Chapter I: WENT to the mill, but the miller was gone, (1)

I sat me down, and cried ochone!
To think on the days that are past and gone,
Of Dickie Macphalion that’s slain.
Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo,
To think on the days that are past and gone,
Of Dickie Macphalion that’s slain.

I sold my rock, I sold my reel,
And sae hae I my spinning wheel,
And a’ to buy a cap of steel
For Dickie Macphalion that’s slain!
Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo,
And a’ to buy a cap of steel
For Dickie Macphalion that’s slain.

A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE

(_Border Minstrelsy_, vol. ii., p. 357.)

THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte,
_Every nighte and alle_,
Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte,
_And Christe receive thye saule_.

When thou from hence away art paste,
_Every nighte and alle_,
To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste;
_And Christe receive thye saule_.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
_Every nighte and alle_,
Sit thee down and put them on;
_And Christe receive thye saule_.

If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gavest nane,
_Every nighte and alle_,
The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane;
_And Christe receive thye saule_.

From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe,
_Every nighte and alle_,
To Brigg o’ Dread thou comest at laste,
_And Christe receive thye saule_.

From Brigg o’ Dread when thou mayst passe,
_Every nighte and alle_,
To Purgatory fire thou comest at last,
_And Christe receive thye saule_.

If ever thou gavest meat or drink,
_Every nighte and alle_,
The fire sall never make thee shrinke;
_And Christe receive thye saule_.

If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane,
_Every nighte and alle_,
The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
_And Christe receive thye saule_.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
_Every nighte and alle_,
Fire, and sleet, and candle-lighte,
_And Christe receive thye saule_.

THE LAIRD OF WARISTOUN

(_Child_, vol. iii. Early Edition.)

DOWN by yon garden green,
Sae merrily as she gaes;
She has twa weel-made feet,
And she trips upon her taes.

She has twa weel-made feet;
Far better is her hand;
She’s as jimp in the middle
As ony willow wand.

“Gif ye will do my bidding,
At my bidding for to be,
It’s I will make you lady
Of a’ the lands you see.”

* * * * *

He spak a word in jest;
Her answer was na good;
He threw a plate at her face,
Made it a’ gush out o’ blood.

She wasna frae her chamber
A step but barely three,
When up and at her richt hand
There stood Man’s Enemy.

“Gif ye will do my bidding,
At my bidding for to be,
I’ll learn you a wile,
Avenged for to be.”

The foul thief knotted the tether;
She lifted his head on hie;
The nourice drew the knot
That gar’d lord Waristoun die.

Then word is gane to Leith,
Also to Edinburgh town
That the lady had kill’d the laird,
The laird o’ Waristoun.

* * * * *

Tak aff, tak aff my hood
But lat my petticoat be;
Pat my mantle o’er my head;
For the fire I downa see.

Now, a’ ye gentle maids,
Tak warning now by me,
And never marry ane
But wha pleases your e’e.

“For he married me for love,
But I married him for fee;
And sae brak out the feud
That gar’d my dearie die.”

MAY COLVEN

(_Child_, Part I., p. 56.)

FALSE Sir John a wooing came
To a maid of beauty fair;
May Colven was this lady’s name,
Her father’s only heir.

He wood her butt, he wood her ben,
He wood her in the ha,
Until he got this lady’s consent
To mount and ride awa.

He went down to her father’s bower,
Where all the steeds did stand,
And he’s taken one of the best steeds
That was in her father’s land.

He’s got on and she’s got on,
As fast as they could flee,
Until they came to a lonesome part,
A rock by the side of the sea.

“Loup off the steed,” says false Sir John,
“Your bridal bed you see;
For I have drowned seven young ladies,
The eighth one you shall be.

“Cast off, cast off, my May Colven,
All and your silken gown,
For it’s oer good and oer costly
To rot in the salt sea foam.

“Cast off, cast off, my May Colven,
All and your embroiderd shoen,
For oer good and oer costly
To rot in the salt sea foam.”

“O turn you about, O false Sir John,
And look to the leaf of the tree,
For it never became a gentleman
A naked woman to see.”

He turned himself straight round about,
To look to the leaf of the tree,
So swift as May Colven was
To throw him in the sea.

“O help, O help, my May Colven,
O help, or else I’ll drown;
I’ll take you home to your father’s bower,
And set you down safe and sound.”

“No help, no help, O false Sir John,
No help, nor pity thee;
Tho’ seven kings’ daughters you have drownd,
But the eighth shall not be me.”

So she went on her father’s steed,
As swift as she could flee,
And she came home to her father’s bower
Before it was break of day.

Up then and spoke the pretty parrot:
“May Colven, where have you been?
What has become of false Sir John,
That woo’d you so late the streen?

“He woo’d you butt, he woo’d you ben,
He woo’d you in the ha,
Until he got your own consent
For to mount and gang awa.”

“O hold your tongue, my pretty parrot,
Lay not the blame upon me;
Your cup shall be of the flowered gold,
Your cage of the root of the tree.”

Up then spake the king himself,
In the bed-chamber where he lay:
“What ails the pretty parrot,
That prattles so long or day?”

“There came a cat to my cage door,
It almost a worried me,
And I was calling on May Colven
To take the cat from me.”

JOHNIE FAA

(_Child_, vol. iv. Early Edition.)

THE gypsies came to our good lord’s gate
And wow but they sang sweetly!
They sang sae sweet and sae very complete
That down came the fair lady.

And she came tripping doun the stair,
And a’ her maids before her;
As soon as they saw her weel-far’d face,
They coost the glamer o’er her.

“O come with me,” says Johnie Faw,
“O come with me, my dearie;
For I vow and I swear by the hilt of my sword,
That your lord shall nae mair come near ye.”

Then she gied them the beer and the wine,
And they gied her the ginger;
But she gied them a far better thing,
The goud ring aff her finger.

“Gae take frae me this yay mantle,
And bring to me a plaidie;
For if kith and kin, and a’ had sworn,
I’ll follow the gypsy laddie.

“Yestreen I lay in a weel-made bed,
Wi’ my good lord beside me;
But this night I’ll lye in a tenant’s barn,
Whatever shall betide me!”

“Come to your bed,” says Johnie Faw,
“Oh, come to your bed, my dearie:
For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword,
Your lord shall nae mair come near ye.”

“I’ll go to bed to my Johnie Faw,
I’ll go to bed to my dearie;
For I vow and I swear by the fan in my hand,
My lord shall nae mair come near me.

“I’ll mak a hap to my Johnie Faw,
I’ll mak a hap to my dearie;
And he’s get a’ the coat gaes round,
And my lord shall nae mair come near me.”

And when our lord came hame at e’en,
And spier’d for his fair lady,
The tane she cry’d, and the other reply’d,
“She’s awa’ wi’ the gypsy laddie!”

“Gae saddle to me the black black steed,
Gae saddle and make him ready;
Before that I either eat or sleep,
I’ll gae seek my fair lady.”

And we were fifteen weel-made men,
Altho’ we were na bonny;
And we were a’ put down but ane,
For a fair young wanton lady.

HOBBIE NOBLE

(_Child_, vi. Early Edition.)

FOUL fa’ the breast first treason bred in!
That Liddesdale may safely say:
For in it there was baith meat and drink,
And corn unto our geldings gay.

We were stout-hearted men and true,
As England it did often say;
But now we may turn our backs and fly,
Since brave Noble is seld away.

Now Hobie he was an English man,
And born into Bewcastle dale;
But his misdeeds they were sae great,
They banish’d him to Liddisdale.

At Kershope foot the tryst was set,
Kershope of the lilye lee;
And there was traitour Sim o’ the Mains,
With him a private companie.

Then Hobie has graith’d his body weel,
I wat it was wi’ baith good iron and steel;
And he has pull’d out his fringed grey,
And there, brave Noble, he rade him weel.

Then Hobie is down the water gane,
E’en as fast as he may drie;
Tho’ they shoud a’ brusten and broken their hearts,
Frae that tryst Noble he would na be.

“Weel may ye be, my feiries five!
And aye, what is your wills wi’ me?”
Then they cry’d a’ wi’ ae consent,
“Thou’rt welcome here, brave Noble, to me.

“Wilt thou with us in England ride,
And thy safe warrand we will be?
If we get a horse worth a hundred punds,
Upon his back that thou shalt be.”

“I dare not with you into England ride;
The Land-sergeant has me at feid:
I know not what evil may betide,
For Peter of Whitfield, his brother, is dead.

“And Anton Shiel he loves not me,
For I gat twa drifts o his sheep;
The great Earl of Whitfield loves me not,
For nae gear frae me he e’er could keep.

“But will ye stay till the day gae down,
Until the night come o’er the grund,
And I’ll be a guide worth ony twa,
That may in Liddesdale be fund?

“Tho’ dark the night as pitch and tar,
I’ll guide ye o’er yon hills fu’ hie;
And bring ye a’ in safety back,
If ye’ll be true and follow me.”

He’s guided them o’er moss and muir,
O’er hill and houp, and mony a down;
Til they came to the Foulbogshiel,
And there, brave Noble, he lighted down.

But word is gane to the Land-sergeant,
In Askirton where that he lay—
“The deer that ye hae hunted lang,
Is seen into the Waste this day.”

“Then Hobbie Noble is that deer!
I wat he carries the style fu’ hie;
Aft has he beat your slough-hounds back,
And set yourselves at little lee.

“Gar warn the bows of Hartlie-burn;
See they shaft their arrows on the wa’!
Warn Willeva and Spear Edom,
And see the morn they meet me a’.

“Gar meet me on the Rodric-haugh,
And see it be by break o’ day;
And we will on to Conscowthart-Green,
For there, I think, we’ll get our prey.”

Then Hobbie Noble has dream’d a dream,
In the Foulbogshiel, where that he lay;
He thought his horse was neath him shot,
And he himself got hard away.

The cocks could crow, the day could dawn,
And I wot so even down fell the rain;
If Hobbie had no waken’d at that time,
In the Foulbogshiel he had been tane or slain.

“Get up, get up, my feiries five!
For I wot here makes a fu’ ill day;
Yet the warst cloak of this companie,
I hope, shall cross the Waste this day.”

Now Hobie thought the gates were clear;
But, ever alas! it was not sae:
They were beset wi’ cruel men and keen,
That away brave Hobbie could not gae.

“Yet follow me, my feiries five,
And see of me ye keep good ray;
And the worst cloak o’ this companie
I hope shall cross the Waste this day.”

There was heaps of men now Hobbie before,
And other heaps was him behind,
That had he wight as Wallace was,
Away brave Noble he could not win.

Then Hobie he had but a laddies sword;
But he did more than a laddies deed;
In the midst of Conscouthart-Green,
He brake it oer Jersawigham’s head.

Now they have tane brave Hobie Noble,
Wi’ his ain bowstring they band him sae;
And I wat heart was ne’er sae sair,
As when his ain five band him on the brae.

They have tane him on for West Carlisle;
They ask’d him if he knew the why?
Whate’er he thought, yet little he said;
He knew the way as well as they.

They hae ta’en him up the Ricker gate;
The wives they cast their windows wide;
And every wife to anither can say,
“That’s the man loos’d Jock o’ the Side!”

“Fye on ye, women! why ca’ ye me man?
For it’s nae man that I’m used like;
I am but like a forfoughen hound,
Has been fighting in a dirty syke.”

Then they hae tane him up thro’ Carlisle town,
And set him by the chimney fire;
They gave brave Noble a wheat loaf to eat,
And that was little his desire.

Then they gave him a wheat loaf to eat,
And after that a can o beer;
Then they cried a’ with ae consent,
“Eat, brave Noble, and make gude cheer!

“Confess my lord’s horse, Hobie,” they said,
“And the morn in Carlisle thou’s no die;”
“How shall I confess them,” Hobie says,
“For I never saw them with mine eye?”

Then Hobie has sworn a fu’ great aith,
By the day that he was gotten and born,
He never had ony thing o’ my lord’s,
That either eat him grass or corn.

“Now fare thee weel, sweet Mangerton!
For I think again I’ll ne’er thee see:
I wad betray nae lad alive,
For a’ the goud in Christentie.

“And fare thee weel, sweet Liddesdale!
Baith the hie land and the law;
Keep ye weel frae traitor Mains!
For goud and gear he’ll sell ye a’.

“Yet wad I rather be ca’d Hobie Noble,
In Carlisle where he suffers for his faut,
Before I’d be ca’d traitor Mains,
That eats and drinks of the meal and maut.”

THE TWA SISTERS

(_Sharpe’s Ballad Book_, No. X., p. 30.)

THERE liv’d twa sisters in a bower,
Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.
There liv’d twa sisters in a bower,
Stirling for aye:
The youngest o’ them, O, she was a flower!
Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.

There came a squire frae the west,
Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.
There cam a squire frae the west,
Stirling for aye:
He lo’ed them baith, but the youngest best,
Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.

He gied the eldest a gay gold ring,
Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.
He gied the eldest a gay gold ring,
Stirling for aye:
But he lo’ed the youngest aboon a’ thing,
Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.

“Oh sister, sister, will ye go to the sea?
Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.
Oh sister, sister, will ye go to the sea?
Stirling for aye:
Our father’s ships sail bonnilie,
Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.”

The youngest sat down upon a stane,
Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.
The youngest sat down upon a stane,
Stirling for aye:
The eldest shot the youngest in,
Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.

“Oh sister, sister, lend me your hand,
Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.
Oh, sister, sister, lend me your hand,
Stirling for aye:
And you shall hae my gouden fan,
Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.

“Oh, sister, sister, save my life,
Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.
Oh sister, sister, save my life,
Stirling for aye:
And ye shall be the squire’s wife,
Bonny Sweet Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.”

First she sank, and then she swam,
Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.
First she sank, and then she swam,
Stirling for aye:
Until she cam to Tweed mill dam,
Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.

The millar’s daughter was baking bread,
Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.
The millar’s daughter was baking bread,
Stirling for aye:
She went for water, as she had need,
Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.

“Oh father, father, in our mill dam,
Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch,
Oh father, father, in our mill dam,
Stirling for aye:
There’s either a lady, or a milk-white swan,
Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.”

They could nae see her fingers small,
Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.
They could nae see her fingers small,
Stirling for aye:
Wi’ diamond rings they were cover’d all,
Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.

They could nae see her yellow hair,
Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.
They could nae see her yellow hair,
Stirling for aye:
Sae mony knots and platts war there,
Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.

Bye there cam a fiddler fair,
Hey Edinbruch, how Edinbruch.
Bye there cam a fiddler fair,
Stirling for aye:
And he’s ta’en three tails o’ her yellow hair,
Bonny Sanct Johnstonne that stands upon Tay.

MARY AMBREE

(_Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, vol. ii. p. 230.)

WHEN captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte,
Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt,
They mustred their souldiers by two and by three,
And the formost in battle was Mary Ambree.

When [the] brave sergeant-major was slaine in her sight,
Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight,
Because he was slaine most treacherouslie
Then vowd to revenge him Mary Ambree.

She clothed herselfe from the top to the toe
In buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe;
A faire shirt of male then slipped on shee:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

A helmett of proofe shee strait did provide,
A stronge arminge-sword shee girt by her side,
On her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand,
Bidding all such, as wold, [to] bee of her band;
To wayte on her person came thousand and three:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

“My soldiers,” she saith, “soe valliant and bold,
Nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde;
Still formost in battell myselfe will I bee:”
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they did say,
“Soe well thou becomest this gallant array,
Thy harte and thy weapons so well do agree,
No mayden was ever like Mary Ambree.”

She cheared her souldiers, that foughten for life,
With ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife,
With brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free;
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

“Before I will see the worst of you all
To come into danger of death or of thrall,
This hand and this life I will venture so free:”
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Shee ledd upp her souldiers in battaile array,
Gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye;
Seven howers in skirmish continued shee:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

She filled the skyes with the smoke of her shott,
And her enemyes bodyes with bulletts so hott;
For one of her own men a score killed shee:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

And when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent,
Away all her pellets and powder had sent,
Straight with her keen weapon she slasht him in three:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre,
At length she was forced to make a retyre;
Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee:
Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Her foes they besett her on everye side,
As thinking close siege shee cold never abide;
To beate down the walles they all did decree:
But stoutlye deffyd them brave Mary Ambree.

Then tooke shee her sword and her targett in hand,
And mounting the walls all undaunted did stand,
There daring their captaines to match any three:
O what a brave captaine was Mary Ambree!

“Now saye, English captaine, what woldest thou give
To ransome thy selfe, which else must not live?
Come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee:”
Then smiled sweetlye brave Mary Ambree.

“Ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold,
Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?”
“A knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free,
Who shortlye with us a prisoner must bee.”

“No captaine of England; behold in your sight
Two brests in my bosome, and therefore no knight:
Noe knight, sirs, of England, nor captaine you see,
But a poor simple mayden called Mary Ambree.”

“But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare,
Whose valor hath proved so undaunted in warre?
If England doth yield such brave maydens as thee,
Full well mey they conquer, faire Mary Ambree.”

The Prince of Great Parma heard of her renowne,
Who long had advanced for England’s fair crowne;
Hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee,
And offered rich presents to Mary Ambree.

But this virtuous mayden despised them all:
“’Ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall;
A maiden of England, sir, never will bee
The wench of a monarcke,” quoth Mary Ambree.

Then to her owne country shee back did returne,
Still holding the foes of rare England in scorne!
Therfore English captaines of every degree
Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree.

ALISON GROSS

O ALISON GROSS, that lives in yon tow’r,
The ugliest witch in the north countrie,
She trysted me ae day up till her bow’r,
And mony fair speeches she made to me.

She straik’d my head, and she kaim’d my hair,
And she set me down saftly on her knee;
Says—“If ye will be my leman sae true,
Sae mony braw things as I will you gi’e.”

She shaw’d me a mantle of red scarlet,
With gowden flowers and fringes fine;
Says—“If ye will be my leman sae true,
This goodly gift it shall be thine.”

“Awa, awa, ye ugly witch,
Hand far awa, and let me be;
I never will be your leman sae true,
And I wish I were out of your company.”

She neist brocht a sark of the saftest silk,
Weel wrought with pearls about the band;
Says—“If ye will be my ain true love,
This goodly gift ye shall command.”

She show’d me a cup of the good red gowd,
Weel set with jewels sae fair to see;
Says—“If ye will be my leman sae true,
This goodly gift I will you gi’e.”

“Awa, awa, ye ugly witch,
Haud far awa, and let me be;
For I wadna ance kiss your ugly mouth,
For all the gifts that ye cou’d gi’e.”

She’s turn’d her richt and round about,
And thrice she blew on a grass-green horn;
And she sware by the moon and the stars aboon,
That she’d gar me rue the day I was born.

Then out has she ta’en a silver wand,
And she turn’d her three times round and round;
She mutter’d sic words, that my strength it fail’d,
And I fell down senseless on the ground.

She turn’d me into an ugly worm,
And gar’d me toddle about the tree;
And aye on ilka Saturday night,
Auld Alison Gross she came to me,

With silver basin, and silver kame,
To kame my headie upon her knee;
But rather than kiss her ugly mouth,
I’d ha’e toddled for ever about the tree.

But as it fell out on last Hallow-e’en,
When the seely court was ridin’ by,
The queen lighted down on a gowan bank,
Near by the tree where I wont to lye.

She took me up in her milk-white hand,
And she straik’d me three times o’er her knee;
She chang’d me again to my ain proper shape,
And nae mair do I toddle about the tree.

THE HEIR OF LYNNE

OF all the lords in faire Scotland
A song I will begin:
Amongst them all dwelled a lord
Which was the unthrifty Lord of Lynne.

His father and mother were dead him froe,
And so was the head of all his kinne;
He did neither cease nor blinne
To the cards and dice that he did run.

To drinke the wine that was so cleere!
With every man he would make merry.
And then bespake him John of the Scales,
Unto the heire of Lynne say’d hee,

Sayes “how dost thou, Lord of Lynne,
Doest either want gold or fee?
Wilt thou not sell thy land so brode
To such a good fellow as me?

“For . . . I . . . ” he said,
“My land, take it unto thee;
I draw you to record, my lords all;”
With that he cast him a Gods pennie.

He told him the gold upon the bord,
It wanted never a bare penny.
“That gold is thine, the land is mine,
The heire of Lynne I will bee.”

“Heeres gold enough,” saithe the heire of Lynne,
“Both for me and my company.”
He drunke the wine that was so cleere,
And with every man he made merry.

Within three quarters of a yeare
His gold and fee it waxed thinne,
His merry men were from him gone,
And left himselfe all alone.

He had never a penny left in his purse,
Never a penny but three,
And one was brasse and another was lead
And another was white mony.

“Now well-a-day!” said the heire of Lynne,
“Now well-a-day, and woe is mee!
For when I was the Lord of Lynne,
I neither wanted gold nor fee;

“For I have sold my lands so broad,
And have not left me one penny!
I must go now and take some read
Unto Edenborrow and beg my bread.”

He had not beene in Edenborrow
Nor three quarters of a yeare,
But some did give him and some said nay,
And some bid “to the deele gang yee!

“For if we should hang some land selfeer,
The first we would begin with thee.”
“Now well-a-day!” said the heire of Lynne,
“Now well-a-day, and woe is mee!

“For now I have sold my lands so broad
That merry man is irke with mee;
But when that I was the Lord of Lynne
Then on my land I lived merrily;

“And now I have sold my land so broade
That I have not left me one pennye!
God be with my father!” he said,
“On his land he lived merrily.”

Still in a study there as he stood,
He unbethought him of a bill,
He unbethought him of a bill
Which his father had left with him.

Bade him he should never on it looke
Till he was in extreame neede,
“And by my faith,” said the heire of Lynne,
“Then now I had never more neede.”

He tooke the bill and looked it on,
Good comfort that he found there;
It told him of a castle wall
Where there stood three chests in feare:

Two were full of the beaten gold,
The third was full of white money.
He turned then downe his bags of bread
And filled them full of gold so red.

Then he did never cease nor blinne
Till John of the Scales house he did winne.
When that he came John of the Scales,
Up at the speere he looked then;

There sate three lords upon a rowe,
And John o’ the Scales sate at the bord’s head,
And John o’ the Scales sate at the bord’s head
Because he was the lord of Lynne.

And then bespake the heire of Lynne
To John o’ the Scales wife thus sayd hee,
Sayd “Dame, wilt thou not trust me one shott
That I may sit downe in this company?”

“Now Christ’s curse on my head,” she said,
“If I do trust thee one pennye,”
Then bespake a good fellowe,
Which sate by John o’ the Scales his knee,

Said “have thou here, thou heire of Lynne,
Forty-pence I will lend thee,—
Some time a good fellow thou hast beene
And other forty if it need bee.”

They drunken wine that was so cleere,
And every man they made merry,
And then bespake him John o’ the Scales
Unto the Lord of Lynne said hee;

Said “how doest thou heire of Lynne,
Since I did buy thy lands of thee?
I will sell it to thee twenty better cheepe,
Nor ever did I buy it of thee.”

“I draw you to recorde, lords all:”
With that he cast him god’s penny;
Then he tooke to his bags of bread,
And they were full of the gold so red.

He told him the gold then over the borde
It wanted never a broad pennye;
“That gold is thine, the land is mine,
And the heire of Lynne againe I will bee.”

“Now well-a-day!” said John o’ the Scales’ wife,
“Well-a-day, and woe is me!
Yesterday I was the lady of Lynne,
And now I am but John o’ the Scales wife!”

Says “have thou here, thou good fellow,
Forty pence thou did lend me;
Forty pence thou did lend me,
And forty I will give thee,
I’ll make thee keeper of my forrest,
Both of the wild deere and the tame.”

But then bespake the heire of Lynne,
These were the words and thus spake hee,
“Christ’s curse light upon my crowne
If ere my land stand in any jeopardye!”

GORDON OF BRACKLEY

DOWN Deeside cam Inveraye
Whistlin’ and playing,
An’ called loud at Brackley gate
Ere the day dawning—
“Come, Gordon of Brackley.
Proud Gordon, come down,
There’s a sword at your threshold
Mair sharp than your own.”

“Arise now, gay Gordon,”
His lady ’gan cry,
“Look, here is bold Inveraye
Driving your kye.”
“How can I go, lady,
An’ win them again,
When I have but ae sword,
And Inveraye ten?”

“Arise up, my maidens,
Wi’ roke and wi’ fan,
How blest had I been
Had I married a man!
Arise up, my maidens,
Tak’ spear and tak’ sword,
Go milk the ewes, Gordon,
An’ I will be lord.”

The Gordon sprung up
Wi’ his helm on his head,
Laid his hand on his sword,
An’ his thigh on his steed,
An’ he stooped low, and said,
As he kissed his young dame,
“There’s a Gordon rides out
That will never ride hame.”

There rode with fierce Inveraye
Thirty and three,
But wi’ Brackley were nane
But his brother and he;
Twa gallanter Gordons
Did never blade draw,
But against three-and-thirty
Wae’s me! what are twa?

Wi’ sword and wi’ dagger
They rushed on him rude;
The twa gallant Gordons
Lie bathed in their blude.
Frae the springs o’ the Dee
To the mouth o’ the Tay,
The Gordons mourn for him,
And curse Inveraye.

“O were ye at Brackley?
An’ what saw ye there?
Was his young widow weeping
An’ tearing her hair?”
“I looked in at Brackley,
I looked in, and oh!
There was mirth, there was feasting,
But naething o’ woe.

“As a rose bloomed the lady,
An’ blithe as a bride,
As a bridegroom bold Inveraye
Smiled by her side.
Oh! she feasted him there
As she ne’er feasted lord,
While the blood of her husband
Was moist on his sword.

“In her chamber she kept him
Till morning grew gray,
Thro’ the dark woods of Brackley
She shewed him the way.
‘Yon wild hill,’ she said,
‘Where the sun’s shining on,
Is the hill of Glentanner,—
One kiss, and begone!’”

There’s grief in the cottage,
There’s grief in the ha’,
For the gude, gallant Gordon
That’s dead an’ awa’.
To the bush comes the bud,
An’ the flower to the plain,
But the gude and the brave
They come never again.

EDWARD, EDWARD

“WHY does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude
And why sae sad gang ye, O?”
“O I hae killed my hawk sae gude,
Mither, mither;
O I hae killed my hawk sae gude,
And I hae nae mair but he, O.”

“Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
Edward, Edward;
Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
My dear son, I tell thee, O.”
“O I hae killed my red-roan steed,
Mither, mither;
O I hae killed my red-roan steed,
That was sae fair and free, O.”

“Your steed was auld, and ye’ve plenty mair,
Edward, Edward;
Your steed was auld, and ye’ve plenty mair;
Some ither dule ye dree, O.”
“O I hae killed my father dear,
Mither, mither;
O I hae killed my father dear,
Alas, and wae is me, O!”

“And whatten penance will ye dree for that,
Edward, Edward?
Whatten penance will ye dree for that?
My dear son, now tell me, O.”
“I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
Mither, mither;
I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
And I’ll fare over the sea, O.”

“And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,
That were sae fair to see, O?”
“I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
Mither, mither;
I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
For here never mair maun I be, O.”

“And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
When ye gang ower the sea, O?”
“The warld’s room: let them beg through life,
Mither, mither;
The warld’s room: let them beg through life;
For them never mair will I see, O.”

“And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
My dear son, now tell me, O?”
“The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,
Mither, mither;
The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear:
Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!”

YOUNG BENJIE

OF all the maids of fair Scotland,
The fairest was Marjorie;
And young Benjie was her ae true love,
And a dear true love was he.

And wow but they were lovers dear,
And lov’d full constantlie;
But aye the mair when they fell out,
The sairer was their plea.

And they ha’e quarrell’d on a day,
Till Marjorie’s heart grew wae;
And she said she’d chuse another luve,
And let young Benjie gae.

And he was stout and proud-hearted,
And thought o’t bitterlie;
And he’s gane by the wan moonlight,
To meet his Marjorie.

“Oh, open, open, my true love,
Oh, open and let me in!”
“I darena open, young Benjie,
My three brothers are within.”

“Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonnie burd,
Sae loud’s I hear ye lee;
As I came by the Louden banks,
They bade gude e’en to me.

“But fare ye weel, my ae fause love,
That I have lov’d sae lang!
It sets ye chuse another love,
And let young Benjie gang.”

Then Marjorie turn’d her round about,
The tear blinding her e’e;
“I darena, darena let thee in,
But I’ll come down to thee.”

Then salt she smil’d, and said to him—
“Oh, what ill ha’e I done?”
He took her in his arms twa,
And threw her o’er the linn.

The stream was strong, the maid was stout,
And laith, laith to be dang;
But ere she wan the Louden banks,
Her fair colour was wan.

Then up bespake her eldest brother—
“Oh, see na ye what I see?”
And out then spake her second brother—
“It is our sister Marjorie!”

Out then spake her eldest brother—
“Oh, how shall we her ken?”
And out then spake her youngest brother—
“There’s a honey mark on her chin.”

Then they’ve ta’en the comely corpse,
And laid it on the ground;
Saying—“Wha has kill’d our ae sister?
And how can he be found?

“The night it is her low lykewake,
The morn her burial day;
And we maun watch at mirk midnight,
And hear what she will say.”

With doors ajar, and candles light,
And torches burning clear,
The streekit corpse, till still midnight,
They waked, but naething hear.

About the middle of the night
The cocks began to craw;
And at the dead hour of the night,
The corpse began to thraw.

“Oh, wha has done thee wrang, sister,
Or dared the deadly sin?
Wha was sae stout, and fear’d nae dout,
As throw ye o’er the linn?”

“Young Benjie was the first ae man
I laid my love upon;
He was sae stout and proud-hearted,
He threw me o’er the linn.”

“Shall we young Benjie head, sister?
Shall we young Benjie hang?
Or shall we pike out his twa gray een,
And punish him ere he gang?”

“Ye maunna Benjie head, brothers,
Ye maunna Benjie hang;
But ye maun pike out his twa gray een.
And punish him ere he gang.

“Tie a green gravat round his neck,
And lead him out and in,
And the best ae servant about your house
To wait young Benjie on.

“And aye at every seven years’ end,
Ye’ll take him to the linn;
For that’s the penance he maun dree,
To scug his deadly sin.”

AULD MAITLAND

THERE lived a king in southern land,
King Edward hight his name;
Unwordily he wore the crown,
Till fifty years were gane.

He had a sister’s son o’s ain,
Was large of blood and bane;
And afterward, when he came up,
Young Edward hight his name.

One day he came before the king,
And kneel’d low on his knee:
“A boon, a boon, my good uncle,
I crave to ask of thee!

“At our lang wars, in fair Scotland,
I fain ha’e wish’d to be,
If fifteen hundred waled wight men
You’ll grant to ride with me.”

“Thou shall ha’e thae, thou shall ha’e mae;
I say it sickerlie;
And I myself, an auld gray man,
Array’d your host shall see.”

King Edward rade, King Edward ran—
I wish him dool and pyne!
Till he had fifteen hundred men
Assembled on the Tyne.

And thrice as many at Berwicke
Were all for battle bound,
[Who, marching forth with false Dunbar,
A ready welcome found.]

They lighted on the banks of Tweed,
And blew their coals sae het,
And fired the Merse and Teviotdale,
All in an evening late.

As they fared up o’er Lammermoor,
They burn’d baith up and down,
Until they came to a darksome house,
Some call it Leader-Town.

“Wha hauds this house?” young Edward cried,
“Or wha gi’est o’er to me?”
A gray-hair’d knight set up his head,
And crackit right crousely:

“Of Scotland’s king I haud my house;
He pays me meat and fee;
And I will keep my gude auld house,
While my house will keep me.”

They laid their sowies to the wall,
With mony a heavy peal;
But he threw o’er to them agen
Baith pitch and tar barrel.

With springalds, stanes, and gads of airn,
Amang them fast he threw;
Till mony of the Englishmen
About the wall he slew.

Full fifteen days that braid host lay,
Sieging Auld Maitland keen;
Syne they ha’e left him, hail and feir,
Within his strength of stane.

Then fifteen barks, all gaily good,
Met them upon a day,
Which they did lade with as much spoil
As they you’d bear away.

“England’s our ain by heritage;
And what can us withstand,
Now we ha’e conquer’d fair Scotland,
With buckler, bow, and brand?”

Then they are on to the land of France,
Where auld king Edward lay,
Burning baith castle, tower, and town,
That he met in his way.

Until he came unto that town,
Which some call Billop-Grace:
There were Auld Maitland’s sons, all three,
Learning at school, alas!

The eldest to the youngest said,
“Oh, see ye what I see?
If all be true yon standard says,
We’re fatherless all three.

“For Scotland’s conquer’d up and down;
Landmen we’ll never be!
Now, will you go, my brethren two,
And try some jeopardy?”

Then they ha’e saddled twa black horse,
Twa black horse and a gray;
And they are on to king Edward’s host,
Before the dawn of day.

When they arrived before the host,
They hover’d on the lay:
“Wilt thou lend me our king’s standard,
To bear a little way?”

“Where wast thou bred? where wast thou born?
Where, or in what countrie?”
“In north of England I was born;”
(It needed him to lee.)

“A knight me gat, a ladye bore,
I am a squire of high renown;
I well may bear’t to any king
That ever yet wore crown.”

“He ne’er came of an Englishman,
Had sic an e’e or bree;
But thou art the likest Auld Maitland,
That ever I did see.

“But sic a gloom on ae browhead,
Grant I ne’er see again!
For mony of our men he slew,
And mony put to pain.”

When Maitland heard his father’s name,
An angry man was he;
Then, lifting up a gilt dagger,
Hung low down by his knee,

He stabb’d the knight the standard bore,
He stabb’d him cruellie;
Then caught the standard by the neuk,
And fast away rode he.

“Now, is’t na time, brothers,” he cried,
“Now, is’t na time to flee?”
“Ay, by my sooth!” they baith replied,
“We’ll bear you companye.”

The youngest turn’d him in a path,
And drew a burnish’d brand,
And fifteen of the foremost slew,
Till back the lave did stand.

He spurr’d the gray into the path,
Till baith his sides they bled:
“Gray! thou maun carry me away,
Or my life lies in wad!”

The captain lookit o’er the wall,
About the break of day;
There he beheld the three Scots lads
Pursued along the way.

“Pull up portcullize! down draw-brig!
My nephews are at hand;
And they shall lodge with me to-night,
In spite of all England.”

Whene’er they came within the yate,
They thrust their horse them frae,
And took three lang spears in their hands,
Saying—“Here shall come nae me!”

And they shot out, and they shot in,
Till it was fairly day;
When mony of the Englishmen
About the draw-brig lay.

Then they ha’e yoked the carts and wains,
To ca’ their dead away,
And shot auld dykes abune the lave,
In gutters where they lay.

The king, at his pavilion door,
Was heard aloud to say:
“Last night, three of the lads of France
My standard stole away.

“With a fause tale, disguised they came,
And with a fauser trayne;
And to regain my gaye standard,
These men where all down slayne.”

“It ill befits,” the youngest said,
“A crownèd king to lee;
But, or that I taste meat and drink,
Reprovèd shall he be.”

He went before king Edward straight,
And kneel’d low on his knee:
“I wou’d ha’e leave, my lord,” he said,
“To speak a word with thee.”

The king he turn’d him round about,
And wistna what to say:
Quo’ he, “Man, thou’s ha’e leave to speak,
Though thou should speak all day.”

“Ye said that three young lads of France
Your standard stole away,
With a fause tale and fauser trayne,
And mony men did slay;

“But we are nane the lads of France,
Nor e’er pretend to be:
We are three lads of fair Scotland,—
Auld Maitland’s sons are we.

“Nor is there men in all your host
Daur fight us three to three.”
“Now, by my sooth,” young Edward said,
“Weel fitted ye shall be!

“Piercy shall with the eldest fight,
And Ethert Lunn with thee;
William of Lancaster the third,
And bring your fourth to me!

“Remember, Piercy, aft the Scot
Has cower’d beneath thy hand;
For every drap of Maitland blood,
I’ll gi’e a rig of land.”

He clanked Piercy o’er the head
A deep wound and a sair,
Till the best blood of his body
Came running down his hair.

“Now, I’ve slayne ane; slay ye the twa;
And that’s gude companye;
And if the twa shou’d slay ye baith,
Ye’se get nae help frae me.”

But Ethert Lunn, a baited bear,
Had many battles seen;
He set the youngest wonder sair,
Till the eldest he grew keen.

“I am nae king, nor nae sic thing:
My word it shanna stand!
For Ethert shall a buffet bide,
Come he beneath my brand.”

He clankit Ethert o’er the head
A deep wound and a sair,
Till the best blood in his body
Came running o’er his hair.

“Now, I’ve slayne twa; slay ye the ane;
Isna that gude companye?
And though the ane shou’d slay ye baith.
Ye’se get nae help of me.”

The twa-some they ha’e slayne the ane,
They maul’d him cruellie;
Then hung him over the draw-brig,
That all the host might see.

They rade their horse, they ran their horse,
Then hover’d on the lee:
“We be three lads of fair Scotland,
That fain wou’d fighting see.”

This boasting when young Edward heard,
An angry man was he:
“I’ll take yon lad, I’ll bind yon lad,
And bring him bound to thee!

“Now, God forbid,” king Edward said,
“That ever thou shou’d try!
Three worthy leaders we ha’e lost,
And thou the forth wou’d lie.

“If thou shou’dst hang on yon draw-brig,
Blythe wou’d I never be.”
But, with the poll-axe in his hand,
Upon the brig sprang be.

The first stroke that young Edward ga’e,
He struck with might and main;
He clove the Maitland’s helmet stout,
And bit right nigh the brain.

When Maitland saw his ain blood fall,
An angry man was he;
He let his weapon frae him fall,
And at his throat did flee.

And thrice about he did him swing,
Till on the ground he light,
Where he has halden young Edward,
Tho’ he was great in might.

“Now let him up,” king Edward cried,
“And let him come to me;
And for the deed that thou hast done,
Thou shalt ha’e earldomes three!”

“It’s ne’er be said in France, nor e’er
In Scotland, when I’m hame,
That Edward once lay under me,
And e’er gat up again!”

He pierced him through and through the heart,
He maul’d him cruellie;
Then hung him o’er the draw-brig,
Beside the other three.

“Now take frae me that feather-bed,
Make me a bed of strae!
I wish I hadna lived this day,
To make my heart sae wae.

“If I were ance at London Tow’r,
Where I was wont to be,
I never mair shou’d gang frae hame,
Till borne on a bier-tree.”

THE BROOMFIELD HILL

THERE was a knight and lady bright
Set trysts amo the broom,
The one to come at morning eav,
The other at afternoon.

“I’ll wager a wager wi’ you,” he said,
“An hundred marks and ten,
That ye shall not go to Broomfield Hills,
Return a maiden again.”

“I’ll wager a wager wi’ you,” she said,
“A hundred pounds and ten,
That I will gang to Broomfield Hills,
A maiden return again.”

The lady stands in her bower door,
And thus she made her mane:
“Oh, shall I gang to Broomfield Hills,
Or shall I stay at hame?

“If I do gang to Broomfield Hills
A maid I’ll not return;
But if I stay from Broomfield Hills,
I’ll be a maid mis-sworn.”

Then out it speaks an auld witch wife,
Sat in the bower aboon:
“O ye shall gang to Broomfield Hills,
Ye shall not stay at hame.

“But when ye gang to Broomfield Hills,
Walk nine times round and round;
Down below a bonny burn bank,
Ye’ll find your love sleeping sound.

“Ye’ll pu the bloom frae off the broom,
Strew’t at his head and feet,
And aye the thicker that ye do strew,
The sounder he will sleep.

“The broach that is on your napkin,
Put it on his breast bane,
To let him know, when he does wake,
That’s true love’s come and gane.

“The rings that are on your fingers,
Lay them down on a stane,
To let him know, when he does wake,
That’s true love’s come and gane.

“And when he hae your work all done,
Ye’ll gang to a bush o’ broom,
And then you’ll hear what he will say,
When he sees ye are gane.”

When she came to Broomfield Hills,
She walked it nine times round,
And down below yon burn bank,
She found him sleeping sound.

She pu’d the bloom frae off the broom,
Strew’d it at ’s head and feet,
And aye the thicker that she strewd,
The sounder he did sleep.

The broach that was on her napkin,
She put it on his breast-bane,
To let him know, when he did wake,
His love was come and gane.

The rings that were on her fingers,
She laid upon a stane,
To let him know, when he did wake,
His love was come and gane.

Now when she had her work all dune,
She went to a bush o’ broom,
That she might hear what he did say,
When he saw that she was gane.

“O where were ye my guid grey hound,
That I paid for sae dear,
Ye didna waken me frae my sleep
When my true love was sae near?”

“I scraped wi’ my foot, master,
Till a’ my collars rang,
But still the mair that I did scrape,
Waken woud ye nane.”

“Where were ye, my bony brown steed,
That I paid for sae dear,
That ye woudna waken me out o’ my sleep
When my love was sae near?”

“I patted wi my foot, master,
Till a’ my bridles rang,
But the mair that I did patt,
Waken woud ye nane.”

“O where were ye, my gay goss-hawk
That I paid for sae dear,
That ye woudna waken me out o’ my sleep
When ye saw my love near?”

“I flapped wi my wings, master,
Till a’ my bells they rang,
But still, the mair that I did flap,
Waken woud ye nane.”

“O where were ye, my merry young men
That I pay meat and fee,
That ye woudna waken me out o’ my sleep
When my love ye did see?”

“Ye’ll sleep mair on the night, master,
And wake mair on the day;
Gae sooner down to Broomfield Hills
When ye’ve sic pranks to play.

“If I had seen any armèd men
Come riding over the hill—
But I saw but a fair lady
Come quietly you until.”

“O wae mat worth yow, my young men,
That I pay meat and fee,
That ye woudna waken me frae sleep
When ye my love did see?

“O had I waked when she was nigh,
And o her got my will,
I shoudna cared upon the morn
The sma birds o her were fill.”

When she went out, right bitter she wept,
But singing came she hame;
Says, “I hae been at Broomfield Hills,
And maid returned again.”

WILLIE’S LADYE

WILLIE has ta’en him o’er the faem,
He’s wooed a wife, and brought her hame;
He’s wooed her for her yellow hair,
But his mother wrought her meikle care;

And meikle dolour gar’d her dree,
For lighter she can never be;
But in her bow’r she sits with pain,
And Willie mourns o’er her in vain.

And to his mother he has gane,
That vile rank witch, of vilest kind!
He says—“My lady has a cup,
With gowd and silver set about;
This gudely gift shall be your ain,
And let her be lighter of her bairn.”

“Of her bairn she’s never be lighter,
Nor in her bow’r to shine the brighter
But she shall die, and turn to clay,
And you shall wed another may.”

“Another may I’ll never wed,
Another may I’ll never bring hame.”
But, sighing, said that weary wight—
“I wish my life were at an end.”

“Yet gae ye to your mother again,
That vile rank witch, of vilest kind
And say, your ladye has a steed,
The like of him’s no in the land of Leed.

“For he is silver shod before,
And he is gowden shod behind;
At every tuft of that horse mane
There’s a golden chess, and a bell to ring.
This gudely gift shall be her ain,
And let me be lighter of my bairn.”

“Of her young bairn she’s ne’er be lighter,
Nor in her bow’r to shine the brighter;
But she shall die, and turn to clay,
And ye shall wed another may.”

“Another may I’ll never wed,
Another may I’ll never bring hame.”
But, sighing, said that weary wight—
“I wish my life were at an end!”

“Yet gae ye to your mother again,
That vile rank witch, of rankest kind!
And say, your ladye has a girdle,
It’s all red gowd to the middle;

“And aye, at ilka siller hem,
Hang fifty siller bells and ten;
This gudely gift shall be her ain,
And let me be lighter of my bairn.”

“Of her young bairn she’s ne’er be lighter,
Nor in your bow’r to shine the brighter;
For she shall die, and turn to clay,
And thou shall wed another may.”

“Another may I’ll never wed,
Another may I’ll never bring hame.”
But, sighing, said that weary wight—
“I wish my days were at an end!”

Then out and spak the Billy Blind,
He spak aye in good time [his mind]:—
“Yet gae ye to the market place,
And there do buy a loaf of wace;
Do shape it bairn and bairnly like,
And in it two glassen een you’ll put.