Chapter I: HEARD a cow low, a bonnie cow low,

An’ a cow low down in yon glen;
Lang, lang will my young son greet,
Or his mither bid him come ben.

I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,
An’ a cow low down in yon fauld;
Lang, lang will my young son greet,
Or is mither take him frae cauld.

Waken, Queen of Elfan,
An hear your Nourrice moan.
O moan ye for your meat,
Or moan ye for your fee,
Or moan ye for the ither bounties
That ladies are wont to gie?

I moan na for my meat,
Nor yet for my fee,
But I mourn for Christened land—
It’s there I fain would be.

O nurse my bairn, Nourice, she says,
Till he stan’ at your knee,
An’ ye’s win hame to Christen land,
Whar fain it’s ye wad be.

O keep my bairn, Nourice,
Till he gang by the hauld,
An’ ye’s win hame to your young son,
Ye left in four nights auld.

COSPATRICK

(_Mackay_.)

COSPATRICK has sent o’er the faem;
Cospatrick brought his ladye hame;
And fourscore ships have come her wi’,
The ladye by the green-wood tree.

There were twal’ and twal’ wi’ baken bread,
And twal’ and twal’ wi’ gowd sae red,
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 loot 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 he 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 damsel o’ your bour.”

The ladye’s called her bour-maiden,
That waiting was unto her train.
“Five thousand marks 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, my 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 wrathfully he left the bed,
And wrathfully his claes 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 merry men a’;
And I will to the secret bour,
To see how it fares wi’ your paramour.”

The carline she was stark and stare,
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 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 work was done,
We coost the kevils us amang,
To see which suld to the green-wood gang.

“Ohon! alas, for I was youngest,
And aye my weird it was the strongest!
The kevil it on me did fa’,
Whilk was the cause of a’ my woe.

“For to the green-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 hinde,
Wi’ high colled hose and laigh colled shoon,
And he seemed to be some 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 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 ye wi’ the bonny beads,
I bade ye keep against your needs?

“What did you wi’ the gay gold ring,
I bade you keep abune a’ thing?”
“I gae them to a ladye gay,
I met in green-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 ladye to your wife.”

Now, or a month was come and gane,
The ladye bore a bonny son;
And ’twas written on his breast-bane,
“Cospatrick is my father’s name.”

JOHNNIE ARMSTRANG

SOME speak of lords, some speak of lairds,
And sic like men of high degree;
Of a gentleman I sing a sang,
Some time call’d Laird of Gilnockie.

The king he writes a loving letter,
With his ain hand sae tenderlie,
And he hath sent it to Johnnie Armstrang,
To come and speak with him speedilie.

The Elliots and Armstrangs did convene,
They were a gallant companie:
“We’ll ride and meet our lawful king,
And bring him safe to Gilnockie.

“Make kinnen {87} and capon ready, then,
And venison in great plentie;
We’ll welcome here our royal king;
I hope he’ll dine at Gilnockie!”

They ran their horse on the Langholm howm,
And brake their spears with meikle main;
The ladies lookit frae their loft windows—
“God bring our men weel hame again!”

When Johnnie came before the king,
With all his men sae brave to see,
The king he moved 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 Johnnie Armstrang,
And a subject of yours, my liege,” said he.

“Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may’st thou be!
I granted never a traitor’s life,
And now I’ll not begin with thee.”

“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a bonnie gift I’ll gi’e to thee;
Full four-and-twenty milk-white steeds,
Were all foal’d in ae year to me.

“I’ll gi’e thee all these milk-white steeds,
That prance and nicher {88a} at a spear;
And as meikle gude Inglish gilt, {88b}
As four of their braid backs dow {88c} bear.”

“Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may’st thou be!
I granted never a traitor’s life,
And now I’ll not begin with thee.”

“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a bonnie gift I’ll gi’e to thee:
Gude four-and-twenty ganging {88d} mills,
That gang thro’ all the year to me.

“These four-and-twenty mills complete,
Shall gang for thee thro’ all the year;
And as meikle of gude red wheat,
As all their happers dow to bear.”

“Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may’st thou be!
I granted never a traitor’s life,
And now I’ll not begin with thee.”

“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a great gift I’ll gi’e to thee:
Bauld four-and-twenty sisters’ sons
Shall for thee fecht, tho’ all shou’d flee.”

“Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may’st thou be!
I granted never a traitor’s life,
And now I’ll not begin with thee.”

“Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a brave gift I’ll gi’e to thee:
All between here and Newcastle town
Shall pay their yearly rent to thee.”

“Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may’st thou be!
I granted never a traitor’s life,
And now I’ll not begin with thee.”

“Ye lied, ye lied, now, king,” he says,
“Altho’ a king and prince ye be!
For I’ve loved naething in my life,
I weel dare say it, but honestie.

“Save a fat horse, and a fair woman,
Twa bonnie dogs to kill a deer;
But England shou’d have found me meal and mault,
Gif I had lived this hundred year.

“She shou’d have found me meal and mault,
And beef and mutton in all plentie;
But never a Scots wife cou’d have said,
That e’er I skaith’d her a puir flee.

“To seek het water beneath cauld ice,
Surely it is a great follie:
I have ask’d grace at a graceless face,
But there is nane for my men and me.

“But had I kenn’d, ere I came frae hame,
How unkind thou wou’dst been to me,
I wou’d ha’e keepit the Border side,
In spite of all thy force and thee.

“Wist England’s king that I was ta’en,
Oh, gin a blythe man he wou’d be!
For ance I slew his sister’s son,
And on his breast-bane brak a tree.”

John wore a girdle about his middle,
Embroider’d o’er with burning gold,
Bespangled with the same metal,
Maist beautiful was to behold.

There hang nine targats {90a} at Johnnie’s hat,
An ilk ane worth three hundred pound:
“What wants that knave that a king shou’d have,
But the sword of honour and the crown?

“Oh, where got thee these targats, Johnnie.
That blink sae brawly {90b} aboon thy brie?”
“I gat them in the field fechting, {90c}
Where, cruel king, thou durst not be.

“Had I my horse and harness gude,
And riding as I wont to be,
It shou’d have been tauld this hundred year,
The meeting of my king and me!

“God be with thee, Kirsty, {91} my brother,
Lang live thou laird of Mangertoun!
Lang may’st thou live on the Border side,
Ere thou see thy brother ride up and down!

“And God he with thee, Kirsty, my son,
Where thou sits on thy nurse’s knee!
But an thou live this hundred year,
Thy father’s better thou’lt never be.

“Farewell, my bonnie Gilnock hall,
Where on Esk side thou standest stout!
Gif I had lived but seven years mair,
I wou’d ha’e gilt thee round about.”

John murder’d was at Carlinrigg,
And all his gallant companie;
But Scotland’s heart was ne’er sae wae,
To see sae mony brave men die;

Because they saved their country dear
Frae Englishmen! Nane were sae bauld
While Johnnie lived on the Border side,
Nane of them durst come near his hauld.

EDOM O’ GORDON

IT fell about the Martinmas,
When the wind blew shrill and cauld,
Said Edom o’ Gordon to his men,—
“We maun draw to a hald. {92}

“And whatna hald shall we draw to,
My merry men and me?
We will gae straight to Towie house,
To see that fair ladye.”

[The ladye stood on her castle wall,
Beheld baith dale and down;
There she was ’ware of a host of men
Came riding towards the town.

“Oh, see ye not, my merry men all,
Oh, see ye not what I see?
Methinks I see a host of men;
I marvel who they be.”

She thought it had been her own wed lord.
As he came riding hame;
It was the traitor, Edom o’ Gordon,
Wha reck’d nae sin nor shame.]

She had nae sooner buskit hersel’,
And putten on her gown,
Till Edom o’ Gordon and his men
Were round about the town.

They had nae sooner supper set,
Nae sooner said the grace,
Till Edom o’ Gordon and his men
Were round about the place.

The ladye ran to her tower head,
As fast as she cou’d hie,
To see if, by her fair speeches,
She cou’d with him agree.

As soon as he saw this ladye fair.
And her yetts all lockit fast,
He fell into a rage of wrath,
And his heart was all aghast.

“Come down to me, ye ladye gay,
Come down, come down to me;
This night ye shall lye within my arms,
The morn my bride shall be.”

“I winna come down, ye false Gordon,
I winna come down to thee;
I winna forsake my ain dear lord,
That is sae far frae me.”

“Gi’e up your house, ye ladye fair,
Gi’e up your house to me;
Or I shall burn yoursel’ therein,
Bot and your babies three.”

“I winna gi’e up, ye false Gordon,
To nae sic traitor as thee;
Tho’ you shou’d burn mysel’ therein,
Bot and my babies three.

[“But fetch to me my pistolette,
And charge to me my gun;
For, but if I pierce that bluidy butcher,
My babes we will be undone.”

She stiffly stood on her castle wall,
And let the bullets flee;
She miss’d that bluidy butcher’s heart,
Tho’ she slew other three.]

“Set fire to the house!” quo’ the false Gordon,
“Since better may nae be;
And I will burn hersel’ therein,
Bot and her babies three.”

“Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man,
I paid ye weel your fee;
Why pull ye out the grund-wa’-stance,
Lets in the reek {94} to me?

“And e’en wae worth ye, Jock, my man,
I paid ye weel your hire;
Why pull ye out my grund-wa’-stane,
To me lets in the fire?”

“Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye,
Ye paid me weel my fee;
But now I’m Edom o’ Gordon’s man,
Maun either do or dee.”

Oh, then out spake her youngest son,
Sat on the nurse’s knee:
Says—“Mither dear, gi’e o’er this house,
For the reek it smothers me.”

[“I wou’d gi’e all my gold, my bairn,
Sae wou’d I all my fee,
For ae blast of the westlin’ wind,
To blaw the reek frae thee.]

“But I winna gi’e up my house, my dear,
To nae sic traitor as he;
Come weal, come woe, my jewels fair,
Ye maun take share with me.”

Oh, then out spake her daughter dear,
She was baith jimp and small:
“Oh, row me in a pair of sheets,
And tow me o’er the wall.”

They row’d her in a pair of sheets,
And tow’d her o’er the wall;
But on the point of Gordon’s spear
She got a deadly fall.

Oh, bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,
And cherry were her cheeks;
And clear, clear was her yellow hair,
Whereon the red bluid dreeps.

Then with his spear he turn’d her o’er,
Oh, gin her face was wan!
He said—“You are the first that e’er
I wish’d alive again.”

He turn’d her o’er and o’er again,
Oh, gin her skin was white!
“I might ha’e spared that bonnie face
To ha’e been some man’s delight.

“Busk and boun, my merry men all,
For ill dooms I do guess;
I canna look on that bonnie face,
As it lyes on the grass!”

“Wha looks to freits, {95} my master dear,
Their freits will follow them;
Let it ne’er be said brave Edom o’ Gordon
Was daunted with a dame.”

[But when the ladye saw the fire
Come flaming o’er her head,
She wept, and kissed her children twain;
Said—“Bairns, we been but dead.”

The Gordon then his bugle blew,
And said—“Away, away!
The house of Towie is all in a flame,
I hald it time to gae.”]

Oh, then he spied her ain dear lord,
As he came o’er the lea;
He saw his castle all in a flame,
As far as he could see.

Then sair, oh sair his mind misgave,
And oh, his heart was wae!
“Put on, put on, my wighty {96a} men,
As fast as ye can gae.

“Put on, put on, my wighty men,
As fast as ye can drie;
For he that is hindmost of the thrang
Shall ne’er get gude of me!”

Then some they rade, and some they ran,
Full fast out o’er the bent;
But ere the foremost could win up,
Baith ladye and babes were brent.

[He wrang his hands, he rent his hair,
And wept in tearful mood;
“Ah, traitors! for this cruel deed,
Ye shall weep tears of bluid.”

And after the Gordon he has gane,
Sae fast as he might drie;
And soon in the Gordon’s foul heart’s bluid
He’s wroken {96b} his dear layde.]

And mony were the mudie {97} men
Lay gasping on the green;
And mony were the fair ladyes
Lay lemanless at hame.

And mony were the mudie men
Lay gasping on the green;
For of fifty men the Gordon brocht,
There were but five gaed hame.

And round, and round the walls he went,
Their ashes for to view;
At last into the flames he flew,
And bade the world adieu.

LADY ANNE BOTHWELL’S LAMENT

(_Child_, vol. iv. Early Edition.)

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,
Thy father bred one 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;
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_, _etc._

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
Cares neither for his babe nor me.
_Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._

Fareweel, fareaeel, thou falsest youth
That ever kist a woman’s mouth.
Let never any after me
Submit unto thy courtesy!
For, if hey do, O! cruel thou
Wilt her abuse and care not how!
_Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._

I was too cred’lous at the first,
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.
_Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._

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;
Bewitching charms bred all my harms;—
Witness my babe lies in my arms.
_Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._

I take my fate from bad to worse,
That I must needs be now a nurse,
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_, _etc._

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 tursting latest finds
With fairest tongues are falsest minds.
_Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._

Balow, my boy, thy father’s fled,
When he the thriftless son has played;
Of vows and oaths forgetful, he
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_, _etc._

But curse not him; perhaps now he,
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?
_Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._

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;
No woman’s yet so fiercely set
But she’ll forgive, though not forget.
_Balow_, _my boy_, _etc._

If linen lacks, for my love’s sake
Then quickly to him would I make
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_, _etc._

Balow, my boy, I’ll weep for thee;
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.
_Balow_, _my boy_, _ly still and sleep_,
_It grieves me sore to hear thee weep_.

JOCK O THE SIDE

(_Child_, Part VI., p. 479.)

NOW Liddisdale has ridden a raid,
But I wat they had better staid at hame;
For Mitchell o Winfield he is dead,
And my son Johnie is prisner tane?
With my fa ding diddle, la la dew diddle.

For Mangerton house auld Downie is gane,
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?”
“Bad news, bad news, my lord Mangerton;
Mitchel is killd, and tane they hae my son Johnie.”

“Neer fear, sister Downie,” quo Mangerton;
“I hae yokes of oxen, four-and-twentie,
My barns, my byres, and my faulds, a’ weel filld,
And I’ll part wi them a’ ere Johnie shall die.

“Three men I’ll take to set him free,
Weel harnessd a’ wi best of steel;
The English rogues may hear, and drie
The weight o their braid swords to feel

“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 banishd thee, to me.”

Now, Hobie was an English man,
In Bewcastle-dale was bred and born;
But his misdeeds they were sae great,
They banished him neer to return.

Lord Mangerton then orders gave,—
“Your horses the wrang way maun a’ be shod;
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 arrayd,
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.

At the Cholerford they a’ light down,
And there, wi the help o the light o the moon,
A tree they cut, wi fifteen naggs upon each side,
To climb up the wall of Newcastle toun.

But when they came to Newcastle toun,
And were alighted at the wa,
They fand their tree three ells oer laigh,
They fand their stick baith short aid sma.

Then up and spake the Laird’s ain Jock,
“There’s naething for’t; the gates we maun force.”
But when they cam the gate unto,
A proud porter withstood baith men and horse.

His neck in twa I wat they hae wrung;
Wi foot or hand he neer play’d paw;
His life and his keys at anes they hae taen,
And cast his body ahind the wa.

Now soon they reached Newcastle jail,
And to the prisner thus they call:
“Sleips thou, wakes thou, Jock o the Side,
Or is thou wearied o thy thrall?”

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 does seek?”

Then up and spake the good Laird’s Jock:
“Neer 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.”

“Oh, had thy tongue, and speak nae mair,
And o thy talk now let me be!
For if a’ Liddesdale 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
Into this dungeon mirk and drearie.”

“Fear ye no that,” quo the Laird’s Jock;
“A faint heart neer wan a fair ladie;
Work thou within, we’ll work without,
And I’ll be sworn we set thee free.”

The first strong dore that they came at,
They loosed it without a key;
The next chaind dore that they cam at,
They gard it a’ in flinders flee.

The prisner now, upo his back,
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,”
“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 prisner’s set on horseback hie;
And now wi speed they’ve tane the gate;
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 harnessd, and sae trig!
In troth ye sit like ony bride.”

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,
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 livd this threty yeirs and three,
And I neer 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;
The day is comd we a’ maun die!”

“Poor faint-hearted thief!” quo the Laird’s Jock,
“There’ll nae man die but he that’s fie;
I’ll lead ye a’ right safely through;
Lift ye the prisner on ahint me.”

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,
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,
“It winna ride, my lads,” quo he;
Then out he cries, “Ye the prisner may take,
But leave the irons, I pray, to me.”

“I wat weel no,” cryd the Laird’s Jock,
“I’ll keep them a’; shoon to my mare they’ll be;
My good grey mare; for I am sure,
She’s bought them a’ fu dear frae thee.”

Sae now they’re away for Liddisdale,
Een as fast as they coud them hie;
The prisner’s brought to his ain fireside,
And there o’s airns they make him free.

“Now, Jock, my billie,” quo a’ the three,
“The day was comd thou was to die;
But thou’s as weel at thy ain fireside,
Now sitting, I think, ’tween thee and me.”

They hae gard fill up ae punch-bowl,
And after it they maun hae anither,
And thus the night they a’ hae spent,
Just as they had been brither and brither.

LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET

(_Child_, Part III., p. 182.)

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,
Fair Annet took it ill:
“A, I will nevir wed a wife
Against my ain friend’s will.”

“Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife,
A wife wull neir wed yee;”
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,
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 haes
O it wull soon be gane.”

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,
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;
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,
And set Fair Annet free?”

“I’se 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!”

“No, I will tak my mither’s 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 Annet’s father,
Twa hours or it wer day,
And he is gane unto the bower
Wherein Fair Annet lay.

“Rise up, rise up, Fair Annet,” he says
“Put on your silken sheene;
Let us gae to St. Marie’s Kirke,
And see that rich weddeen.”

“My maides, gae to my dressing-roome,
And dress to me my hair;
Whaireir yee laid a plait before,
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.”

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
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 Annet’s side,
And four and twanty fair ladies,
As gin she had bin a bride.

And whan she cam to Marie’s Kirk,
She sat on Marie’s stean:
The cleading that Fair Annet had on
It skinkled in their een.

And whan she cam into the kirk,
She shimmerd like the sun;
The belt that was about her waist
Was a’ wi pearles bedone.

She sat her by the nut-browne bride,
And her een they wer sae clear,
Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride,
When Fair Annet drew near.

He had a rose into his hand,
He gae it kisses three,
And reaching by the nut-browne bride,
Laid it on Fair Annet’s knee.

Up then spak the nut-browne bride,
She spak wi meikle spite:
“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
Into my mither’s wame.”

The bride she drew a long bodkin
Frae out her gay head-gear,
And strake Fair Annet unto the heart,
That word spak nevir mair.

Lord Thomas he saw Fair Annet wex pale,
And marvelit what mote bee;
But when he saw her dear heart’s blude,
A’ wood-wroth wexed bee.

He drew his dagger that was sae sharp,
That was sae sharp and meet,
And drave it 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;
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 ane thair grew a birk,
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.

FAIR ANNIE

(_Child_, Part III., p. 69.)

“IT’S narrow, narrow, make your bed,
And learn to lie your lane:
For I’m ga’n oer the sea, Fair Annie,
A braw bride to bring hame.
Wi her I will get gowd and gear;
Wi you I neer got nane.

“But wha will bake my bridal bread,
Or brew my bridal ale?
And wha will welcome my brisk bride,
That I bring oer the dale?”

“It’s I will bake your bridal bread,
And brew your bridal ale,
And I will welcome your brisk bride,
That you bring oer 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 born seven sons to thee,
And am with child again?”

She’s taen 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 oer 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 topmast and the mainmast
Shone like the silver free.

And she’s gane down, and farther down,
The bride’s ship to behold,
And the topmast and the mainmast
They shone just like the gold.

She’s taen her seven sons in her hand,
I wot she didna fail;
She met Lord Thomas and his bride,
As they came oer 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;
Your 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 oer the sea,
And steald my sister away;
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,
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.

And aye she served the lang tables,
With white bread and with brown;
And aye she turned her round about,
Sae fast the tears fell down.

And he’s taen down the silk napkin,
Hung on a silver pin,
And aye he wipes the tear trickling
A’down her cheek and chin.

And aye he turn’d him round about,
And smiled 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 forbye,
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 young sons were seven young hares,
Running oer 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 sobbd 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 fyne.

“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!”

THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW

(_Child_, Part III. Early Edition.)

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.

“Oh, stay at hame, my noble lord,
Oh, stay at hame, my marrow!
My cruel brother will you betray
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.”

“Oh, fare ye weel, my ladye gaye!
Oh, fare ye weel, my Sarah!
For I maun gae, though I ne’er return,
Frae the dowie banks of 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,
And he’s away 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.

“Oh, 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;
An 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 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.”

“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 spied ten slain men,
On the dowie banks of Yarrow.

She kiss’d 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.”

“Oh, 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.”

SIR ROLAND

(_Child_, vol. i. Early Edition.)

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,
“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;
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,
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.”

“Yes, dark, dark is my secret bouir,
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,
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,
When 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,
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.

“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,
And nothing did he blin;
Still slowly ride he on before
And fast she rade behind.

She whipped her steed, she spurred her steed,
Till his breast was all a foam;
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
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.

“O is this water deep?” he said,
“As it is wondrous dun?
Or is it sic as a saikless maid,
And a leal true knight may swim?”

“The water it is deep,” she said,
“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;
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,
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.”

“Oh, 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,
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,
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,
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.

“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!
Turn ye round, and look on me,
Thou hast killed a true knight under trust,
And his ghost now links on with thee.”

ROSE THE RED AND WHITE LILY

(_Child_, Part IV.)

O ROSE the Red and White Lilly,
Their mother dear was dead,
And their father married an ill woman,
Wishd them twa little guede.

Yet she had twa as fu fair sons
As eer brake manis bread,
And the tane of them loed her White Lilly,
And the tither lood Rose the Red.

O, biggit ha they a bigly bowr,
And strawn it oer wi san,
And there was mair mirth i the ladies’ bowr
Than in a’ their father’s lan.

But out it spake their step-mother,
Wha stood a little foreby:
“I hope to live and play the prank
Sal gar your loud sang ly.”

She’s calld upon her eldest son:
“Come here, my son, to me;
It fears me sair, my eldest son,
That ye maun sail the sea.”

“Gin it fear you sair, my mither dear,
Your bidding I maun dee;
But be never war to Rose the Red
Than ye ha been to me.”

“O had your tongue, my eldest son,
For sma sal be her part;
You’ll nae get a kiss o her comely mouth
Gin your very fair heart should break.”

She’s calld upon her youngest son:
“Come here, my son, to me;
It fears me sair, my youngest son,
That ye maun sail the sea.”

“Gin it fear you sair, my mither dear,
Your bidding I maun dee;
But be never war to White Lilly
Than ye ha been to me.”

“O haud your tongue, my youngest son,
For sma sall be her part;
You’ll neer get a kiss o her comely mouth
Tho your very fair heart should break.”

When Rose the Red and White Lilly
Saw their twa loves were gane,
Then stopped ha they their loud, loud sang,
And tane up the still moarnin;
And their step-mother stood listnin by,
To hear the ladies’ mean.

Then out it spake her, White Lily;
“My sister, we’ll be gane;
Why shou’d we stay in Barnsdale,
To waste our youth in pain?”

Then cutted ha they their green cloathing,
A little below their knee;
And sae ha they their yallow hair,
A little aboon there bree;
And they’ve doen them to haely chapel
Was christened by Our Ladye.

There ha they changed their ain twa names,
Sae far frae ony town;
And the tane o them hight Sweet Willy,
And the tither o them Roge the Roun.

Between this twa a vow was made,
An they sware it to fulfil;
That at three blasts o a buglehorn,
She’d come her sister till.

Now Sweet Willy’s gane to the kingis court,
Her true-love for to see,
And Roge the Roun to good green wood,
Brown Robin’s man to be.

As it fell out upon a day,
They a did put the stane;
Full seven foot ayont them a
She gard the puttin-stane gang.

She leand her back against an oak,
And gae a loud Ohone!
Then out it spake him Brown Robin,
“But that’s a woman’s moan!”

“Oh, ken ye by my red rose lip?
Or by my yallow hair;
Or ken ye by my milk-white breast?
For ye never saw it bare?”

“I ken no by your red rose lip,
Nor by your yallow hair;
Nor ken I by your milk-white breast,
For I never saw it bare;
But, come to your bowr whaever sae likes,
Will find a ladye there.”

“Oh, gin ye come to my bowr within,
Thro fraud, deceit, or guile,
Wi this same bran that’s in my han
I swear I will thee kill.”

“But I will come thy bowr within,
An spear nae leave,” quoth he;
“An this same bran that’s i my ban,
I sall ware back on the.”

About the tenth hour of the night,
The ladie’s bowr door was broken,
An eer the first hour of the day
The bonny knave bairn was gotten.

When days were gane and months were run,
The ladye took travailing,
And sair she cry’d for a bow’r-woman,
For to wait her upon.

Then out it spake him, Brown Robin:
“Now what needs a’ this din?
For what coud any woman do
But I coud do the same?”

“Twas never my mither’s fashion,” she says,
“Nor sall it ever be mine,
That belted knights shoud eer remain
Where ladies dreed their pine.

“But ye take up that bugle-horn,
An blaw a blast for me;
I ha a brother i the kingis court
Will come me quickly ti.”

“O gin ye ha a brither on earth
That ye love better nor me,
Ye blaw the horn yoursel,” he says,
“For ae blast I winna gie.”

She’s set the horn till her mouth,
And she’s blawn three blasts sae shrill;
Sweet Willy heard i the kingis court,
And came her quickly till.

Then up it started Brown Robin,
An an angry man was he:
“There comes nae man this bowr within
But first must fight wi me.”

O they hae fought that bowr within
Till the sun was gaing down,
Till drops o blude frae Rose the Red
Cam trailing to the groun.

She leand her back against the wa,
Says, “Robin, let a’ be;
For it is a lady born and bred
That’s foughten sae well wi thee.”

O seven foot he lap a back;
Says, “Alas, and wae is me!
I never wisht in a’ my life,
A woman’s blude to see;
An ae for the sake of ae fair maid
Whose name was White Lilly.”

Then out it spake her White Lilly,
An a hearty laugh laugh she:
“She’s lived wi you this year an mair,
Tho ye kenntna it was she.”

Now word has gane thro a’ the lan,
Before a month was done,
That Brown Robin’s man, in good green wood,
Had born a bonny young son.

The word has gane to the kingis court,
An to the king himsel;
“Now, by my fay,” the king could say,
“The like was never heard tell!”

Then out it spake him Bold Arthur,
An a hearty laugh laugh he:
“I trow some may has playd the loun,
And fled her ain country.”

“Bring me my steed,” then cry’d the king,
“My bow and arrows keen;
I’ll ride mysel to good green wood,
An see what’s to be seen.”

“An’t please your grace,” said Bold Arthur,
“My liege, I’ll gang you wi,
An try to fin a little foot-page,
That’s strayd awa frae me.”

O they’ve hunted i the good green wood
The buck but an the rae,
An they drew near Brown Robin’s bowr,
About the close of day.

Then out it spake the king in hast,
Says, “Arthur look an see
Gin that be no your little foot-page
That leans against yon tree.”

Then Arthur took his bugle-horn,
An blew a blast sae shrill;
Sweet Willy started at the sound,
An ran him quickly till.

“O wanted ye your meat, Willy?
Or wanted ye your fee?
Or gat ye ever an angry word,
That ye ran awa frae me?”

“I wanted nought, my master dear;
To me ye ay was good;
I came but to see my ae brother,
That wons in this green wood.”

Then out it spake the king again,
Says, “Bonny boy, tell to me,
Wha lives into yon bigly bowr,
Stands by yon green oak tree?”

“Oh, pardon me,” says Sweet Willie,
“My liege, I dare no tell;
An I pray you go no near that bowr,
For fear they do you fell.”

“Oh, haud your tongue, my bonny boy,
For I winna be said nay;
But I will gang that bowr within,
Betide me weal or wae.”

They’ve lighted off their milk-white steeds,
An saftly enterd in,
And there they saw her White Lilly,
Nursing her bonny young son.

“Now, by the rood,” the king coud say,
“This is a comely sight;
I trow, instead of a forrester’s man,
This is a lady bright!”

Then out it spake her, Rose the Red,
An fell low down on her knee:
“Oh, pardon us, my gracious liege,
An our story I’ll tell thee.

“Our father was a wealthy lord,
That wond in Barnsdale;
But we had a wicked step-mother,
That wrought us meickle bale.

“Yet she had twa as fu fair sons
As ever the sun did see,
An the tane of them lood my sister dear,
An the tother said he lood me.”

Then out it spake him Bold Arthur,
As by the king he stood:
“Now, by the faith o my body,
This shoud be Rose the Red!”

Then in it came him Brown Robin,
Frae hunting O the deer;
But whan he saw the king was there,
He started back for fear.

The king has taen him by the hand,
An bide him naithing dread;
Says, “Ye maun leave the good greenwood,
Come to the court wi speed.”

Then up he took White Lilly’s son,
An set him on his knee;
Says—“Gin ye live to wield a bran,
My bowman ye sall bee.”

The king he sent for robes of green,
An girdles o shinning gold;
He gart the ladies be arrayd
Most comely to behold.

They’ve done them unto Mary kirk,
An there gat fair wedding,
An fan the news spread oer the lan,
For joy the bells did ring.

Then out it spake her Rose the Red,
An a hearty laugh laugh she:
“I wonder what would our step-dame say,
Gin she his sight did see!”

THE BATTLE OF HARLAW EVERGREEN VERSION

(_Child_, vol. vii. Early Edition, Appendix.)

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,
That evir that dreiry day did daw!
Cryand the corynoch on hie,
Alas! alas! for the Harlaw.

I marvlit what the matter meant;
All folks were in a fiery fariy:
I wist nocht wha was fae or freind,
Yet 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,
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
Of the beginning and the event
That happenit thair at the Harlaw;
Then he entreited me to tak tent,
And he the truth sould to me schaw.

Grit Donald of the Ysles did claim
Unto the lands of Ross sum richt,
And to the governour he came,
Them for to haif, gif that he micht,
Wha saw his interest was but slicht,
And thairfore answerit with disdain.
He hastit hame baith day and nicht,
And sent nae bodward back again.

But Donald richt impatient
Of that answer Duke Robert gaif,
He vow’d to God Omniyotent,
All the hale lands of Ross to half,
Or ells be graithed in his graif:
He wald not quat his richt for nocht,
Nor be abusit like a slaif;
That bargin sould be deirly bocht.

Then haistylie he did command
That all his weir-men should convene;
Ilk an well harnisit frae hand,
To melt and heir what he did mein.
He waxit wrath and vowit tein;
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,
Wha war ay at his bidding bown,
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,
Evin frae the North to Suthren shoars.

Then all the countrie men did yield;
For nae resistans durst they mak,
Nor offer batill in the feild,
Be forss of arms to beir him bak.
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,
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,
To all and sindry, mair and less,
Throchout the bounds of Byne and Enzie.

And then throw fair Strathbogie land
His purpose was for to pursew,
And whatsoevir durst gainstand,
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.

Without resistans, as he said,
Throw all these parts he stoutly past,
Where sum war wae, and sum war glaid,
But Garioch was all agast.
Throw all these feilds be sped him fast,
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 Erl of Marr
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
The ryall bruch of Aberdene.

And thus the martial Erle of Marr
Marcht with his men in richt array;
Befoir his enemis was aware,
His banner bauldly did display.
For weil enewch they kent the way,
And all their semblance well they saw:
Without all dangir or delay,
Come haistily to the Harlaw.

With him the braif Lord Ogilvy,
Of Angus sheriff principall,
The constable of gude Dundè,
The vanguard led before them all.
Suppose in number they war small,
Thay first richt bauldlie did pursew,
And maid thair faes befor them fall,
Wha then that race did sairly rew.

And then the worthy Lord Salton,
The strong undoubted Laird of Drum,
The stalwart Laird of Lawristone,
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.

These with the Earle of Marr came on,
In the reir-ward richt orderlie,
Thair enemies to sett upon;
In awfull manner hardilie,
Togither vowit to live and die,
Since they had marchit mony mylis,
For to suppress the tyrannie
Of douted Donald of the Ysles.

But he, in number ten to ane,
Right subtilè alang did ryde,
With Malcomtosch, and fell Maclean,
With all thair power at thair syde;
Presumeand on their strenth and pryde,
Without all feir or ony aw,
Richt bauldie battil did abyde,
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.
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 battil byd.

With doutsum victorie they dealt,
The bludy battil lastit lang;
Each man fits nibours forss thair felt,
The weakest aft-tymes gat the wrang:
Thair was nae mowis thair them amang,
Naithing was hard but heavy knocks,
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,
Pursewing shairply in thair way,
Thair enemys to tak or slay,
Be dynt of forss to gar them yield;
Wha war richt blyth to win away,
And sae for feirdness tint the feild.

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,
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;
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:
This is the sum, sae I conclude.

But yet a bonnie while abide,
And I sall mak thee cleirly ken
What slaughter was on ilkay syde,
Of Lowland and of Highland men,
Wha for thair awin haif evir bene;
These lazie lowns micht weil be spared,
Chased like deers into their dens,
And gat their wages for reward.

Malcomtosh, of the clan heid-cheif,
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;
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,
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.

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;
He had few fallows in the field,
Yet fell by fatall destinie,
For he naeways wad grant to yield.

Sir James Scrimgeor of Duddap, knicht,
Grit constabill of fair Dundè,
Unto the dulefull deith was dicht;
The kingis cheif bannerman was he,
A valiant man of chevalrie,
Whose predecessors wan that place
At Spey, with gude King William frie
’Gainst Murray, and Macduncan’s race.

Gude Sir Allexander Irving,
The much renowit laird of Drum,
Nane in his days was bettir sene
When they war semblit all and sum.
To praise him we sould not be dumm,
For valour, witt, and worthyness;
To end his days he ther did cum
Whose ransom is remeidyless.

And thair the knicht of Lawriston
Was slain into his armour schene,
And gude Sir Robert Davidson,
Wha provost was of Aberdene:
The knicht of Panmure, as was sene,
A mortall man in armour bricht,
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,
Whare mony liklie lost thair lyfe;
Whilk maid divorce twene man and wyfe,
And mony childrene fatherless,
Whilk in this realme has bene full ryfe:
Lord help these lands, our wrangs redress.

In July, on Saint James his even,
That four and twenty dismall day,
Twelve hundred, ten score and eleven
Of theirs sen Chryst, the suthe to say,
Men will remember, as they may,
When thus the ventie they knaw,
And mony a ane may murn for ay,
The brim battil of the Harlaw.

TRADITIONARY VERSION

(_Child_, Part VI.)

AS I came in by Dunidier,
An doun by Netherha,
There was fifty thousand Hielanmen
A marching to Harlaw.
(Chorus) Wi a dree dree dradie drumtie dree.

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.

“O cam ye frae the Hielans, man?
And cam ye a’ the wey?
Saw ye Macdonell an his men,
As they cam frae the Skee?”

“Yes, me cam frae ta Hielans, man,
An me cam a ta wey,
An she saw Macdonell an his men,
As they cam frae ta Skee.”

“Oh, was ye near Macdonell’s men?
Did ye their numbers see?
Come, tell to me, John Hielanman,
What micht their numbers be?”

“Yes, me was near, an near eneuch,
An me their numbers saw;
There was fifty thousand Hielanmen
A marching to Harlaw.”

“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.”

“Oh no, oh no!” quo’ John the Gryme,
“That thing maun never be;
The gallant Grymes were never bate,
We’ll try what we can dee.”

As I cam on, an farther on,
An doun an by Harlaw,
They fell fu close on ilka side;
Sic fun ye never saw.

They fell fu close on ilka side,
Sic fun ye never saw;
For Hielan swords gied clash for clash,
At the battle o Harlaw.

The Hielanmen, wi their lang swords,
They laid on us fu sair,
An they drave back our merry men
Three acres breadth an mair.

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.”

“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.”

“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.”

Brave Forbës drew his men aside,
Said, “Tak your rest a while,
Until I to Drumminnor send,
To fess my coat o mail.”

The servan he did ride,
An his horse it did na fail,
For in twa hours an a quarter
He brocht the coat o mail.

Then back to back the brithers twa
Gaed in amo the thrang,
An they hewed doun the Hielanmen,
Wi swords baith sharp an lang.

Macdonell he was young an stout,
Had on his coat o mail,
And he has gane oot throw them a’
To try his han himsell.

The first ae straik that Forbës strack,
He garrt Macdonell reel;
An the neist ae straik that Forbës strack,
The great Macdonell fell.

And siccan a lierachie,
I’m sure ye never sawe
As wis amo the Hielanmen,
When they saw Macdonell fa.

An whan they saw that he was deid,
They turnd and ran awa,
An they buried him in Legget’s Den,
A large mile frae Harlaw.

They rade, they ran, an some did gang,
They were o sma record;
But Forbës and his merry men,
They slew them a’ the road.

On Monanday, at mornin,
The battle it began,
On Saturday at gloamin’,
Ye’d scarce kent wha had wan.

An sic a weary buryin,
I’m sure ye never saw,
As wis the Sunday after that,
On the muirs aneath Harlaw.

Gin anybody speer at ye
For them ye took awa,
Ye may tell their wives and bairnies,
They’re sleepin at Harlaw.

DICKIE MACPHALION

(_Sharpe’s Ballad Book_, No. XIV.)