-notes on the wind; And loud, and high, and strange, they rung, As many a magic change they find. Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form, Till to the roof her stature grew; Then, mingling with the rising storm, With one wild yell, away she flew. Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear: The slender hut in fragments flew; But not a lock of Moy's loose hair Was waved by wind, or wet by dew. Wild mingling with the howling gale, Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise; High o'er the minstrel's head they sail, And die amid the northern skies. The voice of thunder shook the wood, As ceased the more than mortal yell; And, spattering foul, a shower of blood Upon the hissing firebrands fell. Next, dropp'd from high a mangled arm; The fingers strain'd an half-drawn blade: And last, the life-blood streaming warm, Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. Oft o'er that head, in battling field, Stream'd the proud crest of high Benmore; That arm the broad claymore could wield, Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore. Woe to Moneira's sullen rills! Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen! There never son of Albin's hills Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen! E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet At noon shall shun that sheltering den, Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet The wayward Ladies of the Glen. And we--behind the chieftain's shield, No more shall we in safety dwell; None leads the people to the field-- And we the loud lament must swell. O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'! The pride of Albin's line is o'er, And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree; We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more! NOTES ON GLENFINLAS. * * * * * _Well can the Saxon widows tell._--P. 306. v. 2. The term Sassenach, or Saxon, is applied by the Highlanders to their low-country neighbours. _How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree._--P. 306. v. 3. The fires lighted by the Highlanders on the first of May, in compliance with a custom derived from the Pagan times, are termed, _The Beltane-Tree_. It is a festival celebrated with various superstitious rites, both in the north of Scotland and in Wales. _The seer's prophetic spirit found, &c._--P. 307. v. 1. I can only describe the second sight, by adopting Dr Johnson's definition, who calls it "An impression, either by the mind upon the eye, or by the eye upon the mind, by which things distant and future are perceived and seen as if they were present." To which I would only add, that the spectral appearances, thus presented, usually presage misfortune; that the faculty is painful to those who suppose they possess it; and that they usually acquire it, while themselves under the pressure of melancholy. _Will good St Oran's rule prevail._--P. 310. v. 1. St Oran was a friend and follower of St Columba, and was buried in Icolmkill. His pretensions to be a saint were rather dubious. According to the legend, he consented to be buried alive, in order to propitiate certain dæmons of the soil, who obstructed the attempts of Columba to build a chapel. Columba caused the body of his friend to be dug up, after three days had elapsed; when Oran, to the horror and scandal of the assistants, declared, that there was neither a God, a judgment, nor a future state! He had no time to make further discoveries, for Columba caused the earth once more to be shovelled over him with the utmost dispatch. The chapel, however, and the cemetery, was called _Reilig Ouran_; and, in memory of his rigid celibacy, no female was permitted to pay her devotions, or be buried, in that place. This is the rule alluded to in the poem. _And thrice St Fillan's powerful prayer._--P. 316. v. 5. St Fillan has given his name to many chapels, holy fountains, &c. in Scotland. He was, according to Camerarius, an abbot of Pittenweem, in Fife; from which situation he retired, and died a hermit in the wilds of Glenurchy, A.D. 649. While engaged in transcribing the Scriptures, his left hand was observed to send forth such a splendour, as to afford light to that with which he wrote; a miracle which saved many candles to the convent, as St Fillan used to spend whole nights in that exercise. The 9th of January was dedicated to this saint, who gave his name to Kilfillan, in Renfrew, and St Phillans, or Forgend, in Fife. Lesley, lib. 7., tells us, that Robert the Bruce was possessed of Fillan's miraculous and luminous arm, which he inclosed in a silver shrine, and had it carried at the head of his army. Previous to the battle of Bannockburn, the king's chaplain, a man of little faith, abstracted the relique, and deposited it in some place of security, lest it should fall into the hands of the English. But, lo! while Robert was addressing his prayers to the empty casket, it was observed to open and shut suddenly; and, on inspection, the saint was found to have himself deposited his arm in the shrine, as an assurance of victory. Such is the tale of Lesley. But though Bruce little needed that the arm of St Fillan should assist his own, he dedicated to him, in gratitude, a priory at Killin, upon Loch Tay. In the Scots Magazine for July 1802, (a national periodical publication, which has lately revived with considerable energy,) there is a copy of a very curious crown grant, dated 11th July, 1487, by which James III. confirms to Malice Doire, an inhabitant of Strathfillan, in Perthshire, the peaceable exercise and enjoyment of a relique of St Fillan, called the Quegrich, which he, and his predecessors, are said to have possessed since the days of Robert Bruce. As the Quegrich was used to cure diseases, this document is, probably, the most ancient patent ever granted for a quack medicine. The ingenious correspondent, by whom it is furnished, further observes, that additional particulars, concerning St Fillan, are to be found in _Ballenden's Boece_, Book 4. folio ccxiii., and in PENNANT's _Tour in Scotland_, 1772, pp. 11. 15. FOOTNOTES: [80] _Coronach_ is the lamentation for a deceased warrior, sung by the aged of the clan. [81] [Transcriber: Citation from a poem by William Collins] [82] _O hone a rie'_ signifies--"Alas for the prince, or chief." [83] _Tartans_--The full Highland dress, made of the chequered stuff so termed. [84] _Pibroch_--A piece of martial music, adapted to the Highland bag-pipe. THE MERMAID. J. LEYDEN. * * * * * The following poem is founded upon a Gaelic traditional ballad, called _Macphail of Colonsay, and the Mermaid of Corrivrekin_. The dangerous gulf of Corrivrekin lies between the islands of Jura and Scarba, and the superstition of the islanders has tenanted its shelves and eddies with all the fabulous monsters and dæmons of the ocean. Among these, according to a universal tradition, the Mermaid is the most remarkable. In her dwelling, and in her appearance, the mermaid of the northern nations resembles the syren of the ancients. The appendages of a comb and mirror are probably of Celtic invention. The Gaelic story bears, that Macphail of Colonsay was carried off by a mermaid, while passing the gulf above mentioned: that they resided together, in a grotto beneath the sea, for several years, during which time she bore him five children: but, finally, he tired of her society, and, having prevailed upon her to carry him near the shore of Colonsay, he escaped to land. The inhabitants of the Isle of Man have a number of such stories, which may be found in Waldron. One bears, that a very beautiful mermaid fell in love with a young shepherd, who kept his flocks beside a creek, much frequented by these marine people. She frequently caressed him, and brought him presents of coral, fine pearls, and every valuable production of the ocean. Once upon a time, as she threw her arms eagerly round him, he suspected her of a design to draw him into the sea, and, struggling hard, disengaged himself from her embrace, and ran away. But the mermaid resented either the suspicion, or the disappointment, so highly, that she threw a stone after him, and flung herself into the sea, whence she never returned. The youth, though but slightly struck with the pebble, felt, from that moment, the most excruciating agony, and died at the end of seven days.--_Waldron's Works_, p. 176. Another tradition of the same island affirms, that one of these amphibious damsels was caught in a net, and brought to land, by some fishers, who had spread a snare for the denizens of the ocean. She was shaped like the most beautiful female down to the waist, but below trailed a voluminous fish's tail, with spreading fins. As she would neither eat nor speak, (though they knew she had the power of language), they became apprehensive that the island would be visited with some strange calamity, if she should die for want of food; and therefore, on the third night, they left the door open, that she might escape. Accordingly, she did not fail to embrace the opportunity; but, gliding with incredible swiftness to the sea-side, she plunged herself into the waters, and was welcomed by a number of her own species, who were heard to enquire, what she had seen among the natives of the earth; "Nothing," she answered, "wonderful, except that they were silly enough to throw away the water in which they had boiled their eggs." Collins, in his notes upon the line, "Mona, long hid from those who sail the main," explains it, by a similar Celtic tradition. It seems, a mermaid had become so much charmed with a young man, who walked upon the beach, that she made love to him; and, being rejected with scorn, she excited, by enchantment, a mist, which long concealed the island from all navigators. I must mention another Mankish tradition, because, being derived from the common source of Celtic mythology, they appear the most natural illustrations of the Hebridean tale. About fifty years before Waldron went to reside in Man (for there were living witnesses of the legend, when he was upon the island), a project was undertaken, to fish treasures up from the deep, by means of a diving-bell. A venturous fellow, accordingly, descended, and kept pulling for more rope, till all they had on board was expended. This must have been no small quantity, for a skilful mathematician, who was on board, judging from the proportion of line let down, declared, that the adventurer must have descended at least double the number of leagues which the moon is computed to be distant from the earth. At such a depth, wonders might be expected, and wonderful was the account given by the adventurer, when drawn up to the air. "After," said he, "I had passed the region of fishes, I descended into a pure element, clear as the air in the serenest and most unclouded day, through which, as I passed, I saw the bottom of the watery world, paved with coral, and a shining kind of pebbles, which glittered like the sun-beams, reflected on a glass. I longed to tread the delightful paths, and never felt more exquisite delight, than when the machine, I was inclosed in, grazed upon it. "On looking through the little windows of my prison, I saw large streets and squares on every side, ornamented with huge pyramids of crystal, not inferior in brightness to the finest diamonds; and the most beautiful building, not of stone, nor brick, but of mother-of-pearl, and embossed in various figures, with shells of all colours. The passage, which led to one of these magnificent apartments, being open, I endeavoured, with my whole strength, to move my enclosure towards it; which I did, though with great difficulty, and very slowly. At last, however, I got entrance into a very spacious room, in the midst of which stood a large amber table, with several chairs round, of the same. The floor of it was composed of rough diamonds, topazes, emeralds, rubies, and pearls. Here I doubted not but to make my voyage as profitable as it was pleasant; for, could I have brought with me but a few of these, they would have been of more value than all we could hope for in a thousand wrecks; but they were so closely wedged in, and so strongly cemented by time, that they were not to be unfastened. I saw several chains, carcanets, and rings, of all manner of precious stones, finely cut, and set after our manner; which I suppose had been the prize of the winds and waves: these were hanging loosely on the jasper walls, by strings made of rushes, which I might easily have taken down; but, as I had edged myself within half a foot reach of them, I was unfortunately drawn back through your want of line. In my return, I saw several comely _mermen_, and beautiful _mermaids_, the inhabitants of this blissful realm, swiftly descending towards it; but they seemed frighted at my appearance, and glided at a distance from me, taking me, no doubt, for some monstrous and new-created species."--_Waldron_, _ibidem_. It would be very easy to enlarge this introduction, by quoting a variety of authors, concerning the supposed existence of these marine people. The reader may consult the _Telliamed_ of M. Maillet, who, in support of the Neptunist system of geology, has collected a variety of legends, respecting mermen and mermaids, p. 230, _et sequen._ Much information may also be derived from Pontoppidan's _Natural History of Norway_, who fails not to people her seas with this amphibious race.[85] An older authority is to be found in the _Kongs skugg-sio_, or Royal Mirror, written, as it is believed, about 1170. The mermen, there mentioned, are termed _hafstrambur_ (sea-giants), and are said to have the upper parts resembling the human race; but the author, with becoming diffidence, declines to state, positively, whether they are equipped with a dolphin's tail. The female monster is called _Mar-Gyga_ (sea-giantess), and is averred, certainly, to drag a fish's train. She appears, generally, in the act of devouring fish, which she has caught. According to the apparent voracity of her appetite, the sailors pretended to guess what chance they had of saving their lives in the tempests, which always followed her appearance.--_Speculum Regale_, 1768, p. 166. Mermaids were sometimes supposed to be possessed of supernatural powers. Resenius, in his life of Frederick II., gives us an account of a syren, who not only prophesied future events, but, as might have been expected from the element in which she dwelt, preached vehemently against the sin of drunkenness. The mermaid of Corrivrekin possessed the power of occasionally resigning her scaly train; and the Celtic tradition bears, that when, from choice or necessity, she was invested with that appendage, her manners were more stern and savage than when her form was entirely human. Of course, she warned her lover not to come into her presence, when she was thus transformed. This belief is alluded to in the following ballad. The beauty of the syrens is celebrated in the old romances of chivalry. Doolin, upon beholding, for the first time in his life, a beautiful female, exclaims, "_Par sainte Marie, si belle creature ne vis je oncque en ma vie! Je crois que c'est un ange du ciel, ou une seraine de mer; Je crois que homme n'engendra oncque si belle creature._"--La Fleur de Battailles. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY CHARLOTTE CAMPBELL, WITH _THE MERMAID_. * * * * * To brighter charms depart, my simple lay, Than graced of old the maid of Colonsay, When her fond lover, lessening from her view, With eyes reverted, o'er the surge withdrew! But, happier still, should lovely Campbell sing Thy plaintive numbers to the trembling string, The mermaid's melting strains would yield to thee, Though poured diffusive o'er the silver sea. Go boldly forth--but ah! the listening throng, Rapt by the syren, would forget the song! Lo! while they pause, nor dare to gaze around, Afraid to break the soft enchanting sound, While swells to sympathy each fluttering heart, 'Tis not the poet's, but the syren's art. Go forth, devoid of fear, my simple lay! First heard, returning from Iona's bay, When round our bark the shades of evening drew, And broken slumbers prest our weary crew; While round the prow the sea-fire, flashing bright, Shed a strange lustre o'er the waste of night; While harsh and dismal screamed the diving gull, Round the dark rocks that wall the coast of Mull; As through black reefs we held our venturous way, I caught the wild traditionary lay. A wreath, no more in black Iona's isle To bloom--but graced by high-born Beauty's smile. THE MERMAID. * * * * * On Jura's heath how sweetly swell The murmurs of the mountain bee, How softly mourns the writhed shell Of Jura's shore, its parent sea! But softer, floating o'er the deep, The mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay, That charmed the dancing waves to sleep, Before the bark of Colonsay. Aloft the purple pennons wave, As parting gay from Crinan's shore, From Morven's wars the seamen brave Their gallant chieftain homeward bore. In youth's gay bloom, the brave Macphail Still blamed the lingering bark's delay; For her he chid the flagging sail, The lovely maid of Colonsay. "And raise," he cried, "the song of love, "The maiden sung with tearful smile, "When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove, "We left afar the lonely isle! 'When on this ring of ruby red 'Shall die,' she said, 'the crimson hue, 'Know that thy favourite fair is dead, 'Or proves to thee and love untrue.' Now, lightly poised, the rising oar Disperses wide the foamy spray, And, echoing far o'er Crinan's shore, Resounds the song of Colonsay. "Softly blow, thou western breeze, "Softly rustle through the sail, "Sooth to rest the furrowy seas, "Before my love, sweet western gale! "Where the wave is tinged with red, "And the russet sea-leaves grow, "Mariners, with prudent dread, "Shun the shelving reefs below. "As you pass through Jura's sound, "Bend your course by Scarba's shore, "Shun, O shun, the gulf profound, "Where Corrivrekin's surges roar! "If, from that unbottomed deep, "With wrinkled form and writhed train, "O'er the verge of Scarba's steep, "The sea-snake heave his snowy mane, "Unwarp, unwind his oozy coils, "Sea-green sisters of the main, "And in the gulf, where ocean boils, "The unwieldy wallowing monster chain. "Softly blow, thou western breeze, "Softly rustle through the sail, "Sooth to rest the furrowed seas, "Before my love, sweet western gale!" Thus, all to sooth the chieftain's woe, Far from the maid he loved so dear, The song arose, so soft and slow, He seemed her parting sigh to hear. The lonely deck he paces o'er, Impatient for the rising day, And still, from Crinan's moonlight shore, He turns his eyes to Colonsay. The moonbeams crisp the curling surge, That streaks with foam the ocean green; While forward still the rowers urge Their course, a female form was seen. That sea-maid's form, of pearly light, Was whiter than the downy spray, And round her bosom, heaving bright, Her glossy, yellow ringlets play. Borne on a foamy-crested wave, She reached amain the bounding prow, Then, clasping fast the chieftain brave, She, plunging, sought the deep below. Ah! long beside thy feigned bier, The monks the prayers of death shall say, And long for thee, the fruitless tear Shall weep the maid of Colonsay! But downwards, like a powerless corse, The eddying waves the chieftain bear; He only heard the moaning hoarse Of waters, murmuring in his ear. The murmurs sink, by slow degrees; No more the surges round him rave; Lulled by the music of the seas, He lies within a coral cave. In dreamy mood reclines he long, Nor dares his tranced eyes unclose, Till, warbling wild, the sea-maid's song, Far in the crystal cavern, rose; Soft as that harp's unseen controul, In morning dreams that lovers hear, Whose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul, But never reach the waking ear. As sunbeams, through the tepid air, When clouds dissolve in dews unseen, Smile on the flowers, that bloom more fair, And fields, that glow with livelier green-- So melting soft the music fell; It seemed to soothe the fluttering spray-- "Say, heardst thou not these wild notes swell?" "Ah! 'tis the song of Colonsay." Like one that from a fearful dream Awakes, the morning light to view, And joys to see the purple beam, Yet fears to find the vision true. He heard that strain, so wildly sweet, Which bade his torpid languor fly; He feared some spell had bound his feet, And hardly dared his limbs to try. "This yellow sand, this sparry cave, "Shall bend thy soul to beauty's sway; "Can'st thou the maiden of the wave "Compare to her of Colonsay?" Roused by that voice, of silver sound, From the paved floor he lightly sprung, And, glancing wild his eyes around, Where the fair nymph her tresses wrung, No form he saw of mortal mould; It shone like ocean's snowy foam; Her ringlets waved in living gold, Her mirror crystal, pearl her comb. Her pearly comb the syren took, And careless bound her tresses wild; Still o'er the mirror stole her look, As on the wondering youth she smiled. Like music from the greenwood tree, Again she raised the melting lay; --"Fair warrior, wilt thou dwell with me, "And leave the maid of Colonsay? "Fair is the crystal hall for me, "With rubies and with emeralds set, "And sweet the music of the sea "Shall sing, when we for love are met. "How sweet to dance, with gliding feet, "Along the level tide so green, "Responsive to the cadence sweet, "That breathes along the moonlight scene! "And soft the music of the main "Rings from the motley tortoise-shell, "While moonbeams, o'er the watery plain, "Seem trembling in its fitful swell. "How sweet, when billows heave their head, "And shake their snowy crests on high, "Serene in Ocean's sapphire bed, "Beneath the tumbling surge, to lie; "To trace, with tranquil step, the deep, "Where pearly drops of frozen dew "In concave shells, unconscious, sleep, "Or shine with lustre, silvery blue! "Then shall the summer sun, from far, "Pour through the wave a softer ray, "While diamonds, in a bower of spar, "At eve shall shed a brighter day. "Nor stormy wind, nor wintery gale, "That o'er the angry ocean sweep, "Shall e'er our coral groves assail, "Calm in the bosom of the deep. "Through the green meads beneath the sea, "Enamoured, we shall fondly stray-- "Then, gentle warrior, dwell with me, "And leave the maid of Colonsay!"-- "Though bright thy locks of glistering gold, "Fair maiden of the foamy main! "Thy life-blood is the water cold, "While mine beats high in every vein. "If I, beneath thy sparry cave, "Should in thy snowy arms recline, "Inconstant as the restless wave, "My heart would grow as cold as thine." As cygnet down, proud swelled her breast; Her eye confest the pearly tear; His hand she to her bosom prest-- "Is there no heart for rapture here? "These limbs, sprung from the lucid sea, "Does no warm blood their currents fill, "No heart-pulse riot, wild and free, "To joy, to love's delirious thrill?" "Though all the splendour of the sea "Around thy faultless beauty shine, "That heart, that riots wild and free, "Can hold no sympathy with mine. "These sparkling eyes, so wild and gay, "They swim not in the light of love: "The beauteous maid of Colonsay, "Her eyes are milder than the dove! "Even now, within the lonely isle, "Her eyes are dim with tears for me; "And canst thou think that syren smile "Can lure my soul to dwell with thee?" An oozy film her limbs o'erspread; Unfolds in length her scaly train; She tossed, in proud disdain, her head, And lashed, with webbed fin, the main. "Dwell here, alone!" the mermaid cried, "And view far off the sea-nymphs play; "Thy prison-wall, the azure tide, "Shall bar thy steps from Colonsay. "Whene'er, like ocean's scaly brood, "I cleave, with rapid fin, the wave, "Far from the daughter of the flood, "Conceal thee in this coral cave. "I feel my former soul return; "It kindles at thy cold disdain: "And has a mortal dared to spurn "A daughter of the foamy main?" She fled; around the crystal cave The rolling waves resume their road, On the broad portal idly rave, But enter not the nymph's abode. And many a weary night went by, As in the lonely cave he lay, And many a sun rolled through the sky, And poured its beams on Colonsay; And oft, beneath the silver moon, He heard afar the mermaid sing, And oft, to many a melting tune, The shell-formed lyres of ocean ring; And when the moon went down the sky, Still rose, in dreams, his native plain, And oft he thought his love was by, And charmed him with some tender strain; And, heart-sick, oft he waked to weep, When ceased that voice of silver sound, And thought to plunge him in the deep, That walled his crystal cavern round. But still the ring, of ruby red, Retained its vivid crimson hue, And each despairing accent fled, To find his gentle love so true. When seven long lonely months were gone, The mermaid to his cavern came, No more mishapen from the zone, But like a maid of mortal frame. "O give to me that ruby ring, "That on thy finger glances gay, "And thou shalt hear the mermaid sing "The song, thou lovest, of Colonsay." "This ruby ring, of crimson grain, "Shall on thy finger glitter gay, "If thou wilt bear me through the main, "Again to visit Colonsay." "Except thou quit thy former love, "Content to dwell, for ay, with me, "Thy scorn my finny frame might move, "To tear thy limbs amid the sea." "Then bear me swift along the main, "The lonely isle again to see, "And, when I here return again, "I plight my faith to dwell with thee." An oozy film her limbs o'erspread, While slow unfolds her scaly train, With gluey fangs her hands were clad, She lashed with webbed fin the main. He grasps the mermaid's scaly sides, As, with broad fin, she oars her way; Beneath the silent moon she glides, That sweetly sleeps on Colonsay. Proud swells her heart! she deems, at last, To lure him with her silver tongue, And, as the shelving rocks she past, She raised her voice, and sweetly sung. In softer, sweeter strains she sung, Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay, When light to land the chieftain sprung, To hail the maid of Colonsay. O sad the mermaid's gay notes fell, And sadly sink, remote at sea! So sadly mourns the writhed shell Of Jura's shore, its parent sea. And ever as the year returns, The charm-bound sailors know the day; For sadly still the mermaid mourns The lovely chief of Colonsay. NOTE ON THE MERMAID. * * * * * _The sea-snake heave his snowy mane._--P. 334. v. 3. "They, who, in works of navigation, on the coasts of Norway, employ themselves in fishing or merchandize, do all agree in this strange story, that there is a serpent there, which is of a vast magnitude, namely, two hundred feet long, and moreover twenty feet thick; and is wont to live in rocks and caves, toward the sea-coast about Berge; which will go alone from his holes, in a clear night in summer, and devours calves, lambs, and hogs; or else he goes into the sea to feed on polypus, locusts, and all sorts of sea-crabs. He hath commonly hair hanging from his neck a cubit long, and sharp scales, and is black, and he hath flaming shining eyes. This snake disquiets the skippers, and he puts up his head on high, like a pillar, and catcheth away men, and he devours them; and this hapneth not but it signifies some wonderful change of the kingdom near at hand; namely, that the princes shall die, or be banished; or some tumultuous wars shall presentlie follow."--_Olaus Magnus_, London, 1558, rendered into English by J. S. Much more of the sea-snake may be learned from the credible witnesses cited by Pontoppidan, who saw it raise itself from the sea, twice as high as the mast of their vessel. The tradition probably originates in the immense snake of the Edda, whose folds were supposed to girdle the earth. FOOTNOTES: [85] I believe something to the same purpose may be found in the school editions of Guthrie's _Geographical Grammar_; a work, which, though, in general, as sober and dull as could be desired by the gravest preceptor, becomes of a sudden uncommonly lively, upon the subject of the seas of Norway; the author having thought meet to adopt the Right Reverend Erick Pontopiddon's account of mermen, sea-snakes, and krakens. THE LORD HERRIES HIS COMPLAINT, A FRAGMENT. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. BY CHARLES KIRKPATRICK SHARPE, ESQ. OF HODDOM. * * * * * Hoddom castle is delightfully situated on the banks of the river Annan. It is an ancient structure, said to have been built betwixt the years 1437 and 1484, by John Lord Herries, of Herries, a powerful border baron, who possessed extensive domains in Dumfries-shire. This family continued to flourish until the death of William, Lord Herries, in the middle of the 16th century, when it merged in heirs female. Agnes, the eldest of the daughters of Lord William, was married to John, master of Maxwell, afterwards created Lord Herries, and a strenuous partizan of Queen Mary. The castle and barony of Hoddom were sold, about 1630, and were then, or soon afterwards, acquired by John Sharpe, Esq., in whose family they have ever since continued. Before the accession of James VI. to the English crown, Hoddom castle was appointed to be kept "with ane wise stout man, and to have with him four well-horsed men, and there to have two stark footmen, servants, to keep their horses, and the principal to have ane stout footman."--_Border Laws, Appendix._ On the top of a small, but conspicuous hill, near to Hoddom castle, there is a square tower, built of hewn stone, over the door of which are carved the figures of a dove and a serpent, and betwixt them the word _Repentance_. Hence the building, though its proper name is Trailtrow, is more frequently called the Tower of Repentance. It was anciently used as a beacon, and the border laws direct a watch to be maintained there, with a fire-pan and bell, to give the alarm when the English crossed, or approached, the river Annan. This man was to have a husband-land for his service.--SPOTTISWOODE, p. 306. Various accounts are given of the cause of erecting the Tower of Repentance. The following has been adopted by my ingenious correspondent, as most susceptible of poetical decoration. A certain Lord Herries--about the date of the transaction, tradition is silent--was famous among those who used to rob and steal (_convey_, the wise it call). This lord, returning from England, with many prisoners, whom he had unlawfully enthralled, was overtaken by a storm, while passing the Solway Firth, and, in order to relieve his boat, he cut all their throats, and threw them into the sea. Feeling great qualms of conscience, he built this square tower, carving over the door, which is about half way up the building, and had formerly no stair to it, the figures above mentioned, of a dove and a serpent, emblems of remorse and grace, and the motto--"_Repentance._" I have only to add, that the marauding baron is said, from his rapacity, to have been surnamed John the Reif; probably in allusion to a popular romance; and that another account says, the sin, of which he repented, was the destruction of a church, or chapel, called Trailtrow, with the stones of which he had built the castle of Hoddom.--MACFARLANE's MSS. It is said, that Sir Richard Steele, while riding near this place, saw a shepherd boy reading his Bible, and asked him, what he learned from it? "The way to heaven," answered the boy. "And can you show it to me?" said Sir Richard, in banter. "You must go by that tower," replied the shepherd; and he pointed to the tower of "_Repentance_." THE LORD HERRIES HIS COMPLAINT, A FRAGMENT. * * * * * Bright shone the moon on Hoddom's wall, Bright on Repentance Tower; Mirk was the lord of Hoddom's saul, That chief sae sad and sour. He sat him on Repentance hicht, And glowr'd upon the sea; And sair and heavily he sicht, But nae drap eased his bree. "The night is fair, and calm the air, "No blasts disturb the tree; "Baith men and beast now tak their rest, "And a's at peace but me. "Can wealth and power in princely bower, "Can beauty's rolling e'e, "Can friendship dear, wi' kindly tear, "Bring back my peace to me? "No! lang lang maun the mourner pine, "And meikle penance dree, "Wha has a heavy heart like mine, "Ere light that heart can be. "Under yon silver skimmering waves, "That saftly rise and fa', "Lie mouldering banes in sandy graves, "That fley my peace awa. * * * * * "To help my boat I pierc'd the throat "Of him whom ane lo'ed dear; "Nought did I spare his yellow hair, "And ee'n sae bricht and clear. "She sits her lane, and makith mane, "And sings a waefu sang,-- 'Scotch rievers hae my darling ta'en; 'O Willie tarries lang!' "I plunged an auld man in the sea, "Whase locks were like the snaw; "His hairs sall serve for rapes to me, "In hell my saul to draw. "Soon did thy smile, sweet baby, stint, "Torn frae the nurse's knee, "That smile, that might hae saften'd flint, "And still'd the raging sea. "Alas! twelve precious lives were spilt, "My worthless spark to save; "Bet[86] had I fallen, withouten guilt, "Frae cradle to the grave. "Repentance! signal of my bale, "Built of the lasting stane, "Ye lang shall tell the bluidy tale, "Whan I am dead and gane. "How Hoddom's lord, ye lang sall tell, "By conscience stricken sair, "In life sustain'd the pains of hell, "And perish'd in despair. FOOTNOTES: [86] _Bet_--better. THE MURDER OF CAERLAVEROC. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. BY CHARLES KIRKPATRICK SHARPE, ESQ. * * * * * The tragical event which preceded, or perhaps gave rise to, the successful insurrection of Robert Bruce, against the tyranny of Edward I., is well known. In the year 1304, Bruce abruptly left the court of England, and held an interview, in the Dominical church of Dumfries, with John, surnamed, from the colour of his hair, the Red Cuming, a powerful chieftain, who had formerly held the regency of Scotland. It is said, by the Scottish historians, that he upbraided Cuming with having betrayed to the English monarch a scheme, formed betwixt them, for asserting the independence of Scotland. The English writers maintain, that Bruce proposed such a plan to Cuming, which he rejected with scorn, as inconsistent with the fealty he had sworn to Edward. The dispute, however it began, soon waxed high betwixt two fierce and independent barons. At length, standing before the high altar of the church, Cuming gave Bruce the lie, and Bruce retaliated by a stroke of his poniard. Full of confusion and remorse, for a homicide committed in a sanctuary, the future monarch of Scotland rushed out of the church, with the bloody poniard in his hand. Kirkpatrick and Lindsay, two barons, who faithfully adhered to him, were waiting at the gate. To their earnest and anxious enquiries into the cause of his emotion, Bruce answered, "I doubt I have slain the Red Cuming".--"Doubtest thou?" exclaimed Kirkpatrick, "I make sure!"[87] Accordingly, with Lindsay and a few followers, he rushed into the church, and dispatched the wounded Cuming. A homicide, in such a place, and such an age, could hardly escape embellishment from the fertile genius of the churchmen, whose interest was so closely connected with the inviolability of a divine sanctuary. Accordingly, Bowmaker informs us, that the body of the slaughtered baron was watched, during the night, by the Dominicans, with the usual rites of the church. But, at midnight, the whole assistants fell into a dead sleep, with the exception of one aged father, who heard, with terror and surprise, a voice, like that of a wailing infant, exclaim, "How long, O Lord, shall vengeance be deferred?" it was answered, in an awful tone, "Endure with patience, until the anniversary of this day shall return for the fifty-second time." In the year 1357, fifty-two years after Cuming's death, James of Lindsay was hospitably feasted in the castle of Caerlaveroc, in Dumfries-shire, belonging to Roger Kirkpatrick. They were the sons of the murderers of the regent. In the dead of night, for some unknown cause, Lindsay arose, and poniarded in his bed his unsuspecting host. He then mounted his horse to fly; but guilt and fear had so bewildered his senses, that, after riding all night, he was taken, at break of day, not three miles from the castle, and was afterwards executed, by order of King David II. The story of the murder is thus told by the prior of Lochlevin:-- That ilk yhere in our kynryk Hoge was slayne of Kilpatrik Be schyr Jakkis the Lyndessay In-til Karlaveroc; and away For til have bene with all his mycht This Lyndyssay pressyt all a nycht Forth on hors rycht fast rydand. Nevyrtheless yhit thai hym fand Nocht thre myle fra that ilk place; Thare tane and broucht agane he was Til Karlaveroc, be thai men That frendis war til Kirkpatrik then; Thare was he kepyd rycht straytly. His wyf[88] passyd till the king Dawy, And prayid him of his realté, Of Lauche that scho mycht serwyd be. The kyng Dawy than also fast Till Dumfres with his curt he past, As Lawche wald. Quhat was thare mare? This Lyndessay to deth he gert do thare. WINTOWNIS _Cronykill_, B. viii. cap. 44. THE MURDER OF CAERLAVEROC. * * * * * "Now, come to me, my little page, "Of wit sae wond'rous sly! "Ne'er under flower, o' youthfu' age, "Did mair destruction lie. "I'll dance and revel wi' the rest, "Within this castle rare; "Yet he sall rue the drearie feast, "Bot and his lady fair. "For ye maun drug Kirkpatrick's wine, "Wi' juice o' poppy flowers; "Nae mair he'll see the morning shine "Frae proud Caerlaveroc's towers. "For he has twin'd my love and me, "Ihe maid of mickle scorn-- "She'll welcome, wi' a tearfu' e'e, "Her widowhood the morn. "And saddle weel my milk-white steed, "Prepare my harness bright! "Giff I can mak my rival bleed, "I'll ride awa this night." "Now haste ye, master, to the ha'! "The guests are drinking there; "Kirkpatrick's pride sall be but sma', "For a' his lady fair." * * * * * In came the merry minstrelsy; Shrill harps wi' tinkling string, And bag-pipes, lilting melody, Made proud Caerlaveroc ring. There gallant knights, and ladies bright, Did move to measures fine, Like frolic Fairies, jimp and light, Wha dance in pale moonshine. The ladies glided through the ha', Wi' footing swift and sure-- Kirkpatrick's dame outdid them a', Whan she stood on the floor. And some had tyres of gold sae rare, And pendants[89] eight or nine; And she, wi' but her gowden hair, Did a' the rest outshine. And some, wi' costly diamonds sheen, Did warriors' hearts assail-- But she, wi' her twa sparkling een, Pierc'd through the thickest mail. Kirkpatrick led her by the hand, With gay and courteous air: No stately castle in the land Could shew sae bright a pair. O he was young--and clear the day Of life to youth appears! Alas! how soon his setting ray Was dimm'd wi' showring tears! Fell Lindsay sicken'd at the sight, And sallow grew his cheek; He tried wi' smiles to hide his spite, But word he cou'dna speak. The gorgeous banquet was brought up, On silver and on gold: The page chose out a crystal cup, The sleepy juice to hold. And whan Kirkpatrick call'd for wine, This page the drink wou'd bear; Nor did the knight or dame divine Sic black deceit was near. Then every lady sung a sang; Some gay--some sad and sweet-- Like tunefu' birds the woods amang, Till a' began to greet. E'en cruel Lindsay shed a tear, Forletting malice deep-- As mermaids, wi' their warbles clear, Can sing the waves to sleep. And now to bed they all are dight, Now steek they ilka door: There's nought but stillness o' the night, Whare was sic din before. Fell Lindsay puts his harness on, His steed doth ready stand; And up the stair-case is he gone, Wi' poniard in his hand. The sweat did on his forehead break, He shook wi' guilty fear; In air he heard a joyfu' shriek-- Red Cumin's ghaist was near. Now to the chamber doth he creep-- A lamp, of glimmering ray, Show'd young Kirkpatrick fast asleep, In arms of lady gay. He lay wi' bare unguarded breast, By sleepy juice beguil'd; And sometimes sigh'd, by dreams opprest, And sometimes sweetly smiled. Unclosed her mouth o' rosy hue, Whence issued fragrant air, That gently, in soft motion, blew Stray ringlets o' her hair. "Sleep on, sleep on, ye luvers dear! "The dame may wake to weep-- "But that day's sun maun shine fou clear, "That spills this warrior's sleep." He louted down--her lips he prest-- O! kiss, foreboding woe! Then struck on young Kirkpatrick's breast A deep and deadly blow. Sair, sair, and mickle, did he bleed: His lady slept till day, But dream't the Firth[90] flow'd o'er her head, In bride-bed as she lay. The murderer hasted down the stair, And back'd his courser fleet: Than did the thunder 'gin to rair, Than show'rd the rain and sleet. Ae fire-flaught darted through the rain, Whare a' was mirk before, And glinted o'er the raging main, That shook the sandy shore. But mirk and mirker grew the night, And heavier beat the rain; And quicker Lindsay urged his flight, Some ha' or beild to gain. Lang did he ride o'er hill and dale, Nor mire nor flood he fear'd: I trow his courage 'gan to fail When morning light appear'd. For having hied, the live-lang night, Through hail and heavy showers, He fand himsel, at peep o' light, Hard by Caerlaveroc's towers. The castle bell was ringing out, The ha' was all asteer; And mony a scriech and waefu' shout Appall'd the murderer's ear. Now they hae bound this traitor strang, Wi' curses and wi' blows; And high in air they did him hang, To feed the carrion crows. * * * * * "To sweet Lincluden's[91] haly cells "Fou dowie I'll repair; "There peace wi' gentle patience dwells, "Nae deadly feuds are there." "In tears I'll wither ilka charm, "Like draps o' balefu' yew; "And wail the beauty that cou'd harm "A knight, sae brave and true." FOOTNOTES: [87] Hence the crest of Kirkpatrick is a hand, grasping a dagger, distilling gouts of blood, proper; motto; "_I mak sicker_." [88] That is, Kirkpatrick's wife. [89] _Pendants_--Jewels on the forehead. [90] Caerlaveroc stands near Solway Firth. [91] Lincluden Abbey is situated near Dumfries, on the banks of the river Cluden. It was founded and filled with Benedictine nuns, in the time of Malcolm IV., by Uthred, father to Roland, lord of Galloway--these were expelled by Archibald the Grim, Earl of Douglas.--_Vide_ PENNANT. SIR AGILTHORN. BY M. G. LEWIS ESQ.--NOW FIRST PUBLISHED. * * * * * Oh! gentle huntsman, softly tread, And softly wind thy bugle-horn; Nor rudely break the silence shed Around the grave of Agilthorn! Oh! gentle huntsman, if a tear E'er dimmed for other's woe thine eyes, Thoul't surely dew, with drops sincere, The sod, where Lady Eva lies. Yon crumbling chapel's sainted bound, Their hands and hearts beheld them plight, Long held yon towers, with ivy crowned, The beauteous dame and gallant knight. Alas! the hour of bliss is past, For hark! the din of discord rings; War's clarion sounds, Joy hears the blast, And trembling plies his radiant wings. And must sad Eva lose her lord? And must he seek the martial plain? Oh! see, she brings his casque and sword! Oh! hark, she pours her plaintive strain! "Blest is the village damsel's fate, "Though poor and low her station be; "Safe from the cares which haunt the great, "Safe from the cares which torture me! "No doubting fear, no cruel pain, "No dread suspense her breast alarms; "No tyrant honour rules her swain, "And tears him from her folding arms. "She, careless wandering 'midst the rocks, "In pleasing toil consumes the day; "And tends her goats, or feeds her flocks, "Or joins her rustic lover's lay. "Though hard her couch, each sorrow flies "The pillow which supports her head; "She sleeps, nor fears at morn her eyes "Shall wake, to mourn an husband dead. "Hush, impious fears! the good and brave "Heaven's arm will guard from danger free; "When Death with thousands gluts the grave, "His dart, my love, shall glance from thee: "While thine shall fly direct and sure, "This buckler every blow repell; "This casque from wounds that face secure, "Where all the loves and graces dwell. "This glittering scarf, with tenderest care, "My hands in happier moments wove; "Curst be the wretch, whose sword shall tear "The spell-bound work of wedded love! "Lo! on thy faulchion, keen and bright, "I shed a trembling consort's tears; "Oh! when their traces meet thy sight, "Remember wretched Eva's fears! "Think, how thy lips she fondly prest; "Think, how she wept, compelled to part; "Think, every wound, which scars thy breast, "Is doubly marked on Eva's heart!" "O thou! my mistress, wife, and friend!" Thus Agilthorn with sighs began; "Thy fond complaints my bosom rend, "Thy tears my fainting soul unman: "In pity cease, my gentle dame, "Such sweetness and such grief to join! "Lest I forget the voice of Fame, "And only list to Love's and thine. "Flow, flow, my tears! unbounded gush! "Rise, rise, my sobs! I set ye free; "Bleed, bleed, my heart! I need not blush "To own, that life is dear to me. "The wretch, whose lips have prest the bowl, "The bitter bowl of pain and woe, "May careless reach his mortal goal, "May boldly meet the final blow: "His hopes destroyed, his comfort wreckt, An happier life he hopes to find; But what can I in heaven expect, Beyond the bliss I leave behind? "Oh, no! the joys of yonder skies To prosperous love present no charms; My heaven is placed in Eva's eyes, My paradise in Eva's arms. "Yet mark me, sweet! if Heaven's command Hath doomed my fall in martial strife, Oh! let not anguish tempt thy hand To rashly break the thread of life! "No! let our boy thy care engross, Let him thy stay, thy comfort, be; Supply his luckless father's loss, And love him for thyself and me. "So may oblivion soon efface The grief, which clouds this fatal morn; And soon thy cheeks afford no trace Of tears, which fall for Agilthorn!" He said, and couched his quivering lance; He said, and braced his moony shield; Sealed a last kiss, threw a last glance, Then spurred his steed to Flodden Field. But Eva, of all joy bereft, Stood rooted at the castle gate, And viewed the prints his courser left, While hurrying at the call of fate. Forebodings sad her bosom told, The steed, which bore him thence so light, Her longing eyes would ne'er behold Again bring home her own true knight. While many a sigh her bosom heaves, She thus addrest her orphan page-- "Dear youth, if e'er my love relieved The sorrows of thy infant age; "If e'er I taught thy locks to play, Luxuriant, round thy blooming face; If e'er I wiped thy tears away, And bade them yield to smiles their place; "Oh! speed thee, swift as steed can bear, Where Flodden groans with heaps of dead, And, o'er the combat, home repair, And tell me how my lord has sped. "Till thou return'st, each hour's an age, An age employed in doubt and pain; Oh! haste thee, haste, my little foot-page, Oh! haste, and soon return again!" "Now, lady dear, thy grief assuage! Good tidings soon shall ease thy pain: I'll haste, I'll haste, thy little foot-page, I'll haste, and soon return again." Then Oswy bade his courser fly; But still, while hapless Eva wept, Time scarcely seemed his wings to ply, So slow the tedious moments crept. And oft she kist her baby's cheek, Who slumbered on her throbbing breast; And now she bade the warder speak, And now she lulled her child to rest. "Good warder, say, what meets thy sight? What see'st thou from the castle tower?" "Nought but the rocks of Elginbright, Nought but the shades of Forest-Bower." "Oh! pretty babe! thy mother's joy, Pledge of the purest, fondest flame, To-morrow's sun, dear helpless boy! Must see thee bear an orphan's name. "Perhaps, e'en now, some Scottish sword The life-blood of thy father drains; Perhaps, e'en now, that heart is gor'd, Whose streams supplied thy little veins. "Oh! warder, from the castle tower, Now say, what objects meet thy sight?" "None but the shades of Forest-Bower, None but the rocks of Elginbright." "Smil'st thou, my babe? so smiled thy sire, When gazing on his Eva's face; His eyes shot beams of gentle fire, And joy'd such beams in mine to trace. "Sleep, sleep, my babe! of care devoid; Thy mother breathes this fervent vow-- Oh! never be thy soul employed On thoughts so sad, as her's are now! "Now warder, warder, speak again! What see'st thou from the turret's height?" "Oh! lady, speeding o'er the plain, The little foot-page appears in sight." Quick beat her heart; short grew her breath; Close to her breast the babe she drew-- "Now, Heaven," she cried, "for life or death!" And forth to meet the page she flew. "And is thy lord from danger free? And is the deadly combat o'er?" In silence Oswy bent his knee, And laid a scarf her feet before. The well-known scarf with blood was stained, And tears from Oswy's eye-lids fell; Too truly Eva's heart explained, What meant those silent tears to tell. "Come, come, my babe!" she wildly cried, "We needs must seek the field of woe; Come, come, my babe! cast fear aside! To dig thy father's grave we go." "Stay, lady, stay! a storm impends; Lo! threatening clouds the sky o'erspread; The thunder roars, the rain descends, And lightning streaks the heavens with red. "Hark! hark! the winds tempestuous rave! Oh! be thy dread intent resigned! Or, if resolved the storm to brave, Be this dear infant left behind!" "No! no! with me my baby stays; With me he lives; with me he dies! Flash, lightnings, flash! your friendly blaze Will shew me where my warrior lies." O see she roams the bloody field, And wildly shrieks her husband's name; Oh! see she stops and eyes a shield, An heart, the symbol, wrapt in flame. His armour broke in many a place, A knight lay stretched that shield beside; She raised his vizor, kist his face, Then on his bosom sunk, and died. Huntsman, their rustic grave behold: 'Tis here, at night, the Fairy king, Where sleeps the fair, where sleeps the bold, Oft forms his light fantastic ring. 'Tis here, at eve, each village youth, With freshest flowers the turf adorns; 'Tis here he swears eternal truth, By Eva's faith and Agilthorn's. And here the virgins sadly tell, Each seated by her shepherd's side, How brave the gallant warrior fell, How true his lovely lady died. Ah! gentle huntsman, pitying hear, And mourn the gentle lovers' doom! Oh! gentle huntsman, drop a tear, And dew the turf of Eva's tomb! So ne'er may fate thy hopes oppose; So ne'er may grief to thee be known: They, who can weep for others' woes, Should ne'er have cause to weep their own. RICH AULD WILLIE'S FAREWELL. A FREEBOOTER, TAKEN BY THE ENGLISH IN A BORDER BATTLE, AND CONDEMNED TO BE EXECUTED. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. BY ANNA SEWARD. * * * * * Farewell my ingle, bleezing bright, When the snell storm's begun; My bouris casements, O! sae light, When glints the bonnie sun! Farewell my deep glens, speck't wi' sloes, O' tangled hazles full! Farewell my thymy lea, where lows My kine, and glourin bull. Farewell my red deer, jutting proud, My rooks, o' murky wing! Farewell my wee birds, lilting loud, A' in the merry spring! Farewell my sheep, that sprattle on In a lang line, sae braw! Or lie on yon cauld cliffs aboon, Like late-left patch o' snaw! Farewell my brook, that wimplin rins, My clattering brig o' yew; My scaly tribes wi' gowden fins, Sae nimbly flickering through! Farewell my boat, and lusty oars, That scelp'd, wi' mickle spray! Farewell my birks o' Teviot shores, That cool the simmer's day! Farewell bauld neighbours, whase swift steed O'er Saxon bounds has scowr'd, Swoom'd drumlie floods when moons were dead, And ilka star was smoor'd. Maist dear for a' ye shar'd wi' me, When skaith and prey did goad, And danger, like a wreath, did flee Alang our moon-dead road. Farewell my winsome wife, sae gay! Fu' fain frae hame to gang, Wi' spunkie lads to geck and play, The flow'rie haughs amang! Farewell my gowk, thy warning note Then aft-times ca'd aloud, Tho' o' the word that thrill'd thy throat, Gude faith, I was na proud! And, pawkie gowk, sae free that mad'st, Or ere I hanged be, Would I might learn if true thou said'st, When sae thou said'st to me! WATER KELPIE. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED--REV. DR JAMIESON. * * * * * The principal design of the author of this piece, was to give a specimen of Scottish writing, more nearly approaching to the classical compositions of our ancient bards, than that which has been generally followed for seventy or eighty years past. As the poem is descriptive of the superstitions of the vulgar, in the county of Angus, the scene is laid on the banks of South Esk, near the castle of Inverquharity, about five miles north from Forfar. It is with pleasure that the editor announces to the literary world, that Dr Jamieson is about to publish a complete Dictionary of the Scottish Dialect; his intimate acquaintance with which is evinced in the following stanzas. WATER KELPIE. * * * * * Aft, owre the bent, with heather blent, And throw the forest brown, I tread the path to yon green strath, Quhare brae-born Esk rins down. Its banks alang, quhilk hazels thrang, Quhare sweet-sair'd hawthorns blow, I lufe to stray, and view the play Of fleckit scales below. Ae summer e'en, upon the green, I laid me down to gaze; The place richt nigh, quhare Carity His humble tribute pays: And Prosen proud, with rippet loud, Cums ravin' frae his glen; As gin he might auld Esk affricht, And drive him back agen. An ancient tour appear't to lour Athort the neibourin plain, Quhais chieftain bauld, in times of auld, The kintre callit his ain. Its honours cowit, its now forhowit, And left the houlat's prey; Its skuggin' wude, aboon the flude, With gloom owrespreads the day. A dreary shade the castle spread, And mirker grew the lift; The croonin' kie the byre drew nigh, The darger left his thrift. The levrock shill on erd was still, The westlin wind fell loun; The fisher's houp forgat to loup, And aw for rest made boun. I seemit to sloom, quhan throw the gloom I saw the river shake, And heard a whush alangis it rush, Gart aw my members quake; Syne, in a stound, the pool profound To cleave in twain appear'd: And huly throw the frichtsom how His form a gaist uprear'd. He rashes bare, and seggs, for hair, Quhare ramper-eels entwin'd; Of filthy gar his ee-brees war, With esks and horse-gells lin'd. And for his een, with dowie sheen, Twa huge horse-mussels glar'd: From his wide mow a torrent flew, And soupt his reedy beard. Twa slauky stanes seemit his spule-banes; His briskit braid, a whin; Ilk rib sae bare, a skelvy skair; Ilk arm a monstrous fin. He frae the wame a fish became, With shells aw coverit owre: And for his tail, the grislie whale Could nevir match its pow'r. With dreddour I, quhen he drew nigh, Had maistly swarfit outricht: Less fleyit at lenth I gatherit strenth, And speirit quhat was this wicht. Syne thrice he shook his fearsum bouk, And thrice he snockerit loud; From ilka ee the fire-flauchts flee, And flash alangis the flude. Quhan words he found, their elritch sound Was like the norlan blast, Frae yon deep glack, at Catla's back, That skeegs the dark-brown waste. The troublit pool conveyit the gowl Down to yon echoin rock; And to his maik, with wilsum skraik, Ilk bird its terror spoke. "Vile droich," he said, "art nocht afraid "Thy mortal life to tyne? "How dar'st thou seik with me till speik, "Sae far aboon thy line? "Yet sen thou hast thai limits past, "That sinder sprites frae men, "Thy life I'll spare, and aw declare, "That worms like thee may ken. "In kintries nar, and distant far, "Is my renoun propalit; "As is the leid, my name ye'll reid, "But here I'm _Kelpie_ callit. "The strypes and burns, throw aw their turns, "As weel's the waters wide, "My laws obey, thair spring heads frae, "Doun till the salt sea tide. "Like some wild staig, I aft stravaig, "And scamper on the wave: "Quha with a bit my mow can fit, "May gar me be his slave. "To him I'll wirk baith morn and mirk "Quhile he has wark to do; "Gin tent he tak I do nae shak "His bridle frae my mow. "Quhan Murphy's laird his biggin rear'd, "I carryit aw the stanes; "And mony a chiell has heard me squeal "For sair-brizz'd back and banes. "Within flude-mark, I aft do wark "Gudewillit, quhan I please; "In quarries deep, quhile uthers sleep, "Greit blocks I win with ease. "Yon bonny brig quhan folk wald big, "To gar my stream look braw; "A sair-toil'd wicht was I be nicht; "I did mair than thaim aw. "And weel thai kent quhat help I lent, "For thai yon image framit, "Aboon the pend quhilk I defend; "And it thai _Kelpie_ namit. "Quhan lads and lasses wauk the clais, "Narby yon whinny hicht, "The sound of me their daffin lays; "Thai dare na mudge for fricht. "Now in the midst of them I scream, "Quhan toozlin' on the haugh; "Than quhihher by thaim doun the stream, "Loud nickerin in a lauch. "Sicklike's my fun, of wark quhan run; "But I do meikle mair: "In pool or ford can nane be smur'd "Gin Kelpie be nae there. "Fow lang, I wat, I ken the spat, "Quhair ane sall meet his deid: "Nor wit nor pow'r put aff the hour, "For his wanweird decreed. "For oulks befoir, alangis the shoir, "Or dancin' down the stream, "My lichts are seen to blaze at een, "With wull wanerthly gleam. "The hind cums in, gif haim he win, "And cries, as he war wode; 'Sum ane sall soon be carryit down 'By that wanchancy flude.' "The taiken leil thai ken fow weel, "On water sides quha won; "And aw but thai, quha's weird I spae, "Fast frae the danger run. "But fremmit fouk I thus provoke "To meit the fate thai flee: "To wilderit wichts thai're waefow lichts, "But lichts of joy to me. "With ruefow cries, that rend the skies, "Thair fate I seem to mourn, "Like crocodile, on banks of Nile; "For I still do the turn. "Douce, cautious men aft fey are seen; "Thai rin as thai war heyrt, "Despise all reid, and court their deid: "By me are thai inspir't. "Yestreen the water was in spate, "The stanners aw war cur'd: "A man, nae stranger to the gate, "Raid up to tak the ford. "The haill town sware it wadna ride; "And Kelpie had been heard: "But nae a gliffin wad he bide, "His shroud I had prepar'd. "The human schaip I sumtimes aip: "As Prosenhaugh raid haim, "Ae starnless nicht, he gat a fricht, "Maist crack't his bustuous frame. "I, in a glint, lap on ahint, "And in my arms him fangit; "To his dore-cheik I keipt the cleik: "The carle was sair bemangit. "My name itsell wirks like a spell, "And quiet the house can keep; "Quhan greits the wean, the nurse in vain, "Thoch tyke-tyrit, tries to sleip. "But gin scho say, 'Lie still, ye skrae, "There's Water-Kelpie's chap;' "It's fleyit to wink, and in a blink "It sleips as sound's a tap." He said, and thrice he rais't his voice, And gaif a horrid gowl: Thrice with his tail, as with a flail, He struck the flying pool. A thunderclap seem't ilka wap, Resoundin' throw the wude: The fire thrice flash't; syne in he plash't, And sunk beneath the flude. NOTES ON WATER KELPIE. * * * * * _The fisher's houp forgat to loup._--P. 385. v. 2. The fishes, the hope of the angler, no more rose to the fly. _And aw for rest made boun._--P. 385. v. 2. _All_ commonly occurs in our old writers. But _aw_ is here used, as corresponding with the general pronunciation in Scotland; especially as it has the authority of Dunbar, in his _Lament for the Deth of the Makaris_. _His form a gaist uprear'd._--P. 385. v. 8. It is believed in Angus, that the spirit of the waters appears sometimes as a man, with a very frightful aspect; and, at other times, as a horse. The description, here given, must therefore be viewed as the offspring of fancy. All that can be said for it is, that such attributes are selected as are appropriate to the scenery. _Twa huge horse-mussells glar'd._--P. 386. v. 1. South-Esk abounds with the fresh water oyster, vulgarly called the horse-mussel; and, in former times, a pearl fishery was carried on here to considerable extent. _Frae yon deep glack, at Catla's back._--P. 387. v. 1. Part of the Grampian mountains. _Catla_ appears as a promontory, jutting out from the principal ridge, towards the plain. The Esk, if I recollect right, issues from behind it. _Thy mortal life to tyne._--P. 387. v. 2. The vulgar idea is, that a spirit, however frequently it appear, will not speak, unless previously addressed. It is, however, at the same time believed, that the person, who ventures to speak to a ghost, will soon forfeit his life, in consequence of his presumption. _His bridle frae my mow._--P. 388. v. 1. The popular tradition is here faithfully described; and, strange to tell! has not yet lost all credit. In the following verses, the principal articles of the vulgar creed in Angus, with respect to this supposed being, are brought together and illustrated by such _facts_ as are yet appealed to by the credulous. If I mistake not, none of the historical circumstances mentioned are older than half a century. It is only about thirty years since the bridge referred to was built. _For sair-brizz'd back and banes._--P. 388. v. 2. It is pretended that _Kelpie_ celebrated this memorable event in rhyme; and that for a long time after he was often heard to cry, with a doleful voice, "Sair back and sair banes, Carryin' the laird of Murphy's stanes." _And it thai Kelpie namit._--P. 388. v. 3. A head, like that of a gorgon, appears above the arch of the bridge. This was hewn in honour of Kelpie. _His shroud I had prepar'd._--P. 390. v. 3. A very common tale in Scotland is here alluded to by the poet. On the banks of a rapid stream the water spirit was heard repeatedly to exclaim, in a dismal tone, "The hour is come, but not the man;" when a person coming up, contrary to all remonstrances, endeavoured to ford the stream, and perished in the attempt. The original story is to be found in Gervase of Tilbury.--In the parish of Castleton, the same story is told, with this variation, that the by-standers prevented, by force, the predestined individual from entering the river, and shut him up in the church, where he was next morning found suffocated, with his face lying immersed in the baptismal font. To a _fey_ person, therefore, Shakespeare's words literally apply: ---- Put but a little water in a spoon, And it shall be as all the ocean, Enough to swallow such a being up. GLOSSARY OF THE WORDS REQUIRING EXPLANATION IN THE FOREGOING POEM. * * * * * _Aboon._ Above. _Ahint._ Behind. _Aip._ Ape, imitate. _Alangis._ Alongst. _Bemangit._ Injured, whether in mind or body; a word much used in Angus. _Be._ By. _Big._ Build. _Biggin._ Building, house. _Blink._ Moment. _Bonny._ Handsome, beautiful. _Boun._ Ready. _Bouk._ Body. _Braw._ Fine. _Briskit._ Breast. _Bustuous._ Huge. _Byre._ Cow-house. _Chap._ Rap. _Chiell._ Fellow. _Cleik._ Hold. _Cowit._ Shorn, cut off. _Croonin._ Bellowing--most properly with a low and mournful sound. _Cur'd._ Covered. _Darger._ Labourer, day-worker. _Daffin._ Sport. _Deid._ Death. _Do the turn._ Accomplish the fatal event. _Dore-cheek._ Door-post. _Dowie._ Melancholy, sad. _Douce._ Sober, sedate. _Dreddour._ Dread, terror. _Droich._ Dwarf, pigmy. _Een._ Eyes. _Eebrees._ Eyebrows. _Elritch._ Wild, hideous, not earthly. _Erd._ Earth. _Esks._ Newts, _or_ efts. _Fey._ Affording presages of approaching death, by acting a part directly the reverse of their proper character. _Fire-flauchts._ Lightnings. _Fleckit-scales._ Spotted shoals, or troops of trouts and other fishes. _Fleyd._ Frighted. _Forhowit._ Forsaken. _Fow._ Full. _Fangit._ Seized. _Fleyit._ Affrighted. _Frightsum._ Frightful. _Fremmit fouk._ Strange folk. _Gaist._ Ghost. _Gaif._ Gave. _Gart._ Caused, made. _Gar._ The slimy vegetable substance in the bed of a river. _Gate._ Road. _Glack._ A hollow between two hills or mountains. _Gliffin._ A moment. _Glint._ Moment. _Gowl._ Yell. _Greits._ Cries, implying the idea of tears. _Gudewillit._ Without constraint, cheerfully. _Haill._ Whole. _Haugh._ Low, flat ground on the side of a river. _Heyrt._ Furious. _Howlat._ Owl. _Horse-gells._ Horse-leeches. _Huly._ Slowly. _Ilk._ Each. _In a stound._ Suddenly. _Ken._ Know. _Kie._ Cows. _Kintrie._ Country. _Lavrock._ Lark. _Lauch._ Laugh. _Leid._ Language. _Leil._ True, not delusive. _Lift._ Sky. _Loun'._ Calm. _Loup._ Leap. _Maik._ Companion, mate. _Mirk._ During night. _Mirker._ Darker. _Mow._ Mouth. _Mudge._ Budge, stir. _Nar._ Near. _Narby._ Near to. _Nickerin._ Neighing. _Nocht._ Not. _Norlan._ Northern. _Oulks._ Weeks. _Pend._ Arch. _Quhihher._ The idea is nearly expressed by _whiz._ _Quhilk._ Which. _Ramper-eels._ Lampreys. _Rashes._ Rushes. _Rede._ Council. _Reid._ Read. _Rippet._ Noise, uproar. _Sair brizz'd._ Sore bruised. _Sall._ Shall. _Sen._ Since. _Seggs._ Sedges. _Sheen._ Shine. _Shill._ Shrill. _Sicklike._ Of this kind. _Sinder._ Separate. _Skelvy skair._ A rock presenting the appearance of a variety of _lamina._ _Skeegs._ Lashes. _Skrae._ Skeleton. _Skuggin._ Overshadowing, protecting wood. _Sloom._ Slumber. _Slauky._ Slimy. _Smur'd._ Smothered. _Snockerit._ Snorted. _Soupt._ Drenched. _Spae._ Predict. _Spat._ Spot. _Spate._ Flood. _Speirit._ Asked. _Spule-banes._ Shoulder-blades. _Stanners._ Gravel on the margin of a river, or any body of water. _Staig. A_ young horse. _Starnless._ Without stars. _Stravaig._ Stray, roam. _Strypes._ Rills of the smallest kind. _Swarfit._ Fainted. _Sweet sair'd._ Sweet savoured. _Syne._ Then. _Taiken._ Token. _Tap._ A child's top. _Tent._ Take care, be attentive. _Thai._ These. _Than._ Then. _Toozlin._ Toying, properly putting any thing in disorder. _Tyke-tyrit._ Tired as a dog after coursing. _Tyne._ Lose. _Waefou._ Fatal, causing woe. _Wald._ Would. _Wanweirid._ Unhappy fate. _Wanchancy._ Unlucky, causing misfortune. _Wanerthly._ Preternatural. _Wap._ Stroke, flap. _War._ Were. _Wauk the claes._ Watch the clothes. _Wean._ Child. _Weird._ Fate. _Whush._ A rustling sound. _Wilsum skraik._ Wild shriek. _Wirk._ Work. _Wode._ Deprived of reason. _Win._ Dig from a quarry. _Wull._ Wild. _Yestreen._ Yesternight. ELLANDONAN CASTLE. A HIGHLAND TALE. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.--- COLIN MACKENZIE, ESQ. * * * * * Ellandonan Castle stands on a small rocky isle, situated in Loch Duich (on the west coast of Ross), near the point where the western sea divides itself into two branches, forming Loch Duich and Loch Loung. The magnificence of the castle itself, now a roofless ruin, covered with ivy, the beauty of the bay, and the variety of hills and valleys that surround it, and particularly the fine range of hills, between which lie the pastures of Glensheal, with the lofty summit of Skooroora, overtopping the rest, and forming a grand back-ground to the picture; all contribute to make this a piece of very romantic Highland scenery.[92] The castle is the manor-place of the estate of Kintail, which is denominated the barony of Ellandonan. That estate is the property of Francis, Lord Seaforth. It has descended to him, through a long line of gallant ancestors; having been originally conferred on Colin Fitzgerald, son to the Earl of Desmond and Kildare, in the kingdom of Ireland, by a charter, dated 9th January, 1266, granted by King Alexander the third, "_Colino Hybernio_," and bearing, as its inductive cause, "_pro bono et fideli servitio, tam in bello, quam in pace_." He had performed a very recent service in war, having greatly distinguished himself in the battle of Largs, in 1263, in which the invading army of Haco, King of Norway, was defeated. Being pursued in his flight, the king was overtaken in the narrow passage which divides the island of Skye from the coasts of Inverness and Ross, and, along with many of his followers, he himself was killed, in attempting his escape through the channel dividing Skye from Lochalsh. These straits, or _kyles_, bear to this day appellations, commemorating the events by which they were thus distinguished, the former being called Kyle Rhee, or the King's Kyle, and the latter Kyle Haken. The attack on Ellandonan Castle, which forms the subject of the following poem, lives in the tradition of the country, where it is, at this day, a familiar tale, repeated to every stranger, who, in sailing past, is struck with admiration at the sight of that venerable monument of antiquity. But the authenticity of the fact rests not solely on tradition. It is recorded, by Crawford, in his account of the family of Macdonald, Lord of the Isles, and reference is there made to a genealogy of Slate, in the possession of the family, as a warrant for the assertion. The incident took place in 1537. The power of the Lord of the Isles was at that time sufficiently great to give alarm to the crown. It covered not only the whole of the Western Isles, from Bute northwards, but also many extensive districts on the main-land, in the shires of Ayr, Argyle, and Inverness. Accordingly, in 1535, on the failure of heirs-male of the body of John, Lord of the Isles, and Earl of Ross, as well as of two of his natural sons, in whose favour a particular substitution had been made, King James the fifth assumed the lordship of the Isles. The right was, however, claimed by Donald, fifth baron of Slate, descended from the immediate younger brother of John, Lord of the Isles. This bold and high-spirited chieftain lost his life in the attack on Ellandonan Castle, and was buried by his followers on the lands of Ardelve, on the opposite side of Loch Loung. The barony of Ellandonan then belonged to John Mackenzie, ninth baron of Kintail. Kenneth, third baron, who was son to Kenneth, the son of Colin Fitzgerald, received the patronimic appellation of _Mac_ Kenneth, or Mac Kennye, which descended from him to his posterity, as the sirname of the family. John, baron of Kintail, took a very active part in the general affairs of the kingdom. He fought gallantly at the battle of Flodden, under the banners of King James the fourth, was a member of the privy council in the reign of his son, and, at an advanced age, supported the standard of the unfortunate Mary, at the battle of Pinkie. In the sixth generation from John, baron of Kintail, the clan was, by his lineal descendant, William, fifth earl of Seaforth, summoned, in 1715, to take up arms in the cause of the house of Stuart. On the failure of that spirited, but ill-fated enterprize, the earl made his escape to the continent, where he lived for about eleven years. Meantime his estate and honours were forfeited to the crown, and his castle was burnt. A steward was appointed to levy the rents of Kintail, on the king's behalf; but the vassals spurned at his demands, and, while they carried on a successful defensive war, against a body of troops sent to subdue their obstinacy, in the course of which the unlucky steward had the misfortune to be slain, one of their number made a faithful collection of what was due, and carried the money to the earl himself, who was at that time in Spain. The descendants of the man, to whom it was entrusted to convey to his lord this unequivocal proof of the honour, fidelity, and attachment of his people, are at this day distinguished by the designation of _Spaniard_; as Duncan, _the Spaniard_, &c. The estate was, a few years after the forfeiture, purchased from government, for behoof of the family, and re-invested in the person of his son. ELLANDONAN CASTLE. A HIGHLAND TALE. * * * * * O wot ye, ye men of the island of Skye, That your lord lies a corpse on Ardelve's rocky shore? The Lord of the Isles, once so proud and so high, His lands and his vassals shall never see more. None else but the Lord of Kintail was so great; To that lord the green banks of Loch Duich belong, Ellandonan's fair castle and noble estate, And the hills of Glensheal and the coasts of Loch Loung. His vassals are many, and trusty, and brave, Descended from heroes, and worthy their sires; His castle is wash'd by the salt-water wave, And his bosom the ardour of valour inspires. M'Donald, by restless ambition impell'd To extend to the shores of Loch Duich his sway, With awe Ellandonan's strong turrets beheld, And waited occasion to make them his prey. And the moment was come; for M'Kenneth, afar, To the Saxon opposed his victorious arm; Few and old were the vassals, but dauntless in war, Whose courage and skill freed his towers from alarm. M'Donald has chosen the best of his power; On the green plains of Slate were his warriors arrayed; Every Islander came before midnight an hour, With the sword in his hand, and the belt on his plaid. The boats they are ready, in number a score; In each boat twenty men, for the war of Kintail; Iron hooks they all carry, to grapple the shore, And ladders, the walls of the fortress to scale. They have pass'd the strait kyle, thro' whose billowy flood, From the arms of Kintail-men, fled Haco of yore, Whose waves were dyed deep with Norwegian blood, Which was shed by M'Kenneth's resistless claymore. They have enter'd Loch Duich--all silent their course, Save the splash of the oar on the dark-bosom'd wave, Which mingled with murmurs, low, hollow, and hoarse, That issued from many a coralline cave. Either coast they avoid, and right eastward they steer; Nor star, nor the moon, on their passage has shone; Unexpecting assault, and unconscious of fear, All Kintail was asleep, save the watchman alone. "What, ho! my companions! arise, and behold "Where Duich's deep waters with flashes are bright! "Hark! the sound of the oars! rise, my friends, and be bold! "For some foe comes, perhaps, under shadow of night." At the first of the dawn, when the boats reach'd the shore, The sharp ridge of Skooroora with dark mist was crown'd, And the rays, that broke thro' it, seem'd spotted with gore, As M'Donald's bold currach first struck on the ground. Of all the assailants, that sprung on the coast, One of stature and aspect superior was seen; Whatever a lord or a chieftain could boast, Of valour undaunted, appear'd in his mien. His plaid o'er his shoulder was gracefully flung; Its foldings a buckle of silver restrain'd; A massy broad sword on his manly thigh hung, Which defeat or disaster had never sustain'd. Then, under a bonnet of tartan and blue, Whose plumage was toss'd to and fro by the gale, Their glances of lightning his eagle-eyes threw, Which were met by the frowns of the sons of Kintail. 'Twas the Lord of the Isles; whom the chamberlain saw, While a trusty long bow on his bosom reclin'd-- Of stiff yew it was made, which few sinews could draw; Its arrows flew straight, and as swift as the wind. With a just aim he drew--the shaft pierced the bold chief: Indignant he started, nor heeding the smart, While his clan pour'd around him, in clamorous grief, From the wound tore away the deep-rivetted dart. The red stream flowed fast, and his cheek became white: His knees, with a tremor unknown to him, shook, And his once-piercing eyes scarce directed his sight, As he turn'd towards Skye the last lingering look. Surrounded by terror, disgrace, and defeat, From the rocks of Kintail the M'Donalds recoil'd; No order was seen in their hasty retreat, And their looks with dismay and confusion were wild. While thine eyes wander oft from the green plains of Slate, In pursuit of thy lord, O M'Donald's fair dame, Ah! little thou know'st 'tis the hour, mark'd by Fate, To close his ambition, and tarnish his fame. On the shore of Ardelve, far from home, is his grave, And the news of his death swiftly fly o'er the sea-- Thy grief, O fair dame! melts the hearts of the brave, Even the bard of Kintail wafts his pity to thee. And thou, Ellandonan! shall thy tow'rs ere again Be insulted by any adventurous foe, While the tale of the band, whom thy heroes have slain, Excites in their sons an inherited glow? Alas! thou fair isle! my soul's darling and pride! Too sure is the presage, that tells me thy doom, Tho' now thy proud towers all invasion deride, And thy fate lies far hid in futurity's gloom. A time shall arrive, after ages are past, When thy turrets, dismantled, in ruins shall fall, When, alas! thro' thy chambers shall howl the sea-blast, And the thistle shall shake his red head in thy hall. Shall this desolation strike thy towers alone? No, fair Ellandonan! such ruin 'twill bring, That the whirl shall have power to unsettle the throne, And thy fate shall be link'd with the fate of thy king. And great shall thy pride be, amid thy despair; To their chief, and their prince, still thy sons shall be true; The fruits of Kintail never victor shall share, Nor its vales ever gladden an enemy's view. And lovely thou shalt be, even after thy wreck; Thy battlements never shall cease to be grand; Their brown rusty hue the green ivy shall deck, And as long as Skooroora's high top shall they stand. FOOTNOTES: [92] We learn from Wintoun, that, in 1331, this fortress witnessed the severe justice of Randolph, Earl of Murray, then warden of Scotland. Fifty delinquents were there executed, by his orders, and, according to the prior of Lochlevin, the earl had as much pleasure in seeing their ghastly heads encircle the walls of the castle, as if it had been surrounded by a chaplet of roses. CADYOW CASTLE. BY THE EDITOR. * * * * * The ruins of Cadyow, or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the family of Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, about two miles above its junction with the Clyde. It was dismantled, in the conclusion of the civil wars, during the reign of the unfortunate Mary, to whose cause the house of Hamilton devoted themselves with a generous zeal, which occasioned their temporary obscurity, and, very nearly, their total ruin. The situation of the ruins, embosomed in wood, darkened by ivy and creeping shrubs, and overhanging the brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest degree. In the immediate vicinity of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks, the remains of the Caledonian Forest, which anciently extended through the south of Scotland, from the eastern to the Atlantic Ocean. Some of these trees measure twenty-five feet, and upwards, in circumference; and the state of decay, in which they now appear, shews, that they may have witnessed the rites of the Druids.--The whole scenery is included in the magnificent and extensive park of the Duke of Hamilton. There was long preserved in this forest the breed of the Scottish wild cattle, until their ferocity occasioned their being extirpated, about forty years ago. Their appearance was beautiful, being milk-white, with black muzzles, horns, and hoofs. The bulls are described by ancient authors, as having white manes; but those of latter days had lost that peculiarity, perhaps by intermixture with the tame breed.[93] In detailing the death of the regent Murray, which is made the subject of the following ballad, it would be injustice to my reader to use other words than those of Dr Robertson, whose account of that memorable event forms a beautiful piece of historical painting. "Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh was the person who committed this barbarous action. He had been condemned to death soon after the battle of Langside, as we have already related, and owed his life to the regent's clemency. But part of his estate had been bestowed upon one of the regent's favourites,[94] who seized his house, and turned out his wife, naked, in a cold night, into the open fields, where, before next morning, she became furiously mad. This injury made a deeper impression on him than the benefit he had received, and from that moment he vowed to be revenged of the regent. Party rage strengthened and inflamed his private resentment. His kinsmen, the Hamiltons, applauded the enterprize. The maxims of that age justified the most desperate course he could take to obtain vengeance. He followed the regent for some time, and watched for an opportunity to strike the blow. He resolved, at last, to wait till his enemy should arrive at Linlithgow, through which he was to pass, in his way from Stirling to Edinburgh. He took his stand in a wooden gallery,[95] which had a window towards the street; spread a feather-bed on the floor, to hinder the noise of his feet from being heard; hung up a black cloth behind him, that his shadow might not be observed from without; and, after all this preparation, calmly expected the regent's approach, who had lodged, during the night, in a house not far distant. Some indistinct information of the danger which threatened him had been conveyed to the regent, and he paid so much regard to it, that he resolved to return by the same gate through which he had entered, and to fetch a compass round the town. But, as the crowd about the gate was great, and he himself unacquainted with fear, he proceeded directly along the street; and the throng of people obliging him to move very slowly, gave the assassin time to take so true an aim, that he shot him, with a single bullet, through the lower part of his belly, and killed the horse of a gentleman, who rode on his other side. His followers instantly endeavoured to break into the house, whence the blow had come; but they found the door strongly barricaded, and, before it could be forced open, Hamilton had mounted a fleet horse,[96] which stood ready for him at a back-passage, and was got far beyond their reach. The regent died the same night of his wound."--_History of Scotland_, book v. Bothwellhaugh rode straight to Hamilton, where he was received in triumph; for the ashes of the houses in Clydesdale, which had been burned by Murray's army, were yet smoking; and party prejudice, the habits of the age, and the enormity of the provocation, seemed, to his kinsmen, to justify his deed. After a short abode at Hamilton, this fierce and determined man left Scotland, and served in France, under the patronage of the family of Guise, to whom he was doubtless recommended by having avenged the cause of their niece, Queen Mary, upon her ungrateful brother. De Thou has recorded, that an attempt was made to engage him to assassinate Gaspar de Coligni, the famous admiral of France, and the buckler of the Huguenot cause. But the character of Bothwellhaugh was mistaken. He was no mercenary trader in blood, and rejected the offer with contempt and indignation. He had no authority, he said, from Scotland, to commit murders in France; he had avenged his own just quarrel, but he would neither, for price nor prayer, avenge that of another man.--_Thaunus_, cap. 46. The regent's death happened 23d January, 1569. It is applauded or stigmatized, by contemporary historians, according to their religious or party prejudices. The triumph of Blackwood is unbounded. He not only extols the pious feat of Bothwellhaugh, "who," he observes, "satisfied, with a single ounce of lead, him, whose sacrilegious avarice had stripped the metropolitan church of St Andrew's of its covering;" but he ascribes it to immediate divine inspiration, and the escape of Hamilton to little less than the miraculous interference of the Deity.--_Jebb_, Vol. II. p. 263. With equal injustice, it was, by others, made the ground of a general national reflection; for, when Mather urged Berney to assassinate Burleigh, and quoted the examples of Poltrot and Bothwellhaugh, the other conspirator answered, "that neyther Poltrot nor Hambleton did attempt their enterpryse, without some reason or consideration to lead them to it; as the one, by hyre, and promise of preferment or rewarde; the other, upon desperate mind of revenge, for a lytle wrong done unto him, as the report goethe, accordinge to the vyle trayterous dysposysyon of the hoole natyon of the Scottes."--_Murdin's State Papers_, Vol. I. p. 197. CADYOW CASTLE. ADDRESSED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. * * * * * When princely Hamilton's abode Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers, The song went round, the goblet flowed, And revel sped the laughing hours. Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound, So sweetly rung each vaulted wall, And echoed light the dancer's bound, As mirth and music cheer'd the hall. But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid, And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er, Thrill to the music of the shade, Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame, You bid me tell a minstrel tale, And tune my harp, of Border frame, On the wild banks of Evandale. For thou, from scenes of courtly pride, From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst turn, To draw oblivion's pall aside, And mark the long forgotten urn. Then, noble maid! at thy command, Again the crumbled halls shall rise; Lo! as on Evan's banks we stand, The past returns--the present flies.-- Where with the rock's wood-cover'd side Were blended late the ruins green, Rise turrets in fantastic pride, And feudal banners flaunt between: Where the rude torrent's brawling course Was shagg'd with thorn and tangling sloe, The ashler buttress braves its force, And ramparts frown in battled row. 'Tis night--the shade of keep and spire Obscurely dance on Evan's stream, And on the wave the warder's fire Is chequering the moon-light beam. Fades slow their light; the east is grey; The weary warder leaves his tower; Steeds snort; uncoupled stag-hounds bay, And merry hunters quit the bower. The draw-bridge falls--they hurry out-- Clatters each plank and swinging chain, As, dashing o'er, the jovial route Urge the shy steed, and slack the rein. First of his troop, the chief rode on; His shouting merry-men throng behind; The steed of princely Hamilton Was fleeter than the mountain wind. From the thick copse the roe-bucks bound, The startling red-deer scuds the plain, For the hoarse bugle's warrior sound Has rouzed their mountain haunts again. Through the huge oaks of Evandale, Whose limbs a thousand years have worn, What sullen roar comes down the gale, And drowns the hunter's pealing horn? Mightiest of all the beasts of chace, That roam in woody Caledon, Crashing the forest in his race, The Mountain Bull comes thundering on. Fierce, on the hunters' quiver'd band, He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow, Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the sand, And tosses high his mane of snow. Aim'd well, the chieftain's lance has flown; Struggling, in blood the savage lies; His roar is sunk in hollow groan-- Sound, merry huntsmen! sound the _pryse_![97] 'Tis noon--against the knotted oak The hunters rest the idle spear; Curls through the trees the slender smoke, Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer. Proudly the chieftain mark'd his clan, On greenwood lap all careless thrown, Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man, That bore the name of Hamilton. "Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place, "Still wont our weal and woe to share? "Why comes he not our sport to grace? "Why shares he not our hunter's fare?" Stern Claud replied, with darkening face, (Grey Pasley's haughty lord was he) "At merry feast, or buxom chace, "No more the warrior shalt thou see. "Few suns have set, since Woodhouselee "Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam, "When to his hearths, in social glee, "The war-worn soldier turn'd him home. "There, wan from her maternal throes, "His Margaret, beautiful and mild, "Sate in her bower, a pallid rose, "And peaceful nursed her new-born child. "O change accurs'd! past are those days; "False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, "And, for the hearth's domestic blaze, "Ascends destruction's volumed flame. "What sheeted phantom wanders wild, "Where mountain Eske through woodland flows, "Her arms enfold a shadowy child-- "Oh is it she, the pallid rose? "The wildered traveller sees her glide, "And hears her feeble voice with awe-- 'Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's pride! 'And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh!' He ceased--and cries of rage and grief Burst mingling from the kindred band, And half arose the kindling chief, And half unsheath'd his Arran brand. But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock, Rides headlong, with resistless speed, Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke Drives to the leap his jaded steed; Whose cheek is pale, whose eye-balls glare, As one, some visioned sight that saw, Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair?-- --'Tis he! 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh. From gory selle,[98] and reeling steed, Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound, And, reeking from the recent deed, He dashed his carbine on the ground. Sternly he spoke--"'Tis sweet to hear In good greenwood the bugle blown, But sweeter to Revenge's ear, To drink a tyrant's dying groan. "Your slaughtered quarry proudly trod, At dawning morn, o'er dale and down, But prouder base-born Murray rode Thro' old Linlithgow's crowded town. "From the wild Border's humbled side, "In haughty triumph, marched he, "While Knox relaxed his bigot pride, "And smiled, the traitorous pomp to see. "But, can stern Power, with all his vaunt, "Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare, "The settled heart of Vengeance daunt, "Or change the purpose of Despair? "With hackbut bent[99], my secret stand, "Dark as the purposed deed, I chose, "And marked, where, mingling in his band, "Troop'd Scottish pikes and English bows. "Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, "Murder's foul minion, led the van; "And clashed their broad-swords in the rear, "The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan. "Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh, "Obsequious at their regent's rein, "And haggard Lindesay's iron eye, "That saw fair Mary weep in vain. "Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove, "Proud Murray's plumage floated high; "Scarce could his trampling charger move, "So close the minions crowded nigh. "From the raised vizor's shade, his eye, "Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along, "And his steel truncheon, waved on high, "Seem'd marshalling the iron throng. "But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd "A passing shade of doubt and awe; "Some fiend was whispering in his breast, 'Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh!' "The death-shot parts--the charger springs-- "Wild rises tumult's startling roar!-- "And Murray's plumy helmet rings-- "--Rings on the ground, to rise no more. "What joy the raptured youth can feel, "To hear her love the loved one tell, "Or he, who broaches on his steel "The wolf, by whom his infant fell! "But dearer, to my injured eye, "To see in dust proud Murray roll; "And mine was ten times trebled joy, "To hear him groan his felon soul. "My Margaret's spectre glided near; "With pride her bleeding victim saw; "And shrieked in his death-deafen'd ear, 'Remember injured Bothwellhaugh!' "Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault! "Spread to the wind thy bannered tree! "Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!-- "Murray is fallen, and Scotland free." Vaults every warrior to his steed; Loud bugles join their wild acclaim-- "Murray is fallen, and Scotland freed! "Couch, Arran! couch thy spear of flame!" But, see! the minstrel vision fails-- The glimmering spears are seen no more; The shouts of war die on the gales, Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. For the loud bugle, pealing high, The blackbird whistles down the vale, And sunk in ivied ruins lie The banner'd towers of Evandale. For chiefs, intent on bloody deed, And Vengeance, shouting o'er the slain, Lo! high-born Beauty rules the steed, Or graceful guides the silken rein. And long may Peace and Pleasure own The maids, who list the minstrel's tale; Nor e'er a ruder guest be known On the fair banks of Evandale! NOTES ON CADYOW CASTLE. * * * * * _First of his troop, the chief rode on._--P. 418. v. 5. The head of the family of Hamilton, at this period, was James, Earl of Arran, Duke of Chatelherault, in France, and first peer of the Scottish realm. In 1569, he was appointed by Queen Mary her lieutenant-general in Scotland, under the singular title of her adopted father. _The Mountain Bull comes thundering on._--P. 419. v. 3. _In Caledonia olim frequens erat sylvestris quidam bos, nunc vero rarior, qui colore candissimo, jubam densam et demissam instar leonis gestat, truculentus ac ferus ab humano genere abhorrens, ut quæcunque homines vel manibus contrectarint, vel halitu perflaverunt, ab iis multos post dies omnino abstinuerunt. Ad hoc tanta audacia huic bovi indita erat, ut non solum irritatus equites furenter prosterneret, sed ne tantillum lacessitus omnes promiscue homines cornibus, ac ungulis peteret; ac canum, qui apud nos ferocissimi sunt impetus plane contemneret. Ejus carnes cartilaginosæ sed saporis suavissimi. Erat is olim per illam vastissimam Caledoniæ sylvam frequens, sed humana ingluvie jam assumptus tribus tantum locis est reliquus, Strivilingii Cumbernaldiæ et Kincarniæ._--Leslæus Scotiæ Descriptio, p. 13. _Stern Claud replied, with darkening face,_ _(Grey Pasley's haughty lord was he)._--P. 420. v. 4. Lord Claud Hamilton, second son of the Duke of Chatelherault, and commendator of the abbey of Paisley, acted a distinguished part during the troubles of Queen Mary's reign, and remained unalterably attached to the cause of that unfortunate princess. He led the van of her army at the fatal battle of Langside, and was one of the commanders at the Raid of Stirling, which had so nearly given complete success to the queen's faction. He was ancestor of the present Marquis of Abercorn. _Few suns have set since Woodhouselee._--P. 420. v. 5. This barony, stretching along the banks of the Esk, near Auchindinny, belonged to Bothwellhaugh, in right of his wife. The ruins of the mansion, from whence she was expelled in the brutal manner which occasioned her death, are still to be seen in a hollow glen beside the river. Popular report tenants them with the restless ghost of the lady Bothwellhaugh; whom, however, it confounds with Lady Anne Bothwell, whose _Lament_ is so popular. This spectre is so tenacious of her rights, that, a part of the stones of the ancient edifice having been employed in building or repairing the present Woodhouselee, she has deemed it a part of her privilege to haunt that house also; and, even of very late years, has excited considerable disturbance and terror among the domestics. This is a more remarkable vindication of the _rights of ghosts_, as the present Woodhouselee, which gives his title to the honourable Alexander Fraser Tytler, a senator of the college of justice, is situated on the slope of the Pentland hills, distant at least four miles from her proper abode. She always appears in white, and with her child in her arms. _Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke_ _Drives to the leap his jaded steed._--P. 422. v. 1. Birrell informs us, that Bothwellhaugh, being closely pursued, "after that spur and wand had fail'd him, he drew forth his dagger, and strocke his horse behind, whilk caused the horse to leap a verey brode stanke (_i.e._ ditch), by whilk means he escaipit, and gat away from all the rest of the horses."--BIRREL'S _Diary_, p. 18. _From the wild Border's humbled side,_ _In haughty triumph, marched he._--P. 423. v. 1. Murray's death took place shortly after an expedition to the borders; which is thus commemorated by the author of his elegy: "So having stablischt all thing in this sort, "To Liddisdaill agane he did resort, "Throw Ewisdail, Eskdail, and all the daills rode he, "And also lay three nights in Cannabie, "Whair na prince lay thir hundred yeiris before. "Nae thief durst stir, they did him feir so sair; "And, that thay suld na mair thair thift allege, "Threescore and twelf he brocht of thame in pledge, "Syne wardit thame, whilk maid the rest keep ordour, "Than mycht the rasch-bus keep ky on the bordour." _Scottish Poems, 16th century_, p. 232. _With hackbut bent, my secret stand._--P. 423, v. 3. The carbine, with which the regent was shot, is preserved at Hamilton palace. It is a brass piece, of a middling length, very small in the bore, and, what is rather extraordinary, appears to have been rifled or indented in the barrel. It had a matchlock, for which a modern fire-lock has been injudiciously substituted. _Dark Morton, girt with many a spear._--P. 423. v. 4. Of this noted person it is enough to say, that he was active in the murder of David Rizzio, and at least privy to that of Darnley. _The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan._--P. 423. v. 4. This clan of Lennox Highlanders were attached to the regent Murray. Holinshed, speaking of the battle of Langsyde, says, "in this batayle the valiancie of an hieland gentleman, named Macfarlane, stood the regent's part in great steede; for, in the hottest brunte of the fighte, he came up with two hundred of his friendes and countrymen, and so manfully gave in upon the flankes of the queen's people, that he was a great cause of the disordering of them. This Macfarlane had been lately before, as I have heard, condemned to die, for some outrage by him committed, and obtayning pardon through suyte of the Countesse of Murray, he recompenced that clemencie by this piece of service now at this batayle." Calderwood's account is less favourable to the Macfarlanes. He states that "Macfarlane, with his highlandmen, fled from the wing where they were set. The Lord Lindsay, who stood nearest to them in the regent's battle, said 'Let them go! I shall fill their place better:' and so, stepping forward, with a company of fresh men, charged the enemy, whose spears were now spent, with long weapons, so that they were driven back by force, being before almost overthrown by the avaunt-guard and harquebusiers, and so were turned to flight."--CALDERWOOD'S _MS._ _apud_ KEITH, p. 480. Melville mentions the flight of the vanguard, but states it to have been commanded by Morton, and composed chiefly of commoners of the barony of Renfrew. _Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,_ _Obsequious at their regent's rein._--P. 423. v. 5. The Earl of Glencairn was a steady adherent of the regent. George Douglas of Parkhead was a natural brother of the Earl of Morton, whose horse was killed by the same ball, by which Murray fell. _And haggard Lindesay's iron eye,_ _That saw fair Mary weep in vain._--P. 423. v. 5. Lord Lindsay, of the Byres, was the most ferocious and brutal of the regent's faction, and, as such, was employed to extort Mary's signature to the deed of resignation, presented to her in Lochleven castle. He discharged his commission with the most savage rigour; and it is even said, that when the weeping captive, in the act of signing, averted her eyes from the fatal deed, he pinched her arm with the grasp of his iron glove. _Scarce could his trampling charger move,_ _So close the minions crowded nigh.--P. 424._ v. 1. Not only had the regent notice of the intended attempt upon his life, but even of the very house from which it was threatened.--With that infatuation, at which men wonder, after such events have happened, he deemed it would be a sufficient precaution to ride briskly past the dangerous spot. But even this was prevented by the crowd: so that Bothwellhaugh had time to take a deliberate aim.--SPOTTISWOODE, p. 233. BUCHANAN. FOOTNOTES: [93] They were formerly kept in the park at Drumlanrig, and are still to be seen at Chillingham Castle in Northumberland. For their nature and ferocity, see Notes. [94] This was Sir James Ballenden, lord justice-clerk, whose shameful and inhuman rapacity occasioned the catastrophe in the text. SPOTTISWOODE. [95] This projecting gallery is still shown. The house, to which it was attached, was the property of the archbishop of St Andrews, a natural brother of the Duke of Chatelherault, and uncle to Bothwellhaugh. This, among many other circumstances, seems to evince the aid which Bothwellhaugh received from his clan in effecting his purpose. [96] The gift of Lord John Hamilton, Commendator of Arbroath. [97] _Pryse_--The note blown at the death of the game. [98] _Selle_--Saddle. A word used by Spenser, and other ancient authors. [99] _Hackbut bent_--Gun cock'd. THE GRAY BROTHER, A FRAGMENT. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.--WALTER SCOTT. * * * * * The imperfect state of this ballad, which was written several years ago, is not a circumstance affected for the purpose of giving it that peculiar interest, which is often found to arise from ungratified curiosity. On the contrary, it was the editor's intention to have completed the tale, if he had found himself able to succeed to his own satisfaction. Yielding to the opinion of persons, whose judgment, if not biassed by the partiality of friendship, is entitled to deference, the editor has preferred inserting these verses, as a fragment, to his intention of entirely suppressing them. The tradition, upon which the tale is founded, regards a house, upon the barony of Gilmerton, near Laswade, in Mid-Lothian. This building, now called Gilmerton Grange, was originally named Burndale, from the following tragic adventure. The barony of Gilmerton belonged, of yore, to a gentleman, named Heron, who had one beautiful daughter. This young lady was seduced by the abbot of Newbottle, a richly endowed abbey, upon the banks of the south Esk, now a seat of the marquis of Lothian. Heron came to the knowledge of this circumstance, and learned also, that the lovers carried on their guilty intercourse by the connivance of the lady's nurse, who lived at this house of Gilmerton Grange, or Burndale. He formed a resolution of bloody vengeance, undeterred by the supposed sanctity of the clerical character, or by the stronger claims of natural affection. Chusing, therefore, a dark and windy night, when the objects of his vengeance were engaged in a stolen interview, he set fire to a stack of dried thorns, and other combustibles, which he had caused to be piled against the house, and reduced to a pile of glowing ashes the dwelling, with all its inmates.[100] The scene, with which the ballad opens, was suggested by the following curious passage, extracted from the life of Alexander Peden, one of the wandering and persecuted teachers of the sect of Cameronians, during the reign of Charles II. and his successor, James. This person was supposed by his followers, and, perhaps, really believed himself, to be possessed of supernatural gifts; for the wild scenes, which they frequented, and the constant dangers, which were incurred through their proscription, deepened upon their minds the gloom of superstition, so general in that age. "About the same time he (Peden) came to Andrew Normand's house, in the parish of Alloway, in the shire of Ayr, being to preach at night in his barn. After he came in, he halted a little, leaning upon a chair-back, with his face covered; when he lifted up his head, he said, 'There are in this house that I have not one word of salvation unto;' he halted a little again, saying, 'This is strange, that the devil will not go out, that we may begin our work!' Then there was a woman went out, ill-looked upon almost all her life, and to her dying hour, for a witch, with many presumptions of the same. It escaped me, in the former passages, that John Muirhead (whom I have often mentioned) told me, that when he came from Ireland to Galloway, he was at family-worship, and giving some notes upon the Scripture, when a very ill-looking man came, and sate down within the door, at the back of the _hallan_ (partition of the cottage): immediately he halted, and said, 'There is some unhappy body just now come into this house. I charge him to go out, and not stop my mouth!' The person went out, and he _insisted_ (went on), yet he saw him neither come in nor go out."--_The Life and Prophecies of Mr Alexander Peden, late Minister of the Gospel at New Glenluce, in Galloway_, Part II. § 26. THE GRAY BROTHER. * * * * * The Pope he was saying the high, high mass, All on saint Peter's day, With the power to him given, by the saints in heaven, To wash men's sins away. The pope he was saying the blessed mass, And the people kneel'd around, And from each man's soul his sins did pass, As he kiss'd the holy ground. And all, among the crowded throng, Was still, both limb and tongue, While thro' vaulted roof, and aisles aloof, The holy accents rung. At the holiest word, he quiver'd for fear, And faulter'd in the sound-- And, when he would the chalice rear, He dropp'd it on the ground. "The breath of one of evil deed "Pollutes our sacred day; "He has no portion in our creed, "No part in what I say. "A being, whom no blessed word "To ghostly peace can bring; "A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd, "Recoils each holy thing. "Up! up! unhappy! haste, arise! "My adjuration fear! "I charge thee not to stop my voice, "Nor longer tarry here!" Amid them all a pilgrim kneel'd, In gown of sackcloth gray; Far journeying from his native field, He first saw Rome that day. For forty days and nights, so drear, I ween, he had not spoke, And, save with bread and water clear, His fast he ne'er had broke. Amid the penitential flock, Seem'd none more bent to pray; But, when the Holy Father spoke, He rose, and went his way. Again unto his native land, His weary course he drew, To Lothian's fair and fertile strand, And Pentland's mountains blue. His unblest feet his native seat, Mid Eske's fair woods, regain; Thro' woods more fair no stream more sweet Rolls to the eastern main. And lords to meet the Pilgrim came, And vassals bent the knee; For all mid Scotland's chiefs of fame, Was none more famed than he. And boldly for his country, still, In battle he had stood, Aye, even when, on the banks of Till, Her noblest pour'd their blood. Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet! By Eske's fair streams that run, O'er airy steep, thro' copsewood deep, Impervious to the sun. There the rapt poet's step may rove, And yield the muse the day; There Beauty, led by timid Love, May shun the tell-tale ray; From that fair dome, where suit is paid, By blast of bugle free, To Auchendinny's hazel glade, And haunted Woodhouselee. Who knows not Melville's beechy grove, And Roslin's rocky glen, Dalkeith, which all the virtues love, And classic Hawthornden? Yet never a path, from day to day, The pilgrim's footsteps range, Save but the solitary way To Burndale's ruin'd Grange. A woeful place was that, I ween, As sorrow could desire; For, nodding to the fall was each crumbling wall, And the roof was scathed with fire. It fell upon a summer's eve, While on Carnethy's head, The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams Had streak'd the gray with red; And the convent-bell did vespers tell, Newbottle's oaks among, And mingled with the solemn knell Our Ladye's evening song: The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell, Came slowly down the wind, And on the pilgrim's ear they fell, As his wonted path he did find. Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was, Nor ever rais'd his eye, Untill he came to that dreary place, Which did all in ruins lie. He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire, With many a bitter groan-- And there was aware of a Gray Friar, Resting him on a stone. "Now, Christ thee save!" said the Gray Brother; "Some pilgrim thou seemest to be." But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze, Nor answer again made he. "O come ye from east, or come ye from west, "Or bring reliques from over the sea, "Or come ye from the shrine of St James the divine, "Or St John of Beverly?" "I come not from the shrine of St James the divine, "Nor bring reliques from over the sea; "I bring but a curse from our father, the Pope, "Which for ever will cling to me." "Now, woeful pilgrim, say not so! "But kneel thee down by me, "And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin, "That absolved thou mayst be." "And who art thou, thou Gray Brother, "That I should shrive to thee, "When he, to whom are giv'n the keys of earth and heav'n, "Has no power to pardon me?" "O I am sent from a distant clime, "Five thousand miles away, "And all to absolve a foul, foul crime, "Done _here_ 'twixt night and day." The pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand, And thus began his saye-- When on his neck an ice-cold hand Did that Gray Brother laye. NOTES ON THE GRAY BROTHER. * * * * * _From that fair dome, where suit is paid,_ _By blast of bugle free._--P. 439. v. 4. The barony of Pennycuik, the property of Sir George Clerk, Bart. is held by a singular tenure; the proprietor being bound to sit upon a large rocky fragment, called the Buckstane, and wind three blasts of a horn, when the king shall come to hunt on the Borough Muir, near Edinburgh. Hence, the family have adopted, as their crest, a demi-forester proper, winding a horn, with the motto, _Free for a Blast_. The beautiful mansion-house of Pennycuik is much admired, both on account of the architecture and surrounding scenery. To Auchendinny's hazel glade.--P. 439. v. 4. Auchendinny, situated upon the Eske, below Pennycuik, the present residence of the ingenious H. Mackenzie, Esq., author of the _Man of Feeling_, &c. _And haunted Woodhouselee._--P. 439. v. 4. For the traditions connected with this ruinous mansion, see the Ballad of _Cadyow Castle_, p. 410. _Who knows not Melville's beechy grove._--P. 439. v. 5. Melville Castle, the seat of the honourable Robert Dundas, member for the county of Mid-Lothian, is delightfully situated upon the Eske, near Laswade. It gives the title of viscount to his father, Lord Melville. _And Roslin's rocky glen._--P. 439. v. 5. The ruins of Roslin Castle, the baronial residence of the ancient family of St Clair, the Gothic chapel, which is still in beautiful preservation, with the romantic and woody dell in which they are situated, belong to the Right Honourable the Earl of Rosslyn, the representative of the former lords of Roslin. _Dalkeith, which all the virtues love._--P. 439. v. 5. The village and castle of Dalkeith belonged, of old, to the famous Earl of Morton, but is now the residence of the noble family of Buccleuch. The park extends along the Esk, which is there joined by its sister stream, of the same name. _And classic Hawthornden._--P. 439. v. 5. Hawthornden, the residence of the poet Drummond. A house, of more modern date, is inclosed, as it were, by the ruins of the ancient castle, and overhangs a tremendous precipice, upon the banks of the Eske, perforated by winding caves, which, in former times, formed a refuge to the oppressed patriots of Scotland. Here Drummond received Ben Jonson, who journeyed from London, on foot, in order to visit him. The beauty of this striking scene has been much injured, of late years, by the indiscriminate use of the axe. The traveller now looks in vain for the leafy bower, "Where Jonson sate in Drummond's social shade." Upon the whole, tracing the Eske from its source, till it joins the sea, at Musselburgh, no stream in Scotland can boast such a varied succession of the most interesting objects, as well as of the most romantic and beautiful scenery. FOOTNOTES: [100] This tradition was communicated to me by John Clerk, Esq. of Eldin, author of an _Essay upon Naval Tactics_, who will be remembered by posterity, as having taught the Genius of Britain to concentrate her thunders, and to launch them against her foes with an unerring aim. WAR-SONG OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS. BY THE EDITOR. * * * * * "_Nennius._ Is not peace the end of arms? _Caratach._ Not where the cause implies a general conquest. Had we a difference with some petty isle, Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks, The taking in of some rebellious lord, Or making head against a slight commotion, After a day of blood, peace might be argued: But where we grapple for the land we live on, The liberty we hold more dear than life, The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours, And, with those, swords, that know no end of battle-- Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour, Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inheritance, And, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their harvest, And, where they march, but measure out more ground To add to Rome---- It must not be.--No! as they are our foes, Let's use the peace of honour--that's fair dealing; But in our hands our swords. The hardy Roman, That thinks to graft himself into my stock, Must first begin his kindred under ground, And be allied in ashes."---- BONDUCA. The following War-Song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in 1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expence. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Honourable Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure of arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was no where more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a Regiment of Cavalry, from the city and county, and two Corps of Artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: "_Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate._" WAR-SONG OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS. * * * * * To horse! to horse! the standard flies, The bugles sound the call; The Gallic navy stems the seas, The voice of battle's on the breeze, Arouse ye, one and all! From high Dunedin's towers we come, A band of brothers true; Our casques the leopard's spoils surround, With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd; We boast the red and blue.[101] Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown, Dull Holland's tardy train; Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn, Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn, And, foaming, gnaw the chain; O! had they mark'd the avenging call Their brethren's murder gave, Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, Nor patriot valour, desperate grown, Sought freedom in the grave! Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, In Freedom's temple born, Dress our pale cheek in timid smile, To hail a master in our isle, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land Come pouring as a flood, The sun, that sees our falling day, Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway, And set that night in blood. For gold let Gallia's legions fight, Or plunder's bloody gain; Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, To guard our King, to fence our Law, Nor shall their edge be vain. If ever breath of British gale Shall fan the tri-color, Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore,-- Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Adieu each tender tie! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To conquer, or to die. To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; High sounds our bugle call; Combined by honour's sacred tie, Our word is _Laws and Liberty!_ March forward, one and all! NOTE ON THE WAR-SONG. * * * * * _O! had they mark'd the avenging call_ _Their brethren's murder gave._--P. 449. v. 2. The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss guards, on the fatal 10th August, 1792. It is painful, but not useless, to remark, that the passive temper with which the Swiss regarded the death of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly slaughtered in discharge of their duty, encouraged and authorized the progressive injustice, by which the Alps, once the seat of the most virtuous and free people upon the continent, have, at length, been converted into the citadel of a foreign and military despot. A state degraded is half enslaved. FOOTNOTES: [101] The Royal Colours. THE FEAST OF SPURS. BY THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M. * * * * * _In the account of_ WALTER SCOTT _of Harden's way of living, it is mentioned, that "when the last Bullock was killed and devoured, it was the Lady's custom to place on the table a dish, which, on being uncovered, was found to contain a pair of clean Spurs; a hint to the Riders, that they must shift for their next meal."_ See Introduction, p. 88. _The speakers in the following stanzas are_ WALTER SCOTT _of Harden, and his wife,_ MARY SCOTT, _the Flower of Yarrow._ * * * * * "Haste, ho! my dame, what cheer the night? "I look to see your table dight, "For I ha'e been up since peep o' light, "Driving the dun deer merrilie. "Wow! but the bonnie harts and raes Are fleet o' foot on Ettricke braes; My gude dogs ne'er, in a' their days, Forfoughten were sae wearilie. "Frae Shaws to Rankelburn we ran A score, that neither stint nor blan; And now ahint the breckans[102] stan', And laugh at a' our company. "We've passed through monie a tangled cleugh, We've rade fu' fast o'er haugh and heugh; I trust ye've got gude cheer eneugh To feast us a' right lustilie."-- "Are ye sae keen-set, Wat? 'tis weel; Ye winna find a dainty meal; It's a' o' the gude Rippon steel, Ye maun digest it manfullie. "Nae ky are left in Harden Glen; Ye maun be stirring wi' your men; Gin ye soud bring me less than ten, I winna roose[103] your braverie."-- "Are ye sae modest ten to name? "Syne, an I bring na twenty hame, "I'll freely gi'e ye leave to blame "Baith me, and a' my chyvalrie. "I coud ha'e relished better cheer, "After the chace o' sic-like deer; "But, trust me, rowth o' Southern gear "Shall deck your lard'ner speedilie. "When Stanegirthside I last came by, "A bassened bull allured mine eye, "Feeding amang a herd o' kye; "O gin I looked na wistfullie! "To horse! young Jock shall lead the way; "And soud the warden tak the fray "To mar our riding, I winna say, "But he mote be in jeopardie. "The siller moon now glimmers pale; "But ere we've crossed fair Liddesdale, "She'll shine as brightlie as the bale[104] "That warns the water hastilie. "O leeze me on her bonnie light! "There's nought sae dear to Harden's sight, "Troth, gin she shone but ilka night, "Our clan might live right royallie. "Haste, bring your nagies frae the sta', "And lightlie louping, ane and a', "Intull your saddles, scour awa', "And ranshakle[105] the Southronie. "Let ilka ane his knapscap[106] lace; "Let ilka ane his steil-jack brace; "And deil bless him that sall disgrace "Walter o' Harden's liverie!"-- NOTES ON THE FEAST OF SPURS. * * * * * _Harden Glen._--P. 453. v. 5. "Harden's castle was situated upon the very brink of a dark and precipitous dell, through which a scanty rivulet steals to meet the Borthwick. In the recess of this glen he is said to have kept his spoil, which served for the daily maintenance of his retainers." Notes on the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," Canto IV. stanza 9. _Warns the water._--P. 454. v. 5. This expression signified formerly the giving the alarm to the inhabitants of a district; each district taking its name from the river that flowed through it. _O leeze me,_ &c.--P. 455. v. 1. The esteem in which the moon was held in the Harden family may be traced in the motto they still bear: "_Reparabit cornua Phoebe."_ FOOTNOTES: [102] _Breckans_--Fern. [103] _Roose_--Praise. [104] _Bale_--Beacon-fire. [105] _Ranshakle_--Plunder. [106] _Knapscap_--Helmet. ON A VISIT PAID TO THE RUINS OF MELROSE ABBEY BY THE COUNTESS OF DALKEITH, AND HER SON, LORD SCOTT. BY THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M. * * * * * Abbots of Melrose, wont of yore The dire anathema to pour On England's hated name; See, to appease your injured shades, And expiate her Border raids, She sends her fairest Dame. Her fairest Dame those shrines has graced, That once her boldest Lords defaced; Then let your hatred cease; The prayer of import dread revoke, Which erst indignant fury spoke, And pray for England's peace. If, as it seems to Fancy's eye, Your sainted spirits hover nigh, And haunt this once-loved spot; That Youth's fair open front behold, His step of strength, his visage bold, And hail a genuine Scott. Yet think that England claims a part In the rich blood that warms his heart, And let your hatred cease; The prayer of import dread revoke, Which erst indignant fury spoke, And pray for England's peace. Pray, that no proud insulting foe May ever lay her temples low, Or violate her fanes; No moody fanatic deface The works of wondrous art, that grace Antiquity's remains. NOTE ON A VISIT PAID TO THE RUINS OF MELROSE ABBEY. * * * * * Melrose Abbey was reduced to its present ruinous state, partly by the English barons in their hostile inroads, and partly by John Knox and his followers. For a reason why its abbots should be supposed to take an interest in the Buccleuch family, see the Notes to the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," octavo edition, p. 238. ARCHIE ARMSTRONG'S AITH. BY THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M. * * * * * As Archie passed the Brockwood-leys, He cursed the blinkan moon, For shouts were borne upo' the breeze Frae a' the hills aboon. A herd had marked his lingering pace That e'enin near the fauld, And warned his fellows to the chace, For he kenn'd him stout and bauld. A light shone frae Gilnockie tower; He thought, as he ran past,-- "O Johnie ance was stiff in stour, "But hangit at the last!"-- His load was heavy, and the way Was rough, and ill to find; But ere he reached the Stubholm brae, His faes were far behind. He clamb the brae, and frae his brow The draps fell fast and free; And when he heard a loud halloo, A waefu' man was he. O'er his left shouther, towards the muir, An anxious e'e he cast; And oh! when he stepped o'er the door, His wife she looked aghast. "Ah wherefore, Archie, wad ye slight "Ilk word o' timely warning? "I trow ye will be ta'en the night, "And hangit i' the morning."-- "Now haud your tongue, ye prating wife, "And help me as ye dow; "I wad be laith to lose my life "For ae poor silly yowe."-- They stript awa the skin aff-hand, Wi' a' the woo' aboon; There's ne'er a flesher[107] i' the land Had done it half sae soon. They took the _haggis-bag_ and heart, The heart, but and the liver; Alake, that siccan a noble part Should win intull the river! But Archie he has ta'en them a', And wrapt them i' the skin; And he has thrown them o'er the wa', And sicht whan they fell in. The cradle stans by the ingle[108] toom,[109] The bairn wi' auntie stays; They clapt the carcase in its room, And smoored it wi' the claes. And down sate Archie daintilie, And rocked it wi' his hand; Siccan a rough nourice as he Was not in a' the land. And saftlie he began to croon,[110] "Hush, hushabye, my dear."-- He had na sang to sic a tune, I trow, for monie a year. Now frae the hills they cam in haste, A' rinning out o' breath;-- "Ah, Archie, we ha' got ye fast, "And ye maun die the death! "Aft ha' ye thinned our master's herds, "And elsewhere cast the blame; "Now ye may spare your wilie words, "For we have traced ye hame."-- "Your sheep for warlds I wad na take; "Deil ha' me if I'm lying; "But haud your tongues for mercie's sake, "The bairn's just at the dying. "If e'er I did sae fause a feat, "As thin my neebor's faulds, "May I be doomed the flesh to eat "This vera cradle halds! "But gin ye reck na what I swear, "Go search the biggin[111] thorow, "And if ye find ae trotter there, "Then hang me up the morrow."-- They thought to find the stolen gear, They searched baith but and ben; But a' was clean, and a' was clear, And naething could they ken. And what to think they could na tell, They glowred at ane anither;-- "Sure, Patie, 'twas the deil himsel "That ye saw rinning hither. "Or aiblins Maggie's ta'en the yowe, "And thus beguiled your e'e."-- "Hey, Robie, man, and like enowe, "For I ha'e nae rowan-tree."-- Awa' they went wi' muckle haste, Convinced 'twas Maggie Brown; And Maggie, ere eight days were past, Got mair nor ae new gown. Then Archie turned him on his heel, And gamesomelie did say,-- "I did na think that half sae weel "The nourice I could play." And Archie didna break his aith, He ate the cradled sheep; I trow he was na vera laith Siccan a vow to keep. And aft sinsyne to England's king The story he has told; And aye when he gan rock and sing, Charlie his sides wad hold. NOTES ON ARCHIE ARMSTRONG'S AITH. * * * * * The hero of this ballad was a native of Eskdale, and contributed not a little towards the raising his clan to that pre-eminence which it long maintained amongst the Border thieves, and which none indeed but the Elliots could dispute. He lived at the Stubholm, immediately below the junction of the Wauchope and the Esk; and there distinguished himself so much by zeal and assiduity in his professional duties, that at length he found it expedient to emigrate, his neighbours not having learned from Sir John Falstaff, that "it is no sin for a man to labour in his vocation." He afterwards became a celebrated jester in the English court. In more modern times, he might have found a court in which his virtues would have entitled him to a higher station. He was dismissed in disgrace in the year 1737, for his insolent wit, of which the following may serve as a specimen. One day when Archbishop Laud was just about to say grace before dinner, Archie begged permission of the king to perform that office in his stead; and having received it, said, "All _praise_ to God, and little _Laud_ to the deil." The exploit detailed in this ballad has been preserved, with many others of the same kind, by tradition, and is at this time current in Eskdale. _Or aiblin's Maggie's ta'en the yowe._--P. 464. v. 4. There is no district wherein witches seem to have maintained a more extensive, or more recent influence than in Eskdale. It is not long since the system of bribery, alluded to in the next stanza, was carried on in that part of the country. The rowan-tree, or mountain-ash, is well known to be a sure preservative against the power of witchcraft. FINIS. FOOTNOTES: [107] _A Flesher_--A Butcher. [108] _Ingle_--Fire. [109] _Toom_--Empty. [110] _Croon_--To hum over a song. [111] _Biggin_--Building. * * * * * EDINBURGH: Printed by James Ballantyne & Co. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. Simple typographical and spelling errors were corrected. Italics words are denoted by _underscores_. Bold words are denoted by =equals=. P. 310 added footnote attributing unidentified poem to William Collins.