7_The English and Scottish popular ballads, volume 2 (of 5)

They were not weel lyen down,

And no weel fa'en asleep,

When up and stood May Margaret's brethren,

Just up at their bed-feet.

'O tell us, tell us, May Margaret,

And dinna to us len,

O wha is aught yon noble steed,

That stands your stable in?'

'The steed is mine, and it may be thine,

To ride whan ye ride in hie;

. . . . . . .

'But awa, awa, my bald brethren,

Awa, and mak nae din;

For I am as sick a lady the nicht

As eèr lay a bower within.'

'O tell us, tell us, May Margaret,

And dinna to us len,

O wha is aught yon noble hawk,

That stands your kitchen in?'

'The hawk is mine, and it may be thine,

To hawk whan ye hawk in hie;

. . . . . . .

'But awa, awa, my bald brethren,

Awa, and mak nae din;

For I'm ane o the sickest ladies this nicht

That eer lay a bower within.'

'O tell us, tell us, May Margaret,

And dinna to us len,

O wha is that, May Margaret,

You and the wa between?'

'O it is my bower-maiden,' she says,

'As sick as sick can be;

O it is my bower-maiden,' she says,

'And she's thrice as sick as me.'

'We hae been east, and we've been west,

And low beneath the moon;

But a' the bower-women eer we saw

Hadna goud buckles in their shoon.'

Then up and spak her eldest brither,

Ay in ill time spak he:

'It is Clerk Saunders, your true-love,

And never mat I the

But for this scorn that he has done

This moment he sall die.'

But up and spak her youngest brother,

Ay in good time spak he:

'O but they are a gudelie pair!

True lovers an ye be,

The sword that hangs at my sword-belt

Sall never sinder ye.'

Syne up and spak her nexten brother,

And the tear stood in his ee:

'You've loed her lang, and loed her weel,

And pity it wad be

The sword that hangs at my sword-belt

Shoud ever sinder ye.'

But up and spak her fifthen brother:

'Sleep on your sleep for me;

But we baith sall never sleep again,

For the tane o us sall die.'

And up and spak her thirden brother,

Ay in ill time spak he:

'Curse on his love and comeliness!

Dishonourd as ye be,

The sword that hangs at my sword-belt

Sall quickly sinder ye.'

The eldest brother has drawn his sword,

The second has drawn anither,

Between Clerk Saunders' hause and collar-bane

The cald iron met thegither.

'O wae be to you, my fause brethren,

And an ill death mat ye die!

Ye mith slain Clerk Saunders in open field,

And no in bed wi me.'

Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 160.

Clerk Sandy and a lady gay

Where walking in the garden green,

And great and heavy was the love

That hae befa'en these twa between.

'A bed, a bed,' said Clerk Sandy,

'A bed, my love, for you and me;'

'O never a foot,' said the lady gay,

'Till ance that we twa married be.

'My seven brithers will come in,

And a' their torches burning bright;

They'll say, We hae but ae sister,

And here she's lying wi a knight.'

'Ye'll take my brand I bear in hand,

And wi the same ye'll lift the gin;

Then ye may swear, and save your oath,

That ye neer let Clerk Sandy in.

'Ye'll take that kurchie on your head,

And wi the same tie up your een;

And ye will swear, and save your oath,

Ye saw not Sandy sin yestreen.

'Ye'll lift me in your arms twa,

And carry me unto your bed;

Then ye may swear, and save your oath,

Clerk Sandy in your bower neer tread.'

She's taen the brand he bare in hand,

And wi the same lifted the gin;

It was to swear, and save her oath,

She never loot Clerk Sandy in.

She's taen the kurchie frae her head,

And wi the same tied up her een;

It was to swear, and save her oath,

She saw not Sandy sin yestreen.

She's taen him in her arms twa,

And she's carried him to her bed;

It was to swear, and save her oath,

Clerk Sandie in her bower neer tread.

They hadna kissd, nor love clapped,

Like other lovers when they meet,

Till in a quarter's space and less

These two lovers fell sound asleep.

Then in it came her seven brothers,

And a' their torches burning bright;

They said, We hae but ae sister,

And here she's lying wi a knight.

O out it speaks the first o them,

'We will awa and lat them be;'

Then out it speaks the second o them,

'His father has nae mair but he.'

Out it speaks the third o them,

For he was standing on the birk:

'Nae sweeter coud twa lovers lye,

Tho they'd been married in a kirk.'

Then out it speaks the fourth o them,

Mair fair and lovely is his buke:

'Our sister dear we cannot blame,

Altho in him she pleasure took.'

Then out it speaks the fifth o them,

'It were a sin to do them ill;'

Then out it spake the sixth o them,

'It's hard a sleeping man to kill.'

But out it speaks the seventh o them,

I wish an ill death mat he dee!

'I wear the sharp brand by my side

That soon shall gar Clerk Sandy die.'

Then he's taen out his trusty brand,

And he has stroakd it ower a strae;

And thro and thro Clerk Sandy's middle

I wat he's gart it come and gae.

The lady slept by her love's side

Until the dawning o the day,

But what was dune she naething knew,

For when she wak'd these words did say:

'Awake, awake, now Clerk Sandy,

Awake, and turn you unto me;

Ye're nae sae keen's ye were at night,

When you and I met on the lee.'

O then she calld her chamber-maid

To bring her coal and candle seen:

'I fear Clerk Sandy's dead eneuch,

I had a living man yestreen.'

They hae lifted his body up,

They hae searched it round and round,

And even anent his bonny heart

Discovered the deadly wound.

She wrung her hands, and tore her hair,

And wrung her hands most bitterlie:

'This is my fause brothers, I fear,

This night hae used this crueltie.

'But I will do for my love's sake

Woud nae be done by ladies rare;

For seven years shall hae an end

Or eer a kame gang in my hair.

'O I will do for my love's sake

What other ladies woud think lack;

For seven years shall hae an end

Or eer I wear but dowie black.

'And I will do for my love's sake

What other ladies woudna thole;

Seven years shall hae an end

Or eer a shoe gang on my sole.'

In it came her father dear,

And he was belted in a brand;

Sae softly as he trad the floor,

And in her bower did stately stand.

Says, Hold your tongue, my daughter dear,

And ye'll lat a' your mourning be;

I'll wed you to a higher match

Or eer his father's son coud be.

'Wed well, wed well your seven sons;

I wish ill wedded they may be,

Sin they hae killd him Clerk Sandy!

For wedded shall I never be.'

His corpse was laid in the cauld clay,

The bells went tinkling thro the town;

'Alas! alas!' said the lady gay,

'That eer I heard that waefu soun!'

When she had sitten intill her bower

A twalmonth lang and weary day,

Even below her bower-window

She heard a ghaist to knock an cry.

She says, Ye're thief or bauld robber,

Or biggin come to burn or brake;

Or are you ony masterfu man,

That is come seeking ony make?

'I am not thief nor bauld robber,

Nor bigging come to burn nor brake;

Nor am I ony masterfu man,

That is come seeking ony make;

But I'm Clerk Sandy, your first love,

And wants wi you again to speak.

'Gin ye're Clerk Sandy, my first love,

And wants wi me to speak again,

Tell me some o' the love tokens

That you and I had last between.'

'O mind not ye, ye gay lady,

Sin last I was in bower wi thee,

That in it came your seven brethren,

The youngest gart me sairly dree?'

Then sighd and said the gay lady,

'Sae true a tale as ye tell me.'

Sae painfully she clam the wa,

She clam the wa up after him;

'T was not for want of stockings nor sheen,

But hadna time to put them on;

And in the midst o gude greenwood,

'T was there she lost the sight o him.

The lady sat, and mourning there,

Until she coudna weep nae mair;

At length the cloks and wanton flies

They biggit in her yellow hair.

'O had your peace, my dearest dear,

For I am come to mak you wise;

Or this night nine nights come and gang,

We baith shall be in Paradise.'

* * * * *

#A b#, #B b#, Herd II, _seem to be revisions, and to

possess no authority._

#A. a.#

3^1. For an.

4^2. _~gin~ has been altered to ~pin~, according to a

marginal suggestion, and ~pin~ stands at 7^2 in my copy._

6^1. taw. (?)

14^4. _Perhaps we should read_ brand 'll.

15^2. throi. (?)

18^3. and awa.

23^3. his. (?)

_After 18^4 is written, but struck out_:

O Sandie, ye are the sleepiest man

That ever I saw wi mine eeen.

_And above the first verse of 19, also struck out:_

Ye hae spoyled my sheets wi sweat, she said.

_14^{3, 4} stand thus in the second copy:_

I'se bear the brand into my hand

Shall quickly gar Clark Sanders die.

_20 is wanting._

_Stanzas 27-41 are transferred to_ 'Sweet William's

Ghost.'

#B.#

_#a# is written in long lines, two to a stanza._

#D.#

2^4. my bower-room ye.

#E.#

12. "Recited as here written, but it was not thought to

be right."

15^2. And if.

17^3. shall I come.

#F.#

_After 20 Jamieson introduced these two stanzas of his

own_, "the idea of the rose being suggested by the

gentleman who recited, but who could not recollect the

language in which it was expressed:"

But up and spak her midmaist brother,

And an angry laugh leugh he:

'The thorn that dabs, I'll cut it down,

Though fair the rose may be.

'The flower that smelld sae sweet yestreen

Has lost its bloom wi thee;

And though I'm wae it should be sae,

Clerk Saunders, ye maun die.'

_After 23 follow ten stanzas, which are transferred to_

'Sweet William's Ghost.'

#G.#

32^6. you to speak again.

[101] But it is, of course, not impossible that there may have been

such a conclusion to 'Clerk Saunders.' It may be mentioned, though

not as an argument, that there was a ballad in Boccaccio's time (of

which he cites the first two lines), on the story of G. iv, N. 5, of

the Decamerone; a tale in which three brothers kill their sister's

lover, and bury the body in a solitary place, and his ghost appears and

informs the sister of what had happened.

[102] Buchan 1, 2==#B# 1, 2; 3-9==#A# 3-9; 11==#A# 10; 12==#B# 11; 15

is made from #A# 12; 16==#B# 16; 17==#A# 15; 23-25==#A# 21, 22, 20;

26-29 are made from #A# 24-26, 23. The fatuity of 13^2, 14^2 is such as

is found nowhere out of Buchan.

The stanza given in the Appendix to Motherwell's Minstrelsy, xix, XVI,

is Scott's 13.

[103] We may suppose that all the three versions, two of them

fragmentary, which Jamieson combined, contained the passage which

furnishes the link: but it would be much more satisfactory if Jamieson

had given us all three as he received them.

[104] Icelandic #A-C# have an introductory incident not found in #E-H#.

There is a trace of this in #D#, and it occurs also in two other

ballads, #I#, #K#, of the same series, which lack the feature that

#A-H# and English #F# have in common. A king finds a young child that

has been left on or in the cleft of a rock, takes it with him, and

rides to his daughter's bower. He asks his daughter who the fair swain

is that he has found, and how it comes to have her eyes. She feigns

ignorance and indifference: many a man is like another. Then come the

questions found in the other versions.

[105] "Goes brain," perhaps, as the editors suggest, like Lady Maisry

in 'Lord Ingram,' and others in Scottish ballads.

[106] These are translated by Jamieson, Illustrations of Northern

Antiquities, p. 424, Prior, II, 378; W. and M. Howitt, Literature and

Romance of Northern Europe, I, 261.

[107] Fernan Caballero had another Andalusian version besides this.

WILLIE AND LADY MAISRY

#A.# 'Willie, the Widow's Son,' Motherwell's MS., p.

498; 'Sweet Willie and Lady Margerie,' Motherwell's

Minstrelsy, p. 370.

#B.# 'Willie and Lady Maisry,' Buchan's Ballads of the

North of Scotland, I. 155.

'Willie and Lady Maisry' has much in common with 'Clerk Saunders.' The

chief point of difference is that of Willie's killing Maisry's brother

and the guard, #B# 22-24. Here the ballad has probably been affected

by another, now represented in English only by a very corrupt version,

'The Bent sae Brown,' which immediately follows.

Motherwell's MS., p. 498; Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p.

370. From the recitation of Mrs Notman, then far advanced

in years, with whose grandmother it was a favorite:

September 9, 1826.

Willie was a widow's son,

And he wore a milk-white weed, O

And weel could Willie read and write,

Far better ride on steed. O

Lady Margerie was the first lady

That drank to him the wine,

And aye as the healths gade round and round,

'Laddy, your love is mine.'

Lady Margerie was the first ladye

That drank to him the beer,

And aye as the healths gade round and round,

'Laddy, you're welcome here.'

'You must come into my bower

When the evening bells do ring,

And you must come into my bower

When the evening mass doth sing.'

He's taen four and twenty braid arrows,

And laced them in a whang,

And he's awa to Lady Margerie's bower,

As fast as he can gang.

He set ae foot on the wall,

And the other on a stane,

And he's killed a' the king's life-guards,

And he's killed them every man.

'Oh open, open, Lady Margerie,

Open and let me in;

The weet weets a' my yellow hair,

And the dew draps on my chin.'

With her feet as white as sleet

She strode her bower within,

And with her fingers long and small

She's looten Sweet Willie in.

She's louten down unto her foot

To loose Sweet Willie's shoon;

The buckles were sa stiff they wudna lowse,

The blood had frozen in.

'O Willie, Willie, I fear that thou

Has bred me dule and sorrow;

The deed that thou has dune this nicht

Will kythe upon the morrow.'

In then came her father dear,

And a broad sword by his gare,

And he's gien Willie, the widow's son,

A deep wound and a sair.

'Lye yont, lye yont, Willie,' she says,

'Your sweat weets a' my side;

Lye yont, lie yont, Willie,' she says,

'For your sweat I downa bide.'

She turned her back unto the wa,

Her face unto the room,

And there she saw her auld father,

Walking up and down.

'Woe be to you, father,' she said,

'And an ill deed may you die!

For ye've killd Willie, the widow's son

And he would have married me.'

She turned her back unto the room,

Her face unto the wa,

And with a deep and heavy sich

Her heart it brak in twa.

Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 155.

Sweet Willie was a widow's son,

And milk-white was his weed;

It sets him weel to bridle a horse,

And better to saddle a steed, my dear,

And better to saddle a steed.

But he is on to Maisry's bower-door,

And tirled at the pin:

'Ye sleep ye, wake ye, Lady Maisry,

Ye'll open, let me come in.'

'O who is this at my bower-door,

Sae well that knows my name?'

'It is your ain true-love, Willie,

If ye love me, lat me in.'

Then huly, huly raise she up,

For fear o making din,

Then in her arms lang and bent,

She caught sweet Willie in.

She leand her low down to her toe,

To loose her true-love's sheen,

But cauld, cauld were the draps o bleed

Fell fae his trusty brand.

'What frightfu sight is that, my love?

A frightfu sight to see!

What bluid is this on your sharp brand?

O may ye not tell me?'

'As I came thro the woods this night,

The wolf maist worried me;

O shoud I slain the wolf, Maisry?

Or shoud the wolf slain me?'

They hadna kissd, nor love clapped,

As lovers when they meet,

Till up it starts her auld father,

Out o his drowsy sleep.

'O what's become o my house-cock,

Sae crouse at ane did craw?

I wonder as much at my bold watch,

That's nae shooting ower the wa.

'My gude house-cock, my only son,

Heir ower my land sae free,

If ony ruffian hae him slain,

High hanged shall he be.'

Then he's on to Maisry's bower-door,

And tirled at the pin:

'Ye sleep ye, wake ye, daughter Maisry,

Ye'll open, lat me come in.'

Between the curtains and the wa

She rowd her true-love then,

And huly went she to the door,

And let her father in.

'What's become o your maries, Maisry,

Your bower it looks sae teem?

What's become o your green claithing,

Your beds they are sae thin?'

'Gude forgie you, father,' she said,

'I wish ye be't for sin;

Sae aft as ye hae dreaded me,

But never found me wrang.'

He turnd him right and round about,

As he'd been gaun awa;

But sae nimbly as he slippet in

Behind a screen sae sma.

Maisry, thinking a' dangers past,

She to her love did say,

'Come, love, and take your silent rest;

My auld father's away.'

Then baith lockd in each other's arms,

They fell full fast asleep,

When up it starts her auld father,

And stood at their bed-feet.

'I think I hae the villain now

That my dear son did slay;

But I shall be revengd on him

Before I see the day.'

Then he's drawn out a trusty brand,

And stroakd it oer a stray,

And thro and thro Sweet Willie's middle

He's gart cauld iron gae.

Then up it wakend Lady Maisry,

Out o her drowsy sleep,

And when she saw her true-love slain,

She straight began to weep.

'O gude forgie you now, father,' she said,

'I wish ye be't for sin;

For I never lovd a love but ane,

In my arms ye've him slain.'

'This night he's slain my gude bold watch,

Thirty stout men and twa;

Likewise he's slain your ae brother,

To me was worth them a'.

'If he has slain my ae brither,

Himsell had a' the blame,

For mony a day he plots contriv'd,

To hae Sweet Willie slain.

'And tho he's slain your gude bold watch,

He might hae been forgien;

They came on him in armour bright,

When he was but alane.'

Nae meen was made for this young knight,

In bower where he lay slain,

But a' was for sweet Maisry bright,

In fields where she ran brain.

* * * * *

2^4, 3^4. _~Lady~ in MS., ~Laddy~ in Minstrelsy._

9^1. _~his foot~ in Minstrelsy: ~cf.~ #B# 5^1._

10^3. _~hast~ in both._

_Several slight changes are made by Motherwell in

printing._

THE BENT SAE BROWN

Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 30.

'The Bent sae Brown' combines the story of 'Clerk Saunders' with that

of another ballad, not found in an independent form in English, but

sufficiently common in Danish and Swedish; whence the non-tragical

conclusion, for the killing of a certain number of brothers is not

regarded as a very serious matter by the heroine, whether in English

or Norse. The introduction and conclusion, and some incidental

decorations, of the Scottish ballad will not be found in the Norse, but

are an outcome of the invention and the piecing and shaping of that

humble but enterprising rhapsodist who has left his trail over so large

a part of Buchan's volumes.[108]

Stanzas 21-34 contain the substance of the Norse ballad referred to,

which has been printed in the following versions, and exists in others

not yet given to the world, Danish, Norwegian, and Icelandic.

#Swedish.# #A.# 'Unger Sven,' Arwidsson, I, 295, No 43. #B.# 'Ung

Hillerström,' Afzelius, II, 180, No 55.

#Danish.# #A.# An unpublished version, found in two manuscripts of

the 17th century, communicated to me by Grundtvig. #B.# 'Jomfruen

i Skoven,' "Tragica, No 15," Danske Viser, III, 99, No 123.[109]

#C.# 'Kjærligheds Styrke,' Kristensen, I, 109, No 43. #D#, #E#, #F#.

'Jomfruens Brødre,' Kristensen, II, 276, No 80 A, B, C. #G.# Madsen,

Folkeminder fra Hanved Sogn, p. 88, No 5.

A youth has passed the night with his love, either in her bower or in a

wood. When they are about to part in the morning, she begs him to be on

his guard against her seven brothers, on his way through the wood and

over the heath. He makes light of the danger, and in the wood meets the

seven brothers. They demand how he comes to be there, and he feigns to

have been out with his hawk and hound, to have been coursing hares. No,

they say, you were with our sister last night, and asked no read of us.

He makes no denial; but her will was as good as his. They ask whether

he will fly or fight. He has no thought of flight, kills all seven,

and goes back to his love. She will not forsake him for killing her

brothers; nor would she, Danish #A#, #C#, #F#, had he killed her father

too.[110]

'There are sixteen lang miles, I'm sure,

Between my love and me;

There are eight o them in gude dry land,

And other eight by sea.

'Betide me life, betide me death,

My love I'll gang and see;

Altho her friends they do me hate,

Her love is great for me.

'Of my coat I'll make a boat,

And o my sark a sail,

And o my cane a gude tapmast,

Dry land till I come till.'

Then o his coat he's made a boat,

And o his sark a sail;

And o his cane a gude tapmast,

Dry land till he came till.

He is on to Annie's bower-door,

And tirled at the pin:

'O sleep ye, wake ye, my love, Annie,

Ye'll rise, lat me come in.'

'O who is this at my bower-door,

Sae well that kens my name?'

'It is your true-love, Sweet Willie,

For you I've crossd the faem.'

'I am deeply sworn, Willie,

By father and by mother;

At kirk or market where we meet,

We darna own each other.

'And I am deeply sworn, Willie,

By my bauld brothers three;

At kirk or market where we meet.

I darna speak to thee.'

'Ye take your red fan in your hand,

Your white fan ower your een,

And ye may swear, and save your oath,

Ye sawna me come in.

'Ye take me in your arms twa,

And carry me to your bed;

And ye may swear, and save your oath,

Your bower I never tread.'

She's taen her red fan in her hand,

The white fan ower her een;

It was to swear, and save her oath,

She sawna him come in.

She's taen him in her arms twa,

And carried him to her bed;

It was to swear, and save her oath,

Her bower he never tread.

They hadna kissd, nor love clapped,

As lovers do when they meet,

Till up it waukens her mother,

Out o her drowsy sleep.

'Win up, win up, my three bauld sons,

Win up and make ye boun;

Your sister's lover's in her bower,

And he 's but new come in.'

Then up it raise her three bauld sons,

And girt to them their brand,

And they are to their sister's bower,

As fast as they coud gang.

When they came to their sister's bower,

They sought it up and down;

But there was neither man nor boy

In her bower to be foun.

Then out it speaks the first o them:

'We'll gang and lat her be;

For there is neither man nor boy

Intill her companie.'

Then out it speaks the second son:

'Our travel's a' in vain;

But mother dear, nor father dear,

Shall break our rest again.'

Then out it speaks the third o them,

An ill death mat he die!

'We'll lurk amang the bent sae brown,

That Willie we may see.'

He stood behind his love's curtains,

His goud rings showd him light;

And by this ye may a' weell guess

He was a renowned knight.

He's done him to his love's stable,

Took out his berry-brown steed;

His love stood in her bower-door,

Her heart was like to bleed.

'O mourn ye for my coming, love?

Or for my short staying?

Or mourn ye for our safe sindring,

Case we never meet again?'

'I mourn nae for your here coming,

Nor for your staying lang;

Nor mourn I for our safe sindring,

I hope we'll meet again.

'I wish ye may won safe away,

And safely frae the town;

For ken you not my brothers three

Are mang the bent sae brown?'

'If I were on my berry-brown steed,

And three miles frae the town,

I woudna fear your three bauld brothers,

Amang the bent sae brown.'

He leint him ower his saddle-bow,

And kissd her lips sae sweet;

The tears that fell between these twa,

They wat his great steed's feet.

But he wasna on his berry-brown steed,

Nor twa miles frae the town,

Till up it starts these three fierce men,

Amang the bent sae brown.

Then up they came like three fierce men,

Wi mony shout and cry:

'Bide still, bide still, ye cowardly youth,

What makes your haste away?

'For I must know before you go,

Tell me, and make nae lie;

If ye 've been in my sister's bower,

My hands shall gar ye die.'

'Tho I've been in your sister's bower,

I have nae fear o thee;

I'll stand my ground, and fiercely fight,

Aud shall gain victorie.'

'Now I entreat you for to stay,

Unto us gie a wad;

If ye our words do not obey,

I'se gar your body bleed.'

'I have nae wad, says Sweet Willie,

Unless it be my brand,

And that shall guard my fair body,

Till I win frae your hand.'

Then two o them stept in behind,

All in a furious meed;

The third o them came him before,

And seizd his berry-brown steed.

O then he drew his trusty brand,

That hang down by his gare,

And he has slain these three fierce men,

And left them sprawling there.

Then word has gane to her mother,

In bed where she slept soun,

That Willie had killd her three bauld sons,

Amang the bent sae brown.

Then she has cut the locks that hung

Sae low down by her ee,

Sae has she kiltit her green claithing

A little aboon her knee.

And she has on to the king's court,

As fast as gang coud she;

When Fair Annie got word o that,

Was there as soon as she.

Her mother, when before the king,

Fell low down on her knee;

'Win up, win up, my dame,' he said,

'What is your will wi me?'

'My wills they are not sma, my liege,

The truth I'll tell to thee;

There is ane o your courtly knights

Last night hae robbed me.'

'And has he broke your bigly bowers?

Or has he stole your fee?

There is nae knight into my court

Last night has been frae me;

'Unless 't was Willie o Lauderdale,

Forbid that it be he!'

'And by my sooth,' says the auld woman,

'That very man is he.

'For he has broke my bigly bowers,

And he has stole my fee,

And made my daughter Ann a whore,

And an ill woman is she.

'That was not all he did to me,

Ere he went frae the town;

My sons sae true he fiercely slew,

Amang the bent sae brown.'

Then out it spake her daughter Ann,

She stood by the king's knee:

'Ye lie, ye lie, my mother dear,

Sae loud 's I hear you lie.

'He has not broke your bigly bowers,

Nor has he stole your fee,

Nor made your daughter Ann a whore;

A good woman I'll be.

'Altho he slew your three bauld sons,

He weel might be forgien;

They were well clad in armour bright,

Whan my love was him lane.'

'Well spoke, well spoke,' the king replied,

'This tauking pleases me;

For ae kiss o your lovely mouth,

I'll set your true-love free.'

She 's taen the king in her arms,

And kissd him cheek and chin;

He then set her behind her love,

And they went singing hame.

[108] Several of Buchan's ballads, says Sir Walter Scott, Minstrelsy,

I, 87, ed. 1833, "are translated from the Norse, and Mr Buchan is

probably unacquainted with the originals." Scott seems to have meant

only that the ballads in question had a Norse origin, not that they

were deliberately translated within what we may call historical

times. In this particular instance the resemblances with the Norse

are remarkably close, but the very homeliness of the Scottish ballad

precludes any suspicion beyond tampering with tradition. The silliness

and fulsome vulgarity of Buchan's versions often enough make one

wince or sicken, and many of them came through bad mouths or hands:

we have even positive proof in one instance of imposture, though

not of Buchan's being a conscious party to the imposture. But such

correspondences with foreign ballads as we witness in the present case

are evidence of a genuine traditional foundation.

Stanzas 25, 26 are remarkably like #F# 3, 5 of 'Earl Brand,' the Percy

copy, and may have served in some Scottish version of the 'Douglas

Tragedy.'

Stanzas 36-41 are borrowed from the 'Knight and Shepherd's Daughter.'

Folly could not go further than in making the mother clip her locks and

kilt her clothes, as in 36: unless it be in making a boat of a coat and

a topmast of a cane, as in 3, 4.

[109] Translated by Prior, III, 234.

[110] In Danish #B# the maid has grace enough to weep for her brothers

seven: "and almost more for the knight." But this last line is probably

taken up from another ballad. In 'Herr Helmer,' a ballad which has some

of the traits of 'Ribold,' Afzelius, No 54, II, 178, 226, Arwidsson,

No 21, I, 155, Eva Wigström, Folkdiktning, I, 25, and the same,

Skånska Visor, p. 1, Helmer kills six of his love's seven brothers,

and is treacherously slain by the seventh, whom he has spared. The

seventh brother cuts off Helmer's head and takes it to his sister. A

Danish version of 'Herr Helmer,' Danske Viser, No 209, IV, 251, ends

differently: the seventh brother offers his sister to Helmer as ransom

for his life.

THE CLERK'S TWA SONS O OWSENFORD

#A.# 'The Clerk's Twa Sons o Owsenford,' Kinloch MSS, V,

403.

#B.# 'The Clerks o Owsenfoord,' Dr Joseph Robertson's

Note-Book, "Adversaria," p. 67.

#C.# 'The Clerks of Oxenford,' Buchan's Ballads of the

North of Scotland, I, 281.

#D.# 'The Clerks Two Sons of Oxenfoord,' Motherwell's

MS., p. 433.

#A#, as sung, had a sequel of six stanzas, which is found separately

and seems to belong with another ballad, 'The Wife of Usher's Well.'

Robert Chambers combined #A# with Buchan's version, #C#, and the six

concluding stanzas with 'The Wife of Usher's Well,' and divided his

ballad into two parts, "on account of the great superiority of what

follows over what goes before, and because the latter portion is in

a great measure independent of the other:" The Scottish Ballads, pp

345-50. His second reason for a division is better than his first. It

is quite according to precedent for a ballad to end with a vow like

that in #A# 17, #D# 14: see 'Clerk Saunders.'

#D# has some amusing dashes of prose, evidently of masculine origin:

"They thought their father's service mean, their mother's no great

affair," 2; "When he was certain of the fact, an angry man was he," 6;

"That I may ride to fair Berwick, and see what can be done," 8. We have

here a strong contrast with both the blind-beggar and the housemaid

style of corruption; something suggesting the attorney's clerk rather

than the clerk of Owsenford, but at least not mawkish.

There are ballads both in Northern and in Southern Europe which have

a certain amount of likeness with 'The Clerk's Twa Sons,' but if the

story of all derives from one original, time has introduced great and

even unusual variations.

In the Scottish ballad two youths go to Paris to study, and have an

amour with the mayor's daughters, for which they are thrown into prison

and condemned to be hanged. The Clerk, their father, comes to the

prison, asks them what is their offence, and learns that it is a little

dear bought love. He offers the mayor a ransom for their lives, and is

sternly refused. The mayor's two daughters beg for their true-love's

lives with the same bad success. The students are hanged, and the

father goes home to tell his wife that they are put to a higher school.

She, #A# [he, #D#], vows to pass the rest of her days in penance and

grief.

A very well known German ballad, found also in the Low Countries and

in Scandinavia, has the following story.[111] A youth is lying in a

dungeon, condemned to be hanged. His father comes to the town, and they

exchange words about the severity of his prison. The father then goes

to the lord of the place and offers three hundred florins as a ransom.

Ransom is refused: the boy has a gold chain on his neck which will be

his death. The father says that the chain was not stolen, but the gift

of a young lady, who reared the boy as a page, or what not. There is

no dear bought love in the case. The father, standing by the gallows,

threatens revenge, but his son deprecates that: he cares not so much

for his life as for his mother's grief. Within a bare half year, more

than three hundred men pay with their lives for the death of the

boy.[112]

A Spanish and Italian ballad has resemblances with the Scottish

and the German, and may possibly be a common link: 'Los tres

estudiantes,' Milá, Romancerillo, p. 165, No 208, #A-L#, previously, in

Observaciones, etc., p. 104, No 6, 'Los estudiantes de Tolosa;' 'Los

estudians de Tortosa,' Briz y Candi, I, 101; 'Gli scolari di Tolosa,'

Nigra, Rivista Contemporanea, XX, 62. Three students meet three girls,

and attempt some little jests with them: ask them for a kiss, Milá,

#H#; throw small pebbles at them, Milá, #D#; meet one girl on a bridge

and kiss her, Nigra. For this the girls have them arrested by an

accommodating catchpoll, and they are hanged by a peremptory judge. The

youngest student weeps all the time; the eldest tries to console him;

their brother serves a king or duke, and if he hears of what has been

done will kill judge, constable, and all their scribes. The brother

gets word somehow, and comes with all speed, but the three clerks are

hanged before he arrives. He gives the town of Tolosa to the flames,

the streets run with the blood of the judge, and horses swim in the

blood of the girls, Milá, #C#, Briz; the streets are washed with the

blood of women, walls built of the heads of men, Milá, #A#; etc.

In a pretty passage in Buchan's not altogether trustworthy version, #C#

35-38, the clerks ask back their faith and troth before they die. For

this ceremony see 'Sweet William's Ghost.'

* * * * *

Aytoun's ballad is translated by Knortz Schottische Balladen, p. 72, No

23.

Kinloch MSS, V, 403, in the handwriting of James

Chambers, as sung to his maternal grandmother, Janet

Grieve, seventy years before, by an old woman, a Miss Ann

Gray, of Neidpath Castle, Peeblesshire; January 1, 1829.

O I will sing to you a sang,

But oh my heart is sair!

The clerk's twa sons in Owsenford

Has to learn some unco lair.

They hadna been in fair Parish

A twelvemonth an a day,

Till the clerk's twa sons o Owsenford

Wi the mayor's twa daughters lay.

O word's gaen to the mighty mayor,

As he saild on the sea,

That the clerk's twa sons o Owsenford

Wi his twa daughters lay.

'If they hae lain wi my twa daughters,

Meg an Marjorie,

The morn, or I taste meat or drink,

They shall be hangit hie.'

O word's gaen to the clerk himself,

As he sat drinkin wine,

That his twa sons in fair Parish

Were bound in prison strong.

Then up and spak the clerk's ladye,

And she spak powrfully:

'O tak with ye a purse of gold,

Or take with ye three,

And if ye canna get William,

Bring Andrew hame to me.'

* * * * * * *

'O lye ye here for owsen, dear sons,

Or lie ye here for kye?

Or what is it that ye lie for,

Sae sair bound as ye lie?'

'We lie not here for owsen, dear father,

Nor yet lie here for kye,

But it's for a little o dear bought love

Sae sair bound as we lie.'

O he's gane to the mighty mayor,

And he spoke powerfully:

'Will ye grant me my twa sons' lives,

Either for gold or fee?

Or will ye be sae gude a man

As grant them baith to me?'

'I'll no grant ye yere twa sons' lives,

Neither for gold or fee,

Nor will I be sae gude a man

As gie them back to thee;

Before the morn at twelve o'clock

Ye'll see them hangit hie.'

Up an spak his twa daughters,

An they spak powrfully:

'Will ye grant us our twa loves' lives,

Either for gold or fee?

Or will ye be sae gude a man

As grant them baith to me.'

'I'll no grant ye yere twa loves' lives,

Neither for gold or fee,

Nor will I be sae gude a man

As grant their lives to thee;

Before the morn at twelve o'clock

Ye'll see them hangit hie.'

O he's taen out these proper youths,

And hangd them on a tree,

And he's bidden the clerk o Owsenford

Gang hame to his ladie.

His lady sits on yon castle-wa,

Beholding dale an doun,

An there she saw her ain gude lord

Come walkin to the toun.

'Ye're welcome, welcome, my ain gude lord,

Ye're welcome hame to me;

But where away are my twa sons?

Ye should hae brought them wi ye.'

'It's I've putten them to a deeper lair,

An to a higher schule;

Yere ain twa sons ill no be here

Till the hallow days o Yule.'

'O sorrow, sorrow come mak my bed,

An dool come lay me doon!

For I'll neither eat nor drink,

Nor set a fit on ground.'

Noted down from a female servant by Dr Joseph Robertson,

July 15, 1829; "Adversaria," p. 67.

* * * * * * *

'De weel, de weel, my twa young sons,

An learn weel at the squeel;

Tak no up wi young women-kin,

An learn to act the feel.'

But they had na been in Blomsbury

A twalmon and a day,

Till the twa pretty clerks o Owsenfoord

Wi the mayr's dauchters did lay.

Word has gaen till the auld base mayr,

As he sat at his wine,

That the twa pretty clerks o Owsenford

Wi his daughters had lien.

Then out bespak the auld base mayr,

An an angry man was he:

'Tomorrow, before I eat meat or drink,

I'll see them hanged hie.'

But word has gaen to Owsenfoord

. . . . . . .

Before the letter was read,

She let the tears doun fa.

* * * * * * *

'Your sons are weel, an verra weel,

An learnin at the squeel;

But I fear ye winna see your sons

At the holy days o Yeel.'

Their father he went to Bloomsbury,

He turnit him roun about,

An there he saw his twa braw sons,

In the prison, leukin out.

'O lie ye there for owsen, my sons,

Or lie ye there for kye?

Or lie ye there for dear fond love,

Si closs as ye de lie?'

'We lie na here for owsen, father,

We lie na here for kye,

But we lie here for dear fond love,

An we're condemned to die.'

* * * * * * *

Then out bespak the clerks' fader,

An a sorry man was he:

'Gae till your bowers, ye lillie-flowers,

For a' this winna dee.'

Then out bespak the aul base mayr,

An an angry man was he:

'Gar to your bowers, ye vile base whores,

Ye'll see them hanged hie.'

* * * * * * *

Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 281.

I'll tell you a tale, or I'll sing you a song,

Will grieve your heart full sair;

How the twa bonny clerks o Oxenford

Went aff to learn their lear.

Their father lovd them very weel,

Their mother muckle mair,

And sent them on to Billsbury,

To learn deeper lear.

Then out it spake their mother dear:

'Do weel, my sons, do weel,

And haunt not wi the young women,

Wi them to play the fiel.'

Their father sware them on their souls,

Their mother on their life,

Never to lie wi the auld mayor's daughters,

Nor kiss the young mayor's wife.

But they hadna been in Billsbury

A twallmonth and a day,

Till the twa bonny clerks o Oxenford

With the mayor's twa daughters lay.

As these twa clerks they sat and wrote,

The ladies sewed and sang;

There was mair mirth in that chamber

Than all fair Ferrol's land.

But word's gane to the wicked mayor,

As he sat at the wine,

That the twa bonny clerks o Oxenford

With his twa daughters had lyne.

'O have they lain with my daughters dear,

Heirs out ower a' my land,

The morn, ere I eat or drink,

I'll hang them with my hand.'

Then he has taen the twa bonny clerks,

Bound them frae tap to tae,

Till the reddest blood in their body

Out ower their nails did gae.

'Whare will I get a little wee boy,

Will win gowd to his fee,

That will rin on to Oxenford,

And that right speedilie?'

Then up it starts a bonny boy,

Gold yellow was his hair;

I wish his father and mother joy,

His true-love muckle mair.

Says, Here am I, a little wee boy,

Will win gowd to my fee,

That will rin on to Oxenford,

And that right speedilie.

'Where ye find the grass green growing,

Set down your heel and rin,

And where ye find the brigs broken,

Ye'll bend your bow and swim.

'But when ye come to Oxenford,

Bide neither to chap nor ca,

But set your bent bow to your breast,

And lightly loup the wa.'

Where he found the grass green growing,

He slackt his shoes and ran,

And where he found the brigs broken,

He bent his bow and swam.

And when he came to Oxenford,

Did neither chap nor ca,

But set his bent bow to his breast,

And lightly leapt the wa.

'What news, what news, my little wee boy?

What news hae ye to me?

How are my sons in Billsbury,

Since they went far frae me?'

'Your sons are well, and learning well,

But at a higher school,

And ye'll never see your sons again,

On the holy days o Yule.'

'Wi sorrow now gae make my bed,

Wi care and caution lay me down;

That man on earth shall neer be born

Shall see me mair gang on the groun.

'Take twenty pounds in your pocket,

And ten and ten to tell them wi,

And gin ye getna hynde Henry,

Bring ye gay Gilbert hame to me.'

Out it speaks old Oxenford,

A sorry, sorry man, was he:

'Your strange wish does me surprise,

They are baith there alike to me.

'Wi sorrow now I'll saddle my horse,

And I will gar my bridle ring,

And I shall be at Billsbury

Before the small birds sweetly sing.'

Then sweetly sang the nightingale,

As she sat on the wand,

But sair, sair, mournd Oxenford,

As he gaed in the strand.

When he came to Billsbury,

He rade it round about,

And at a little shott-window

His sons were looking out.

'O lye ye there, my sons,' he said,

'For oxen, or for kye?

Or is it for a little o deep dear love,

Sae sair bound as ye lye?'

'We lye not here, father,' they said,

'For oxen, nor for kye;

It's all for a little o deep dear love,

Sae sair bound as we lye.

'O borrow's, borrow's, father,' they said,

'For the love we bear to thee!'

'O never fear, my pretty sons,

Well borrowed ye shall be.'

Then he's gane to the wicked mayor,

And hailed him courteouslie:

'Good day, good day, O Billsbury,

God make you safe and free!'

'Come sit you down, brave Oxenford,

What are your wills with me?'

'Will ye gie me my sons again,

For gold or yet for fee?

Will ye gie me my sons again,

For's sake that died on tree?'

'I winna gie you your sons again,

For gold nor yet for fee;

But if ye'll stay a little while,

Ye'se see them hanged hie.'

Ben it came the mayor's daughters,

Wi kirtle, coat alone;

Their eyes did sparkle like the gold,

As they tript on the stone.

'Will ye gie us our loves, father,

For gold or yet for fee?

Or will ye take our own sweet life,

And let our true-loves be?'

He's taen a whip into his hand,

And lashd them wondrous sair:

Gae to your bowers, ye vile rank whores,

Ye'se never see them mair.

Then out it speaks old Oxenford,

A sorry man was he:

'Gang to your bowers, ye lily-flowers,

For a' this maunna be.'

Out it speaks him hynde Henry:

'Come here, Janet, to me;

Will ye gie me my faith and troth,

And love, as I gae thee?'

'Ye shall hae your faith and troth,

Wi God's blessing and mine;'

And twenty times she kissd his mouth,

Her father looking on.

Then out it speaks him gay Gilbert:

'Come here, Margaret, to me;

Will ye gie me my faith and troth,

And love, as I gae thee?'

'Yes, ye shall get your faith and troth,

Wi God's blessing and mine;'

And twenty times she kissd his mouth,

Her father looking on.

'Ye'll take aff your twa black hats,

Lay them down on a stone,

That nane may ken that ye are clerks

Till ye are putten down.'

The bonny clerks they died that morn,

Their loves died lang ere noon;

Their father and mother for sorrow died,

They all died very soon.

These six souls went up to heaven,

I wish sae may we a'!

The mighty mayor went down to hell,

For wrong justice and law.

Motherwell's MS., p. 433, from James Nicol, Strichen.

Oh I will tell a tale of woe,

Which makes my heart richt sair;

The Clerk's two sons of Oxenfoord

Are too soon gone to lair.

They thought their father's service mean,

Their mother's no great affair;

But they would go to fair Berwick,

To learn [some] unco lair.

They had not been in fair Berwick

A twelve month and a day,

Till the clerk's two sons of Oxenfoord

With the mayor's two daughters lay.

This word came to the mighty mayor,

As he hunted the rae,

That the clerks two sons of Oxenfoord

With his two daughters lay.

'If they have lain with my daughters,

The heirs of all my land,

I make a vow, and will keep it true,

To hang them with my hand.'

When he was certain of the fact,

An angry man was he,

And he has taken these two brothers,

And hanged them on the tree.

Word it has come to Oxenfoord's clerk,

Ere it was many day,

That his two sons sometime ago

With the mayor's two daughters lay.

'O saddle a horse to me,' he cried,

'O do it quick and soon,

That I may ride to fair Berwick,

And see what can be done.'

But when he came to fair Berwick

A grieved man was he,

When that he saw his two bonnie sons

Both hanging on the tree.

'O woe is me,' the clerk cried out,

'This dismal sight to see,

All the whole comfort of my life

Dead hanging on the tree!'

He turned his horse's head about,

Making a piteous moan,

And all the way to Oxenfoord

Did sad and grievously groan.

His wife did hastily cry out,

'You only do I see;

What have you done with my two sons,

You should have brought to me?'

'I put them to some higher lair,

And to a deeper scule;

You will not see your bonnie sons

Till the haly days of Yule.

'And I will spend my days in grief,

Will never laugh nor sing;

There's never a man in Oxenfoord

Shall hear my bridle ring.'

* * * * *

#A.#

3^1, 5^1, 6^3, 7^1, 9^1. Oh.

5^3. in Owsenford.

14^2. day an doom.

#B.#

_In the margin as a note_ (_see_ #A# 1):

I will sing a sang to you,

But o my heart is sair!

The twa pretty clerks o Owsenfoord

As they went to their lair.

7^2. twinit, MS.?

8^4. sic loss.

#C.#

28^3. oh.

[111] 'Das Schloss in Oesterreich,' 'Der unschuldige Tod des jungen

Knaben.' One stanza in Forsters Frische Liedlein, 1540, II, No

77 (Böhme); broadside of 1606, Erk's Liederhort, p. 15, No 6^a;

broadside of 1647, Eschenburg, in Deutsches Museum, 1776, p. 399,

and Denkmäler Altdeutscher Dichtkunst, 1799, p. 446,==Uhland, p.

300, No 125; late broadside, Wunderhorn, 1806, I, 220. From oral

tradition: Gräter's Bragur, VI, I, 205; Erk, Neue Sammlung, I, 20, No

16; Erk's Liederhort, p. 12, No 6; Hoffmann u. Richter, p. 17, No 8;

Fiedler, p. 172, No 12; Jeitteles, in Archiv für Litteraturgeschichte,

IX, 362, No 5; Schlossar, Deutsche Volkslieder aus Steiermark, p.

346, No 314; Wittstock, Sagen u. Lieder aus dem Nösner Gelande, p.

44, No 15; Frommann, Deutsche Mundarten, V, 391; Meinert, p. 53.

(The last is an independent version; the rest have all one type.)

Low-German, Niederdeutsche Volkslieder, herausgegeben vom Vereine

für niederdeutsche Sprachforschung, p. 56, No 84. Dutch, Hoffmann,

Niederländische Volkslieder, p. 84, No 25. Norse: Afzelius, II, 62, No

40, from a seventeenth century broadside; Atterbom's Poetisk Kalender,

1816, p. 32; Wigström, Folkdiktning, I, 64, No 30; Aminson, Bidrag,

etc., IV, 4, No 26, A, B, fragments; Nyerup, Udvalg af Danske Viser, I,

57, No 14; Lindeman, Norske Fjeldmelodier, Tekst Bilag, I, 3 f, No 10.

There is a Swedish broadside of 1642, a Danish of 1697.

[112] Meinert's ballad, which, though it sometimes betrays artifice,

has a fresher tone than the others, makes the chain the young lady's

love-token: but this love is no count in the indictment. Uhland, IV,

145, cites from a manuscript chronicle a story of a highwayman, a

widow's son, thrice imprisoned and twice ransomed; to no purpose, as

far as I can see.

LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNET

#A.# 'Lord Thomas and Fair Annet,' Percy's Reliques,

1765, II, 293; III, 240, ed. 1767.

#B.# 'The Nut-Brown Bride,' Kinloch MSS, I, 1.

#C.# 'The Brown Bride and Lord Thomas,' Motherwell's MS.,

p. 157.

#D.# 'Lord Thomas and Fair Ellinor.' #a.# Pepys Ballads,

III, 316, No 312. #b, c, d#, other broadside copies. #e,

f, g, h, i#, recited copies.

#E.# 'Sweet Willie and Fair Annie,' Jamieson's Popular

Ballads, I, 22.

#F.# 'Sweet Willie and Fair Annie,' Kinloch MSS, III,

127, V, 339.

#G.# Skene MSS, p. 104.

#H.# 'Fair Annie and Sweet Willie,' Gibb MS., p. 64.

The copy of 'Lord Thomas and Fair Annet' in Herd, 1769, p. 246, 1776,

I, 24, and in the Musical Museum, p. 553, No 535, is Percy's, #A#.

The English version of this ballad, 'Lord Thomas and Fair Ellinor,'

given, with alterations, in Percy's Reliques, III, 82, 1765,[113] is

a broadside of Charles the Second's time, printed for I. Clarke, W.

Thackeray, and T. Passenger, and licensed by L'Estrange, who was censor

from 1663 to 1685. This copy has become traditional in Scotland and

Ireland. The Scottish traditional copy, 'Lord Thomas and Fair Annet,'

given by Percy in the Reliques (unfortunately with some corrections,

but these cannot have been many), is far superior, and one of the most

beautiful of our ballads, and indeed of all ballads. 'Fair Margaret and

Sweet William,' "a more pathetic story of the man who loves one woman

and marries another," begins in the same way, with the last long talk

before parting. The conclusion is that the forsaken maid dies of grief,

not by the hand of her incensed rival, and it is most natural that the

two stories should be blended in tradition, as they are here in #E-H#,

#E# 31 ff, #F# 27 ff, #G# 24 ff, #H# 37 ff belonging to 'Fair Margaret

and Sweet William.'

There is a copy of 'Lord Thomas and Fair Ellinor,' written over for the

ballad-mongers, and of course much less in the popular style, in Pepys,

IV, 48, No 45, and Roxburghe, II, 553, with the title 'The Unfortunate

Forrester, or, Fair Eleanor's Tragedy.' In this Fair Ellinor stabs

herself and Lord Thomas then kills himself with the same dagger.[114]

Norse ballads have the story of 'Lord Thomas and Fair Annet,' coming

very close in details. Those forms which are nearest to the English

resemble more the mixed versions, #E-H#, than the simple, #A-D#. But in

none of the Norse ballads is love thwarted because it stands upon the

choice of friends. A man abandons a woman who is in all but the name

his wife, and who regards herself, and is evidently regarded by others,

as standing in no dishonorable relation to him. There is again a

bifurcation in the catastrophe. The forsaken mistress submits and hangs

herself in the one case, in the other she takes a fierce revenge. The

latter conclusion may well, as Grundtvig holds, be the more original,

but the ballads which have the other will here be put first, as being

nearer to the English.

(1.) #A.# 'Herr Peder och Liten Kerstin,' Afzelius, I, 49, No 9,

Grundtvig, IV, 219, Wigström, Folkdiktning, II, 5, broadsides of the

eighteenth century and traditional copies derived therefrom. #B.# 'Herr

Peders Slegfred,' broadside of the seventeenth century, Grundtvig,

IV, 216, No 210; Danske Viser, III, 365, No 157; Kristensen, II, 177,

No 52. #C.# A traditional fragment, Grundtvig, IV, 220, Bilag 2, from

Cavallius and Stephens's collection. (2.) #D.# 'Liti Kerstis hevn,'

Landstad, p. 559, No 67. #E.# Manuscript of the seventeenth century,

Grundtvig, IV, 215. #F.# 'Liten Kerstins Hämd,' c. 1700, Arwidsson, I,

305, No 45.

Sir Peter and Liten Kerstin sit at table talking merrily, #A#, #B#,

#E#. Peter informs Kerstin that he is to be married. She says she shall

not fail to be present; he, that the wedding will be too far away for

anybody to come. She shall come, if asked, though it be in Rome, #B#.

If you come, says Peter, you must not wear your gold. She will wear

it, for it was got by no dishonor, #B#, #E#. Peter rides off, Kerstin

wrings her hands: alack for the maid that trusts a loon! He makes the

preparations for his bridal, and she orders her clothes, which are of

the richest description, all pearls and gold.[115] She has her horse

shod, as in English, #B# 21, #C# 12, #E# 22. When she enters the hall,

wives and maids stand up, #B#. She pours wine for the guests. The bride

asks who she is, and is told that it is Sir Peter's mistress.[116] She

has more gold on her kirtle's hem, says the bride, than all that Sir

Peter owns. Why, if he had her, did he come seeking me? After the usual

long delay the bride is conducted to the bride-house, Kerstin carrying

the torch before her. Kerstin even puts the bride to bed. She leaves

the room, saying, #A#, I trow I shall come here no more, goes into the

orchard, and hangs herself with her hair. Sir Peter is informed of what

has happened, rushes to the orchard, takes Kerstin down, has a grave

dug deep and broad, sets his sword against a stone, and runs on it. The

next day, as so often, there are three dead, Sir Peter, Kerstin, and

the bride, #A#, #B#. In #C#, Peter hangs himself on the same tree.

Not so moving, but considerably more powerful and original, is the

other termination of the story. In #E#, after Kerstin has lighted the

bride to the bride-house, she draws a knife and kills Peter. She tells

the bride that this should have been her death too, had she not spoken

her so fair. In #D#, #F#, she sets fire to the house and burns the

bride on the bridegroom's arm.

Sir Peter awakes, but he wakes not ere

The flame is playing in the young bride's hair.

Sir Peter springs from his bed, oer late;

He saw Little Kersti go out through the gate.

'Ah, dear Little Kersti, now help thou me!

Another time shall I help thee.'

And it was Little Kersti, her laugh he heard:

'I wot how well you keep your word.'[117]

A Southern ballad has something of the outline of the English and

Norse, and sounds like a thin echo of them. #A.# Poésies populaires

de la France, MS., III, fol. 158, Burgundy. #B.# Buchon, Noëls et

Chants p. de la Franche-Comté, p. 90, No 31, 'J'ai fait un rêve.'

#C.# Beaurepaire, La Poésie p. en Normandie, p. 50. #D.# Ampère,

Instructions, p. 34, Bretagne. #E.# Guillon, Chansons p. de l'Ain, p.

161, 'Chante, rossignolet.' #F.# Arbaud, Chants p. de la Provence, II,

139, 'Lou premier Jour de Mai.' #G.# Ferraro, Canti p. monferrini, p.

8, No 7, 'Il primo amore.'

A youth is obliged by his father to give up his love for a bride who

is less beautiful but richer. He has a dream that his love is dead,

and carries her a rose, #B#, #D#. He invites her to the wedding: she

will not come to the ceremony, but to the dance. She has three gowns

made for the occasion, the third embroidered with gold, or of gold

stuff. She falls dead while dancing: she falls on the right, he on the

left. In #G#, after his love has died, the bridegroom draws his sword

and kills himself. #C# and one copy of #D# have the phenomenon of the

sympathetic plants, as in English #A#, #B#, #E#, #F#, #G#.

#E# 3 is a sort of commonplace when unequal matches are in question. So

in a fragment in Herd's manuscripts, I, 55, II, 187:

'I hae nae houses, I hae nae lands,

I hae nae gowd or fee, Sir;

I am oer low to be your bryde,

Your loon I'll never be, Sir.'

And again Motherwell's MS., p. 37. It is Lady Grey's answer to King

Edward in the Third Part of Henry VI, III, 2:

'I know I am too mean to be your queen,

And yet too good to be your concubine.'

So Crescentia, the Koloczaer Codex, Mailáth u. Köffinger, p. 260, v.

565 ff.

With regard to #B# 20, 'I'll na put on the dowie green,' Kinloch

remarks that green is considered unfortunate in love matters, the

couplet running,

Green is love deen,

Yellow's forsaken;

whereas blue is looked upon as a most fortunate color: "blue is

love true." "To be married in a green colored dress is ominous of

misfortune, for according to the proverb:

They that marry in green,

Their sorrow is soon seen.

And no young woman in the North would wear that color on her wedding

day. An old lady of my acquaintance, whose marriage had proved

unfortunate, used seriously to warn young women to beware of being

married in green, for she attributed her own misfortunes solely to her

having been married in a green gown, which she had put on contrary to

the sage advice of her seniors, in whose minds the belief was more

firmly rooted, and who had wished her to wear in its stead a blue

dress, as being the more lucky color. To dance in green stockings is a

proverbial phrase applied to an elder sister when the younger is first

married, intimating that she may mourn her hapless fate, as she has now

no chance of being married. To dream of green is believed to be the

presage of misfortune." Kinloch MSS, I, 15 f.

* * * * *

#A# is translated by Bodmer, II, 44, Doenniges, p. 125. #D#, Percy's

copy, by Eschenburg, in Ursinus, Balladen und Lieder, 1777, p. 69;

by Bodmer, I, 106; by Talvj, Versuch u. s. w., p. 497; Döring, p.

191; Doenniges, p. 121; Arentsschild, Albion u. Erin, p. 535; von

Marées, p. 36; Knortz, Lieder u. Romanzen Alt-Englands, p. 175, No 47;

Loève-Veimars, p. 123.

Norse #A# is translated by W. and M. Howitt, Literature and Romance of

Northern Europe, I, 258; #B# by Prior, III, 363.

Percy's Reliques, 1765, II, 293, "given, with some

corrections, from a MS. copy transmitted from Scotland."

Lord Thomas and Fair Annet

Sate a' day on a hill;

Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,

They had not talkt their fill.

Lord Thomas said a word in jest,

Fair Annet took it ill:

'A, I will nevir wed a wife

Against my ain friends' will.'

'Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife,

A wife wull neir wed yee:'

Sae he is hame to tell his mither,

And knelt upon his knee.

'O rede, O rede, mither,' he says,

'A gude rede gie to mee;

O sall I tak the nut-browne bride,

And let Faire Annet bee?'

'The nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear,

Fair Annet she has gat nane;

And the little beauty Fair Annet haes

O it wull soon be gane.'

And he has till his brother gane:

'Now, brother, rede ye mee;

A, sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,

And let Fair Annet bee?'

'The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother,

The nut-browne bride has kye;

I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride,

And cast Fair Annet bye.'

'Her oxen may dye i the house, billie,

And her kye into the byre,

And I sall hae nothing to mysell

Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.'

And he has till his sister gane:

'Now, sister, rede ye mee;

O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,

And set Fair Annet free?'

'I'se rede ye tak Fair Annet, Thomas,

And let the browne bride alane;

Lest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace,

What is this we brought hame!'

'No, I will tak my mither's counsel,

And marrie me owt o hand;

And I will tak the nut-browne bride,

Fair Annet may leive the land.'

Up then rose Fair Annet's father,

Twa hours or it wer day,

And he is gane into the bower

Wherein Fair Annet lay.

'Rise up, rise up, Fair Annet,' he says,

'Put on your silken sheene;

Let us gae to St. Marie's kirke,

And see that rich weddeen.'

'My maides, gae to my dressing-roome,

And dress to me my hair;

Whaireir yee laid a plait before,

See yee lay ten times mair.

'My maids, gae to my dressing-room,

And dress to me my smock;

The one half is o the holland fine,

The other o needle-work.'

The horse Fair Annet rade upon,

He amblit like the wind;

Wi siller he was shod before,

Wi burning gowd behind.

Four and twanty siller bells

Wer a' tyed till his mane,

And yae tift o the norland wind,

They tinkled ane by ane.

Four and twanty gay gude knichts

Rade by Fair Annet's side,

And four and twanty fair ladies,

As gin she had bin a bride.

And whan she cam to Marie's kirk,

She sat on Marie's stean:

The cleading that Fair Annet had on

It skinkled in their een.

And whan she cam into the kirk,

She shimmerd like the sun;

The belt that was about her waist

Was a' wi pearles bedone.

She sat her by the nut-browne bride,

And her een they wer sae clear,

Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride,

Whan Fair Annet drew near.

He had a rose into his hand,

He gae it kisses three,

And reaching by the nut-browne bride,

Laid it on Fair Annet's knee.

Up than spak the nut-browne bride,

She spak wi meikle spite:

'And whair gat ye that rose-water,

That does mak yee sae white?'

'O I did get the rose-water

Whair ye wull neir get nane,

For I did get that very rose-water

Into my mither's wame.'

The bride she drew a long bodkin

Frae out her gay head-gear,

And strake Fair Annet unto the heart,

That word spak nevir mair.

Lord Thomas he saw Fair Annet wex pale,

And marvelit what mote bee;

But whan he saw her dear heart's blude,

A' wood-wroth wexed hee.

He drew his dagger, that was sae sharp,

That was sae sharp and meet,

And drave it into the nut-browne bride,

That fell deid at his feit.

'Now stay for me, dear Annet,' he sed,

'Now stay, my dear,' he cry'd;

Then strake the dagger untill his heart,

And fell deid by her side.

Lord Thomas was buried without kirk-wa,

Fair Annet within the quiere,

And o the tane thair grew a birk,

The other a bonny briere.

And ay they grew, and ay they threw,

As they wad faine be neare;

And by this ye may ken right weil

They were twa luvers deare.

Kinloch MSS, I, 1, from the recitation of Mary Barr,

Lesmahago.

Sweet Willie and Fair Annie

Sat a' day on yon hill;

Though they had sat til the leventh o June,

They wad na got their fill.

But Willie spak a word amiss,

Fair Annie took it ill:

'I'll neer marry a tocherless lass

Agen my ain friends' will.'

Then on she lap, and awa she gat,

As fast as she could hie:

'Fare ye weel now, Sweet Willie,

It's fare ye weel a wee.'

Then he is gane to his father's ha,

And tirled at the pin;

Then up and rase his father proud.

And loot Sweet Willie in.

'Come riddle us, riddle us, father dear,

Yea both of us into ane;

Whether sall I marry Fair Annie,

Or bring the brown bride hame?'

'The brown bride she has houses and land,

And Annie she has nane;

Sae on my blessing, my auld son,

Bring ye Brown Bride hame.'

Then he is to his mither's bouer,

And tirled at the pin;

Then up and rose his mother dear

To let Sweet Willie in.

'Come riddle us, riddle us, mother dear,

Yea baith o us into ane;

Whether sall I marry Fair Annie,

Or bring the brown bride hame?'

'The brown bride she has gowd and gear,

Fair Annie she has nane;

And for my blessing, my auld son,

Bring ye Brown Bride hame.'

Then he is to his sister's bouer,

And tirled at the pin;

And wha sae ready as his sister dear

To let her brither in.

'Come riddle us, riddle us, sister fair,

Us baith yea into ane;

Whether sall I marry Fair Annie,

Or bring the brown bride hame?'

'The brown bride she has horse and kye,

And Annie she has nane;

But for my love, my brither dear,

Bring hame the fair woman.

'Your horse may dee into the staw,

The kye into the byre,

And ye'll hae nocht but a howther o dirt,

To feed about your fire.'

Then he is to Fair Annie's bouer,

And tirled at the pin;

And wha sae ready as Fair Annie

To let Sweet Willie in.

'You're welcome here to me, Willie,

You're welcome here to me:'

'I'm na welcome to thee, Annie,

I'm na welcome to thee,

For I'm come to bid ye to my wedding,

It's gey sad news to thee.'

'It's gey sad news to me, Willie,

The saddest ye could tell;

It's gey sad news to me, Willie,

That shoud been bride mysel.'

Then she is to her father gane,

And bowed low on her knee:

. . . . . . .

'Come riddle us, riddle us, father dear,

Us baith yea into ane;

Whether sall I gang to Willie's wedding,

Or sall I stay at hame?'

'Whare ane will be your frien, Annie,

Twenty will be your fae;'

'But prove it gude, or prove it bad,

To Willie's wedding I'll gae.

'I'll na put on the grisly black,

Nor yet the dowie green,

But I'll put on a scarlet robe

To sheen like onie queen.'

She's orderd the smiths to the smithy,

To shoe her a riding steed;

She has orderd tailors to her bouer,

To dress her a riding weed.

She has calld her maries to her bour,

To lay gowd on her hair:

'Whare e'er ye put ae plait before,

See ye lay ten times mair.'

The steed Fair Annie rade upon,

He bounded like the wind;

Wi silver he was shod before,

Wi burning gowd behind.

And four and twenty siller bells

War tiëd til his mane;

Wi ae blast o the norland wind

They tinkled ane by ane.

And whan she cam unto the place,

And lichted on the green,

Ilka ane that did her see

Thought that she was a queen.

'Is this your bride, Sweet Willie?' she said,

'I think she's wondrous wan;

Ye micht have had as fair a bride

As eer the sun sheend on.'

'O haud your tongue, Fair Annie,' he said,

'Wi your talk let me abee;

For better I loe your little finger

Than the brown bride's haill bodie.'

Then out and spak the nut-brown bride,

And she spak out of spite:

'O whare gat ye the water, Annie,

That washd your face sae white?'

'O I gat een the water,' quo she,

'Whare ye will neer get nane;

It's I gat een the water,' quo she,

'Aneath yon marble stane.'

Then out and spake the nut-brown bride,

And she spak yet again:

'O whare gat ye the claith, Annie,

That dried your face sae clean?'

'O I gat een the claith,' quo she,

'Whare ye will neer get nane;

It's I gat een the claith,' quo she,

'Aneath yon bouer o bane.'

The brown bride had a little penknife,

Which she kept secret there;

She stabbd Fair Annie to the heart,

A deep wound and a sair.

It's out and spak he Sweet Willie,

And he spak yet again:

'O what's the matter wi thee, Annie,

That ye do look sae wan?'

'Oh are ye blind, Willie?' she said,

'Or do ye no weel see?

I think ye micht see my heart's blude,

Come rinning by my knee.'

Then Willie took a little sword,

Which he kept secret there,

And strak the brown bride to the heart,

A word she neer spak mair.

And after that a' this was dune,

He drew it through the strae,

And through his ain fair bodie

He causd the cauld iron gae.

The last words that Sweet Willie spak,

His heart was almaist gane;

'May never a young man like me

Have sic a sad wedding.

'For gear will come, and gear will gang,

And gear's ae but a lend,

And monie a ane for warld's gear

A silly brown bride brings hame.'

Sweet Willie was buried in Mary's kirk,

And Annie in Mary's quire,

And out o the ane there grew a birk,

And out o the ither a brier.

And ae they grew, and ae they threw,

Until the twa did meet,

That ilka ane micht plainly see

They were true lovers sweet.

Motherwell's MS., p. 157, from the recitation of Agnes

Laird, Kilbarchan, 1825.

'Come read my rede, O mother dear,

Come riddle it all in one;

O whether will I take Fair Annie,

Or bring the brown bride home?'

'The brown, brown bride has kye and ewes,

Fair Annie she has none;

She has nothing but a bonny, bonny face,

And that'll soon be gone.'

'Where will I get a pretty little boy,

That'll rin my errands soon,

That will rin to Fair Annie's bower,

And bid her to my wedding?'

'Here am I, a pretty little boy,

That'll rin your errands soon,

That will rin to Fair Annie's bower,

And bid her to your wedding.'

'Forbid her to put on her silks so black,

Or yet her silks so brown;

But she must put on her suddled silks,

That she wears up and down.

'Forbid her to put on her silks so green,

Or yet her silks so gray;

But she must put on her suddled silks,

That she wears every day.'

When he gade to Fair Annie's bower,

He tirled at the pin;

So ready was Fair Annie hersell

To open and let him in.

'What news, what news, my little boy?

What news hast thou to me?'

'You must prepare for Lord Thomas' wedding,

And that's bad news for thee.'

'Good news, good news,' Fair Annie says,

'Good news is it for me,

For me to be bride and him bridegroom,

And that's good news for me.'

'He forbids thee to put on thy silks so black,

Or yet thy silks so brown;

But thou must put on thy suddled silks,

That thou wears up and down.

'He forbids you to put on thy silks so green,

Or yet thy silks so gray;

But thou must on thy suddled silks,

That thou wears every day.'

'There are smiths into my smiddy-bour

That'll dress to me a steed,

There are tailors in my tailor-house

That'll dress to me a weed.

'There are maidens in my maiden-bower

That'll lay gold in my hair,

And where eer there were ane link before,

It shall be nine times mair.'

Then Annie got herself attired,

In all things very fine,

With red ribbons, and silks so fair,

That owre her shoulders shine.

When she came to Lord Thomas' yett,

She shined amang them a',

And the buttons on Lord Thomas' coat

Brusted and brak in twa.

'Brown, brown is your steed,' she says,

'But browner is your bride;

But gallant is that handkerchy

That hideth her din hide.'

'O hold thy peace, Fair Annie,' he says,

'Speak not of that to me,

For happy is that bonny, bonny lad

That leads his life with thee.'

Then out bespoke the brown, brown bride,

And she spoke out with spite:

'O whare gets thou that water-cherry,

That washes thee so white?'

'I got in my father's garden,

Below an olive tree,

And although thou war to seek long seven years

That water thou'll never see.

'Tho thou hast got Lord Thomas' hand

That water thou'll neer see;

For thou's sunbrunt from thy mother's womb,

And thou'll never be like me.'

* * * * * * *

#a.# Pepys Ballads, III, 316, No 312. #b.# A Collection

of Old Ballads, I, 249, 1723. #c.# Ritson, Select

Collection of English Songs, II, 187, 1783. #d.# Buchan's

Gleanings, p. 86. #e, f, g, h, i#, recited copies.

Lord Thomas he was a bold forrester,

And a chaser of the king's deer;

Faire Ellinor was a fair woman,

And Lord Thomas he loved her dear.

'Come riddle my riddle, dear mother,' he said,

'And riddle us both as one,

Whether I shall marry Fair Ellinor,

And let the brown girl alone.'

'The brown girl she has got houses and lands,

And Fair Ellinor she has got none;

Therefore I charge you on my blessing

To bring me the brown girl home.'

And as it befell on a high holidaye,

As many did more beside,

Lord Thomas he went to Fair Ellinor,

That should have been his bride.

But when he came to Fair Ellinor's bower,

He knocked there at the ring;

But who was so ready as Fair Ellinor

For to let Lord Thomas in.

'What news, what news, Lord Thomas,' she said,

'What news hast thou brought unto me?'

'I am come to bid thee to my wedding,

And that is bad news to thee.'

'Oh God forbid, Lord Thomas,' she said,

'That such a thing should be done;

I thought to have been thy bride my own self,

And you to have been the brid's-groom.

'Come riddle my riddle, dear mother,' she sayd,

'And riddle it all in one;

Whether I shall go to Lord Thomas's wedding,

Or whether I shall tarry at home.'

'There's many that are your friends, daughter,

And many that are your fo;

Therefore I charge you on my blessing,

To Lord Thomas's wedding don't go.'

'There's many that are my friends, mother,

If a thousand more were my foe,

Betide my life, betide my death,

To Lord Thomas's wedding I'le go.'

She cloathed herself in gallant attyre,

And her merry men all in green,

And as they rid thorough everye towne,

They took her to have been a queene.

But when she came to Lord Thomas's gate,

She knocked there at the ring;

But who was so ready as Lord Thomas

To lett Fair Ellinor in.

'Is this your bride?' Fair Ellin she sayd,

'Methinks she looks wondrous browne;

Thou mightest have had as fair a woman

As ever trod on the ground.'

'Despise her not, Fair Ellin,' he sayd,

'Despise her not now unto mee;

For better I love thy little finger

Than all her whole body.'

This browne bride had a little penknife,

That was both long and sharp,

And betwixt the short ribs and the long

Prickd Fair Ellinor to the heart.

'Oh Christ now save thee,' Lord Thomas he said,

'Methinks thou lookst wondrous wan;

Thou wast usd for to look with as fresh a colour

As ever the sun shin'd on.'

'Oh art thou blind, Lord Thomas?' she sayd,

'Or canst thou not very well see?

Oh dost thou not see my own heart's blood

Runs trickling down my knee?'

Lord Thomas he had a sword by his side,

As he walked about the hall;

He cut off his bride's head from her shoulders,

And he threw it against the wall.

He set the hilte against the ground,

And the point against his heart;

There was never three lovers that ever met

More sooner they did depart.

Jamieson's Popular Ballads, I, 22, from the recitation of

Mrs W. Arrot, of Aberbrothick, as learned by her when a

child from an elderly maid-servant.

Sweet Willie and Fair Annie

Sat a' day on a hill,

And though they had sitten seven year,

They neer wad had their fill.

Sweet Willie said a word in haste,

And Annie took it ill:

'I winna wed a tocherless maid,

Against my parents' will.'

'Ye're come o the rich, Willie,

And I'm come o the poor;

I'm oer laigh to be your bride,

And I winna be your whore.'

O Annie she's gane till her bower,

And Willie down the den,

And he's come till his mither's bower,

By the lei light o the moon.

'O sleep ye, wake ye, mither?' he says,

'Or are ye the bower within?'

'I sleep richt aft, I wake richt aft;

What want ye wi me, son?

'Whare hae ye been a' night, Willie?

O wow, ye've tarried lang!'

'I have been courtin Fair Annie,

And she is frae me gane.

'There is twa maidens in a bower;

Which o them sall I bring hame?

The nut-brown maid has sheep and cows,

And Fair Annie has nane.'

'It's an ye wed the nut-brown maid,

I'll heap gold wi my hand;

But an ye wed her Fair Annie,

I'll straik it wi a wand.

'The nut-brown maid has sheep and cows,

And Fair Annie has nane;

And Willie, for my benison,

The nut-brown maid bring hame.'

'O I sall wed the nut-brown maid,

And I sall bring her hame;

But peace nor rest between us twa,

Till death sinder's again.

'But, alas, alas!' says Sweet Willie,

'O fair is Annie's face!'

'But what's the matter, my son Willie?

She has nae ither grace.'

'Alas, alas!' says Sweet Willie,

'But white is Annie's hand!'

'But what's the matter, my son Willie?

She hasna a fur o land.'

'Sheep will die in cots, mither,

And owsen die in byre;

And what's this warld's wealth to me,

An I get na my heart's desire?

'Whare will I get a bonny boy,

That wad fain win hose and shoon,

That will rin to Fair Annie's bower,

Wi the lei light o the moon?

'Ye'll tell her to come to Willie's weddin,

The morn at twal at noon;

Ye'll tell her to come to Willie's weddin,

The heir o Duplin town.

'She manna put on the black, the black,

Nor yet the dowie brown,

But the scarlet sae red, and the kerches sae white,

And her bonny locks hangin down.'

He is on to Annie's bower,

And tirled at the pin,

And wha was sae ready as Annie hersel

To open and let him in.

'Ye are bidden come to Willie's weddin,

The morn at twal at noon;

Ye are bidden come to Willie's weddin,

The heir of Duplin town.

'Ye manna put on the black, the black,

Nor yet the dowie brown,

But the scarlet sae red, and the kerches sae white,

And your bonny locks hangin down.'

'It's I will come to Willie's weddin,

The morn at twal at noon;

It's I will come to Willie's weddin,

But I rather the mass had been mine.

'Maidens, to my bower come,

And lay gold on my hair;

And whare ye laid ae plait before,

Ye'll now lay ten times mair.

'Taylors, to my bower come,

And mak to me a weed;

And smiths, unto my stable come,

And shoe to me a steed.'

At every tate o Annie's horse mane

There hang a silver bell,

And there came a wind out frae the south,

Which made them a' to knell.

And whan she came to Mary-kirk,

And sat down in the deas,

The light that came frae Fair Annie

Enlightend a' the place.

But up and stands the nut-brown bride,

Just at her father's knee:

'O wha is this, my father dear,

That blinks in Willie's ee?'

'O this is Willie's first true-love,

Before he loved thee.'

'If that be Willie's first true-love,

He might hae latten me be;

She has as much gold on ae finger

As I'll wear till I die.

'O whare got ye that water, Annie,

That washes you sae white?'

'I got it in my mither's wambe,

Whare ye'll neer get the like.

'For ye've been washd in Dunny's well,

And dried on Dunny's dyke,

And a' the water in the sea

Will never wash ye white.'

Willie's taen a rose out o his hat,

Laid it in Annie's lap:

. . . . . . .

'Hae, wear it for my sake.'

'Tak up and wear your rose, Willie,

And wear't wi mickle care;

For the woman sall never bear a son

That will make my heart sae sair.'

Whan night was come, and day was gane,

And a' man boun to bed,

Sweet Willie and the nut-brown bride

In their chamber were laid.

They werena weel lyen down,

And scarcely fa'n asleep,

Whan up and stands she Fair Annie,

Just up at Willie's feet.

'Weel brook ye o your brown, brown bride,

Between ye and the wa;

And sae will I o my winding sheet,

That suits me best ava.

'Weel brook ye o your brown, brown bride,

Between ye and the stock;

And sae will I o my black, black kist,

That has neither key nor lock.'

Sad Willie raise, put on his claise,

Drew till him his hose and shoon,

And he is on to Annie's bower,

By the lei light o the moon.

The firsten bower that he came till,

There was right dowie wark;

Her mither and her three sisters

Were makin to Annie a sark.

The nexten bower that he came till,

There was right dowie cheir;

Her father and her seven brethren

Were makin to Annie a bier.

The lasten bower that he came till,

. . . . . . .

And Fair Annie streekit there.

He's lifted up the coverlet,

. . . . . . .

'It's I will kiss your bonny cheek,

And I will kiss your chin,

And I will kiss your clay-cald lip,

But I'll never kiss woman again.

'The day ye deal at Annie's burial

The bread but and the wine;

Before the morn at twall o'clock,

They'll deal the same at mine.'

The tane was buried in Mary's kirk,

The tither in Mary's quire,

And out o the tane there grew a birk,

And out o the tither a brier.

And ay they grew, and ay they drew,

Untill they twa did meet,

And every ane that past them by

Said, Thae's been lovers sweet!

Kinloch MSS, III, 127, stanzas 1-17; the remainder in Dr

John Hill Burton's papers. Another copy in Kinloch MSS,

V, 339. Both in Dr Burton's handwriting.

Sweet Willie and Fair Annie,

As they sat on yon hill,

If they hed sat frae morn till even,

They hed no talked their fill.

* * * * * * *

Willie's dune him hame again,

As fast as gang could he:

'An askin, an askin, my mother,

And I pray ye'll grant it me.

'Oh will I merry the nut-brown maid,

Wi her oxen and her kye?

Or will I merry my Fair Annie,

That hes my heart for aye?'

'Oh if ye merry your Fair Annie,

Your mither's malison you'll wun;

But if ye merry the nut-brown may,

Ye will get her blessin.'

'Oh voe's me, mother,' Willie said,

'For Annie's bonny face!'

'Little metter o that, my son Willie,

When Annie hesna grace.'

'Oh voe's me, mither,' Willie said,

'For Annie's bonny han!'

'And what's the metter, son Willie,

When Annie hesna lan?

'But ye will merry the nut-brown may,

Wi her oxen and her kye;

But ye will merry the nut-brown may,

For she hes my hert for aye.'

Out and spak his sister Jane,

Where she sat be the fire:

'What's the metter, brother Willie?

Tack ye your heart's desire.

'The oxen may die into the pleuch,

The cow drown i the myre;

And what's the metter, brother Willie?

Tak ye your heart's desire.'

'Whare will I get a bonny boy,

That will wun hose and shune,

That will run on to Anny's bower,

And come right sune again?'

'Ye'll bid her come to Willie's weddin,

The morn is the day;

Ye'll bid her come to Willie's weddin,

And no make no delay.

'Ye'll forbid her to put on the black, the black,

Or yet the dowie brown;

But the white silk and the reed skarlet,

That will shine frae town to town.'

He is on to Anie's bower,

And tirled at the pin,

And wha was sae ready as Annie hersel

To let the ladie in.

'Ye'r bidden to come to Willie's weddin,

The morn is the day;

Ye'r bidden come to Willie's weddin,

And no mack no delay.

'Ye'r forbidden to put on the black, the black,

Or yet the dowie brown;

But the white silk and the red scarlet,

That will shine frae town to town.

'Ye'r forbidden to put on the black, the black,

Or yet the dowie gray;

But the white silk and the red scarlet,

That will shine frae brae to brae.'

'It's I will come to Willie's weddin,

Gif the morn be the day;

It's I will come to Willie's weddin,

And no mack no delay.'

Annie's steed was silver shod,

And golden graithed behin;

At every teet o her horse mane

A silver bell did ring.

When Annie was in her sadle set,

She glanced like the moon;

There was as much gould abov her brow

Would buy an earldom.

When Annie was on her sadel set,

She glanced like the fire;

There was as much gould above her brow

Was worth a yearl's hire.

Annie gaed in the heigh, heigh hill,

And Willie the dowie glen;

Annie alane shone brighter

Than Willie and a' his men.

'Oh wha is that, my ane Willie,

That glances in your ee?'

'Oh it is Annie, my first fore love,

Come till see you and me.'

'Oh far got ye that water, Annie,

That washes ye so wan?'

'Oh I got it aneth yon marble stane,

Where ye will nere get nane.

'Ye've been brunt sare anent the sun,

And rocket i the reek;

And tho ye wad wash till doom's day,

Ye wad never be so white.'

'If this be Annie, your first fore love,

Come our weddin to see,

She has by far owr brent a brow

To lat ye bide by me.'

When bells were rung, and mass was sung,

And a' men bun to bed,

Sweet Willie and his nut-brown bride

In ae chamber were laid.

The hedna weel layn down, layn down,

But nor hed fallen asleep,

When up and started Fair Annie,

And stud at Willie's feet.

'Vo be to you, nut-brown bride,

Wi yer oxen and your sheep!

It is Annie, my first fore love,

And I fear sair she is dead.

'Vo be te you, nut-brown bride,

An ill death you betide!

For you've parted me and my first fore love,

And I fear death is her guide.

'You'll seddle to me the black, the black,

You'll seddle to me the brown,

Till I ride on to Annie's bower

And see how she is bune.'

When he came to Fair Annie's bower,

And lighted and gaed in,

. . . . . . .

Her father was at her heed, her heed,

Her mother at her feet,

Her sister she was at her side,

Puttin on her winding sheet.

'It's kiss will I yer cheek, Annie,

And kiss will I your chin,

And I will kiss your wan, wan lips,

Tho there be no breath within.

'Ye birl, ye birle at my luve's wake

The white bread and the wine,

And or the morn at this same time

Ye'll birle the same at mine.'

They birled, they birled at Annies wake

The white bread and the wine,

And ere the morn at that same time

At his they birled the same.

The one was buried at Mary's kirk,

The other at Mary's quire,

And throw the one there sprang a birk,

And throw the other a brier.

And ay at every year's ane

They grew them near and near

And every one that passed them by

Said, They be lovers dear.

Skene MS., p. 104; northeast of Scotland, 1802-03.

Sweet Willie and Fair Annë,

They sat on yon hill,

And frae the morning till night

This twa neer talked their fill.

Willie spak a word in jest,

And Annë took it ill:

'We's court na mare maidens,

Against our parents' will.'

'It's na against our parents' will,'

Fair Annie she did say,

. . . . . . .

Willie is hame to his bower,

To his book all alane,

And Fair Annie is to her bower,

To her book and her seam.

Sweet Willie is to his mother dear,

Fell low down on his knee:

'An asking, my mother dear,

And ye grant it to me;

O will I marry the nut-brown may,

An lat Fair Annie gae?'

'The nut-brown may has ousen, Willie,

The nut-brown may has key;

An ye will winn my blessing, Willie,

And latt Fair Annie be.'

He did him to his father dear,

Fell low down on his knee:

'An asking, my father,

An ye man grant it me.'

'Ask on, my ae son Willie,

Ye'r sur yer askin's free;

Except it is to marry her Fair Annie,

And that manna be.'

Out spak his little sister,

As she [sat] by the fire:

'The ox-leg will brack in the plough,

And the cow will drown in the mire.

'An Willie will ha nathing

But the dam to sitt by the fire;

Fair Annie will sit in her beagly bower,

An winn a earl's hire.'

'Fair faa ye, my little sister,

A guid dead mat ye die!

An ever I hae goud,

Well tochered sall ye be.'

He's awa to Fair Annie,

As fast as gan could he:

'O will ye come to my marriage?

The morn it is to be.'

'O I will come to yer marriage,

The morn, gin I can win.'

. . . . . . .

Annie did her to her father dear,

Fell low down on her knee:

'An askin, my father,

And ye man grant it me;

Lat me to Sweet Willie's marriage,

The morn it is to be.'

'Yer horse sall be siller shod afore,

An guid red goud ahin,

An bells in his mane,

To ring against the win.'

She did her to her mother dear,

Fell low down on her knee:

'Will ye lat me to Willie's marriage?

The morn it is to be;'

'I'll lat ye to Willie's marriage,

An we the morn see.'

Whan Annie was in her saddle set

She flam'd against the fire;

The girdle about her sma middle

Wad a won an earl's hire.

Whan they came to Mary kirk,

And on to Mary quire,

'O far gat ye that watter, Ann,

That washes ye sae clear?'

'I got it in my father's garden,

Aneth a marbell stane;

. . . . . . .

'O whar gat ye that water, Annie,

That washes ye sae fite?'

'I gat it in my mother's womb,

Whar ye['s] never get the like.

'For ye ha been christned wi moss-water,

An roked in the reak,

An ser brunt in yer mither's womb,

For I think ye'll neer be fite.'

The nut-brown bride pat her hand in

... at Annie['s] left ear,

And gin her ...

A deep wound and a sare.

Than. . Annie ged on her horse back,

An fast away did ride,

But lang or cock's crowing,

Fair Annie was dead.

Whan bells were rung, and mess was sung,

An a' man boun to bed,

Sweet Willie and the nut-brown bride

In a chamber were laid.

But up und wakend him Sweet Willie

Out of his dreary dream:

'I dreamed a dream this night,

God read a' dream to guid!

'That Fair Annies bowr was full of gentlemen,

An herself was dead;

But I will on to Fair Annie,

An si't if it be guid.'

Seven lang mile or he came near,

He heard a dolefull chear,

Her father and her seven brithern,

Walking at her bier;

The half of it guid red goud,

The other silver clear.

'Ye deal at my love's leak

The white bread an the wine;

But on the morn at this time

Ye's dee the like at mine.'

The ane was buried at Mary kirk,

The ither at Mary quire;

Out of the ane grew a birk,

Out of the ither a briar.

An aye the langer that they grew,

They came the ither near,

An by that ye might a well kent

They were twa lovers dear.

Gibb MS., p. 64.

Fair Annie and Sweet Willie,

As they talked on yon hill,

Though they had talked a lang summer day,

They wad na hae talked their fill.

'If you would be a good woman, Annie,

An low leave a' your pride,

In spite of a' my friends, Annie,

I wad mak you my bride.'

'Thick, thick lie your lands, Willie,

An thin, thin lie mine;

An little wad a' your friends think

O sic a kin as mine.

'Thick, thick lie your lands, Willie,

Down by the coving-tree;

An little wad a' your friends think

O sic a bride as me.

'O Fair Annie, O Fair Annie,

This nicht ye've said me no;

But lang or ever this day month

I'll make your heart as sore.'

It's Willie he went home that night,

An a sick man lay he down;

An ben came Willie's auld mither,

An for nae gude she came.

* * * * * * *

'It's if ye marry Fair Annie,

My malison ye's hae;

But if ye marry the nut-brown may,

My blessin an ye's hae.'

'Mother, for your malison,

An mother, for your wis,

It's I will marry the nut-brown may,

. . . . . . .

It's up an spak his sister,

. . . . . . .

'The owsen may hang in the pleugh,

The kye drown in the myre,

An he'll hae naething but a dirty drab

To sit doun by the fire.'

* * * * * * *

'Where will I get a bonny boy,

That will win hose and shoon,

That will rin on to Annie's bower,

An haste him back again?'

'It's I have run your errands, Willie,

An happy hae I been;

It's I will rin your errands, Willie,

Wi the saut tears in my een.'

'When ye come to Annie's bower,

She will be at her dine;

And bid her come to Willie's weddin,

On Monday in good time.

'Tell her neither to put on the dowie black,

Nor yet the mournfu brown,

But the gowd sae reed, and the silver white,

An her hair weel combed down.

'Tell her to get a tailor to her bower,

To shape for her a weed,

And a smith to her smithy,

To shoe for her a steed.

'To be shod wi silver clear afore,

An gold graithed behind,

An every foot the foal sets down,

The gold lie on the ground.'

It's when he came to Annie's bower,

It's she was at her dine:

'Ye're bidden come to Willie's weddin,

On Monday in good time.

'You're neither to put on the dowie black,

Nor get the mournfu brown,

But the gowd sae reid, an the silver white,

An yere hair well combed doun.

'You're to get a tailor to your bower,

To shape for you a weed,

And likewise a smith to your smithy,

To shoe for you a steed.

'To be shod with silver clear afore,

An gold graithed behind,

An every foot the foal sets down,

The gold lie on the ground.'

'It's I will come to Willie's weddin,

I rather it had been mine;

It's I will come to Willie's weddin,

On Monday in good time.

'It's I'll send to Willie a toweld silk,

To hing below his knee.

An ilka time he looks on it,

He'll hae gude mind o me.

* * * * * * *

'An askin, father, an askin,

An I hope you will grant me;

For it is the last askin

That ever I'll ask of thee.'

'Ask me, Annie, gold,' he said,

'An ask me, Annie, fee,

But dinna ask me Sweet Willie,

Your bedfellow to be.'

'It's I will ask you gold, father,

Sae will I ask you fee,

But I needna ask you Sweet Willie,

My bedfellow to be.

'For I am bidden to Willie's weddin,

On Monday in good time,

. . . . . . .

* * * * * * *

On every tait o her horse's mane

A siller bell did hing,

An on every tait o her horse's tail

A golden bell did ring.

Twal and twal rade her afore,

An twal an twal ahind,

An twal an twal on every side,

To hold her frae the wind.

Fair Annie shined mair on the top o the hill

Than Willie did in the glen;

Fair Annie shined mair on the heid o the hill

Than Willie wi a' his men.

Whan she came to Mary's kirk,

She lighted on the stane;

An when she came to the kirk-door,

She bade the bride gae in.

'Clear, clear is your day, Willie,

But brown, brown is your bride;

Clear, clear is her lawn curches,

But weel dunned is her hide.'

'Where got ye yon water, Annie,

That has made you so white?'

'I got it in my father's garden,

Below yon hollan dyke.

'But ye hae been washed i the moss water,

An rocked in the reek;

Ye hae been brunt in your mither's wame,

An ye will neer be white.'

'Whatna fool were ye, Willie,

To lay your love on me;

She's mair gowd on her heid this day

Than I'll wear till I die!'

'I've laid nae love on you, brown may,

I've laid nae love on you;

I've mair love for Fair Annie this day

Than I'll hae for you till I dee.'

* * * * * * *

'If you will neither eat nor drink,

You'll see good game an play;'

But she turned her horse head to the hill,

An swift she rode away.

* * * * * * *

When they were all at supper set,

. . . . . . .

Till he went to Fair Annie's bower,

By the ley licht o the mune.

An when he came to Annie's bower,

Annie was lying deid,

An seven o Annie's sisters an sisters' bairns

Were sewing at Annie's weed.

'It's I will take your hand, Annie,

Since ye wald neer take mine;

The woman shall never have the hand

That I'll touch after thine.

'An I will kiss your mouth, Annie,

Since ye will never kiss mine;

The woman shall never have the lips

That I'll kiss after thine.

* * * * * * *

. . . . . . .

'As much breid ye deal at Annie's dairgie

Tomorrow ye's deal at mine.'

* * * * *

#A.#

"Some traditionary copies of the ballad have this stanza,

which is the 19th in order:

And four and twenty milk-white swans,

Wi their wings stretchd out wide,

To blaw the stour aff the highway,

To let Fair Annie ride."

(Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. lxviii, 19.)

_Compare_ 'Lord Ingram and Chiel Wyet,' #C# 22.

#C.#

6^3, 10^3. silk.

13^1. The maidens.

#D. a.#

A Tragical Story of Lord Thomas and Fair Ellinor.

Together with the downfall of the Brown Girl.

3^4. And bring.

9^1. many of your.

9^4, 12^1. Thomas his.

10^4. Thomas's his.

15^3. But betwixt.

#b.#

A Tragical Ballad on the unfortunate Love of Lord Thomas

and fair Ellinor, together with the Downfal of the Brown

Girl.

1^3. a fine.

2^3. marry with.

3^1. land.

3^4. Bring me.

4^1. As it.

4^2. many more did.

6^4. for thee.

7^4. bridegroom.

9^1. many that are.

9^4, 10^4, 12^1. Thomas's.

10^2. And if.

11^3. through.

11^4. to be some.

13^1. Ellinor said.

13^2. wonderful.

13^3. mightst.

14^2. now _wanting_.

15^3. And.

16^3. Thou us'd to look.

18^4. he _wanting_.

19^3. There never were three lovers met.

19^4. That sooner did.

#c.#

1^3. a fine.

2^3. marry with.

3^2. And _wanting_.

3^3. thee on.

3^4. To bring.

5^4. For _wanting_.

6^4. for thee.

7^4. bridegroom.

9^1. many that are.

8^3, 9^4, 10^4, 12^1. Thomases.

10^3. or betide.

11^3. through.

13^3. You might.

14^2. now _wanting_.

15^3. And.

15^4. She prickd.

16^2. wain.

#d.#

3^2. she's got land, she says.

4^2. many more do.

5^2. at the pin.

8^4. I shall let it alone.

9^2. foes.

10^2. If a thousand were our foes.

10^3. me life, me death.

10^4. To Lord Thomas's I'll go.

12^2. at the pin.

_After 12_:

He took her by the lily-white hand,

And led her through the hall;

He set her in the noblest chair,

Among the ladies all.

15^2. both keen.

16^1. now save me.

16^3. usest to look as good a colour.

_After 17_:

'O dig my grave,' Lord Thomas replied,

'Dig it both wide and deep,

And lay Fair Eleanor by my side

And the brown girl at my feet.'

18^4. And flung.

19^{3, 4.}.

There never were three lovers sure

That sooner did depart.

#e.#

_Motherwell's MS., p. 293, from the recitation of Widow

McCormick, February 23, 1825; learned of an old woman in

Dumbarton, thirty years before._

'Come riddle me, riddle me, mother,' he says,

'Come riddle me all in one,

Whether I'll goe to court Fair Helen

Or fetch you the brown girl home.'

'It's many's the ones your friends,' she says,

'And many's the ones your fone;

My blessing be on you, dear son,' she says,

'Go fetch me the brown girl home.'

He dressed himself all in green,

Thorough the road he went,

And every village that he came to,

They took him to be a king.

Till that he came to Fair Helen's gate;

He tinkled low at the ring;

Who was so ready as Fair Helen herself

To let Lord Thomas in.

'You're welcome, you're welcome, Lord Thomas,' she says,

'What news have you brought to me?'

'I've come to bid you to my wedding,

And that is bad news to thee.'

'It's God forbid, Lord Thomas,' she said,

'That sic an a thing should be,

But I for to be the body of the bride,

And you to be the bridegroom.

'Come riddle me, riddle me, mother,' she says,

'Come riddle me all in one,

Whether I'll go to Lord Thomas' wedding,

Or mourn all day at home.'

'Many's the ones your friend,' she says,

'And many's the ones your fone;

'My blessing be on you, dear daughter,' she says,

'And mourn all day at home.'

'Many's the ones my friends, mother,' she says,

'And many's the ones my fae,

But I will go to Lord Thomas' wedding

Should I lose my life by the way.'

She dressed herself all in green,

Thorow the road she went,

And every village that she came to,

They took her for to be a queen.

Till that she came to Lord Thomas' gates;

She tinkled low at the ring;

Who was so ready as Lord Thomas himself

To let Fair Helen in.

'Where have you got this brown girl?' she says,

'I think she looks wonderful brown;

You might have had as pretty a bride

As ever the sun shined on.'

It's up and starts the brown girl's mother,

And an angry woman was she:

'Where have you got the roseberry-water

That washes your face so clear?'

'It's I have gotten that roseberry-water

Where that she could get none;

For I have got it in my mother's womb,

Where in her mother's womb there was none.'

She took up a little pen-knife,

That was baith sharp and small,

She stuck Fair Helen fornents the heart,

And down the blood did fall.

'What ailes you, Fair Helen?' he says,

'I think you look wonderful pale:

. . . . . . .

'What ailes you, Lord Thomas?' she says,

'Or don't you very well see?

O don't you see my very heart's blood

Coming trinkling down by my knee?'

He took up a little small sword,

That hung low by his knee,

And he cut off the brown girl's head,

And dashed it against the wall.

He set the sword all in the ground,

And on it he did fall;

So there was an end of these three lovers,

Thro spite and malice all.

8^2. foe _in the margin_.

19^4. All thro spite and malice _is noted as if it were

what was recited_.

#f.#

_From Miss Clara Mackay, Woodstock, New Brunswick, 1881,

derived from her great grandmother. The title is '~Lord

Thomas~.'_

1^2. The keeper of our king's gear.

4, 7 _are wanting._

11^2. Her merry maids all in green.

_After 12_:

He took her by the lily-white hand,

And led her through the hall,

And sat her in a chair of gold,

Amidst her merry maids all.

15^2. both clean and sharp.

_After 17_:

'No, I am not blind,' Lord Thomas he said,

'But I can plainly see,

And I can see your dear heart's blood

Runs trickling down your knee.'

18^2. It was both keen and small.

18^4. And flung.

_After 19, as in_ #d#:

'Oh dig me a grave,' Lord Thomas he said,

'And dig it both wide and deep,

And lay Fair Ellinor at my side,

The brown girl at my feet.'

#g.# _Recited to me by Ellen Healy, 1881, as learned by

her of a young girl living near Killarney, Ireland, about

1867._

2^2. come riddle me oer and oer: _so_ 8^2.

2^4, 3^4. the pretty brown girl bring home.

_After 3_:

He dressed himself up in a suit of green,

And his merrymen all in white;

There was not a town that he rode through

But they took him to be a knight.

'Lord Thomas has got company enough,

Fair Ellinor, you have none;

Therefore I charge you with my blessing,

Fair Ellinor, stay at home.'

She dressed herself up in a suit of white,

And her merrymen all in green;

There was not a town that she rode through

But they took her to be a queen.

_After 12_:

He took her by the lily-white hand,

And by the waist so small,

And set her at the head of the table,

. . . . . . .

_After 13_:

Up spoke the pretty brown girl,

She said ...

'Where did you get the water

That washed your skin so white?'

'There is a well in my father's land,

A place you'll never see,

. . . . . . .

14 _wanting._

19. _Imperfectly remembered._

Lord Thomas he stabbed the pretty brown girl, and then he

stabbed himself; and he said, Bury the pretty brown girl

at my feet, and Fair Ellinor in my arms.

A red rose grew out of Fair Ellinor, and a sweet briar

out of Lord Thomas's grave, and they grew until they met.

#h.# _An Irish version, recited by Ellen Daily, Taunton,

Massachusetts._

2^2. Come riddle me all at once.

2^4. Or the bonny brown girl.

He dressed himself up in a suit of fine clothes,

With merry men all in white;

And there was not a town that he rode through

But they took him to be a knight.

5^2. very low at her ring.

10^{3, 4}.

'Let the wind blow high or low,

To Lord Thomas's wedding I'll go.'

11.

She dressed herself up in a suit of fine clothes,

With merry maids all in green;

And there was not a town that she rode through

But they took her to be a queen.

12^2. very low at his ring.

_After_ 12_:

He took her by the lily-white hand,

And led her along the hall;

He handed her to the head of the table,

Among the ladies all.

_After_ 13:

Then out spoke the bonny brown girl some words with

spirit, saying:

'Where did you get the water so clear,

That washed your face so white?'

'There is a well in my father's yard

That is both clear and spring,

And if you were to live till the day you die

That doon you never shall see.'

14 _is wanting._

_After 19_:

'Bury my mother at my head,

Fair Ellenor by my side,

And bury the bonny brown girl at the end of the church,

Where she will be far from me.'

. . . . . . .

Out of Fair Ellen there grew a red rose,

And out of Lord Thomas there grew a sweet-briar.

They grew so tall, they sprung so broad,

They grew to a steeple top;

Twelve o'clock every night

They grew to a true lover's knot.

#i.# _Communicated by Mr W. W. Newell, as recited by an

Irish maid-servant in Cambridge, Massachusetts._

1, 4-7, 10 _are wanting_.

_After 12_:

He took her by the lily-white hand,

And led her through the hall,

Until he put her sitting at the head of the table,

Amongst the gentleman all.

13, 14.

'Is this your bride, Lord Thomas?' they said,

Or is _this_ your bride?' said they

'O 't is better I love her little finger

Than all _her_ whole boday.'

_The stanza which describes Lord Thomas's dress and the

effect he produced occurs in #e#, #g#, #h#; that in which

Lord Thomas leads Ellinor through the hall and conducts

her to her place is found in #d#, #f#, #g#, #h#, #i#; the

colloquy about the water which washes Ellinor so white in

#e#, #g#, #h#; Lord Thomas's directions about the burial

in #d#, #f#, #h#; the plants growing from the grave in

#g#, #h#. None of these are in the English broadside._

_A fragment in Pitcairn's MSS, III, 35, is derived from

the English broadside._

#F.#

_The copy in Kinloch MSS, V, 339, #b#, seems to be a

revision of the other. The two portions of that which is

apparently the earlier, #a#, became separated by some

accident or oversight. For stanzas 18-37 I have not

the original, but a transcript. After 1, #b# inserts

Jamieson's second stanza, #E# 2._

4. _~ye merry~ twice._

5^3. _altered to ~What's metter, son Willie~, to conform

to 6^3: #b#, ~And what's the matter~._

12^1. Ye'll tell her to come.

12^3. Yer bidden come.

13^1. Yer forbidden. _Anticipating 14, 15. Corrected in

#b# as here, and partly in #a#._

18^2. #a#, gold engraved, #b#, golden graved: _cf. #H#,

16, 20._

22^3. Oh is it: _corrected in #b#._

25^3. _~She has by far~ struck out and ~Fair Annie~

written above: #b#, ~Fair Annie hes oer~._

#G.#

_The division of stanzas and of verses has in some

cases required regulation. The handwriting is in places

difficult, and I cannot be sure that the spelling in

every case is what the writer intended._

7^4. mann?

16^5. Willie.

20^2. fett?

21^3. ser brunt (?)

21^4. faett?

23^1. Whan.

25^3. _perhaps ~dreams~._

28^1. _~deal~ illegible, a conjecture._

29^3. grave?

[113] I have been enabled to restore the original readings by the ever

ready kindness of Professor Skeat.

[114] London, printed for W. T[hackeray], T. P[assenger], and W. W.

[Whitwood?]. This impression is therefore contemporary with the other.

[115] In #D#, #E# she borrows the fine things of her sister. Minute

particulars are given in #D#. We all wonder how Fair Annet, whose face

should be her fortune, comes by so much. Her horse's shoes and bells

would have made her a nice little dowry; and then she has, #F# 20, as

much gold above her brow as would buy an earldom, like the oriental

Susie Py. This comes of a reckless use of commonplaces, without regard

to keeping.

[116] Some of the versions have traits of 'Fair Annie.' In #F# the

woman is a king's sister, and is not living with Sir Peter.

[117]

Herre Per vaknað inki för dá

at login leikað i Áselitis hár.

Herre Per springe han up af si seng,

dá ság han liti Kersti pá gata geng.

'Aa kære liti Kersti, no hjölper du meg!

en annen sinn skal eg hjölpe deg.'

Og deð var liti Kersti, sá högt hon lóg:

'eg veit du helde sá vel dit órð!'

Landstad, 33-36.

Upon which the good pastor, who loved the things nevertheless, remarks,

What a culpable style of life, what moral depravation, many of these

ballads depict!

FAIR MARGARET AND SWEET WILLIAM

#A. a.# 'Fair Margaret's Misfortune,' etc., Douce

Ballads, I, fol. 72. #b.# 'Fair Margaret and Sweet

William,' Ritson, A Select Collection of English Songs,

1783, II, 190. #c.# 'Fair Margaret and Sweet William,'

Percy's Reliques, 1765, III, 121. #d.# Percy's Reliques,

1767, III, 119.

#B.# Percy Papers; communicated by the Dean of Derry,

February, 1776.

#C.# Percy Papers; communicated by Rev. P. Parsons, April

7, 1770.

#A#, #a#, #b#, #c# are broadside or stall copies, #a# of the end of

the seventeenth century, #b# "modern" in Percy's time, and they differ

inconsiderably, except that #a# has corrupted an important line.[118]

Of #d#, Percy says, Since the first edition some improvements have been

inserted, which were communicated by a lady of the first distinction,

as she had heard this song repeated in her infancy. Herd, in The

Ancient and Modern Scots Songs, 1769, p. 295, follows Percy. As Percy

has remarked, the ballad is twice quoted in Beaumont and Fletcher's

'Knight of the Burning Pestle,' 1611. Stanza 5 runs thus in Act 2,