Chapter III: Introduction (2)

And “Hey, Annie!” and “How, Annie!
Dear Annie, speak to me!”
But ay the louder he cried “Annie,”
The louder roard the sea.

The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough,
And dashd the boat on shore;
Fair Annie floats on the raging sea,
But her young son rose no more.

Love Gregor tare his yellow hair,
And made a heavy moan;
Fair Annie’s corpse lay at his feet,
But his bonny young son was gone.

O cherry, cherry was her cheek,
And gowden was her hair,
But clay cold were her rosey lips,
Nae spark of life was there,

And first he’s kissd her cherry cheek,
And neist he’s kissed her chin;
And saftly pressd her rosey lips,
But there was nae breath within.

“O wae betide my cruel mother,
And an ill dead may she die!
For she turnd my true-love frae my door,
When she came sae far to me.”

THE QUEEN’S MARIE

(_Child_, vi., _Border Minstrelsy_.)

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,
Wi ribbons on her breast;
The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,
Than he listend to the priest.

Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane,
Wi gloves 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 rowd it in her apron,
And set it on the sea:
“Gae sink ye, or swim ye, bonny babe,
Ye’s 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 faen 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.”

“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 eer 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 ee.

“Yestreen the queen had four Maries,
The night she’ll hae but three;
There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaten,
And Marie Carmichael, and me.

“O, often have I dressd 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 dressd 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!”

KINMONT WILLIE

(_Child_, vol. vi.)

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?

Had Willie had but twenty men,
But twenty men as stout as be,
Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont taen
Wi eight score in his companie.

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 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?”

“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 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,
That Lord Scroope has taen the Kinmont Willie,
Between the hours of night and day.

He has taen the table wi his hand,
He garrd the red wine spring on hie;
“Now Christ’s curse on my head,” he said,
“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 lady’s lilye hand,
That an English lord should lightly me?

“And have they taen him, Kinmont Willie,
Against the truce of Border tide?
And forgotten that the bauld Bacleuch
Is keeper here on the Scottish side?

“And have they een taen him, Kinmont Willie,
Withouten either dread or fear,
And forgotten that the bauld Bacleuch
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,
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 calld him forty marchmen bauld,
I trow they were of his ain name,
Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, calld
The Laird of Stobs, I mean the same.

He has calld 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.

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 crossd 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 nevir a word o lear had he.

“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.

Then on we held for Carlisle toun,
And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we crossd;
The water was great and meikle of spait,
But the nevir a horse nor man we lost.

And when we reachd the Staneshaw-bank,
The wind was rising loud and hie;
And there the laird garrd 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 castell-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 she first, before us a’.

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.

“Now sound out, trumpets!” quo Buccleuch;
“Let’s waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!”
Then loud the warden’s trumpet blew
“O whae dare meddle wi me?”

Then speedilie to wark we gaed,
And raised the slogan ane and a’,
And cut a hole through a sheet of lead,
And so we wan to the castel-ha.

They thought King James and a’ his men
Had won the house wi bow and speir;
It was but twenty Scots and ten
That put a thousand in sic a stear!

Wi coulters, and wi fore-hammers,
We garrd the bars bang merrilie,
Until we came to the inner prison,
Where Willie o Kinmont he did lie.

And when we came 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, and I wake aft,
It’s lang since sleeping was fley’d frae me;
Gie my service back to my wyfe 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,
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 airms playd 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 neer bestrode.

“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 nevir 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 flowd 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.”

JAMIE TELFER

(_Child_, vol. vi. Early Edition.)

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 Hardhaughswire;
The second guide that we 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, ane and a’,
And ranshackled 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 o’ a new fa’n snaw,
Jamie Telfer has run three 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—
“Wha’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,
But a waefu’ wife and bairnies three.

“Gae 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 came to the Coultart Cleugh
And there he shouted baith loud and hie.

Then up bespak him auld Jock Grieve—
“Wha’s this that brings the fray to me?”
“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ the fair Dodhead,
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 câ’s stand in the sta’,
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,
Was right weel fed wi’ corn and hay,
And he’s set Jamie Telfer on his back,
To the Catslockhill to tak’ the fray.

And whan he cam to the Catslockhill,
He shouted loud and weel cried he,
Till out and spak him William’s Wat—
“O wha’s this brings the fraye to me?”

“It’s I, Jamie Telfer o’ 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 by 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 fray.

And whan they cam to Branksome Ha’,
They shouted a’ baith loud and hie,
Till up and spak him auld Buccleuch,
Said—“Wha’s this brings the fray 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 soon and hastily!
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 come down the Hermitage Slack,
Warn doughty Willie o’ Gorrinbery.”

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.

“Wha drives thir kye?” ’gan Willie say,
“To mak an outspeckle o’ me?”
“It’s 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 o’ 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 saddle there sall be!”

But Willie was stricken ower the head,
And through the knapscap the sword has gane;
And Harden grat for very rage,
Whan Willie on the ground lay slain.

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,
Nor the lyart locks of Harden’s hair.

“Revenge! revenge!” auld Wat ’gan cry;
“Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie!
We’ll ne’er see Tiviotside again,
Or Willie’s death revenged shall 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 slain,
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 year,
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 have had a winding-sheet,
And helped to put it ower his head,
Ere he had been disgraced by the Border Scot,
When 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,
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 wife ayont the fire,
A wee bit o’ the captain’s kin—
“Wha daur loose out the captain’s kye,
Or answer to him and his men?”

“It’s 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 wot was mony a weeping e’e.

THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY

(_Child_, vol. ii. Early Edition.)

“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 be spy’d her seven brethren bold,
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 brothers bold,
And your father I make 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 loved her so dear.

“O hold your hand, Lord William!” she said,
“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,
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,
“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 ladye 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 Marie’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 by and rade the Black Douglas,
And wow but he was rough!
For he pull’d up the bonny brier,
An flang’t in St. Marie’s Loch.

THE BONNY HIND

(_Child_, vol. ii.)

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;
Gif ye winna gie me your green manteel,
Gi me your maidenhead.”

He has taen her by the milk-white hand,
And softly laid her down,
And when he’s lifted her up again
Given her a silver kaim.

“Perhaps there may be bairns, kind sir,
Perhaps there may be nane;
But if you be a courtier,
You’ll tell to me your name.”

“I am na courtier, fair maid,
But new come frae the sea;
I am nae courtier, fair maid,
But when I court’ith 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 ye lee!
For I’m Lord Randal’s yae 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 yae yae son,
Just now come oer the sea.”

She’s putten her hand down by her spare
And out she’s taen a knife,
And she has putn’t in her heart’s bluid,
And taen away her life.

And he’s taen up his bonny sister,
With the big tear in his een,
And he has buried his bonny sister
Amang the hollins green.

And syne he’s hyed him oer the dale,
His father dear to see:
“Sing O and O for my bonny hind,
Beneath yon hollin tree!”

“What needs you care for your bonny hyn?
For it you needna care;
There’s aught score hyns in yonder park,
And five score hyns to spare.

“Fourscore of them are siller-shod,
Of thae ye may get three;”
“But O and O for my bonny hyn,
Beneath yon hollin tree!”

“What needs you care for your bonny hyn?
For it you needna care;
Take you the best, gi me the warst,
Since plenty is to spare.”

“I care na for your hyns, my lord,
I care na for your fee;
But O and O for my bonny hyn,
Beneath the hollin tree!”

“O were ye at your sister’s bower,
Your sister fair to see,
Ye’ll think na mair o your bonny hyn
Beneath the hollin tree.”

YOUNG BICHAM

(_Child_, vol. ii.)

IN London city was Bicham born,
He longd strange countries for to see,
But he was taen by a savage Moor,
Who handld him right cruely.

For thro his shoulder he put a bore,
An thro the bore has pitten a tree,
And he’s gard him draw the carts o wine,
Where horse and oxen had wont to be.

He’s casten [him] in a dungeon deep,
Where he coud neither hear nor see;
He’s shut him up in a prison strong,
An he’s handld him right cruely.

O this Moor he had but ae daughter,
I wot her name was Shusy Pye;
She’s doen her to the prison-house,
And she’s calld young Bicham one word by.

“O hae ye ony lands or rents,
Or citys in your ain country,
Coud free you out of prison strong,
An coud maintain a lady free?”

“O London city is my own,
An other citys twa or three,
Coud loose me out o prison strong,
An could maintain a lady free.”

O she has bribed her father’s men
Wi meikle goud and white money,
She’s gotten the key o the prison doors,
And she has set Young Bicham free.

She’s gi’n him a loaf o good white bread,
But an a flask o Spanish wine,
An she bad him mind on the ladie’s love
That sae kindly freed him out o pine.

“Go set your foot on good ship-board,
An haste you back to your ain country,
An before that seven years has an end,
Come back again, love, and marry me.”

It was long or seven years had an end
She longd fu sair her love to see;
She’s set her foot on good ship-board,
An turnd her back on her ain country.

She’s saild up, so has she down,
Till she came to the other side;
She’s landed at Young Bicham’s gates,
An I hop this day she sal be his bride.

“Is this Young Bicham’s gates?” says she.
“Or is that noble prince within?”
“He’s up the stair wi his bonny bride,
An monny a lord and lady wi him.”

“O has he taen a bonny bride,
An has he clean forgotten me?”
An sighing said that gay lady,
“I wish I were in my ain country!”

She’s pitten her ban in her pocket,
An gin the porter guineas three;
Says, “Take ye that, ye proud porter,
An bid the bridegroom speak to me.”

O whan the porter came up the stair,
He’s fa’n low down upon his knee:
“Won up, won up, ye proud porter,
And what makes a’ this courtesy?”

“O I’ve been porter at your gates
This mair nor seven years an three,
But there is a lady at them now
The like of whom I never did see.

“For on every finger she has a ring,
An on the mid-finger she has three,
An there’s as meikle goud aboon her brow
As woud buy an earldom o lan to me.”

Then up it started Young Bicham,
An sware so loud by Our Lady,
“It can be nane but Shusy Pye
That has come oor the sea to me.”

O quickly ran he down the stair,
O fifteen steps he has made but three,
He’s tane his bonny love in his arms
An a wot he kissd her tenderly.

“O hae you tane a bonny bride?
An hae you quite forsaken me?
An hae ye quite forgotten her
That gae you life an liberty?”

She’s lookit oer her left shoulder
To hide the tears stood in her ee;
“Now fare thee well, Young Bicham,” she says,
“I’ll strive to think nae mair on thee.”

“Take back your daughter, madam,” he says,
“An a double dowry I’ll gie her wi;
For I maun marry my first true love,
That’s done and suffered so much for me.”

He’s tak his bonny love by the han,
And led her to yon fountain stane;
He’s changed her name frae Shusy Pye,
An he’s cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane.

THE LOVING BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN

(_Child_, vol. ii. _Cockney copy_.)

LORD BATEMAN was a noble lord,
A noble lord of high degree;
He shipped himself all aboard of a ship,
Some foreign country for to see.

He sailed east, he sailed west,
Until he came to famed Turkey,
Where he was taken and put to prison,
Until his life was quite weary.

All in this prison there grew a tree,
O there it grew so stout and strong!
Where he was chained all by the middle,
Until his life was almost gone.

This Turk he had one only daughter,
The fairest my two eyes eer see;
She steal the keys of her father’s prison,
And swore Lord Bateman she would let go free.

O she took him to her father’s cellar,
And gave to him the best of wine;
And every health she drank unto him
Was “I wish, Lord Bateman, as you was mine.”

“O have you got houses, have you got land,
And does Northumberland belong to thee?
And what would you give to the fair young lady
As out of prison would let you go free?”

“O I’ve got houses and I’ve got land,
And half Northumberland belongs to me;
And I will give it all to the fair young lady
As out of prison would let me go free.”

“O in seven long years I’ll make a vow
For seven long years, and keep it strong,
That if you’ll wed no other woman,
O I will wed no other man.”

O she took him to her father’s harbor,
And gave to him a ship of fame,
Saying, “Farewell, farewell to you, Lord Bateman,
I fear I shall never see you again.”

Now seven long years is gone and past,
And fourteen days, well known to me;
She packed up all her gay clothing,
And swore Lord Bateman she would go see.

O when she arrived at Lord Bateman’s castle,
How boldly then she rang the bell!
“Who’s there? who’s there?” cries the proud young porter,
“O come unto me pray quickly tell.”

“O is this here Lord Bateman’s castle,
And is his lordship here within?”
“O yes, O yes,” cries the proud young porter,
“He’s just now taking his young bride in.”

“O bid him to send me a slice of bread,
And a bottle of the very best wine,
And not forgetting the fair young lady
As did release him when close confine.”

O away and away went this proud young porter,
O away and away and away went he,
Until he came to Lord Bateman’s chamber,
Where he went down on his bended knee.

“What news, what news, my proud young porter?
What news, what news? come tell to me:”
“O there is the fairest young lady
As ever my two eyes did see.

“She has got rings on every finger,
And on one finger she has got three;
With as much gay gold about her middle
As would buy half Northumberlee.

“O she bids you to send her a slice of bread,
And a bottle of the very best wine,
And not forgetting the fair young lady
As did release you when close confine.”

Lord Bateman then in passion flew,
And broke his sword in splinters three,
Saying, “I will give half of my father’s land,
If so be as Sophia has crossed the sea.”

Then up and spoke this young bride’s mother,
Who never was heard to speak so free;
Saying, “You’ll not forget my only daughter,
If so be Sophia has crossed the sea.”

“O it’s true I made a bride of your daughter,
But she’s neither the better nor the worse for me;
She came to me with a horse and saddle,
But she may go home in a coach and three.”

Lord Bateman then prepared another marriage,
With both their hearts so full of glee,
Saying, “I will roam no more to foreign countries,
Now that Sophia has crossed the sea.”

THE BONNIE HOUSE O’ AIRLY

(_Child_, vol. vii. Early Edition.)

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
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!
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,
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 shouldna leave a standing stane Airly.”

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,
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,
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,
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.”

ROB ROY

(_Child_, vol. vi. Early Edition.)

ROB ROY from the Highlands cam,
Unto the Lawlan’ border,
To steal awa a gay ladie
To haud his house in order.
He cam oure the lock o’ Lynn,
Twenty men his arms did carry;
Himsel gaed in, an’ fand her out,
Protesting he would many.

“O will ye gae wi’ me,” he says,
“Or will ye be my honey?
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;
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.

* * * * *

“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,
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,
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,
Shall feel my guid claymore, ladie.”

THE BATTLE OF KILLIE-CRANKIE

(_Child_, vol. vii. Early Edition.)

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,
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 stark,
She flang amang them a’, man;
The butter-box got many 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,
The lads began to fa’ then.

Hur skipt about, hur leapt about,
And flang amang them a’, man;
The English blades got broken beads,
Their crowns were cleav’d in twa then.
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
Came whigging up the hills, man;
Thought Highland trews durst not refuse
For to subscribe their bills then.
In Willie’s name, they thought nag ane
Durst stop their course at a’, man,
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,
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.

_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,
And speak a word or twa, man,
She’s gi’ a straike, out o’er the neck,
Before ye win awa’ then.

Oh fy for shame, ye’re three for ane,
Hur-nane-sell’s won the day, man;
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,
And Willie’d ran awa’ then.

ANNAN WATER

(_Child_, vol. ii. Early Edition.)

“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 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.

“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 gray was a mare, and a right good mare;
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 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 grey mare did sweat for fear,
For she heard the water-kelpy roaring.

O he has pou’d aff his dapperpy coat,
The silver buttons glancèd 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 saugh wand!
And wae betide the bush of brier!
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.”—

THE ELPHIN NOURRICE

(_C. K. Sharpe_.)