Chapter I: WENT to the mill, but the miller was gone, (2)

“Oh, wha has loosed the nine witch-knots
That were amang that ladye’s locks?
And wha’s ta’en out the kames of care,
That were amang that ladye’s hair?

“And wha has ta’en down that bush of woodbine
That hung between her bow’r and mine?
And wha has kill’d the master kid
That ran beneath that ladye’s bed?
And wha has loosed her left foot shee,
And let that ladye lighter be?”

Syne, Willie’s loosed the nine witch-knots
That were amang that ladye’s locks;
And Willie’s ta’en out the kames of care
That were into that ladye’s hair;
And he’s ta’en down the bush of woodbine,
Hung atween her bow’r and the witch carline.

And he has killed the master kid
That ran beneath that ladye’s bed;
And he has loosed her left foot shee,
And latten that ladye lighter be;
And now he has gotten a bonnie son,
And meikle grace be him upon.

ROBIN HOOD AND THE MONK

IN somer when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and longe,
Hit is full mery in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song.

To se the dere draw to the dale,
And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow hem in the leves grene,
Vndur the grene-wode tre.

Hit befell on Whitsontide,
Erly in a may mornyng,
The son vp fayre can shyne,
And the briddis mery can syng.

“This is a mery mornyng,” seid Litulle Johne,
“Be hym that dyed on tre;
A more mery man than I am one
Lyves not in Cristianté.”

“Pluk vp thi hert, my dere mayster,”
Litulle Johne can sey,
“And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme
In a mornynge of may.”

“Ze on thynge greves me,” seid Robyne,
“And does my hert mych woo,
That I may not so solem day
To mas nor matyns goo.

“Hit is a fourtnet and more,” seyd hee,
“Syn I my Sauyour see;
To day will I to Notyngham,” seid Robyn,
“With the myght of mylde Mary.”

Then spake Moche the mylner sune,
Euer more wel hym betyde,
“Take xii thi wyght zemen
Well weppynd be thei side.
Such on wolde thi selfe slon
That xii dar not abyde.”

“Off alle my mery men,” seid Robyne,
“Be my feithe I wil non haue;
But Litulle Johne shall beyre my bow
Til that me list to drawe.”

* * * * *

“Thou shalle beyre thin own,” seid Litulle Jon,
“Maister, and I wil beyre myne,
And we wille shete a peny,” seid Litulle Jon,
“Vnder the grene wode lyne.”

“I wil not shete a peny,” seyde Robyn Hode,
“In feith, Litulle Johne, with thee,
But euer for on as thou shetes,” seid Robyn,
“In feith I holde the thre.”

Thus shet thei forthe, these zemen too,
Bothe at buske and brome,
Til Litulle Johne wan of his maister
V s. to hose and shone.

A ferly strife fel them betwene,
As they went bi the way;
Litull Johne seid he had won v shyllyngs,
And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.

With that Robyn Hode lyed Litul Jone,
And smote him with his honde;
Litul John waxed wroth therwith,
And pulled out his bright bronde.

“Were thou not my maister,” seid Litulle Johne,
“Thou shuldis by hit ful sore;
Get the a man where thou wilt, Robyn,
For thou getes me no more.”

Then Robyn goes to Notyngham,
Hymselfe mornynge allone,
And Litulle Johne to mery Scherewode,
The pathes he knowe alkone.

Whan Robyn came to Notyngham,
Sertenly withoutene layne,
He prayed to God and myld Mary
To brynge hym out saue agayne.

He gos into seynt Mary chirche,
And knelyd downe before the rode;
Alle that euer were the churche within
Beheld wel Robyne Hode.

Beside hym stode a gret-hedid munke,
I pray to God woo he be;
Full sone he knew gode Robyn
As sone as he hym se.

Out at the durre he ran
Ful sone and anon;
Alle the zatis of Notyngham
He made to be sparred euerychone.

“Rise vp,” he seid, “thou prowde schereff,
Buske the and make the bowne;
I haue spyed the kynges felone,
For sothe he is in this towne.

“I haue spyed the false felone,
As he stondes at his masse;
Hit is longe of the,” seide the munke,
“And euer he fro vs passe.

“This traytur[s] name is Robyn Hode;
Vnder the grene wode lynde,
He robbyt me onys of a C pound,
Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde.”

Vp then rose this prowd schereff,
And zade towarde hym zare;
Many was the modur son
To the kyrk with him can fare.

In at the durres thei throly thrast
With staves ful gode ilkone,
“Alas, alas,” seid Robin Hode,
“Now mysse I Litulle Johne.”

But Robyne toke out a too-hond sworde
That hangit down be his kne;
Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust,
Thidurward wold he.

Thryes thorow at them he ran,
Then for sothe as I yow say,
And woundyt many a modur sone,
And xii he slew that day.

Hys sworde vpon the schireff hed
Sertanly he brake in too;
“The smyth that the made,” seid Robyn,
“I pray God wyrke him woo.

“For now am I weppynlesse,” seid Robyne,
“Alasse, agayn my wylle;
But if I may fle these traytors fro,
I wot thei wil me kylle.”

Robyns men to the churche ran
Throout hem euerilkon;
Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede,
And lay still as any stone.

* * * * *

Non of theym were in her mynde
But only Litulle Jon.

“Let be your dule,” seid Litulle Jon,
“For his luf that dyed on tre;
Ze that shulde be duzty men,
Hit is gret shame to se.

“Oure maister has bene hard bystode,
And zet scapyd away;
Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone,
And herkyn what I shal say.

“He has seruyd our lady many a day,
And zet wil securly;
Therefore I trust in her specialy
No wycked deth shal he dye.

“Therfor be glad,” seid Litul Johne,
“And let this mournyng be,
And I shall be the munkes gyde,
With the myght of mylde Mary.

“And I mete hym,” seid Litull Johne,
“We will go but we too
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .

“Loke that ze kepe wel our tristil tre
Vnder the levys smale,
And spare non of this venyson
That gose in thys vale.”

Forthe thei went these zemen too,
Litul Johne and Moche onfere,
And lokid on Moche emys hows
The hyeway lay fulle nere.

Litul John stode at a window in the mornynge,
And lokid forth at a stage;
He was war wher the munke came ridynge,
And with him a litul page.

“Be my feith,” said Litul Johne to Moche,
“I can the tel tithyngus gode;
I se wher the munk comys rydyng,
I know hym be his wyde hode.”

Thei went into the way these zemen bothe
As curtes men and hende,
Thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke,
As thei hade bene his frende.

“Fro whens come ze,” seid Litul Johne,
“Tel vs tithyngus, I yow pray,
Off a false owtlay [called Robyn Hode],
Was takyn zisturday.

“He robbyt me and my felowes bothe
Of xx marke in serten;
If that false owtlay be takyn,
For sothe we wolde be fayne.”

“So did he me,” seid the munke,
“Of a C pound and more;
I layde furst hande hym apon,
Ze may thonke me therefore.”

“I pray God thanke yow,” seid Litulle Johne,
“And we wil when we may;
We wil go with yow, with your leve,
And brynge yow on your way.

“For Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow,
I telle yow in certen;
If thei wist ze rode this way,
In feith ze shulde be slayn.”

As thei went talkyng be the way,
The munke an Litulle Johne,
Johne toke the munkes horse be the hede
Ful sone and anone.

Johne toke the munkes horse be the hed,
For sothe as I yow say,
So did Muche the litulle page,
For he shulde not stirre away.

Be the golett of the hode
Johne pulled the munke downe;
Johne was nothynge of hym agast,
He lete hym falle on his crowne.

Litulle Johne was sore agrevyd,
And drew out his swerde in hye;
The munke saw he shulde be ded,
Lowd mercy can he crye.

“He was my maister,” said Litulle Johne,
“That thou hase browzt in bale;
Shalle thou neuer cum at our kynge
For to telle hym tale.”

John smote of the munkes hed,
No longer wolde he dwelle;
So did Moche the litulle page,
For ferd lest he wold tell.

Ther thei beryed hem both
In nouther mosse nor lynge,
And Litulle Johne and Muche infere
Bare the letturs to oure kyng.

* * * * *

He kneled down vpon—his kne,
“God zow sane, my lege lorde,
Jesus yow saue and se.

“God yow saue, my lege kyng,”
To speke Johne was fulle bolde;
He gaf hym tbe letturs in his hond,
The kyng did hit unfold.

The kyng red the letturs anon,
And seid, “so met I the,
Ther was neuer zoman in mery Inglond
I longut so sore to see.

“Wher is the munke that these shuld haue browzt?”
Oure kynge gan say;
“Be my trouthe,” seid Litull Jone,
“He dyed aftur the way.”

The kyng gaf Moche and Litul Jon
xx pound in sertan,
And made theim zemen of the crowne,
And bade theim go agayn.

He gaf Johne the seel in hand,
The scheref for to bere,
To brynge Robyn hym to,
And no man do hym dere.

Johne toke his leve at cure kyng,
The sothe as I yow say;
The next way to Notyngham
To take he zede the way.

When Johne came to Notyngham
The zatis were sparred ychone;
Johne callid vp the porter,
He answerid sone anon.

“What is the cause,” seid Litul John,
“Thou sparris the zates so fast?”
“Because of Robyn Hode,” seid [the] porter,
“In depe prison is cast.

“Johne, and Moche, and Wylle Scathlok,
For sothe as I yow say,
Thir slew oure men vpon oure wallis,
And sawtene vs euery day.”

Litulle Johne spyrred aftur the schereff,
And sone he hym fonde;
He oppyned the kyngus privè seelle,
And gaf hyn in his honde.

When the schereft saw the kyngus seelle,
He did of his hode anon;
“Wher is the munke that bare the letturs?”
He said to Litulle Johne.

“He is so fayn of hym,” seid Litulle Johne,
“For sothe as I yow sey,
He has made hym abot of Westmynster,
A lorde of that abbay.”

The scheref made John gode chere,
And gaf hym wine of the best;
At nyzt thei went to her bedde,
And euery man to his rest.

When the scheref was on-slepe
Dronken of wine and ale,
Litul Johne and Moche for sothe
Toke the way vnto the jale.

Litul Johne callid vp the jayler,
And bade him ryse anon;
He seid Robyn Hode had brokyn preson,
And out of hit was gon.

The portere rose anon sertan,
As sone as he herd John calle;
Litul Johne was redy with a swerd,
And bare hym to the walle.

“Now will I be porter,” seid Litul Johne,
“And take the keyes in honde;”
He toke the way to Robyn Hode,
And sone he hym vnbonde.

He gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond,
His hed with for to kepe,
And ther as the walle was lowyst
Anon down can thei lepe.

Be that the cok began to crow,
The day began to sprynge,
The scheref fond the jaylier ded,
The comyn belle made he rynge.

He made a crye thoroowt al the tow[n],
Whedur he be zoman or knave,
That cowthe brynge hyrn Robyn Hode,
His warisone he shuld haue.

“For I dar neuer,” said the scheref,
“Cum before oure kynge,
For if I do, I wot serten,
For sothe he wil me henge.”

The scheref made to seke Notyngham,
Bothe be strete and stye,
And Robyn was in mery Scherwode
As lizt as lef on lynde.

Then bespake gode Litulle Johne,
To Robyn Hode can he say,
“I haue done the a gode turne for an euylle,
Quyte me whan thou may.

“I haue done the a gode turne,” said Litulle Johne,
“For sothe as I you saie;
I haue brouzt the vnder grene wode lyne;
Fare wel, and haue gode day.”

“Nay, be my trouthe,” seid Robyn Hode,
“So shalle hit neuer be;
I make the maister,” seid Robyn Hode,
“Off alle my men and me.”

“Nay, be my trouthe,” seid Litulle Johne,
“So shall hit neuer be,
But lat me be a felow,” seid Litulle Johne,
“Non odur kepe I’ll be.”

Thus Johne gate Robyn Hode out of prisone,
Sertan withoutyn layne;
When his men saw hym hol and sounde,
For sothe they were ful fayne.

They filled in wyne, and made him glad,
Vnder the levys smale,
And zete pastes of venysone,
That gode was with ale.

Than worde came to oure kynge,
How Robyn Hode was gone,
And how the scheref of Notyngham
Durst neuer loke hyme vpone.

Then bespake oure cumly kynge,
In an angur hye,
“Litulle Johne hase begyled the schereff,
In faith so hase he me.

“Litulle Johne has begyled vs bothe,
And that fulle wel I se,
Or ellis the schereff of Notyngham
Hye hongut shuld he be.

“I made hem zemen of the crowne,
And gaf hem fee with my hond,
I gaf hem grithe,” seid oure kyng,
“Thorowout alle mery Inglond.

“I gaf hem grithe,” then seide oure kyng,
“I say, so mot I the,
For sothe soche a zeman as he is on
In alle Ingland ar not thre.

“He is trew to his maister,” seide oure kynge,
“I say, be swete seynt Johne;
He louys bettur Robyn Hode,
Then he dose vs ychone.

“Robyne Hode is euer bond to him,
Bothe in strete and stalle;
Speke no more of this matter,” seid oure kynge,
“But John has begyled vs alle.”

Thus endys the talkyng of the munke
And Robyne Hode i-wysse;
God, that is euer a crowned kyng,
Bryng vs alle to his blisse.

ROBIN HOOD AND THE POTTER

IN schomer, when the leves spryng,
The bloschems on every bowe,
So merey doyt the berdys syng
Yn wodys merey now.

Herkens, god yemen,
Comley, corteysse, and god,
On of the best that yever bar bou,
Hes name was Roben Hode.

Roben Hood was the yemans name,
That was boyt corteys and fre;
For the loffe of owr ladey,
All wemen werschep he.

Bot as the god yemen stod on a day,
Among hes mery manèy,
He was war of a prowd potter,
Cam dryfyng owyr the ley.

“Yonder comet a prod potter,” seyde Roben,
“That long hayt hantyd this wey;
He was never so corteys a man
On peney of pawage to pay.”

“Y met hem bot at Wentbreg,” seyde Lytyll John,
“And therfor yeffell mot he the,
Seche thre strokes he me gafe,
Yet they cleffe by my seydys.

“Y ley forty shillings,” seyde Lytyll John,
“To pay het thes same day,
Ther ys nat a man arnong hus all
A wed schall make hem ley.”

“Her ys forty shillings,” seyde Roben,
“Mor, and thow dar say,
That y schall make that prowde potter,
A wed to me schall he ley.”

Ther thes money they leyde,
They toke bot a yeman to kepe;
Roben befor the potter he breyde,
And bad hem stond stell.

Handys apon hes horse he leyde,
And bad the potter stonde foll stell;
The potter schorteley to hem seyde,
“Felow, what ys they well?”

“All thes thre yer, and mor, potter,” he seyde,
“Thow hast hantyd thes wey,
Yet wer tow never so cortys a man
One peney of pauage to pay.”

“What ys they name,” seyde the potter,
“For pauage thow ask of me?”
“Roben Hod ys mey name,
A wed schall thow leffe me.”

“Well well y non leffe,” seyde the potter,
“Nor pavag well y non pay;
Away they honde fro mey horse,
Y well the tene eyls, be me fay.”

The potter to hes cart he went,
He was not to seke;
A god to-hande staffe therowt he hent,
Befor Roben he lepe.

Roben howt with a swerd bent,
A bokeler en hes honde [therto];
The potter to Roben he went,
And seyde, “Felow, let mey horse go.”

Togeder then went thes two yemen,
Het was a god seyt to se;
Therof low Robyn hes men,
Ther they stod onder a tre.

Leytell John to hes felowhes seyde,
“Yend potter welle steffeley stonde:”
The potter, with an acward stroke,
Smot the bokeler owt of hes honde;

And ar Roben meyt get hem agen
Hes bokeler at hes fette,
The potter yn the neke hem toke,
To the gronde sone he yede.

That saw Roben hes men,
As they stode ender a bow;
“Let us helpe owr master,” seyed Lytell John,
“Yonder potter els well hem sclo.”

Thes yemen went with a breyde,
To ther master they cam.
Leytell John to hes master seyde,
“He haet the wager won?

“Schall y haff yowr forty shillings,” seyde Lytel John,
“Or ye, master, schall haffe myne?”
“Yeff they wer a hundred,” seyde Roben,
“Y feythe, they ben all theyne.”

“Het ys fol leytell cortesey,” seyde the potter,
“As y haffe harde weyse men saye,
Yeff a por yeman com drywyng ower the wey,
To let hem of hes gorney.”

“Be mey trowet, thow seys soyt,” seyde Roben,
“Thow seys god yemenrey;
And thow dreyffe forthe yevery day,
Thow schalt never be let for me.

“Y well prey the, god potter,
A felischepe well thow haffe?
Geffe me they clothyng, and thow schalt hafe myne;
Y well go to Notynggam.”

“Y grant therto,” seyde the potter,
“Thow schalt feynde me a felow gode;
But thow can sell mey pottes well,
Come ayen as thow yode.”

“Nay, be mey trowt,” seyde Roben,
“And then y bescro mey hede
Yeffe y bryng eney pottes ayen,
And eney weyffe well hem chepe.”

Than spake Leytell John,
And all hes felowhes heynd,
“Master, be well war of the screffe of Notynggam,
For he ys leytell howr frende.”

“Heyt war howte,” seyde Roben,
“Felowhes, let me alone;
Thorow the helpe of howr ladey,
To Notynggam well y gon.”

Robyn went to Notynggam,
Thes pottes for to sell;
The potter abode with Robens men,
Ther he fered not eylle.

Tho Roben droffe on hes wey,
So merey ower the londe:
Heres mor and affter ys to saye,
The best ys beheynde.

[THE SECOND FIT.]

WHEN Roben cam to Netynggam,
The soyt yef y scholde saye,
He set op hes horse anon,
And gaffe hem hotys and haye.

Yn the medys of the towne,
Ther he schowed hes war;
“Pottys! pottys!” he gan crey foll sone,
“Haffe hansell for the mar.”

Foll effen agenest the screffeys gate
Schowed he hes chaffar;
Weyffes and wedowes abowt hem drow,
And chepyd fast of hes war.

Yet, “Pottys, gret chepe!” creyed Robyn,
“Y loffe yeffell thes to stonde;”
And all that saw hem sell,
Seyde he had be no potter long.

The pottys that wer werthe pens feyffe,
He sold tham for pens thre;
Preveley seyde man and weyffe,
“Ywnder potter schall never the.”

Thos Roben solde foll fast,
Tell he had pottys bot feyffe;
On he hem toke of his car,
And sende hem to the screffeys weyffe.

Therof sche was foll fayne,
“Gramarsey, sir,” than seyde sche;
“When ye com to thes contre ayen,
Y schall bey of they pottys, so mot y the.”

“Ye schall haffe of the best,” seyde Roben,
And swar be the treneytè;
Foll corteysley she gan hem call,
“Com deyne with the screfe and me.”

“Godamarsey,” seyde Roben,
“Yowr bedyng schalle be doyn;”
A mayden yn the pottys gan ber,
Roben and the screffe weyffe folowed anon.

Whan Roben ynto the hall cam,
The screffe sone he met;
The potter cowed of corteysey,
And sone the screffe he gret.

“Loketh what thes potter hayt geffe yow and me;
Feyffe pottys smalle and grete!”
“He ys fol wellcom,” seyd the screffe,
“Let os was, and go to mete.”

As they sat at her methe,
With a nobell cher,
Two of the screffes men gan speke
Off a gret wagèr,

Was made the thother daye,
Off a schotyng was god and feyne,
Off forty shillings, the soyt to saye,
Who scholde thes wager wen.

Styll than sat thes prowde po,
Thos than thowt he;
“As y am a trow Cerstyn man,
Thes schotyng well y se.”

Whan they had fared of the best,
With bred and ale and weyne,
To the bottys they made them prest,
With bowes and boltys full feyne.

The screffes men schot foll fast,
As archares that weren godde;
Ther cam non ner ney the marke
Bey halfe a god archares bowe.

Stell then stod the prowde potter,
Thos than seyde he;
“And y had a bow, be the rode,
On schot scholde yow se.”

“Thow schall haffe a bow,” seyde the screffe,
“The best that thow well cheys of thre;
Thou semyst a stalward and a stronge,
Asay schall thow be.”

The screffe commandyd a yeman that stod hem bey
Affter bowhes to wende;
The best bow that the yeman browthe
Roben set on a stryng.

“Now schall y wet and thow be god,
And polle het op to they ner;”
“So god me helpe,” seyde the prowde potter,
“Thys ys bot rygzt weke ger.”

To a quequer Roben went,
A god bolt owthe he toke;
So ney on to the marke he went,
He fayled not a fothe.

All they schot abowthe agen,
The screffes men and he;
Off the marke he welde not fayle,
He cleffed the preke on thre.

The screffes men thowt gret schame,
The potter the mastry wan;
The screffe lowe and made god game,
And seyde, “Potter, thow art a man;
Thow art worthey to ber a bowe,
Yn what plas that thow gang.”

“Yn mey cart y haffe a bowe,
Forsoyt,” he seyde, “and that a godde;
Yn mey cart ys the bow
That I had of Robyn Hode.”

“Knowest thow Robyn Hode?” seyde the screffe,
“Potter, y prey the tell thou me;”
“A hundred torne y haffe schot with hem,
Under hes tortyll tree.”

“Y had lever nar a hundred ponde,” seyde the screffe,
And swar be the trenitè,
[“Y had lever nar a hundred ponde,” he seyde,]
“That the fals owtelawe stod be me.

“And ye well do afftyr mey red,” seyde the potter,
“And boldeley go with me,
And to morow, or we het bred,
Roben Hode wel we se.”

“Y well queyt the,” kod the screffe,
And swer be god of meythe;
Schetyng thay left, and hom they went,
Her scoper was redey deythe.

Upon the morow, when het was day,
He boskyd hem forthe to reyde;
The potter hes carte forthe gan ray,
And wolde not [be] leffe beheynde.

He toke leffe of the screffys wyffe,
And thankyd her of all thyng:
“Dam, for mey loffe, and ye well thys wer,
Y geffe yow her a golde ryng.”

“Gramarsey,” seyde the weyffe,
“Sir, god eylde het the;”
The screffes hart was never so leythe,
The feyr forest to se.

And when he cam ynto the foreyst,
Yonder the leffes grene,
Berdys ther sange on bowhes prest,
Het was gret joy to sene.

“Her het ys mercy to be,” seyde Roben,
“For a man that had hawt to spende;
Be mey horne we schall awet
Yeff Roben Hode be ner hande.”

Roben set hes horne to hes mowthe,
And blow a blast that was full god,
That herde hes men that ther stode,
Fer downe yn the wodde;
“I her mey master,” seyde Leytell John;
They ran as thay wer wode.

Whan thay to thar master cam,
Leytell John wold not spar;
“Master, how haffe yow far yn Notynggam?
How haffe yow solde yowr war?”

“Ye, be mey trowthe, Leytyll John,
Loke thow take no car;
Y haffe browt the screffe of Notynggam,
For all howr chaffar.”

“He ys foll wellcom,” seyde Lytyll John,
“Thes tydyng ys foll godde;”
The screffe had lever nar a hundred ponde
[He had never sene Roben Hode.]

“Had I west that beforen,
At Notynggam when we wer,
Thow scholde not com yn feyr forest
Of all thes thowsande eyr.”

“That wot y well,” seyde Roben,
“Y thanke god that ye be her;
Therfor schall ye leffe yowr horse with hos,
And all your hother ger.”

“That fend I godys forbode,” kod the screffe,
“So to lese mey godde;”
“Hether ye cam on horse foll hey,
And hom schall ye go on fote;
And gret well they weyffe at home,
The woman ys foll godde.

“Y schall her sende a wheyt palffrey,
Het hambellet as the weynde;
Ner for the loffe of yowr weyffe,
Off mor sorow scholde yow seyng.”

Thes parted Robyn Hode and the screffe,
To Notynggam he toke the waye;
Hes weyffe feyr welcomed hem hom,
And to hem gan sche saye:

“Seyr, how haffe yow fared yn grene foreyst?
Haffe ye browt Roben hom?”
“Dam, the deyell spede him, bothe bodey and bon,
Y haffe hade a foll grete skorne.

“Of all the god that y haffe lade to grene wod,
He hayt take het fro me,
All bot this feyr palffrey,
That he hayt sende to the.”

With that sche toke op a lowde lawhyng,
And swhar be hem that deyed on tre,
“Now haffe yow payed for all the pottys
That Roben gaffe to me.

“Now ye be corn hom to Notynggam,
Ye schall haffe god ynowe;”
Now speke we of Roben Hode,
And of the pottyr onder the grene bowhe.

“Potter, what was they pottys worthe
To Notynggam that y ledde with me?”
“They wer worth two nobellys,” seyd he,
“So mot y treyffe or the;
So cowde y had for tham,
And y had ther be.”

“Thow schalt hafe ten ponde,” seyde Roben,
“Of money feyr and fre;
And yever whan thou comest to grene wod,
Wellcom, potter to me.”

Thes partyd Robyn, the screffe, and the potter,
Ondernethe the grene-wod tre;
God haffe mersey on Robyn Hodys solle,
And saffe all god yemanrey!

ROBIN HOOD AND THE BUTCHER

COME, all you brave gallants, and listen awhile,
_With hey down_, _down_, _an a down_,
That are in the bowers within;
For of Robin Hood, that archer good,
A song I intend for to sing.

Upon a time it chancèd so,
Bold Robin in forrest did ’spy
A jolly butcher, with a bonny fine mare,
With his flesh to the market did hye.

“Good morrow, good fellow,” said jolly Robin,
“What food hast [thou]? tell unto me;
Thy trade to me tell, and where thou dost dwell,
For I like well thy company.”

The butcher he answer’d jolly Robin,
“No matter where I dwell;
For a butcher I am, and to Nottingham
I am going, my flesh to sell.”

“What’s [the] price of thy flesh?” said jolly Robin,
“Come, tell it soon unto me;
And the price of thy mare, be she never so dear,
For a butcher fain would I be.”

“The price of my flesh,” the butcher repli’d,
“I soon will tell unto thee;
With my bonny mare, and they are not too dear,
Four mark thou must give unto me.”

“Four mark I will give thee,” saith jolly Robin,
“Four mark it shall be thy fee;
The mony come count, and let me mount,
For a butcher I fain would be.”

Now Robin he is to Nottingham gone,
His butchers trade to begin;
With good intent to the sheriff he went,
And there he took up his inn.

When other butchers did open their meat,
Bold Robin he then begun;
But how for to sell he knew not well,
For a butcher he was but young.

When other butchers no meat could sell,
Robin got both gold and fee;
For he sold more meat for one peny
Then others could do for three.

But when he sold his meat so fast,
No butcher by him could thrive;
For he sold more meat for one peny
Than others could do for five.

Which made the butchers of Nottingham
To study as they did stand,
Saying, “Surely he ‘is’ some prodigal,
That hath sold his fathers land.”

The butchers stepped to jolly Robin,
Acquainted with him for to be;
“Come, brother,” one said, “we be all of one trade,
Come, will you go dine with me?”

“Accurst of his heart,” said jolly Robin,
“That a butcher doth deny;
I will go with you, my brethren true,
As fast as I can hie.”

But when to the sheriffs house they came,
To dinner they hied apace,
And Robin Hood he the man must be
Before them all to say grace.

“Pray God bless us all,” said jolly Robin,
“And our meat within this place;
A cup of sack so good will nourish our blood,
And so do I end my grace.”

“Come fill us more wine,” said jolly Robin,
“Let us be merry while we do stay;
For wine and good cheer, be it never so dear,
I vow I the reck’ning will pay.

“Come, ‘brothers,’ be merry,” said jolly Robin,
“Let us drink, and never give ore;
For the shot I will pay, ere I go my way,
If it cost me five pounds and more.”

“This is a mad blade,” the butchers then said;
Saies the sheriff, “He is some prodigàl,
That some land has sold for silver and gold,
And now he doth mean to spend all.

“Hast thou any horn beasts,” the sheriff repli’d,
“Good fellow, to sell unto me?”
“Yes, that I have, good master sheriff,
I have hundreds two or three;

“And a hundred aker of good free land,
If you please it to see:
And Ile make you as good assurance of it,
As ever my father made me.”

The sheriff he saddled his good palfrèy,
And, with three hundred pound in gold,
Away he went with bold Robin Hood,
His horned beasts to behold.

Away then the sheriff and Robin did ride,
To the forrest of merry Sherwood;
Then the sheriff did say, “God bless us this day
From a man they call Robin Hood!”

But when a little farther they came,
Bold Robin he chancèd to spy
A hundred head of good red deer,
Come tripping the sheriff full nigh.

“How like you my horn’d beasts, good master sheriff?
They be fat and fair for to see;”
“I tell thee, good fellow, I would I were gone,
For I like not thy company.”

Then Robin set his horn to his mouth,
And blew but blasts three;
Then quickly anon there came Little John,
And all his company.

“What is your will, master?” then said Little John,
“Good master come tell unto me;”
“I have brought hither the sheriff of Nottingham
This day to dine with thee.”

“He is welcome to me,” then said Little John,
“I hope he will honestly pay;
I know he has gold, if it be but well told,
Will serve us to drink a whole day.”

Then Robin took his mantle from his back,
And laid it upon the ground:
And out of the sheriffs portmantle
He told three hundred pound.

Then Robin he brought him thorow the wood,
And set him on his dapple gray;
“O have me commanded to your wife at home;”
So Robin went laughing away.

NOTES

SIR PATRICK SPENS.—p. 1

MR. CHILD finds the first published version of “the grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spens,” as Coleridge calls it, in Bishop Percy’s _Reliques_. Here the name is “Spence,” and the middle rhyme—

“Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,”

is not of early date. The “Cork-heeled Shoon,” too, cannot be early, but ballads are subject, in oral tradition, to such modern interpolations. The verse about the ladies waiting vainly is anticipated in a popular song of the fourteenth century, on a defeat of the _noblesse_ in Flanders—

“Their ladies them may abide in bower and hall well long!”

If there be historical foundation for the ballad, it is probably a blending of the voyage of Margaret, daughter of Alexander III., to wed Eric, King of Norway, in 1281 (some of her escort were drowned on their way home), with the rather mysterious death, or disappearance, of Margaret’s daughter, “The Maid of Norway,” on her voyage to marry the son of Edward I., in 1290. A woman, who alleged that she was the Maid of Norway, was later burned at the stake. The great number and variety of versions sufficiently indicate the antiquity of this ballad, wherein exact history is not to be expected.

THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN.—p. 5

From _The Border Minstrelsy_, Sir Walter Scott’s latest edition of 1833: the copy in the edition of 1802 is less complete. The gentle and joyous passage of arms here recorded, took place in August 1388. We have an admirable account of Otterburn fight from Froissart, who revels in a gallant encounter, fairly fought out hand to hand, with no intervention of archery or artillery, and for no wretched practical purpose. In such a combat the Scots, never renowned for success at long bowls, and led by a Douglas, were likely to prove victorious, even against long odds, and when taken by surprise.

Choosing an advantage in the discordant days of Richard II., the Scots mustered a very large force near Jedburgh, merely to break lances on English ground, and take loot. Learning that, as they advanced by the Carlisle route, the English intended to invade Scotland by Berwick and the east coast, the Scots sent three or four hundred men-at-arms, with a few thousand mounted archers and pikemen, who should harry Northumberland to the walls of Newcastle. These were led by James, Earl of Douglas, March, and Murray. In a fight at Newcastle, Douglas took Harry Percy’s pennon, which Hotspur vowed to recover. The retreat began, but the Scots waited at Otterburn, partly to besiege the castle, partly to abide Hotspur’s challenge. He made his attack at moonlight, with overwhelming odds, but was hampered by a marsh, and incommoded by a flank attach of the Scots. Then it came to who would pound longest, with axe and sword. Douglas cut his way through the English, axe in hand, and was overthrown, but his men protected his body. The Sinclairs and Lindsay raised his banner, with his cry; March and Dunbar came up; Hotspur was taken by Montgomery, and the English were routed with heavy loss. Douglas was buried in Melrose Abbey; very many years later the English defiled his grave, but were punished at Ancram Moor. There is an English poem on the fight of “about 1550”; it has many analogies with our Scottish version, and, doubtless, ours descends from a ballad almost contemporary. The ballad was a great favourite of Scott’s. In a severe illness, thinking of Lockhart, not yet his son-in-law, he quoted—

“My wound is deep, I fain would sleep,
Take thou the vanguard of the three.”

Mr. Child thinks the command to

“yield to the bracken-bush”

unmartial. This does not seem a strong objection, in Froissart’s time. It is explained in an oral fragment—

“For there lies aneth yon bracken-bush
Wha aft has conquered mair than thee.”

Mr. Child also thinks that the “dreamy dream” may be copied from Hume of Godscroft. It is at least as probable that Godscroft borrowed from the ballad which he cites. The embroidered gauntlet of the Percy is in the possession of Douglas of Cavers to this day.

TAM LIN, OR TAMLANE.—p. 10

Burns’s version, in Johnson’s _Museum_ (1792). Scott’s version is made up of this copy, Riddell’s, Herd’s, and oral recitations, and contains feeble literary interpolations, not, of course, by Sir Walter. _The Complaint of Scotland_ (1549) mentions the “Tale of the Young Tamlene” as then popular. It is needless here to enter into the subject of Fairyland, and captures of mortals by Fairies: the Editor has said his say in his edition of Kirk’s _Secret Commonwealth_. The Nereids, in Modern Greece, practise fairy cantrips, and the same beliefs exist in Samoa and New Caledonia. The metamorphoses are found in the _Odyssey_, Book iv., in the winning of Thetis, the _Nereid_, _or Fairy Bride_, by Peleus, in a modern Cretan fairy tale, and so on. There is a similar incident in _Penda Baloa_, a Senegambian ballad (_Contes Populaires de la Sénégambie_, Berenger Ferand, Paris, 1885). The dipping of Tamlane has precedents in _Old Deccan Days_, in a Hottentot tale by Bleek, and in _Les Deux Frères_, the Egyptian story, translated by Maspero (the Editor has already given these parallels in a note to _Border Ballads_, by Graham R. Thomson). Mr. Child also cites Mannhardt, “Wald und Feldkulte,” ii. 64–70. Carterhaugh, the scene of the ballad, is at the junction of Ettrick and Yarrow, between Bowhill and Philiphaugh.

THOMAS RYMER.—p. 16

From _The Border Minstrelsy_; the original was derived from a lady living near Erceldoune (Earlston), and from Mrs. Brown’s MSS. That Thomas of Erceldoune had some popular fame as a rhymer and soothsayer as early as 1320–1350, seems to be established. As late as the Forty Five, nay, even as late as the expected Napoleonic invasion, sayings attributed to Thomas were repeated with some measure of belief. A real Thomas Rymer of Erceldoune witnessed an undated deed of Peter de Haga, early in the thirteenth century. The de Hagas, or Haigs of Bemersyde, were the subjects of the prophecy attributed to Thomas,

“Betide, betide, whate’er betide,
There will aye be a Haig in Bemersyde,”

and a Haig still owns that ancient _château_ on the Tweed, which has a singular set of traditions. Learmont is usually given as the Erceldoune family name; a branch of the family owned Dairsie in Fifeshire, and were a kind of hereditary provosts of St. Andrews. If Thomas did predict the death of Alexander III., or rather report it by dint of clairvoyance, he must have lived till 1285. The date of the poem on the Fairy Queen, attributed to Thomas, is uncertain, the story itself is a variant of “Ogier the Dane.” The scene is Huntly Bank, under Eildon Hill, and was part of the lands acquired, at fantastic prices, by Sir Walter Scott. His passion for land was really part of his passion for collecting antiquities. The theory of Fairyland here (as in many other Scottish legends and witch trials) is borrowed from the Pre-Christian Hades, and the Fairy Queen is a late refraction from Persephone. Not to eat, in the realm of the dead, is a regular precept of savage belief, all the world over. Mr. Robert Kirk’s _Secret Commonwealth of Elves_, _Fauns_, _and Fairies_ may be consulted, or the Editor’s _Perrault_, p. xxxv. (Oxford, 1888). Of the later legends about Thomas, Scott gives plenty, in _The Border Minstrelsy_. The long ancient romantic poem on the subject is probably the source of the ballad, though a local ballad may have preceded the long poem. Scott named the glen through which the Bogle Burn flows to Chiefswood, “The Rhymer’s Glen.”

SIR HUGH.—p. 19

The date of the Martyrdom of Hugh is attributed by Matthew Paris to 1225. Chaucer puts a version in the mouth of his Prioress. No doubt the story must have been a mere excuse for Jew-baiting. In America the Jew becomes “The Duke” in a version picked up by Mr. Newells, from the recitation of a street boy in New York. The daughter of a Jew is not more likely than the daughter of a duke to have been concerned in the cruel and blasphemous imitation of the horrors attributed by Horace to the witch Canidia. But some such survivals of pagan sorcery did exist in the Middle Ages, under the influence of “Satanism.”

SON DAVIE.—p. 22

Motherwell’s version. One of many ballads on fratricide, instigated by the mother: or inquired into by her, as the case may be. “Edward” is another example of this gloomy situation.

THE WIFE OF USHER’S WELL.—p. 24

Here

“The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,”

having a middle rhyme, can scarcely be of extreme antiquity. Probably, in the original poem, the dead return to rebuke the extreme grief of the Mother, but the poem is perhaps really more affecting in the absence of a didactic motive. Scott obtained it from an old woman in West Lothian. Probably the reading “fashes,” (troubles), “in the flood” is correct, not “fishes,” or “freshes.” The mother desires that the sea may never cease to be troubled till her sons return (verse 4, line 2). The peculiar doom of women dead in child-bearing occurs even in Aztec mythology.

THE TWA CORBIES.—p. 26

From the third volume of _Border Minstrelsy_, derived by Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe from a traditional version. The English version, “Three Ravens,” was published in _Melismata_, by T. Ravensworth (1611). In Scots, the lady “has ta’en another mate” his hawk and hound have deserted the dead knight. In the English song, the hounds watch by him, the hawks keep off carrion birds, as for the lady—

“She buried him before the prime,
She was dead herselfe ere evensong time.”

Probably the English is the earlier version.

THE BONNIE EARL OF MURRAY.—p. 27

Huntly had a commission to apprehend the Earl, who was in the disgrace of James VI. Huntly, as an ally of Bothwell, asked him to surrender at Donibristle, in Fife; he would not yield to his private enemy, the house was burned, and Murray was slain, Huntly gashing his face. “You have spoiled a better face than your own,” said the dying Earl (1592). James Melville mentions contemporary ballads on the murder. Ramsay published the ballad in his _Tea Table Miscellany_, and it is often sung to this day.

CLERK SAUNDERS.—p. 30

First known as published in _Border Minstrelsy_ (1802). The apparition of the lover is borrowed from “Sweet Willie’s Ghost.” The evasions practised by the lady, and the austerities vowed by her have many Norse, French, and Spanish parallels in folk-poetry. Scott’s version is “made up” from several sources, but is, in any case, verse most satisfactory as poetry.

WALY, WALY.—p. 35

From Ramsay’s _Tea Table Miscellany_, a curiously composite gathering of verses. There is a verse, obviously a variant, in a sixteenth century song, cited by Leyden. St. Anthon’s Well is on a hill slope of Arthur’s Seat, near Holyrood. Here Jeanie Deans trysted with her sister’s seducer, in _The Heart of Midlothian_. The Cairn of Nichol Mushat, the wife-murderer, is not far off. The ruins of Anthony’s Chapel are still extant.

LOVE GREGOR.—p. 37

There are French and Romaic variants of this ballad. “Lochroyal,” where the ballad is localized, is in Wigtownshire, but the localization varies. The “tokens” are as old as the Return of Odysseus, in the _Odyssey_: his token is the singular construction of his bridal bed, attached by him to a living tree-trunk. A similar legend occurs in Chinese. See Gerland’s _Alt-Giechische Märchen_.

THE QUEEN’S MARIE—MARY HAMILTON.—p. 41

A made-up copy from Scott’s edition of 1833. This ballad has caused a great deal of controversy. Queen Mary had no Mary Hamilton among her Four Maries. No Marie was executed for child-murder. But we know, from Knox, that ballads were recited against the Maries, and that one of the Mary’s chamberwomen was hanged, with her lover, a pottinger, or apothecary, for getting rid of her infant. These last facts were certainly quite basis enough for a ballad, the ballad echoing, not history, but rumour, and rumour adapted to the popular taste. Thus the ballad might have passed unchallenged, as a survival, more or less modified in time, of Queen Mary’s period. But in 1719 a Mary Hamilton, a Maid of Honour, of Scottish descent, was executed in Russia, for infanticide. Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe conceived that this affair was the origin of the ballad, and is followed by Mr. Child.

We reply (1) The ballad has almost the largest number of variants on record. This is a proof of antiquity. Variants so many, differing in all sorts of points, could not have arisen between 1719, and the age of Burns, who quotes the poem.

(2) This is especially improbable, because, in 1719, the old vein of ballad poetry had run dry, popular song had chosen other forms, and no literary imitator could have written Mary Hamilton in 1719.

(3) There is no example of a popular ballad in which a contemporary event, interesting just because it is contemporary, is thrown back into a remote age.

(4) The name, Mary Hamilton, is often _not_ given to the heroine in variants of the ballad. She is of several names and ranks in the variants.

(5) As Mr. Child himself remarked, the “pottinger” of the real story of Queen Mary’s time occurs in one variant. There was no “pottinger” in the Russian affair.

All these arguments, to which others might be added, seem fatal to the late date and modern origin of the ballad, and Mr. Child’s own faith in the hypothesis was shaken, if not overthrown.

KINMONT WILLIE.—p. 45

From _The Border Minstrelsy_. The account in Satchells has either been based on the ballad, or the ballad is based on Satchells. After a meeting, on the Border of Salkeld of Corby, and Scott of Haining, Kinmont Willie was seized by the English as he rode home from the tryst. Being “wanted,” he was lodged in Carlisle Castle, and this was a breach of the day’s truce. Buccleugh, as warder, tried to obtain Willie’s release by peaceful means. These failing, Buccleugh did what the ballad reports, April 13, 1596. Harden and Goudilands were with Buccleugh, being his neighbours near Branxholme. Dicky of Dryhope, with others, Armstrongs, was also true to the call of duty. A few verses in the ballad are clearly by _aut Gualterus aut diabolus_, and none the worse for that. Salkeld, of course, was not really slain; and, if the men were “left for dead,” probably they were not long in that debatable condition. In the rising of 1745 Prince Charlie’s men forded Eden as boldly as Buccleuch, the Prince saving a drowning Highlander with his own hand.

JAMIE TELFER.—p. 52

Scott, for once, was wrong in his localities. The Dodhead of the poem is _not_ that near Singlee, in Ettrick, but a place of the same name, near Skelfhill, on the southern side of Teviot, within three miles of Stobs, where Telfer vainly seeks help from Elliot. The other Dodhead is at a great distance from Stobs, up Borthwick Water, over the tableland, past Clearburn Loch and Buccleugh, and so down Ettrick, past Tushielaw. The Catslockhill is not that on Yarrow, near Ladhope, but another near Branxholme, whence it is no far cry to Branxholme Hall. Borthwick Water, Goudilands (below Branxholme), Commonside (a little farther up Teviot), Allanhaugh, and the other places of the Scotts, were all easily “warned.” There are traces of a modern hand in this excellent ballad. The topography is here corrected from MS. notes in a first edition of the _Minstrelsy_, in the library of Mr. Charles Grieve at Branxholme’ Park, a scion of “auld Jock Grieve” of the Coultart Cleugh. Names linger long in pleasant Teviotdale.

THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY.—p. 59

The ballad has Norse analogues, but is here localized on the Douglas Burn, a tributary of Yarrow on the left bank. The St. Mary’s Kirk would be that now ruinous, on St. Mary’s Loch, the chapel burned by the Lady of Branxholme when she

“gathered a band
Of the best that would ride at her command,”

in the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_. The ancient keep of Blackhouse on Douglas Burn may have been the home of the heroine, if we are to localize.

THE BONNY HIND.—p. 62

Herd got this tragic ballad from a milkmaid, in 1771. Mr. Child quotes a verse parallel, preserved in Faroe, and in the Icelandic. There is a similar incident in the cycle of Kullervo, in the Finnish _Kalevala_. Scott says that similar tragedies are common in Scotch popular poetry; such cases are “Lizzie Wan,” and “The King’s Dochter, Lady Jean.” A sorrow nearly as bitter occurs in the French “Milk White Dove”: a brother kills his sister, metamorphosed into a white deer. “The Bridge of Death” (French) seems to hint at something of the same kind; or rather the Editor finds that he has arbitrarily read “The Bonny Hind” into “Le Pont des Morts,” in Puymaigre’s _Chants Populaires du Pays Messin_, p. 60. (_Ballads and Lyrics of Old France_, p. 63)

YOUNG BEICHAN, OR YOUNG BICHAM.—p. 65

This is the original of the Cockney _Loving Ballad of Lord Bateman_, illustrated by Cruikshank, and by Thackeray. There is a vast number of variants, evidence to the antiquity of the story. The earliest known trace is in the familiar legend of the Saracen lady, who sought and found her lover, Gilbert Becket, father of Thomas à Becket, in London (see preface to _Life of Becket_, or Beket), Percy Society, 1845. The date may be _circ._ 1300. The kind of story, the loving daughter of the cruel captor, is as old as Medea and Jason, and her search for her lover comes in such _Märchen_ as “The Black Bull o’ Norraway.” No story is more widely diffused (see _A Far Travelled Tale_, in the Editor’s _Custom and Myth_). The appearance of the “True Love,” just at her lover’s wedding, is common in the _Märchen_ of the world, and occurs in a Romaic ballad, as well as in many from Northern Europe. The “local colour”—the Moor or Saracen—is derived from Crusading times, perhaps. Motherwell found the ballad recited with intervals of prose narrative, as in _Aucassin and Nicolette_. The notes to Cruikshank’s _Loving Ballad_ are, obviously, by Thackeray.

THE BONNY HOUSE O’ AIRLY.—p. 73

Lord Airly’s houses were destroyed by Argyll, representing the Covenanters, and also in pursuance of a private feud, in 1639, or 1640. There are erroneous versions of this ballad, in which Lochiel appears, and the date is, apparently, transferred to 1745. Montrose, in his early Covenanting days, was not actually concerned in the burning of the Bonnie House, which he, when a Royalist, revenged on the possessions of “gleyed Argyll.” The reference to “Charlie” is out of keeping; no one, perhaps, ever called Charles I. by that affectionate name. Lady Ogilvie had not the large family attributed to her: her son, Lord Ogilvie, escaped from prison in the Castle of St. Andrews, after Philiphaugh. A Lord Ogilvie was out in 1745; and, later, had a regiment in the French Service. Few families have a record so consistently loyal.

ROB ROY.—p. 75

The abductors of the widowed young heiress of Edenhelly were Rob’s sons, Robin Oig, who went through a form of marriage with the girl, and James Mohr, a good soldier, but a double-dyed spy and scoundrel. Robin Oig was hanged in 1753. James Mohr, a detected traitor to Prince Charles, died miserably in Paris, in 1754. Readers of Mr. Stevenson’s _Catriona_ know James well; information as to his villanies is extant in Additional MSS. (British Museum). This is probably the latest ballad in the collection. It occurs in several variants, some of which, copied out by Burns, derive thence a certain accidental interest. In Mr. Stevenson’s _Catriona_, the heroine of that name takes a thoroughly Highland view of the abduction. Robin Oig, in any case, was “nane the waur o’ a hanging,” for he shot a Maclaren at the plough-tail, before the Forty-Five. The trial of these sons of Alpen was published shortly after Scott’s _Rob Roy_.

KILLIECRANKIE.—p. 77

Fought on July 27, 1689. _Not_ on the haugh near the modern road by the railway, but higher up the hill, in the grounds of Urrard House. Two shelter trenches, whence Dundee’s men charged, are still visible, high on the hillside above Urrand. There is said, by Mr. Child, to have been a contemporary broadside of the ballad, which is an example of the evolution of popular ballads from the old traditional model. There is another song, by, or attributed to, Burns, and of remarkable spirit and vigour.

ANNAN WATER.—p. 79

From _The Border Minstrelsy_ Scott says that these are the original words of the tune of “Allan Water,” and that he has added two verses from a variant with a fortunate conclusion. “Allan Water” is a common river name; the stream so called joins Teviot above Branxholme. Annan is the large stream that flows into the Solway Frith. The Gate-slack, in Annandale, fixes the locality.

THE ELPHIN NOURRICE.—p. 81

This curious poem is taken from the reprint of Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe’s tiny _Ballad Book_, itself now almost _introuvable_. It does not, to the Editor’s knowledge, occur elsewhere, but is probably authentic. The view of the Faery Queen is more pleasing and sympathetic than usual. Why mortal women were desired as nurses (except to attend on stolen mortal children, kept to “pay the Kane to hell”) is not obvious. Irish beliefs are precisely similar; in England they are of frequent occurrence.

JOHNNIE ARMSTRANG.—p. 87

Armstrang of Gilnockie was a brother of the laird of Mangertoun. He had a kind of Robin Hood reputation on the Scottish Border, as one who only robbed the English. Pitscottie’s account of his slaying by James V. (1529) reads as if the ballad were his authority, and an air for the subject is mentioned in the _Complaint of Scotland_. In Sir Herbert Maxwell’s _History of Dumfries and Galloway_ is an excellent account of the historical facts of the case.

EDOM O’ GORDON.—p. 92